Love and Neckties (Rockland Falls Book 4)

by Lacey Black

  I like it.

  A lot.

  I’m also completely torn as I flip the switch and the embalmer starts to do its job. I’m even more confused by the crazy pull I feel toward Freedom than ever before. It’s like I’m not really me anymore. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. It’s like I’m a different version of me, and I believe I might like this new version too. Maybe even better than the old me.

  I pull off my gloves, toss them in the trash, and wash my hands. Once they’re dry, I dig my cell phone out of my trousers front pocket. It takes me a few seconds to find the name I’m looking for, but when I do, my finger hovers over the call button. Part of me wants to shove my phone back into my pants and move on with my day, with my life. But the other part is like a flashing reminder of how wrong we’ve gotten it.

  How wrong I’ve gotten it.

  You can’t get married in Las Vegas and expect to live happily ever after for the rest of your life. Not with your sister’s best friend after a night of too much drinking. Not when there’s no foundation of a real relationship. Trust. Compatibility. Love.

  That’s why I push the call button and bring the phone to my ear.

  “Anthony Hurliman, please. It’s Samuel Grayson. Yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.” Anthony’s secretary puts me on hold to see if my attorney can speak with me. I’m really hoping he’s available, but if not, I’ll leave a message.

  “Samuel, it’s good to hear from you,” my former classmate says when he picks up the line.

  “It’s been a while,” I say, adjusting my necktie nervously.

  “It has, but in my world, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he replies with a chuckle.

  “That’s true,” I state, clearing my throat. “Listen, the reason I’m calling is to ask a question.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I was hoping you could recommend a divorce attorney.”

  I’m met with silence on the other end.

  “Anthony?”

  He clears his throat. “Uhh, yeah, I’m here. I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood you. I thought you were asking about a divorce lawyer.”

  Closing my eyes, I sigh. “I am.”

  Again, silence. After several very long seconds, he finally asks, “So, let me get this straight. Samuel Grayson needs…a divorce lawyer? Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  Then, the sound of laughter fills the phone line. I knew I should have called someone else.

  “Jesus, Samuel, what did you do?”

  “Long story short, I made a mistake. In Vegas.”

  “Am I being punked? Is this some sort of joke? Samuel Grayson got married? In Las Vegas, of all places?”

  “Listen, Anthony,” I exhale loudly, the weight of my mistake still weighing way too heavily on my shoulders. “I had too much to drink and may have made a mistake.”

  “May have?”

  “I did, okay? Can you recommend a good attorney or not?”

  “Settle down, I can help you. I have a colleague who’s a real viper in the courtroom. She goes for blood and doesn’t stop until she has it.”

  “I don’t need that, Anthony. I just need a quickie divorce,” I tell him, hating the thought of putting Freedom through the wringer. Besides, there’s nothing to fight over, really.

  “Okay, well, I have another guy who should fit the bill. He’s hovering past retirement age, but I think he’ll take you as a client, if I put in a call.”

  “I appreciate it,” I tell him, a sense of relief filling my chest.

  He promises to pass my phone number along to his colleague and hangs up without any fanfare or small talk. Satisfied with the call, I slip my phone back into my pocket and head back to work.

  After finishing up my work on Mrs. Gomez, my mind drifts back to Freedom. Specifically, dating her. It’s something I’ve never considered in the past, yet here I am, mentally working out the logistics, as if she were a business proposition. Would she be so obliged to officially enter a relationship with me? I mean, I know we’re married, but that’s going to end soon.

  I need to do this right.

  In the correct order.

  We need to end our marriage, and then, maybe we can date.

  Officially.

  Like boyfriend and girlfriend.

  Never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought I’d be excited to date Freedom Rayne, but here I am, full of hope and anticipation and eager to get home so I can see her. It’s not enough to fall sleep with her in my arms, which is exactly where she’s been since that night I found her massaging some stranger in my living room, or waking up inhaling her hair that’s all wild and crazy from sleep. I want more.

  When the long day finally ends, I lock up the funeral home and head out, recalling my conversation with Bartholomew Christmas. He assured me it would be nothing to get a quickie divorce. Of course, the fact we’re living together—albeit temporarily—didn’t make him very happy. That’s why I left out the fact my wife is also sleeping in my bed. Despite the odd circumstances, Mr. Christmas assured me he would get a set of divorce papers drafted soon and sent to me. All we’d have to do is sign and go before the judge. Sounds easy enough.

  The drive home is fairly short, even after I stop by an Italian restaurant and pick up dinner. Freedom’s a huge fan of mushrooms, so I grabbed us each a cheese stuffed portabella mushroom with noodles and garlic bread. It’s not my usual, but I’ll give it a try. I’m pleasantly surprised I don’t seem to miss meat as much as I thought I would. She’s never guilted me into not eating it, nor has she refused to cook it, but still. I’m trying to be conscious of her lifestyle and not throw our differences in her face.

  The porch light is on when I pull into the driveway. In fact, it looks like every light inside is on too. What the hell is she doing? She’s like a kid who forgets electricity actually costs money. I hop out of my car and grab our bag of food, anxious to get inside to scold her about the lights, and fly up the steps. The first thing I notice when I’m on the porch is my front door.

  It’s…different.

  I stand there and stare, trying to figure it out. It’s the same door, but it’s been…

  Painted.

  My front door is a vibrant blue.

  “The hell?” I whisper to no one as I slip my key into the lock and push open the door.

  Inside, I’m stunned silent. It’s like I’ve stepped into someone else’s house. In fact, I glance outside, just to make sure I haven’t walked into my neighbor’s house by mistake. When I look back at the living room before me, I find my couch and television there, but everything else is essentially different.

  “Freedom?” I bellow, unable to move at the transformation.

  “Oh, hey!” she singsongs, practically skipping into the living room from the kitchen area.

  “My…the…what… Oh, God, am I having a heart attack?” I ask, my heart pounding like a freight train in my chest. It’s so loud I swear everyone within the block can hear it.

  “Here, sit down,” she says with authority, her voice full of concern. Her soft hands grasp my arm as she leads me to the couch. Out of nowhere, she has a glass of liquid, practically forcing it down my throat.

  I gag at the cold, bitter liquid. “What the hell is this?” I gasp, pulling my face away from the cup.

  “It’s a liver detoxifying tea with peppermint, lemon, and ginger.”

  “Why are you detoxing your liver?” I gape at the woman beside me. Her hair is piled on top of her head and her face void of any makeup, yet I’ve never seen her look more beautiful.

  Focus, Samuel.

  “You should always detox your organs, Sammy. It’ll help boost your immune system and build stamina. Plus, even though you don’t need it, they say it’s good for your libido.”

  My head starts to throb.

  “Fine, fine,” I mumble avoiding the yellowish liquid in her glass. I glance around, once more taking in all the…color. “What the hell happened here?”


  Freedom looks around. “What?”

  I wave my hands like a crazy person. “This.”

  “Oh, you mean the room? It really livens the place up, doesn’t it?”

  “Why? Why did you paint my living room?” I ask, the words barely audible as I take in the pink walls. It’s the only color to describe it.

  “You said to make myself at home,” she says, matter-of-factly, as if completely redecorating my living space is a solid enough reason.

  “In the guest room, Freedom. I didn’t mean to repaint my living room pink!”

  She just stares at me, blinking. “First off, it’s not pink, it’s Soothing Sunset Coral. And second, why wouldn’t I make myself at home in the living room too? There was too much white, Sammy. It was like a hospital in here, and even those have more life than this place. So, I added a few splashes of color.”

  “Splashes of color? My coffee table is green!”

  “Simply Seafoam,” she corrects with a smile.

  “Hell,” I grumble and rub my chest. I really think I’m having a heart attack. Or maybe a panic attack? “How did you do all of this so fast? I mean, my door is blue.”

  “Just the outside,” she boosts proudly. “it’s so much more welcoming, isn’t it?”

  I just groan in response. My entertainment center, my coffee table and end tables, they’re all green—or Simply Seafoam—as she so elegantly put it. My walls are pink. The pillows are bright shades of blues, greens, and pinks, and there’s a bright yellow rug in the middle of my floor. “How did you do all this?”

  She shrugs. “I started when you left for work. When you finish one coat on something, you move on the next. It wasn’t hard, really. Plus, I’m used to it. I repaint my walls and furniture at least four or six times a year,” she states chipperly.

  She’s so blasé about it. Like she didn’t just completely change my entire living room without so much as a care for my own tastes and wants. What the hell is wrong with white walls and oak furniture? Nothing. Nothing is wrong with it, but now, it’s all covered in crazy colors. If I ever want to go back—and Lord knows, I definitely will—I’ll have to sand everything down and stain it. It’ll take so much time to put it back to the way it was.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” I tell her, my hands on my hips.

  Freedom glances around, the slightest hint of a smile on her plump lips. “Thank you.”

  Clearly, she took it as a compliment. I run my hands through my hair, chastising myself for still not making my hair appointment. But that’s the least of my worries right now. Right now, I’m so mad at her, I could spank her.

  When I look her way, her eyes sparkle with desire. “What?” I ask, trying to read the look on her face.

  “You want to spank me?”

  Did I say that aloud?

  She takes a step toward me, her chin raised, as if poised for a fight. “I thought I was helping you.”

  “Helping me?”

  “Making the place look better. Like a home. Like someone lives here.”

  “Someone does live here, Freedom. Me!”

  “And you don’t like what I did?” she asks, the slightest hint of vulnerability etched in those dark eyes. She runs her hands up my chest, smoothing my lapel and straightening my tie. Electricity jolts through my body, and we’re not even skin-to-skin.

  “It’s not me,” I croak.

  She shrugs. “I think it’ll grow on you.” Then, she goes up on her tiptoes, her lips a hair’s breadth away from my lips as she adds, “Like me.”

  I’m not sure who moves first, her or me, but my lips claim hers with a fierceness I’ve never felt before. Like a man possessed, I plunder her sweet mouth, my tongue diving inside, taking everything I want and need. And she’s right there, matching me stroke for stroke, giving as good as she gets, stealing my sanity with her wicked tongue.

  “Fuck,” I groan as her mouth drops to my neck, sucking hard and nipping at my coarse skin.

  “Yes, please,” she replies sweetly, reaching around and grabbing my ass. “Now.”

  “Now?” I gasp, trying to grasp onto any ounce of self-control I can find.

  “Yes, now.” Then she runs her hand around and grabs my cock, stroking it through my trousers.

  It’s like someone flips a switch or lights a match. The room ignites. My hands are everywhere, pulling her top up and over her head, so very grateful she’s forgone a bra again today. I pinch her nipples, loving how they’re these perfect little hard nubs, ripe for sucking. So I do. My mouth is on them so fast, she barely has time to move her own hands out of the way. But the moment I’m in position, lapping and sucking at her breasts, her skillful hands return to my throbbing erection.

  It’s not enough. I need more. I need to claim.

  I spin her around, holding her against my chest so she doesn’t lose her balance and fall. The moment she’s situated, I apply slight pressure to her back, pressing her forward. She bends willingly, her hands braced on the back of the couch. Freedom glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine with fire and demanding for more.

  I’m more than willing to oblige.

  I bend down and grab the hem of her long skirt. I don’t know what it is about these, but they make my cock so fucking hard, I can barely think straight. Believe it or not, they’ve always had that effect on me, even way back when we were younger. I think she was nineteen the first time I really noticed her in one of these fucking skirts. Sure I had known her for years, but it was truly the first time I saw her as a beautiful woman. I was home from college and swore I was hard for two days straight. Every time I stroked off, it only seemed to make my problem that much worse, the fantasies that much more vivid.

  And here I am, finally living out one of those fantasies.

  “Keep your hands on the couch, Freedom,” I direct as I bring the skirt up to her waist, slowly exposing long, smooth legs. She’s wearing a yellow thong with little suns on it and tiny words that say ‘Have a great day.’

  Oh, I’m most certainly about to have the best fucking day.

  Keeping the skirt piled up on her back, I carefully remove the panties. I can feel the dampness between her legs and my cock jumps in my pants, a painful reminder of what he wants. When they’re discarded, I slowly stand back up, running my hands up the insides of her legs. When I reach the apex, I’m rewarded with smooth, wet skin. “Are you ready for me?” I whisper, bending over to whisper in her ear as I slide my thumb between her wetness.

  “Damn, Sammy,” she gasps, rocking against my hand. “So fucking ready.”

  With one hand still on her pussy, I rip my shirt from my waist. I’m going to need both hands to undress, which doesn’t bode well for me right now. But it’s necessary if I want to take this further than just fingering her ready body. “Stay right where you are, Freedom. Don’t move.”

  With the quickness of a ninja, I rip off my belt and unfasten my pants. She’s watching me over her shoulder again, her eyes devouring my movements, her breath catching in her throat with each article of clothing I lose. I get my shirt unbuttoned, but decide to leave it on. Her long fingers reach back, her nails digging into my chest as she caresses the hard plains of my abs. I tug my pants down, my underwear with them, and kick both out of the way. My cock is hard and throbbing, angling directly to where it wants to go.

  “Shit,” I mumble, realizing my mistake.

  Freedom turns just enough to see my cock and reaches out for it, slowly stroking it in her hand. “What’s the matter?”

  I moan in pleasure as her soft hand wraps firmly around my length. “I don’t… I don’t have any protection with me.”

  “We don’t need it,” she says as she gives me another long, luxurious stroke that makes my eyes cross.

  “We do,” I ground out as my hips automatically buck into her hand.

  “I’m on the pill.” Her eyes meet mine. “Plus, you’re the only one I’ve been with in a long time.” There’s something so pure, so trusting in those brown eye
s, and I feel it square in the chest.

  But even though I hear her words, I’m not sure we should take the risk. “I’m not sure, Freedom,” I tell her, my duty to protect myself and the one I’m with battling with my desire to take her without the barrier of a condom.

  “Please.” Her eyes plead, so open and full of faith. “I trust you.”

  “I…” Clearing my throat, I try to find the right words. “I’ve always used protection, Freedom. And I’ve been tested after…everyone. I’m clean,” I tell her, leaving out the part that my last test, after my last girlfriend, was just over two years ago.

  “Please.” She punctuates the word by pressing her ass back against me and wiggling. My cock easily slips through the wetness between her legs.

  “Are you sure?” My voice is tight, my body ready, but I don’t move. Not yet.

  “So fucking sure,” she begs, reaching behind her and taking me in her hand once more. She strokes me as she pulls me toward her, positioning my cock where she wants it most.

  I position my hands at her hips, much more mindful of the fading bruises there from earlier in the week, and finally succumb to the desire. To the need. The fight just leaves my body. A hot, lava burn replaces it, coursing through my veins and landing in my cock with the force of a thousand cannonballs. I gently push forward, her soft hand guiding the way, and when I’m fully seated in one stroke, I know I’ll never be the same.

  I’m hers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Freedom

  There’s nothing like this stretch. The feel of him filling me so completely, so fully. The point where I don’t know where I end and he begins.

  With my hands poised on the couch, I do all I can to hold on and enjoy the ride. And holy hell, is this a ride. His hands grip my hips, but without the pressure of last time. They’re more for guiding as he deliberately and precisely moves in and out of my body. It’s like I’m on fire, the reckless sensations and overwhelming desire colliding, burning in its wake.