by Ella James
“You're mine, Libby DeVille. That's how it's supposed to be.”
Ever since he woke up after his surgery, Hunter hasn't been shy about saying things like that. Neither have I. Some mornings I wake up beside him in his penthouse here and I'm amazed at what we have together. It isn't always easy, but I can honestly say it's always fun.
His wounds have healed up perfectly. Except for a small, round scar on his chest and the Captain Hook slash on his shoulder-blade, you'd never know he collapsed a lung or a bullet that barely missed a crucial artery. The FBI has completely closed its files on Hunter, and on one of those early days in the hospital, his dad even offered an apology of sorts for not doing more to protect Hunter from Rita. I'm not sure how much Hunter cares, but it's a first step, anyway.
Marchant has given Dr. Libby one day off each week, and on that day, she comes to Hunter's penthouse to talk to one or both of us. I think it's doing Hunter good to talk to her again, and I’ve even begun dealing with the resentment I've always carried toward my Mom. It hasn't been two months yet, but she's still sober.
Tonight, after the tournament, we’re flying back to Napa. I haven't seen Suri in weeks, and Hunter and I need to spend some time in the vineyard house together. I think we both need to make some new memories there, since the last one involved Lockwood.
Marchant and Cross get along like old friends, talking about cars and bikes and women as I train my eyes on Hunter's infamous poker face.
“Can you tell if he's got a winning hand?” Cross asks me.
I tell him, “no, of course not, silly,” but the truth is—I kind of can. I'm getting to know all of Hunter's tells.
It's fun to watch him play. Even with that fixed expression on his face, I can tell he's in his element. Maybe it's because of his experience with Rita, but Hunter likes a certain element of control. Playing poker seems to give him just enough so he can handle the lack of it in other areas.
The tournament passes quickly as I sip my diet and bourbon and Cross and Marchant load up on the straight stuff.
This is Cross's first time out since leaving rehab. The good news is, he's doing great. The bad news is, his hand's still not back to normal. Suri tells me he hasn't re-opened his bike business, and I don't think he's ridden yet, either. Every time I've seen him, he's put on a good act, like he's doing fine—no more of that sullenness he had in the weeks after he first woke up—but I'm not betting on it. As far as I know, neither of his parents have made a move to reconcile with him. The FBI's investigation doesn't appear to have reached past Lockwood, to the governor, and since the day we had our talk in Hunter's room at rehab—right before the day we both got nabbed—he hasn't mentioned anything about going forward with whatever evidence he may have. I can't imagine that's good for him. To make things worse, now that my mother is living in her house again, Cross has moved into his bike shop. I'm hoping when Hunter and I get back to Napa, I can try to get a better feel for what's going on. If Cross needs help, I'll be there.
Hunter wins the final hand and he, Cross, Marchant, and I have a few drinks in one of the lounges before Cross and Marchant head to—dear God— the ranch—and Hunter and I make our way toward his plane. As we drive his Aston Martin to the airport where he rents a parking spot and stores his plane, he holds my hand tightly and looks at me often. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was tense, but Hunter is always tired and relaxed after a good game.
His eyes flicker across my face once more before he turns onto the road where the airport is located. “Are you sure you're not too tired to go tonight?”
I nod. “I'm sure. I miss Napa.”
We roll into the airport parking lot, and his face grows serious. “Are you sure it's not Crestwood you miss?”
I frown. “Yeah, I'm sure. Suri is a great roommate, but it's nothing compared to living with you.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if the question was more about Hunter than me. “Why? Do you think I should go back to Crestwood?”
Things have been going so well the last few weeks, I haven't really thought about them changing. But maybe I should have. Maybe Hunter's decided it's too soon for us to be spending all our time together.
I force a smile. “Are you getting Libby overload?”
His eyes widen. “Oh, no. Hell no. You're not getting sick of my ass, are you?”
I giggle at his wording. “Your ass—yes. Totally sick of it. The rest of you I'll take, but not that ass.” I stick my hand into his seat, grabbing at it, and Hunter's hand captures mine and guides it to the bulge in front.
Hunter hits a button on his steering wheel, and the door to the car garage lifts as he drops his head back against the seat and murmurs, “Mmmm.”
He guides the car into his spot—three walls of cement and a drop-door, a lot like a unit in a storage shed—and darkness closes over us. I laugh and unbuckle as he shifts us into park. I throw myself onto his lap and go straight for his belt.
“Get this off so I can show you what a real win looks like,” I say, grinning.
“Yes ma'am.”
I had my mind on something oral, but Hunter opens his door and pulls me out onto the cement slab. There's a window and door here in our little garage, but with the lights out in here, I don't think anyone could see us. Which is a good thing, because Hunter pushes my skirt up and lays me spread-eagle on the hood.
The warmth of the motor burns a little bit against my ass, and Hunter's mouth burns somewhere else. It's not long before I'm gasping for release. He doesn't give it to me, so I sit up and grab at him until I get my hands on his pants. I tug them down, lie back, and beg him: “Please...”
“What the lady wants...”
“The lady gets,” I finish, panting.
I gasp as Hunter pushes inside me, and when we start to rock, I gasp some more. The sex tonight is hard and fast, a little rough. I like it this way. It's not long before I'm screeching Hunter's name, and he's shuddering over me.
When we leave the garage and walk back out into the parking lot, I'm feeling sleepy, but totally satisfied. I squeeze Hunter's hand as we come into view of his plane.
He squeezes back. “It'll be nice to get back to the vineyard.”
I look him over, studying his face, but it's one of those moments where I just can't read him—so I ask. “Do you think you're ready?”
He shrugs. “It's my house.”
“We'll have to christen it.” We did the same thing at the penthouse, making love in all the spots where he was with Priscilla. At first it was hard for me to know details like that, but any doubts I might have been carrying are all gone now.
We follow the row of runway lights, and Hunter helps me into the cabin, then goes out and talks to some of the techs. A few minutes later, he comes back in, with his hands in the pockets of his black pants. I'm surprised to find he looks tense.
I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his neck, rocking my hips into his. “You okay?”
He nods. “Yeah.” He leans down for a hungry-seeming kiss, and we're still going at it in one of the chairs when the pilot turns the 'buckle seat belt’ light on and we have to take our seats. I slide the arm rest up, so our two seats are more like one, and lean my head against his shoulder. Hunter's arm goes around my back.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he murmurs as he kisses my hair.
“To Napa?”
He nods.
“Of course. You know I would go anywhere with you.” I lace my hand through his.
“Would you?” he asks. I search his face for hints of teasing, but he's not.
“Hunter, what's wrong?”
He shuts his eyes and leans his head against the seat.
“Are you feeling bad?”
He shakes his head.
“What is it?”
He takes a deep breath and unbuckles his seat belt. At first I think something's wrong—we're still climbing into the sky—but when his face goes pale and he gets down on one knee, my heart starts pounding.
“Libby
, I was going to wait for some time memorable and romantic, but I don't think I can keep this to myself anymore.” He reaches into the pocket of his pants and I stop breathing. “Libby—will you marry me?”
He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers, while his other hand brings out a small, red box. I expect him to open it, but instead he closes his fist around it and looks into my eyes. “I know you're young and you've still got some school to finish. You might want to do things you haven't done, but we can travel. We can do anything you want. Anything it takes to make you happy. If you want to sell the place in Vegas, we can. If you want to—”
“YES!” I throw my arms around his neck. “Hunter, we don't have to do any of that. Yes, I'll marry you!” I smash my lips against his, and I'm laughing. I can feel his smile under my mouth. He deepens the kiss, and I can feel him shudder as I wrap myself around him.
“We don't have to do anything different,” I murmur. “I don't want to.” I lean down to kiss his temple and he locks his arms around me. His forehead presses against my throat, and I kiss his cheek.
“How long have you been thinking of this?” I ask.
His eyes flick up to mine, and slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “You really want to know?”
“Um...yes.”
“I designed the ring when you would take naps at the hospital. It shipped to Dr. Libby and I got it from her weeks ago.” He arches one eyebrow. “I would have dropped it on you earlier, but I was worried you weren't ready.”
“I'm ready! Hunter, let me see it!”
With one arm locked around me, he opens the box, revealing a beautiful, oval ruby ringed by diamonds.
His green eyes hold mine as he fumbles with the box and slides the ring on my finger. I giggle and wave my hand around, buoyant enough to float through the roof and into the sky. “Thank you.” I throw myself into his lap and straddle him, and Hunter's face burrows into my shoulder.
We sit there wrapped up in each other as the plane soars through the clouds, swooping lower as we near Napa—our home.
After a few minutes of blissful silence and lots of little kisses, Hunter looks down at me, smiling a little slyly. “I kind of already made some preparations.”
“That confident, were we?” I smirk, and he grins. I poke his ribs. “C'mon now. Out with it!”
“I had our room re-done...and I got you a new car. I hope you're not upset.”
“Upset?”
“I know how loyal you are to your Camry. This can just be a weekend car if you want.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“A Porsche.” His eyes are dancing as he thumbs my cheek. “One time I fell in love with a woman in a Porsche.”
“I don't think that happened until a good bit later.”
He smiles, looking lazy and comfortable and handsome. My fiancé. He looks into my eyes. “I don't know when it happened, but I'm damn sure glad it did.”
“Me too.” I snuggle up against his hard, warm body as we soar through midnight clouds. “Me, too.”
Watch for Chasing Cross ~ Coming Summer 2013
ABOUT ELLA:
Ella James is an Alabama author who writes teen and adult romance. She is happily married to a man who knows how to wield a red pen, and together they are raising a feisty twenty-month-old who will probably grow up believing everyone's parents go to war over the placement of a comma.
Ella's books have been listed on numerous Amazon bestseller lists; two were listed among Amazon's Top 100 Young Adult Ebooks of 2012.
To find out more about Ella's projects and get dates on upcoming releases, find her on Facebook at facebook.com/ellajamesauthorpage and follow her blog, ellajamesbooks.blogspot.com. Questions or comments? Tweet her at author_ellaj or e-mail her at [email protected].
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ABOUT EDITING:
I love almost everything about being an indie author. One of the few things I don’t love is lack of access to the number of editors available to a traditionally published author. Did you know traditionally published books are often edited by four or more different editors? There are editors for storyline continuity and editors for grammar. Indie authors pay their editors out-of-pocket—and they usually have only one or two. Even the best editor can’t stack up against four or five of them, and if you’ve read indie books, you’ve probably noticed that they usually have more typos. As an author, I know typos can distract from a good story, and I hate them. If you find a copy error in one of my books, please e-mail me. My e-mail address is [email protected]. I would welcome your keen eye—so much so that I’m offering to pay you 5 cents for every typo you spot. (The only caveat is we have to agree that it’s an error). This message is at the end of the book rather than the beginning because I don’t want you to go looking for errors. (There are easier ways to win money from me. Check out my Facebook page!) But if you are the sort that notices every error, my apology to you is this offer.