by Ivy Layne
“No. Never. They didn’t even speak to me. I think Anthony forbade it. They just brought me back and told Anthony. After the second time, I stopped trying. Anthony was so angry. I realized he wouldn't take me to the hospital and—”
I couldn't say it. I couldn't tell Gage that I’d been afraid my husband would kill me in a fit of rage and I'd end up buried in the woods behind our house, my body forgotten and abandoned in the cold dirt.
“How did he die?” Gage asked.
“A car accident.” Car accidents weren't usually considered good luck, but in my case, it had been a gift. Freedom. A second chance.
“Did he—” Gage cleared his throat. “Did he—”
Gage couldn't get the word out, but I knew what he was asking. Slowly, I said, “No. No, Gage. He barely touched me. I think he had other women for that. He didn't want children. At first, I thought maybe there was something wrong with me, and later I was just glad. Looking back, I think he just didn't see me that way. I was there to take care of him. To cook for him, to belong to him. To hold back his darkness. But he didn't want me for sex.”
“How often do you have nightmares like this?” Gage asked, his voice gruff.
“This bad? Once a week, maybe twice. Less often than I used to.”
“Did you ever see anyone after your marriage? A therapist or counselor?”
“No,” I whispered. “I should, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re talking to me,” he said quietly.
A tear slid down my cheek, and I whispered, so quietly it was little more than a breath, “I’m ashamed.”
“No, Angel, you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. No one is going to judge you. It’s been two years, and you still can’t sleep. You can’t go on like this. You need to talk to someone.”
He combed his fingers through my hair, smoothing it away from my face and down my back. He did it again, his fingers rubbing my scalp, petting me. I wanted to purr. The fear from the nightmare was gone. I don't think I’d ever felt that protected, with Gage curled around me, stroking me, soothing me.
Maybe that was why I felt brave enough to flatten my palm against his chest, meet his eyes, and say, “I will if you will.”
He stared at me in surprise. Feeling daring, I went on, “You have nightmares too, don't you? Isn't that why you can't sleep?”
Gage nodded, his eyes locked on mine.
“Are yours always the same thing?” I asked. “Mine are. Always some version of Anthony chasing me until he catches me. I run, and I run, but I never get away.”
Gage's eyes searched my face, looking for something. He must've found it because he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Not always exactly the same. Sometimes it's the explosion when they took me. I can't get my team clear and they all die. Sometimes it's things that happened while they had me. Things they did. Sometimes it's finding my aunt and uncle.”
“Have you always had those? The dreams about your aunt and uncle?”
“For a year or two after they died, I'd dream about them. Those dreams stopped for years. I don't remember dreaming much at all until the last six months. Sometimes I think—” He stopped.
“What? Sometimes you think what?” I prodded, afraid of what he was going to say.
“It's not what you think it's going to be,” he said slowly, lost in memory. “They grabbed me after an explosion, an IED, that was supposed to kill most of my team. They weren’t after me specifically, they just wanted leverage. Any one of us would've done. My head was all wrapped up in making sure my team got clear, making sense of what was happening in the dust and the noise.
“Then they grabbed me, took me to their base and came at me with threats and ultimatums. And you think that's what it's going to be. The shouting and the pain. But then they throw you in a cell and leave you there. Alone. You think it's going to be all about the torture, but the boredom is almost as bad.
“Sometimes I think that's what knocked something loose in my head. All those long stretches of nothing and then boom. I'd be tied to a chair, and there'd be a camera, and they'd be trying to get me to confess to… Whatever they wanted that day. And everything inside me would focus on just not dying, just not talking, and then I'd wake up back in the cell, and I'd wait.”
A sob of sheer relief broke free in my chest. He knew. Gage knew something I never thought I'd be able to put into words. It wasn't just the pain; it wasn't just the randomness of the attacks. It was the long stretches of isolated boredom in between.
It was the waiting that made you crazy.
I'd had a beautiful house, but in the end, it hadn't been much better than Gage's cell. I'd been alone. No one to talk to. No Internet. No telephone. No friends. Endless days alone interspersed with sudden, terrifying violence. I never in my life thought I'd find another person who understood what that was like, the way it warped your sense of reality.
“Angel, don't cry. Please, don't cry.”
His thumb rubbed the tears from my cheek, and I said through hitching breaths, “I'm okay. I'm okay. It's just… You know. You know what it was like. The way it gets in your head and –”
His arm tightened around me, and his lips dropped to my forehead, rubbing my skin as he said, “I know, Angel. I know.”
I don't know how long we lay there, Gage holding me against him, our legs tangled, my tears soaking his T-shirt as he stroked my cheek and ran his fingers through my hair.
He only spoke once. “I'll go if you go. I'll talk to Cooper. He's got someone on staff. Those guys see some shit in their jobs, and he has a lot of ex-military. He'll have some names for me. He'll probably be able to suggest someone for you. I don't want you to live like this anymore, with these nightmares, remembering what he did to you.” Before I could speak, Gage went on, “I don't want to live like this anymore either. I want my life back.”
“Okay,” I said, winding my arm around his back and stroking my fingers down his spine.
He'd go if I’d go. I'd spent so long living in fear, but I'd been willing to accept a lesser version of it as normal. As safety. But it wasn't normal. As long as Anthony could stalk me in my sleep, I’d never truly feel safe.
I relaxed against Gage, letting him surround me, sinking into the feel of his fingers in my hair, his hard chest beneath my cheek, the muscles of his back under my hand. I don't know when it changed. When those strokes on my skin shifted from soothing to sensual.
I don't remember deciding to reach up and pull his face to mine. I just remember his mouth, gentle at first, then opening, his tongue stroking mine, his body shifting to press me back into the mattress, rising above me.
Chapter Eighteen
Sophie
He kissed me like that forever. Long, drugging kisses that had my head spinning. Then he was on top of me, settled between my legs, his fingers on the top button of my white nightgown. I tried to sit up, and he raised his head, his blue eyes hot on mine when he said, “Don't move. I don't want you to hurt your head.”
“My head doesn't hurt,” I lied. I'd gotten so used to the dull ache from the bump on my head I was almost able to ignore it. I'd spent most of the day in bed, despite insisting that I was fine, outvoted by every single person in the household. Hell must have frozen over because even Mrs. W and Amelia had agreed I belonged in bed.
Gage shook his head. “If you think you can lay still, I'm going to undo this button. Then I'm going to undo the next one. And the one after that. But if you're going to move…”
I opened my mouth to argue, then abruptly snapped it shut. What the heck was I fighting about? Did I really want Gage to stop? I knew if I did, he would. All I had to do was tell him I wasn't interested, or I needed time, and he would back off.
In answer, I settled back into the pillows, a smug little smile playing across my lips as Gage slipped free the first tiny, faux pearl button. My nightgown, like my others, was made of sheer white cotton, trimmed in lace. It wasn't sexy, by any means, but it wasn't the virginal
white flannel Anthony had made me wear.
It wasn't seductive, but it was pretty. Feminine. This one had a row of buttons from the scooped neck line to below my waist. So many tiny buttons and Gage was undoing them, one by one.
He lay between my legs, propped up on one elbow, his eyes fixed on the inches of skin he was baring, button by button. When he reached the bottom of my rib cage, I was sure he would fold the nightgown back to reveal my breasts, but he didn't.
He traced a finger along the inner swell of one breast, sliding it beneath the cotton to stroke my warm skin. A low hum of appreciation sounded in his throat before he withdrew his hand from the nightgown and went back to the buttons.
He slid down a few inches, putting his face level with my breastbone, and turned a little on his side so he could reach the last of the buttons, just below my belly button. Finally, finally, he folded the nightgown back, carefully, precisely, baring my breasts to his hot blue gaze.
“Sophie,” he breathed. That was it. Just, Sophie. Then, a little louder, his voice gravelly and strained, he said, “If you change your mind just tell me to stop, okay? Just tell me, and I'll stop.”
I didn't want him to stop. I couldn't imagine ever wanting him to stop. I wanted him to speed up, not stop. My nipples had drawn into tight beads under his eyes, my breasts swollen and hot, needing his touch. I shifted restlessly beneath him, and his eyes flashed at mine.
I saw a quick, mischievous grin before he murmured, “Don’t move and I'll give you what you want.”
I tried. I swear, I really tried. But as his hot mouth closed over one nipple and his finger teased the other, I just couldn't. I arched my chest, pressing my breast harder into his hand, rising to the heated suction of his mouth, the flick of his tongue against the tortured peak.
I heard myself gasp and moan. My knees lifted, legs wrapping around his body. I whimpered his name. I may have begged a little. He only switched sides, scraping his teeth against my skin, sending shards of pleasure arcing through my body.
When he lifted his head and said, “I'm taking this off,” I was so out of my head I had no idea what he was talking about. He tugged on the cotton pooled around my waist, and I understood. My nightgown. He wanted to take my nightgown off. Hallelujah. It was about time.
“You too,” I said, eyeing his T-shirt and pants. I wanted his skin against mine.
“Don’t move,” he reminded me.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “My head feels fine.”
“Humor me,” he said. Sliding his hands beneath the nightgown, over my shoulders, he peeled it down my arms, tugging it off beneath me, urging me to raise my hips just a little. Hooking his fingers in my panties, he drew them down along with my nightgown. He eased off the end of the bed, taking the nightgown with him, and I watched with wide eyes as he stripped off his own clothes.
At the sight of his aroused, naked body, my mouth went dry. Gage was beautiful. Strong and tall and imperfectly perfect with scars on his smooth skin and all those gorgeous muscles. My eyes took in his erect cock and skated nervously away. I'd never really seen one, an erection, up close like this. Anthony had been a strictly in the dark missionary kind of guy, over and done before I could really pay attention.
Gage's cock was a thing of beauty, long and thick, standing proudly. It was enticing, and a little scary. I hadn't expected it to be so intimidating. My brain said it wasn't going to fit, but my body was more than willing to give it a try.
Then he was back on the bed, but he only came halfway up, stopping with his shoulders pressing my knees wide, his face between my legs. I started to sit up, tried to put my hand there to block him, suddenly embarrassed and awkward. I knew what he wanted to do. At least I thought I did. I'd read about it, but no one had ever—I hadn't really imagined.
Before I could get my thoughts together, Gage's hand closed over mine, and he eased it back, baring my body to him.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
Before I could get my head together enough to answer, he pressed a kiss right there, right on the center of all my need, all my pent up desire. I shuddered with the illicit pleasure. I’d never imagined being kissed there, but now that Gage had, I wanted him to do it again.
He pulled back and rose up above me, his eyes on mine. “I'll stop if you want me to, but I think you should trust me. Can you do that?”
His lips touched mine, and I tasted myself on him. I was done with thinking. Done with being embarrassed or afraid. I nodded. Gage settled back between my legs.
I tried to brace myself for what was coming, but I had no clue. His tongue traced me, taking his time. He wasn’t in a rush, or racing to some end goal, trying to make me come so he could get his.
Gage explored me, tasting, teasing me until I was writhing against the pillows, gasping from the rising tension. When he closed his lips over my clit and sucked, the crash of pleasure took me by surprise, and I cried out, rolling my hips into his mouth. He murmured his approval against me, the rub of his lips drawing out my orgasm.
He pressed his cheek to my thigh, stroking my legs as the tremors in my muscles calmed, and I caught my breath. Just when I was sure he’d move over me, one long finger slid inside, parting my heated flesh, filling me.
I had the fleeting thought that if one finger felt like that, there was no way he would fit. He proved me wrong when a second finger joined the first, smoothly pumping in and out, his fingertips grazing something inside that sent hot shivers up my spine, had me rocking into him, taking his fingers deeper and harder.
I was panting, calling his name, every nerve in my body wound tight with blissful tension when, finally, he withdrew his fingers and rose above me. I watched with desperate, fascinated attention as he picked up a condom from the side of the mattress and rolled it on.
Then he was back, pressing into me, and the stretch of his body inside mine was delicious. Perfect. I arched into him, taking more, wishing he would slam into me and push me over the edge into the orgasm that hovered just out of reach.
Gage thrust in slowly, in gradual pulses that teased more than satisfied. It seemed to take forever before he filled me all the way. He stayed there, motionless, his breath ragged. His mouth came to mine, and he kissed me, more of those long, deep, languid kisses that spun my head in dizzy passion.
His hips moved in the same slow, patient rhythm, drawing in and out, fucking me with iron control. Gage trembled above me, pushed to the edge from holding himself back. For me.
This man, this warrior who could take what he wanted, who could have anything, was claiming my body in slow, dreamy strokes, protecting me, treasuring me even in this.
The pleasure built higher with each stroke. Every time I thought I’d hit the peak and would tumble into bliss, he slowed down and pushed me higher.
I tore my mouth from his and begged. “Please, please, Gage, please. More.”
His mouth took mine again, this kiss raw and a little rough as he rode the edge of control. He moved faster, fucking me harder, sliding his hand under my shoulders and bracing me, trying to keep his thrusts from jolting my head.
I wasn't feeling any pain. All I felt was Gage and the wave of pleasure he’d built so high I thought I would lose myself when it broke. And I did. The tension cracked open, and I fell into a bliss so sharp, so sweet it sucked me under, drowning my senses. Drowning me in Gage.
He stiffened between my legs, taking me in short jerky thrusts, drawing out my orgasm. I tightened my legs around him, holding him to me, my mouth pressing kisses anywhere I could reach, his jaw, his neck, his shoulder.
Tension drained from his body, and he rolled to his back, pulling me on top of him, his fingers stroking my hair from my face. When we both had our breath back, Gage slid out from under me and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water run and the toilet flush before he reappeared, a washcloth in his hand. Warm, soothing heat between my legs. He was gone again for a minute before he returned, sliding into bed and pulling me into his arms.
>
“How's your head?” he asked, his voice heavy and languid.
I giggled, the light, happy sound surprising me. I tightened my arm around his chest in a squeeze of reassurance. “All of me feels wonderful,” I whispered. I drifted into sleep, holding onto Gage, his heat and strength and kindness, and trying not to think about what we’d just done. How it would change everything.
I couldn’t forget what he’d said that night on the couch.
If you let me get inside that sweet angel’s body of yours, I’m not going to be able to let you go.
The memory of his words washed through me. The last thing I needed was another man who thought he owned me. Gage wasn’t Anthony. I knew that. That didn’t mean he was what I needed. I wanted to be sensible. Smart.
But more than that, I just wanted Gage.
Chapter Nineteen
Gage
My sneakers struck the pavement in a familiar cadence that felt so much better on a road than a treadmill. Winters House was a haven, but it was also becoming a trap. Or, it would if I didn't push the boundaries of my life. It was too easy to stay home, to bury myself in work. Especially with Sophie there.
With Sophie around, why would I want to leave?
If I wanted my life back, I had to start living it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone running in the neighborhood, though when I'd lived here full time I’d done it every day. Buckhead was an urban anomaly: big lots, bigger houses, and winding lanes shaded by old-growth trees.
If someone dropped you in the middle of Buckhead, you'd think you were out in the country and not just north of the heart of Atlanta. Minutes away you’d find busy streets, high-end shopping, office buildings, and freeways, but here in the silence of early morning, I was surrounded by the trees and only the occasional passing car.
I had plans for the day, and they started with a run. When I got back, I’d hit the weights in the gym before I took a shower. A few hours of work, and then I was taking Sophie to lunch. We were having a family dinner that night to celebrate Annalise's return sometime that afternoon. Before the hordes of Winters descended, I wanted Sophie to myself.