KNOCKED UP BY THE BAD BOY

by Nicole Fox

  “I missed touching you,” I said. “And holding you. And fucking you. I missed you so much.”

  We were back to kissing. It was like we needed to in order to breathe, and I was perfectly fine with that. If I needed Ember to breathe and vice versa, then that would be the life I would lead from now on.

  It didn’t take long for things to get moving. I rocked between her legs and pushed up the thin little nightgown that she was wearing. I kissed her hungrily, my mouth roaming from her lips to her neck to her full, soft breasts. I moaned against her and felt her warmth through my jeans.

  We made love that night. The first time was nice and slow and deep. I went a little harder the second, and let her ride me smooth the third. We were a sweaty, messy pile of love and limbs after we came.

  I rolled to my side.

  “You know, after everything, we still didn’t use a condom.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m on the Pill this time,” she informed me. “I went on a little after Emma was born. To prepare.”

  I bit my lip. Well. That solved that problem. But.

  “Maybe in the future we can forget about the Pill again?”

  “You just met your daughter and you’re already vying for another baby?” She laughed again.

  “Well, you know, I think it would be a good present for Emma if she had a little sibling, you know? I think as her loving father, it’s the least that I could give her.”

  “Well, as her loving mother, I suppose at some point, it’s the least that I could give her as well.”

  Naked, I pulled Ember toward me. I was still inside her, and she was still wet with cum and slick. I didn’t want to leave her—so I didn’t. instead I held her close to me, listening to the beat of her heart in the silence of the bedroom, and feeling the soft puff of her breath against my bare chest as she started to fall asleep.

  It was dark in the room. So dark. But there was so much light in my future that emanated from this one woman, and from the baby girl in the room across from us.

  The future was looking good.

  I couldn’t wait.

  THE END

  ***

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  MARRIED TO MY MASTER: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance

  By Nicole Fox

  SHE OWES ME EVERYTHING. AND I’M COMING TO COLLECT WHAT’S DUE.

  She’s responsible for my family’s nightmare.

  Not that she cares.

  Emily West has no clue who I am – yet.

  But by the time I’m finished with her, she’ll be moaning my name.

  She thought she was safe in her corporate skyscraper.

  But nothing can stop me from getting my revenge.

  The things she did drove my brother to madness.

  To her, he’s just a number on an accident report.

  Easy to ignore.

  Easy to forget.

  But I won’t be ignored. I won’t be forgotten.

  Miss West is going to pay for her crimes.

  With her mouth, her body, the last of her innocence…

  I won’t rest until I own her.

  This won’t be over until she takes me as her master.

  Chapter One

  Dane

  Bottle of cheap bourbon in hand, Dane Bishop stood in the center of the disaster that his apartment had slowly become over the course of the last year. He swallowed another mouthful of Jim Beam, hoping that the brown liquor would numb him on the inside. But, as he looked around at the grave of his memories, at the photos of his twin brother Benton and his family, he knew that the liquor wasn't doing any good. It never would, either. It could cover the hurt, but it would never heal it.

  Dane walked over to the wall that had become a morbid shrine to his brother's murder trial. He ran a hand over his short, spiky ginger hair as he read over the articles pinned to his wall.

  “Decorated Military Veteran Kills Wife and Two Children,” read one. “Benton Bishop, Veteran, to Plead Insanity, Defense Says,” read another. Still one more read, “Benton Bishop Sentenced to Death for Murder of Family.”

  Dane scratched a hand over his broad chest. Even as he'd descended into this morass over the last year, he'd still kept himself focused and in shape. His own military training in the Air Force wouldn't let him to do less. That's all his life had become, though. Obsession with proving his brother's innocence. The rest was just instinct. Breathe in, breathe out, exercise. Keep the mind and body in shape, no matter what you threw at it.

  He brought the bottle back to his lips and took another swallow. No, it didn't help. But, he was right. It did numb the pain. It did help to lessen the hurt of the last year. Hurt that he hadn't been there for his one-minute-older brother as he suffered through the pain of his PTSD symptoms. Anger that he hadn't recognized the warning signs of what had been coming. Despair that his brother was, right now, sitting on death row, alone and friendless, as he faced the executioner's needle.

  He closed his eyes and thought back to a time before all this. A time when Benton was happy with his family, and Dane wasn't obsessed with proving his innocence. Benton and his wife, Marianne, had thrown a birthday party for Landon, their youngest son. They'd grilled out in the backyard while the kids had run in the sprinklers. Dane could remember the smell of the hotdogs and burgers as they cooked on the open flame; he could even feel the warmth of the sun on his neck.

  The sound of the children laughing filled his ears, even now. They were so carefree, so full of life. Now, they didn't have any worries, but neither did they have any breath.

  Memories of the funerals crowded his thoughts. Memories, as clear as if they had happened yesterday, of the news reporters hounding him, of the cable channels parking outside his front door. Thoughts about all those days in courts, sitting on the family's side behind his brother. Dane glanced over at his old Air Force officer's uniform, where it hung, perfectly dry-cleaned and pressed, from the closet door. All those days were gone, never to return.

  No birthday parties. No having a beer with his brother on the back porch as they watched his niece and nephew run and play in the grass and sprinklers, not a worry in their little heads. No laughing with Marianne, his sister-in-law and the best thing that had ever happened to Benton.

  Gone. Gone and buried.

  He tipped the bottle of bourbon back, upending it for a good, long, mouth-burning pull.

  Benton's doctor said the medication would make him better. He'd said it would fix the depression and the PTSD symptoms, that it would just take time for the effects to kick in, and that the side-effects would go away.

  They'd been wrong. So wrong.

  Dane took another drink and dismissed the memory of the police's call that night with a shake of his head. He didn't want to remember. He couldn't.

  He flared his nostrils and clenched his fist around the bourbon bottle's neck as he looked at the glass coffee table in front of the couch, pictures of his brother and dead family strewn across it. They were testaments to Dane's own failure at helping his brother, both before and after the murders.

  He'd tried, too. He'd tried so hard to defend his brother, both in the courts and in the press. But no one would believe him that Hymalete, the medication his brother had just started before the murders, was the cause. He tried to talk to the manufacturer of the medication, BioSphere, but they wouldn't have any of it. They referred him to their public relations department, but all they did was give him the runaround.

  Not a single person was willing to listen.

  “I tried,” Dane whispered, his voice the voice of a wounded man. “God, I fucking tried so hard.”

  From those pictures, all his family's eyes stared out at him, suddenly alive, suddenly questioning.

  “Why didn't you help u
s, Dane?” Marianne's image asked. “Why didn't you help him? Why couldn't you get him free? Why is he the one to pay for their mistakes?”

  The loss bloomed inside him like some disgusting night rose, a flower that could only come in the darkest hours and grew only in the pits of despair.

  But rage soon replaced the loss. Rage at his failure, rage at the company, rage at the whole fucking system that had come down on his brother. Sent to a war zone, Benton had come back a broken man. The doctors and the VA couldn't help him, so they gave him a pill. And the pill had just made things worse. Then the company responsible had washed their hands clean of any wrong-doing. Dane kicked the table over, upending and sending it into the couch. The glass crashed and shattered, sending crystalline shards and printed pictorial memories everywhere.

  What had he become? How had he fallen so far? He just blinked in surprise at his outburst, at the mess he'd made. He went into the filthy kitchen, with its piles of empty takeout containers and pizza boxes, and set the bottle of bourbon on the counter. He grabbed a glass out of the dishwasher, filled it with water, and took a long, cleansing drink. When he was finished with it, he drew another glass and drank it down.

  “I need to get my head straight,” he said to the empty kitchen. “I need to take a break. I'm going fucking crazy here.”

  He left the whiskey in the kitchen and went into his bedroom, stepping over the piles of clothes on the floor. He grabbed the TV remote and laid back on the bed, turning on the television.

  Dane was hoping he could find something soothing and mind-numbing. The Three Stooges, maybe, or old Warner Brothers cartoons. He and Benton had always loved those as kid, especially Bugs' antics.

  What he found, though, wasn't soothing. Or mind-numbing.

  Instead, what he found was the exact opposite. He perked up and rose to a sitting position on the bed as his eyes bored into the TV.

  Emily West, new CEO of BioSphere, was being interviewed. She had long, wavy, butterscotch hair that flowed loose behind her and caring, almond-shaped blue eyes that seemed deep and welcoming. Understanding, even.

  “Well, Cheryl,” Emily said to the interviewer, “I'd like to think I have a very open-door policy when it comes to my management style. And I feel that really works with a company like BioSphere. We're a medical company. Not some faceless corporation. We're here to help people, first and foremost. Our goal is to provide safe and effective medication to the patients who use the medicines we develop and manufacture every day, so that they, too, can lead full and healthy lives.”

  She'd listen to him, Dane knew, when no one else would. She'd hear his complaints and help investigate where everything went wrong. Together, they'd get Benton exonerated. She'd order her corporation to accept responsibility for the medication they manufactured, and help to set the record straight for his twin brother.

  And, if she didn't want to help him willingly, he'd just have to figure out a way to make her.

  # # #

  Emily

  Emily could feel the men's eyes on her, judging her, watching her every move for the smallest sign of weakness. Her supporters amongst the officers of the company watched to make sure the board of directors had made the right decision in selecting her. Her detractors and opponents eyed her like sharks sniffing the water for the scent of blood.

  “And, with our first quarterly earnings report for the fiscal year coming soon,” she said, addressing the table in a cool, collected voice, “I believe we'll outperform most estimates on our per share earnings. Any questions or comment?”

  “One item, Ms. West.”

  “Yes, Edward,” she said, acknowledging Edward Barker, their VP of Marketing, “Go ahead.”

  “Do you foresee the poor reviews of Hymalete negatively impacting our growth in future quarters going forward? The team and I have noticed several complaints coming in through QC and Legal.”

  She cleared her throat. She hadn't received any information on this. Hymalete was one of their flagship products, and formed the bulk of their business on their balance sheet. And here she was, in one of her earliest meetings, getting blindsided by questions about it. “I haven’t been made aware of any complaints as to the efficacy or side-effects of Hymalete, Edward. Why don't you and I discuss this at a later date, so we can take some real time to deal with the issue?” She turned to the rest of the assembled meeting. “Any other questions or concerns?”

  Emily received only quiet shaking of heads and general smiles of acknowledgement from around the conference table.

  “Excellent,” Emily said, as she pulled her files and papers together into a stack in front of her. “As you know, I have a conference that starts tomorrow, so I'll be out-of-town, attending. If there are any immediate causes for concern or five-alarm fires, I need to know immediately. But, other than that, you know the drill. Now, you guys go get some lunch and enjoy your weekend.”

  “Edward,” she said, as her table of employees dispersed themselves and headed out to a long lunch, “Stick around for a minute, please?” She stayed seated in her spot at the center of the table.

  She needed to know what this issue with QC and Legal was about, but, she didn't necessarily want to sow dismay amongst the ranks. Or, quite honestly, to start putting it into records of any meetings, before she knew what was going on. On top of that, Edward needed to realize he couldn't try and pull a fast one on her, or blindside her like that ever again. Yes, Emily could be understanding and caring. But she could assert herself whenever she had to.

  Aside from that, she couldn't stand Edward Barker. Something about him just seemed smarmy and sleazy, like you'd just put a thousand dollar suit on a lounge lizard. He was the epitome of a creep marketing executive, and if she hadn’t needed to be in a room alone with him, she wouldn't have been.

  “Absolutely, Ms. West,” Edward said, a frown creasing his face as the room quickly and quietly emptied of its occupants.

  Emily finally spoke, her voice so cold there were icicles, as the last of the other BioSphere employees left the room and shut the conference door behind them. “Edward, the next time a QC or issue with Legal comes up, I want you to ask yourself: 'Does Emily know about this already? Is she in the loop?' If the answer isn't, 'of course she does, we've spoken about it before,’ do you know what I want you to do?”

  Edward's face slumped further as she tore into him. “Sorry, Emily-”

  “Ms. West,” Emily reminded him, the temperature of her words not increasing one degree.

  “Sorry, Ms. West. I'll make sure it never comes up like this in a meeting again.”

  “Good,” Emily said, nodding. “See that it doesn't. Now, tell me what's going on with these quality control complaints.”

  “Dane Bishop is one of most vocal complainants.” He came around the table and handed her a folder. He remained standing, towering over her. “Here's a file we put together on him.”

  “You have a freaking dossier on him?” she asked disbelievingly, as took the file from him and flipped it open. “What's his deal? How are we involved with him?” she asked, as her eyes scanned over the pages, immediately going to his picture.

  Damn, he looked good in a uniform. He was tall and well-built, and he had red hair, which she'd always kind of a had a thing for, and dark, brooding eyes. That uniform, though, with its officer's bars on the shoulders, didn't look good for BioSphere. The family of one patient complaining because they were trying to squeeze some money out of a massive corporation was one thing. A military vet trying to do it was completely different.

  “Brother to a patient who took Hymalete,” Edward said. “He's claiming our medication had side-effects we weren't aware of, and that they were the cause of a psychotic break.”

  Emily's eyes flicked up to Edward, locking with his over the top of the open folder. “And were they?”

  “Are they what?” he asked, shifting a little on his feet.

  “Responsible?”

  He shifted again and cleared his throat. “The re
searchers from the initial project are surprised, from my understanding.”

  “Surprised by what?” Emily said. “By it having this effect?”

  “In a sense, yes. They're surprised it was . . . being used in this situation.”

  Emily blinked. “What is that supposed to mean, Edward? Are you trying to say that, when asked about the side-effects this patient had, the researchers were surprised because that kind of side-effect had never occurred during the clinical trials?”

  “I'm saying,” Edward said, “that there were no completely successful clinical trials done on this class of patient, or for these symptoms.”

  They never even experimented with this class of symptoms? Why were the doctors even prescribing it, then? What the hell was going on here?