Ultimate Redemption

by Lydia Rowan

  He quickly opened his pants, exposing his painfully hard cock. He was as hard as he’d ever been, his skin tight, distended with his arousal, his slit furiously leaking precum. He wasted no time lining up their bodies, and the touch of the damp hair that covered her sex, her petal-soft skin against the crown of his cock was enough to send him to climax.

  But he held off and stayed there, his hardness against her softness, his cock edging at her entrance. Then, in the next breath, he pushed inside her in one stroke.

  They both cried out, her at the invasion, him overwhelmed by the sensation of being inside her again.

  In the years since he’d seen her last, he’d only had his hand those few times the need had become too much to bear, but he’d told himself no one would have compared to her.

  And he’d been right.

  She was as tight as he remembered, warm, perfect. Made for him.

  His heart thundered, and he wondered how he’d survived so long without this.

  Then just as suddenly remembered he had because she’d left him.

  He started moving then, thrusting hard, taking his pleasure.

  Before he would have seen to her, played with her nipples the way she liked and then, when he had her on the edge, strummed her clit to send her over. He’d have made sure she got as much pleasure as he did. More.

  But he couldn’t allow himself to care about her pleasure because doing so would open him up to caring about other things, to caring about her. And he couldn’t allow that. Needed to remember how much she’d hurt him. How she’d left him.

  So, hands tight on her waist, he pushed inside her over and over again, her pussy convulsing around him, her wetness easing the glide.

  He couldn’t hold out long and soon felt himself erupt inside her.

  He continued thrusting until doing so was impossible, and then he slumped against her, stayed there until his cock slipped out of her.

  The overwhelming urge to kiss her surged through him, but he choked it back and instead tucked his cock back into his pants.

  She turned, and as she lowered her shirt, Damien saw how her nipples were still beaded hard, slightly reddened from where he’d touched her. When she lifted her shorts and pants, he couldn’t help but see her wet sex, the moisture on the inside of her thighs.

  He looked at her face and saw no evidence of what had passed between them, saw nothing that said she had just had him inside her body, that his cum was still there now.

  She looked like he hadn’t affected her at all, a fact that both angered him and filled him with deep despair.

  Lacey brushed her hand back over her hair and then looked him squarely in the eye.

  “Can we talk now?”

  4

  Retired admiral Oliver Tremaine huffed hard as he crested the last hill, his feet pounding against the dew-soaked ground.

  He sped up, and his security team did as well, though the four men behind dared not outpace him.

  Probably thought he would be offended if they did, but Tremaine would’ve welcomed the challenge.

  He was in peak physical condition, and even at sixty, he knew he could probably outrun most of the men charged with securing him.

  He preferred it that way.

  The trappings were nice, but Tremaine knew he could only rely on himself, and he’d never put himself in a position where he couldn’t.

  “Time?” he called when he reached the front door of his Maryland estate.

  He dabbed at the sweat that beaded at his brow and then looked over at Martin McMillian, his second-in-command.

  “An average of eight minutes, sixteen seconds per mile, sir,” McMillian said.

  “I want to shave ten seconds off that time by next week,” Tremaine said.

  McMillian nodded.

  “Get changed and then come to my office to deliver the report,” Tremaine said.

  McMillian and the three others beside him began jogging off toward the security quarters on the estate, and Tremaine opened the front door.

  The sight that greeted him set his teeth on edge, and Tremaine fought to bite back his irritation.

  His morning orange juice, fresh-squeezed like every day, sat on the console table by the front door, but that was not what he’d instructed.

  “Rebecca,” he called, not raising his voice.

  Tremaine never raised his voice.

  She materialized a moment later, and from the tight, somewhat pinched expression on her face, Tremaine knew that she was aware of his displeasure.

  Which made him quite happy, though not completely. She’d known he would be upset that his orders were not carried out with the precision and specificity he demanded. So why, then, had she failed?

  He let his gaze rake over her, frowning at the boxy tan suit she wore, though he appreciated the way her pearl earrings gleamed against her mahogany skin.

  “Rebecca…”

  He glanced down at the juice.

  “I apologize, Admiral Tremaine. I would have been waiting with your juice, but—”

  “I’m not interested in your excuses. Follow orders,” he said.

  He knocked the juice off the table, pleased when Rebecca shivered at the sound of the shattering glass.

  “I’ll prepare you another, Admiral Tremaine,” she said.

  “Yes, you will. And coffee. And change your clothes. Something with color,” he said.

  She nodded tightly, and then moved to the console table, where Tremaine stood. He didn’t move as she kneeled down and began to pick up the shards of broken glass. He could see the way her fingers trembled, saw the tightness in her shoulders, both of which made him smile. He should grind her face in that glass, make sure she remembered not to do something like that again.

  He watched her, tempted by the idea, but decided against it.

  He had important things to do today; playing with Rebecca could wait.

  “Are my clothes as I ordered? Are you at least capable of handling a task as simple as that?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Admiral Tremaine. Everything is to your specifications,” she said.

  He turned without looking at her again, afraid he might be tempted to change his mind, and instead went up the stairs.

  Tremaine dressed quickly, pausing for only a moment to glance at his reflection. His hair was threaded with gray, but he hadn’t relented to the softness of age, though the years were clear on his face. Still, the custom suit and handmade loafers that his private work provided looked good and, more importantly, projected the air of command and authority that was key to the smooth functioning of his business.

  Nothing would ever fit like his uniform, though.

  Finished with gazing today, he quickly headed to his office.

  Rebecca stood at the left side of his chair, gripping a tray that held another glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a cup of coffee.

  That was more like it.

  Without acknowledging her, he grabbed the orange juice and then sat in his chair, ready for the morning’s report.

  This meeting was a vestige of his days in the Navy, and Tremaine sometimes felt silly for going through with these meetings each day. A pathetic attempt to hold on to some of the routine that his forced retirement had taken from him.

  But at least the meetings served a functional purpose. Tremaine might not be in the Navy, but he’d make damn sure he used the skills he’d learned over his forty-year career, even if only for his own personal enrichment.

  Personal enrichment that Silver Industries was putting at risk.

  Tremaine couldn’t have that.

  “Enter,” he said at the hard knock on the door.

  McMillian came in, also dressed in a suit and not a uniform, though not one nearly as expensive as the admiral’s.

  “What’s the latest?” Tremaine said.

  McMillian hesitated, his gaze straying to Rebecca.

  “Is there a problem?” Tremaine said.

  The admiral watched McMillian assessing, testing. He h
ad promise and had the potential to be the admiral’s successor, but Tremaine hadn’t quite decided. There was something about McMillian that kept the admiral on edge, and until he figured out what that was, he wouldn’t act.

  “Don’t worry about Rebecca. She was just leaving,” the admiral said, at which McMillian, almost imperceptibly, relaxed.

  “Would you like your coffee, Admiral Tremaine?” Rebecca asked.

  “No. I changed my mind. You drink it, but no cream or sugar. Your ass doesn’t need either,” he said.

  “Yes, Admiral Tremaine,” Rebecca said, her voice not changing at all.

  She turned to leave, and the admiral watched her walk away and at the same time he watched McMillian not watch her.

  “Do you like Rebecca?” the admiral asked when she had closed the door.

  “Like?” McMillian asked as if he was confused.

  “Like,” Tremaine repeated, not clarifying his earlier question, because he knew he didn’t have to.

  McMillian wasn’t an idiot, and he didn’t do a good job of playing one.

  “I’m indifferent to Rebecca. I just prefer that certain conversations happen alone,” he said.

  “Good answer,” the admiral said.

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied.

  McMillian was no longer in the service, a situation that hadn’t been his choice, but he still retained his military formality, and was quite excellent at his job, which consisted of doing exactly what Tremaine told him to without question.

  “What’s the fallout from Bali?” Tremaine asked. It had been nearly a year since Lucian Silver and his mercenaries had infiltrated the couples’ resort that had served as a cover for Tremaine’s South Asian business activities, and he was still feeling the consequences.

  “It’s going to be a total loss, sir,” McMillian said. “Silver turned Alistair Jones over to the CIA and the rest of the men scattered.”

  “None of our sources can reach Jones?” Tremaine asked.

  McMillian shook his head. “He’s locked up tight.”

  Were Tremaine the kind to swear, he would have then. Jones knew things about Tremaine’s operations—nothing that would directly implicate Tremaine, of course—but he didn’t like loose ends—eliminating Jones would be his preferred method of handling this.

  That wasn’t an option at the moment, so he turned his attention to other matters, chief among them, making Lucian Silver pay for his interference. Tremaine would have thought seeing his brother’s reputation destroyed would have been enough, but Lucian seemed to be a glutton for punishment. Tremaine was only too happy to dish it out.

  “Did you find that Bowers woman?” the admiral asked.

  “She was gone when the team reached her home,” McMillian said.

  The admiral took a sip of juice, scared he might squeeze the glass so tight it would shatter. He put it down slowly, precisely, and then looked at McMillian, who hadn’t swayed a bit.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was gone. Her car was in the carport, but her home was empty according to the report.”

  “She was tipped off?”

  “Or scared. She had a pretty elaborate security system, so it might have been activated by the men’s arrival,” McMillian said.

  “No one considered that possibility before they went storming in?”

  McMillian didn’t respond, but what could he say?

  “I thought Ms. Bowers was a civilian,” Tremaine said.

  “She is, sir,” McMillian responded.

  “Yet she outwitted my team, a team that is supposed to be the best,” Tremaine said. “Where did she go?”

  McMillian’s expression darkened, but then he reset it into a passive expression and then locked eyes with Tremaine. “That is still unknown,” he said.

  Tremaine thinned his lips into a flat line, considering.

  Ms. Bowers was the key to this, distant enough that her death wouldn’t send Lucian on a rampage, but close enough that he and his team would know there were consequences to interfering where they weren’t welcome.

  But her departure changed things.

  “She had help?” Tremaine asked, though there was no question of that in his mind. His team, incompetent as they now seemed, would have found her had she been alone.

  “Damien Silver,” McMillian said, voice lacking all inflection, though the admiral knew what lay behind the words.

  “You know that for sure?” Tremaine asked.

  “No. But it’s a hunch,” McMillian said.

  One that Tremaine agreed with. Damien and Ms. Bowers no longer had a relationship—Tremaine had seen to that personally—but Damien had always been sentimental, and if he’d had an inkling she was in danger, he would act. Where he’d gotten that inkling from and how he’d pulled it off were open questions, ones he wanted answers to.

  “Damien’s a drunk, a laughingstock. How could he do such a thing? How did he know to go for her?” Tremaine asked.

  McMillian didn’t say anything, didn’t blink, and Tremaine wanted to scream with frustration. Did he have to do everything around here? He looked at McMillian’s unmoving face. Yes, it seemed, he did.

  “Let me spell it out for you, then. Damien used to be great, and you don’t lose those skills overnight, so he easily could have helped her. He also still has his fair share of friends. Leadership might not support him publicly, but there are people who are loyal to him, would give him this information. And he and Bowers had a…personal relationship. It ended badly, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t intervene if he thought she was in danger,” Tremaine said.

  “A logical conclusion, sir,” McMillian said.

  Of course it was logical. But Tremaine still needed to know who tipped Damien off.

  “What do we do now, sir?” McMillian asked.

  Tremaine regarded him, thinking. He really hadn’t intended to take things beyond Ms. Bowers, but maybe Damien’s involvement presented an opportunity. He nodded at McMillian as a genius idea struck.

  “McMillian, are you familiar with the old saying, ‘kill two birds with one stone’?”

  5

  Lacey had asked Damien if they could talk, and three hours later, she was getting the impression his answer was no.

  Even all these hours later, her body still hummed from their encounter. She was still empty, her sex clenching with neediness, her body continuing to seek the pleasure Damien had denied.

  He’d done it on purpose. Damien knew her body, knew how to get a response from her, but he hadn’t cared. He’d sought his own pleasure with no concern for hers. Further proof, not that she needed it, that Damien had changed.

  Still, the anger with which he’d taken her, how unsatisfied he’d left her had done nothing to change how much she had welcomed and enjoyed his touch or how much she wanted to enjoy it again.

  But that wouldn’t happen again. Lacey had her self-respect, after all, though for Damien, she didn’t doubt she would compromise it. More importantly, there was the not insignificant fact that Damien was still stonewalling her.

  The instant after she had asked her question, he’d retreated to one of the rooms that lined the downstairs floor, a study she presumed, and left her to her own devices.

  Lacey had stood in the foyer, dumbfounded, turned on, as confused as she had ever been. By degrees, she’d come back to her senses. Deciding that the day’s events alleviated any obligation to be a considerate guest, Lacey had not waited for Damien to officially extend his hospitality. Instead, she’d wandered the massive house and found an unoccupied room to shower and change and had even caught more than an hour of sleep.

  She’d felt refreshed when she’d woken, or as refreshed as she could given the trajectory that her life had suddenly taken. But she figured she’d confront the bigger issues if she dealt with more base needs, food being the primary among them as the grumble of her stomach reminded her.

  Lacey made her way back downstairs, again marveling at the heavy wooden corridors of the est
ate.

  She’d always known Damien had come from money, but she hadn’t understood the enormity of his wealth.

  He and his brother were billionaires, but that hadn’t really meant anything in the abstract. He’d just been Damien, the one who loved crawfish, his brother, the Navy, his business.

  Her.

  It was hard to reconcile him as she thought she had known him then, and him now, hard to imagine that her Damien had come from this place, and had come back to it to become what he was.

  She drifted into the enormous kitchen, enormous in no way an understatement.

  The room was quality but classically styled, heavy dark wood and marble covering every service, the restaurant-size stove gleaming. What she didn’t see was the refrigerator, so she moved through the large room until her gaze landed on one of the cabinets.

  She pulled it open and was hit with the cold air and bright light of the refrigerator. It was one of those built-ins designed to blend with the rest of the kitchen, which Lacey thought was beyond stupid.

  Of course, she was no interior designer and the need for food quickly beat out any annoyance about the design choices.

  Given Damien’s state, she’d halfway expected not to find anything inside it. Because her earlier perception had been correct. Damien was still strong, muscled, but even with those few brief touches of his body against hers, she’d felt the difference. As scant as they’d been, as little contact as they had made, she could still feel Damien’s neglect of his body, saw it every time she looked at his lean face.

  So when she pulled open the refrigerator and saw that it was overflowing, Lacey was surprised and pleased.

  Probably Lucian’s doing.

  Damien’s brother hated her with a fiery passion, but Lacey knew that he would take care of Damien, and even if Lucian wasn’t physically forcing food down his throat, it was good to know that he was making sure Damien’s basic needs were taken care of.

  Lacey selected some ingredients out of the fridge and began making food.

  A lot of food.

  It wasn’t for him, definitely not, but she was very hungry, and…

  Lacey finished and dispensed with the notion she wasn’t cooking for him. Instead she filled a plate with potatoes, sautéed vegetables, and the flank steak she had prepared.