Intense 2

by Hebert, Cambria

Last week, I’d been brushing out her hair after a bath, noticing that she plucked at her gown.

  “What’s up?” I’d asked her.

  “I think there’s something wrong with me. Is there?”

  Oh, the pain of that. To know that sometimes she recognized the forgetting. Did she perhaps get glimpses of what she’d lost? Did she catch snippets of her and David? Did she remember the little girl without hope who’d stumbled into her studio, determined to make dance her world? And finally, did she remember I adored her?

  “Your name is Sarah, and you are loved by three wonderful people.”

  It was enough to make her smile.

  “How many pancakes you want?” Cuba asked me, pulling me back to the here and now.

  Ricky barked in the background, because he wanted pancakes, too. Goofy dog. Heather-Lynn butted in and called out that she wanted three—and a side of bacon. Cuba chuckled and told her to make her own damn bacon. He was pancake man and that was it. But, then he reached in the fridge and pulled out the pork.

  And something happened. Clicked. Nothing crazy or freakish, but an important shift nonetheless. You see, it’s corny, but I believe only a few moments in your life possess special magic, and I believe each person is allotted only a handful. And, as the love I wanted was happening right in front of me, trust for the future settled its warm feathers around me.

  And along with that came the knowledge that I’d never be lonely again.

  I’d never be hungry. For anything.

  From across the table, Sarah reached over and threaded her fingers through mine. I don’t know why. Maybe she’d known I’d been contemplating life. Perhaps in her illness, she was more tuned in to people and their emotions. But it was as if she sensed my moment.

  My somedays were all coming true.

  I’d wanted to fly and I had. In more ways than one.

  I gazed at Cuba. He immediately put down his bowl and came over to me.

  He titled my chin up, hitting me with those drop-dead gorgeous eyes. “What is it?”

  I shook my head, emotional. “You’re never going anywhere other than right here, are you?”

  He smiled softly and brushed his lips against mine. “Never. I can’t imagine being anywhere else but right here with you and my new family. And someday, I’ll be a doctor, and you’ll dance as a principal. Best part is we’ll be married. We’ll have babies, of course, maybe four; at least three.”

  I gaped, and he chuckled.

  “Babies,” Sarah called out, and oh, I laughed.

  Yes, yes, yes. Someday.

  The End

  Bonus Scenes available at http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/

  Want more Spider or Sebastian? Let me know which one you want. :)

  Read Very Wicked Beginnings, a prequel novella to Very Wicked Things

  All Proceeds benefit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22024061-to-be-announced-may-5th

  For more information about the next book, please visit my social media sites:

  http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Ilsa-Madden-Mills/164946810330135?ref=hl

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7059622.Ilsa_Madden_Mills

  ILSA MADDEN-MILLS WRITES about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. She spends her days with two small kids, a neurotic cat, and her Viking husband. She collects magnets and rarely cooks except to bake her own pretzels. When she’s not typing away at a story, you can find her drinking too much Diet Coke, jamming out to Pink, or checking on her carefully maintained chocolate stash. She loves to hear from fans and fellow authors. Drop her a line on her website or Facebook page.

  THERE ARE SO many fantastic people in the indie world that made this journey possible. Please know that my gratitude in no way lessens as the list continues.

  For my mom who always believed in me. Since I was small, she told me to fly.

  For my father, the ultimate storyteller, who although he is gone, I know he looks down from his perch and chuckles at the scenarios I’ve managed to come up with in my writing.

  For my husband who has stood by me every step of the way even when I couldn’t get one stinking agent to look at my work. Now, it’s been six years running, and I made it on my own. You and me, babe…against the world. Forever.

  For my author friend Lisa N. Paul who kept me laughing through our daily phone conversations. You are my touchstone in the indie world.

  For all the people who sacrificed time to make my cover one of a kind: Toski Covey of Toski Covey Photography, a sweet girl I stumbled across when I admired her work on another novel; Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative who designed my incredible graphics and always answered my one million and one emails; and Elizabeth Copeland, the gorgeous girl who graces the cover of Very Wicked Things. You all rock!

  For Rachel Skinner of Romance Refined, my awesome editor: You gave me so much more than just an edit. I love your friendship. For Kristin Anders of The Romantic Editor: my other editor who drove home my goals and motivations…someday I’ll learn. Ha. And for Rachel Russell: my copy edit person. Thank you, ladies!

  For Ellie at LovenBooks for a wonderful cover reveal; for Stephanie DeLamater Phillips of Stephanie’s Book Reports who took my blog tour and buzz event and made it fabulous; for Heather Davenport of Naughty and Nice Book Blog who worked tirelessly with me on my Release Day and cover reveal for the prequel. Thank you so much for being available to chat with me at the drop of a hat. You have no idea how glad I am that I found all of you!

  For Miranda Arnold of Red Cheeks Reads: my wonderful and talented PA. So happy we connected through our love of Very Bad Things. Thank you for all your hard work.

  For Julie Titus of JT Formatting: the best formatter out there! I love what you did for Cuba and Dovey. Thank you for being patient and walking me through the steps.

  For my Briarcrest Academy Chicks: as my street team, you picked me up when I got knocked down and you made me laugh when I needed it the most. And for the all the serious pimpettes out there, I can’t thank you enough for the time and energy you put into getting the word out. Stephanie Locke of Rude Girl Blog; Sandy Roman Borrero, Lesley Hoffman, Jennifer Noe of The Book Blog; Kimberly Kimball and Bobbie Kirby of Two Crazy Girls With a Passion for Books; Ann Moore, Kellie Montgomery, and Carrie Richardson-Horton of Eye Candy Book Store; Stephanie DeLamater Phillips of Stephanie’s Book Reports (who also was my fantastic blog tour organizer); Jennifer Wolfel and Toski Covey of Wolfel’s World of Books; Stacy Nickelson of It Started with Book Blog; Jess Danowski of Inside the Pages of a Book; Selene Malik and Heather Orgeron of The REAL Housewives of Romance Book Blog; Phoebe Lane, my dear friend, Vegas is waiting for us; Jennifer La Rocca, my sprint buddy; Denise Milano Sprung of Shh’s Mom’s Reading. Thank you for sharing the story of your brother with me. I never knew him…but I know him; Kahlen Aymes, an author friend and fellow soul mate I met in New York. Thank you for being my age. Ha; The Rock Stars of Romance blog for believing in my work and supporting me; Andrea Booker; Nasha Lama, my foxy friend; Bethany Castaneda; Kandace Lovesbooks; Lori Lovesbooks; Erin Griffin of Lit Slave; Lydia of HeaBook ShelfBlogger; Kerri Mclaughlin of Six Chicks and Their Love of Books; Brandi Franklin of Sugar and Spice Book Reviews; Lisa Pantano Kane of Three Chicks and Their Books; Ali Hymer of Ginger Reads Reviews; Tanya Childress of Bookhooking; Amy at Turn the Page; Gina Alwine; Jennifer Given Leary of Love Between the Sheets; Sarah Griffin of Books to Breathe; Debbie Reads and Blogs of Keep Calm and Read Romance; Jennifer Singh of Bestsellers and Beststellars; Erin Marie Fisher, the girl who read it first in the team; Author Missy Johnson who is always there for me; Sue Stewart and Lisa Rutledge who have both been with me since Day One. Love you, girls; Lisa Marie Kreinheder of Because I Said So Blog; Melanie Marino-Luna of We Like it Big Book Blog; Tori Shriver of Give Me Books; Alexis at Reality Bites; Claudia Juarez of I Love My Book Nerds; Y
vette Cervera of Nose Stuck in a Book; Jessica Carter, always a bad-ass chick; Jessica Ramirez of The Lovely Books; Rachel Kee; Jenn Diaz of Sassy Divas Book Blog; Kristine Radgman; Gena Garrard for medical info; and lastly to Shanta Faulkner, a fan I met in New York, and I fell in love with her spirit and enthusiasm.

  Thank you all for every shout out, sweet word of encouragement or post. Very Wicked Things is my love letter to you. Mwah!

  If I’ve left anyone out, please forgive me. I promise to make it up in Book 3. And yes, it will be Sebastian’s book!

  I love you all, girlies. :)

  Drake Restrained

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  THE DRAKE RESTRAINED COLLECTION

  PART 1 AND 2

  Copyright 2014 S. E. LUND

  First Edition

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Suzanne, my first editor and the first other writer to consider my writing seriously and offer an honest constructive critique. Without your critical eye and supportive words, I would never have seen both the potential in my work and where it needed improvement. You gave me the courage to continue writing despite difficulties in the early years. You will be missed.

  R. I. P.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my family and friends who supported me during the long hours when I would lock myself into my office with my computer jammed in my face, writing. Without your tolerance, my books would never have been written or finished, but my house would have been a lot cleaner! Many thanks to my editor Michelle Saunders for all her hard work – any remaining mistakes are all mine!

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  There are three things you should understand about neurosurgeons.

  Huge balls. Laser-like focus. Hero Complex.

  Cutting into the human skull to operate on the brain required nothing less.

  I stood at the sinks in the anteroom outside the operating theater at New York Presbyterian, cleaning my knuckles with a scrub brush. My new neurosurgery resident, Stuart, stood beside me, the plain blue cap and scrubs, safety glasses and binoculars giving away little about his personality, but he was a neurosurgeon and that pretty much said it all.

  This was our first real surgery together since he started and I was interested in watching him perform. He would do all the grunt work – the incision, sawing the bone to remove a piece of the skull, then sewing up after. I’d do the parts requiring greater finesse – mapping the location in the brain using the CT scanner, threading the electrode into the brain and adjusting the voltage, ensuring we had it in exactly the right place. I’d oversee it all to ensure he did it properly.

  I turned to him and watched as he scrubbed in.

  “My nurses tell me you’re one of the youngest neurosurgery residents at NYP.”

  “Besides you, you mean?” he said and gave me a smile, which was visible only as a narrowing of his eyes over his surgical mask. “You were even younger than me when you did your residency.”

  I nodded. “I graduated high school early and finished my undergrad in two and a half years.”

  “You were one of the youngest medical students at Columbia ever. Even more ambitious than me.”

  I laughed. “From the looks of your CV, you’re no slouch.”

  I felt Stuart’s eyes on me. "You know the nurses call you Dr. D."

  I raised my eyebrows. After being at NYP for only a few days, Stuart felt secure enough in his status to bring up the OR nursing staff's pet name for me.

  "Dr. Delish, right?" I said, grinning. "I've heard it all."

  "Dr. Dangerous."

  I laughed at that. "I’m surprised its not Dr. Demon. You must have been talking to my ex-wife’s friends. They hate me.”

  “Oh, take my word for it – these nurses did not seem to hate you. Not at all,” Stuart said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “They seemed to see the dangerous moniker as a definite plus. There was a lot of snickering going on.” Stuart shook his head. "The ladies do love a bad boy."

  I shook my head. "That they do. But you know, bad boys are just really really good at making women feel a little wild."

  "Your dad was a legendary bad boy," Stuart said as he ran clear water over his soapy arms. "Flying planes, playing in a band, parachuting. Shock-trauma surgeon at U of Maryland. You're a lot like your father. The acorn really doesn't fall far from the tree…"

  "I'm not like my father," I said, a bit too firmly. "And I'm not a bad boy. I'm a very good boy. Trust me. That's just their very active imaginations." I gave him a grin, holding up my hands and backing through the doors into the operating theatre.

  Once inside, I was pleased that my favorite circulating nurse, Ellen, had my sixties music mix playing over the sound system. The nurses and technicians were moving their heads to the backbeat, which was such an important part of the British Invasion era music.

  "On top of things, as usual," I said to Ellen and saw her brown eyes widen behind her surgical mask.

  "Was there ever any doubt? " She handed me a sterile towel. “You have me well trained.”

  "There was never any doubt,” I replied. “And it’s the other way around, Ellen. You have me well trained."

  She laughed at that. "Whatever you say, Dr. D…"

  Dr. D…

  I was used to the friendly ribbing from the OR nurses I worked with on a regular basis. I never knew which moniker they meant by it. I hoped it was Delish. She winked at me, obviously having overheard Stuart and not Demon, but you never knew.

  Inside the OR and in the halls of NYP, I was Dr. D, but outside, I was someone else entirely. Master D, to those who knew my secret life, a Dominant in Manhattan's BDSM community, specializing in B&D – bondage and dominance. I made the mistake of becoming involved in a BDSM relationship with a nurse when I first entered the lifestyle five years earlier, and that had almost ended in disaster.

  Never again.

  From then on, I kept my two personas separate, never letting them meet. My career in neurosurgery at NYP relied on it.

  A few selections from the Rolling Stones played over the speakers. I developed a love of all things 60s from my father, who was perhaps the biggest influence on my life despite the fact he did everything he could to avoid being a father. He died as he lived – fast and loose, his private plane crashing in the wilds of Africa while on a trip to Somalia doing work with Doctors Without Borders.

  Everything I was I attributed to my father’s influence. No matter how I tried to escape him, I wasn't successful but for one exception. My father thrived in chaos – first in a battlefield ER and then in a shock trauma ward back home. In contrast, I needed – demanded – complete calm and total control.

  That need for control extended to all aspects of my life – my work, my home and sex. The only place I allowed less than perfect control was my choice of music, which was always loose and wild. Psychedelic rock. Jazz. Vintage Punk. Grunge Metal. Everything else in my life had to be precise, planned, laid out in writing and in triplicate, if possible.

  Control was my thing. Dominance during sex was my kink.

  My bondage closet would fascinate a shrink.

  While Under My Thumb by the Stones played over the speakers, I considered Richard Graham, my patient with Parkinson's Disease. My team and I would implant electrodes deep in his brain that sent out pulses of electricity to very specific structures responsible for motor control. The operation would require total concentration on my part and that of my team of surgeons and nurses, but it was that control and focus that I loved.

  With Jagger singing in the background, my scrub nurse helped me gown and glove up. Once Stuart finished with his portion of
the surgery, I approached the patient, examining the incisions before placing the electrodes.

  "How are you, Mr. Graham?" I said, keeping my voice firm but warm to reassure him. He was sedated, semi-reclining, but conscious and responsive so we could make sure we didn't damage any key areas of his brain.

  "Great tunes," Mr. Graham said. "You came through with the Stones."

  "Music relaxes patients. We do what we can to make this as stress-free as possible, considering that we have to keep you awake during the procedure."

  I consulted the CT images and checked to make sure everything was in proper alignment before threading the electrode into precise position, guided by a CT-generated image of the man's brain on a screen beside the operating table. Stuart stood beside me, watching my every move.

  When I stimulated the section of the brain where the electrode has been placed, Mr. Graham's hand stopped shaking completely. His head was imprisoned in a metal cage designed to keep him still, so he could barely see his hand, but he could feel it and his response was why I did my job.

  "Holy Mary," he said, his voice filled with awe. "Would you look at that..."

  I smiled to myself, but didn't allow too much time for celebration. One moment where I lost focus and Mr. Graham could bleed or lose function. The success of the procedure was all down to how much skill I had guiding the electrode into the very specific part of Mr. Graham's brain that was responsible for motor movement. Even given my skill, there were still risks.

  Fortunately, my concentration was above average and the electrode was in proper place. The pulses of electricity would stop the errant movement in Mr. Graham's limbs. He'd be able to hold his own cup of coffee again, use his own spoon, fork and knife.