Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers Book 3)

by Melanie Munton

  It helped to be a bookworm.

  All I had left was to take all my RN exams, so that I could get my license and find an actual job.

  But for now, I was celebrating.

  Me: All done!! We still celebrating tonight?

  My husband—because yeah, I had one of those now—responded to my text five minutes later.

  Dawson: Congratulations, babe! I’ll take you to a nice dinner tonight, and we can see that movie you’ve been wanting to see. Sound good?

  Something about his plan wasn’t completely satisfying my need to…let loose. I loved Dawson with all my heart and soul. But dinner and a movie had been our go-to date night idea lately. With my classes and his hectic hours as a beat cop, it was all we’d had the time and energy for.

  But tonight, I wanted something more spontaneous. Something different and unexpected.

  A light bulb clicked on.

  My fingers flew over the keypad as I sent another text.

  Me: CINDERELLA

  My heart started racing as I waited for his answer.

  Dawson: Really?? Tonight??

  I smiled, and my blood ran faster.

  Me: Tonight. Gatlin Station. 8pm.

  Dawson: Oh, you’re on, babe. Try not to rip my clothes off when you see me.

  Heat pooled in my belly at the memory his words provoked.

  Me: Feel free to handcuff me if you think I’m not behaving myself, Officer.

  Dawson: Be careful what you wish for, Mrs. Cruz.

  Me: Not tonight, I won’t.

  Dawson: Challenge accepted.

  I drove ten miles over the speed limit all the way home in my eagerness to get ready for tonight. Something I realized was probably not good for a cop’s wife to do. Oh, well. All the guys at the station loved me.

  Two years.

  We had already been married for two years, which was still a crazy concept to me. I was someone’s wife. I had a husband. Two years under our belts, and it sometimes felt like I was still getting used to the idea.

  We’d had our fair share of trials. I’d been in school non-stop since we met, and he had gone through the police academy and had been a beat cop the past two years. This had amounted to very little free time with each other at home, and a lot of stress piled on top of that.

  But we’d made it work.

  He had kept his promise to me, and was making efforts every day to keep me involved in what was going on with him and his family. And most importantly, what he was feeling.

  I’d been around Mason and Parker so much at this point, they were like my own brothers. They’d even met Margot and her son, Milo, a few times, and had accepted them as part of their family as much as they had me. I’d only ever been around Dawson’s mother a few times after I first met her at the baseball game, and she always treated me with the utmost kindness.

  His father, on the other hand…well, I’d only been around Sal once.

  Not a very pleasant experience.

  He and Dawson had gotten into a fight, and I’d had to drag my husband out of there before he beat the man to a bloody pulp.

  That was the first time I’d really understood how complicated his family situation was. How strained his relationship with his parents was. And as weird as it sounded, it helped me understand Dawson better.

  If anything, it made me love him even more.

  He’d made something of himself in the face of some pretty awful circumstances, and I couldn’t be more proud of him.

  I walked through the front door of our Baltimore apartment and immediately dropped all my bags onto the floor. The ritual felt good, because it was the last time I’d ever have to do it. Hell, yes.

  In the spirit of that sentiment, I grabbed the open bottle of wine out of the fridge and drank straight from the bottle. Then I cranked up some Bob Marley on my iPod dock and loudly sang along to the lyrics.

  Because I freaking could.

  On Cinderella nights, Dawson knew to stay at the station to change and get ready. So, I had the entire apartment to myself for the next three hours.

  My cell phone suddenly rang as I was undressing to hop in the shower.

  Margot.

  “Well, if it isn’t ‘Lil Mama herself,” I said in greeting.

  Margot scoffed over the line. “Even with stretch marks and a seven-year-old, I’ve still got more swag than you.”

  I laughed. “How is the offspring doing? Shoved any more rocks up his nose lately?”

  Margot sighed the long sigh of a mother who was baffled by the things her child often did. “Nope. This time it was a live frog in his jeans pocket.”

  I almost spit wine all over the bathroom mirror. “A frog? Um…why?”

  “He said he saw it on the playground, and wanted to bring it home as his pet.” I could hear a washing machine running the background. “You know, since I won’t let him have a dog.”

  I hummed in agreement. “Naturally, a frog is the next step.”

  “When I found it as I was doing laundry, he said he’d been looking everywhere for Freddy,” she said. “He’d apparently lost him.”

  I winced. “He’d already named him?”

  “Yep. I was already beaten before I even knew I was in battle.”

  When I heard a distinct ding in the background, I knew it meant Uncle Frank was sitting down in the living room, getting his daily Wheel of Fortune fix. I missed all of them.

  “Well, look on the bright side,” I said. “At least he didn’t try to stick Freddy up his nose.”

  “Small miracles,” she muttered. “What’s new in the world of Nurse Betty and Officer Horny Handcuffs?”

  I rolled my eyes at her latest attempt to come up with the best porn names for us. “Just took my last test today. We’re going to go celebrate tonight.”

  “Oh, celebrate,” she crooned. “Does that mean that Milo is going to have a little cousin about nine months from now?”

  That was only the forty thousandth time she had inquired about mine and Dawson’s plans to have children ever since we’d gotten married.

  “Hellooo,” I drawled. “I’m just now finishing college. I’m not ready for a baby yet. It’s more likely he’s going to get a little brother or sister before he gets a cousin.”

  She huffed and I chuckled. “Well, thanks for jinxing me, you twerp.”

  “Ah,” I mused. “I haven’t been called a twerp this millennia. Nice to hear the word survived our childhood.”

  “Hey, motherhood diminishes your cuss word vocabulary,” she said. “Just wait ‘til you have kids. You’ll see.”

  I snorted and took another chug of wine. “Not happening for a while, sis. Might as well accept that.”

  “I will accept noth—Oh, my God!” I held the phone away from my ear when a whole lot of shuffling, static noises came over the line. “Honey, what are you doing in the dryer?” To me she said, “I have to go,” and abruptly hung up.

  And that was why I wasn’t having kids anytime soon.

  Mine and Dawson’s lives were already chaotic enough. I wasn’t ready to be responsible for another life until I got mine figured out first.

  Speaking of my life with Dawson…

  It was time for Cinderella to put on her glass slipper, and hop inside her big ass pumpkin.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mickie

  It had started about six months after Dawson and I got married.

  He’d just started working beat and I was killing myself in classes. We’d developed this routine of both of us coming home exhausted, scrambling to find something to eat for dinner, then sprawling out in front of the TV until we both fell asleep on the couch.

  Without meaning to, it had become a nightly occurrence before either of us had even noticed.

  So, one night, after a particularly grueling clinic day, I said no more.

  I decided that night that we would do something new and exciting. Something to break us out of our predictable routine, and put a little spice back into our relationship. I di
dn’t want to become one of those couples who stopped trying, and only ever saw each other naked when we were changing clothes right before bed.

  I didn’t want to become boring.

  After all, that wasn’t how we’d met and fallen in love, and it wasn’t how I wanted us to live our life together.

  The deal I came up with was that we would show up at the same bar—separately—as anyone we wanted. We could change our names, professions, whatever we liked. We just had to act like we didn’t know each other when we showed up, and we had to stay in character the whole time. Well, mostly the whole time.

  The only rule was that we had to go home with each other at the end of the night.

  Obviously.

  I wanted to spice things up. But not like that.

  It sounded a little crazy, and I think Dawson thought I had been in the beginning. But he’d been intrigued by the proposal. And after we’d tried it once, we were hooked. You wouldn’t believe how hot the sex could get when you were lost in a fantasy.

  Now, anytime either of us felt overwhelmed with life or work and we just wanted an escape, all we had to do was give the code word.

  Cinderella.

  We could escape reality and fulfill our fantasies for one evening before the spell was broken at midnight. Or thereabouts.

  When either of us used that word, we knew what the other meant.

  Tonight was definitely a Cinderella night.

  Which was why I sauntered into Gatlin Station wearing the tightest LBD imaginable, with sky-high heels, and big, volumized hair. He always said he liked my hair down, so he could run his fingers through my curls.

  He could run his fingers anywhere he liked tonight.

  And every night.

  Ignoring every other person in the bar, I searched the crowd for the man of my dreams. There was a clearing in the sea of people…and there he sat. On a bar stool, elbows propped onto the bar, glass tumbler in hand.

  As if our minds were synced, his head turned in my direction.

  We locked eyes.

  My breathing quickened when his eyes slowly raked over me. His appreciative—and darkly intense—gaze told me he liked my choice for the night. And as I let my eyes drift over him—

  Oh, sweet hell.

  He was wearing a suit.

  I’d never seen him in a suit. Ever.

  He didn’t wear as much black as he used to, but he was still a jeans and T-shirt type of guy. And ever since I’d known him, anytime he’d been dressed up had been for some police event, so he’d always been in his dress blues. Which, don’t get me wrong, was one of the hottest things I’d ever seen. I mean, it was a freaking police uniform. I would never complain about that.

  But there was just something about seeing him in a suit that made me shiver.

  I’d mentioned this to him once. That we needed to buy him a suit just so he could model it for me.

  Apparently, he’d listened.

  I approached him, putting an extra sway to my hips, ensuring my every intention for the evening was written all over my face. I stopped behind the stool next to his.

  “This seat taken?” I purred.

  He dipped his chin. “It is now.”

  I got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said, pointing to Dawson.

  The guy nodded, his eyes briefly lowering to my chest before he walked away. Of course, Dawson noticed that look. I didn’t even have to be looking at him to know he was glaring at the bold bartender. I could read his thoughts so well. Could almost predict his actions.

  Yet he still managed to surprise me.

  I turned my body to face him, and crossed my legs provocatively, knowing the action hiked my dress up another few inches.

  “So, what’s a man like you doing here alone on a Friday night?”

  His eyes flicked down to my legs, and he shot me a look of warning. I responded with a challenging quirk of my eyebrow.

  If he was telling me to watch it, I was telling him to make me.

  He seemed to read my thoughts when he smirked and took a sip of his drink. My attention was drawn to the way his throat muscles worked as he swallowed. He placed his glass back on the bar with more force than necessary, telling me he was already getting himself worked up.

  Good.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” he replied in a raspy voice.

  I bit back a smirk of my own. “Who’s the lucky lady? Someone special?”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Let’s just say I plan on keeping her around for a while.”

  Good answer. “Is she pretty?” I asked.

  His eyes flew over my face, as if memorizing every detail. His nostrils flared. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Always a good answer.

  “Then I’d say you’re a lucky man, too.”

  He slowly shook his head at me, eyes still trained on my face. “You have no fucking idea.”

  The bartender dropped off my drink, and acted as if he was going to stick around for a second. Dawson took care of that real quick, with one simple back the fuck off look. My insides quivered at the furiously possessive expression on his face.

  I didn’t care how it made me sound.

  I loved belonging to this man.

  I took a drink and felt his gaze shoot to my mouth. “So, Lucky Man, what is it you do?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, but he controlled the smile. “I’m a professor, actually.”

  I choked on my drink. Not what I’d been expecting him to say. I could roll with it, though.

  “And what subject do you teach, Professor?”

  I could definitely roll with calling him that. And judging by the look on his face, he liked it, too.

  Once again, his eyes drank me in. I could feel every single place they touched me. They darted back to mine as he said, “Anatomy.”

  Oh, baby.

  I liked where this was going.

  “That sounds interesting,” I managed. “So, you know all about the human body, then?”

  “All there is to know,” he replied. “Though I’m most familiar with the female form.”

  I clenched my thighs together. “Is that so?”

  He slowly nodded. “I’ve spent years studying a woman’s…triggers.”

  “Triggers?”

  He scooted closer, and trailed his fingers up my bare thigh, inching toward the hem of my dress. “You know, what feels good to the touch. What coaxes a reaction out of the woman if the spot is,” he slipped his finger just under the material, “given the right attention.”

  Holy shit.

  What happened to all the air in the room? Why couldn’t I breathe?

  My mouth was dry, and I had to swallow almost five times before I could speak. “Do you consider yourself an authority in that area?”

  His hand squeezed my thigh, and he lowered his head. “Honey, I consider myself the authority.” He brought his mouth a hairsbreadth away from mine. “And as far as you’re concerned, I’m the only authority.”

  Touché, Mr. Cruz.

  He’d pretty much broken character with that statement, but who the hell cared?

  That was like verbal porn.

  He leaned back and removed his hand from my leg. Before I could muster a response, he said, “Now, that we’ve covered me, let’s move onto you. What do you do for you a living?”

  Still recovering from my mental orgasm, I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “I, um…”

  He grinned behind his glass.

  I straightened my shoulders. I can play, too, Professor. “I own a lingerie company.”

  The hand holding his glass froze in the air.

  It was my turn to grin.

  He cleared his throat. “Lingerie, huh? How did you get into that business?”

  “Let’s just say I also happen to know a thing or two about women and their bodies. And well,” I traced a line down my chest, my finger skating over my heated skin, straight into the V of my dress, “
a woman likes to feel sexy. Desirable. Wanted. Lingerie gives her a certain…boost of confidence, if you will.”

  I brought my finger back up to my mouth, and sucked on the end. His mouth hung open, his eyes glued to that finger.

  “I understand what kind of lingerie can do that,” I continued, my voice sounding husky to my own ears. “And I’m really good at my job.”

  He drew in a ragged breath. “Do you ever sample some of your own merchandise?”

  I bit my lower lip, dragging my teeth across it. “All the time.”

  I could see the rise and fall of his chest underneath his charcoal jacket. His hand tightened its grip on his glass.

  “And do you…feel confident right now?”

  The question didn’t need elaboration.

  He wanted to know if I was wearing any lingerie. Not just pretend, but for real wearing any.

  I ran my heeled foot up his pant leg, and watched his pupils dilate until his eyes were practically black.

  “Mmm. Sweetheart, I’m on top of the world right now.”

  His chest stopped all movement, as if he were no longer breathing. I could hear my pulse thudding away as I savored his reaction.

  “How about I get you on top of me?” His voice was so low.

  I threw back the rest of my drink, recognizing the game was over.

  At least this part of it.

  “That can be arranged.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mickie

  We didn’t make it back to the apartment.

  Hell, we didn’t make it to the car.

  We were still in the bar. In the men’s bathroom, actually.

  And Dawson was shoving me toward an empty stall.

  “Get in there,” he growled.

  I braced myself against the tiled wall as he slammed the door shut, locking it with a loud click. I was finding it difficult to maintain my balance. Not because of the five-inch heels I was wearing. But because of his narrow-eyed lustful focus, which was all aimed at me.

  “What’s your game?” he bit out.

  His body looked poised for attack, though he wasn’t moving.