The Deeper He Hurts

by Lynda Aicher

  Two of the sliding retractable glass patio doors were opened, Sawyer framed in the doorway, a sea of dark clouds brewing beyond him. Electricity charged over his exposed skin, cooler air tumbling in with the sudden drop in temperature. Why am I working?

  Ash stretched, neck cracking as he rolled his head. A low rumble echoed over the valley, growing louder before it faded. He came up behind his lover and wrapped his arms around Sawyer’s chest, his sigh escaping as he found his spot at Sawyer’s back.

  “It’s going to be a good one,” Sawyer said, nodding at the approaching storm. He leaned into Ash, hand coming up to clasp one of his. They’d experienced a few of these amazing thunderstorms since Ash had moved to Utah, every one ending with them naked and well-fucked.

  Ash nuzzled the side of Sawyer’s head, inhaled his scent, which was now tinged with sage, another sigh escaping. This right here would never get old. “I can’t wait,” he murmured. Almost two months of living with Sawyer, and every day brought new frustrations and even more peace.

  Sawyer’s chuckle rumbled through the air and vibrated into him. “Spring is going to be so damn fun.”

  “Yeah?” He ran a hand down Sawyer’s front, over his abs. “Why’s that?”

  “We get a lot more storms in the spring.” Sawyer shot him a wicked grin over his shoulder, brows waggling.

  Ash muffled his laugh in Sawyer’s shoulder, so damn happy he could barely breathe. To have this, to believe he’d have anything close to this, had been so far out of his scope of thought just six months ago.

  They’d had their hitches figuring out how to move forward. Adjusting to living together when they’d both been alone for so long had resulted in a few rounds of makeup sex—and even more wild-in-the-moment sex that’d ended with them gasping for air and forgetting why they’d been arguing to begin with.

  But mostly, they just clicked, and discovered that two loners could be happy being alone together. And thank fuck for that. Ash didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  “What were you doing downstairs?” He nipped Sawyer’s earlobe, slid a palm over his dick. They’d been converting one of Sawyer’s spare bedrooms into a playroom and they’d each been adding things based on ideas, wants, needs, and whims.

  Sawyer rocked his hips, lips twitching. “My pain slut was setting up your sadist’s nirvana so they could play together.”

  He groaned, laughter breaking out a moment later. “That’s still horrible.”

  “I know,” Sawyer agreed around his own laugh. “But it worked the first time, so I thought I’d try it again.”

  It had. Another thank fuck for that.

  “Just so you know,” Ash said, pressing a kiss to Sawyer’s jaw, whiskers tickling his lips. “I’m a sure thing now.”

  A lightning bolt slashed through the sky, jumping and flashing in a dance only nature could create. Yeah, he’d really missed out on how amazing nature could be. It humbled him to realize exactly how much he’d been missing his entire life.

  “I know.” Sawyer’s tone had lowered, going soft with the emotions he was getting better at showing. He rubbed a hand down Ash’s thigh, weight falling into him. “Do you have any regrets?”

  Ash stared at the approaching cold front and gave his question some serious thought. Thunder rolled over the valley in an echoing rumble before it ended in a solid boom that vibrated through the house and into him. He couldn’t imagine how amazing the spring storms would be, or anywhere else he’d rather be.

  He hummed in appreciation, arms cinching around Sawyer. There were so many things he could look back on and wish he’d done differently, but every step and mistake had brought him here. He couldn’t regret any of them if they meant having Sawyer in his life going forward.

  “No.” He had zero regrets. “You?”

  “None.” Sawyer rocked his hips, his ass caressing Ash’s hardening dick. “I never let myself dream about having this.” He squeezed Ash’s hand. “Now I can’t imagine you not being here.”

  Deciding to live at Sawyer’s for a while had been easy enough. He could do a lot of his job remotely, and his trips back to Portland gave them space and thus minimized Sawyer’s running options. This area was gorgeous in a wild, open way, and being here for the winter while Sawyer’s energy consulting job was in higher demand gave them a chance to figure out how to live as a “them.”

  They’d migrate back to Portland come spring, when Kick’s prime season picked back up, but that was still months away. He couldn’t abandon the company, didn’t want to. Chris and Finn had accepted him when he’d needed it most, and he’d be there for them now. Yes, Chris was gone, but he still lived on in the legacy he’d started with Kick. And Finn was down, but hopefully not out.

  “Were you talking to Rig earlier?” Sawyer asked, like he’d been following Ash’s thoughts.

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “He’s still worried about Finn.” More so now that Finn was refusing to see anyone. “He’s gone into full hermit mode, lashing out at anyone who dares to enter his home now that he’s left the rehab facility.” He’d regained a lot of his speech and motor skills, but he still had a long way to go before he’d be back to normal—if ever.

  “I get it.” Sawyer cringed, and rubbed his thigh. “He lost a good friend and himself in one awful event. That has to suck.”

  So much of it still sucked. Carrying on the business, living with the loss of Chris, worrying over Finn. There were times when Ash felt guilty about how happy he was, but it also made him appreciate what he had that much more.

  “I love you.” He’d never get tired of saying that.

  Another streak of lightning flashed through the gray clouds, cutting them in a jagged path. The thunder cracked only a few seconds behind it in an audible declaration of how close it was.

  “My mother called too,” he snuck in when it went quiet.

  “Fuck.” Sawyer’s curse held a note of laughter, and he dropped his head forward. “Thanksgiving, right?”

  He chuckled, snuggled his nose into Sawyer’s neck. “She’s threatened to come here if we don’t show up.” They’d made one appearance at Sunday dinner a few weeks back. His big coming out and Sawyer’s even bigger leap into his family had been met with much more welcome than disdain. “It’s only a few hours.”

  Sawyer turned around, his stunning golden eyes searching before his dimple appeared next to his smile. “I can do more than a few hours. For you.” His kiss was slow and lingering, love and acceptance pouring in with each brush of his tongue and caress of his lips. And Ash gave it all right back.

  Every person Sawyer let into his life was one more he could lose, yet he continued to expose himself to the potential pain, when he’d closed himself off to it for so damn long. His strength was stunning, and Ash swore he’d do whatever he could to never be the one who hurt him—emotionally.

  Now, physically…he was the only person who’d ever get to do that again. Hell, Sawyer was the only one his sadist had any desire to play with.

  Sawyer eased back, his gaze intent. “Should we go downstairs?” He cocked a brow, his smirk matching the slightly arrogant and way-too-cocky attitude that’d attracted Ash from the very beginning. The only difference was the happiness that now lit Sawyer’s eyes.

  And the love.

  It shone in the gentle lift of his brow and the softness that bracketed his lips. But mostly in the gentleness that’d eased in to replace the distance he used to surround himself with.

  Ash laid one more kiss on his lips, then clasped his hand, closed the glass doors, and led Sawyer downstairs. Pain had brought them together. Without it, it was doubtful they’d have ever found each other. It’d been the only way Sawyer could let him in, and Ash had sworn he’d be there the rest of the way.

  Being as close to Sawyer as he could physically get was just one more thing he’d never get tired of. Ever.

  Sawyer stopped in the doorway of the playroom, grin spreading. “Damn, I love you, you sadisti
c fuck.”

  Those were the best words Ash had ever heard, and he was positive they would never get old. Ever.

  —

  Sawyer arched back, every slow glide of Asher’s dick grazing over that sweet spot deep inside of him. Ecstasy raced from his groin, only to be countered and doubled by the hit of pain when Asher bottomed out against his throbbing balls and ass cheeks.

  “So good,” he mumbled, yanking Asher down to him.

  Sawyer kissed him with the freedom he’d found in his arms, with the love he’d finally admitted, accepted, and learned to cherish. No one else could give him what Asher did.

  Asher broke away, gasp reinforced by a sharp thrust that jarred Sawyer. “Yes.” He grunted around the pleasure and pain, lunged up to bite at Asher’s neck, absorb everything he could.

  Sweat slicked over them both, sex and leather fighting with the fresh scent of rain through the cracked window. The storm outside had passed in a rage of angry cracks and shaking rumbles until it’d softened into the mellow, comforting note of constant taps.

  Asher stared down at him, brows pulled tight, eyes dark and so full of love Sawyer almost didn’t trust it. Almost. He knew better, though. Asher didn’t have to prove anything to him. This connection right here, Asher’s persistent love and patience, provided all the proof he needed.

  Sawyer tightened his legs around Asher’s hips, relishing the barb of pain that sunk from his balls to his gut. A riding crop, clothespins, and more of that endless patience had stretched the last hour into an amazing ride of simplistic pain that drove far deeper than expected. Asher’s specialty and his favorite—now.

  Asher’s moan vibrated into Sawyer, a bead of sweat inching down his temple. He brushed his nose against Sawyer’s, hot breaths panting with his own. Sawyer’s heart pounded out every beat of his coming release. Every moment that connected them on so many levels.

  No, right here—this was his favorite.

  Being in Asher’s arms, being filled inside and out by him, was better than the pain. Amazing beyond anything he’d ever dared to hope for.

  “Fuck, I love you.” He gasped at another perfect thrust, pain and pleasure mixing to embrace his heart and soul. He grabbed a handful of Asher’s hair, wrenched his head until he could claim his mouth and stake his possession. Brand him deeper into his heart than he already was.

  The low growl leaked around their lips and tumbled through the air in a hedonistic burst of primal passion. Asher’s wildness drove him crazy, this free and open side of him that only he got to see. He knew that. Treasured it, too.

  And swore he’d never let it go.

  “Fuck.” Asher reared up, hips working faster, biceps bulging as he braced his hands on the bed. “I can’t get enough of you.” Every rapid plunge skimmed Sawyer’s prostate, nicked his nuts and slammed against his ass. So damn perfect.

  “Me either,” Sawyer mumbled around a groan.

  Asher dropped back down, froze. The suddenness of it split the air with intensity, demanded that Sawyer pay attention. He trailed a finger down Sawyer’s jaw, each heavy breath peppering his lips, his eyes filled with the wonder that still snuck up to surprise Sawyer.

  How had they found each other? How had Asher stuck with him when he’d done everything to push him away?

  It didn’t matter anymore.

  They had a whole future ahead of them, and Sawyer was finally ready to embrace it—with Asher.

  To those who’ve hurt, those who’ve healed, and those who’ve walked the line between both. And to those who understand that sometimes you have to hurt in order to heal.

  BY LYNDA AICHER

  The Harder He Falls

  The Deeper He Hurts

  PHOTO: MARTI CORN

  Award-winning multipublished author LYNDA AICHER loves to write emotionally charged romances. Her novels have appeared on Amazon’s top 100, Barnes & Noble top 10, and have been featured in USA Today and RT Book Reviews magazine. Her books have finaled in the Romance Writers of America’s RITA contest and won the BDSM Writers Con Golden Flogger Award. Prior to becoming an author, she spent years traveling weekly as a consultant implementing computer software into global companies until she opted to end her nomadic lifestyle to raise her children. Now, her imagination is the only limitation on where she can go, and her writing lets her escape from the daily duties of being a mom, wife, chauffeur, scheduler, cook, teacher, cleaner, and mediator. You can find her online at:

  lyndaaicher.com

  Facebook.com/​lyndaaicherauthor

  @lyndaaicher

  If you enjoyed The Deeper He Hurts by Lynda Aicher, read on for a sneak peek at

  The Farther He Runs

  A Kick Novel

  Available from Loveswept

  Winter 2017

  Chapter 1

  Rain sputtered down in an annoying drizzle that collected on the windshield and blurred Tanner Dorsey’s view of the two-story Tudor. The urge to switch his wipers on, even for a single pass, was blocked by his trained instincts. Movement gave away position, and he wasn’t ready to be seen.

  Nothing had changed, at least from the outside. The manicured lawn was green, the shrubs trimmed into neat containment. Olive-toned siding accented by the red-brick entry and white trim with the distinctive narrow gables, thin windows, and timber framing. Starkly bare compared with the abundance of seasonal decorations that littered the other houses. The blinds were drawn tight on the ground floor, lights extinguished, zero activity detected.

  He inhaled, released it slowly, and clicked through the refuse clouding his thoughts. An easier task than sorting out the strangle of emotions he’d blocked since returning stateside. Eighteen months overseas, ten focused solely on the mission. Plenty of time for things to go to hell.

  To fail in his duty to his brothers while serving his duty to his country.

  The gray light camouflaged the time, trapping the world in a depressed state of uniformity. No brightness or shadows. Consistency at its worst, but it was preferable to the blistering blindness of the unrelenting sun.

  Sweat clung to his nape and plastered his undershirt to his back, but a shiver trembled down his spine. He suppressed it without thought. He was free to move here. Free to yell and scream…or cry. He wouldn’t, though. To crack was to fail when he couldn’t repack everything that would escape.

  The car engine ticked as it cooled, the cold creeping in the longer he sat there. His plane had landed that morning. He’d booked the first available flight out of San Diego once his debriefing was done, and his leave had officially begun. There’d been no question on where he’d spend his time off, and no guilt either. His family didn’t even know he was back on U.S. soil. He’d text his mother when he was able to deal with her. After this was done.

  He needed his brothers. Not his blood relation, but the ones who knew him better than he knew himself. The ones who’d become his family the second he’d stepped off the bus at Parris Island and placed his feet in the same yellow footprints that’d welcomed every recruit.

  But there was one brother who needed him more than anyone else—and Tanner needed him too.

  He was a Navy brat by distinction of his father’s job, but he was a Marine by choice—one he’d never regretted. Not through almost twenty years of service. Not through all the wars, deployments, and missions. Not through the pain of battle and loss.

  Not…until yesterday.

  One message. That was it. One single text had sucked the breath from his lungs and almost dropped him to his knees.

  He hadn’t read the rest of the updates until he was waiting for his flight. Nine months that chronicled the status of the brother to his right and the one who was no longer to his left.

  The ache in his throat swelled until he forced it back with a hard swallow. A few blinks and the burning sensation faded from his eyes. Another long exhale to the count of heartbeats. One, two, three, four.

  He’d ended his information gathering after that. Everything else that’d happened w
hile he’d been in the dark could wait. The deluge of information was standard after returning from an extended special operations mission where a blackout of personal communication had been required. Almost a year without civilian contact of any kind. No emails or texts. No video messaging or calls. Care packages were a joke. Much like showers and clean clothes. All sacrifices he’d willingly given in the name of freedom.

  There were many, many more who’d given everything.

  He closed his eyes, flashes of faces racing past in a silent tribute to his fallen brothers. He’d had the misfortune—or fortune, if one chose to look at it that way—of serving the majority of his military career during a period of war. Would he have changed his mind when he’d enlisted in the late nineties if he’d known what the next two decades would bring? Not a chance.

  The memories weren’t all great. Many haunted him in his nightmares, both awake and asleep. But it was his life. One that’d given him purpose and inclusion, shaped and saved him in ways only other Marines understood.

  He jerked the door open and exited the rental car in a single movement. He’d packed quickly in the thirty minutes he’d stopped by his apartment between base and the airport, grabbing the important things and figuring he’d buy anything he’d forgotten.

  He yanked the flight bag out of the rear, glanced up and down the street as he closed the hatch. Shoulders back, chin high, he strode to the green Tudor, the arched entry his intent. He still scanned the perimeter, checked between each house, eyed the windows. The street held a deserted feel to it that coincided with the midweek work schedule of most civilians. The dreary December weather didn’t help with the welcoming either.

  The rainy mist coated his leather jacket and spit at his face, but was easily ignored. This was nothing and didn’t even register on his annoyance scale. His shoes were silent, his bag held at his side. His pulse kicked higher with each step closer to his destination. There was no valid reason for the anxiety stacking up within his chest. His extended absence wasn’t unexpected nor would it be criticized. Yet the worry had built over each long hour that it’d taken him to get to Portland.