by Harper Sloan
He pushes in deep and doesn’t move, his chest heaving and his eyes closed tight. I wiggle, trying to get him to move again, but his fingers on my hips dig in and his eyes snap open.
“Don’t fucking move. I’m not going to come in thirty seconds like some teenage shit.”
“You have to move. God, baby, I can feel every inch of you stretching me wide.”
With a grumble, he pulls out a few inches—enough for me to feel his piercings rubbing against my inner walls. When he pushes forward, I feel him hitting even deeper than before.
I pant, beg, and scream for him to move, but he just stands there, breathing roughly and flexing his hips.
When I can’t take it any longer, I rock against him. If he won’t give me what I need, then I’ll just fucking take it.
“You think you can make yourself come ON my dick? Baby, that’s the same thing as using your hands. I make you come. Don’t fucking forget it.”
He pulls almost all the way out before slamming home. Over and over again, he slams roughly into my body. One hand comes off my hips and his thick fingers rub over my clit, teasing me, before he pinches it between his fingers.
On a hiss, I come again, my juices rushing against his rigid flesh. He gives me one hard plunge into my body before throwing his head back and roaring.
Fucking roaring.
The sound of his release making my orgasm roll on and on to the point where I do, in fact, pass out.
CHAPTER 30
Maddox
Jesus fucking Christ.
I don’t think I’ve come that hard in my life. The feeling of her pussy milking my orgasm from my body was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
I look down my body to where I’m still planted deep within her warm heat. I can feel our combined releases running down my balls, and my spent cock twitches to life inside her. It takes everything in me to pry my hands from her hips and pull free of her body. My cock is already starting to beg for more of her sweet cunt.
She doesn’t flinch. Not when I release my hold on her hips. Not when I step away from her body—my eyes zeroed in on my cock pulling free. I can see her cream coating me and damned if it doesn’t pump my craving for her up to uncontrollable levels. When the head of my cock leaves her heat, causing a slow rush of our mixed come to leak from her, I have to grab on to the mattress from the head rush it gives me.
Never has sex felt like that. I can’t even deny that it was that intense because of the feelings we have together.
Not even bothering to dress, I move her slack body so that her head is resting on her pillow. Covering her naked body is the last thing I want, but I have a few things I need to take care of before I can climb into bed with her.
Things that I’m finally ready to let go of, thanks to Emmy, and things I want settled before I take her again.
Over the last two months, I feel like I’ve changed as a person. I no longer look at the world thinking that, at any given moment, I will destroy those around me. I look at our close group of friends, people I’ve known for years now, and see that, by knowing me, they haven’t felt my demons. They haven’t been touched—or tainted—by my dark soul. If anything, I can now see the role I’ve played in helping each one of them come together.
That one took a little longer for me to wrap my mind around. Years of thinking one way was warring against the very real truth that I was wrong.
Or, more importantly, that every fucked-up thing my mother had drilled into my head—making me believe without a doubt—was in fact the catalyst in it all. Her hate for me fueled my own self-hate. I carried it around. I owned it. I let her do that to me.
I refuse to let her have that power over me now. I’m worth more than a lifetime of being alone and afraid of myself.
I’m worth Emmy.
It hasn’t been easy these last two months, but it has been rewarding. With the help of both Emmy and the doctor I have been seeing a few times a week, I’m ready. Ready to move on and forward. All those baby steps I’ve taken with her at my side have paid off and I feel like we can now run a marathon together.
It’s one fucking amazing high to feel the love of another. To have her wrap that love around me, refusing to let go, and never waver. Indescribable.
Now, it’s time to take the rest of my so-called monsters and toss them where they belong—in the darkest pits of fucking hell.
After making sure Emmy is situated, I laugh when she still doesn’t flinch. I knew she was running on some kind of manic high today with the thought of having the use of her arm again. Even the thought of the physical therapy left to build her strength back up hasn’t weakened her happiness. Being able to move forward and start bearing weight on her leg was even better. It’s going to be harder since her wrist is too weak to support crutches for now, but she can move around now, and that is the important thing to her.
I make the walk over to my dresser and feel my lips twitch when I realize that, for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel the dread of what I’m about to do.
Open that fucking box.
It’s time.
We’ve slowly been removing items together, just as she promised, but this part needs to be done by me alone. I need to know that I can do this one alone.
Popping the lid, I take in the three remaining items. The question is: Which one do I take care of first?
I grab the letter from Johnson’s widow first. One of the hardest things for me to accept was that I wasn’t responsible for their deaths. It would have happened regardless of who was there with me or where my head was. Looking back, even though I was stressed over Mercy, I was on top of my fucking game out there. I’d been trained to be the best of the fucking best, and goddamn it, I was.
Two weeks ago, I called up Johnson’s widow. I was alone at Corps Security and I took a chance. I never fathomed that she would regret this hate-filled letter in my hands. She told me that she had wanted to contact me so many times over the years but just didn’t know how. We talked for two hours that day. Remembering her husband, laughing about the stupid shit we would get into overseas, and finally healing. When I hung up the phone with her and felt that guilt dissipate a little, I started to believe in that hope for a blessed life.
My next call was to Morris’s widow. She was shocked to hear from me but, in the end, glad that I called. Like Mary, she needed that closure that her husband hadn’t suffered and to have some memories I could give her of him.
By the time I finished those calls, I broke.
I sat in my office, surrounded by computers and technical equipment, and I fought with my body to calm down. It was almost as if I hadn’t known how to move on without that guilt. But by the time I left the office, I almost felt whole.
After removing Mary’s letter—and my Medal of Honor—I walk into the kitchen. Then I swipe one of the lighters out of the spare drawer, place my medal on the counter, and hold her letter over the sink. With one flick of my thumb, I watch as flames take over the old paper. Each piece of ash that falls into the sink represents the guilt I’m letting go.
When I’m finished, I grab the medal and walk over to the mantel. I stand there with my legs planted to the ground, my shoulders tight, and take in the pictures Emmy insisted on putting up. Just one of the many home-decorating projects she forced me to do for her during her recovery.
There are five frames in all. The first is a picture of our group of friends from Axel and Izzy’s wedding with Emmy and me standing on opposite ends of the crowd. I am looking—unsmiling—at the camera and she’s looking directly at me. Even though it could hurt to look at this picture, I have to remind myself of what it represents—just how far we’ve come since.
The second is one we had taken when Greg and Melissa had everyone over for a late welcome home for the twins. Melissa hadn’t wanted to do it without Emmy. Emmy is sitting off to the side, one of their girls resting against her good arm and her leg propped up on the couch. She was in so much pain that day but refused to let it sta
nd in the way of going. You would never be able to tell by the look on her face. She’s smiling down at Lillian—or Lila, as we’ve been instructed by her big brother, Cohen, to call her—with a look of pure wonderment. I made a mental promise to myself that day that I would put that look back in her eyes—only, this time, with our own children.
I run my finger over her profile in that picture and move on to the next.
It’s one of all of the guys. Axel has his arm wrapped around Greg’s neck—laughing. Beck is standing with Coop, their heads thrown back hooting, and I’m looking at them all pissed as hell. I let out a laugh when I remember why. Izzy can be seen in the background with Sway, both of them bent at their waists to hold their laughing bodies up. It took me three days until I stopped finding gold flecks of glitter on my skin. Another week until my head stopped shining in places.
“Damn Sway and his fucking glitter,” I mumble with a smile.
The next is one we had taken when Chelcie came home from the hospital with Zac. All of us met down at Coop’s grave and had Davey take a picture. Everyone was there. Emmy, still unable to walk, was in my arms. Even though this picture breaks my heart because of the reminder that we no longer have Coop with us, to look from the first one when Emmy and I were so far from this moment and then to see us together . . . Yeah, it is hands down one of my favorite pictures. It’s our whole family. All four of the men I consider brothers with the women they love. My girl is in my arms, her smile taking over her face and my small grin stealing the hardness from my face. Izzy is holding Nate while Axel is holding her very pregnant stomach. Greg and Melissa each hold one of their beautiful daughters. Beck has his arms wrapped around Dee. Asher and Chelcie are sitting on the ground next to Coop’s headstone with sad smiles on their faces. In their arms is Coop’s son, Zac. And then there are Sway and Cohen—both with red capes flowing in the wind, hands on their hips, and smiles on their lips. Sway said that we needed to make this a place where we could smile at and not always cry . . . so that’s what he did.
The last picture I take in, the one that sits in the largest frame front and center, is the one of just Emmy and me. I didn’t even know it had been taken, but I could kiss whoever did. We’re both asleep in my bed—something we did a lot over her recovery. So often that the women in our circle took it upon themselves to come by—often—and make sure there wasn’t anything needed. They would let themselves in and out, sometimes not even telling us they were here. I knew they were coming; my security system would trip them up every time.
In the picture, I have my back propped up against the headboard and Emmy is lying between my legs with her head on my thigh. She had fallen asleep rubbing the skin above my stump in a soft caress. I remember feeling her lips press against my knee right before her body went slack and her hand fell to rest where my leg stopped. That was the first and only time I ever let anyone freely touch my leg like that. She didn’t judge or flinch; she accepted it and loved me even more because of my scars. Then I fell asleep with my head tipped back and a smile on my face that didn’t even leave in my slumber.
I straighten out each frame before taking my Medal of Honor—one I never felt worthy of—and placing it right next to that picture of Emmy and me. Right next to the woman who made me believe that I was worthy of everything blessed in my life.
With a nod, I walk back to the bedroom and climb into the bed to pull Emmy into my arms.
Right where she belongs.
CHAPTER 31
Emmy
I immediately notice his medal on the mantel the next morning. Maddox was fast asleep when I woke up. It took me a while to get into the living room, but when I did, it was the first thing I saw. I don’t make a big production over it; I smile and continue my slow hobble into the kitchen to get some water.
It is when I stand over the sink, empty glass ready and hand hovering over the cold-water knob, that I see the ashes. The meaning of such a monumental move on his end hits me like a train. Straight through my chest and slamming into my heart.
He finds me on the floor in the kitchen. I’m naked as the day I was born with silent tears streaming down my face.
“Em? Jesus Christ, are you okay?” His hands roam over my body. Then he checks my newly freed arm and looks down to my leg to make sure there isn’t an obvious source to my pain.
I just sit there and look into his handsome face, my breathing coming in fast pants. These damn tears won’t stop. His thumbs work overtime trying to stop their falling while he cups my face between his palms.
“You did it,” I sob.
He looks at me in question. His head tilts slightly to the side, his strong brows pulled tight. “I’m not following, angel. Are you hurt?”
“You let them go and you didn’t need me,” I gasp.
“Emersyn, fucking hell—what is wrong?!” His voice booms through the room and I smile. The tears don’t stop, but I smile huge and look into his eyes. “Have you lost your mind? Do you need me to find some happy pills? For the love of Christ, Em, what is wrong?”
He’s losing his patience and I’m losing my damn mind.
I reach up, lightly rub my palm against his chest, right above his heart, and look at him with what I hope is the face of a crazy woman who loves him. The tears aren’t going to stop. I’ve been waiting and hoping that he would let go of just one of those three demons in his box. I knew they were the biggest of his burdens, and even though I was willing to carry them with him for an eternity, I wanted him to feel peace.
“I love you, my big, strong, and brave man.”
He is clearly having trouble following my mood swings because he seems even more confused than before. I work harder to control my crazy, stifling my tears and swallowing the heavy lump in my throat.
“I knew you would be able to do it, baby. I can’t even tell you how proud I am of you right now.”
To my utter and complete shock, his cheeks heat and Maddox Locke freaking blushes. “It was time, Em,” is all he says.
“Yeah, I guess it was,” I agree.
“Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”
When we get in the bedroom, I toss one glance at the box still sitting on his dresser. I know that, by it still being there, there is still one more thing left. I’m guessing that, since his Medal is out and the letter from his fallen brother’s widow was the one to go, that means the hardest and largest of his demons is left.
Those bastards in Texas.
As we slowly walk towards the bed, I can’t help but feel a little nervous over the enormity of which battle is left for him. It won’t be easy, but I won’t let him do it alone.
He helps me climb into bed, and when he moves to leave, I look up at him and shake my head.
“Sit,” I command.
His lips twitch and his brow cocks, but he sits.
“Tell me how to remove your prosthetic please?”
His eyes go wide, showing me his shock. “Em,” he starts.
“Don’t make me spank your ass, Maddox Locke. Tell me how to remove it.”
He grumbles under his breath, but he takes my hand and moves me through the motions. It’s hard since one of my hands is throbbing from having not been used for so long. I’m twisted at a weird angle in the bed, but I manage to remove it. Then he takes it from my hands and places it next to the bed. He won’t meet my eye, and I hate that he still feels some shame.
“Come on. Scoot back,” I demand, patting the bed next to me.
He gripes and complains but still sits by me.
I reach down and place my hand against his hip. He jumps slightly but still doesn’t meet my eyes. It isn’t until my hand has moved to rest right above his stump that his head snaps to the side and his eyes take mine.
“The next time I see even an ounce of shame darkening those sexy, black eyes of yours, Maddox, I’m going to smack your ass until it’s pink.”
His jaw drops, but I keep going.
“And then, if you still act like this part of you that I l
ove is something you should hate, I’ll punish you every time. You think that I don’t love every inch of this magnificent body? Oh, you are so wrong. This part of you that you feel shame in is something I look at with pride. You, my brave, brave man, are a hero and it’s time you started wearing that title with pride. Be as proud of yourself as I am. Maybe I should just start keeping myself from you until you see just how much I mean this.”
I go to move my hand to my sex and his eyes flash for a second before his strong hand grips my wrist—softly but with enough pressure to show me that he means business.
“If you think you’re going to keep that sweet goddamn cunt from me, then you’ve got another thing coming, Emersyn.” His voice rushes through me, and I have to shift my hips when my arousal becomes too much. “You don’t keep your body from me . . . ever. Understand?”
“I’ll do what I have to do,” I sass back.
“Emersyn,” he growls.
“I don’t think so, mister! You aren’t going to go all sexy, growling alpha on me. You heard what I said. Now calm your cock down and take the over-the-top caveman down a peg or two. You still think of your imperfections as something to be ashamed of?”
He scowls, but answers, “No, Emmy, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to fucking like them.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, big boy.” With a smile, I run my hand over his hardened skin. He shivers, but I know he isn’t cold. “You’ll fucking like them, because your woman fucking loves them.”
“I should wash your mouth out with soap and then spank your ass.”
“I would enjoy that too much.”
He groans and drops his head back with a loud thump against the headboard. “I don’t hate it, okay? You are the only person who has ever even touched me like this besides someone medically responsible to. I’m working on the rest. I don’t hide it from you and you have to know that, months ago, I would still be keeping it covered whenever I knew your eyes could take sight of it.”