by Amelia Wilde
“But what about your dad?” I protest. “That’s weird, to be on someone’s family tree and then switch families at such a late age. Don’t you want to find out?”
“Are you asking me for another writer’s retreat? Because I swear to God, Eva, I’m not getting on another plane unless you’re coming with me.”
“I don’t get carsick on planes,” I tell him.
Ben pulls me out onto the sidewalk, into the summer air. The night seems weighted with hope. “Then we’ll fly. Forever, if you want.”
“First class?” I joke.
“Coach,” he says, deadly serious. “But I’ll treat you like a queen.”
“You have yourself a deal.”
Epilogue
“No.”
I stand in the doorway to Eva’s office with a big grin painting itself across my face. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to say anything. I can hear you breathing. You’re so loud.”
This is one of my favorite things about Eva Lipton. She gets so cranky when she’s on a deadline. She was on an especially tight one after we flew to Michigan, last-minute, to discover that not only had my father’s dad been a complete asshole, he was also not my father’s…original father.
It was a mess.
And Eva had been right. There were no answers there. I’ll never know why he wanted me to join the Army. But what I do know is that he’d want me to be with Eva.
“I crept here as silently as I could.”
She lets her head fall onto the back of her chair with a groan. “It’s not right, you know. The way you do this to me.”
I’ll admit it; it’s for me as much as it’s for her. I’ve spent most of the last year getting my own private investigator business off the ground. Eva’s right. It makes more sense to get paid for all my travels. Plus, I can almost always take her with me when I go abroad. Tax write-off!
“Sweetheart. My dearest.” I go into the room and spin her office chair away from the sun-soaked desk so the rays catch in the tangled mess of her hair. This is Deadline Eva with a capital D. She needs the final chapters sent to her editor in three days. I press her legs apart with my hands and kneel between her knees. “I would never do anything to you that you didn’t want.”
“I want to finish my book.” That’s what she says with her words, but with her hands on the side of my face, she’s saying something else entirely.
“And I want you to finish that book too. I also want to tell you news about Ash. But I guess that can wait.”
She leans forward as if she can’t resist the pull and kisses me. I can taste the little noise she makes in the back of her throat. It’s somewhere between relief and irritation, and it always means she wants me here. It doesn’t matter that we’ve lived together for a year now. The taste of her will never be anything less than a new continent to explore, and I put my hand around the back of her neck and find my way around her tongue and teeth until she pulls back, gasping.
“I don’t have any time. You can’t come in here and—”
“How are your shoulders?”
Eva makes a face and leans back in her seat, one hand going up to rub at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Then she sticks her tongue out at me. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s more than fair to be observant.”
“Can’t you observe something else while I finish my book?” Her expression is stern for a fleeting moment, and then she loses control. “Can’t you ever just let me suffer in peace?”
“No. But I’ll let you suffer in company.”
“That doesn’t sound much better, but—oh!”
It still surprises her, my prowess when it comes to removing her panties. A quick hook of my thumbs and a tug, enough force to win the brief battle against her office chair, and I toss them backward into the bookshelf that holds copies of all her published titles, paperbacks, hardcovers, and special editions all.
“Those panties are decorating my bestseller covers,” she says as I push her dress up to her waist and tug her down to the edge of the chair. “How dare you, Ben? Always waltzing in here and….” Her words cut off in a low groan, because I have licked her at her wet, molten center, just the way she likes. And if there’s one thing I know about Eva, it’s that nothing relaxes her like oral sex.
She opens her legs wider as I tease her, her head falling heavily back on the chair again and her hips rocking upward into my face so hard I have to hold her hips in place with both hands.
“No, don’t—don’t do that—come on, Ben. Don’t tease.”
It’s such beautiful begging, and her deadline is so close that I relent.
And give her what she really wants.
Which is my mouth where it counts, the little nub of nerves at the top of her opening that turns her into a wild animal.
I press my lips over it, sucking her in, and Eva’s fingers turn into claws on the arms of the chair. No flicks of the tongue, no fucking around for her—just a steady suction and the broad, flat surface of my tongue against her. Pulsing like the beat of her heart. Not too gentle, not too rough.
I feel her orgasm coming like an earthquake. The trembling starts down low, somewhere at the outside of her hips, and tunnels inward until she cries out “Ben, I’m coming!” and I know she is, because I’m lapping up the sweet taste of her like I’ll never get another chance.
You never know.
Eva’s fingers wind through my hair as I bring her down from the high, pressing sweet kisses to her unbelievably soft skin until the moment she puts her hands on my face and pulls me upward.
“You. Cannot. Do. That.” She’s trying her best to be firm, and her effort sparks a warm glow somewhere in the middle of everything else.
“But I must.” In a burst of chivalry, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve before I rise up on my knees to kiss her. “How’s your shoulder now?”
“I don’t know. My entire body is buzzing, thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Eva shakes her head, eyes bright, and leans down to kiss me again. This time, she bites at my lower lip then pulls away with a little shiver.
I could have her over this desk in an instant.
But that’s not what I came here for.
“Go away,” she commands, turning back to the computer. “I have work.”
I stop the movement of the chair with one hand and turn her back. “First of all, there’s no way you can work with your dress like that.”
“I was waiting until you left to fix it, but if you insist.” She shoves back from the desk and stands up, smoothing down the dress in a way that makes me jealous of the fabric.
“Second of all, there’s something I wanted to ask you.” I pull the box from my pocket.
“What?” Eva does see. She’s caught sight of something on the hem of her dress and is busy picking at it. “I thought we already talked about dinner. If you want me to make something, it’ll have to be takeout, because I—”
“Eva.”
She steps forward with a little shriek. “What is that? Ben! You can’t—”
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” I tell her. “And what I want is to spend the rest of my life making dinner for you when you’re on a deadline. And taking you on a trip to a little cabin by the lake as soon as you’re done writing. And stripping you down, and laying you against pristine sheets, and making those sheets an absolute wreck by the time—”
“Yes! Oh my God, yes.” Eva covers her mouth with her hands.
“Marry me, Eva.” I finally get the words in edgewise and it makes her laugh. She kneels down to hug me and falls at the last moment, taking us both over onto the carpet with a muffled thud.
“I love you,” she says, her voice like bottled laughter. “I mean it.”
“I love you.” I lean over and kiss my soon-to-be-wife chastely on the forehead. “Now get back to work.”
Thank you so much for reading When He Saw Me! I bet I know what’s on your m
ind…Dayton and Wes, Bennett’s two best buddies from his deployment in Afghanistan. These survivors have love stories of their own, and they’re available right now.
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His power comes from the military.
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Before She Was Mine
My missing foot hurts like a bitch.
You’ve probably heard of phantom pain, and I’ll tell you right now—you’re picturing it wrong. It’s not nebulous, an aching vapor in roughly the size and shape of the limb you’ve lost—in my case, my left leg, starting just below the knee.
There is no shin. There is no foot. There are no toes.
They were irreparably mangled at the base of a mountain in Afghanistan, and it’s almost definitely my fault.
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Turn the page for an excerpt of Before She Was Mine!
Before She Was Mine - Excerpt
1
Dayton
My missing foot hurts like a bitch.
You’ve probably heard of phantom pain, and I’ll tell you right now—you’re picturing it wrong. It’s not nebulous, an aching vapor in roughly the size and shape of the limb you’ve lost—in my case, my left leg, starting just below the knee.
There is no shin. There is no foot. There are no toes.
They were irreparably mangled at the base of a mountain in Afghanistan, and it’s almost definitely my fault.
But fault has nothing to do with the very real burn at the back of my missing heel, like I shoved my feet into running shoes like a lazy bastard, not bothering to stick a finger between my ankle and the heel tab until I’m several miles in and it’s already too late. Fault has nothing to do with the sharp pebble between my second and third toes, driving into the webbing with every step I take along the filthy snowstreaked steps, or the burning stretch in my arch threatening to root in my heel. If that happens, I’m fucked, because there’s no cure for a bum heel in a foot that doesn’t exist.
The phantom pain rubs shoulders with the real pain where what’s left of my leg—what the doctors call residual limb like it’s the dry end of a party sub—and that pain, at least, I can take full credit for.
Ten steps away from the exit of the 50th Street subway, it’s already throbbing from standing on the train. The stairs are too narrow. It should be better on solid ground. The lady ahead of me on the steps doesn’t know that. The handle of her purse slips down her shoulder, inch by inch, the top partially unzipped. She curls her head toward her shoulder but it doesn’t do anything to pin down the strap. Whatever’s in the cardboard box is either fragile or too heavy to hold with one hand.
“Shit,” she whispers.
I step up beside her, the extra effort of catching up putting more pressure on the missing foot. My arch twists, pulls. It’s the only way to keep going, and I have to keep going. The exit beckons. I want to accept the invitation. I’m not a fucking hero, but I’m not a total asshole, either. I want to ignore her. I don’t.
“Give you a hand with that box?”
She flicks her eyes over to me. “I’m okay.”
“You’re about to lose half your purse.”
One more glance. The dress pants must help my case. “If you’re sure—”
I take the box and she hitches up the purse strap on her shoulder. Without the added weight she springs up the steps, waiting for me at the top. It’s heavy. It’s a good counterbalance for my shitty prosthetic but it makes my stump press into the socket, setting the hot spots on fire.
Out on the sidewalk I tip it back into her hands. “What do you have in there?”
A rueful shake of her head. “Books. I couldn’t let them go.” She turns away and back again. “Thanks.”
It’s three and a half blocks to where I’m going and cold as hell even though it’s sunny. The sidewalks are a mix of sand and slush and petrified dog shit and that pain between my toes. If I didn’t know better, I’d take off my boot and look for that pebble, rub at the arch.
No, I wouldn’t. Not with the buildings huddling together above me, blank windows watching my sorry progress. I should have canceled this meeting.
The foot that isn’t there presses down through a gray layer of slush and jerks sideways. I curse under my breath. I wore work boots today. I shouldn’t have worn work boots, but it’s this kind of weather that makes me glad I stuffed my metal replacement foot into something sturdy, with waterproof canvas. Even the thick treads aren’t a match for the endless winter nightmare in Manhattan.
This is a waste of time. Things were going fine at the factory in Queens. Totally fucking fine, except for the muscle spasms that knocked me off balance when I lifted the assembled windows onto the racks, or the way my hands swelled for days on end from the chemical baths if I worked Section 12.
If I’d had some painkillers, it would’ve been good, but that asshole O’Connors at the VA had gone so far as to put down his clipboard and look me in the eye at my appointment last week, as if he was a wise old general and not a green doctor younger than I am.
You can’t keep putting your body through this punishment. That’s what he said to me. As if I deserve anything less than a punishing job—than mindless, manual labor.
Shit. Did I miss the building?
I shuffle myself over to a wrought-iron fence planted in the concrete and lean my hip against it. There’s not much slush here. I dig into the pocket of my dress pants, bought new at the last minute.
I have a card.
It reads:
Heroes on the Homefront
Veteran Services
540 W. 50th Street
New York, NY 10019
The sight of it makes both my feet itch. If I still had both of them, instead of dragging around this titanium-alloy bullshit, I’d run back to the train station right now.
Too late for that. I’m already in front of 540 W. 50th, and there are giant windows up front. They’ve been cleaned recently, so I have a full unobstructed view of the receptionist, who smiles at me and gives me a little wave.
Jesus Christ.
The socket on the temp prosthetic is digging into my leg somehow, sending sharp sparks of pain up into my thigh. The gel liner that’s supposed to protect it is worn down. I reach for the door and my leg resists picking up my foot. I swing it twice to get myself through, and on the second swing my boot catches in a snowdrift a few inches from the door, which throws me off balance.
I’ll never let them see my shame. Heroes on the Homefront—what utter bullshit. I’m not a hero. I can’t even get through the front door without everybody in here—some woman has now joined the receptionist behind the desk, absolutely wonderful—giving me pitying looks.
I let the door swing shut behind me and step fully into the lobby. The receptionist is half out of her seat as if she’s about to rush over and take my arm, and Christ, if she does that, I’m done with this place and every other place, to be honest. She must see it in my face because she sits down, still wearing the encouraging smile that’s making my gut twist, and watches me approach the desk, eyes wide and shining.
“Welcome to Heroes on the Homefront,” she says, big brown eyes practically glistening now, for fuck’s sake. “How can I help you today?”
“Dayton Nash. I have an appointment at eleven.”
She nods as if she’s in the presence of greatness—I’m going to die of disgust—and picks up the handset of her phone. The other woman disappears in a flash of bleach-blonde pixie cut. “Have a seat, Mr. Nash. There’s coffee and tea, if you’re interested.” Ms. Pitying Receptionist lifts her chin toward a coffee cart over by the opposite window. As if I’m going to drag myself all the way across the room while she watches her own personal performance of a hero on the homefront. I take the nearest seat.
And wait.
Five minutes tick by, then ten, then fifteen. It’s ten past now, and too hot in the waiting room. Too boring. The sleek furniture is fine for five minutes but not for twenty, and the music—god, the music, it’s soft country and right now I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the framed photos of the American flag on the walls. I can’t stand the black carpeting, shot through with red and white and blue. And I can’t fucking stand that I’m here in the first place like some asshole who can’t get a job on his own, who thinks he deserves something cushy, something pre-arranged. If only that cow-eyed receptionist knew what I’ve done. What I still could do, if push came to shove. The ends justify the means.
Twenty-two minutes.
It shouldn’t be this hard to do the shit you’re supposed to do. To work a job on the right side of the law. To claw yourself out of the black, numb despair that creeps into your chest at night, that makes you get a cramp in the foot that doesn’t exist, a cramp that won’t release its grip until the sun comes up and you have to be on the factory floor, making windows for buildings you’ll never see.
I’m leaving.
It’s not worth it. It’s not worth this.
I shift my weight forward in this hellish, stylish seat.
“Mr. Nash?”
It’s not the receptionist’s voice. It’s not a voice I’ve heard in a long time, and at the sound of it my toes—real and imagined—curl. Pleasure or shame? I don’t know.