Pulled Under: a standalone Walker Security novel

by Lisa Renee Jones

  We exit the car and he slides his arm around my shoulders, and settles me close to his big body. We round a corner that way and I’m taken off guard by how immediately we’re at his door. He keys in a code at his door, pops it open, and reaches inside to flip on the light. When I expect us to simply enter, he drops the bags and pulls me in front of him, his hands on my arms, mouth back to my ear. “I have about ten different places that I could take you to keep you safe. You’re here because I want you here.” He releases me, his hands going to either side of the door, and I understand why. He wants me to be here because I want to be here, too. There’s no question in my mind that I want to be with Asher.

  I walk inside and on some level I know that’s the moment that our fate is sealed, his to mine and mine to his.

  Sierra walks into my apartment. I enter behind her, dropping her bags inside the doorway, and flipping the locks, my need for this woman a thundering rush of adrenaline that doesn’t just surge. It pumps through me every second that I’m with her, and I pause just inside the entryway, inhaling the sweet floral scent of her lingering in the air around me, on my skin. I don’t know where tonight leads, besides a whole lot of us fucking and me fucking up her ex, but those are good places to start.

  I rotate to find her walking into the kitchen. No, she’s running. That’s the word that comes to mind. She’s afraid of me and us because she’s afraid of him and that’s a barrier I have to remove. I follow her, closing the space between us, and she steps behind the island, the wall of appliances behind her, her hands on the wooden counter top. “I love your apartment,” she says as I stop at the end cap. “The island is beautiful.”

  She’s beautiful and breathless for the wrong reason: she’s still nervous. I round the island to her side, and she attempts to dart the other way. I catch her hand, and she turns to face me. “Hi,” she says, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink.

  “Hi,” I say, walking her to me and turning her to press her back to the island, her body between me and the counter.

  She laughs, a soft, sweet musical sound that I feel in my cock and about ten other ways. In my fucking chest, and I don’t try to understand it now. “Did I really just say ‘hi’?”

  “Yes,” I say, cupping her face. “And it was actually perfect.”

  “Asher,” she whispers. “You—”

  “Need to kiss you really fucking badly,” I say, and I make it happen. I kiss her, a deep stroke of tongue against tongue that ignites fire between us. I deepen the kiss, molding her closer, and we’re on fire. Kissing, touching, my hands caressing her waist, her breasts, wanting her next to me. But when I slip beneath her shirt, my palm pressed to the soft skin there, she grabs my hand. “Asher, wait,” she pants out.

  “Wait?” I ask, pained just saying that word.

  “I’m married. I suddenly feel very guilty.”

  Brakes officially on. I press my hands to the counter on either side of her and lift my body from hers. “You still love him.” And fuck that idea punches me in the chest.

  “God no,” she says, flattening her hand on my chest. “No. I don’t remember ever loving him.”

  “You married him.”

  “I know I did. He was—He is a decade older. I met him at a party, a charity event I was hosting. He was the eligible bachelor everyone wanted and he wanted me. I feel like I was worlds younger then. The billionaire rockstar businessman.”

  “Billionaire.” My lips thin. “I suddenly wish I hadn’t given away all my money.”

  “Don’t say that,” she says, her hand settling on my cheek. “I don’t want your money. I hated his money. I hated it and him beyond words, but I was trapped. He threatened my mother long before I even knew the things I know now. I didn’t love him. At most, I was stupidly young and enamored.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Two years. I dated him for one of those, but he traveled, and he was different then. A gentleman. Someone who cared. He introduced me to my mentor. He got me the internship.”

  Her mentor that is a forensic psychologist, I think. He’s law enforcement or government. And a billionaire. She’s right. He’s dangerous.

  “The minute I married him, though,” she continues, “he changed. The minute I crossed him, he threatened my mother and gave me reason to believe him.”

  “He hit you.”

  “He did a lot of things.”

  “But you feel guilty with me.”

  “My guilt isn’t about him, Asher. It’s you. I can’t get rid of him. Ever. I don’t want you to regret this. I don’t want you to—”

  Brakes off. I kiss her again, a deep, kiss-the-hell-out-of-her kiss, and then I say, “Does that taste like regret?” But I don’t wait for an answer. I kiss her again, licking into her mouth and this time, she doesn’t pull back, there is no reserve in me or her. I need her. She needs me. I taste that on her lips. And I don’t like to be needed, but I do now. I do with her.

  I press her shirt up, and cup her breast again, pulling down the lace of her bra to stroke her nipple. She arches into the touch, and I caress her shirt upward, intending to take it off, but she catches it. “I need to tell you something first.”

  “Can you tell me naked?”

  “No,” she says. “Not this.”

  I inch back and look at her and she adds, “I have a scar.”

  I go stone cold still. “Did he—?”

  “No. It was a car accident three months after I married him. I almost died.”

  And now his ability to control her makes sense. That’s when he changed. That’s when he shifted the power between them. “Sweetheart, I have a train wreck of scars on my body. I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.”

  “I’m not an insecure person, but this—”

  I kiss her. “I’ll go first.” I pull my shirt over my head, toss it on the counter and then present her with my right arm, and trace the deep scar there. “Did you not notice it?” I ask.

  She reaches up and traces the line. “No,” she says, looking up at me. “I was too busy noticing…other things.”

  “My ink.”

  “That too,” she says. “I like it, but it’s just a bonus. Did you ink up to cover the scar?”

  “No. I had to have the ink fixed after the damn thing healed.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “How else? A dirty bastard with a knife.” I reach down and unbutton and unzip my pants, pulling them down enough to show her the deep scar on my hip. “Shrapnel,” I say.

  She presses her hand under my pants and covers the scar. “The battle wounds of a hero.”

  I pull her to me, my hand under her hair at her neck. “Careful where you touch.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” I say. “But you’ll make me forget we’re doing show and tell right now.” I kiss her. “I have another on my ass. You ready for that one, or do you want to show me yours first?”

  “I’m pretty sure the entire female population is ready for that one,” she says.

  “You’re the only woman who I want to be ready for anything.”

  “Asher, you’re…”

  “I’m what?”

  “Different.”

  “Different than him.”

  “Oh yes. So different. But different than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “Show me the scar, sweetheart. Okay?”

  “Why don’t I care when you call me sweetheart now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still asking you to get naked.”

  She laughs. “Yes. You are.”

  “Show me,” I say gently.

  “It’s on my stomach.”

  I lower myself to my knee in front of her. “Can I?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, pulling her shirt up.

  I unbutton and unzip her pants and as I pull the zipper down she trembles with anticipation and not the kind I want her to feel. This scar really bothers her and I’m more curious than ever now. Her jeans are low on her hips and I e
asily slide them down just enough to see the damage done to her skin from hip to hip and up to her belly button. I don’t react, but fuck. It’s bad. Really bad. I look up at her. “Metal or glass?”

  “Both,” she says.

  I press my lips to her belly and she trembles again under my kiss. And holy hell, my mind flashes to war scenes I’ve lived, to images of shrapnel in bodies that killed innocent people I couldn’t save. She could have died from this. I can’t believe she didn’t. “It’s okay, Asher,” she says when I don’t immediately react. “I know it’s ugly and—”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not ugly.” I kiss her belly again and stand up, my hands settling on her shoulders. “I’ve seen people with metal in their bodies, and it’s too easy for me to imagine metal and glass, in your body. It’s not something you want to know someone you care about experienced.” I stroke hair from her face. “But, sweetheart. You’re beautiful. Stunning. That scar does nothing to detract from that. In fact, it just reminds me what a survivor you are.”

  “I can’t have kids. It damaged me. I can’t—I can’t ever have kids.”

  “Then I don’t have to use a condom, right?”

  “Asher, please. This is a big deal to me.”

  “I don’t want kids. I’ve seen too many people die. Kids die. I can’t have one of my own that could die. If you want kids—”

  “Don’t say adopt. I’ve heard that. I don’t want to hear that, and I don’t want to adopt. I don’t want kids.”

  She doesn’t have to say more. The bastard husband wanted kids and made her pay when she couldn’t have them. He probably mocked her scar. He probably did a lot of things I don’t want to think about until I stand in front of him, and I will. “This is us. We decide what matters for us. Yes?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “So,” I say, trying to shift the mood. “No condom, right?”

  She rewards me with that soft, sweet laugh of hers. “No. We don’t have to use a condom.”

  “Then it’s official,” I say. “You’re the perfect woman.”

  She surprises me then and leans into me, pushing to her toes and pressing her lips to mine, her hand on my cheek. And for a moment, I let her mouth linger against mine, just enjoying the first time that she’s actually kissed me, but I am too hungry and hot for her to last long. My mouth slants over hers, my tongue licking into her mouth, at the exact moment the doorbell rings.

  “Holy fuck,” I murmur against her lips. “I feel like I’m never going to actually get you naked.”

  “You do know we only just met, right?” she teases. “It’s not been long.”

  “It feels like a lifetime of me wanting inside you, sweetheart. And since I only have a few people on my approved list, this is a Walker keeping me from being there.” I kiss her. “Fix your clothes. You’re for me, not them.” I grab my shirt.

  “Did you miss your meeting?” she asks, attending to her zipper, which she pulls up while I really just want to pull it back down.

  I pull on my shirt and glance at my watch. “I have an hour and a half before I have to be at the office.”

  “Should I go someplace?” she asks. “Another room or—”

  “You stay right here, with me. That works just fine.” I kiss her and head to the door, zipping up my pants on the way. The bell rings again and I open the door. “Hold your fucking horses,” I say as I bring my father in his six-thousand-dollar blue pinstriped suit into view.

  “Hello, son.”

  “You’re not on my approved list.”

  “I bought the building. I’m on everyone’s approved list.”

  “Of course you did,” I say, considering he’s always trying to own me. “What do you want?”

  “Invite me in.”

  “Not really feeling that kind of love right now.”

  “Invite me in, son.”

  I open the door wider and leave him there, walking back toward the kitchen. Sierra’s behind the island and she mouths, “Your father?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I say, rounding the island to stand next to her.

  “Should I go somewhere?” she asks again.

  “Stay with me,” I say again as well, right as my father appears at the other side of the island. I look at him now the way Sierra might see him, a fifty-five-year-old version of me when I had no tats, and my hair was short. I hate that image. I hate anything that reminds me that this man and I are blood.

  “I see we have company,” he says, eyeing Sierra. “And you would be?”

  “With him,” she replies, repeating what I told her, which is not only a smart response considering her circumstances, but an amusing one. No one talks around my father but me, and now Sierra. He intimidates the damn wind, but not her. But then, she has practice with men like him. Her ex, I realize now, is someone quite like my father. And I’m his fucking son, who many think is a flip of a switch from becoming his father. Or, to Sierra, a clone of the man who is trying to kill her.

  I look at my father, who is looking at Sierra and I don’t like it. “Why are you here?” I demand.

  He cuts his gaze to me. “Right to business,” he says. “A chip off the old block. The company is doing a Wounded Warrior Project black tie fundraiser just before Thanksgiving. We’ve sent you two invitations and left you four messages. It would be appropriate, as my son and a veteran, as well as a distinguished SEAL, to attend.”

  “Distinguished,” I say. “Now I’m a distinguished SEAL? Is that what you’re feeding the stockholders when you explain why I’m not working for you?”

  “They’re impressed, as they should be.”

  I laugh without humor. “Should we tell them that you disinherited me for becoming a distinguished SEAL?”

  “Is that what you want? The money? I’ll write you a damn check if you’ll put an end to this silliness. Take your seat at the table where you belong.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Please write the check. Then I’ll show up at the event, where I’ll re-write the check to the Wounded Warrior Project charity. Then all will be well in my world.”

  He reaches into his pocket and sets the invitation on the counter. “Be there. It would look like shit to your fellow servicemen if a distinguished SEAL couldn’t spare a few hours on their behalf. And bring your plus one, if you can afford to buy her a dress. She’s a hell of a lot prettier than you these days.”

  He turns to leave and Sierra calls out, “Because what woman could afford to buy her own dress, right?”

  And there it is. Every nerve my father can hit for Sierra, which her ex must have hit, too, already surfacing. I know my father and I know exactly what comes next. Words are weapons, he used to tell me. They can be used against you. Speak less and listen more. And that piece of advice is what he uses against Sierra now. He stops and turns to look at her, giving her an amused, arrogant look, before he simply says nothing and leaves. Translation: You poor pathetic little girl are simply beneath a reply.

  I don’t pursue him. I don’t look at Sierra, not yet. I stand there, hands pressed to the counter, and listen to his footsteps, waiting for the door to shut. The minute it does, I push off the counter, and walk across the room and lock the door. Fucker. He’s smart enough to assume Sierra matters to me or she wouldn’t be here. He was jockeying for a way to use her against me and he did. He messed with her head. I cross the room and Sierra is now at the end cap of the island waiting on me, leaning on the counter. She watches my every step, her expression unreadable.

  I stop in front of her, and before I can speak, she says, “I’m sorry.”

  “Why would you be sorry? He’s the ass.”

  “I know what just happened,” she says. “He used me against me and me against you. I can see it now, but I still let it happen.”

  “That’s not on you, Sierra.”

  “Yes, it is. Because Dev—The Beast, that’s what I call him in my head—my ex—my fucking husband I can’t get rid of, is just like your father. And I know, I know so well, how he watc
hed me from the moment he got here and looked for a trigger. And I let it happen.”

  She almost said his name. Dev. That has to stand for Devlin or Devin, or hell, maybe the devil, but right now he isn’t the issue. Right now, I need her to see me, not my father. Not The Beast, as she apparently calls him. I pull her to me, my hand sliding under her hair. “I’m not him. I’m not my father.”

  “I know that.”

  “You can’t know that, Sierra. You don’t know me well enough to know that, but you will. I promise you, you will.” I close my mouth over hers, tongue stroking hers, and there is no resistance in her. She gives a soft little moan, and melts into me, her soft curves pressed against me, ensuring I’m hard all over. And holy hell, I could get lost in her, I could forget everything I hate about my father right now, and I want to, but I don’t let that happen. I don’t make her an escape fuck. Not Sierra. Not the first time. “We don’t have time to do this right and I want to do it right,” I say, tearing my mouth from hers.

  “We both have anger issues right now we need to deal with,” she says, “and you said, we needed to just fuck and get past it. So, let’s just fuck and forget and then—”

  I don’t need to be told twice. I kiss her and this time when my hands slide up her shirt, I don’t stop and she doesn’t stop me. I pull it up and over her head and follow with mine again. Her hands are on my chest before I finish tossing it away. “I really do like your ink,” she says, her hands traveling down my arms.

  “Show me,” I say, removing a money clip just below her bra and tossing it aside.

  “I will,” she promises, as I reach up and unclip the front clasp of her bra. I part the silk cups and my gaze lowers to her high breasts and tight little pink nipples. Her body is perfect. Everything about her is perfect. My eyes lift to hers, and caress the straps from her shoulder, and then flatten my hand between her shoulder blades, and mold her naked breasts to my naked chest. “Show me now.”

  “I will,” she says, her voice a raspy, sexy, desire-laden turn on that makes me want to kiss her and fuck, even more than I wanted to kiss her and fuck her before. I kiss her again, drinking in the taste of her, all sweet honey and passion, my lips to her lips. My tongue to her tongue. My hand on her backside.