Pulled Under: a standalone Walker Security novel

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I can’t stay like this.”

  “Just for a minute,” I say. “This is about trust. I’m not going to do anything but undress. I promise, Sierra.” I drag my hands down her arms, my fingers catching hers before I let them fall away.

  I step back, and I’m undressed in about thirty seconds. Just that fast, Sierra turns to face me, her gaze raking over my naked body. Her attention lingering on my cock that is now jutted between us for long enough to distract me, and have me thinking about her, on her knees, in front of me, before her eyes jerk upward to mine.

  My fantasy blow job has ended with a reality check. “Obviously we have less trust than I thought,” I say.

  “It’s not about trust.”

  “It is about trust,” I insist.

  “Actually no. It’s about claustrophobia. It hit me right after my accident. I was trapped in the car and I just have these random triggers and—” She cuts herself off and tries to walk away.

  I catch her and pull her to me, my erection at her hip. “What triggers?”

  “He used to turn me around like that,” she whispers. “I know it’s you, not him. It’s not that I’m with him right now. It’s just these triggers that I have no control over and I hate it so much. I hate that I’m weak enough to have something I can’t just turn off.”

  My desire to kill this man grows stronger every minute. “We all have demons, sweetheart. I have a clusterfuck of my own. So I’m going to give you advice. I’m going to tell you how to make that feeling go away.”

  “SEAL training?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Then yes. How?”

  “Kiss me. Fuck me. Go to bed with me.”

  She smiles her way into a laugh. “Is that right? That’s SEAL training?”

  “It is,” I assure. “I recommend you try it immediately.”

  “Then kiss me. Kiss me now and—”

  I do. I kiss her, my tongue licking her mouth, and in that one stroke, we’re all over each other again. Touching. Tasting. Wanting. I cup her backside, squeezing that sweet little ass of hers and dragging one of her legs to my hip.

  Her hand closes around my cock, and I’m not sure if it’s her or me that presses me inside her. I’m just there, in the sweet, wet heat of her body. I lift her then, and her hands grip my shoulders, but I don’t thrust into her. Not here. Not like this. I carry her to the mattress, and I go down with her, on top of her. We have a moment where we just look at each other and it’s combustible. And then I’m thrusting into her, driving, pumping, my hands still cupping those sweet cheeks and lifting her into me while she arches her back. We’re wild, primal, and it’s exactly where the fuck I want her. With me, and making these soft, sexy sounds, that tighten my balls every damn time she moans into my mouth or against my cheek.

  She’s here.

  She’s present.

  But so the fuck am I. I’m with Sierra, not just some woman, and even now, driving into her, I register how insanely different that is for me. How insanely different she is to me. How mine she is in the moment now, when later she may withdraw. I want to keep her here, in the moment, outside her beast and her demons, and I force myself to pump slower, to calm my body and hers. I roll to my side and take her with me, kissing her as I do, my lips trailing to her cheek, her neck, my hand on her breast, my mouth on her nipple. I lick it, suckle it, and repeat before kissing her shoulder, her neck. Her lips. I tangle rough fingers into her hair and she breathes out, “Asher, please.”

  Please, she says.

  Thank you, I say.

  I drive into her and we’re burning hot all over. Wild. Back to primal needs, but this time there is no turning back. We’re touching, kissing, moving, hungering for each other, and I can’t get deep enough, or close enough to this woman. Too soon, and yet just in time, she digs her fingernails into my back and tenses. A second later, she spasms around me, and I’m driving into her with the quake of my body, and that damn near rocks me. I don’t even know where she begins and I end, or where I begin and she ends. Time is some elaborate scheme to force us back to reality, but it wins. We’re suddenly out of the lust-filled, pleasure-laden bubble. Back to the world where The Beast has to be named, but not tonight.

  I stroke hair from her face and kiss her. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move or the wet spot is all your fault.”

  She laughs. “Of course. Blame the one who doesn’t have a rocket launcher attached to her body.”

  “That’s what you’re calling my personal gear now?”

  “Personal gear?”

  “It’s better than rocket launcher and hero boy.”

  “I was mad when I said that, but I got your attention, now didn’t I?”

  “You had my attention the minute you showed up at the bar.” I kiss her and pull out, walking to the bathroom, where I clean up and grab a hand towel for Sierra.

  I return quickly and offer it to her. “Thank you,” she says, taking it, and then quickly scooting off the bed to dart toward the bathroom. I turn to watch that cute ass that was just in my hands, shaking just the right amount. “I have to pee,” she calls out at the door, over her shoulder “so do not come in here.” She shoves at the door but it doesn’t quite shut.

  Smiling, I turn on the bedside lamp, and then walk to my dresser and grab a pair of sweats. Once I’ve pulled them on, I flip out the overhead light. I’ve just yanked back the blankets on the bed when Sierra appears in the doorway, wearing one of my shirts, her energy and mood ten shades of sober now. The Beast is back with us. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, indicating the shirt.

  “I like you in my shirt, Sierra. I like you in my bed. Come join me.”

  She doesn’t move. “Asher, that talk.”

  “It’s nearly five in the morning. Let’s sleep. We have all day tomorrow.”

  She wets her lips and nods, crossing to join me. She climbs into the bed, and I follow, flipping out the light and pulling her back to my front. My hand settles on her hip. “You okay?”

  “Yes. I’m perfect, actually.”

  But she’s not perfect. I can feel her thoughts beating at her, The Beast working her over. For a half hour, I listen to her thinking, without a word spoken. I lay there, holding her, making sure she feels safe, and it’s an hour after we lay down, with the sun beginning to lighten the room, that she whispers, “Devin Marks,” so softly that it seems that she thinks I’m asleep and she’s simply testing what it feels like to say his name.

  I don’t reply, but holy fuck, there it is. The Beast has been named and he’s the real life Tony Stark of the world, if Tony Stark was a monster not a hero. She’s right about him. He’s well-connected with the highest levels of government, here and in other countries. I know much about Devin Marks and the many corrupt acts connected to him but unproven. And the real kicker. As a SEAL, I saved the fucker’s life. A wrong I’ll happily undo. My hand settles on Sierra’s belly, where the scars of that car accident will never heal. I wonder now if they were an accident at all. Maybe even then, she was targeted to die, but she survived.

  I blink awake to sunlight and the scent of Asher, a heady combination that has me caving to the heaviness in my limbs, and the call of more slumber. I shut my eyes again and snuggle deeper into the luxurious sheets and comfortable mattress and Asher except—wait. I open my eyes again. Where is Asher? I roll over and my hand hits a piece of paper. I grab it and read: Downstairs, drinking coffee and working. Your shopping bags are all in the bathroom.

  I glance at the clock and read: one twenty-five. My eyes go wide and I jolt to a sitting position. I slept until one twenty-five? No wonder I have to pee so badly. I throw off the covers and dash across the room to the bathroom, where I first answer nature’s call, and wash up. My bags are on the counter and I open them and dig out a toothbrush and toothpaste, and quickly brush my teeth. I open a drawer to find a brush that I use to untangle the mess on my head. I set it back in the drawer, and stare down at Asher’s razor and various aftershave pro
ducts, the intimacy of being here, in his bathroom, replaying his words in my head: Don’t get close to anyone. Don’t bring women here. Not to my home. Not to my bedroom. Ever. I tell women up front. I fuck. I don’t fall in love.

  He doesn’t bring women here, but I’m here. He doesn’t fuck women that he considers his duty. He doesn’t fall in love. I need to make sure I don’t foolishly fall without him. I pat my cheeks, trying to keep myself firmly planted in that reality. Images of the prior night start running through my head, and working against that goal: the passion. The deep connection I share with this man, which is terrifying and wonderful, all at once. Falling asleep in his arms had been—oh God. I grab the sink. I said Devin’s name. I thought we’d be together when we woke up, we’d talk about him and what to do next. What if he’s already talking to other people about this? We’ll all end up dead.

  I turn to the door and Asher is standing there, fully dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt that contrast the bright colors of his tattoos, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His blond hair tied at his nape. His green eyes simmer with heat and the intimacy of the night before, while a cup steams in his hand. “Caffeine?” he asks, lifting the cup slightly.

  I have a moment that is an out of body kind of experience. I flash back to a similar moment with Devin standing at the bathroom door. He’d been equally as good looking, Mr. Tall, Dark and Debonair, in a tailored suit and tie. But he wasn’t holding coffee. He was holding a jewelry box because that was how he apologized for his verbal bashings. This time, I was a broken woman who couldn’t even bear a child. Thanks to me, he would have no heir to his throne.

  “Sierra?”

  I blink Asher back into view, and I’m taken aback by how certain I am that yes, he could kill, he has killed, and yet he is gentle, good. He is all man in ways Devin will never be. I cross the small space between us and stop in front of him, my body warming with the heat of our connection, the smoldering embers in the depths of his green eyes. “I’d love some caffeine,” I say, accepting the cup, the brush of our hands electric, and I am suddenly aware of my missing underwear, and him saying: “I want you naked in every possible way.”

  I’m there, I think. I’ve been there with him since the moment I met him.

  I glance down at the cream-colored liquid in the cup, and then at him, the sexy one-day shadow on his jaw conjuring some rather naughty thoughts, but I still manage to say, “What is this exactly?”

  “Cream with a little coffee. I like it as sweet as I can get it.”

  “And here I thought you’d want it so strong it grew hair on your chest.”

  “Then it might grow hair on your chest, too,” he says.

  I smile at his never-ending wit, and take a sip that proves to be a sweet, yummy flavor. “Is that caramel?”

  “Yes,” he confirms. “I have a thing for caramel.” He takes the cup from me and sets it on the counter before pulling me close. “And for you, Sierra.”

  There is something in his voice or maybe it’s his eyes, a kind of possessiveness, or anger, or both really, that tell a story that I understand. “You were awake. You heard.”

  “Devin Marks,” he confirms, his voice hardening on the name. “I heard his name, loud and clear, sweetheart.”

  My heart starts to race and I grab his arms. “Please tell me that you haven’t told anyone.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t. I haven’t.”

  “You also said you were going after him no matter what.”

  “Yes, I did. I am.”

  “He’s—”

  “I know who, and what he is.” He moves on. “Do you like pancakes?”

  “We aren’t talking about pancakes.”

  “Yes. We are. Because Devin Marks doesn’t get to fuck up one more moment of your life, including breakfast.” He sets me away from him and starts to leave, but then pauses. “I had Kara do some shopping for you. The new bags are in the closet. Claim whatever spot you want to hang your things up, and a drawer or two or whatever you need.” This time he leaves and after a brief stunned moment of processing, I race after him.

  “Asher, wait,” I call out, catching up with him at the top of the stairs, while he is a few steps down.

  He turns to look at me. “Would you rather have waffles? An omelet? A hamburger? I love a good hamburger.”

  “I can’t accept whatever is in those shopping bags,” I say. “I appreciate you doing this, but I can’t accept.”

  “Nothing in those bags fit me and I don’t think either of us wants to see me in pink lingerie.”

  I’m too resistant to the way money and gifts can change us, to laugh. “I don’t need gifts from you.”

  He walks up the stairs and stands in front of me, but he doesn’t touch me. “What do you need from me, Sierra?”

  “More than I should.”

  “And yet, I’d define it as not enough.” His hand settles on my hip and he pulls me to him. “Nothing with you seems to be enough. He doesn’t get to make you live like you’ve been living. I won’t let that happen. That’s not how I’m wired, but I don’t expect anything in return.”

  “I can’t take and give nothing in return.”

  “Eat pancakes with me. That sounds pretty damn good to me, but then so does going back into the bedroom and getting naked. In which case, we’ll be forced to eat Funyuns and drink beer.”

  I laugh. He always makes me laugh. “Funyuns and beer?”

  “That’s about all I have in the house. We have to go shopping.” He turns me to face the door. “Take that pretty little ass into the bedroom before I take that pretty little ass back to bed.” He smacks my ass and I yelp and head into the bedroom, laughing, something I’d almost forgotten how to do before meeting him, even before leaving The Beast. I told myself that was about the killers I investigated, the horrors I studied, but that was my mind game that I used to justify everything with Devin.

  I walk back into the bathroom, and more than a little eager to find out just what Kara picked out for me, I head to the back of the bathroom and flip on the closet light. I step inside the large walk-in space, my gaze captured by the rows of clothes lining the walls that seem to divide out pieces of Asher’s life. The left side is suits, which are clearly expensive, with a row of drawers that separate them from blue military fatigues. The right wall is all jeans, T-shirts, jackets. There are so many dimensions to this man, so many complexities that I want to understand and know.

  My rules are broken. I’m here. I’ve involved him. I’ve not only looked him in the eyes, I could get lost in those eyes and forget why I’m supposed to be a loner for the rest of my life. My gaze lowers to the center of the room to count at least a half-dozen bags, a Victoria’s Secret logo on one of them. I sit down on the bench and start looking through each of them. There is so much here. Make up. Jeans. Shirts. Dresses. Shoes. Boots. Bras. Panties. Even a flat iron and a curling iron. There is easily two thousand dollars in purchases here. Guilt stabs at me as I think of my first reaction to his generosity, my push back, that was all about Devin, and his gifted manipulation, not Asher. Asher didn’t do this to control me or to own me any more than he was when he changed my lock and bought me pepper spray, then taught me how to use it. I know this. Any other thought back there on the stairs was unfair to him. I need to say that to him. I will say that to him.

  He didn’t just buy me clothes though, he invited me to claim part of his closet. What this tells me is that he’s also invited me into his life, while I’ve invited him into a war, without that being my intent. But he’s in it now. He’s not walking away from it, I know that, too He needs to know how dirty this gets, how deep it runs, how possible it is that someone in the Walker operation could be on Team Beast.

  And I know what I have to do to make that happen.

  Feeling the urgency to talk to Asher about The Beast, I shower quickly and dry and flat iron my hair, apply minimal make-up and a new soft scent. I then dig through my new items, and hang some of them up on hangers b
eside Asher’s fatigues. Next to that part of him that is a soldier and fighter. I dress in faded, distressed jeans after trying on several pairs in different sizes. I pair them with an emerald green, long-sleeved V-neck sweater. My bra and panties are black. My boots are black Christian Louboutins with a red bottom. My hair feels soft. My clothes feel like mine, not someone else’s, even though I didn’t pick them out myself. No one else has worn them. Just me. And feeling like me is empowering. I’m not hiding anymore.

  With that thought in mind, I rush to the stairs and pause with not just the sound of music but more so, to the sound of Asher singing Chris Young’s Losing Sleep. His voice is whiskey smooth perfection and the lyrics, bittersweet: Fall into me, let me breathe the air you breathe. I can take you anywhere you want to be.

  I want to be here. I want to be with him, but more so, I want to do it without fear for him and everyone around him, which reminds me of my purpose. Tear down the cocky in him that might be driving him in the wrong direction. Give him the hard reality of what war means with Devin Marks. I inhale and start down the stairs, determination in my steps. I clear the wall to find Asher to my left at a high-top wooden kitchen table that is wide enough that he has three MacBooks in various positions and high enough that he’s sitting on a barstool. He grabs the remote next to him and lowers the music, his burning green eyes fixed on me.

  I stop in front of him, on the opposite side of the table, but I don’t sit. I mean to say something about Devin, but the way he’s looking at me, all warm and wanting, has me backtracking. “Thank you. For all the things you bought me. I love them.”

  “So that’s a yes? You’ll eat pancakes with me?”

  I smile with his unassuming humor. “Thank you for that, too.”

  “They aren’t here yet.”

  I laugh. “I mean, for being you.”

  His smile fades. “And not him?”

  “Yes, actually. He’s a monster.”

  “Good,” he says, his voice hardening. “Then I can’t be The Beast.”

  He’s too confident. “You’re too confident.” I pull the tiny recording device I’ve been carrying around with me for nearly a year from my pocket and set it on the table. Asher glances at it and then me. “What is that?” he asks.