by Roni Loren
I blinked at him in the muted firelight. His expression was as stripped bare as I’d ever seen it. Vulnerable. Nervous. The sight made it hard for me to draw breath. I was so used to seeing the confident and collected Foster that this side was a revelation. He’d left his armor at the door tonight.
Then his request finally registered. I want everything. My voice shook a little when I managed to get words out. “What are you asking?”
“Exactly what you think I’m asking. But I’m not going to get on one knee yet. Know that I will, and I’d marry you tomorrow if you’d have me, but that’s definitely a decision I’m not going to lay on you yet. We’ve got time for a ring. But as a start, I’m asking you to live with me, angel—here. I’ve had everything remodeled and updated. I want to build a life here with you. And I want you to wear my mark of ownership.”
I stared at him, struck speechless by the requests. Live with me. Wear my mark. One day wear my ring. My heart knocked hard against my ribs. He was asking me to move in, to be his—forever, putting himself out there in a way I knew had to be punching old fear buttons for him.
So many things zipped through my mind—the sheer gravity of the decision, the implications, the permanence. For all these months, we’d spent so much time together, but we’d still kept some space. We would sleep over at each other’s place, but not every night. And though I wore a collar when we made trips to The Ranch, it was only on during scenes. It was as if we were both playing with parachutes, always anticipating that one of us might jump off the plane.
If I said yes, I knew this would transform, deepen to a level I couldn’t even fathom. I knew what Foster craved from me—a craving I’d felt blooming within myself with each passing week we were together. Owned. When I came home after work, I’d become his, my submission a daily gift. Even though I had let myself imagine it, fantasize about it, it was a lot to process. But as I closed my eyes and pictured what that life would look like—Foster and me sharing a home, the two of us facing the world together, intense nights of being under his command mixed in with days of being surrounded by his laughter and love—well, I couldn’t quite access any fear over that.
Instead, like water rising in a well, an overwhelming surge of happiness spread within me, filling every nook, and threatening to burst through my pores. I knew all too well the sense of loss I felt when he unlatched my collar at The Ranch or when we had to part for the night.
In the beginning, the idea of true submission to Foster had scared me, had made me worry about putting myself in another suffocating situation like the one I’d grown up with. But my parents had controlled me through guilt and shame, and had used my natural urge to make those around me proud and happy against me. They’d let their love and overprotectiveness of me overshadow what may have been right for me.
But in my heart, I knew Foster would never take advantage of my desire to please that way. He’d been the one cheering me on these last few months while I went through my tough ER position. The one who’d held me when I lost my first patient in surgery. He wanted me on my own two feet in the world—strong, capable, successful. But behind closed doors, he wanted me under his care.
And I could think of no place I’d rather be.
“Foster,” I whispered.
He leaned over to the coffee table to grab something, then squared himself toward me on the couch. In his hands, he held a small, flat box. I stared down at it, my breath quickening as he flipped it open. Inside lay a delicate choker-style necklace with a silver pendant in the shape of . . . a wing.
“I promise this one has no tracking device involved.”
My lips lifted.
“I want you to be mine, angel.”
Tears coated my throat, but I held them back, not wanting to taint the moment by crying. I reached out to trace the curve of the angel wing. It was a piece of jewelry I could wear out—a day collar—and no one would know what it meant. But I would. I’d be wearing his mark. And the thought made everything go warm inside me.
“If it’s too soon or too much or you’re not ready or you think I’m crazy or this house isn’t what you . . .”
I grinned and raised my fingers, pressing them against his mouth. “Shut up, Foster. Nervous rambling is my job.”
He smiled beneath my fingertips, but the worry still hovered at the corners of his eyes.
Seeing his uncertainty only made me fall for him more. His hard, dominant side spoke to me on an elemental level, but that tenderness beneath affected something much deeper, filled spaces and corners inside me. I held his gaze, lowering my hand and told him exactly what I’d been feeling for months. “Don’t look so worried. You remember I’m in with love you, right? Like, stupid, crazy, drawing-hearts-in-my-journal in love with you. I want it all, too. Forever, Foster. Us. Like this.”
He was silent for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard anything I said. But then all the starch seemed to leave him.
“Thank God.” He closed his eyes, his tense posture fully deflating before he opened them again. “I love you, too. So much. And I know what I’m asking is a big step. I know it’s a lot.”
I leaned back against the arm of the couch. “Yes, it is a big step. And if we’re sticking to the honestly rule, I can say that I’ve never imagined wanting a relationship like this.”
He nodded, going a bit somber, like he was anticipating the gauntlet.
I reached out and brushed my fingers against his stubble. “Not until you.”
The beaming smile that broke through that five-o’clock shadow of his was bright enough to rival the moon outside. I’d never seen such a beautiful sight. My man, shirtless and grinning, his happiness like pure light. And now I was going to get to wake up every morning to his face, feel that love around me, and be his.
I let the blanket slip off my shoulders, not wanting anything between us, and climbed off the couch. I eased myself down to my knees, all the while holding Foster’s eye contact. Then I lowered my head and presented my neck to him, the submissive move making me feel more in control of my life than I ever had before. Finally, I was on the path of my own choosing. “Merry Christmas, sir.”
“Merry Christmas, angel.”
He gathered my hair to lay it on one shoulder, and I felt the quiver in his hand, the depth of emotion behind the simple caress. And when he fastened the choker around my neck, and the cool curve of the angel wing touched my collarbone, a soul-deep, peaceful calm settled over me, leaving no doubt as to where I most wanted to be.
Never have I ever . . . been this happy.
Keep reading for another special preview from the next book in
Roni Loren’s Loving on the Edge series
CAUGHT UP IN YOU
Available August 2013 from Berkley Heat
Wyatt leaned back in his desk chair, scanning the report on his computer screen and only half listening to his father prattle on. Wyatt didn’t have the patience for a Bill Austin lecture on a good day, much less this morning. After showing up at the Sugarcane Cafe for the second week in a row to find no Kelsey, Wyatt had left with heartburn and a bloodstream full of frustration.
Her co-worker, Nathan, had been like a fucking Navy SEAL with his ability to withstand interrogation. Wyatt had prodded the guy up one way and down the other trying to get information about Kelsey, even offering to pay Nathan for the information. But all the cook would reveal was that she was safe and that he didn’t know where she was, which was bullshit, of course. That kid knew exactly where she was.
He admired the guy for being protective of his friend, but the not knowing was like a thorn burrowing into Wyatt’s brain. The whole situation was out of his control, and that was completely unacceptable. He hadn’t been able to concentrate for shit since he’d last seen her. He’d even driven by her sister’s house like some lame stalker to see if her car was there. It wasn’t. And when he’d knocked on the door to the house, n
o one had been home.
Then this morning he’d come in to find a message from the cop who’d handled the alley incident, letting Wyatt know that the asshole had made bail. Kelsey’s attacker was out there, roaming the streets like nothing had fucking happened. Our brilliant legal system at its best.
“Wyatt, you were supposed to handle this,” his father barked. “You can’t just say no to big-time clients because you feel like it.”
He huffed his annoyance. “I was busy this weekend. And I don’t eat deer, so why would I waste time shooting one?”
His father made that frustrated noise of his, like the hiss of trapped steam leaking out of a pipe. “Wyatt, you—it isn’t about the deer. You know that.”
Wyatt minimized the screen and turned toward his father, bored with this conversation already. He had bigger things to worry about than some self-important client getting his pride hurt over a declined invitation. “I bet the deer would beg to differ.”
His dad’s palm landed on top of the desk, a soft smack but pointed nonetheless. “This isn’t a joke.”
Wyatt closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Didn’t say it was.”
His father tugged at his necktie and tightened it again, obviously trying to regain his trademark Bill Austin composure. “Dirk Billings wants to trust the guy handling his fortune. He wants to feel connected to him. Like buddies.”
“And sitting for hours in a wooden box with guns and cheap beer to shoot something I don’t even eat is going to accomplish this?” Wyatt shook his head and straightened the papers on his desk. “If he wants trust, he needs to look at my record and talk to my other clients. If he wants to feel connected, I’m more than happy to schedule regular phone calls or meetings to go over his portfolio. I spent last weekend analyzing the numbers from last quarter. We have some quirks in there that don’t make sense. That’s what I needed to spend my time on. Not hanging out in the woods doing tick checks with a windbag.”
The thought of being caught in a deer stand, making chitchat with a guy who thought the South should’ve won, was Wyatt’s personal version of hell. He’d end up turning the gun on his client instead of the wildlife. That wouldn’t be good for the company image.
His father’s skin went ruddy, his hold on his anger obviously dwindling. “Ignoring this part of the business is not going to work anymore, son. Merrill and Mead are giving that level of personal service to their clients. They’re stealing them away from us with good ol’ boy wining and dining. Or golfing and hunting as the case may be. Those imbeciles don’t have anything on you when it comes to the financials, but if you don’t learn how to play the nicey-nice game, we’re going to keep losing big fish. You want that jerk you graduated with to woo away all of our clients?”
Wyatt’s jaw clenched at that thought. Tony Merrill had been an arrogant prick in graduate school, and time had only seemed to enhance those attributes. Wyatt had received a jovial email a few months earlier from Tony thanking him for sending over one of his best clients. Jerkoff. “When their net worth starts going down because Tony doesn’t know his ass from an alligator, they’ll return.”
“They’re not coming back, Wyatt,” his father said quietly. Too quietly. Wyatt had feared that lethal tone when he was a kid. It usually meant fire and brimstone were coming.
“Don’t panic, Dad.” Wyatt turned back to his computer to click open the next page in the report. “You’ve got the Carmichael retreat at the end of the month. And you always come back with new clients from that. You handle the ass kissing and spouse charming, and I’ll keep their business here with the results I can get them.”
His father shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I’m not going to be able to attend the retreat this year.”
Wyatt’s hand stilled against his mouse, and he spun his chair back toward his father. That retreat was a must. Business leaders killed to get invitations to the exclusive trip put on each year by real estate tycoon Edward Carmichael. On the surface, it was billed as a relax and unwind trip for executives and their spouses. But that casual, guards-down atmosphere was where deals were made and partnerships were formed. “What are you talking about? That retreat was responsible for three of our biggest new clients last year.”
“Your mother has threatened divorce. So we’re going to a thing,” he said, giving a near-imperceptible shrug.
Wyatt stared at him, the words not quite making sense at first. Divorce? His parents had never had what anyone would call a loving relationship. His dad wasn’t an easy man to live with and had cheated more than once. But he and his mom had always seemed to have a mutual agreement to stay together—like a polite business arrangement. “A thing?”
“Some counseling vacation.” He scoffed and tightened his tie again. “As if that could be called a vacation. All that touchy-feely hippie bullshit. But she’s going to leave me if I don’t go with her.”
“Jesus, Dad.”
His father waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t start the pity party. It’ll be fine. I think your mother just had some white-light moment when she had that heart attack and is getting loopy on me. We’ll do this, I’ll buy her something nice, and we’ll move on. We always do.”
Not with that attitude. But Wyatt kept the comment to himself. If his mom wanted to make a run at a happier life, he wasn’t going to begrudge her that.
“Which is why I’m going to need you to handle the retreat and not fuck it up.”
Wyatt was still reeling from the previous news, but of course his father wasn’t going to linger on anything non-business related for long. “Me? I can’t go on the retreat. Who’s going to handle things here why you’re out? I’ll just cancel it this year. Carmichael will understand.”
A muscle twitched in his father’s jowl. “No. He won’t. We’ll be cut right off the guest list for the future. I’ve been working on getting that family’s accounts for years and I’m this close. One rebuff and it’s gone. Plus, Tony Merrill will be there. If we cancel, we may as well hand our clients over to him with a bow around their necks.”
Wyatt leaned back in his chair, rubbing his head, the thought of attending a Carmichael retreat curling dread in his stomach. Wyatt had never been, but he knew it wasn’t anything like the business conferences he attended. This was a schmoozing trip. No workshops, no meetings, it was all about rubbing elbows and kissing ass.
And Wyatt didn’t kiss ass.
“I’m not going on some trip to tell people how fucking fantastic they are. I’m not a salesman.”
“You will, and you better become one fast.” His dad pinned Wyatt with a hard look. “You are supposed to step into my shoes when I retire. But if I dropped dead tomorrow, you’d be woefully unequipped.”
Wyatt could only stare back at him. “Unequipped? What with the doctorate, the decade of experience, and a record that could lap anyone else here?”
“If this business was one hundred percent numbers, no one could even attempt to challenge you. Not even me. You’re brilliant, Wyatt. But half the job of being a CEO is selling yourself, the image of the company, and generating new business. It’s politics. For people to trust you with their money, they have to want to work with you, to like you.”
Wyatt clenched his teeth, having flashbacks from his high school years. He’d won a lot of awards, but the popularity contest was one he’d never had a shot in.
“You need to show me you’re capable with this part of the business. Otherwise, you’re starting to make me wonder if you’re the right person to take over the top spot when I step down.”
Wyatt’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair, cool steel in his voice. “Excuse me?”
That position had been decided since Wyatt’s first IQ test in grade school. Like an Olympic athlete, his whole life had centered on getting groomed and trained for this role, especially after his father had realized that his other
son, Jace, had absolutely no interest in taking over the family business.
Wyatt thought of all the things he’d turned down, walked away from, or not tried because he was on this path. Because he was the “good” son, the heir apparent. All the hours and blood and sweat he put into this company. Now that role was up in the air?
“My first responsibility is to this company,” his father said curtly. “You know I’ve never given you anything simply because we share DNA. You’ve earned everything you’ve gotten so far. But now you need to earn this. If I don’t think you’re the best candidate, I won’t hesitate to give it to someone else. Eric has been in line for it for years and has as much experience as you do.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Look at my face,” his dad said, using the same words he used to say to Wyatt when he was a child. “Does this look like my kidding face?”
Wyatt made a sound of disgust. “You’re a coldhearted sonofabitch sometimes.”
“I am. That’s what gives me my edge, son. If I made decisions based on emotions, you’d have grown up in some shithole in the suburbs. This is a weakness of yours, and my future CEO can’t afford weaknesses.”
“I got it,” he snapped, bitterness leaking into his words.
“Good.” His father pulled a paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and laid it on Wyatt’s desk. “That’s a list of people going whose business we want to acquire. Do whatever it takes to get them.”
Wyatt unfolded the paper and scanned the neat list of typed names. Some of the biggest players out there were listed, of course. His father always aimed for the outfield. But Wyatt’s gaze snagged on the name at the bottom of the page. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Andrew Carmichael? If you think I’m going to go kiss Andrew’s ass, you have an—”
“He’s the biggest fish on that list now. Ed’s health has been in the shitter lately, and he’s handed over lots of responsibility to Andrew, including this year’s retreat. Retirement is probably inevitable within the year. So you need to work the son. And you two used to be friends. Use that.” His father straightened his coat.