I stepped inside the Sip ’N Shop, the little bell announcing my arrival, and gave a quick wave to J.C., who covered the shop for his dad during the day. I bought what I needed, then took it outside to one of the picnic benches. The temperature was in the triple digits again today, but I couldn’t bear to be inside much longer. Plus, the shade trees arching over the tables and the faint breeze provided a sliver of relief.
And apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d had this plan for lunch today. Before I finished unwrapping my sandwich, a shadow crossed over the table. I glanced up and smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Michael Ruiz, now Dr. Ruiz the dentist, slid onto the other side of the picnic table. “Well, I’ve heard this is the hottest spot in town.”
I took a sip of my Coke, the bottle sweating against my palm. “It definitely is hot.”
Michael pulled a bottle of water from his bag. When we’d dated in high school, he’d had a Mountain Dew addiction, but apparently dental school had scared him off the hard stuff. “Hey, I’d be willing to take you to some place fancier, you know, with air conditioning and stuff, if you’d ever let me. I’ve heard the Subway has an excellent charcuterie platter.”
I smirked as I peeled the crust off my sandwich. Michael asked me out pretty much daily these days. I’d told him I was coming off a breakup and wasn’t ready to start dating again, which he’d respected. But he hadn’t stopped joining me for lunch to keep me company. I appreciated that he wasn’t putting pressure on me about it, just being a friend to me when I really needed one. But I knew that he would prefer it was more than that.
Bailey had told me to give the guy a break—well, after I’d told her he was a doctor and had sent her a photo of him so she could verify he was of acceptable hotness. She was of the “get back on the horse” mind-set, but the thought of going out with anyone held about as much appeal as watching a CSI marathon with my dad—which, incidentally, was what I’d done last weekend.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, hoping it came across light and not like a jab.
He pulled the butcher paper from around his sandwich, but his dark eyes stayed on me. “Want me to stop asking?”
I sighed, elbows on the table, sandwich in hand. Michael had always been sweet to me. When we’d dated, we’d never gotten too serious, but I’d always known he was an inherently good guy. He’d be the type to take it slow, to be polite no matter what, and to yield to my preferences on where to go and what to do. He was everything on paper I’d always thought I wanted—good-looking, hardworking, and a guy my parents would be happy to see me with.
He was an obvious choice, and I already knew we got along and that I’d have fun with him. I’d said no over and over again in ten different subtle and polite ways. But as I peered at him there across the table, I started to question my reasons. The stuff that had been holding me back was beginning to look more and more ridiculous—silly, romantic notions that belonged in movies, not real life.
Maybe I didn’t need that thing. Whatever that thing was that I used to feel when I looked at Foster. In the end, that intensity had only led me straight to a heartbreaking dead end anyway.
Time to change gears. Reboot. Get with reality.
I reached out and put my hand over Mike’s. “Don’t stop asking.”
His mouth curved. “I’m good at being patient.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
—
Later that night, as I sat on my living room floor unpacking boxes and eating a microwaved potpie, I was still ruminating over my conversation with Mike when I came across a little silver piece of jewelry that I’d tossed into one of the boxes. I pulled the anklet out of the pile of stuff, the sound of the Big Bang Theory rerun on the TV fading into the background, as I held it along my palm. Such a small thing—a little length of silver. But it’d been the lynchpin that had blown everything up between me and Foster. That day in the office, I’d dropped it in my purse in my haste to get out of there as soon as possible. But now it was here, opening up the wound that I was working so hard to close.
He’d wanted to protect me. That’s what he had said. And to mark me as his.
The memory made tears knot my throat. His.
I’d been so ready to start something with him, so open to the possibilities, but that simple word had scared the hell out of me. He’d looked so serious, so sincere. And I hadn’t wanted to promise him something I wasn’t sure I could give. And I definitely couldn’t imagine wearing something that could be tracked. Visions of my teen years had flashed before me—trapped, monitored, ruled over. It would’ve been the wrong move. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it long term. And it would’ve hurt us both more in the long run.
I couldn’t be his submissive. It wasn’t me.
But the thought wrenched something sideways inside me, making me press my forehead to my knees. Who was I kidding? I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t have a freaking clue. During the day, I fought constantly to make my own path at the clinic, do things my own way. I’d stood up more for myself since being back home than I ever had in my life. But at night, when the place got quiet and my mind drifted to memories of Foster, I couldn’t help but let myself fall back into the fantasies we’d shared, times when I had no control at all. I replayed them in my mind like some addict needing a hit—just one more time, one more time . . . And when that wasn’t enough, I’d create new ones, weave even dirtier, more sordid scenes for us to star in.
I didn’t know how to reconcile that girl with the other. How could I be both?
I stared down at the anklet, running my thumb along the metal, which was now warming from the heat of my hand. The latch was some type of screw design, and I found my fingers slowly turning it. The anklet fell open, and without knowing why, I reached down and fastened it around my ankle. The silver pressed against my skin, sliding over the delicate bones there. And the sight of it—his mark—locked around me sent burning tears to my eyes.
I could imagine Foster there, kneeling down and looping the jewelry around my ankle, pleasure in his eyes. The word mine on his lips. His mouth kissing up along my calf, my thigh, his eyes going hot with intent as he whispered all those dirty, tempting things he was so good at saying. The image warmed me from the inside out, making a flush creep over my skin.
Unconsciously, I pushed up from the floor and clicked off the TV. I lowered myself onto the couch, closing my eyes and letting the fantasy run, sinking into it. Foster always had such a slow, deliberate way of kissing every part of me, his mouth leaving trails of heat on my skin. Without thinking too hard about what I was doing, I let my body and the images take over. My hands slid up my stomach beneath my shirt, and I cupped my breasts, imagining it was his big hands instead of mine. The feel wasn’t quite right, my touch too soft, too feminine to be his. So I pinched and plucked at my nipples like he would’ve, making sure to do it hard enough to cause a snap of pain. Yes, that was better. I sighed softly, opening my eyes briefly to see the silver glinting against my ankle.
Moisture and heat gathered between my thighs, the sight of jewelry pushing some lever inside me. I let my eyes drift shut again and trailed my hand down my stomach. Foster liked to tease me, to move his fingers along my folds but not quite stroke my clit yet. And his touch was always so sure, like he knew exactly how to bring me right to the edge and hold me there, hanging by my fingernails. I imagined him lowering his head between my legs, my arms tied above me, and the feel of that five-o’clock stubble moving against the tender skin of my thighs—the abrasive, scritch-scritch sound that made.
In my mind’s eye, he was there with me, calling me angel and whispering lovely, filthy things to me. My fingers moved inside me, my hips rocking against the stimulation. I moaned in the silent house, lost to the fantasy and to the man who I’d never touch again, and came hard.
Slowly, my breath returned to me, and I
blinked out of the haze of the dreamland—my heart still pounding but my body cooling. My living room came back into view. The boxes. The ugly walls. The emptiness. Despair rolled through me.
I pushed myself off the couch and dragged myself into the shower, sitting on the floor of the tub and just letting the hot water pound against me.
Afterward, when I caught a view of myself in the bathroom mirror, I barely even recognized the person staring back at me. I’d changed out of scrubs into pajamas, but other than that, I didn’t look much different than when I’d woken up this morning. No makeup. Hair hanging limp around my cheeks. It was the face of a girl who had totally given up on being presentable.
I stared at my reflection, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. Was this what my life was going to be? Sitting around in my half-unpacked, That ’70s Show house, fantasizing about some guy who I hadn’t talked to in over a month? I’d become a goddamn cliché. All those times I’d rolled my eyes at movie heroines who ended up on their couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, watching Lifetime network, and now here I was. The only thing different was that I’d chosen Hungry-Man potpie instead of Ben & Jerry tonight. Pathetic.
I flicked the light off, getting rid of that girl in the mirror, and strode into my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the charger. Enough of this shit. I scrolled through the numbers, looking for the one I needed, then hit Call.
“Cela?”
He was clearly surprised to be hearing from me. But before I lost my nerve, I let the question fall from my lips. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to tell me?”
“I’m saying yes, Michael.”
I could hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all night. Pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready.”
And hopefully, I would be.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sixty-seven, sixty-eight . . .
Foster counted in his head as he lowered back down to the floor for another push-up. Sweat slid down his neck and bare back as he repeated the motion again and again. The numbers ticked off in his head as he breathed through the count. A flash of Cela tied up in the garden came to him. Fuck.
Seventy-three.
That night she had counted aloud for him, her tawny skin glistening with the exertion of receiving the stings of his crop. But she’d been counting down. Not up. Not like he was doing. This had nothing to do with that day. His cock stirred. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Eighty.
He lifted one foot off the ground, trying to increase the difficulty of the push-ups and block out any thoughts of her. Music blared in the background, his new neighbor probably hating him already for all the noise.
Eighty-one.
She’d wanted to come so bad that night, she’d fallen to her knees and would’ve begged him for it, would’ve given him those doe eyes and pleaded. He’d wanted to break his plans that night. He’d wanted to spread her right out in that bed of flowers and fuck her until everyone inside the restaurant heard her scream. He gritted his teeth as his cock went from intrigued to full, throbbing hard-on.
Refusing to relent, he pushed through to hit one hundred. Afterward, he rolled onto his back, his stomach rising and falling with exertion, but the ache in his dick not relenting. He tucked his hands behind his head and with a locked jaw, started a round of sit-ups. He would not fucking give himself the satisfaction of thinking about her and jerking off. If he wanted to get laid, he could damn well go find a willing partner.
But he knew it was an idle notion. He wouldn’t do it. He’d gotten in his car to drive to The Ranch more than once since Cela had left, and he hadn’t been able to put the key in the ignition. He was in fucking love. Love!
A goddamn disaster considering that the object of those affections was currently hundreds of miles away, happily moving on with her life. She didn’t want what he had to offer. And as much as he cared about her, he couldn’t give her what she was seeking. If she wanted a traditional, vanilla relationship, he couldn’t be that for her. It’d be like asking a gay man to go straight. His dominance was part of him, and neither of them would be happy if he tried to shut that part of himself off.
Six. Seven.
His hair was damp, falling in his eyes as he did more crunches. In his direct line of sight was the bed he’d bought for her. And of course, now every time he looked at it, he saw her there, kneeling on the white covers, knees parted, head tilted back as she touched herself for him.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
He rolled up off the floor and stalked into his bathroom, turning on the shower. He grabbed an empty cup and filled it with water from the sink, gulping it down as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked like a crazed version of himself. His face and chest were shiny with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and his dick hard.
He tugged off his shorts and stepped into the shower. The water hadn’t fully warmed yet and it hit his skin with a shock. But even the chill wasn’t going to vanquish the driving need demanding his attention. His erection was still hard as steel. Fuck it. He grabbed the soap from the holder on the wall and slicked his hand. Might as well get over the inevitable. He was past the point of being able to will the thoughts away. He braced an arm against the shower wall and pressed his forehead against it. His other hand grasped his cock with a rough, almost angry grip. He’d never had the chance to take Cela in the shower, and he let his mind go there now—water dripping over her curves, that dark hair curling and clinging to her shoulders, the swells of her ass tucked against him as he slid into her from behind.
His fist moved along his cock, imagining her heat and the sweet sounds she made when they made love. Yes, love. He’d tried to convince himself it had been something else, but from the very beginning, it’d been different with her. Sweeter. More intense. More important.
He angled away from the water, letting it only hit his back and tightened his grip as he fisted his shaft. The pad of his thumb moved over the head, swiping at the pre-come glistening there. If she were here, he’d bring his thumb to her mouth and watch her suck his taste from his skin. She was such a vixen when she let go, let her inhibitions fall away. He’d hoped she’d be the one, the girl he could cherish and pamper but who would also crave playing on the edge with him, the one who would give herself into his keeping and care.
He could imagine her giving him hell with that smart mouth, then dropping to her knees and bringing him to his. That soft, yielding look in her eyes, that giving, plush mouth.
With that image, every muscle in his body seemed to tighten and pleasure raced down his spine. God, Cela. Hot streams of his release splashed against the tile and coated his fist as he pumped into his hand, riding the last wave of orgasm.
After a few more ragged breaths, he rinsed, turning the water to searing hot, then toweled off. Too exhausted to even bother digging through the basket of clean laundry for boxers, he headed to bed and got in naked. As he reached to turn off his lamp, he noticed the light on his phone indicating new emails. “Fuck ’em, they can wait ’til morning.”
But after he clicked off the light and tried to close his eyes, he couldn’t help himself. What was it about new email that was so hard to ignore? It couldn’t be anything good. Just more work. But he found himself reaching for the damned phone anyway. He unlocked the screen, noticing the new email was to his personal account, not his work one. Odd. He rarely used that account.
He opened up the screen, frowning at the subject line. Your Home Safe purchase has been activated. What in the hell? It was the standard auto-send email customers received when they activated one of their products. Why the hell would he be getting that in his personal . . .
He sat up.
Quickly, he tapped to open the full email and scrolled down. Your Home Safe anklet was activated at 9:34pm CST i
n Verde Pass, TX.
He stared down at the screen, something like hope growing in his chest, snaking through him like a vine. Cela had kept his bracelet. And the only way to activate was to open it and close it. Had she put it on?
Weeks had passed since she’d left. He’d texted her that first night under the guise of being Pike, and she’d made it rather clear that she was staying and moving on. What would make her pull out his gift now?
Unless . . .
Unless she was thinking about him.
He flipped the covers off and got out of bed, heading straight toward the living room. Pike was laid out on the couch playing some video game while Monty dozed at his feet. He looked over when Foster strode in.
“Dude, what the fuck?” He put his hand out as if to shield himself. “You’re going to traumatize Monty.”
Foster glanced down, realizing he’d walked out naked. But at the moment, he could give a shit. “I need your help.”
Pike smirked. “Man, I’m flattered, and I know you’re hard up, but I’m really not into you that way.”
Foster wished he had something to throw at him. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and tied it around his hips. “Would you shut the fuck up and listen?”
“All ears.”
“I need your car for a few days.”
He paused his game. “Do what?”
“I can’t sit around anymore. I need to know if she’s happy. I need to know if there’s still a chance.”
Pike’s questioning look morphed into a sly, victorious smile. “’Bout damn time. But what exactly would you need my car for?”
He shrugged. “I’m not going to bust into her life and shake things up if she really is doing well and is happy there. I don’t want to cause her more hurt. So I’m going to do a little recon first and I need her not to recognize my car. I’d get a rental, but I want to leave first thing in the morning.”
Pike sat up at that. “Hold up. You’re going to spy on her? You really are the crazy, stalker ex-boyfriend.”