Want You Back Page 20

  Because with Jacob by my side, I was a new woman, and he a new man. I never said ‘no.’ I said ‘yes’ and I let love in, and it flooded my body. In just eight months, I’d learned how to loosen the reins and let the unexpected thrill me. And Jacob? Well, Jacob had learned that just as my past with him didn’t define our relationship, his parents’ past didn’t define his future. There were moments when I caught him doubting us, just fleetingly, wondering if I’d hurt him the way his mother had hurt his father, if we’d end up a similar mess. And yet, every time, within the same breath, I’d see his face go clear, his expression brighten, as he remembered that our relationship was built on trust, not convenience. We weren’t going to repeat their mistakes.

  And letting me in was easier now that Jacob’s business was thriving. From the rumored success of the Pillers’ project, rumors which I can verify are accurate, a number of companies and individuals had already approached him about future collaborations. He had more offers than he could possibly field. Don’t tell Joe or Tom, but I was considering, maybe down the line, leaving Pillers to help take Got Wood Inc. to a national level.

  Shh. That’s our little secret.

  I snapped back to the present moment as Jacob’s bit down on my lower lip. Oh, that tease. He knew I liked it when he got nippy.

  “Are you trying to cause me to lose all self-control?” I murmured between his lips.

  “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but now that you mention it… definitely. One hundred percent.” He bit down harder, and this time, I moaned.

  I took my hand from behind his back, and pressed the Champagne bottle to his lips. He suckled from it thirstily, droplets from his mouth splashing on my own, taking several gulps before I moved it from his lips to mine. After slaking my thirst, I deposited the bottle on the ground nearby, and pulled Jacob down with me, until we were coiled around one another on the smooth new brick of the knoll.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered as I tucked the bottle beneath the bench.

  “What does it look like? We’re going to christen the town.”

  “By breaking the bottle? There’s still Champagne left—”

  “No,” I replied firmly, with a pointed expression. “The other kind of christening.”

  Jacob gulped in understanding, and with a now practiced eye, I could see the shading of his jeans change as his cock grew hard.

  “A toast,” he said, grabbing the bottle once more. “To new beginnings. And to future orgasms.”

  “To future orgasms!” I cheered. He discarded the Champagne and grinned as he pounced on top of me.

  The following morning we were up bright and early for the ceremony. Jacob put on a nicely pressed navy suit, and I a white dress. As we grabbed our coffee mugs and strode out the door together, Jacob noted, “You’re looking rather bridal.” His hands fluttered at the faux pearl-encrusted hem of my A-line skirt.

  “And you rather groom-y,” I laughed in reply, not taking his comment too seriously, though it did make my heart excitedly skip a beat or two.

  Our hands clasped as we walked the several blocks to the village — we’d been stationed close to the project as a means of convenience, but it had turned into a rather romantic little situation. We walked to work together every morning and walked home together every evening. Not a lot else you can want in life.

  But today, when we strode into our — or, ahem, Charles’ — community, instead of seeing guys in dirty coveralls and hearing R&B blasting from inside some construction zone, we saw a giant ribbon taped around the entrance, around which stood a veritable horde of people.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered in Jacob’s ear as we joined the throng. “I didn’t expect it to be so…”

  “Bumping?” he asked.

  “A group of media folks and rich investors is hardly bumping… but, uh, yeah.”

  He squeezed my hand. “It just means we did a really, really good job.”

  I smiled, and nestled my head onto his shoulder. “We did, didn’t we?”

  Joe and Tom had invited me to introduce the village to the public, to make some statement for the company, but I’d declined. I wanted to spend the morning by Jacob’s side, celebrating our mutual achievement. Besides, giving speeches is boring, and my man was way more fun.

  Case in point — as the ceremony progressed, Jacob whispered little jokes in my ear, making me giggle and causing heads to turn. But nobody’s eyes lingered for too long — we were, very clearly, just two kids in love.

  At last, the moment we’d all been waiting for arrived.

  “Let’s hope they remembered the giant scissors,” Jacob snickered as Charles stepped behind the enormous red ribbon.

  A nearby assistant produced the aforementioned giant scissors and Jacob snapped his fingers. “Shoot, I was really hoping Charles would look like a bumbling tool.”

  I gave him a tiny shove. “That would make us look bad. Me, especially.”

  He groaned. “But that guy deserves to take an L on something, anything!”

  I elevated my shove to a slap on the shoulder, and Jacob resigned himself. “Fiiiine, if you insist.”

  When Charles cut the ribbon, for what it’s worth, and for as much as he may have tried to stifle it, Jacob’s face did in fact spread into a small, proud smile.

  The crowd cheered around us and Charles welcomed them into the village, throwing the gates open and letting folks stream in. People would spend the rest of the day wandering the community, hopefully stumbling on each special something we’d built into the fabric of the town.

  A few colleagues stopped nearby and waved to me and Jacob.

  One called out, “Hey, come join us! We’re gonna go celebrate in the mini-mall.”

  The two of us laughed, and I was about to accept the offer, but Jacob shook his head. “We’ve got some business of our own to take care of first.”

  The group nodded with understanding and walked away as I turned back to Jacob, about to ask what he’d meant by that, when my heart stopped beating.

  Jacob was kneeling on the ground in front of me, and brandishing a black velvet box. I placed my hand over my chest, just to make sure I wasn’t going to pass out.

  “Is this a good time?” he joked, though I could the tremble in his voice.

  I nodded, and tears of joy immediately began to spill over my cheeks.

  His tone turned concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes I’m okay!” I cried. “I’m just very, extremely excited, so go on and propose to me before I turn into an absolute blubbering mess!”

  We laughed together at this, me through a haze of tears, before Jacob sprung the box lid open and my throat closed up again.

  It was a beautiful emerald set within an ornate, complex web of thinly woven gold, which was burnished with age but no less than beautiful for its darkened markings. It looked like an object of history, a thing with a past all its own.

  “This was my grandmother’s,” he explained. “And I know it’s not a diamond, or whatever, but I think green makes your eyes sparkle, so I figured maybe the ring would suit you.”

  I wanted to respond, to tell him that it was absolutely perfect, that the ring made me feel seen, understood, that it had encapsulated me, but the tears cut off all possible communication.

  He paused, waiting for me to speak, before at last continuing. “Sierra, these months with you have been undoubtedly the happiest of my life. Every morning I wake up next to you is a good one. I had a whole proposal speech planned, but looking at you, now, all I can think to say is that I love you, I love you so much it terrifies me. And I’d never bought into the idea of soulmates until I met you. You make me believe in big, daunting things like that, like soulmates.”

  He swallowed and continued before I could interrupt him. “I should’ve proposed on the first day I met you, years ago, or when we met again at the mansion. I should’ve proposed when we made love in the garden, or that first night in our little Jacksonville house together. Every
moment I haven’t proposed has been a moment wasted. And I’m not going to waste any more time.”

  He took a deep breath, and in a low voice, asked, “Sierra, will you marry me?”

  “None of those moments have been wasted,” I told him breathlessly. “Because we’ve spent them together.”

  Jacob’s eyes shone. “Is that a—”

  “A yes?” I replied, beaming wide. “Of course it’s a yes.”

  He catapulted to his feet, his arms encircling me as he tugged me close for a chaste kiss on the lips, not unlike the one we’d be having at the end of an aisle someday soon.

  Jacob took my hands gently into his own, splaying my fingers out, and furnishing the ring from its velvety compartment.

  “And you like the ring,” he questioned, his voice uncertain.

  I rolled my eyes sardonically. “You knew I would.”

  “Yeah,” he grinned back. “I kinda did.”

  And with that, Jacob slipped the ring onto my finger, then enmeshed his bare fingers with my own, one of which now glittered with promise of love, laughter and a beautiful future together.

  ***

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  Please keep reading for more.

  Claimed

  She’s got my name written on her, she belongs to me.

  I’m wallowing in my PTSD and toasting my army buddies who didn’t make it home when I notice this insanely hot chick all alone in the bar.

  Before long she’s wrapped in my arms back at my studio.

  She only sees me as a bit of rough for the night but after one taste I want more.

  Being a naughty girl for once in her life, she begs me to tattoo her. Fine by me.

  I doubt she’ll remember me in the morning, so I tattoo my name on her ass.

  Cybil takes off without giving me her number, but I’ll find her.

  She’s mine now, she belongs to me.

  She is claimed.

  Whether she wants to be or not.

  *** A steamy STANDALONE contemporary romance with a smoking hot hero. No cliffhanger, no cheating and a guaranteed happily-ever-after.***

  Chapter 1

  Cybil

  MY HEAD was breaking open.

  Yes, that was it, that had to be why everything hurt so goddamn much — because my head was split down the middle, my little mushy brain bits spilling out onto the pillow.

  Or you’re just really hungover, my throbbing mind offered.

  “Shhh,” I replied. The mental chiding had felt like a scream in the dullness of my booze-soaked brain. I immediately regretted trying to say anything at all, as the sound of my own voice reverberated in my ears.

  “Uunhh,” I groaned, miserable. This wasn’t going to get better on its own. I called upon my inner strength, developed through years of meditation and yoga practice, and opened my eyes.

  The room was blurry, but I was at least relieved to see that it was, in fact, my room. For some reason, I’d had this dim sense that maybe I’d wake up in a foreign environment on top of some plaid sheets from Target, in a room with a Fight Club poster. Instead, I was greeted by my white canopy. I turned my head slowly and saw some of the pillows I liked to sleep with still on the bed and just beyond the hoard of crystals that dominated my nightstand.

  I was home. I was safe. Miserable, but safe.

  “Om gam ganapataye namah,” I muttered, intoning my mantra. “Om gam ganapataye namah.”

  I concentrated all my energy to my heart’s center, and with a heave-ho that left me dizzy, pushed away from my pillows, and up into a sitting position.

  My head exploded. Um, ow?!

  It’s your own fault, that rude little voice tsked. You know you’re a lightweight.

  “Shut up.” I put my face in my hands, and felt clumps of leftover mascara framing my cheekbones. My back ached.

  I took another deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and threw my legs over the side of the bed. For the first time in — years? maybe — I decided to forgo my morning salutations. Screw the salutations. I needed water. Coconut water. Medicine. Relief.

  I grabbed a pair of sunglasses from a nearby jewelry stand and affixed them on the bridge of my nose. There. That was a teensy bit better. At least I no longer felt like a detective was shining a flashlight in my pupils.

  Slowly, carefully, I picked my way to the bathroom.

  “Good work,” I said, cheering myself on. “You’re doing great.”

  With trembling hands, I opened my medicine cabinet, which was packed to the brim with all manner of natural remedies. After a moment’s painful thought, I selected magnesium pills, vitamin B6 and milk thistle. It’s unclear if you’re actually supposed to take all these things together, but I figured that this wasn’t a time for ‘everything’s better in moderation.’ Last night certainly wasn’t. Why start now?

  Pills in hand, I migrated like a slow iceberg to the kitchen, where light filtered through the curtains, creating patterns across my tile floor. I felt, out of nowhere, as though I were too gross for my gorgeous place, an ungainly, injured beast that had crawled into the wrong cave to die in peace.

  What? I’m a Leo, I’m dramatic.

  After grabbing a glass of coconut water, I put the pills in my mouth, took a sip of the water, and swallowed, waiting eagerly for a respite from the pain. The pounding didn’t stop.

  “Not fair,” I whined, stomping my foot on the ground. I’m not usually one for petulance, and for what it’s worth, I have a great pain threshold, but this morning was giving new meaning to the word ‘hungover.’

  I flopped onto my sofa, unable to stand, and pulled a blanket around my shoulders before realizing I had the hangover sweats. The blanket was quickly shucked until a few seconds later I was cold once more, and yanked it off the floor and back onto my body. The blanket and I fell into this routine for what felt like hours.

  Last night had been fun. Right? I could no longer remember. I have no recollection beyond having dinner yesterday. God, I really couldn’t drink like this, I was getting too old.

  You’re twenty-seven, my brain corrected, perhaps the first kind thing it had proffered all day.

  I was in no mood. “Twenty-seven is like, ancient for L.A. I’m basically near death.”

  The internal voice was silent, because we both knew it was true. Twenty-seven in L.A. was almost forty anywhere else. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

  The whole hot-cold routine induced by my pores desperately trying to let out trickles of leftover alcohol was starting to make me feel truly yucky. With another theatrical groan, I rolled off the edge of the couch, landing on my knees on the floor and coaxing myself into a standing position. I yanked my comically large sleep T-shirt over my head and dropped it without ceremony on the ground. On a normal day, I’d pick the shirt up and carry it over to the laundry hamper, where I’d deposit it gently. Today, I was beyond giving a shit.

  Back in my bathroom, I opened the window, allowing a little fresh breeze to blow in.

  “Better,” I said, forcing positivity that I didn’t feel.

  My ass had begun to ache in time with my head, as though each round of blood pumped from my heart went straight to my brain and my butt, clocking both parts with an ACME-brand hammer. I winced and turned on the overhead shower.

  In a bout of creativity several months ago, I’d planted a small DIY garden in my tub. Basically, the ‘garden’ uses the extra water from your shower to, like, help the plants grow. My friends thought it was maybe a little too hippy-dippy, but I’d written their concerns off as being mainstream and boring.

  Now, I was beginning to regret that. The shower-garden made the floor of the tub slippery with that kind of slickness that comes from moss. Have you ever tried climbing a tree trunk in a swamp in the dead of summer? No? Oh well. That’s what it felt lik
e.

  I scrubbed myself with a pumice stone, determined to get every bit of caked grime off my skin. The grime wasn’t interested in this plan, and resisted me with each stroke. Relenting, I threw the pumice down and picked up the bar of tea tree oil that I used for all-natural soap. Like everything else in my home, it was sustainably sourced and organic.

  The calming smell wafted up my nose and I relaxed a little. I was beginning to feel calm was descending on me like the steam from the shower.

  And that’s right around the moment when I slipped and ate shit.

  My ass hit the bottom of the tub and pain pierced through me, a bullet traveling through all my veins in synchronicity. I screamed, and in the same breath, thought how this was right about the moment when you wanted a live-in boyfriend, someone who would coming running at your cries to scoop you off the ground and kiss your boo-boos.

  I was left to pick myself up, using the edge of the tub to cantilever myself back to vertical, each movement sending shivers of ache through my form. Once upright and panting, I moved a hand to my back, preparing to brush off the dirt left by contact with the shower garden.

  My fingers brushed against a large piece of material that was definitely not a product of the garden. Weird. I furrowed my brows, and ran my fingers over the thing again, unable to discern what it might be. It was taped to my back.

  After quickly drying off with a cotton towel, I hopped — err, hobbled — out of the tub and back onto solid, non-plant covered ground. My full-length mirror was fogged over from the shower, so I quickly ran a forearm over it. With that, I did a one-eighty, turning to face away from the mirror and dropping my towel to the ground. Another sound escaped my throat as I craned my neck to see over my shoulder, and down to the mysterious thing on my ass.