Olivia—One month later
I hobble down the stairs as fast as my body will carry me, afraid I’m too late. Ever since I came back to Tanglewood, August has started running with Zora and Josiah every morning. Josiah is a month away from being legally able to enlist, something that both terrifies me and makes me inherently proud. Every day when Josiah runs upstairs to the shower, the big angry Marine comes into the kitchen without a shirt as sweat trickles down that incredible body, and I pretend not to ogle him while I stand at the stove making breakfast for everyone. I haven’t missed a single day since this ritual began, and I don’t intend for today to be the first.
August had convinced me to return to the big beautiful plantation house because my doctors said the road to recovery after my surgery was going to be painful, and that I’d need support. He'd been right about that. The first few weeks after the shooting had been hell, both physically and mentally.
We’d adopted Xena, and I’d retired her from duty. I figured she’d been through enough in her short life, and she wasn’t getting any younger. Ellie and Jake had brought my Chihuahua, Pebbles, over from Fairhope to aid in my recovery too. So here I was, back to living in August’s house with a precocious four-year-old, two rambunctious teenagers, three dogs, one piglet, and an angry Marine, who isn’t so angry these days.
He’s still prone to fits of assholery from time to time, and I hear the shouts of terror coming from his room some nights, but Zora is helping with that. On nights when the walls seemed paper thin and his despair breaches the space between us, it’s hard not to go to him, but even though I failed Dalton horribly, I still have faith in my system. August needs to heal; he needs to forgive himself for Havoc, for Savannah, and for Dalton, and he needs Zora’s help to do that, not mine. Of course, there are nights when I have nightmares of my own, and I wake to find him occupying the armchair in my room. He never says a word, but his cool, calloused hands brush the hair back from my forehead and temper my fevered brow.
Now, I hurry into the kitchen, almost tripping on Betty—who is getting bigger, and somehow even cuter everyday—as she weaves her way in and out of my legs until finally, I decide it’s safer to pick her up. We’re both headed to the same place anyway. I dart into the kitchen, set Betty on her hooves, and pinch my cheeks to give them a little color. Then I readjust my robe to reveal a little more cleavage, but not so much that it's obvious. I’ll head back upstairs to change before Josiah and Beau come down, but for now, the robe—and more importantly the cleavage—stays.
“Mornin’,” August says. I freeze and spin around to find him leaning up against the counter beside the fridge, wondering how much primping he just witnessed. My eyes roam over every inch of hard muscle, his broad shoulders, defined abs, and the deep V of his hips that render me stupid every time. He has on black basketball shorts and his running blade, a lightweight carbon fiber prosthesis.
“Morning,” I reply, somewhat breathlessly, and I know it isn’t just due to my racing to get in here. “You’re early . . .” Nice one, Olivia. I shake my head. “I mean, you’ve finished your run already?”
“Yep. Went out on my own today.” He grins as he puts the cap back on the water bottle and sets it on the counter. “You know, if you want to see me naked and sweaty, all you have to do is ask, darlin’.”
“I do not . . . I wasn’t . . .” My words are stolen from me as he stalks forward with a maddening smirk on his face. “What are you doing?”
“Getting tired of waiting for you to be okay with this.”
“August, we talked about boundaries.” I press my hand to his chest because he's too close, and I can't think straight with the heady scent of his sweat and sandalwood soap distracting me. It wasn't my intention to run my hand over that sweat, to feel the hard-won muscle beneath, but here I am, petting him as if he's my favorite kitty.
“No. You talked about boundaries. I told you I was gonna fight, and I ain’t above fightin’ dirty.”
“How dirty?” I breathe.
August’s lips curl up into a smile. “So dirty.”
Both hands snake around my waist and—careful of my wound—he lifts me onto the counter, wedging his hips between my thighs. He hooks a finger in the sash and unties my robe as if he were opening a gift made just for him. I wrap my legs around his hips to pull him closer, and that’s all the admission he needs. He threads a hand through my hair and pulls my neck back to expose the tender flesh to his mouth. I close my eyes and whisper his name as my whole body turns to flame, starved for the oxygen that only his touch can bring. His hot mouth trails down my neck, his hands cup my breasts, squeezing, kneading, and I slide a hand between us, into the waistband of his shorts. I take his hard length in my hand, stroking him from base to tip. August grunts as he pushes my negligee out of the way with frenzied hands. His fingers find me bare and exposed with no panties.
“So fucking’ dirty,” he groans, wetting his lips.
A frisson of heat surges through me as his thick fingers dip into my wetness and push inside. His thumb circles my clit, slowly at first, and then faster, forcing my legs to shake. I moan. The house is quiet but for our labored breaths and the slick sound of our hands against one another’s flesh. The cloying scent of our arousal hangs in the air between us, and it’s as heady a thing as the greedy way he kisses me. I work my hand faster on his shaft, and he intensifies the pace and pressure of his stroking. The world erupts into molten heat and flames and frenzied kisses. I don’t know who comes first; I don’t think it matters.
“Jesus, princess. I haven’t come like that since I was a teen,” August says when he’s had time to catch his breath. I lean my head back against the cupboard, and a sleepy laugh escapes me.
“Wanna make it a second time?” I slide my hand over the wet head of his beautiful cock, and his hips jerk. August's fingers are still inside me and he flexes them. Desire arcs through my body. I’m hot and hungry for more.
“Do you?”
My resounding moan is loud, too loud. As is the “Holy Shit!” that comes from Josiah as he, Beau, and Bett stand at the entrance to the kitchen.
“Oh my God,” I say, mortified.
Beau laughs. “You said that already, over and over.”
“Dude, shut up,” Josiah says.
“What’s Auggie doing to Wivvie?”
“Er . . . they’re . . . it’s . . . nothing a four-year-old should see,” Josiah stammers. “Come on, Bett, let’s . . . go outside for a bit.”
“But they look like they’re just getting started,” Beau complains.
“Get out!” August and I yell all at once.
“Breakfast is gonna be a while,” August shouts after them. He nuzzles my neck, his teeth nipping all along the sensitive flesh as he draws me closer with his free arm wrapped around my waist. “We’re not done yet.”
“No, we’re not,” I whisper, covering his mouth with mine.