He was going to burn in hell for all the things he wanted to do to her…for the things that he was going to do to her.
God, he loved her hips; they fit his hands perfectly. He could spend years getting lost in her curves, in the way she responded with little moans and gasps.
Most of the women he had been with had been older, experienced, jaded, meaning they faked orgasms and screamed so loud you’d think that they were trying to get a part in the next Fifty Shades movie.
Jane’s responses were genuine.
This girl, that had held him at gunpoint, called him old, and laughed when he said he’d clean.
His girl.
Possessiveness washed over him as he slid the condom on and watched her eyes grow big. She was nervous.
“Stay with me,” he whispered as gently as he could, because, really, truth be told, he was dying, dying to be inside her, dying to feel her, dying to watch her fall apart.
She responded with a jerky nod and he cupped her face, capturing her lips again and again. They were red and swollen, and her cheeks were flushed from rubbing against his face.
He had already marked her.
He wanted to howl.
Or at least pounce on her and claim her. It was absolutely primitive, the way that he wanted to make every male in the world aware that she was his.
“Relax,” he soothed. He could feel the tension flowing off her, and he could only assume it was because she felt it, too. He knew this thing between them wasn’t just about sex. These weren’t fleeting emotions that would just go away.
His teeth captured her earlobe before he kissed his way down her neck. Slowly, he pressed himself inside her tight entrance, nearly blacking out as her body bucked off the bed. A moan of pleasure escaped her lips as she hooked her ankles behind his back.
She was scorching.
Burning him inch by inch as he gritted his teeth and kept himself from thrusting completely into her and breaking her in half.
“You’re so…hard.” She exhaled with what he hoped was a satisfied sigh.
“Kind of the point.” He let out a dark laugh. “But glad you approve.”
“I do.” She returned his kiss, grabbing his face, losing complete control as her hips bucked against his.
Brock Wellington was a man of complete control.
A man who knew what was expected of him.
Brock Wellington died in that moment, and was replaced quite possibly with the man he was always supposed to be. Crazed, passionate, slightly drunk on the feeling of the perfect woman in his arms… His destiny felt altered, his world changed.
She met each thrust, her nails digging into his skin as her head fell back against the pillows, her body arching into his, responding, pulling him tighter inside her heat.
Jane let out a gasp as he filled her one last time and stopped—his body throbbing for release.
It was a moment he wished he freeze in time—the look on her face, the feel of her body beneath his, and the absolute certainty he felt in his heart that this was exactly the future he wanted—for both of them.
A future together.
When her eyes opened, he found he couldn’t hold back, not anymore, as with one last thrust she found her release.
His orgasm followed immediately after, and he yelled the first “yes” he’d ever really meant.
For her.
For them.
Brock looked down at Jane, kissed her softly, then smiled.
“What?” She was out of breath. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”
“Because.” He shrugged. “We still have nine days alone, unless you count the animals, but I’m going to be more careful about locking doors from here on out.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “So we’re going to have sex like nine more times? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Nine? Woman, you’ll be lucky to get any work done outside of this bedroom for the next two weeks.”
“Oh, no.” Her face fell in mock sincerity. “I hope my employer won’t be angry with me.”
“He may punish you.” Brock kept a straight face. “Hard time in the bedroom for not cleaning the bathrooms just right.”
She smirked. “Slave driver.”
“He really is.”
She fell into a fit of laughter when he slapped her ass playfully then rose from the bed to grab a towel and start the shower.
They both needed to wash off the sweat and everything else.
He was in his room, so he at least had clothes at hand, but she would want to put on something comfortable.
“Be right back,” he called over his shoulder while she stretched out on the bed. Damn it, he was ready for her again.
He quickly ran into her room in search of sweats or something she could wear so that she wouldn’t have to run around naked—even though that’s exactly what he wanted. But he knew she’d want to be comfortable, or maybe he just wanted her to be comfortable. Because suddenly all that mattered was her.
His eyes locked on the dresser. He walked over and opened the top drawer and cursed as he pulled the drawer out far enough that it fell.
Jane came running at the sound, a towel wrapped around her body. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Get out,” he whispered.
“But—”
“I said”—he rasped—“get the hell out! Now!” He kicked the dresser. Jane’s perfume flew off the top, smashing at his feet, filling the room with her scent.
Her eyes filled with tears.
And she ran.
Good. She should run.
He couldn’t control the rage that filled him. Bracing himself against the dresser he looked down at the drawer.
It never occurred to him that his grandfather would keep things. Keep memories, store them away for Brock to find.
Plaid shirts.
Harmless plaid shirts.
And stuck between them, the stuffed dog his dad had given him—the day before he’d died.
The day of the fight.
“But I don’t want to!” Brock had yelled. “You can’t make us move to California! I belong here!”
His father sighed. “Brock, it’s my responsibility to keep my word to your grandfather and he needs someone in the LA office.”
“Fine.” Brock crossed his arms, “Then you go! I’m staying here!” He threw the stuffed dog his father had given him back into his face. “No!” He stomped his foot. “I won’t go. I hate you! I hate you!”
His parents died the very next day.
He fell to his knees amidst the broken picture frames that had joined the smashed perfume bottles on the floor and didn’t even care that shards of glass were piercing his skin. He welcomed the pain.
The ghosts were free.
And they were relentless.
His parents were gone.
All he had was his grandfather
And his brothers.
Life would be so much easier if there was a map to get through it, but when he wasn’t given one, he’d followed the only family he had left.
And was led to this place.
A crossroads.
He knelt amidst the broken glass and memories for the next hour, feeling guilty as hell, and sad.
Because that was the thing about death.
It haunted the living.
Until they mourned it.
And the more it was ignored.
The bigger it grew.
Until survival was damn near impossible.
It loomed over Brock’s body like a vicious storm, and he didn’t have a damn clue how to get over it.
Which was why he said the yes.
His yes’s were because of this stupid stuffed animal.
And the picture.
He held onto them for dear life and stared.
An hour later, he realized that Jane had returned, and put a blanket over his shoulders.
When he finally acknowledged her, she handed him a mug of something and lifted a shoulder. “I made it a double.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“No, I’m really, really sorry.”
“I know.” Her smile wasn’t present—her strength, however, she wore like a beautiful suit of shiny armor.
“It’s not you.”
“Drink the whisky, Brock.”
He sighed and took the mug. “Yes, ma’am.”
The grandfather clock chimed from downstairs as if to remind them that time wasn’t exactly in their favor. They shared a look as Jane reached across the space between them and gave him her hand.