by Serena Bell
He crawled over her and dropped his mouth to hers. Her body was a dizzying contrast of warm and cool, her tongue a wild, aggressive thing. He couldn’t catch his breath. She made senseless sounds, moving against his fingers, shifting to press her breasts up so he could duck his head and lick circles around her tight nipples. Her next noise was a definite moan. It swirled in his belly and made him so hard it hurt.
“I want you,” she whispered in his ear.
His brain had shut down, and whatever part of him was in charge could only think: In. He moved over her and positioned himself, swollen and leaking pre-cum. He felt her wet heat give against his tip, felt her all over his head, and he almost came right then and there, almost blew his wad and ruined the whole fucking night.
“Condom,” she said.
“Shit.” He withdrew.
She tugged her bag over and found one, tore it open and reached for him. He had to use all his self-control to hang on. He made a choked sound, and she hummed her approval as he got between her legs again and she lined him up against her wetness. He thrust forward. An inch, and he wouldn’t have thought it possible but he wanted her even more, her fierce heat squeezing him, and he pressed farther, farther, until he noticed she’d gone still beneath him.
He was so crazed with lust that it took him a moment to catch on. She’d turned her face away, too.
“Mira,” he whispered.
“Ow,” she whispered back.
“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry,” he said, and drew back, which elicited another squeaked noise of—he now recognized—pain. “I’ll go slower.” He dropped a hand between her legs and began to slick his thumb lightly back and forth over her clit.
“That feels good,” she said, but as soon as he tried to move again, she made another noise of distress.
He kissed her, hard, and her mouth opened to him, got wetter against his, but her body got more rigid. She drew back. Some nasty animal part of him wanted to grab her and refuse to let go, but he was stern with his lust and it subsided. His erection was doing the same. Shrinking away from her misery. In a few seconds, he’d slip out of her. The thought filled him with despair. This is all there is, the now. A few minutes ago, it had seemed like infinite space, unlimited promise. Now it was the end.
He withdrew and rolled away.
“I’m sorry.” She had tucked her face under her arm and her shoulders shook. Crying. He felt it, a hollow pain in his chest.
“Don’t be. We’ll try again.” He tried to soothe her with a hand on her hair, but she didn’t soften under his touch.
“There’s no time. We don’t have enough time.”
“We have a week,” he said, but he felt desperation lock around his ribs.
“I’m an idiot,” she said.
“This wasn’t your fault. It was your first time, right?”
She nodded.
“It’ll be better next time. I’ll make it better.”
Because he wanted to leave her with something that mattered. Something she would always have. In case she met assholes in college who took advantage, who didn’t know what they were doing, who didn’t see how amazing she was, how she deserved the best he could give her. Not like this, not halfway and awkward, but the way he would do it next time, as much a revelation as the first time she’d cried out and arched in his arms.
But she was shaking her head. “I’m not an idiot because of that. I’m an idiot because I didn’t see this coming.”
“What?”
“How I would feel—”
His chest got tight. Tighter.
“That I would fall—”
“Don’t say it,” he said.
She turned away. Her shoulders slumped. He ached to reach out and pull her in. To be a different guy with a different life, to say, We have all the time in the world.
“I was trying to prove something. To my father. To myself. But this—Do you think—” Whatever she was trying to say, it was costing her something. “Do you think there’s any chance I could see you? Next time you’re home? That we could—I don’t know—try to be together?”
Don’t get distracted. He could see his fire team leader, Sergeant Trebwylyn, in his mind’s eye. Buzzed hair, big as a Hummer, perpetually pissed off, warning them that he’d known way too many guys who’d come back from leave married. Dads-to-be. Entangled, distracted, bullet magnets.
He’d given them one job, Don’t get distracted, and Jake had managed to screw it up. He hadn’t even set foot on Afghan soil and he was already a fuckup (like your father, said that particular voice in his head). And what she was asking him for led him straight to what he’d vowed he’d never do. I will never be like my parents. The only way he knew for sure to avoid that was to never become part of a family. He’d already let himself get pulled way too far down this path. There was only one answer he could give her.
When he looked into her dark brown eyes, a stark contrast with her blond hair and fair skin, he wanted to kiss her. But if he kissed her, he’d want more of her, and if he took what he wanted, he’d be in deeper. They’d both be in deeper.
She heard what he hadn’t said into the silence.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
But I didn’t even answer yet. He wanted to take back his non-answer, wanted to beg her for another chance.
The words were there, pressure in his chest, like that first night when he’d found himself telling her so much, for no reason other than that she was Mira, that she listened, that she heard. A pressure stronger than lust, the need to tell her how he felt. He wanted her to know everything. He wanted her to be the only person he ever told anything to.
Don’t get distracted.
She turned away.
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t do this.”
Eight Years Later
Mira Shipley watched her son, Sam, through the window of the physical therapist’s office. He was frowning as the PT explained something. His seven-year-old forehead was wrinkled under too much hair, his skinny body stork-like in shorts and a T-shirt. He needed a haircut and socks that fit and probably, as usual, to have his fingernails cleaned and trimmed. When she’d lived with her parents, she hadn’t fully appreciated how much they took care of. Now all the tasks of a single mom were hers and hers alone.
She wished she were in the office with him, but the physical therapist had asked her to stay in the waiting room. Watching Sam from a distance made Mira feel deeply, peculiarly, tender, some vestige of the way she’d felt when she’d stood outside the newborn nursery and watched him through the glass. That one’s mine. I made him. And now I have to keep him safe. She’d been alone with him in the world, terrified—having no idea how to change a diaper or administer a bath or soothe that spazzy, overstimulated crying he’d launched into at five p.m. on his fourth day of life, a pattern that would continue for ten solid weeks.
She could smile now, thinking of it, of walking the halls of her parents’ house with Sam swaddled tightly to her chest. Of the small, exhausted sighs Sam emitted when he finally dropped into sleep. Of the way he’d nestled against her on the bed as he’d nursed in the early morning. They hadn’t done so badly, she and Sam. Not at all. They were a good team, and they’d get through this crazy summer, too.
Of course, she hadn’t felt at all tender toward him in the car on the way here as he’d griped about physical therapy. She wanted to say, You should have thought of that before you climbed that spindly tree. What did you think was going to happen?
Even if Sam had been able to predict that the branch—half the diameter of his absurdly thin wrists—would snap, he wouldn’t have been able to foresee all the consequences of his risk-taking. He’d hurt his shoulder, arm, and knee, earning himself a couple of weeks of physical therapy. And disqualifying him from going to summer camp.
Now she had no place for him to go while she worked.
She and Sam had just moved out of her parents’ house in Florida, where they’d been living for the last seven yea
rs. Under their roof, she hadn’t had to work. They’d paid Sam’s medical bills, supported them both. Now she and Sam were living in Seattle, where she’d been born and raised, and they had no one to depend on but themselves.
That was how she wanted it.
Or so she’d thought.
Behind the plate-glass window, Sam stretched a giant red rubber band while his therapist, a thin woman with gray hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail, corrected his form. Mira was supposed to have started work Monday, but they’d granted her an extra week to find childcare. Now it was Friday, and she was due to plant her butt in her office chair on Monday, but luckily, yesterday she’d finally interviewed and hired a sitter. Penny had been charming, articulate, and a big hit with Sam, who wasn’t always the easiest kid to win over. For the first time since Mira had unrolled sleeping bags on the floor of their new house, she felt like she had all the pieces of her new life—her fabulous, independent new life—in place.
The door of the office swung open and a man stepped in. He went to the check-in desk and spoke in a low voice to the woman there, then came into the waiting area. The slightest hesitation in his step drew her eye downward. One of his legs was prosthetic—an expensive gray running shoe was fitted with a slim shank of metal ankle that thickened to a robotic calf and knee. She tried not to stare—at either the prosthetic or his flesh-and-blood calf, which was lean, well-muscled, and covered with golden curls.
Nice.
She made herself look away, feeling vaguely guilty for wondering what had happened and how he felt about it. Even though she wanted to look again, she wouldn’t let herself.
But she peeked. He wore nylon hiking shorts with a red plaid short-sleeved shirt, untucked. Slim hips and waist, nicely sculpted posterior, broad chest and hunky shoulders.
Very, very nice.
He made his way over to a chair and sat down on a diagonal from her. Even in her peripheral vision, she could see that he’d taken over the seat like an alpha male—knees apart, leaning back casually. This is what I’ve got to offer, baby. I’m so good, I don’t even have to convince you.
Sadly, the posture worked on her. But it was somehow at odds with her expectation, and she chastised herself. What? He’s not allowed to be cocky because he has a prosthetic leg?
Her phone buzzed in her back jeans pocket. Penny Dawson. Her life-saving babysitter.
“Hello?”
“Mira? It’s Penny. I’m so sorry to do this to you—”
Oh, shit. Mira’s breath stopped. She couldn’t lose Penny. In her last conversation with her new boss, Haley had been patient but firm: “We can give you till Monday, but we need to know that we can depend on you. We need to know childcare isn’t going to be an ongoing issue.”
Mira had moved across the country. She’d pulled up stakes, broken her parents’ hearts, and bet everything on herself. She needed her job.
“I’m so sorry, Mira. I just got a permanent, full-time offer teaching at Broadview Montessori. Summer and school year.”
A collection of desperate thoughts went through Mira’s head. Bribes, extravagant promises, a willingness to prostrate herself and beg.
“Any chance you could watch Sam just next week?”
“I’m sorry. I asked. They said no. They said they had another candidate who could start right away if I couldn’t.” Penny sounded wretched.
So Mira would have to go back to the drawing board on babysitters. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could still find one for Monday. She swallowed hard. “It’s okay. That’s great about the new job. I’m really psyched for you. Of course you need to take it. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas about who else could watch a smart, well-behaved seven-year-old for the summer—or even just next week—would you?”
“I’m really sorry,” Penny said. “I wracked my brain this morning to try to think of someone who could do it. I even called a few friends. I swear if I think of anyone, I will let you know.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“It was really nice to meet you. And Sam. If you ever need an evening sitter, or weekends—”
“I’ll definitely call.”
“And meantime, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that you find someone, and I’ll call you if I think of anyone.”
“Thanks.”
Mira let the phone drop into her lap and took a deep breath.
On the other side of the room, the cocky guy with the prosthetic leg shifted in his seat, drawing her gaze. Brown hair, on the longer side of short, uncombed. A couple of days’ unshaven scruff. Not her type; she liked professional men, clean-shaven. Her mind was about to dismiss him—a guy I ran into in the physical therapist’s office and wasn’t attracted to, but not because he was an amputee, just because he wasn’t my fantasy. But something made her look again.
Holy shit. She knew that face. The strong jaw, the well-formed upper lip, the deep groove that ran vertically between his brows—
She’d memorized his features in the few weeks they’d been together, the quick three-quarters way he smiled, like he couldn’t quite fully commit to happiness, the all-in truth of his smile when he gave himself over. The creases that formed when he frowned, the way his jaw set when something bothered him. That night at the lake—the last night—the look on his face when she’d taken off her clothes. Gratitude and longing and Who, me? For real?
The night came back to her in sharp contrasts, pairs of impressions. The coolness of his wet skin and the heat of his body. The softness of his mouth moving over hers, over her breasts, and the hard tug of his suckling, the yank of desire she’d felt. The rich summer smells, green and overripe, and the clean soap scent of him. How open she’d felt, how boundary-less, melting, flowing, willing—and how her body had betrayed and frustrated her.
How good he’d made her feel, better than she’d ever felt in her life, and the way he’d hurt her. The way they’d dressed, packed up, and driven home in silence. How hard she’d cried, and for how long.
Jake.
His eyes caught hers, caught and held and held and held. Sam’s gray-blue eyes, Sam’s full lower lip, Sam’s absurdly long eyelashes. Jake’s face.
Would Sam someday have a jaw like that, square and strong? Would his nose, which was still a little boy’s pudgy upturned nose, be as bladelike as his father’s?
How many times had she promised herself that if this moment ever came, she wouldn’t hold the truth back from Jake?
Want to know what happens? You can read the whole story in Hold On Tight.
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Find HOLD ON TIGHT here.
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And don’t forget to join my newsletter list so you never miss a new release, sale, or giveaway!
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Join my newsletter here.
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You can jump in anywhere in the Returning Home series, four standalone novels about heroes returning from the front, wounded in body and spirit, and the women who help heal them.
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You can start with Jake and Mira’s book, Hold On Tight, the excerpt you just read.
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Find HOLD ON TIGHT here.
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Or, you can start with any of the books in the series! In the second book, you’ll meet Nate and Alia in Can’t Hold Back, the story of a man in physical and emotional pain, the woman with the power to heal him, and the complications that lies leave behind.
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Find CAN’T HOLD BACK here.
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From there, journey with Hunter and Trina to discover To Have and to Hold, and meet a man who can’t remember the last year of his life—even the woman he fell for.
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Find TO HAVE AND TO HOLD here.
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And finally, fall for Griff and Becca in Holding Out. Becca’s done being a virgin, and Griff’s just the man to help her out. It’s perfect—no strings, no commitments, no muss, no fuss. Well … almost none.
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Find HOLDING OUT here.
Also by Serena Bell
Returning Home
Hold on Tight
Can’t Hold Back
To Have and to Hold
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Sexy Single Dads
Do Over
Head Over Heels
Sleepover
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New York Glitz
Still So Hot!
Hot & Bothered
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Seattle Grizzlies
Getting Inside
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Holiday Novella
After Midnight
Acknowledgments
Thank you first and foremost to my readers — I am so grateful for you. You are why I do this. Also, to my reader-reviewers, who help other readers find the books of their hearts.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! to Sarah Murphy, the hardest-working and most supportive editor I know. You always see the book beneath the book—and know how to help me get there. It’s a rare and special gift, and our collaboration is one of the great joys of my writing life.
I’m grateful for the sharp-eyed copyediting skills of Sarah Sarai. Sarah, it’s been a pleasure working with you!
Thank you, Agent Emily, for always being there, hands-on or hands-off, whatever is called for at the moment. Love you.
