by Snow, Nicole
“James and I had a bet. He thought the Enguard run of disasters was over. My father taught me good and bad things come in threes, so I was ready for one more.” He looks down at me then, his smile warmer than the sun. “But I lost, and I'm glad. Because you’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me, and to Em.”
I can’t even find the words to tell him I feel the same.
So I just pull him down into a kiss, and let my lips shape every emotion I don’t know how to say, trusting he knows me. He knows me.
And he feels everything I feel, down to the depths of both our souls.
* * *
It takes longer than expected to peel away from everyone and finally make our escape. The Wrangler is already loaded, packed with weeks’ worth of camping equipment.
I’ve never been properly camping before, even with that week at the cabin, so our honeymoon is a long drive down the coast to Baja, spending every night sleeping under the stars.
I’m almost sad Em will miss this, but she’s happy with her new Russian Blue kitten and a few weeks with her grandparents. The new cat, Toby, is totally adorable.
She's been obsessed with them since a visit to Landon's house introduced her to his Velvet and Mews.
Fine by me. Right now, frankly, I don’t want to share Riker with anyone.
The sun is just setting over the Pacific when we pull off the road for the first night and find a secluded beach cove to set up camp. Riker shows me how to do all the little things.
He’s never once patronized me over needing to learn things others just know as part of growing into adulthood, and everything he teaches me I take in, use it to build myself up stronger.
Everyone has to learn some time, right? There’s no shame in learning a little later in life. Riker taught me that, too.
So freeing.
Yeah. That’s a good word.
It’s freeing, to know I can explore and discover and grow into who I want to be without anyone shaming me for it, least of all my new husband.
We settle in front of our tent to watch the stars come out over the ocean, framed by the silhouette of an old shipwreck on shore, left to fall apart and pulled to pieces by the wind and waves.
Dinner is kebabs roasting on skewers over the fire, filling the night with savory scents of grilling meat, mushrooms, vegetables, then plenty of wine to go around. With a contented sigh, I rest my head on Riker’s shoulder and look up at the sky, tracing the dark outline of a leaning, half-broken mast.
“Hey, Riker?”
He stirs from his silence next to me with a murmur. His arm is warm around me, sheltering me from the faint chill and damp bite of the night breeze. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“You never told me...why model ships?”
He blinks, then chuckles, the rumble of it vibrating straight through me.
“Because they let me build something that’s almost impossible to take apart again.” His hold on me tightens, fingers gently stroking down my arm. “I spend time putting all these tiny parts together. And once that ship’s in the bottle, it’s there. Secure. Whole. Nothing can touch it. Nothing can change it. Nothing can ruin it.” He looks down at me, that easy, warm smile lingering on his lips. “Just a quiet, beautiful little bit of forever.”
I lean into him with a gentle nudge. “Is that what you’ve been looking for? A quiet, beautiful little bit of forever?”
“Guilty.” He brushes his fingers under my chin, tilting my face up to his. “And now I've found it.”
He kisses me as though he could keep me tucked in this moment forever.
As if I’m a fragile thing he wants to hold and preserve and always protect. And even if I’ve grown stronger all these months, even if I’ve learned to stand on my own, I still can’t help but melt into the delicious feeling of him.
All his manly strength enveloping me, sheltering me, reminding me that every time I ever feel small and afraid, he’ll always be there. My bulwark and my shield.
My love, my life, my husband, my everything.
He guides me again as I push him back onto the sand-strewn blanket and look down in the light of the stars and the flickering flames.
God. I love how his body feels between my legs as I straddle him, his thick bulk spreading my thighs until they ache and I feel so open and ready for him.
Even when I'm on top, he's in full control.
His tough, strong hands on my body shape me.
He caresses me out of my clothes, stroking over every inch of me until I know his touch with every fiber of my being.
I don’t feel vulnerable, even fully naked on top of him, bared to the moon and the stars, while he's beneath me.
I just feel beautiful. He touches me with a hunger, a lust that can’t get enough and makes my entire body shiver with sweet anticipation.
I'm dying for him. Aching for his touch, melting wet, burning down every second he isn't lighting me on fire.
“Riker, yeah!”
His name purrs softly on my lips, a single sensual word as our mouths mate and part and mate again.
Our bodies tangle together and fuse hotter and hotter, fires into infernos.
Then I whimper, a little louder, sweet for him in the way I know he likes. “Please. Fuck me, please.”
It’s the first time I’ve begged for him as his wife.
The first time I’ve called his name as my husband.
Riker always was my first in everything, and now this night marks one more new beginning.
Another first, as finally he gives in to my coaxing touches, my begging lips, my grinding hips, and lifts me over him.
The better to free his cock, pressing up against me, ready for the conquest.
I don’t know if he rocks up into me or I sink down onto him first, but suddenly we’re just caught in each other’s tide.
Rolling with the ebb and flow. One rhythm. And he’s moving so deliciously inside me, filling me in that way only he has, an aftershock of sharp, gliding pleasure that tunes my entire body to his frequency until we're trembling and gasping together.
“You'd better come for me, sweetheart. Come so fucking hard.”
Like it's even a choice.
I throw myself into him, riding his cock, all drifting ass and lungs crawling up my throat. My pussy clenches him so hard, I think we'll both break. He thrusts like mad, hurling himself into me, throwing his full, glorious bucking weight at my hips.
And I'm gone.
Coming!
Somewhere in the white hot eye-rolling heat, I just know how much I love him.
Love and adore him more than I could ever love anyone else, and it fills me as deeply as the thrust and taunt and surge of his cock as I give myself over to the fire building between our bodies.
He doesn't stop for my release. He only flogs it harder, higher, splitting me open with long, deep strokes, a feral growl deepening in his throat.
The animal glare in his eyes brings me off faster again than should even be humanly possible.
Nothing could break this moment.
Nothing could ruin it.
Alone against the sea, alone against the sky, alone with each other, trapped in something sacred and profane and forever binding. Riker will always be a part of my body, a part of my heart, and it feels as though we trade breaths, trade hearts as the writhe and flow of our bodies reaches fever pitch.
I almost can’t tell pleasure from pain, love from heartbreak, with the intensity of emotion rushing over me. My body turns into fire, then bursts into sparks, as waves of need and blazing release surge through me.
My awareness narrows down to the wild, searing sensation as my flesh convulses around his cock, forcing me to be aware of his thickness, of the way he throbs inside me, the way he pulses and swells with a tortured groan.
“Liv, fuck!”
That's when I let go, and so does he.
He fills me so good.
My husband fills me like no other man ever can.
There’s a sing
le moment frozen between us as our bodies lock. Timeless, breathless perfection.
Then we’re spiraling away, still tangled together as we come crashing down.
His pubic bone grinds my clit, his hands dig into my ass, and I couldn't hold back if I tried.
We come together with a force that's almost scary. Twitching, screaming, clutching, groaning, and totally, forever undone.
My body doesn’t want to hold me up anymore.
So I just sink down on Riker with his cock still inside me, snuggled close, content to let his body keep me warm against the night chill.
He holds me tight, his heaving breaths slowly stilling until he’s quiet underneath me, and I can lull myself nearly to sleep by just the faint rumble emitting from his throat and the pure, deep contentment that’s fallen over me.
Here I am. Mrs. Riker Woods.
It’s like I’m a completely different person from the girl who, at the beginning of this strange and sordid path, stood frozen and afraid while a man died at her feet.
There’s no more death in my future. Only life, however I want to make it.
However we want to make it.
You really don't know which day will be the last day of your life.
But you never know which day will be the first, either – and the start of something more amazing, more real than you ever could've dreamed.
You don't know when you'll meet the man worth calling yours.
* * *
Thanks for reading Still Not Yours! Look for James' book coming soon.
Burning to find out what happens to Riker and Liv after they're happily wed?!
Check out their ultimate Happily Ever After in this extended epilogue. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/gzst1ngwz5
Then read on for a preview of Skylar and Gabe's book, Still Not Into You. FREE in Kindle Unlimited.
Still Not Into You Preview
I: Don't Back Down (Skylar)
The first thing I do in any room is check for the nearest available exit.
It’s part of my job, considering the tactical planning and logistics required to work for Enguard Security.
But it probably says a lot about me, too.
No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing...I’m always looking for the quickest, safest way out.
Guess that’s just the kind of girl I am. Skylar Szabo, escape artist extraordinaire.
Right now the only available exit is the office door, and I can’t take it. Not until I’m done with this route planning and escort strategy for our firm's latest VIP client.
I rub angrily at my gritty, aching eyes and force myself to focus on the computer screen, clicking through Google Maps and using Street View to scope out any prospective dangers along the proposed route. I study every little area where concealed assailants or snipers might take advantage of exposed stretches of road.
Go ahead and snicker. It might seem a little far-fetched, violent ambushes in sunny, affluent NorCal, but I can’t take any risks with the Duke.
Yes, a freaking Duke.
We've moved up in the world, and now the company is invoicing royals.
Four months ago, it was a big deal when Enguard managed to land pop starlet Milah Holly as a client. Now, after my boss – Landon Strauss, Grade A grump and complete slave-driving hard-ass –
saved Milah’s life in some huge dramatic internationally televised event?
Everyone on the planet with a seven-figure paycheck is beating down our doors. I have more money than I know what to do with piling into my bank account.
And I’m officially going completely cray-cray trying to keep the heck up.
It doesn’t help that my home life is a minefield, and I’m at the end of my rope.
I don’t want to be here, mapping a convoy route for the Duke of Sealesland, no matter how well it pays.
The Duke is fine. The Duke is safe. The Duke doesn’t need me.
My family does.
More specifically my grandma, my sister, and little Joannie.
Joannie.
My throat tightens just thinking about my niece. I haven’t seen her in months.
No one has.
Not my sister, not the police, not the Feds – not that anyone but my sister is really trying to find her. You know all those truisms about how every day a child is missing exponentially reduces the chance of finding them alive?
What they don’t tell you is, every damn day exponentially reduces the interest law enforcement has in the case. In their minds, your missing munchkin is already a dead lost cause.
I know Joannie’s not dead. I need to believe that.
Not just for my sake, but for my family’s. Maybe the police and FBI have given up on her.
I won’t.
I can't.
And I know who really took her: the asshole deadbeat she shares half her DNA with.
I just have to find a way to prove her father's the culprit, and I’m not going to do that by sitting here in an air-conditioned office, staring at a computer screen, wondering if someone with a good scope could take a shot from a tree that might not even be in a years-old Street View photo.
The Duke will be fine.
It’s almost midnight. I’m the last person at the office.
Even Riker left hours ago, murmuring something about his daughter – who he thinks hung the moon – and math club and regional semifinals or something else I don’t quite understand when I don’t have kids yet. A little part of me in the back of my mind wonders if I ever will.
If I’d even be able to stand the idea, after losing Joannie. She might as well be my daughter with the special, forever cozy place she has in my heart.
But she’s not lost. She’s not.
And it’s time to go home and do my real job.
I’m so used to being the last woman standing at Enguard that there’s really nothing all that unsettling about the darkened silence and haunted gloom of our late night office, though I suppose it would spook others.
I’m not easily spooked. I’m not easily anything. And if my coworkers think I either don’t hear, or I'm oblivious to the whispers wondering if I’m dead inside, a robot, whatever, I don’t care.
I don’t need emotions for this job. Being emotional leads to mistakes. Being emotional leads to trouble.
Being emotional leaves you vulnerable, and I can’t remember a time in my life when I was ever anything like vulnerable.
That’s not how Grandma raised me, or my sister, Monika.
But vulnerable or not, I can’t help deeply ingrained habits. Call it situational awareness.
As I sling my case over my shoulder, lock up with my little laminate RFID badge-card stamped with Skylar Szabo in big, black block print, and step outside into the balmy evening air, my senses range over the parking lot.
It’s all gold shadows of faded street lamps against concrete, turning everything a sort of dusty shade of half-night.
I breathe deeply, welcoming the night.
Someone needs to check their brakes. I can smell the strange, cool chemical scent of brake fluid, and the light turns green in an oily puddle left behind in one parking spot. I can taste the asphalt still baking after sundown, that bitter tar stench on my tongue. Then there's the faint sound of highway traffic, a whooshing, distant drone, and there’s a clang! about four blocks away that tells me someone just lost a hubcap to a speed bump.
Everything hits my brain in ordered streams of data, an instant tactical assessment of my environment. Old habits, again.
It’s almost automatic, idly percolating in the back of my mind while my thoughts focus on what I need to do tonight.
I go over the harsh litany, ticking them off on my fingers: leads I need to trace, info to compile, case files to review. There’s a sense of brutal urgency pressing down. Because I’m seeing Grandma and Monika tomorrow, in the flesh, and I need to be able to tell them something.
Something that will give them hope. Something that will ease the nightmare. Something tha
t'll let them hold on just a little while longer.
But that sense of urgency turns into alarm as I draw closer to my car – a beat-up old Buick in a shade of champagne that hasn’t been on the market in at least fifteen years.
I know my car. Know it like I know my own body, and I know how the night shadows should fall over the interior and hood down to the last crooked silhouette.
And I know before I’m even ten feet away from the car that the shadows are wrong.
Someone’s been in my car.
Someone other than me has been in my car.
Someone other than me has been in my car, alone, with a Glock hidden away in the glove box and now, potentially, in an intruder's hands.
I go stock-still.
The muggy night suddenly feels cold as sweat beads and ices my skin, goosebumps rising.
“Fuck you. I'm not afraid,” I mutter quietly.
I don’t do fear, not if I can help it, one more irrational emotion I don't need – but there’s a tension like a static shock rolling through me. Adrenaline keys up in my blood until my heart’s playing hopscotch with the lines of my ribs.
I can hear my pulse in jumping patters against my eardrums. It can't stop my reflexes.
Carefully – no sudden movements – I bring my case around and reach inside. My Glock may be in the car or somebody's grimy hand, but I’ve got a Taser.
It’s firm and reassuring and slick in my palm, a solid weight that fits with the comfort of familiarity. I draw it out and let it hang at my side as I slowly approach the car; my keys fall into my other hand, one key spiked between each knuckle to make a fierce claw for close combat, the number one trick every girl learns as soon as she’s old enough to understand the dangers of a darkened parking lot at night.
Head down low, I move.
I'm not making an easy target for anybody inside the car. All I’ll have is the sound of a gunshot and glass shattering to warn me before I’m possibly eating a bullet. There’s an angle where the upper frame of the car creates a block, right where the corner molds around from the back driver’s side window to the rear.
