One to Hold

by Tia Louise

  She inhales deeply as we walk, and the strong breeze pushes her dark hair off her shoulders. It also whips her black skirt around her still-slim hips, and she has my fleece jacket zipped all the way up. It’s like a dress on her.

  “I have an idea,” she says, slanting those baby blues at me, “What if you stay in Princeton and I stay here, and we just met up for conjugal visits?”

  I decide to take her challenge and raise it. “That sounds like a reasonable plan. I can probably go a month between visits. How about you?”

  Her expression almost costs me my poker face. Clearly she did not expect me to concede to her ridiculous offer, and it appears she might cry. Her brow melts into a frown, which she tries to lift and fails.

  “I was only teasing,” she says in a voice that twists my insides. “I can barely stand us being apart for a week.”

  It’s impossible to hold out after that, and I scoop her small frame against my chest. “And I can barely stand two hours.” I lean forward and kiss her again, and as always, her body melts into mine. It awakens my urge to take her.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all morning,” I say. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  Her nose wrinkles as she laughs. “Maybe it is better for us to be separated for now. We’re way too horny to get anything done in the same city.”

  Her use of the pronoun we is all I need. My eyes meet hers, and I see that fire brewing in them. It’s only grown stronger since she’s been pregnant, and I know from our first encounters she doesn’t shrink from being risqué.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I verify that we’re alone. No one is out on this cold, January day but us, and we have the beach to ourselves. Still, I use discretion, leading her away from the open shoreline into a nearby patch of beach scrub. It’s not only private, it’s out of the breeze and less chilly.

  I sit on the soft sand, pulling her onto my lap. Skirts and thong underwear might be my favorite clothing combination. My hands are up her thighs and caressing her clit as fast as our lips can find each other’s. Her arms are tight around my neck and her whimpers slip out between passes of my mouth over hers. My erection is straining against the zipper of my jeans, and I want nothing more than to be buried in her tight, wet opening this instant. I’ve wanted it all morning.

  Her hand goes to my waist to unfasten my pants, and when her slim fingers wrap around me, the memory of her mouth closing over my tip almost sends me off. The first time she gave me head, I almost shot down her throat it was so good. But I fight to distract myself from those thoughts and get her off instead. I’ve been on edge all morning, and her hand sliding up and down my dick isn’t helping. My fingers press into her wet opening as my thumb caresses her clit. I can tell by her breathing, she isn’t far behind me.

  “Ooh,” she moans, sending shockwaves through my shaft. I want to be inside her so badly. Quickly, I slide down the zipper on my jacket and lift her shirt, catching one of her taut nipples in my mouth. Her breasts are gorgeous right now. I give one a little suck, and she sighs with pleasure. I almost lose control.

  “I need to be inside you,” I whisper, moving my mouth to her ear. I give her lobe a little bite, and she shivers. At once, she shifts her position, moving her thong aside and dropping down on my cock.

  “Uuh,” I can’t help but groan as her warm passage envelops me. I wanted to lay her back and pound her hard on the sand, but I’m not sure she’s finished yet. Gripping her ass, I lifted her up and down, keeping my thumb on her clit, massaging her.

  Her arms tighten around my neck as her breasts rise under my chin with every lift. It’s fucking amazing and almost more than I can take. “Derek,” she gasps in my ear, and I know we’re hitting the right spot. She’s lifting herself on me now without my even helping her.

  “Don’t stop,” she gasps, but I’m barely touching her as she works me. I’m doing everything in my power to hold out while she finishes. Her inner muscles tighten on me as her orgasm begins, pulling and releasing. It’s far better than hands or a mouth, feeling her come around my cock.

  “Oh, shit,” I groan, but I can’t stop it. Her inner workings have me shooting off inside her, and the pleasure momentarily blacks out my thoughts. All I know is me buried deep in her gorgeous body, my orgasm primed and extended by hers. Instinctively, my grip on her ass tightens, and I’m lifting her harder and faster up and down as I finish.

  A hoarse moan scrapes from her throat, and as I continue moving her, more noises follow. Her thighs quiver, her knees press into the sand, and she’s riding me now. She’s making it, and after several more movements, she drops, arms draped around my neck, head on my shoulder, aftershocks slowly subsiding.

  “God, I love you,” I murmur, kissing her neck, traveling with my lips behind her ear, causing her to shiver again and laugh.

  She sits up and holds my face, her cheeks pretty and pink from her climax. “I love you,” she says in a breathy voice.

  Our warmth is like our own little world. Sure, we might violate a public decency law every so often, but we take care to keep it secret and unseen. Without moving her away, staying buried deep between her thighs, I reach for my pants pocket.

  “I’ve been trying to find the right time to give you this,” I say, fumbling for the black velvet box. Her eyes widen, and instantly she’s off my lap, pulling down her skirt and sitting beside me on the sand. She takes the small box, but doesn’t open it.

  Pulling my jeans up, I catch her eyes on mine, and I can see her enthusiasm. “Is this what I think it is?” Her voice is still breathless.

  A smile crosses my lips. “I can’t read your mind.”

  For a moment, she only holds it, and my stomach tightens in anticipation. I took a chance on this ring—it isn’t the traditional diamond, but I figured since we’ve both been married once before, we might be up for something different.

  With a quick glance back at me, she pulls the top open and then gasps. Inside is a square-cut blue sapphire ring encased in platinum with tiny white diamonds all around it. It’s an art deco style, and it matches her eyes and the sea perfectly.

  I take the box back and lift the ring out. Her fingers tremble slightly as I hold her hand in both of mine.

  “Melissa Jones,” I say, keeping the ring poised and ready. “Will you marry me?”

  My eyes travel from her hand to the heart floating at her neck to her eyes, which are now shining. All I can remember is that night in the desert when she’d wanted to say she loved me. I’d gone immediately to the nearest jewelry store still open and bought the first thing they had with a heart on it. She’d stolen mine then, and I knew the only way to get it back would be to marry her.

  With a hiccupped breath, her face breaks into a smile. “Yes,” she nods. “I already told you I’d say yes, but yes, yes, yes.” She laughs, wrapping her arms around my neck. Our mouths meet and my hand fumbles back down only briefly pausing before sliding around her waist, drawing her close against me. I love how our bodies move together so easily. We belong to each other.

  “If you want me to move to Princeton, I will,” she says, kissing my lips once more before resting her forehead against my cheek. I know right then she’s saying she’ll do whatever I want, and that’s the funny thing with power. When the one you love gives it to you, you start looking for every opportunity to give it back or at the very least, use it for her happiness.

  “I don’t want you to leave the place you love,” I say, my hands moving under her shirt to her breasts. I lay her back on the sand and push up her tee. Her belly isn’t the slightest bit round yet, but we’ve both heard the little heart in there beating so fast.

  I kiss her right below the navel. “It’s not a bad drive. Let’s get this little person here and then we’ll decide what to do.”

  Her slim fingers thread into my hair as she exhales deeply. My wife. My beautiful wife who’s given me another chance at a family. Even though my instinct resists, and my inner drive is to be the boss, she has my heart. I’ll do anyth
ing for her.

  I hold her close, resting my cheek on her skin, loving her. She continues lacing her fingers through my hair, and we listen to the soft noise of the breakers. It’s as if we’re on our own private island together. After a while, we slowly stand, repositioning our clothes. Our fingers entwine as we walk back to her condo.

  “I was thinking if it’s a girl, we can call her Edith. If it’s a boy, Dexter.”

  “No and maybe.” I say curtly.

  As tiny as she is, Mel is unexpectedly strong. She jerks my arm hard, and I can’t suppress a laugh. “Edith is a terrible name for a baby.”

  “It’s a family name,” she cries.

  “And I don’t know about Dexter.”

  “I think it’s cute. We can call him Dex.”

  “I was thinking Scott or Cactus Flower—for where we met.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “You cannot be serious.”

  I laugh again. So perhaps we have the housing situation on hold—now begins a new round of debate. Baby names. Knowing how stubborn we both are, I figure we can prolong this argument into the child’s fifth birthday when it can decide.

  She’s still fussing, and I know the one way to win any argument with Melissa. But I’ll save my next win for the bedroom.

  * * *

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  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel has always been a dream of mine. Telling stories that sweep readers into a lovely dream or a fantasy of happiness is a gift, and I hope I’ve done it well.

  Special thanks to Hart Johnson, Kate Roth, and Magan Vernon, the best critique partners a gal could have. Thanks to Regina Wamba for the gorgeous cover design. Thanks to Giselle and KP for exceptional marketing.

  Thanks to the readers, reviewers, and book bloggers, who took a chance on an unknown author. In particular, thanks to Karrie, Lisa, Nevena, Linda, JAnne, Chantelle, Jennifer, Patrycja, Nikki, and Brianne. You ladies encouraged me more than you can possibly know.

  Thanks also to the writers I can’t name here who have provided invaluable support and encouragement.

  Finally, thanks to the love of my life and to my family for sharing me as I wrote. You’ve given me the gift of pursuing my dream.

  Thank you.

  About the Author

  Tia Louise is a former journalist, world-traveler, and collector of beautiful men (who inspire all of her stories... wink)—turned wife, mommy, and novelist.

  It’s possible she has a slight truffle addiction. And she will never look at a family restroom the same way again.

  One to Hold is her debut adult romance.

  Connect with Louise here:

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  And now an exclusive sneak peek at a hot, New Adult new release from Magan Vernon, The Only One!

  Chapter 1

  The sugary drink burned going down my throat. I hoped it wasn't because the guy who poured it out of the cooler roofied it. At least it drowned out the scent of sweat and stale beer. I didn't know how Monica talked me into an Alpha Mu Halloween party.

  A horde of girls clad in skimpy costumes pushed past me like I was nothing more than another one of the paddles on the paneled wall. I tried to steer away from them, but my face hit a hard set of pecs. I gasped as I watched my entire drink soak through my sweater and onto my skin.

  I looked up from my drenched sweater, all the way past a chiseled six pack to cool blue eyes. “Maybe you should just take it off up in my room and I can help you get dry.” He leaned in, his full lips right on my ear. “Or make you wetter.”

  My breath caught in my throat, rendering me speechless. Luckily my best friend Monica jumped between us, pushing the guy back so I got a full view of him and realized he was only wearing a loincloth and a large smile.

  "Down, John Boy." She scowled at him and then turned to me, almost knocking her beret off. "What the hell happened to you?"

  "I-I-I spilled my drink."

  Monica's eyes narrowed as she looked down at the red liquid soaking through my gray sweater. She whipped her head around to the loincloth-clad guy. "Was this your fault? Are you trying to get my friend naked?"

  He held up his hands, a cockeyed grin on his face. "Purely an accident, Lib."

  Ah, now I knew where I’d seen him before. He’d come into the coffee shop we worked at a few times. I don’t think he even glanced in my direction more than to hand me his student ID to pay, but was always calling Monica ‘Lib.’ I’m guessing because she was an extreme liberal.

  Monica's boyfriend, the governor's son Trey Chapman, pushed through the crowd. Usually when I saw him he was polished in dress pants and a dress shirt, but his Halloween costume was nothing more than a pair of American flag boxers, a dress shirt, and some gray hairspray. He looked ridiculous. The Clinton and Lewinsky costumes had been Monica’s idea.

  "Hey, I’ve been looking for you." He slipped his arm around Monica's waist. "What's going on here?"

  "John Boy spilled a drink on Melanie to try and get her naked."

  "Hey!" John Boy yelled.

  "It wasn't his fault," I piped in. "It’s crowded here and he ran into me. It’s fine."

  "Fine?" Monica raised her eyebrows. "That Hermione costume you've been wearing since middle school is covered in Everclear and Kool aid. That’s not fine, Mel."

  "I haven't worn this since middle school!" Okay, truth was, it was my go-to costume. I’d bought it for the first movie's midnight showing and had worn it for every movie opening and Halloween since.

  "Whatever." Monica turned her head to Trey and tugged on his shirt. "You can just wear Trey's shirt."

  He shook his head. "I’m not walking around here just in my undershirt. The boxers are bad enough. Why don’t you give her yours?"

  She looked down at the blue shift dress that we coated with white out. "Then I’ll be down to my bra and underwear."

  "Not much more than a lot of the girls here are wearing anyway," I muttered.

  Trey either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me and nodded his head in John Boy's direction. "John Boy, do you have an extra shirt that Monica's friend can borrow?"

  The grin spread wider on John Boy's face before he ran his hand through his spiky brown hair. "I was just offering her the same thing." His eyes flitted to mine and an electric charge ran down my stomach. "What do you say, Melanie, care to come up to my room?"

  I swallowed, hard. I didn't usually get propositioned by guys, especially guys with bodies that looked good in nothing but a loincloth. Every part of me was hyper aware of the curves of his muscles and I had to keep from staring at where his treasure trail stopped.

  "Great, we're coming with." Monica grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stairs.

  I glanced back to make sure John Boy was actually following and he was. When he saw me look at him, he shot a wink in my direction.

  "I can’t believe you were just about to go upstairs with him alone!" Monica hissed in my ear, forcing me to look at her.

  "I was not," I whispered.

  "Ugh, I knew this party was a bad idea."

  Trey squeezed her side and she squealed. "You think everything is a bad idea."

  "Eavesdrop much, Mr. Chapman?"

  "Only when you don't try and give things a fair chance, Miss Remy."

  I rolled my eyes, even though they couldn't see it, because they spent the rest of the way up to the second floor going on with their banter. My friend, the fierce liberal, loved picking fights with the uber conservative. It was like they rarely had a normal conversation, but she loved it. Every time she talked about him her whole face lit up. He’d finally brought her out of the dark clouds she first sat under when she transferred, and now they were inseparable.

  I, on the other hand, was not taken and would have been just as happy sitting at home and not havin
g something sticky that smelled like licorice on my costume. I’d have to ask Trey who he used for a dry cleaner.

  We reached the second floor, where a few couples were making out and some girls were taking duck face photos with their phones. Ugh. Trey turned to the right and stopped at the first door.

  John Boy sauntered in behind us, his loincloth still perfectly in place. Not that I was hoping for it to have shifted. "And welcome to Chez John Boy, where the magic happens."

  He pushed open the door and I was overwhelmed by the smell of dirty socks mixed with cologne. The room was small, with an unmade twin bed in one corner, a futon opposite that, and a sole window across from us. Piles of clothes littered the floor and there were posters of half naked women and beer advertisements on the walls.

  "I can’t believe any girl would actually screw you after seeing this place." Monica curled her upper lip, walking into the tiny room and dodging the piles of clothes.

  “Some girls prefer things a little out of order. What do you think about it, Red?” John Boy winked.

  “Red?” My hair definitely wasn’t red and I wasn’t one of those redheads who were in denial, like Monica, who claimed her hair was auburn. No, my hair was dirty, bottom of the sink brown and just as curly as the steel wool used to wash that sink.

  “Yeah, you know, because of what’s soaking through that lovely sweater.” His eyes trailed down to the now giant red splotch across my shirt.

  My cheeks heated up and probably turned just as red as my shirt.

  “Okay, can you stop trying to spit your game at Melanie now and get us a shirt?” Monica groaned. Trey stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head.

  “Keep your hat on, Lib, I’m getting it.” John Boy took a few strides over to the small closet and opened it. There were only empty hangers and a dresser inside. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a dark green shirt, tossing it in Monica’s direction.