Reckless (With Me Book 3)

by Sue Wilder

  As far as apologies went, that was as close as we’d get, and he wasn’t getting one from me. I didn’t think he expected it, either. When his gaze swung back to trouble, I breathed in.

  “I want you to know, Solee—I wasn’t ready to let go. We made mistakes, hurt each other, but I’m arrogant. Brandon Slate can fix anything, and I was determined.” He pushed a hand through his perfect hair. “But then it hit me, the way you defended him. The way he defended you. And I understood why I couldn’t fix us.”

  He touched the back of her hand. “We never had that kind of loyalty, did we?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was a whisper. “But you and me—there’s nothing to put back together, Brand.”

  Trouble’s gaze drifted to the roses, and the longer Brand touched her hand, the harder it was for me to tamp down the aggression. But I wouldn’t make this difficult for trouble. If necessary, I’d deal with her ex outside the hospital and through every means possible.

  “What I’ll remember,” she said, reaching out to touch one pink petal, “are the times we laughed together. But when I married you, I couldn’t give what you needed. You weren’t the love of my life. Someone else was, and he’s been in my heart for a long time.”

  Brand threw me a cocky smile, but I read the disappointment in his eyes. “Can’t compete with that now, can I?”

  “No,” I said, wanting him to know where I stood, too. Trouble held her hand out to me and I took it while Brand stared at our linked fingers.

  “I’m not fighting anymore, Solee. Not the prenup. Not anything. I’d like us to be friends—I also realize that’s not possible, but when I remember what we had…” His famous smile flashed. “We looked good together, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, but we couldn’t be good together.”

  My throat clenched.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Brand said as we made eye contact. “Don’t be the ass I was.”

  “I’m trying not to be,” I admitted.

  Brand leaned forward and kissed trouble lightly on the forehead. Then tapped her nose. “See ya around, kid.”

  “Goodbye, Brand.” After he left, trouble looked at me. “When can we go home?”

  “Soon,” I promised her. “I’ll make it happen.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Soleil

  “Relax, Garrett,” I murmured while I straddled his hips and pressed my palms against the muscles in his back. “I told you I was fine. A little whiskey. A little warm lotion and your tension will be gone.”

  “I doubt that.” His voice held the husky midnight-heat I loved. “Not when you’re touching me, doing that thing you do.”

  “Sleep with trouble, this is what you get.” We were both naked, and teasingly, I pressed kisses to his shoulder. “It’s been ten days. The stitches are out. My shoulder feels fine, and you promised we’d compare scars.”

  My fingers dug deeper into his hardened muscles, the way Angie taught me. His groan held a mixture of pleasure and arousal that made me wet. “Trouble…”

  “Roll over, Garrett. Let me be on top.” I nibbled on his jaw as he turned his head.

  “I’ll be on top,” he said roughly.

  “Always the control freak.” Leashed desire kept me restless. He rolled beneath me, smoking hot in the shadows of the bedroom we shared. The flex of his body aroused all my wicked thoughts, and when I tried to move, his hands at my waist turned erotic. He held me in place as I stroked my palms over his bunched shoulders, the impressive masculinity of his chest, the washboard abs. The divots and star-shaped scars.

  I bent to kiss the scar closest to my fingers. “I honor each one of these. Never be afraid to reveal them.”

  “I won’t lie to you, trouble.”

  I drew back, ignoring the chill that unwound at the base of my spine. “I hear a qualifier in that sentence.”

  “I can’t always tell you everything.”

  “And you can’t tell me something now.”

  He toyed with my hair. “I have to go away. Only a few days. With Con.”

  “He travels in a private jet, Garrett.”

  “And I’ll be drugged up on enough Dramamine not to notice.” His fingers drifted to my shoulder and lightly around the scar. The surgical incision had healed quickly. The bruising faded a few days ago. Tiny dots from the stitches marked my skin; if I ever stared in a film again, the makeup team knew how to give me flawless skin.

  But I didn’t care about flawless demands or bright lights and acting opportunities I no longer wanted, and I wasn’t even sure I’d go back to that life.

  Feather-light, he touched my skin. “This scar,” he whispered. “Leaves marks on my heart.”

  “Garrett… talk to me,” I urged. “Not the secrets, but tell me what you can.”

  “In life, there are debts to be paid. Con and I have one to collect.”

  “And you can’t tell me about it.”

  His fingers slid into my hair, the silky strands that fell against my cheek. “Trust me,” he murmured.

  “I do.” I would always trust him, even if he kept me in the dark. We’d worked hard over the past days to be open and honest, and I didn’t want to lose what we’d gained. I cherished our closeness now, lost in the afternoon shadows, the lavender light I found seductive.

  “Do you remember tantric?” I played my fingers across the ripped muscles of his chest, tracing, stroking with butterfly softness. “Savoring the sensations?”

  “And you needed pictures?”

  “I might still need them.” I slid my hand across his thigh. “You tell me.”

  My fingers closed around his erection and I stroked the heated silk of his skin, felt the decadent arousal as his cock pulsed beneath my grip. I tightened my fingers. His groan was half coaxing, half searingly erotic, and slowly, leisurely, I offered pleasure, loving the dark light in his hazel eyes. His hips rose to meet each movement of my hand, his length swelling, hardening against my palm.

  Leaning forward, I claimed his mouth, thrusting my tongue like an aggressor. His lips were firm, warm, parting in surprise. Then his mouth dominated mine, and he owned me with the same strength as he protected. Used each nip, each stroke of his tongue to seduce. To entice.

  Even though I was on top, he controlled our lovemaking. The way I moved, or touched him. My skin heated. I was addicted to his taste, greedy for his scent in my lungs. My breasts ached as I rubbed against his chest, needing contact while I arranged the pillows against his back.

  When he was sitting up, his grip on my waist changed. He levered me closer. My head fell back when his fingers closed around the soft flesh of my breasts. My eyelids fluttered, then closed as he massaged, cupped, took each nipple with his thumbs, forefingers, pinching, pulling.

  He talked dirty, told me things he would do, how I would respond and I grew wet, thrilling at the submission he demanded. There was no degradation in our sexual play. I’d never imagined how deeply I’d be aroused, listening to Garrett’s voice, the husky masculinity as he told me how to pleasure him. I was Soleil St. Clair, and yet with Garrett, I was precious. What we did together was pure and hot and honest. It was love, offered through pleasure, and I didn’t think I’d ever get enough.

  Garrett shifted his body. He urged me upward and centered his erection, and I relished each stretching inch as he entered me, pushing deeper with leisurely strokes. My breathing changed, became rapid. His touch triggered so many sensations: lust, tenderness. Electrifying pleasure.

  Garrett claimed me, and I was amazed by the depth of my response. With each touch, heat was ignited. My body buzzed with delight, a growing ardency. What he asked, I gave. What I asked, he gave, and when his hands cradled my ribcage, my breath caught. Slowly, he leaned me backward, held me steady and changed the angle of his thrusts.

  I cried out. New sensations caught in my throat. My back arched, and I gripped his arms.

  The first orgasm hit with ferocious need, demanding more. Hair dampened at my nape. I focused on Garrett’s f
ace in the fading light as he stared, heavy-lidded, his gaze locked on the sinuous movement of my body against his.

  The voyeurism unraveled me. Lust surged and my hips jerked. My muscles gripped him. “Now, Garrett,” I whispered, and he rolled us both, claimed the top with a mastery that both soothed and made me eager.

  Open and vulnerable, I clutched his shoulders. He sank deep, then withdrew, and a soft protest left my lips—until I felt his warm breath on my thighs. He lifted my legs up and back. Heat, white-hot, followed as his mouth ravished, his tongue laved, pushed deep.

  My center clenched, grew swollen. He pushed my legs higher. The second orgasm splintered through me, tightening the muscles in my legs until they trembled. With skilled hands, he guided me into position. Held me. His powerful body moved with a grace both fierce and commanding, each thrust of his cock deep and rhythmic. I flew apart, but it was always like this for us.

  Except this time.

  With each pounding thrust, I felt Garrett’s desperation. His need to hang on to what we had, and I cradled him with my body, moved with him, knowing what he refused to tell me.

  On the Ibiza, I’d listened to Knowles scream with spittle flying from his mouth. About Elle, and why he’d changed out her medication. How both Connor Lange and Luna had to pay once he was done with me.

  Tad listened, too, and when the authorities debriefed him at the hospital, he’d given a statement. A day later, two officers came to debrief me. I confirmed what Tad said, while both Garrett and Connor stood silently in the room.

  According to news reports, there’d been no sign of a fugitive named Clayton Knowles, or a fake named Marshal Gray. But Connor met with Garrett more frequently, and after they talked yesterday, I saw the silent meeting of their eyes. Understood why their gazes locked in hard, lethal agreement.

  Now I held on. Gave Garrett the solace he asked for through the craving of his mouth, his tongue. His hands seeking. I met each demand with commands of my own, possessive and tender, then burning and lost.

  “Love me, trouble. All of me.”

  “Always,” I told him as tears stung in my eyes.

  ◆◆◆

  Four days later, Luna and I sat on the deck outside Garrett’s house, enjoying the balmy sandal-weather and the lemon drop martinis—Luna’s new favorite drink. The taste reminded me of hard lemonade, but lighter, perfect for the afternoon, and I found the faint alcoholic buzz relaxing.

  “This is nice,” she murmured, breaking our contented silence. In the distance, we both watched the man standing guard at the road. Cameras were everywhere, but I’d gotten used to the surveillance and, like both Lis and Jack before me, found comfort in it.

  Luna was equally comfortable, used to having Max constantly around, and if anything, she missed his steady presence—as much for his dry wit as anything.

  I’d also picked up on the relaxed version of Maxton Wells, as relaxed as he’d allow himself to be on the job. I sipped the martini, sending a silent thought of gratitude that Garrett and Connor had Max at their side.

  “Have you heard anything?” I asked, and Luna glanced at me over the rim of her glass.

  “Max touched bases this morning. They found him.”

  “So… it’s over?”

  “It will be.” She leaned forward and set the martini aside. “Does it bother you?”

  “No.” I knew what Garrett did. He owned Ibiza, and there was only one reason for Connor to go. As long as Clayton Knowles was out there, no one could relax.

  I still found it unnerving that Marsh, with his rumpled clothes and slipping glasses, was the man responsible for Elle’s death. The threat had been so close. Some nights, I couldn’t sleep because my mind churned with anxiety. I ran through the times when I talked to him. Felt sorry for him. Let him stand inches from me.

  Luna sucked in a cautious breath. “How do you really feel?”

  “Honestly?” My shoulders lifted. “Gratitude. Definitely relief. And guilt, because maybe we’re just like Knowles, wanting revenge.”

  “This isn’t revenge, Sunny. It’s needed closure. Not just for us, learning the truth about Elle. But for Conner and Garrett. It’s personal for them, and all they want is justice.”

  “I get that. Elle was Connor’s sister, and you’re his wife. Tad is like a brother to Garrett.”

  “And you’re—what?” Luna teased. “You’re living with him. That means something.”

  Thoughtfully, I sipped the lemony drink and wondered how to answer. While Garrett and I talked more than ever, we never strayed into discussing our relationship. I wasn’t sure Garrett could define what he felt in a way he thought I’d understand beyond what he’d said at the hospital.

  Those words were all I needed. For now, and I stared at my fingers, sliding restlessly around the martini glass. My sandal slid from my heel, and I flipped it up.

  “How do you handle it, Loony? Knowing what Connor’s doing? When we were on the Ibiza, the look in Marsh’s eyes. He was scary-crazy, like there wasn’t any humanity inside. No one could stop him, and I could see how he wanted to hurt Tad. Hurt me. Then you and Connor. The hate festered in him, and all the thoughts racing through my mind right now, the what-ifs and movie scenes. It terrifies me, that they’ll get hurt.”

  Luna looked at me. “They’re protecting us, Sunny. And that’s something they both know how to do. Blackthorn deals with international munitions—which means Connor has contacts all over the world. Ibiza has its own reputation, well earned.”

  I thought of Wentz, and the respect he’d shown at the name. Although I’d never imagined myself being in this position, my support for Garrett was unwavering. Whatever he did, how he did it, I trusted him.

  Sunlight shimmered near my feet, filtering through the trees. “Do you think it will be… final?”

  Luna reclaimed her martini. “Yes. Clayton Knowles has debts to pay, but knowing the men we love, they’ll give him a choice, how it ends. Generous, since he never gave Elle a choice, or you. But one thing I know is that he won’t be allowed to go free.”

  “You weren’t so blood-thirsty before, Loony.”

  “Conner rubs off on me.” She smiled slowly. “And Garrett talked during therapy. I know what he can do, will do. He’s handled terrorists before, but I think this time, it will be more scare than pain.”

  “Before he left, Garrett asked me to love all of him.”

  “Oh, please.” Luna’s laugh charmed me. “Any woman who could love that man, after he humiliated her in front of the entire football team—she won’t stop loving him because he scares the shit out of the bad guy. And besides, you’ve seen him naked. You know what he does.” She paused to sip. “Connor said he’s taking Ibiza back.”

  “We talked about it.” I smiled and licked the lemony alcohol from my lips. “He wanted to know what I thought. Of course I said yes, it was about time. He’s moving the primary office to the west coast. Maybe set up in the bar.”

  Luna barked out a laugh. “That will be a first.”

  “It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?”

  “It has.”

  “Loony.”

  “What, Sunny?”

  “These are really good martinis.”

  ◆◆◆

  Three months later, I stood in Garrett’s bar, listening to Ethan. He was flirting with a woman who asked about whiskey. She wore a tight black dress and held a glass in her hand. The red stiletto heels reminded me of my first day in this bar, and I smiled as she hooked one heel over the brass foot rail the way I had. Leaned in and whispered something that made Ethan shrug.

  “You look breathtaking,” Garrett murmured, nuzzling my nape.

  Turning, I cupped his jaw. “You look stunning.”

  “Had to dress for the occasion.”

  I leaned in, nibbled on his earlobe. “That suit makes you look lethal.”

  “I am lethal.”

  “I thought you were danger,” I said, laughing softly and thinking of the bar fight in Scotland, w
hen he’d been with Max.

  Garrett smiled. “You like danger.”

  “I do.” His fingers traced down the length of my arm to the diamond bracelet I wore. It was a recovery gift from him. I loved it, and I wore it today to honor Garrett, and to honor the occasion. We were celebrating Luna’s engagement anniversary. One year ago, Connor asked her to marry him, and since Garrett missed the wedding, he’d offered to host a party at the bar.

  I’d thrown my energy into making the event perfect, romantic, because I knew Connor planned to sweep Luna off to some mysterious location he refused to divulge. For privacy, he said when I asked, and they would return to New York in a month. This was my last afternoon with my twin, at least for a while, and I intended to enjoy it.

  I wore a Glory Stinson design—Luna’s favorite designer. I’d worn Stinson designs before, all evening gowns. But Glory insisted on meeting me. She wanted to design something stunning, a cocktail dress that “wasn’t all boobs and legs.”

  Luna cracked up laughing and wouldn’t tell me why.

  But the dress was definitely stunning. Midnight-blue, with a boat neckline and a hem that hit just below the knees. Elegantly sensual, Glory decreed, and I knew she was right when I saw the narrowing of Garrett’s eyes. I’d asked for help with the zipper, and he spent more time kissing my bare skin than zipping.

  With my hair styled like Luna’s, loose around my shoulders, I felt strong and glamorous. My heels were four-inch stilettos, black, not red, since I was tired of the flashy starlet look. Wearing them added enough height to stand beside Garrett and not feel dwarfed—although I loved the way he towered over me.

  Our friends gathered around the bar, and I smiled, enjoying the pleasure in an extended family. But I was more pleased for Garrett. Caleb Manning and his wife, Lis, were here. Ty and Jack. Maxton stood in the corner, watching the crowd. Connor worked the room while Luna huddled with Missy. Even Angie Taylor put in an appearance, looking wholesome in a white sundress. She’d kissed Garrett’s cheek, winked at me, and then joined the huddle with Luna and Missy. I heard their laughter and wondered if I should join them.