by Paige North
Ever since then, I haven’t stopped yearning for him and missing him, not even when I married my good friend Rex, who thought he had a chance with me while I thought, perhaps, I could get over Dylan and lead a happy life with my new husband and Cody.
But I’m not happy. Especially not right now as Dylan continues to give me his back while he cleans up those tools. I’m shaking so hard that tremors are traveling all over my body. I don’t know if Dylan can sense it, but I’m afraid that this awful, betrayed emotion is going to fill my voice and tip him off to how much he’s killing me.
With every move, the muscles in his back ripple and bunch. Lust, plus so many other emotions, grips me, gets me wetter, makes me want to cry.
He finally pauses in his work, then peers partway over his bare shoulder at me, but not enough to actually look. “Since you’re still standing there waiting for me to explain… I got out of prison a few days ago and was able to snag a job with this crew. They know my old man.” He throws the last tool into the box with more force than necessary and then he just sits there on his haunches, looking wild and untouchable.
A stony silence separates us once again. I really should just leave and go right back up to Cody’s room. I should pretend like Dylan didn’t just show up here out of the blue. But how can I do that when he’s right here—my imperfect but oh-so-perfect-for-me man, the guy I’ve never been able to forget?
He sighs roughly. His broad shoulders slump, almost as if something has defeated him. Is it because I haven’t left yet? Is it because the same memories are killing him, too?
He speaks again. “So this is where you live now.”
I can’t exactly lie to him and say that I’m just passing through the Ford mansion in my nightgown and robe today. “Yes. I live here with my husband’s parents.”
“Yeah, I heard you say something about being a daughter-in-law.” His voice sounds tortured, but I can’t see his face, so I can’t be sure.
“My husband passed away a couple of years ago.”
He pauses, then says, “You also said that you have a son.”
“I do.” I don’t tell him that Cody isn’t Rex’s. I don’t dare.
Dylan clenches his big hands, the muscles in his arms flexing lethally. I prepare myself for a barrage of questions from him, but he only stands up to his full, imposing height. The sight of him so tense and on edge gets to me, and when he tightens his jaw and a muscle flexes in his cheek, I go liquid, a secret spot down deep inside of me beating for him like a heart that never gave up.
“So,” he says softly. “How’s your family?”
I laugh sharply at his sudden change of topic. “You never cared about my family before.”
“I cared about how they treated you. I cared that they kept you under lock and key most times.”
The words hang there, but neither of us snatches them back. We both know that we had to keep a low profile and sneak around because I was worried about what my family would think. My parents are strict and conservative, and they knew about Dylan’s reputation. But he always understood about my situation and kept things undercover with me. Yet, as the months went on, sneaking out with him became more than a heart-blasting, orgasmic adventure—things got more and more serious.
Then he was gone, clueless about the son I was carrying.
The force of his clear eyes meeting mine nearly rips me in half. “My parents are about the same as always. But my brother and sister are going to great colleges.”
“Thanks to the money your husband left you?”
I pause. Dylan doesn’t need to know that I depend on the money from the Ford Trust to keep me in the house and keep Cody and me taken care of. My family even depends on it to pay for the essentials, along with the tuition to the expensive colleges my brother and sister go to. That money keeps everyone I love safe and cared for. Rex’s parents don’t know that Cody isn’t really their grandson—even though I was honest with Rex about being pregnant with another, unnamed man’s baby, he still claimed Cody as his own—so being allowed to live here and receive money is a good situation…as long as I please Mr. and Mrs. Ford, just as I’ve always pleased everyone all my life.
I ignore Dylan’s question, pulling my robe around me tighter. Even though I’m covered up, I feel so exposed, especially as I feel his hot gaze travel over me. I don’t know if he’s angry or if he could possibly still desire me after I’ve gotten some padding on my hips and tummy from having Cody. But no matter what he’s feeling, he’s still standing there all beautiful and glorious and tanned with his shirt off, his dragon tattoos smoldering. I’m getting aroused, my nipples beading as I try to hide it from him, my pussy creaming and pounding.
He exhales and plants his hands on his hips. “Well, it was a good job while it lasted.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m quitting.”
I frown. “Why would you do that?”
He lasers a pale glare at me, and I shiver. His stare could mean either hate or… It can’t be anything else. We never said we loved each other, and after what he did to me, I don’t expect it was ever true on his part.
“Dylan,” I say with my throat so tight it burns. “Are you quitting because you hate me?”
He narrows his eyes. “Is that seriously what you think? That I hate you?”
Years of hurt and sorrow come tumbling out. “You left us”—fuck!—”me in the lurch! You broke up with me and never returned my letters when I wrote to you in prison!”
I’m praying that he didn’t notice my slip up, and as he turns to granite, I think he’s so angry because of what I just said that he did miss it.
“It had to be that way, Samara,” he says in a low, haunted voice. “I was in prison. There was no use waiting on me.”
He turns away and picks up the toolbox, but I won’t let him go that easily.
“Five long years, Dylan! Even if you decided to trash me, I waited five long years!”
“And you were so loyal that you got married and had a kid. Impressive.”
“I—”
He rounds on me, and his eyes are full of terrible pain and suffering. “You have a son, a lovely house, and a beautiful life. You should leave it that way.” He puts down the toolbox. “Let Tommy know I quit.”
He storms toward a weathered pickup parked in a gravel lot that visitors use. I don’t know what to say. I can’t beg for him to come back and listen to me as he takes off and roars away.
I won’t fall apart. I won’t let myself. I only press my arms over my stomach, trying to stop myself from getting torn in to a million pieces. I want to tell him about Cody and see if his eyes light up or go dark at the news. I want to let him know that my life isn’t as perfect as he thinks it is, and it’s mostly because he isn’t in it. After he left me five years ago, I became beholden to so many people, and I’m not suddenly some rich little girl scampering around the gardens here laughing it up. If I upset the Fords, I could be kicked out of this amazing home, lose all of my and Cody’s financial security, and even jeopardize the health and wellbeing of my parents and younger brother and sister.
Yup, that’s still me—the good girl I was raised to be and the girl he used to know. That hasn’t changed. And everyone wants me to keep being good. I’ve been playing this role for years and I’m so damned tired of it.
I stare at the deserted road where there’s only a trace of dust to show that he was just here. I ache for him. I want and need. Seeing Dylan again has rekindled all those old emotions in me, burning like a low fire that licks my belly and warms my heart. It’s like a day hasn’t gone by, and I still love him. I still care, dammit.
Is there any of that emotion in him? Just wondering terrifies me, because what if prison has changed him into a man I don’t recognize at all? What if he really does hate me and everything about his old life?
Even though I’m still in my nightgown, I numbly find Tommy the foreman and draw him aside.
“You should know that Dylan…he
left. He walked off the job.” My God, I sound like I’m so collected. But that’s me, Samara Who Always Has Her Shit Together Childress-Ford. And why should I protect him? It’s true. He did walk off the job.
At the news, Tommy almost swipes off his hardhat but then stops himself. He looks annoyed as hell as he inspects the rest of his crew while they work.
“Dylan begged me for this job,” he says. “He said he needed the money. He’s living in the middle of nowhere in a fucking shack, and I agreed to keep his time in prison on the down low to help him get back on his feet.” He winces. “Sorry about my French, Ms. Childress. But I suppose that’s what I get for hiring an ex-convict.”
I feel sick at how disappointed Tommy is. Dylan was always such a hard worker—misunderstood, but absolutely loyal and dependable. Not many people saw that in him, but I did.
And I still do. He can’t have changed that much, and the more I think about it, the more I know that there’s a lot we didn’t say to each other. “I need to speak to Dylan about something, Tommy. Could you give me his contact information?”
He looks at me a beat too long. “You should really stay away from the guy. He has a bad rep.”
My stomach turns again at his opinion of Dylan, but I smile confidently. “I know Dylan Marshall. We go back a long way, and I understand how he is. Really, it’s okay.”
Tommy still looks suspicious as he gives me Dylan’s address and phone number.
I thank him and then I go about my day in a haze. Dylan’s numbers are seared into my mind as I quickly get ready and then prepare Cody for the day ahead, too. Then we eat breakfast with my mother-in-law before she tells me that Cody will be skipping school today for an impromptu visit to the zoo with Grandma and Grandpa.
After they’re gone, I’m too distracted to be upset by Sherry Ford’s power play with Cody. I can’t even focus enough to get to work on payroll for the staff and organizing one of the charity fundraisers I’m constantly involved with. I only let out a long, trembling breath, then use one of the many luxury cars that are parked in the big garage to go for a drive.
I go deep into the woods, where the world seems to disappear, and when I finally find Dylan’s house tucked back into the trees, my heart cracks.
It’s tiny, with faded planks that are almost falling apart and shutters that angle away from the windows. I want to fall apart just looking at it, because this has to be how Dylan is feeling inside after being locked away for all those years.
But at least this house is bigger than a cell.
I park my car on the road about a hundred yards away, then get out and quietly shut the door. With my legs trembling, I close the distance to that house.
Just as I intend to close the gigantic space Dylan left between him and me all those years ago.
3
Dylan
When I hear a distant car’s motor disturbing the peace out here in the boondocks, I stop painting the back of this pathetic little house with a roller and wipe the summer sweat from my forehead. While I was in prison, my younger brother Lucas bought this place for my use, and I’m in the process of taking possession with some of the money I scratched together from the meager savings my dad and brother kept for me. No one ever comes out here, and that’s why I like it. Fuck everyone, anyway. I don’t need company.
And I don’t need a job that forces me to work on that disgustingly ostentatious mansion Samara lives in.
Shit, I’m not going to think about her, because every time I do, I see her husband alive and kissing her while unbuttoning her blouse to expose those creamy, full breasts I remember so well. This morning, when she was wearing that nightgown, her thin robe couldn’t hide her lush tits as well as some beautiful curves that have rounded her out since I’ve been gone. I used to dream about her while I was in prison: how she looked so eager yet frightened during our first time together, how she creamed for me so easily and how I had to wrestle back my wilder side when she wrapped her fingers around my stiff cock. She’d never been with anyone before, and every time we kissed and ran our hands over each other’s bodies I would get hard. But that first night…
Fuck, on that night she was so soft and wet with her walls hugging my dick. Her sinful little sighs and moans pierced me, and so did the way she urged me on as I moved inside of her, finding home, finding everything I’d been looking for all my life.
But it was always like that with Samara, because she was my everything. She’s what kept me going in prison, giving me light during the dark times and all those moments I bitterly resented being locked up for a crime I didn’t commit. No one but Lucas and me knows about the sacrifice I made for him.
It took just one dumb shit decision from him to almost ruin the good life he was building for himself in high school. One fucking foolish night when he and his no-good buddy got drunk a few counties over and tried and rob someone’s home, then beat the owner up so badly that he was hospitalized. But falling on my sword for my brother was worth it because, afterward, he stuck to the straight and narrow. He went to community college, started working at a bank, got married, and now has a baby. I was never on that path anyway—everyone thought I was a punk and bad news—so I took the fall and lived down to every expectation, even my dad’s.
And I lost her in the process.
Even right now the thought of what my decision cost me has me straining for breath, aching all over. There’s a crack in my chest, a fissure that opens up every time I think of Samara, and it only got worse today. I knew what I was doing when I gave Lucas a second chance, and I knew what I was doing when I broke up with Samara to save her the heartache. I knew prison would make me a harder man, but seeing Samara again…
Fuck. I wish I hadn’t seen her today.
The sound of that car has stopped. I think I hear a door shutting, and I put the roller down into the pan of blue paint and then saunter around the corner of my house to see who the fuck has ventured out here into the woods.
When I see Samara walking through the pine trees, my pulse lurches. Every vein inside of me pulls tight, jerking me to a complete stop. My blood thunders through my chest, crashing lower and lower until it gets to my cock, torturing me with brutal heat and thumps.
It’s as if Samara is just as affected as I am when she comes to a sudden halt, too. As she drags her gaze over my bare chest and the other, rougher dragon tattoo I added since she last skimmed her fingertips over my skin, I tighten up with anguish. I’m bigger than I was at nineteen, and that’s because I spent countless hours building myself up in the prison weight room. No one in that place fucked with me. The dragon ink I had going in served as a warning along with my ever-improving physique. Inside the pen, I traded a shitload of commissary to another inmate so he could give me another intimidating beast, adding to what was already marked on my flesh, doubling one dragon into two.
Doubling the warning to stay away.
When she meets my gaze again, she watches me as cautiously as I watch her, but my wariness soon turns into a fierce longing as I take in that angel-blond hair that waves over her shoulders, those sweet blue eyes, those beautiful curves that are barely hidden by the light sundress she’s wearing. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths, and I realize that I’m breathing just as fast, every intake of oxygen sharp and painful.
But not as painful as the violent pulse in my cock as it remembers what it was like to fuck a woman—to be with her.
She must sense my fierce yearning, because I think she’s shaking. There’s a part of me that’s doing the same thing, deep in my core, where tremors are tearing around the lining stomach. But then anger surfaces—it’s never far— and I think about what I can’t have and what I’ll never have again.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Samara?” It sounds like my throat is full of gravel.
“I—”
“How the hell did you even find out where I live?” Shame fills me up now—shame at having her see this shithole of a house that I’m trying to spruce up, sha
me at this lowest point I’m at in a life that’s always been low except for those secret nights with her.
Samara tightens her fists by her sides and lifts her chin. “I asked Tommy the foreman where you lived. There’s a lot we need to talk about.”
“No, there isn’t.” I jerk my chin at her car, just now seeing how fucking fancy it is. It’s a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class Sedan, and I’ll bet it’s got real leather upholstery and all the trimmings. I’ll never be driving something like that, but now that Samara is rich and happy, she should just climb inside of it and leave. “Go. Get back to your little picture-perfect, happy life.”
Before I turn my back on her, she raises her voice. “You don’t know anything about my life or how I got to where I am!”
I chuff and cross my arms over my chest. “Is that so?”
“That’s right! And it’s because you turned coward and ran away when things got tough!”
She doesn’t know a goddamned thing about tough—and I’m not just talking about prison. I miss the fuck out of her, and it’s tearing me apart. Sacrifice is still like a knife in my chest, and I can’t bear to see her standing so close, as beautiful and sexy as ever.
Every second is killing me.
“Fuck, Sam,” I say, accidently slipping back into my nickname for her. “Leave me alone. I just want to enjoy some solitude out here in paradise and…” I want to forget about the past.
Now I do turn around and move away, but I can hear her walking fast over the gravel, chasing me.
“Dylan.”
“I mean it. Get out.”
I open up the protesting screen door to my hovel. It smacks shut behind me as I go through what there is of a family room on my way to the kitchen. I need ice to cool off this fire, fast.
Then I hear the screen door open and slam shut again. What the hell?
And when I turn around, there she is—Samantha Childress Ford standing in my fucking grand foyer.
