Beyond Solitude

by Kit Rocha

  Ford was building an empire.

  He was damn good at it, and maybe—just maybe—he could teach Mia to do it, too. She was bright. It would only take—

  Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention, and he was already rising from his chair when a shaky knock rattled his office door. He pulled it open, and his heart shot up into his throat.

  Mia stood there, pale and covered with blood. “I’m sorry. I—I know it’s late—”

  He dragged her inside and slammed the door behind her. “Are you hurt? What the fuck happened?”

  She looked down at her bloody hands and shuddered. “The old woman who owned my building. She’s dead. They took everything.”

  “Shit.” She was trembling, her skin chilled. She was slipping into shock, and he had to snap her out of it. “Mia, look at me.”

  She didn’t. She barely seemed to hear him as she curled her fingers toward her palms. “I’m okay. One of them saw me with Trix, so they didn’t shoot me.”

  Christ. “Did they touch you?” He resisted the urge to shake her—barely. “Is any of this blood yours?”

  “No.” She blinked and lifted her chin, her eyes focusing on his with effort. “Just here,” she whispered, brushing a reddened spot on her forehead and leaving a streak of blood behind. “He pressed the—the gun—” She swallowed a choked noise. “I’m okay. I’m sorry, I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re—” She wasn’t hurt, but he wasn’t helping her, either. “Sit.” He swung her around and eased her down to the couch. “I’ll just be a second.”

  He snatched up the tablet from his desk, activating it with a swipe of his thumb. He tapped the screen to open the communications program. For the first time, he cursed his wide, clumsy fingers as he attempted to compose an alert.

  Trouble on South Side. Time to mobilize.

  Quickly, he filled in the rest of the details, sent the message to Dallas, and threw down the tablet.

  Mia was still sitting on the couch, her shoulders slumped, her entire body hunched in, as if she didn’t want to take up too much space. She lifted her head, and at least there was sense in her eyes now. But there was something else, too, something too fragile to call hope.

  She wet her lips and looked away. “They took the heater you gave me.”

  Like he gave two shits about that. “Dallas has a dozen more in storage,” he told her as he lifted her from the couch and into his arms. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He made his way into the bathroom with slow, careful steps. He dropped Mia to her feet, reached in to cut on the hot water, and began to undress her. She didn’t resist as he stripped away her bloody jacket and pulled her sweater over her head.

  The thin undershirt beneath it clung to her skin as steam filled the room, and she caught his wrists, her grip desperate. “You don’t have to do this. I—I was just going to ask if I could sleep on your couch.”

  “Shh. You need to get cleaned up.”

  “Why?” Her voice broke, and tears gathered on her thick eyelashes faster than she could blink them away. “Why do you—?”

  Care. She didn’t say it, but the word hung between them anyway. His usual flippant response—I don’t—would have been cruel, especially with a sobbing woman pressed against his chest.

  The truth was, Ford did care, and that was what had him climbing into his shower fully clothed with a naked, blood-spattered woman.

  He backed her under the shower spray and let the water sluice down over her head. “You’ll be all right, Mia. Trust me.”

  Under the hot water and his gentle touches, her trembling finally eased. Her clothes had protected her from most of the blood, but it took time to work it out of her hair, and she buried her face against his throat as he did so, hiding her silent, heartbreaking tears.

  “You’ll stay here tonight,” he told her softly. “I’ll take the couch.”

  She turned her head, but didn’t lift it to look at him. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder as the last pinkish water circled the drain and her body relaxed against his. “You don’t have to.”

  There was no mistaking the yearning in her voice. Whether it stemmed from fear or the need for comfort, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. “Yes, I do. You take the bed, and you’ll be square in the morning.”

  She didn’t speak again until he’d cut off the water and found a towel to wrap around her. She clutched it against her breasts and finally met his gaze, and it was like the afternoon when he’d knocked the hope out of her, only worse. “It’s not just tonight. I don’t have anywhere to go until next week.”

  “We’ll find you a room here, or you can bunk with one of the girls. Now stop thinking.”

  Clutching her towel tighter, she gave him a tiny, lopsided smile. “You meant it, didn’t you? I’m going to be all right.”

  That smile rattled his defenses. “I don’t lie, buttercup. If I say it, it’s truth.”

  She didn’t answer at first, just stared at him with those gorgeous brown eyes, and he could see the struggle in her. The yearning that softened her gaze and the stubborn hope curving her lips. The lingering fear in her clenched fists and the shadows of pain in the stiff, wary set of her shoulders.

  She looked tired. Beaten down but not defeated, because she was still smiling, still fighting. She wrinkled her nose at him and stared down at the towel. “I don’t have any clothes. That will be awkward for work tomorrow.”

  “We’ll find you some. Now, what did I say?” He steered her out of the bathroom, but instead of taking a right down the hallway, back toward the office, he guided her to the left.

  Into the bedroom.

  He was the worst sort of asshole, bringing her here when he knew it would be impossible not to close his eyes and imagine her here under different circumstances. Far less traumatic circumstances. But Ford had long ago learned to accept the fact that he was a dick, so he pushed her toward the bed and pulled back the covers.

  She balked again, the towel sagging as she lifted a hand to the disheveled hair curling damply against her bare shoulders. “I’ll get your pillow wet.”

  He couldn’t tell her how many nights he’d trudged from the shower straight to bed, too exhausted and achy to do anything but collapse, even something as simple as drying his hair.

  So he grunted and pulled the towel up to soak the worst of the water from her dark curls. “You’re high-maintenance.”

  She made a choked noise, squeaky and high—laughter edged with hysteria, as if all the tension was bubbling out of her. “If you think this is bad, wait until I can afford to pamper myself.”

  “Can’t wait, buttercup.”

  When the worst of the water was squeezed away, she slipped between the sheets, settling in with a soft sigh of pleasure. “I’m going to get spoiled again, and then you’ll win all the arguments by offering me fancy sheets or soft pillows. I’m on to you, Derek Ford.”

  The white sheet clung to her wet skin in places, turning transparent as it molded to her curves. “I’m an O’Kane. We may not be showy, but we do like our luxuries.”

  She made an amused little noise and rolled onto her side, presenting him with the smooth line of her spine as the sheet molded to her waist and barely covered the flare of her hip. “As long as you don’t expect me to be one of them. I disappointed my patron daily. Sometimes hourly.”

  The words distracted him from the sight of her stretched out in his bed. “You’re not a luxury, for fuck’s sake. You’re a person.”

  “I know.” She jerked the covers up to hide her body as she sprawled onto her back again. Wary this time, blinking up at him from bloodshot eyes with her hair in a damp tangle around her head. “But it’s hard,” she whispered, twisting the sheets around her trembling fingers. “It’s hard to remember I have a right to be...imperfect. It’s the first rule—never let a man see the real you.”

  “So I gather.” The rules were different for men, but no less restrictive. Never let them see you weak—the reason Ford had been hiding
away in his office. “But fuck ’em, right?”

  She reached out and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand. “Do you have to go?”

  He hesitated. Best to go before either of them started getting ideas about anything. “I can stay,” he said finally. At least until she fell asleep.

  She wiggled to the opposite side of the bed in silence, and Ford stared down at her for a moment before stripping his wet shirt over his head. It only made sense to undress. He was dripping all over the damn floor, making a mess, and what was he going to do anyway? Stand there beside the bed and gawk at her all night?

  She turned her head as he reached for his belt, and he finished undressing in silence, torn between gratitude and the perverse desire to make her turn around and watch him.

  He dragged on a clean, dry pair of underwear, turned off the lamp, and stretched out on top of the covers, careful to keep his distance. He lay there, rigid and still, listening to her breathing.

  After an endless silence, she wiggled closer, invading his space like she’d been doing from the start. She didn’t speak, didn’t reach for him. Just pressed her forehead to his shoulder, her breath skating down his arm.

  The soft caress raised goose bumps on his skin, and Ford sighed as Mia’s breathing deepened and slowed. She’d been invading his space, all right, and the worst part was that he was starting to be okay with it.

  Chapter Six

  The bed was so soft, Mia didn’t want to wake up.

  She curled her toes against the silkiest sheets she’d ever felt and turned her face into the pillow. It still smelled like Ford—like his soap and whiskey and something sharp and delicious that might have been cologne or aftershave or her imagination.

  Probably her imagination. But it was nice here, floating in warmth, decadence. She could summon the feel of his strong shoulder beneath her cheek, the heat of his skin. Maybe he’d be hot like that all over. Hot and hard, protecting her from the danger and roughness of the world.

  Protecting her from himself, too. She’d woken just enough to feel the loss of him when he’d rolled stiffly from the bed, but she hadn’t protested. Knowing him, he would have stretched back out on the bed and resumed his vigil, refusing to relax or rest.

  And if she’d thanked him, he would have grumbled about it.

  The guilt of knowing he was sleeping on the couch with an injured leg finally drove her from her cocoon of blankets and pillows. His bedroom was sparse compared to the luxury of the bed, but she found a stack of clean clothes on top of the dresser and stole one of his T-shirts. It hung to mid-thigh and covered everything important, so she didn’t bother with pants that wouldn’t have fit her in any case.

  Ford was still asleep in his office, squeezed awkwardly onto the couch. Guilt surged again, and she crept close enough to reach for the blanket that had slipped to his waist. A tattoo covered the left side of his chest—an old-fashioned motorcycle with a banner floating across the handlebars proclaiming his allegiance to the O’Kanes.

  She pulled the covers up, and he shifted with a grunt, rolling onto his side before stiffening with another noise, this one far more like a groan.

  He had to be in agony. She’d seen the stiffness caused by a few hours in his chair—what would a night on a too-small couch do to him? There were no rugs out here to soften the cool floor, but she’d knelt on equally unforgiving surfaces. She lowered herself beside the couch and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ford? Why don’t we switch places?”

  He flinched away from her touch. “I’m fine,” he growled.

  His snarls would never scare her again, not after last night. “Of course you are,” she replied, putting bite in the words. “But I’m not going to lounge around in your bed while you hurt your leg out of stubborn pride. So I’ll just kneel here and shiver, and we can be miserable together.”

  He moved fast, dragging her off the floor as he sat up. She landed astride his lap—astride his cock, which was hard beneath the thin layers of fabric separating them—and he locked both hands around her waist. “Don’t treat me like a child,” he rasped. “I’m far from helpless, and don’t you fucking forget it.”

  She couldn’t drag in a full breath. His erection felt enormous. Unforgiving. Every soft, sleepy fantasy she’d ever had about him came roaring back, prickling over her skin and waking nerves gone numb from neglect.

  But as good as he felt, she had to twist away. She recognized that soft ache, the heat building in her pussy. A few more wiggling rocks, and she’d be wet enough for him to feel it.

  Embarrassment set her on fire as she braced both hands on his shoulders. “I never called you helpless. How can you even think that, when I’m the one who needs everything?”

  “Because I see the way you look at me—like I’m some kind of harmless stray dog who only needs a little love.” His hands glided up to close around her upper arms, and he jerked her down close to his face. “You don’t even realize I could savage you with a bite.”

  Maybe he was right, and she should be scared. Not melting, shivering.

  Wanting.

  “You’re wrong,” she whispered, and she had to steal his breath from the tiny space between them. “I’ve known you could savage me from the start. I’ve been bitten. I’m still bleeding.”

  He arched up, grinding his hips against hers, and a tiny shudder wracked him. “You’re getting wet.”

  The strained approval beneath the words killed her self-consciousness. She gasped as his next rock put pressure on her clit, and it was hard to focus now, to frame his face and force him to look at her.

  “You’re not harmless,” she said softly, willing him to believe her. “I didn’t run to a stray, toothless mutt for protection. I ran to the snarly beast who grumbles and tolerates me, because I still believe you’d tear out the throat of anyone who came after me.”

  He didn’t answer, just ran his right hand up the inside of her thigh. His skin burned, just as she’d known it would, but she hadn’t been prepared for the rasp of his work-roughened fingers, so different from her own.

  Already dizzy from anticipation, she dropped her hands to the solid muscles of his shoulders and lifted her hips in quiet, shameless invitation. Finally, someone would touch her. Someone would want her.

  His hand reached the top of her thigh, curling beneath her, brushing the curve of her ass and almost—almost—all the places she ached.

  Then he stopped.

  Shuddering, she dug her nails into his shoulders and tried to shift into his touch. But he held her like that, starving, needing, everything inside her twisted tight and ready. It was agonizing, it was torture—and it was making her wetter.

  The trainers had pithy words about this, too. About games of power, and how they could exhilarate both parties.

  Except Mia wasn’t playing. She was trembling. “Ford—Derek. Please. Please—”

  He leaned in and slowly drew his tongue over the ridge of her collarbone, from her shoulder to the center of her chest.

  Oh, God.

  Her nipples tightened to aching points, and getting naked suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world. She tangled her fingers in her stolen shirt, but Ford stopped her with a muttered warning. “Uh-uh. Don’t move.”

  She froze.

  His growl melted into an approving hum, and he used his free hand to guide the worn cotton over her head. It fell to the floor, and she struggled for equilibrium as Ford’s gaze raked over her, hot and intense.

  He was nothing like Vaughn. He was the opposite—rough where Vaughn had been civilized, raw in all the ways Vaughn had been polished. But for a terrible moment those differences didn’t matter, because Vaughn had stared at her with intensity, too. Intensity laced with hunger, and so much self-loathing he couldn’t shoulder the burden.

  So he’d heaped it on her shoulders, instead.

  She’d escaped from Sector Two, but the weight of it still pressed down on her as Ford’s gaze swept back over her breasts and toward her face.
“What do you see?” she whispered, barely daring to hope.

  “Soft.” His breath caressed her skin. “Sweet.” He licked her again, tracing his tongue down the curve of one breast. “Beautiful.” He sucked her nipple into his mouth with a groan.

  It was too much. She gasped and sank her fingers into his short hair, clutching at the back of his head as her own tipped back. Sharp, bright points of pleasure flared every time he sucked, and there was nothing lazy or easy about it.

  She opened her mouth—to ask, plead, something—and his hand shifted, his fingers slipping through wet folds. He found her clit with a firm, circling touch that never seemed to cease, only recede and come rushing back as each rough fingertip slid over her in turn.

  “Oh—” It was all she could say, the same noise over and over again. She was gasping, panting, squirming on his fingers without grace or thought or any care to how awkward it would be the next time she had to sit down at his desk and try to concentrate on work and not how it felt to be riding his hand.

  He wound a hand in her hair and tugged her head back. “Do it again.”

  She wasn’t doing anything, and that realization should have terrified her. There was no thought in her now, no control. Every sound, every movement—it was pure impulse. Instinct and desire.

  Truth.

  The reckless danger of it only made everything hotter. He’d bared her throat, his fingers twisting tight enough in her hair to trip the line between pleasure and pain, and his words drifted back, a memory edged with new heat.

  I could savage you with a bite.

  She lifted her chin higher with a shaky moan, offering him the vulnerable line of her throat in silent trust.

  He took it, closing his teeth on her skin with a groan. His fingers pushed deeper, curling into her as he pressed the heel of his palm against her clit.

  Her body seized. The bite was delicious pain, the kind that burned into pleasure, but his fingers— She’d known it would sting, but his fingers were so broad and there were three of them, and she was so far past deception. She couldn’t bite back her hiss of pain or hide her flinch as she struggled to relax, to adjust—