Loving Sarah (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  She turned toward him, grabbing onto his jacket as sobs wracked her slender frame.

  Unable to stop himself, he threw his arms around her, pulling her to him fiercely, feeling her slight body shaking with the force of her sobs. “Jesus, baby, don’t cry. You’re safe now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Engulfed by her scent, he wrapped her even more tightly in his embrace, holding her as if she were something precious. Because she was. The most precious thing in his lousy, fuckin’ life.

  Feeling the anger leach from him, she burrowed deeper against his chest, tightening her grip on his jacket. “God, Jesse, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in so long. I’ve missed you so much. I—” She was crying again, harsh, guttural sobs that wracked her slender frame.

  Tightening his arms around her, he turned his face into her neck and just…breathed her in. His shoulders slumped. God, she smelled so good, so sweet, so—Fuck! Alarm bells clanged in his ears, nearly deafening him. Christ, what am I thinking? What am I doing? Stunned by his near-loss of control, he shoved her away abruptly, almost violently. Grabbing the hair on top of his head with both hands, he simply stood there for a long, agonizing minute, strangling the scream of sheer frustration building deep in his throat. “God damn it, Sarah, this was a mistake.” His arms fell to his sides, hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically. “Get back on the bike. I’m takin’ you home. And from now on, stay away from me. I’m every bit as dangerous as those thugs I rescued you from. Maybe more.”

  Confused by his abrupt change in demeanor, she reached for him, giving a shaky little laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not dangerous—not to me, at any rate. You love me. You’re my hero.”

  “Shut up!” he commanded harshly. “Just…shut! The fuck! Up! All right? You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just a kid! A stupid-ass kid!” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to think. Christ! This can’t possibly get any worse! She thought of him as her hero, for fuck’s sake. He nearly laughed out loud. What a joke! He was no fucking hero, for damn sure, and he had to get her to stop thinking about him that way. He had to get her to stop thinking about him at all.

  Jaw clenching and unclenching, he gave a low growl of self-disgust. Grinding his molars so hard he swore he could hear them crack, he opened the saddlebag and extracted a cell phone. Coldly he tossed it to her, forcing himself to ignore the misery on her face. “Keep it, it’s a throwaway. Call that asshole chauffeur of yours and tell him to come pick you up. And when you get home, tell your father to fire the bastard, because while you were bein’ assaulted in the schoolyard, he was busy fuckin’ a hooker in the back seat of the limo.”

  With that, he straddled his Harley, kicked up the kickstand and turned his head to look at her. Inwardly reviling himself for what he was about to do, he forced his lips to curl upward in a sneer. “Okay, kid, listen up, ’cause I’m only gonna say this once. I am not your hero. I’m nobody’s fuckin’ hero, got that? And I don’t love you. So get that through your fuckin’ head and don’t ever forget it. And stay the fuck away from me!” And, without a backward glance, he’d driven off, leaving her standing there, openmouthed with shock.

  The next time he’d seen her, three years later, he had betrayed her utterly.

  * * * *

  Present day

  Jesse groaned, pushing away the memories that had him in their grip. His cock pressed so hard against his zipper, it would be a miracle if the teeth didn’t leave permanent imprints on his skin. He hissed in his breath, shifting to try and ease some of the constriction between his legs. No help. He was harder than he’d ever been in his life, throbbing and aching like hell, and there was only one way to take care of the problem. Arching his hips, he undid the button on his jeans and lowered the zipper, reaching inside and grabbing the iron bar of his cock. As his fist closed around it, he groaned.

  The head was achingly sensitive and nearly purple with engorged blood. He wrapped his fingers around the stalk and began stroking himself from base to tip, slowly at first, then harder, tighter, faster, smearing his thumb through the pearly drops of pre-cum dribbling from the slit. Another hissing breath left his lungs at the exquisite, almost painful pleasure he was giving himself, knowing that it would be a hundred times better if he were buried inside Sarah’s warm cunt.

  He was so primed, it didn’t take long to find release, shooting bursts of creamy ejaculate all over his pumping fist. A groan ripped from his throat. The cords in his neck were rigid, his face a mask of agony/ecstasy as he continued squeezing and stroking long after he’d gone limp.

  The air stirred faintly around him as two bare feet and a pair of jeans-clad legs materialized in the gloom directly in front of him. A fresh, cold beer dangled from one hand, a wad of Kleenex from the other. Without a word, Jesse grabbed the Kleenex and wiped himself off. He tucked himself back into his jeans and pulled up the zipper before reaching for the beer bottle. Straightening, he took a deep swallow of the fresh brew before flopping back against the sofa and stretching his legs out in front of him.

  The leather whooshed as Adam Sinclair, fellow SEAL and Jesse’s best friend, plopped down beside him. Both men were shirtless, their deeply-tanned skin gleaming in the moonlit gloom of the two-story great room. Similar tattoos graced their left biceps—the trident insignia of the US Navy SEALs.

  Slightly taller, Adam was also leaner than Jesse, with an athlete’s graceful build, his musculature less obvious, though no less lethal. In looks they were polar opposites. With his short, curly blond hair, sapphire blue eyes, finely-sculpted features and ready smile, Adam was so handsome, he could have been the model for Michelangelo’s David. He was sunlight to Jesse’s shadow. Shining angel to Jesse’s brooding devil. Absolution to condemnation.

  The two men had been together from their first day at Great Lakes Naval Base, through BUD/S training out in Coronado, California. They’d been assigned to the same SEAL team upon graduation. Five years ago in the Tora Bora Mountains of Afghanistan, on a mission that had gone from sugar to shit right before their eyes, Adam had saved Jesse’s life.

  With their entire team pinned down by a nest of Taliban guerillas, he’d pulled his badly wounded commander out of the line of fire and into a cave, caring for him for three nightmarish days and nights while war raged all around them. The contents of their dead medic’s equipment bag, along with multiple emergency blood transfusions, both from himself and other team members with a compatible blood type, had helped keep Jesse alive until, finally, three days later, the SEALs had managed to destroy the insurgents and call in the medevac choppers.

  Adam and Jesse were closer than any brothers ever could have been. Closer even than most twins. They were two sides of the same coin, each knowing exactly what the other was thinking, each feeling exactly what the other was feeling.

  And Adam knew all about Sarah. Jesse had talked about her while lying there in that godforsaken cave thinking he was going to die. He’d reached out to her during the nightmares that had had him waking in a cold sweat, calling out her name in his delirium, begging her forgiveness.

  It had been Adam who suggested that Jesse return to Marshall’s Creek and claim her. Adam who insisted that Jesse needed Sarah’s absolution. That the hole in his soul would never be filled until he met her face-to-face and did whatever it took to convince her that they belonged together. Adam, whose one and only secret from his best friend was the fact that he was also in love with Sarah Marshall.

  He winced and closed his eyes, lifting his hand to rub his fingertips against his forehead.

  For several minutes neither man said anything. They just sat there, taking an occasional sip of beer, each thinking his own thoughts as the silence stretched between them. Adam could feel the pain rolling off of Jesse in waves. Finally, after several long moments had ticked by, he said quietly, “Did that help?”

  “No.”

  “You saw her today, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  Jesse took a long
pull of his beer and leaned forward again, propping his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle between his legs. “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “I pulled her over. Gave her a ticket.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jesse groaned. “She was scheduled for a meet-and-greet with the new police chief this mornin’, but she must’ve found out that was me, because she ran like a scalded cat. I chased her down—gave her a fuckin’ ticket.” He shook his head, screwing up his face as the memory washed over him. “God, you should have seen her, Adam, she was so fuckin’ gorgeous! All I wanted to do was take her in my arms, tell her how much I’ve missed her, how much I wanted to—”

  “And?” Adam interrupted hastily, knowing exactly what Jesse had wanted to do to Sarah Marshall. Because he wanted to do the exact same thing. And he’s never even met her!

  “And nothin’.” Jesse shrugged. “I treated her like shit, like I’ve been doin’ since she was fourteen, and gave her a fuckin’ ticket.” He groaned again, shaking his head back and forth. “Jesus, I’ve ruined everythin’.”

  “Not necessarily,” Adam said encouragingly. “Call her. Better yet, go see her. First thing this morning. Apologize. Tear up the ticket in front of her. Ask her out on a date.”

  “A date?” Jesse nearly did a spit take with the beer he’d just swigged into his mouth. “Are you shittin’ me?” He turned his head and gave Adam an incredulous look, before sucking in his breath in a gasp. “Oh, my God, you’re serious!”

  “Of course I’m serious. Ask her out. Send her flowers, take her to dinner in a nice restaurant, go dancing, take a romantic walk under the stars. You know”—he shrugged—“a date. It’s a relatively easy concept.”

  “I don’t date.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Jesse gave his friend a withering look. “No, Adam, I don’t. You, of all people, should know that. I meet women in bars. We share a few drinks, go to a hotel. We fuck, I leave. Or we meet at one of our clubs, adjourn to a private room and perform a ‘scene,’ sometimes with you, sometimes without you. We fuck, I leave. That’s not datin’. That’s predatin’. I don’t know how to date.”

  Adam chuckled. “You’re smart, Jess, I’m pretty sure you’ll figure it out. I’ve never seen you so flummoxed before. And by a woman, no less.”

  Jesse frowned. “Are you mockin’ me?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No, of course not. I enjoy seeing you moping around like a lovesick teenager.”

  “I’m not mopin’.” He bristled. “I’ve never moped a day in my life. I’m pretty sure I don’t even know how.”

  Adam snorted. “Right. And fish don’t know how to swim.” He lifted his beer to his mouth and took a swig. “For Christ’s sake, Jess, you’ve been dreaming of this for eight long years. Fight for her, goddamnit. Don’t just sit here crying in your beer because you did something stupid. You’re a man, you’re expected to do something stupid. But you’re also a SEAL. A Dom for fuck’s sake, not some pansy-assed, pussy-whipped—oh, Christ, just go after her. Stop equivocating. Stop agonizing over every word, every look, every action. Do what you do best. Dominate her. Stake your claim before she gets tired of waiting and decides you’re not worth it after all.”

  “And just how, exactly, do I do all that?” Jesse asked skeptically.

  “Damned if I know.” Adam smiled ruefully. “I’ve never asked a woman out on a date either. Jill just sort of…followed me home from a Munch and stayed for the next eighteen months.” Jill Barnett. His 24/7 sex slave. At least she had been until—he squeezed his eyes shut as if hoping to erase the vision of Jill as he’d last seen her, her eyes filled with tears of despair as he’d removed her collar…He shook his head slightly. Nope, not going there. The wounds were still too new…too raw. Concentrate on Jesse, on what he needs. “But might I suggest you invest in a sturdy pair of knee pads? Because I have a feeling you’re going to be doing a lot of groveling.”

  “Not funny.” Jesse glared at him.

  “Sorry, I know you’re frustrated. But you’re not giving her enough credit, Jess. Let her see you. The real you. The Dom that’s been wanting and needing her for ten fucking years. The you that’s been living only half a life without her, because if she’s as submissive as you say, she’s been living only half a life without you. Level with her. Tell her what you want. How you feel.”

  “I don’t know how I feel.”

  “Of course you do,” Adam said sagely. “You’re in love with her. You’ve just been hiding from it for so long you’re afraid of it.”

  Now it was Jesse’s turn to snort. “I’m not afraid of anythin’.”

  “Except Sarah.”

  There was a long pause before he finally acknowledged with a sigh, “Yeah. Except Sarah.” He turned his head to look at his best friend, eyes glittering like faceted jet. “You’re right, Adam, she scares the shit outta me. Always has. I don’t know how to act around her. I want her so bad I’m—” He held out his hands. “Look at me. I’m shakin’ like a fuckin’ leaf for chrissakes!” His shoulders slumped. “What if she isn’t the submissive I think she is? What if I’m misreadin’ her signals? What if what I want to do to her terrifies her so much it drives her away? What if I lose control and hurt her?”

  “What if Elvis really is alive?” Adam mimicked. “What if we suddenly have to start paying for gravity? What if nose picking becomes an Olympic sport? What if—?”

  Jesse laughed. “Okay, okay, I get your point.” He tipped the bottle and took another long pull of his beer.

  Adam’s lips quirked. “You know, sometimes all this brooding intensity of yours can be downright irritating. Good thing you weren’t this wishy-washy when we were in the Teams.”

  Jesse pretended insult. “Wishy-washy! First I’m mopin’ and now I’m wishy-washy?”

  “Just saying.” One massive shoulder lifted in a shrug. “You’re losing sight of what’s important here, Jess. The two basic tenets at the heart of any D/s relationship—honesty and trust. You’re asking her to trust you. You need to have a little trust in her. If everything you’ve told me about her is true, she’s ready for you. She knows who and what you are—has known for years. She’s probably sitting over there in her living room right now wondering just what kind of a pussy Dom you are.” He smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the darkened room.

  Jesse glared at him before draining the last of his beer and standing up. He picked up his other bottle and headed into the kitchen.

  Adam followed, dumping the remainder of his beer into the sink and placing his empty bottle in the recycling bin on top of Jesse’s.

  The two men walked back through the great room toward the elegant staircase rising against the back wall. The central fieldstone panel was flanked on both sides by floor-to-ceiling windows featuring panes of leaded glass in varying sizes, textures, and colors. When the setting sun shone through it, the effect was spectacular, creating a shimmering, magical world lit by rainbows.

  They paused on the landing, Adam stopping Jesse with a hand on his shoulder. “Furniture’s being delivered today,” Adam said, “so I’ll be at my condo tonight. Thanks for letting me crash here during the remodel.”

  Jesse shrugged, sliding his hands in his back pockets. “You know you’re always welcome. Mi casa es su casa. And you’re right, I’m doin’ way too much thinkin’ here. I’m gonna go see her today and tell her everythin’. I owe her at least that much.”

  Adam put his hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “I want you to be happy, Jess. Best way to do that is to clear up the past.”

  After a brief, back-slapping man hug, they separated, Jesse going to the left, up to the master suite, Adam to an equally opulent guest suite on the right. Their good-nights echoed across the open space of the great room below.

  * * * *

  “Chief?”

  Jesse was sitting in his creaking wooden chair, leaned back as far as it would go, his booted feet propped casually on the corner of his cluttered
desk. He looked up from the open laptop resting on his thighs as Carol Morton, chief dispatcher, stuck her head through his open door. She was a plump, pleasant woman in her early fifties, with graying brown hair and a ready smile. Except, at that particular moment, her smile was MIA. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, Carol.” He smiled, indicating one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. What’s up?”

  She perched on the edge of the chair, a worried frown on her face. “Has the Department of Corrections contacted you about Ryder Malone?”

  He frowned. Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good. Nothing connected with Ryder Malone was good. “What about him?” he asked cautiously.

  “He’s been released from Red Onion.”

  “What?” His feet crashed to the floor. “Shit, how did that happen? He wasn’t even eligible for a parole hearin’ for two more years!”

  “I don’t know,” Carol said soberly. “I only found out because I check up on him every month—you know, on account of Ginger. He’s still writin’ her those creepy letters.” She shivered. “’Course, she sends ’em back unopened, but that hasn’t stopped him. Anyway, from what I understand, he was part of a group who got early release for good behavior.”

  Jesse snorted. “Good behavior? Ryder Malone? Not bloody fuckin’ likely. The only reason he wound up in Red Onion in the first place was bad behavior. How long has he been out?”

  “Two days.”

  “Shit. Anybody seen him around?”

  “Nobody I’ve talked to, but that doesn’t mean much. If he knows what’s good for him he’ll stay away from Marshall’s Creek.”

  Jesse grimaced. “Ryder Malone wouldn’t know what was good for him if it came with labels and a pie chart—oh,shit!” He practically threw his laptop on the desk as he leaped to his feet, sending his ancient chair rolling back to crash against the equally ancient filing cabinet. “Does Sarah know about this?”