Mine to Save

by Diana Gardin

  “Fuck…Sayward.” His voice rough, his breathing ragged, he says my name like he’s cracking a whip.

  I jerk my gaze up to his again. “What?”

  He gestures down at where my hand meets his hot, throbbing cock. “What are you doing, beautiful?”

  Well, that’s an easy one. “I’m about to suck your dick.”

  Even though my stomach is turning flips inside me and my hands are trembling, my voice is simple and matter-of-fact. The sound of it does something to him. He tenses, a confused expression entering his eyes. Then, with a muttered curse he pulls me up from the floor and, in one fluid motion, turns me so I’m sitting on his desk. Then he’s standing in front of me, holding my gaze while he fastens his pants.

  When he’s finished, he steps between my legs and holds my face in one cupped hand. “What. The fuck. Was that?”

  I’m still trying to decide what just happened. Never, in all the times I’d given oral sex to the man I’d previously worked for, had he ever once stopped me in the act. Or before the act had really even begun.

  I must have done something wrong.

  It’s my first thought, because well…Bennett is a man, right? And according to my research, all men love getting head.

  Love, with a capital L.

  I look just to the left of his gaze. “What did I do wrong?”

  His fingers tighten slightly on my chin. I can feel Bennett’s stare, hot and steady, but I refuse to give in to it. I will not look at him.

  I will not look at him.

  “Look at me, Sayward.”

  Without my permission, my gaze strays to his.

  “There was nothing wrong about what you just did. I have the hard-on to prove it right now, and it probably won’t go away for hours. What I want to know is, why were you about to suck my dick?” He speaks slowly and methodically, but his words fall like feathers rather than bullets.

  “Because all of this…tension…between us is uncomfortable. That’s the only way I know to dissipate it. Especially since we’re going to be working together now. I just decided to get it over with.” The heat rises in my cheeks, I can feel the warmth just as surely as if I were standing in the sun.

  Bennett’s either shocked into silence, or he just can’t decide what to make of me. Either reaction would be something I’m used to dealing with.

  I move to push off the desk. Suddenly, the office feels way too small. Too enclosed. Too…intimate.

  But Bennett isn’t going anywhere, and his hand only moves from my face to clasp the back of my neck. “Listen to me, beautiful. I’ve imagined those plump lips of yours wrapped around my dick more than a few times since I met you. But when that happens, it’s gonna be because you want to do it. Not because you think you have to. And when you take care of me? I’m damn sure gonna take care of you.”

  Now I don’t think I could stand up from the desk even if I wanted to. His words turned my legs to Jell-O.

  I’ve never been the kind of woman to appreciate words. To me, most people just waste them. But every single thing that Bennett Blacke just said to me held meaning.

  And promise.

  When Bennett and I walk in my front door, Marcos stands from the couch where he was watching television. Shutting off the TV, he scowls at Bennett.

  Bennett sets his duffle bag down on the floor. When I asked him if he needed to stop by his place to grab an overnight bag, he informed me with a grin that he keeps one in his truck. Just in case. Who does that?

  “Who is this?” Marcos asks, suspicion evident both in his tone and his expression.

  I gesture toward Bennett while placing my keys on the hook beside the front door. “This is Bennett Blacke. He works with me.”

  Marcos folds his arms across his chest. “Okay. But why is he here?”

  Facing my brother, I match his stance. “Marcos, I’m glad you’re here, but please don’t be rude to my guest. He’s here because he’s been assigned to protect me.”

  Marcos looks around the room, and then spreads his arms wide. “But I’m here.”

  Bennett steps forward. His expression is unreadable, but he shifts his body in front of mine. It’s an unconscious movement, effortless, almost as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Are you a trained security professional? Or a trained military operative?”

  Marcos’s frown only deepens. “American cowboys are all the same.”

  Bennett barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Whatever you say. But I’m here to keep your sister safe. So hate me all you want, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  I step around from behind Bennett. I aim a stare at Marcos before stepping up beside my brother. I don’t wrap my arms around Marcos, but I nudge his side. “He doesn’t hate you, Bennett. Right, Marcos?”

  Marcos shrugs. “Whatever you say, chica.” He marches over and holds out a hand to Bennett. “I’m sorry for my rudeness. Thank you for escorting my sister home safely.”

  With a grin, Bennett shakes Marcos’s hand and then brushes past him to drop down on the couch. He pats the cushions. “This where I’m sleeping tonight, beautiful?”

  At the nickname that still burns me up from the inside out, Marcos lifts a brow. “That’s where I am sleeping.”

  My one-bedroom apartment doesn’t afford me much room for guests. And honestly, I hadn’t even thought about where Bennett would sleep. Last night, the NES guard stayed outside in his car all night to keep watch.

  I stare at Bennett, confused. “You’re sleeping here?”

  One corner of his mouth tilts up as his sexy smirk goes rogue. “Where else did you think I was gonna sleep?”

  Rolling my eyes skyward, I sigh.

  Bennett flips the television back on. “Can’t protect you if I’m asleep in my truck, now can I?’

  He makes a good point. He’s actually working tomorrow. He can’t stay away all night keeping watch. He’ll actually have to sleep here. Which means I have two unplanned houseguests.

  Suddenly feeling very tired, and trying very hard not to recall the vivid memory of what Bennett felt like fisted in my hand, I gesture toward my bedroom. “I’ll make you a bed on my floor.”

  Bennett slaps his thighs and stands up. He grabs his duffle bag from where he dropped it by the door and hoists it onto his shoulder. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  I point down the very short hall and Bennett disappears. When I hear the water running, I turn to Marcos.

  “What is your problem?” I hiss.

  “I don’t like him,” he answers simply.

  I throw my hands up. “You don’t like Jacob, you don’t like Bennett. I’m seeing a recurring theme here, Marcos. You’re my brother and I love you. I’m glad you’re here. But you have to lighten up. This is my life.”

  He drops his head between his shoulder blades, staring at the ceiling. When he looks at me again, his eyes are sad. “Just because we’ve been apart for years doesn’t mean I stopped being your big brother. I only want what’s best for you.”

  He pulls me into a hug that’s stiff with my tense body, and I try hard not to wriggle out of it. “I love you, hermanita.”

  “Te amo, Marcos,” I whisper in return. “We’re family. That will never change.”

  When we part, I give him a small smile and head to my bedroom to prepare a pallet on the floor for Bennett.

  And I try really hard not to panic while I’m doing it.

  9

  Bennett

  Sayward’s coming apart at the seams.

  I’ve been doing some reading on typical behaviors of adults on the autism spectrum, and it’s clear to me that having both Marcos and I invading her space is too much for her. She’s trying to cope, that much is plain. But her movements are strained, she’s repeating certain behaviors more than once, like the routine or the repetition is going to help her feel more comfortable.

  I want to pull her into my arms and tell her that everything is fine. That this is only temporary, that I’m here to keep her safe. But that action probably won
’t help Sayward feel better. It might only push her deeper into herself.

  Shit. What do I do here? I can’t leave. I’m not leaving her alone in this apartment to sleep in my car, whether her brother is here with her or not.

  Giving her the space I know she needs, I throw on a pair of sweats and retreat to her bedroom and lay down on the blankets and pillows she’s set up for me beside her bed. Then I make a couple of calls.

  When I hear the shower running in the bathroom, I head back down the hallway and face Marcos, who’s pacing the small living room. He stops and glances up at me, irritation flickering in his eyes.

  “You realize your sister doesn’t do well with change, right? Having both of us here in her space…it’s making her really uncomfortable.” My tone is even, steady, but Marcos’s nose flares with anger.

  “Then you should leave.”

  I shake my head. “Not happening. I’m here to make sure she’s safe. You have no idea who could have followed you here from Colombia, do you realize that? Maybe the cartel killing your father was a way to track down your sister.”

  Marcos stops, his eyes going wide as he contemplates. Clearly this isn’t something he’s thought about. A dark shadow creeps into his expression. It’s the first time I’ve seen a shred of doubt in him.

  “Right. Hadn’t thought of that? I’m qualified to protect her. I’m not leaving. But I called you a car and booked you a hotel for the next two nights. Do it for her. Meet her for lunch tomorrow, have dinner with her. But don’t put her in danger by staying at her place.”

  Until we know more about him, I’d prefer it if she didn’t see him at all. But I can’t keep her brother away from her. Not now…I’ve got no reason.

  With a heavy sigh, Marcos crosses to the corner where his small suitcase lies open. “Fine. Tell Sayward that I will call her tomorrow.”

  He’s out of the apartment before Sayward finishes her shower, and she walks out as I’m moving my makeshift bed from her floor to the living room couch. I’d already put the blankets that Marcos had used on top of the small dryer I’d found under the washing machine in her kitchen.

  She pauses in the hallway, staring at me. “Where’s Marcos?”

  I turn, and my breath catches as I take her in. Her long, black mane of hair is wet, braided and slung over one of her slender shoulders. There’re miles of bronzed skin on display in her gray ribbed tank top and small black shorts. I notice for the first time that her toenails are painted cherry-red.

  Fuck. Sayward Diaz is sexy as hell, and she doesn’t even know it.

  I swallow and realize I’m squeezing the pillow in my hands way too tightly. Sayward’s eyes zero in on it, and I relax my hands, placing the pillow on the couch.

  “I booked him a hotel room and called him a car.” I answer her question honestly. “Having both of us here was too much, and I have to be here. So I made sure he had a place to go.”

  A series of emotions chase each other across her face, and I’m not sure which one will win out. Irritation grows to anger, and then confusion turns to relief. “You…didn’t have to do that. I could have handled it.”

  I cross the room until I’m standing in front of her, but not so close as to force her retreat. “I know that, beautiful. I’m pretty sure you can handle just about anything.”

  She looks up at me, and her eyes are darker, muddier, more difficult to read. Finally, she turns toward the kitchen. “It’s Tuesday. On Tuesdays I make a Mexican meal. And then every night before bed, I drink tea and watch The Late Show.”

  Chuckling, I pull my phone out to check the screen. “Well, we’ve got a little while before bed, and we haven’t managed to eat yet. But can I propose something?”

  I know how important routine is to Sayward. I’ve noticed little things about her. Every time she gets in the truck, she places her bag between her feet. Then she reaches for the seat belt and pulls the buckle carefully to the top of the strap before she pulls it across her body and buckles herself in. Then she crosses her left leg over her right, reaches for her backpack, and moves it between her leg and the console. Every time.

  And the way she runs her index finger or a straw over the rim of whatever mug or cup she’s drinking from before she takes a sip. And when she walked into her apartment, even with the chaos Marcos brought to the picture, she’d hung her keys in their rightful place, set her bag down on the corner of a bench against the wall, and put her shoes neatly in the compartment under the bench.

  I’d never try to take her away from her routines, but for some reason this woman has compelled me to insinuate myself all up into her norms.

  When she doesn’t answer, I toss out a suggestion. “I think I need to get to know the woman I’m protecting a little better. You agree with that?”

  She chooses her words carefully, sinking into the corner of the couch. She’s like a carefully guarded fortress, and I’m suddenly dying to break down those walls. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Why don’t we fix dinner together?” Holding my breath, I watch her reaction. Outwardly, though, I’m playing it cool; leaning back on the couch, I cross an ankle over a knee.

  Finally, she lifts her eyebrow. “You can cook?”

  I spread my arms. “This is your train, Sayward. I’m just along for the ride.”

  One corner of her mouth lifts and it feels like I just won something big. She stands, heading into the kitchen without looking back.

  I follow.

  Her kitchen is tiny, with no sitting area and not a whole lot of counter space, so I have to stand close to her if I want to help. The forced proximity works just fine for me, though. The heat from her body bleeds into mine, and when I glance at her out of the corner of my eye she’s so focused on laying out ingredients into neat rows that something inside my chest shifts, rearranges.

  She puts me to work. She’s already seasoned some chicken and she pulls the container out of the refrigerator and opens her back door.

  I’m right by her side, slamming a palm against the door to push it shut again. Turning to face her, my expression is murderous. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She looks up at me, bewilderment apparent on her face. “I’m going outside to get the grill going.”

  Jesus. “Wait, Sayward. If you’re going outside, let me give it a quick scan out there first. Stay inside the door.”

  She doesn’t like being told what to do. I can see it in the stubborn set of her mouth, in the way her eyes sparkle with irritation. But instead of arguing, she nods and hangs back.

  I take a step out onto her back patio and glance around at the dark line of trees behind her duplex. My training kicks in as I take in every detail of my surroundings. My mind’s eye clicks like a camera, over and over again: the sounds, the smells, the details of what’s normal to see here and what’s not. The feel of the pistol sitting in the holster at my hip is a hefty weight, letting me know it’s there.

  Usually, I’d never carry in someone’s house. I would have taken my gun off when I came in or left it in my truck. But this is a different situation, and not having it on me isn’t an option.

  As my eyes slowly scan the yard, the hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle. My breathing slows, my eyes and ears going into overdrive as I try to see or hear whatever it is my sixth sense tells me is there. I don’t know if I’m in hyperdrive because this is Sayward, or if there’s really an unseen threat.

  Rather than scaring her, I spot the little portable grill she’s going to use for the chicken and carry it inside with me. As I shut the door, she glances down at the grill.

  “That’s a grill,” she says.

  I place it on the kitchen floor and follow with the bag of charcoal. Hauling the large concrete square that had been situated underneath the grill, I put it down carefully on the kitchen floor and move the grill on top of it. Catching Sayward’s apartment on fire is the last thing I want to do. “I know that.”

  “It belongs outside.”

  “
Well, beautiful, today’s an adventure. Let’s grill inside.”’

  I don’t look at her, because I don’t know if I can without scaring her. As she goes back to chopping onions and tomatoes, I pull out my phone and shoot Jacob a quick text. I know he has connections at the Wilmington Police Department, and I’m going to call those ties into play right now.

  Me: Get WPD to patrol the area around Sayward’s apt.

  His response is quick; my phone vibrates a few seconds later. I knew it would; when it comes to Sayward it seems that Jacob Owen doesn’t mess around. His own daughter, Greta, is engaged to Grisham, and he treats Sayward the way I imagine he does his own daughter.

  Jacob: Done. Tell me what you saw.

  Me: Didn’t see anything. Just an instinct. Could be nothing, but I want to be sure.

  I slip my phone back in my pocket, knowing Jacob will text me if the police turn up anything in their patrol, and work on lighting a small fire on the grill. I open the kitchen window so the smoke will be able to escape, and turn back to Sayward while I wait for the coals to turn white.

  “So why hacking?”

  Her knife pauses for just a second before she continues her chopping. “Because I was good at it. And it’s solitary. Why the military?”

  Maybe if I open up just a little bit to her, she’ll be more willing to share. “Because my dad died serving this country. As much as it hurt my mom for me to join up at eighteen, it was something I always felt like I had to do. Pick up where he let off.”

  I watch Sayward methodically place all of her chopped veggies into a bowl. “What are you making with those?”

  She whips out a fork and starts mixing everything up together, adding in something fresh and green as she does. “Pico de gallo.”

  I’m impressed. Turning back to the little grill, I note the snowy color of the charcoal. “This is ready.”