Dragon's Pleasure (BBW / Dragon Shifter Romance) (Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 3)

by Isadora Montrose

  Long time ago now. Life had been simpler when old Lindstrom was in charge and you just had to do what you were told. And the penalty for fucking up was extra drill — not watching your buddies evaporate into red mist and fragmentary scraps. He scraped bristles off his neck. What business did he have claiming an angel when Ryan and the rest of his team had come back stateside in body bags?

  He looked himself in the eye and knew the truth. He had nothing to offer this kind and beautiful woman. Even before he had betrayed his team, he hadn’t been any female’s ideal mate. None of the men in his family were any good at family life. He had no reason to think he would do any better.

  There was Granddaddy Clive with his string of wives. How many? Four? Five? His own grandfather had died too young for him to know if he would have stuck with Grandma Mary. But his father was on his fourth wife, and had had Lord alone knew how many affairs. And ever since Clive had died, he and Pat had known that Jeremy planned to trade his latest wife in for a younger woman, even though Diana wasn’t much past forty.

  His stepmother Diana was on her second face lift. Well, of course she was. Having dieted herself into a size zero, she had lost all the muscles in her face and neck. The skin on her face drooped as if she was an old woman. Her arms looked like twigs. But that didn’t excuse Jeremy for stepping out on her.

  It was true that Uncle Freddie, Laura’s and Calvin’s father, had only ever had one wife. Even when Aunt Brenda was killed by that drunk driver, he hadn’t brought home a step-mother for his kids. Or even a girlfriend. Of course, could be Freddie was just more discreet than Jeremy and Clive.

  Jeremy’s brother Gilbert always said that bears loved only once. But Uncle Gil was a bachelor, and if he had loved only once he had a funny way of showing it. When Gilbert Bascom had got out of the Marines and started on at B and B Oil,, as far as Zeke could tell, he had loved his way through a succession of women. At least Zeke thought he had. Gil was pretty discreet. And he treated his dates with respect. And at least old Gil had the sense to prefer a woman with some heft to her.

  Calvin and Patrick’s predilection for bony women was beyond him. They always had some skinny new trophy woman hanging around. Every single one of their many girlfriends looked stretched and hungry, their hair fluffed up to compensate for their thin faces.

  He didn’t like to imagine what making love to a sack of bones felt like. Or why Cal and Pat favored it. For sure it was nothing like holding on to luscious built-for-bear Jenna. She was solid muscle covered in buttery soft flesh.

  Just thinking about her ripe curves made him hard again. Well, that was one question answered. He had been wondering for the last six months if his case of wilt was permanent. Clearly, Jenna was a cure for whatever had ailed his favorite organ. Just one more reason to hang on to his angel.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There was more food on the table when Zeke returned to the sitting room. Jen was sitting on her recliner knitting, but she lowered the footrest and stowed her needles and wool before joining him at the table with another cheerful smile.

  Gracious. He could be gracious. He was an officer and a gentleman.

  “These are wonderful,” he said around a mouthful of scone. The flavor of cheddar cheese exploded in his mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said primly, but her eyes were dancing.

  He tucked in eagerly. Because one, a soldier never knows when he’ll get his next meal. And two, sooner or later she would throw him out of paradise.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Hmm. I suppose you want to know about my screaming in my sleep?” Diana had probed his wounds raw trying to get him to spill his guts and ‘Get the poison out’.

  Jenna shook her head. Her fat braid bobbed. “It’ll pass,” she said gently. “Once you realize that you’re lucky to be able to dream at all.”

  His mouth fell open and he stared at her. “I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD,” he informed her stiffly.

  She seemed unimpressed. “Hmm.” She got up and began to clear the table. “I’m not sure I believe in PTSD,” she said calmly.

  Zeke found himself looking at her round ass as she sashayed away from him with their dishes. Didn’t believe in PTSD! When he had nightmares that woke him up screaming and sweating? When loud noises made him shake? When he could barely haul his ass around half the time. He stormed over to the blank black window and stared out at the night.

  Jenna had turned on the lantern over the door again, and he could see out a surprising distance. The mounds of snow were blunt hills with not a mark to show where he and Jenna had passed. The futility of their efforts depressed him more.

  A gentle touch on his arm made him turn violently. But his angel was smiling at him. She led him back to the couch and handed him a gel filled sack. It fit perfectly in his palm and unconsciously he began to squeeze it.

  “Tell me about your buddies,” she said quietly.

  He opened his mouth to say he didn’t want to discuss his mission, before it registered she had asked about his team. “They’re all dead,” he croaked.

  Her face was sympathetic, but she persisted. “Tell me their names,” she said. “What they were like.”

  He began with Tyrone Ryan. Tyrone who he had met the first day of his new life at the Academy. Tyrone who was nearly as big as him and had been his best buddy since they were raw seventeen-year-old cadets. Tyrone who had howled at his troubles with his five o’clock shadow.

  “That’s a white people’s problem,” he had said stroking his smooth black chin complacently. He had been in his twenties before he had had to routinely add a blade to the razor he used on his face every morning in obedience to army discipline.

  Jenna listened to his stories and kept asking questions. “What did Ryan like to drink? What sports was he good at?” Nothing about battle. And everything that was at the heart of his friendship with his buddies.

  “Sounds like a good fellow to have your back,” she declared. “You’ll miss him. What about the others.”

  She made him remember his team as the good friends they had been. They were all Rangers. The best of the best. As tough as Uncle Sam could make them.

  “They’d all have died for me,” he said hoarsely. His fist clenched his gel bag tightly and he passed it to the other hand and let that have a go.

  “And you for them,” Jenna said softly.

  He stared at her.

  “Unless, you mean to tell me, they wouldn’t have taken a bullet for the team?” Her voice was very gentle.

  He swallowed. “They saved my butt a hundred times. Hell, a thousand.”

  “And you, of course, were riding their coattails all the way.”

  “Hell, no.” He was indignant. “I’d have died for any one of them. That’s the way it works.”

  “Hmm. And now they need you to live for them. Turns out that’s the hardest task of all.” Jenna got up and put more wood in the stove.

  “Huh.” Zeke was stupefied. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that you survived, and your friends would want you to live a full life.” She paused. “A happy life. Because those strong, competitive, badass roustabouts you’ve described were also generous, loyal and wise. If you’d died, you’d want your friends to live well and raise a glass to you now and then. Do you truly believe your pals want less for you?”

  “Except that I killed them,” he ground out.

  Those dark brows went up. “Shot them in the back did you?” she inquired pleasantly.

  “Worse. I sent them to their deaths and watched from safety.” He blurted out the shameful truth.

  She sat down and opened up her knitting bag. “Tell me about their families,” she said as if she hadn’t heard his confession.

  “Huh.”

  * * *

  When Jenna stopped knitting and produced a tiny pair of scissors from her knitting bag and snipped her wool and grinned at him, Zeke was startled into silence. How long had he been yapping on about his buddies? Not just
about his recently lost team, but all the guys who hadn’t made it home. Jen had listened and hardly said a word, although she had chuckled heartily at some of his stories.

  And about two hours ago she had made him get his boots and clean and polish them. He didn’t know how he could keep forgetting about looking after them. But the familiar chore had soothed some place deep in him. Half of Army life was cleaning gear and making sure you were ready to turn out at a moment’s notice. If leaving his only pair of boots to dry in their mud had some deep subconscious meaning, he didn’t want to know what it was.

  Anyway, Jenna had stuffed them with crumpled newspapers so they hadn’t dried a funny shape. And working dubbin into the leather had brought back a hundred pleasant memories of eager youth and merciless practical jokes. Things he hadn’t let himself think about in months.

  Now Jenna was beaming triumphantly at him and holding up a sock the match for those he was wearing. “This,” she announced self-importantly, “Is my one trick.” She reached into the sock and pulled out its mate and waved the two socks like flags.

  “How’d you do that?” he asked as he was supposed to. Although, come to think of it, it was perplexing.

  She grinned cheekily. “Family secret,” she teased.

  He picked her up from her chair and held her in his arms. “I’m a Bascom too,” he whispered as his mouth claimed hers.

  She led him to her room, and he was hopeful. But she pushed him towards the bathroom and said, “Toothbrushes are in the left hand drawer. I have some chores to do before I come to bed.”

  Zeke rubbed his face and checked his beard. Not too bad. He decided he could wait till morning. He felt a thousand times better than he had when he woke from his nightmare. Not perfect. But better. And he was pretty sure he had his angel to thank.

  His family hadn’t wanted to hear about his buddies. And he had skipped all the memorial services. And although he had attended all the military burials, he hadn’t imposed himself on his friends’ families. Not when he was responsible for their deaths. Assuaging his grief at their expense had seemed like pouring salt in open wounds.

  There was no sign of Jenna, so he peeled off his sweater and socks, folded them neatly, and got into her bed to wait. He lay in her bed, inhaling her luscious scent and felt peace envelope him. He was fast asleep by the time she had checked the generator and added logs to the stove and found something for tomorrow’s meals.

  Jen stood looking down at her soldier. He had had a bad time by the sound of things. Lost his team and lost his sense of purpose with them. Her daddy had always said that the hardest thing about being a sergeant was ordering boys as dear as sons to do things that would surely get some of them killed.

  “But every soldier is someone’s son. You just gotta give your orders and hope they mostly make it. And if they don’t, you have to remember their lives not their deaths.” And Master Sergeant Bascom had heaved a sigh that rattled his big body.

  She had a small stack of photos of her Daddy’s boys. Men he had lost and who he said had no families to grieve or remember them. She looked at them on Memorial Day and said a little prayer for Perez, Dodge, Morelli, and the others.

  Once they had looked like intrepid, battle-seasoned warriors to her. Now they looked like the brash, young boys they were underneath their dress uniforms and fatigues. But someone had to keep their names in mind, now that their sergeant was himself a ghost.

  Zeke was an officer — he didn’t just give orders, he made decisions about what those orders would be. Had to be hard if you got it wrong, and your buddies didn’t make it. Only a real hard case wouldn’t blame himself. Even though hindsight was the only kind that was in focus.

  Probably he did have PTSD. But she diagnosed grief. She wasn’t a big believer in taking drugs to stop sadness. Sadness was appropriate when you had losses. Great losses meant great sadness. She didn’t know if Zeke had been taking meds. She hoped not. They were addictive. They changed your brain. And not in a good way.

  And most of all, they inhibited the grieving process. Take anti-depressants and you never got to that place where the hole in your heart still hurt, but you were used to having it and could function. She was never going to be over losing Daddy. Never. Nor was Mom. But they had grown accustomed to living with their grief.

  They remembered Daddy, told stories. Laughed. And very often cried. But forgetting him seemed worse. The only thing she never dwelt on was Daddy’s death. She had his citation on her wall, but she had read it only the once. She knew how brave he had been, she didn’t need to rehearse his death over and over.

  She wanted to remember her father as the big, bluff bear who could pick her and her sister up and carry them, one on each shoulder, even when they were great girls of twelve. That was the man she told her brothers about — because inevitably they had forgotten the parent who had died when they were only six.

  Treating PTSD by talking about the horror seemed all wrong to her. Well-meaning but all wrong. Retelling burned those awful memories deep. And when that approach blew up, as it so often did, the drugs made things a thousand times worse. And shifters reacted badly to psychiatric meds anyway.

  What Zeke needed was a pet. A nice big dog who would love him unconditionally and keep him company. And force him to rouse to take care of it. And some hard work to focus on. If he had winter clothes she’s set him to chopping kindling.

  He hadn’t mentioned his family beyond that one reference to his cousin Laura. You had to wonder why he had chosen to camp in the woods in a deluge instead of spending Christmas with his relatives. There was probably another horror story there.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jenna’s bedroom was pitch black when Zeke woke up. He had dreamed of his team. But this time he could not recall the details. Just as well. He felt restless and sad, but his heart was not racing in terror tonight.

  Jenna’s bed was soft and warm and his angel lay softer and warmer beside him. Her fragrant, pillowy form was pressed against him and he was harder than an iron spike. He lay beside her savoring the serenity that enveloped him in her presence.

  She seemed to have a knack for calming him. Maybe because she came from a military family. Turned out the bronze star on the wall was her father’s. And those socks she was knitting were for her brothers who were serving marines. She had flat out said she had no man. She didn’t seem the kind to cheat, but he should know better than to think any woman, even this angel, was above that.

  At any rate she had made him think about his men and what he ought to be doing for their survivors. He was a rich man. His trust fund ought to be able to make the children of his dead buddies comfortable, even if he couldn’t bring their fathers back.

  He didn’t know why it had taken six months for him to realize that he should be helping out his buddies’ families. He hadn’t been thinking any too clearly for damn sure. But something about Jenna had cleared the fog from his brain.

  Too bad his own family didn’t understand him as well as his angel. His father thought he should just retire from the army and go work for B and B Oil like Patrick, and Calvin. Trigger Granddaddy Clive’s full bequest. Make himself richer yet.

  Damn Granddaddy Clive. What the hell business did he have leaving his billions in such a way as to set the whole family fighting like cornered rats? There was poor Laura finding out, after she had spent ten years running the ranch, that it wasn’t completely hers unless she married and had a baby before she turned thirty-five.

  And if she didn’t marry, the ranch went to Petal and Nolan Belington who had barely done more than visit the ranch occasionally. It like Clive to penalize her for loving the ranch. Didn’t matter that Laura had put Granddaddy first for years. If she hadn’t met a man and married, who had kept her in Success, using up her youth managing the ranch?

  There was his own bequest, conditional on his working for the company. He and Pat and Cal were all supposed to ditch the military. There ought to be a law. Not to mention that if he decided to
spend his days in Denver in the B and B office block, that automatically reduced the legacies of the other great-grandkids.

  Well, if Great-granddaddy thought he could involve Zeke in a battle for money with his own family, he was flat-out wrong. As dysfunctional as his clan was, it was still his family, and he wasn’t engaging in a legal brawl with his cousins.

  He was still sure he wasn’t much good to a wonderful woman like his angel. But he was rotten to the bone, because he was going to stake a claim and keep her. Whatever it took he would do it. Fate had landed him in paradise, and he was going to dig in and hold his ground.

  He reached for Jenna and pulled her even closer, burying his nose in the hollow of her throat to enjoy the bouquet of her personal scent. She stirred and woke. Her arms went around him and she sought his kiss in the darkness.

  She was really only half awake he thought. He hadn’t asked or even hinted at birth control. Maybe she was on the pill, though she sure didn’t smell like it. He had never in his whole life, not since he discovered the pleasures of sex as a randy boy, been as careless as he had been with Jenna.

  When your family was B and B Oil you took pains not to open yourself to a paternity suit. But he could only hope that his sweet, luscious angel could be caught in a baby trap. Because she would find that in addition to a sweet, innocent baby or two — they ran to twins in his family — she would have snagged herself a great, big, ugly papa bear who wouldn’t let her go.

  Jenna’s mouth opened beneath his and he stopped thinking to concentrate on pleasing his own personal angel. Her tongue tangled slowly with his and he slowed his rampant need to match her gentler pace. She tasted of woman and sex and life and her kisses were like water in the desert that was his soul. Holding her felt like bliss and he planned to keep her happy for as long as he could.