His hands on my waist, he pulled me closer. I kept my gaze on his charcoal-colored sweater and refused to look up at the lips I missed. “I know you don’t,” those lips whispered.
“Why didn’t you come to see me?” I had to know. I hazarded a look up at him. Big mistake. Big, big mistake. In his eyes I saw everything I wanted to see. Hope, care, and the promise of more. I sank into his body, my hands gripping his sweater, the chilly metal zipper against my wrist the only thing grounding me.
“Answer me first,” he said. “Apartment. Why, Rena?”
I could hardly concentrate with him near. “I wanted to see you,” I answered ever so softly.
“Why?”
“To f–find out why you fired me.” Lie.
“Why?” he asked through a soft laugh. “Want your job back?”
I pushed on his chest, hating how easily I pictured him naked on contact. “Just leave me alone, okay? I can’t see what this has to do with—”
“Just tell me why.” He held me as I struggled, one arm banded around my back, his hand sliding to my jaw and angling my face toward his. He was curled around me, his focus unerring.
And I was snared, unable—no—unwilling to move.
“Because…” The tears I’d tried damming were pooling on the edges of my lower lids. “Because I wanted you.”
He smiled, liking my answer. That smile thoroughly undid the final thread holding my chest together. “Why did you want me?”
“Because, okay?” Frustrated, I swiped at my eyes to keep traitorous tears from spilling over.
“Not okay. Tell me why you want me.”
“Wanted,” I corrected. “Past tense.”
“You don’t want me anymore?” His eyes darted to my lips. This was a challenge I was sure to lose. “I want you, Rena. I haven’t stopped wanting you. Want is flowing through me like lava.”
I let those words turn over in my head, in my heart. My fists clutched his sweater again as I searched his eyes. “That’s not enough.”
“I know,” he said. “Make you a deal.” He grinned and I lost strength in my knees. I really had missed him. His fingertips wound around my hair, and massaged my scalp. His touch reminded me of all we had. Of all we could have.
“Tell me why you wanted me,” he said, “and I’ll tell you why I’m really here.”
“You first.”
“I love you,” he blurted. “I came here to tell you I love you. To strip you naked, and be inside you, and while I’m inside you, to tell you again.” His eyes bored into me, bare and honest and challenging everything I thought I knew. “And again,” he said, his voice a low growl.
Shock radiated to my limbs, tears threatening again.
“We had a deal,” he reminded me. “Why did you want me, Rena?”
Tears spilled over and my strength ebbed. I managed the words “I can’t,” but they sounded more like a sob. Devlin lifted me into his arms and sat on my couch with me in his lap.
“You can,” he said quietly. “I thought I couldn’t, too, remember?”
I did remember. The night he’d had bourbon and we argued. I can’t make love to you, and hold you all night, and tell you how much I care about you.
I lifted my eyes to his and blinked several times, feeling my wet lashes against my cheeks.
He smiled.
I sniffed.
He waited.
I hesitated.
Winding my hand into his hair, I watched as his eyes closed. A breath moved through his whole body, and I wondered if he’d taken a deep breath since I last held him—since he last held me.
We’d both resisted so hard, so afraid of “needing” each other, we forgot that wanting was enough. Love…was enough.
“Devlin,” I whispered.
He opened his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes. In them, I saw our future. I saw forever. I saw us.
“I love you, too,” I confessed.
He kissed me hard, crushing his mouth into mine as his hand went to the tie on my robe and undid the bow. My tongue pushed past his lips as he explored my body with one hand, supporting me with the other. I clutched on to him like a lifeline, my body shivering, but not from cold, from anticipation.
“Devlin,” I panted.
He grinned against my mouth. “I missed hearing that.”
Devlin
If my heart had been concrete—and before Rena, it may have been—it would have split down the seam. A jagged crack from being exposed to too much cold and then heated again.
Rena was on my lap, her naked body under my palm. I held her to me and kissed her, wrapping her warmth against me. Our tongues tangled. She tasted like heaven. Absolute heaven. She clawed at the back of my head, and my hands wandered over her breasts, her skin softer than I remembered. I tweaked her nipples and a soft cry came from her throat.
“Devlin,” she whispered against my mouth. “Please.”
I loved hearing her say my name. Loved her. Loved that she’d let me in tonight.
Hefting her into my arms, I stood.
“Bed.” I walked down the hallway, a naked woman, her robe thrown open, in my arms. “I missed you.”
She smiled.
My entire body throbbed. “I love you.”
“So you say.” She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck and breathed into my ear, “Now prove it to me.”
I stopped in her doorway and surveyed the black and red bedding. The short black curtains with white skulls on them. Her clothes were strewn all over the floor. An empty beer bottle sat on her nightstand, and her iPod earbuds were tangled and hanging halfway out of a drawer.
This was no pink princess’s bedroom.
“You are a bad girl.”
“Bad as you want.” A feisty smirk sat on her gorgeous face.
“Oh, I want you bad.” I carried her to her messy bed, laid her down, and stretched over her. Her hands went to my face, then her smile faded, her eyes begging for something I knew she wouldn’t ask for.
“I know, baby,” I said, and I did. I knew. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again.”
A small sigh left her lips. I kissed her until her breaths were short and tight and her fingers clawed at my clothes and stripped me bare.
I made love to her. Slow, sweet, bone-deep love. She looked in my eyes when she came and I told her I loved her. And when I found my release inside her, I kept my promise and told her again.
And again.
Nicole, this one is for you, my friend.
Acknowledgments
In the interim between romance novels coming out and others going in, I challenged myself to write a hero just for me. Devlin was born.
Thanks go out to Sue Grimshaw, for taking a chance on me and seeing my potential. Nicole Resciniti, my agent, for your ideas and help with the evolving plot. Everyone at Loveswept, thank you for your hard work and essential efforts in the production of this book.
Thanks also to Piper Trace and Shannon Richard, for your constant cheering and excitement over Devlin. Diane Alberts and Rachel VanDyken, for brainstorming with me and being available. Having friends who are talented writers in this business has been an amazing gift.
Endless thanks and hugs (and other things I can’t mention here) to my husband¸ John, who stands beside me every step of the way.
And to you, dear readers, who spend your precious minutes reading the words I put down. Thank you for letting me into your lives.
BY JESSICA LEMMON
Lost Boys
Fighting for Devlin
Falling for Caden (coming soon)
PHOTO: NICHOLAS LONG
A former job-hopper, JESSICA LEMMON resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.
/> Jessica is a social media junkie who loves to hear from readers. You can learn more at:
jessicalemmon.com
Facebook.com/AuthorJessicaLemmon
@lemmony
The Editor’s Corner
Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November…wait, it is November, and Loveswept is releasing some of our best books of the year! Check out these fabulous romances:
New York Times bestselling author Marquita Valentine releases her second new novel in her Boys of the South spin-off series Take the Fall series with When We Fall, in which a small-town sweetheart takes a chance on the bad boy who’s always been her hottest fantasy. Another Loveswept New York Times bestselling author, Tracy Wolff introduces her new Hotwired series with Accelerate, where an unassuming passenger is taken for the ride of her life. New York Times bestselling author A. Meredith Walters releases a powerful romance akin to The Fault in Our Stars with Butterfly Dreams. Then, welcome to Thistle Bend! A charming series debut from Tracy March, Should’ve Said No introduces a small town where old secrets are revealed—and wounded hearts are opened to new love. And in a short novel, Rebecca Rogers Maher’s Rolling in the Deep, two kindred spirits share a winning lottery ticket—and discover what it really means to get lucky.
Sports fans were introduced last month to the Aces Hockey series by Kelly Jamieson with Major Misconduct, and this month Kelly releases a holiday romance, Off Limits. Book two in the Recovered Innocence series by Beth Yarnall features a San Diego investigative team with a soft spot for lost causes and a passion for redemption in Vindicate. And Taking It Off, by USA Today bestselling author Claire Kent introduces you to Matt Stokes, the sexy-as-sin male stripper and club owner who knows what it really means to bare everything. Jessica Lemmon’s irresistible Lost Boys series kicks off with Fighting for Devlin the story of a good girl who plays by the rules—and the bad boy who brings out her wild side. And in Cecy Robson’s O’Brien Family series debut, two total opposites find that the flames of desire are still smoldering in Once Kissed.
For historical romance fans, Sharon Cullen’s The Reluctant Duchess ignites as a shy country girl and a hotheaded duke surrender to dangerous temptations. Then it’s on to Scotland for USA Today bestselling author Jennifer Haymore’s Highland Knights and the first book in this new series, Highland Heat, an electrifying tale of class warfare, fierce loyalties, and forbidden love.
I don’t want this month to end! But the good news is December is upon us with more fabulous Loveswept titles. Until then…
Happy Romance!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
Forgotten Promises
by Jessica Lemmon
Available from Loveswept
Running
Tucker
Things aren’t exactly going my way. My breath burns heavy and hot in my lungs as I run. And run and run and run.
Not that I should have expected them to go smoothly. After years spent under my father’s command, or seeking freedom from it, it’s eerily unsurprising to find I’ve landed myself in this much trouble just one day after getting released from prison.
Yeah. I said prison.
But I didn’t belong there.
I don’t intend on going back.
Working out in the yard at Baybrook Penitentiary, jogging the perimeter every chance I got, has paid off. Blood is drying on my shirt, the sting of broken flesh on my knuckles a physical reminder of what I am capable of. I dig deep and find the strength to run faster.
Now to find a car. I had a friend when I was on the outside. He owed me a favor. I cut across a yard and skirt a big wooden playground set with brightly colored plastic tubes and slides, wondering what it might have been like to live that way. I wonder if the kids were protected. Safe. Loved.
But I don’t have time to do a postmortem on my childhood. Praying no one is looking out of a window, I leap a fence to an attached apartment complex and land on my feet on a crumbling pile of asphalt. The weeds are overgrown, the trees scraggly. There is junk and garbage cans showing that the people who live here don’t give a shit about appearances.
Or much of anything.
People like us have our reasons for feeling that way.
If Lady Luck is any friend at all, she’ll shine on me and Mark’s Dodge Charger parked in exactly the same spot as when he and I used to break laws together. Minor laws. I mean, we didn’t kill anybody or anything.
I slink past a few other cars parked under a dilapidated awning, and spot his Dodge, Chelsea (named for an ex-girlfriend), parked outside of Mark’s garage. Similar to the real Chelsea, the car is not gleaming and kind of dirty. But for my needs, the car may as well have a light from heaven itself shining upon her. This is a blessing when I need one most.
I calm my walk as I approach his driveway, edging along grass that needs mowing, and taking a peek through a pair of partially open shabby curtains. My former good buddy is sprawled on his couch snoring, mouth wide open. I smile as I remember the fun we had together. Feels like about a hundred years ago, even though it’s been more like three. I wonder if he was able to keep his job at the gravel pit, or if he was fired for one of many reasons he’d been fired from everywhere else. “Fun” had been a rare commodity in my world back then, and right about now it is extinct.
I consider knocking on his door, asking if I can borrow Chelsea, but not for long. The debate lasts exactly two seconds before I turn away from Mark’s window and walk to the car I’m about to appropriate for myself. Unlocked, I slide onto the seat and palm the steering wheel, ignoring the sting on my knuckles as I grip the wheel. I haven’t driven a car in the eighteen months since I stole my father’s Explorer one fated night, and being in the driver’s seat feels like a hit of intoxicating freedom.
Freedom I can’t allow to be taken from me. Not again. Not ever.
I am prepared to hot-wire her, a handy trick, but then check the glove compartment—the stupidest place to keep a set of keys second only to the visor.
There, beneath the expired registration is a key taped to the vinyl cover of the owner’s manual.
Jackpot.
Before my luck runs out—given the way every other damn thing has worked out, it very well might—I jam the key in the ignition and turn over her blubbering engine. Loud. Way too fucking loud.
As I back out of the driveway, Mark’s door swings open. He’s in boxers and nothing else, rubbing his eyes, his hair and beard scraggly. I stomp on the brakes and shift into Drive. Mark smiles at his feet.
It’s as good as getting his permission. I jerk my chin in a silent goodbye and gun the engine. The fuel gauge reads three-quarters full, so I head for the shittiest convenience store I can find. I need supplies for where I’m going, and if the place is shady enough, the clerk won’t bat an eyelash at my attire of white-T-shirt-covered-in-blood. I drive, keeping my eyes on the road while searching the front- and backseat with my hand. Finally, my fingers curl around something cool and slick. I grip the sleeve of the leather jacket. It’s black, smells like pot, and has seen better days.
Like the nineties.
It will have to do. At least it’ll cover my shirt.
My bleeding knuckles however…I shake my hand out as I pass a Waffle House, several semis parked in the lot, the inside well lit—a little too well lit. Stopping even briefly to wash my hands is risky. I settle for the napkins I spotted in the glove compartment when I was digging for the keys. I wipe as gently as possible, grateful that most of the blood isn’t mine. I’m luckier than I gave myself credit for a moment ago. My father was always a fighter. I’ve seen him take down a man twice my size—one who’s out-of-his-mind high. I shouldn’t have been a challenge for him, but I had the element of surprise.
What I didn’t have was the proof I went to my childhood home to reclaim. The proof that would exchange my and my father’s places in the eyes of the law and anyone with a functioning consciousness. The plan was to send him to prison, not send myself back. It wa
s time. Jeremy is gone. Mom is safely out of the country.
But now…now I don’t know what the hell to do. Without proof, it’s my word against my father’s, and there’s no doubt in my mind who the masses will believe.
I have no idea how I’m going to get the tape. It isn’t as if I can go back and ring the doorbell. It’s not like I can go to the police and plead my side of the story.
There isn’t much sympathy for the ex-con who beats the police chief unconscious. Especially when the police chief is his father.
Chapter 1
Happy Freaking Birthday
Morgan
I’m still gaping at my boyfriend from across the table at Pinky’s, taco-slash-karaoke bar, and, if he doesn’t proceed very carefully, his final resting place.
Drew has an exaggerated look of remorse on his face I just know is manufactured.
“We didn’t plan to, Mo,” he tells me.
“Don’t call me that,” I manage, and it’s the first words I’m capable of since he and Shayna dropped the bomb that they were doing the nasty. An accurate description, I think, my mind still buzzing from either the tequila shots or the new information stinging my brain like a horde of angry bees.
“You’re disgusting.” I shoot daggers from my eyes at Shayna, who sits across the table from me and does her best kicked-puppy impression. Screwed over by my best friend. Correction: ex–best friend.
My accusation shifts her face from guilt-riddled bestie to offended bitch in such a short time frame, it’s almost laughable. “Drew has needs.”
She seriously did not just say that. I blink, stunned, and turn to face Drew, who is having a staring contest with his beer.
Fighting for Devlin (Lost Boys #1) Page 21
