The Road to Redemption: Finding Grace, Book 1

by DM Davis

  “Huh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s probably too late with her. If you start being nice now, she’ll think you like her. But going forward, maybe being nice will actually reduce the flirting, if you don’t show any signs of interest. I don’t know. It’s just a thought.”

  “Would you really do that? Try to win me over?”

  “Yes, but not to date you. I’d never believe it was possible or think it was right. I’d want to win you over so you liked me, gave me a fair shake in the class. If that didn’t work, I’d call you on your shitty attitude. Tell you to stop being so rude, thinking you’re God’s gift.”

  “I’d like to see you telling someone off.” It makes me hot envisioning all that anger and passion being directed at me.

  She laughs, shaking her head. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m horrible at it. I get so worked up and then usually cry because I feel bad about getting upset. I hate conflict.” Her gaze drifts down. “I try to avoid it when at all possible.”

  Is that why you run, to avoid conflict?

  “You know, I never considered I’m making myself more of a target—a challenge—by being an arse over being myself. Thank you for that.”

  Her eyes return to mine. “You’re welcome.”

  “I also agree that it’s probably too late to change tactics with Miss James.”

  “If you need me to kick her ass, let me know.”

  “I may take you up on that.” But maybe not in the way she imagines.

  “Isn’t it hard to be mean all day?”

  “Yes, at first, but as time goes by, it’s easier and easier to slip into that role, and harder and harder to slip out of it.”

  She reaches across the table and touches the furrow in my brow I didn’t even know was there. “Don’t stress. You’ll figure it out.”

  Her touch, her confidence in me, and knowing I’m not in this alone, soothes my weary soul. “Then you show up at my coffee shop and brighten my darkened doorway, lighting me up in ways I’ve long ignored or had no idea were even possible.” I pull her hand into mine, running my lips across the back of it, pressing it against my cheek. “I don’t want to be that curmudgeon any longer. You make me want to do better—be better.”

  “Theo.” Her voice, not even a whisper as if I heard it in my head, tugs at me, but it’s the tears in her eyes that have me sliding into the booth next to her. “It’s too much.” A tear skates down her cheek before I can stop it.

  Pulling her into my chest, I hold her soundly. “It’s not too much. It’s just right.” My lips press to her hair, and the smell has me wanting to strip her down, discovering all her wonderful scents. “Someday it won’t hurt. Kindness and words of love shouldn’t hurt. It takes time for them to burrow their way through the scar tissue of your pain, filling the barren darkness left behind by those who hurt you.”

  She squeezes me tight, and I swear I’d take her inside myself—where she’d be safe and warm—if I could.

  I will love her into healing and beat the shite out of anyone who dares to think otherwise, stand in my way, or think of doing her more harm.

  She’s had enough.

  Her cup runneth over—and not in a good way.

  She needs a champion.

  And. I. Am. It.

  Can you actually die from embarrassment? I would assume not. Otherwise, I would be dead instead of suffering in the passenger seat of Theo’s Land Rover. He doesn’t seem bothered by my emotional display. I, on the other hand, want to dig a hole and stick my head in it. No, it won’t make it go away. And yes, I realized burying my head does not make the rest of me invisible. But it will spare me further embarrassment of knowing others can see me.

  Unrealistic? Yes. But that’s not a strong deterrent at this point in time.

  I can barely function when he spews his soul-wrenching accolades like it’s water when, in fact, it’s liquid gold. He does more than fill my empty dark places with light. He breaches the barricade around my heart, mends the broken pieces of my spirit, and breathes life into my long dead dreams.

  Hope is alive when he’s around. He’s like a Disney movie prince with sex appeal. And apparently, I’m the main character who has to experience death within the first fifteen minutes to give me grit and obstacles to overcome. I’m not sure I like their formula for success. I’d like to opt out. I’d like to know what I’d be like without that tragedy marring my character.

  “Hey,” my Prince Charming calls to me from his side of the carriage...er, car.

  “Yeah?” Thankfully my musings have sidetracked my guilt and embarrassment, and when I look at Theo, I’m able to do so with dry eyes—free of tears.

  “Would you go with me tomorrow night?”

  “To your music thing?”

  “Yes.” His eyes spark with hope.

  “Isn’t it really a guys-only thing, getting together, playing music, drinking beer?” I don’t want to be the girlfriend who tags along where I’m not welcome.

  His smile is indulgent as if I’m being silly. “It’s not like that. They’d love to meet you, and I’d like to share this part of my life with you.”

  How can I say no to that?

  “Besides, Dan’s wife, Nancy, will be there. It’s at their house.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to. I’ll tell Marcus to back off.”

  “Okay.” I will myself to not focus on the possibility of Marcus asking me to sing.

  “You’ll go?” The joy on his face today is worth any discomfort tomorrow.

  “I’ll go.”

  He pulls into my complex, parking in front of my building. “You won’t regret it.” He turns off the engine. “And if you do, you don’t have to come again.”

  “You’ll be there, so I know everything will be fine.” He’s quickly becoming my sanctuary. I don’t care how much that scares me, because the idea of him not being in my life scares me even more.

  He beams as if I’ve made his day. “Everything will be perfect.”

  THE RINGING OF MY HOME PHONE pulls me from sleep. I barely crack an eye before answering.

  “Hello.” My drowsy voice reveals the fact that I was sound asleep a few seconds ago.

  “Bollocks. I woke you.” The sound of Theo’s sensuous voice has both my eyes opening and my body thrumming in anticipation of seeing him tonight.

  “It’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.” It’s an old joke, but hey, I just woke up.

  “Hardy-har-har. You’re a regular Groucho Marx.”

  “Groucho Maaaaaaarx?” I can’t stifle the yawn that extends Marx ridiculously long. “Sorry.” Another yawn. Jeez, stop that. “That’s a rather dated American expression, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. But, well, it’s early. My humor muscle hasn’t quite woken up yet.”

  My laugh rings in my ears, louder than it should. “You’re cute when you try to be funny.”

  “Cute? Ms. Frasier, I assure you there is nothing cute about me.”

  “And you’re sexy when you go all British on me, Professor Wade.”

  “Sexy is acceptable.”

  “Hmm.” I could get lost in this man’s sex appeal. He oozes it like a pheromone. “Good morning, Theo.” I try to get us back on track as my alarm goes off in four minutes.

  “Good morning, My Vision.” The warmth of his words enchants me through the phone line. “I am sorry I woke you. I wanted to hear your voice.”

  “I don’t mind. In fact, I wouldn’t mind waking up to your sexy voice every day.” Truly. Every. Day.

  “Don’t tease. That could be arranged.”

  “How? By calling me every morning?” I am teasing him, of course, but I wouldn’t mind him being my new wake up service. It would be better than an alarm clock.

  “No.” His voice crackles, deepening. “I would roll over and whisper in your ear.”

  My thighs clench, imaging his breath skirting my ear as his lips leave a trail of kisses down my n
eck.

  “Though, most likely, I wouldn’t have to roll over at all as you’d already be in my arms, our bodies wrapped around each other like we couldn’t get close enough.”

  Holy shit.

  “I want that, Lauren. I want to wake up to you in my arms…every day…for the rest of my life.”

  I can’t breathe. That. Right there. I want that.

  “Breathe, baby.” His soothing voice coaxes air into my lungs.

  I flop onto my back, breathing in and out.

  “That’s it. Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll table that for now.” He’s an intuitive sort. Seems to know when I need more time to process things than he does. “I want to firm up our plans for tonight. I’d like us to grab a quick bite beforehand. Can you be home by six?”

  “Yes. Um, or I could cook?”

  He chuckles. “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “I’m sure. Something easy, like pasta.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Let me know what I can bring.”

  “I will.”

  We’re both silent. I don’t want to end our conversation. I like his voice in my ear. But I need to get to work early if I’m going to make it home in time to make dinner by six.

  “Are you heading to work this early?” I didn’t think he worked these kind of hours.

  “I’m going for a run, actually. My first class isn’t until nine.”

  “You’re so industrious.”

  He chuckles again. “I have energy to burn. Someone has me all wound up these days.”

  “You need to tell that someone to get you unwound.”

  “I believe she would if she could.” The levity from before is gone.

  “I would.” But I’m not ready—it’s too soon.

  “I know, Lauren.” There’s so much more he’s not saying behind his calm, endearing acceptance. “I know.”

  “Dessert. I could make brownies to take tonight.”

  “The guys would love that. But you don’t have to. You don’t need sweets to win them over.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “No, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ve got to get ready.” I don’t want to hang up.

  “Text me if you need me to pick up anything, and let me know when you’re home as I’ll probably come straight from campus.”

  “Okay.”

  “Lauren?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t need sweets or any other food to win me over either. You’ve already got me.”

  Jesus. This man. “But it wouldn’t hurt, right?”

  “No, it wouldn’t hurt at all.”

  I don’t think we’re talking about winning his heart anymore.

  The sexual innuendo lingers as we say goodbye.

  Flinging the covers off, I jump out of bed, hurrying to the kitchen, and pull out what I need to make spaghetti and meat sauce, noting I have everything except French bread.

  Fast walking to the bathroom, I turn on the shower and text Theo to pick up bread if he wants some with dinner.

  I quickly shower, dry my hair, and dress, running out of the door in less than forty-five minutes. That’s a record for me.

  The rush of thinking about dinner and getting to work early eased my nerves about meeting his friends. I pray my day is busy and passes quickly, eating up the time until I can see him again.

  Gah, I sound desperate.

  I am though. Desperate for his reassurance—confirmation—that it’s me he’s saying all those wonderful things to and not some other woman he’s confused me with.

  Stupid, yes, but my doubt has me fearing this is all a dream—a fantasy—I’ve conjured up in my head.

  I’m going to wake up soon and realize it’s not real.

  He’s not real.

  And nobody will ever love me like he’s promising to.

  Jesus, I can’t breathe.

  My run is littered with thoughts of Lauren. Not surprising, really, she’s rarely far from my mind. I’ve never brought a woman to meet my American friends. Only Reese met my ex, and that was in England. He never liked her. I should have given his opinion more weight—perhaps he could have saved me the heartache. Though, I’m fully aware had my ex not broken my heart, I wouldn’t have found Lauren. And I most definitely would not be the man I am today, seasoned with a clearer vision of what’s important—who’s important.

  Back then, my heart wasn’t ready for Lauren. Now it is.

  I turn up the music and pick up my pace. The air is crisp, and my heart pounds with each footfall as I find my rhythm, sliding into the slip-stream of a runner’s high. My mind bounces between asking Lauren about the upcoming three-day weekend, shedding my arsehole persona to be the teacher my students deserve, convincing Lauren to introduce me to her mother this early in our relationship, and planning a Caribbean getaway for Spring Break.

  I’m more excited than anxious for Lauren to meet my friends, but I am anxious to meet her mum. Once she agrees, perhaps I’ll make a preemptive call to her mum beforehand to break the ice.

  How will Lauren feel about me whisking her away to a surprise destination for Spring Break? Is she good with surprises? I have the feeling no one’s gone that extra mile for her. I want to give her what she hasn’t had before. And what she has experienced before, I want to do it better. I want her to know how much she means to me. I want to give her a break from being the one who has to plan, coordinate everything. Just because she can, doesn’t mean she has to, or should.

  I want to take care of her, be her rock. My chest swells with the idea of giving her everything she needs, being who she needs.

  She’s an enigma. Beautiful—yet she does not know it. Strong—yet she doesn’t trust herself or believe in her strength. Shy, avoiding social situations—yet she’s witty and personable. Chaste—yet seductive and sexual.

  Desire, my constant companion, rages at the thought of touching her—being touched by her—devouring her sensuous mouth, sinking my fingers into her hair, and loving her into oblivion.

  I sprint the last quarter mile home, trying to expel the sexual energy threatening to burst through my running pants.

  As I undress, I turn off the music and check my phone, seeing a text from Lauren. I text her back and get in the shower, my arousal all too evident. The hot water beats against my ridged muscles, every drop slowly releasing the tension in them. All except one.

  Almost reluctantly, I give in to my need, imagining it’s her hand on my cock, getting me off as I finger her hungry pussy and suck her luscious nipples. My fantasy flips to her riding me, my cock buried deep inside the part of her she’s not ready to give me. Her head thrown back, her tits bounce as she pounds me, crying out in ecstasy until she screams my name and comes on my cock.

  That’s all it takes. As I explode, my entire body is racked with an electrical surge that zings and stabs from my balls to my toes, to my hands, and out the top of my head. My hand on the shower wall keeps me from falling when my body arches on a feral moan that could wake the dead.

  Bloodyfuckinghell.

  Spent, I sink to the shower floor, releasing my cock, and wait until the twitching stops and I can take a full breath.

  This wasn’t like the times I’ve touched her and felt that livewire that connects us. This. This was far more intense and edged the side of pain, almost like a shock collar, punishing me for seeking pleasure without her. An entirely crazy thought, but one I’m not sure is wrong.

  My phone rings and vibrates on the bathroom counter, urging me to my feet. I dry my hands on my towel before wrapping it around my waist and step out of the shower.

  “Lauren?” The timing can’t be a coincidence. I answer on speaker as I run a towel over my hair.

  “Theo.”

  I freeze. Her breath is ragged and her voice, shaky. “What’s wrong?”

  “I…uh…hold on.” There’s movement on the line, and then I hear a click like a door shutting.

  “Where are y
ou? Are you alright?” I take her off speaker as I pace my bedroom.

  “I’m in my office, thankfully.”

  “Thankfully? What does that mean? What happened?” I start to throw on clothes in case I need to get to her.

  “Theo.” She starts to cry. “I think I’m going crazy.”

  Fuck. “Baby, you have to tell me what’s going on.” My voice is calm, soothing, a complete contrast to the uproar I’m feeling inside.

  “I…it was like at the restaurant…when you touched me, and I—"

  “Orgasmed?” Bloodyfuckinghell. “Are you telling me you just had an orgasm at work without stimulus?”

  “Yes. I think I’m going crazy.”

  My lips tingle from shock. “Tell me what you felt, exactly.”

  “Pleasure. Pain. Shockwave.” Her staccato speech punches me in the stomach with each word.

  She felt what I did. What does this mean?

  She had an orgasm at work. What if she hadn’t been alone? Fuck, what if she had been driving at the time?

  “Shit, I think I caused it. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?”

  “No. I’m fine. I mean, I’m rattled, but I’m fine.” She sniffles, her crying waning. “What do you mean you caused it?”

  I’m not the blushing type, but I swear I can feel the heat creep up my neck. “I was a bit worked up this morning. My run didn’t help. So…I…took matters into my own hands, so to speak.”

  “Oh, you...” God, I can feel her blush from here.

  “Yeah, I bashed the bishop.”

  I’m not sure if her giggling is because of my choice of phrase, or if she’s horrified by the act and cackling is her only way through it.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles and covers her mouth, or the phone, to stifle the sound of her laughter.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” I truly am. A momentary weakness wreaked havoc on us, and it could have been worse if she’d had an audience.

  “Did you enjoy it, at least?”

  “It was a bit of a double-edged sword, to be honest.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you can explain that to me later.” Her laughter has ceased.