Wild Man

by Kristen Ashley

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  To Erika Ann Moutaw Wynne and Roy Gilbert “Gib” Moutaw, my big sister and my little brother. Everything we are is based in love and history and loyalty. Thank god.

  PROLOGUE

  Wild Man

  “OH MY GOD” I breathed as I came, my mind blanking, every inch of my body tightening as bliss like I never felt before coursed through me.

  When I was done, my eyes slowly opened and I saw him still moving over me, in me, God, God, he looked good. Beautiful. And he felt good. Amazing.

  His gorgeous, silvery-gray eyes were locked to mine, heated, intense, glittering, searing into me, all of this in a way he’d never looked at me before. Not once in the four months we’d been together.

  And I knew, feeling the burn of his eyes, what that look meant. I knew this man, this fantastic, striking, wild man, was mine.

  Mine.

  I felt it in my blood.

  “Jake,” I whispered, my limbs gripping even tighter around him, one of my hands sifting up into his thick, dark, unruly hair. His eyes closed at my voice sounding his name and they did this in a way that seemed like he was in pain.

  Um… what?

  Then he shoved his face in my neck, moving faster, thrusting harder, his breath labored against my sensitive skin and my mind turned to his body, my hands glided across his skin, my legs gripped him harder as I clenched his driving cock with my sex.

  “Fuck, Tess,” he growled against my neck then I heard him groan as he kept thrusting and he came.

  I held him tight.

  He gave me his weight.

  I held on tighter.

  Then he pulled out and rolled off me, falling to his back. The instant he did, eyes on the ceiling, he lifted the butts of his palms, pressed them to his forehead, and closed his eyes.

  Um. Not good.

  “Jake?” I called softly.

  “Yeah?” he grunted, not soft and also not opening his eyes or moving his hands.

  Okay, uh, what was going on?

  Feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable even after just moments before feeling like I’d finally, finally found my dream man, he was there, in my bed, in me and the joy that brought evaporated. I moved quickly. Nabbing the throw at the bottom of the bed, I pulled it over my naked body.

  “Is everything okay?” I whispered.

  “Fuck no,” he answered, and I felt my body go still.

  He dropped his hands, his head turned to me, the look in his eyes not heated, glittering, intense, burning into me. It was conflicted and—I stared, not believing it but seeing it—filled with regret.

  Oh no. Oh God. Oh shit. Oh no.

  I pulled the blanket closer to me, thinking Martha had been right.

  Damn. She’d been right.

  His eyes dropped to my hand clutching the blanket to my chest, then lifted to my face. I watched them melt to quicksilver as they lingered, his face gentling, his body turning my way, his hand coming out and then his phone rang.

  His hand stilled and he muttered a pissed off “Fuck.”

  He rolled the other way and reached out with a long arm to grab his jeans. I was staring at the contours of his back, the sleek skin, the defined muscles, thinking that wasn’t for me. It wasn’t for me. None of it.

  I knew it.

  I’d always known it.

  From the instant four months ago when his silver eyes hit me, traveled the length of my torso, all he could see of me behind the display cabinet, and when his eyes again came to mine, he’d smiled sexy, lazy, and slow, I knew it.

  He wasn’t for me.

  There was no dream man for me.

  But he was so beautiful, I went for it anyway.

  “Yeah?” he asked into the phone and I felt his mood hit the room and it grated against my skin like sandpaper.

  In the four months we’d been together, Jake did not hide his moods. Ever. Not even in the beginning. And Jake had a lot of moods. If he was pissed, you knew he was pissed. If he was happy, you definitely knew he was happy. If he was feeling playful, annoyed, frustrated, amused, distracted, content, whatever, you knew it, you sensed it. It was like he controlled the atmosphere of the room.

  And whoever was on the other end of that phone was pissing him off and frustrating him.

  “Give me an hour,” he said into the phone, paused then went on. “No, man, I’m tellin’ you, I need an hour.” Another pause then, “Fuck, you’ve got to be fuckin’ shitting me.” Pause then, “This can’t happen now.” A very short pause, then, “I’m tellin’ you, this cannot fuckin’ happen fuckin’ now.” He shifted his powerful body to sit on the edge of my bed, back bowed, elbows to knees, phone to ear, and he growled low, “All right, motherfucker, but you fuck this up, you fuck her over, mark this, you answer to me.”

  He flipped his phone shut and bent forward to grab his jeans.

  Then he announced to the other side of the room, “Babe, gotta go.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Okay. Okay.

  When Jake got into a mood, you knew his mood. And when Jake had to go, Jake went.

  This was nothing unusual.

  Okay, so, we’d been seeing each other for four months and this was the first time we made love.

  Sure, that seemed weird, considering he was all man, a wild man, but he was always gentle with me, very gentle, and it was like he sensed I needed that. I needed him to take it slow. And I did need that. Boy, did I need that. So I didn’t think anything of it.

  And sure, we’d made out. We’d fooled around a lot. A lot, a lot and it was good. The best. And he’d made me come with his hand, though he’d never let me touch him that way, saying he liked to watch and the first time I made him come, he wanted to be inside me. Just him telling me that nearly made me come. But I’d never been naked with him, not even close, until now.

  So, any girl would expect, after all that time with a wild man unlike any man she’d ever been with, a wild man who tamed that beast in order to be gentle with her, that he’d hang around after the big event.

  But not Jake.

  I knew that about him.

  But this was something different.

  I knew that too.

  “Tess,” he called, his deep voice gentle and my eyes opened.

  He was somewhat fuzzy. I didn’t have my glasses on but I knew he was still unbelievably gorgeous. The sight of him was burned on my brain in a way I knew I’d never forget.

  “Yeah?” I replied and watched him, now fully clothed, lean into a hand on the bed toward me.

  I held still as he got closer and came into better focus.

  “Grab your glasses, darlin’,” he whispered and I must have narrowed my eyes to focus on him or something.

  Jake, I also knew, didn’t miss much.

  I forced my body to come unstuck, rolled as I kept the blanket pressed to me, nabbed my glasses off the nightstand, and slid them on. I rolled back to him.

  Seeing him focused, I saw his eyes were no longer conflicted and remorseful. They were quicksilver still but affectionate, gazing at me like they did when I fancied he was thinking I was cute. Or at least I hoped it was that.

  He liked me wearing my glasses. He’d told me that flat out. Said he never had a wo
man who wore glasses. He told me it was like stepping out with a sweet, sexy school teacher.

  I’d never felt sexy, not in my life. Not until Jake.

  “We’ll talk later, yeah?” he said quietly.

  “Yeah,” I answered, hope budding in my heart at his look, his tone, his words.

  “We’ll talk later, Tess. Yeah?” he somewhat repeated, and I blinked.

  “Yeah,” I repeated too.

  “Promise me, babe.”

  I stared at him, not sure why he needed that. I didn’t play games with him, not at all. Not even when Martha told me I should, repeatedly. Test the waters. Test him. Don’t be too available. Don’t let on how much I liked him.

  But I was too old for that shit and I’d never had a man like Jake. There was no way I was going to fuck it up with games.

  So now I didn’t get where he was going with his need for a promise.

  But still, he asked and I’d give him anything he asked. Anything. Even from the very beginning.

  “Promise,” I whispered.

  He nodded.

  Then he asked, “You sleep naked?”

  A shiver I couldn’t quite read slithered over my skin. It wasn’t bad but it also wasn’t good.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Don’t start tonight,” he ordered.

  Then he leaned in, his hand not in the bed coming to cup the back of my head. He pulled me to him and kissed me hard and wet.

  His mouth released mine but he allowed me to pull back only an inch before his hand, still at the back of my head, put pressure on to stop my retreat and his eyes locked with mine.

  “We’ll talk later,” he whispered.

  Then his hand disappeared because he disappeared.

  Gone.

  I listened to my front door close.

  Then I collapsed back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  One could not say that Jake Knox was not a complicated man, he was. And although I knew him, I had no freaking clue.

  But that whole scene was wild.

  Then again, Jake—with his motorcycle boots, his bike, his beat-up pickup, his old T-shirts that fit way too well, his faded jeans that fit better, his dark brown, longish, unruly hair, his silvery-gray eyes that told a million stories without giving away a thing, his capacity to drink beer, down shots, eat hearty, howl at the moon, and kiss so hard it was like he knew it was the last moment for every being on earth and he was going to make the most of it—was wild.

  Being with Jake was like the ride I once took on a mechanical bull. You could not even begin to guess which way that thing would buck. All you could do was hold on as tight as you could and enjoy the ride for as long as you had it.

  So I needed to cool it.

  It would all be okay.

  I got up, put on underwear and a nightie, went to bed, and turned off the light.

  It took a while for me to find sleep even after having a very, very sweet orgasm, one given to me by Jake, one I’d waited a long, long time to have and after him leaving after kissing me like it was the last moment on earth and him telling me there was more to us because we were going to talk.

  But after I fell asleep, I woke when my front door was busted open, a large cadre of bulletproof-vest-wearing men surged into my house, and minutes later, I was hauled to the police station for questioning.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fucking Great Actress

  THE DOOR TO the interrogation room opened and a man wearing slacks, a shirt, a tie, and an ill-fitting sports jacket strolled in, eyes glued to me, manila folder in his hand.

  He dropped the folder on the table I was sitting at and sat across from me.

  I kept my eyes on him and, like I’d been doing since I’d been led into that room what felt like hours ago (and what I didn’t know actually was), I kept them away from the mirror. I’d seen enough cop shows on TV to know that that was where recording equipment and possibly other police officers were watching.

  “Mrs. Heller,” he said and I felt my heart skip at hearing that name.

  “Ms. O’Hara,” I replied and his gaze didn’t leave mine.

  “Sorry, ma’am?” he asked, but he wasn’t sorry. I knew he wasn’t sorry.

  “Ms. O’Hara, my name,” I answered, and he nodded, still not releasing my eyes and I didn’t tear mine from his.

  “You were Mrs. Heller,” he stated. “Do I have that right?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “You have that right.”

  “For ten years,” he went on.

  I didn’t reply, just lifted my chin a little, wondering what the hell was going on.

  “Married to Damian Heller, is that correct?”

  Uh-oh.

  I wasn’t sure this was good.

  “Yes, I was married to Damian Heller,” I agreed, then enquired, “What’s this about?”

  “Funny,” he said quietly.

  I wasn’t thinking anything was funny, including him weirdly saying the word “funny.”

  “Funny?” I prompted.

  “Funny you didn’t ask that first,” he observed. “Usually folks wanna know right off why they’re sittin’ in a room like this.”

  I stared at him.

  Then I returned, “Well, seeing as you opened with the knowledge you didn’t even know my name, I thought it important to get that straight before we got started with whatever is going on here.”

  I watched his eyes flare with annoyance as his mouth got tight.

  Jerk.

  “So,” I pushed, “would you mind telling me why I’m here?”

  “There’re a few things we need to know.”

  I lifted my brows. “And those would be?”

  “Can you tell me if you’ve been in contact with your husband recently?” he asked.

  Damn it all to hell. Damian. God!

  My ex-husband. A pain in my ass. Would I never get rid of that man?

  “Yes, I can tell you that I’ve been in contact with my ex-husband recently,” I answered.

  “And what did you discuss?” he went on.

  “We didn’t discuss anything except me asking him repeatedly to stop contacting me,” I replied.

  He studied me.

  Then he asked, “So was this on the phone or did you meet?”

  “On the phone,” I told him.

  “You didn’t meet?” he pushed.

  “No.”

  He opened the folder in front of him and my eyes dropped to it. He flipped some papers over and finally he pulled out some black-and-white eight-by-tens, turned them, and slid them across the table to me.

  In them were photos of me and Damian having lunch.

  Okay. This was not good. Why were people taking photos of me and Damian having lunch?

  And second, this was not good because I really had to consider never wearing that top again. It didn’t do me any favors even in black and white.

  “Would you like to amend your last answer?” he offered, and my eyes went to him.

  “No,” I replied, his brows went up but his head turned slightly to the side, toward the mirror.

  Yep. People were watching.

  Damn.

  “Mrs. Heller—” he started but I interrupted him.

  “My name, sir, is Ms. O’Hara. Actually, it’s Tess because no one calls me Ms. O’Hara. And I’ll explain those photos and my answer,” I stated, then went on before he could speak. “You asked if I’d been in contact with my ex-husband recently. I have on several occasions, as he calls me frequently. Sometimes I pick up and tell him to stop calling me. Sometimes I don’t. I was married to Damian for ten years. He dislikes being ignored and he’s not skilled with catching hints. He responds better to direct communication, although this endeavor unfortunately takes time because he doesn’t respond well if that communication happens to be something he doesn’t want to hear. Those photos”—I lifted a hand out of my lap and gestured to the photos on the table before dropping it back to my lap—“were taken of me having lunch with Damian what I
believe was at least six months ago. That is not, in my definition, recent. If your definition of recent is different, I apologize that I didn’t give you the answer you expected, but even so, I still gave you one that was honest.”

  He didn’t hesitate after I spoke before he asked, “Can you tell me what you discussed during this not-recent lunch?”

  “Can you tell me why I’m here?” I returned.

  “I prefer to ask the questions Ms. O’Hara.”

  I stared at him then I pulled in a breath before I answered, “Damian wanted to discuss reconciliation.”

  “He wants you back,” he stated.

  “That is what reconciliation means,” I informed him and his mouth got tight again.

  Then he observed, “I would assume from your asking him not to contact you via the phone that you declined this reconciliation.”

  “You would assume correctly.”

  “And that was it? That’s all you discussed?”

  “No, he asked about our dog, who I got custody of in the divorce and who has since died. I told him he died. Other than that, yes. Pretty much. That’s all that we discussed.”

  “Pretty much?”

  “Sir, it was six months ago and at that time I hadn’t seen him in person in over four years. His contacting me at all was a surprise and not a good one. His reason for wanting to meet was a surprise too and definitely not a good one. I’m sorry I didn’t take note of everything we discussed but the reason for the meeting kind of rooted itself in my brain, forcing out everything else.”

  “You hadn’t seen him in over four years,” he noted.

  “Yes, that’s what I said,” I confirmed.

  “So, if you didn’t wish to reconcile, why did you agree to lunch?”

  I pulled in a breath and I stated, “I forgot.”

  He stared at me.

  Then he repeated my words in a question. “You forgot?”

  I nodded.

  “I forgot how Damian is. When he contacted me and told me his father wasn’t well and that he wanted to meet me for lunch, I forgot that Damian is, well…” I threw out a hand. “Damian. Or maybe I didn’t forget. Maybe I blocked it out, considering I spent those years trying to block out everything about Damian. But I know how close he is to his father. I was close to his father, though I haven’t seen him in over four years either. So I felt badly he wasn’t well and I wanted to know what was happening. Damian refused to tell me any details over the phone so I met him. Then I discovered nothing was wrong with his father and Damian used that to lure me to lunch.”