Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2)

by Kimberly Derting

  “Liar,” I told him, giving in and pressing my hand to his hot, bare chest. Fire erupted beneath my palm and my focus shifted. Suddenly all I could think of was the feel of his skin. The pounding of his heart. “That’s not what I heard,” I whispered.

  “What did you hear?”

  I scrutinized him. The way he stood, stiffly. The taut lines of his forced smile. “I heard it was a massacre.”

  “That so?” He laughed, and even that simple action made him grimace.

  I sighed, holding my own wince inside. “Go lie down, Chuckles.”

  This time he didn’t laugh, but his eyebrow hitched up. “Well, I definitely wasn’t expecting that. If this is my reward for getting my ass beat, then it was totally worth it.”

  “Shut up. There’s no reward for stupidity. You shoulda told them thanks but no thanks the second they even suggested you face off with them. But . . . ,” I smiled suggestively and drawled, “I happen to know a thing or two. And I might could help a fella out.”

  He growled. “Goddamn, I love it when you speak Texas to me.” He lowered himself gently on the bed, face up, giving me an I’m ready look.

  “Nice try.” I pasted a tolerant expression on my face. “But I’m gonna need you to roll over, Romeo.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he muttered as he turned to bury his face into his pillow.

  I climbed onto the bed, ignoring the flood of memories this position brought with it. It felt like home, being here, in bed with Lucas.

  Lowering my hands to his shoulders, Lucas groaned at the lightest pressure, only this wasn’t a good groan. This was a kill-me-now groan. I pulled back my hand.

  “Sorry,” I told him. “This might hurt a little. But I need you to trust me.”

  His hand shot back and snagged me by the wrist. “I don’t trust a lot of people, Em. But you . . .” His voice was low and thick. “I have complete faith in you.”

  Emboldened, not just by his words, but also by the nearness of him—the familiar surface of his skin and the fresh smell of him that ambushed me now that I was so close to him. I traced my fingertips along his shoulders again. Expertly, the way I’d learned over the years of watching trainers work on my father and brothers, I dug my fingers into his muscles, loosening them. Relaxing them. I used every part of my hands—fingers, thumbs, palms, even my elbows, to work the knots that had formed during the beating he’d taken. And when I needed to get closer, and to gain more leverage, I climbed over the top of him, straddled his ass.

  It wasn’t until I felt him rock his hips backward, that I even realized that I’d been grinding into him. Pressing more than just my hands into his flesh. I’d thrust my breasts against the broad surface of his back as my hair fell in cascading waves over his skin. At some point I’d begun rocking, and he’d matched me, meeting my rhythm . . . met and matched . . . met and matched, until I was hot and wet and throbbing for more.

  “Emerson,” he rasped into his pillow.

  I leaned all the way forward, so I was right at his ear. Maybe if I said it quietly, so quietly it wasn’t even a word, none of this would count.

  “Lucas,” I whispered back.

  But that was all it took.

  His muscles unleashed with his restraint, and he rolled over and bucked beneath me. I could feel him now—feel him—rock hard beneath the suddenly-too-thick layer of my clothes. I wasn’t sure where his towel had gone—had it gotten lost when he’d shifted positions, or had he shed it before, when I’d lost track of what I was doing, during the massage? Either way, it was gone. It was just Lucas now. Solid and throbbing and ready.

  For me.

  I thought about putting an end to this, stopping what I’d started the moment I’d knocked on his door, right here, right now. But it was only a thought. A fleeting one that was hazy and hard to hold onto, and his lips extinguished it at the same time they ignited a fire that shot all the way to my core.

  This was the Lucas I remembered. This was the not-friends Lucas I wanted . . . craved . . . needed.

  “Lucas,” I said again, louder now.

  “Emerson.” There was no question or uncertainty in the way he said my name, not this time or the last, and our mouths never parted. We were still kissing. Talking and kissing and panting. “I missed you. I missed this.”

  He dragged me down, closer, harder, his need consuming him. Consuming me. That fire stormed. I didn’t worry that it would burn too bright or too hot because I couldn’t think anything except that this was happening.

  This . . . Lucas.

  Now . . . Lucas.

  Here . . . Lucas.

  He shoved his hand between my legs and I gasped, squirming to help him undo the jeans that kept us apart. I unzipped them, giving him full access, and the moment his fingers plunged inside me, I gasped again, because, yes, this was right.

  Lucas . . .

  Lucas . . .

  Lucas!

  And then I realized the screaming wasn’t coming from inside my own head. There was someone outside the pool house door, calling for Lucas.

  A voice I recognized. A voice I more than recognized.

  “Daddy,” I wheezed, my entire body going stock-still.

  A wicked smile touched Lucas’s lips. “Sure, I’ll answer to Daddy, if that’s what you kids are into these days.”

  I punched him square in the chest, right before I rolled onto the floor, into the narrow chasm between the wall and the other side of the bed. I crouched low as shame flooded my cheeks.

  Jesus, my dad was out there. How much did he know? How much had he heard?

  I peered over the top of the mattress, while outside the door, my dad continued to pummel the door. “Lucas! Boy, you in there?”

  “Tell him to go away. Tell him you . . .” I floundered, my brain a fog of uncertainty. “Tell him you threw your back out and you can’t move.”

  Lucas sprang up from the bed in a smooth motion, not looking at all like a man who’d spent the afternoon running drills with a Hall of Fame running back and his All-American sons. Had this all been a ploy? Had he been faking his injuries to gain sympathy and a back rub that had almost turned into his version of a happy ending?

  “I’m not telling him I fucked up my back, Em. Then he’ll think I’m a pussy for sure.”

  “I can hear you in there, son. You’d best be alone.”

  Lucas shot me a stern look and signaled for me to get down, before answering back. “Coming. Just getting off a call.”

  My heart felt like it might explode out of my chest when Lucas opened the door.

  Then my dad’s voice boomed, “I came with a peace offering, son. I hope the boys and me didn’t scare you off today. We was just foolin’ with you. Showing you the ropes and such.” I heard the swish of liquid, most likely a bottle of Dewar’s White Label—my dad’s favorite.

  “Not at all. I appreciated the tour.” I tried to decide if there was a trace of sarcasm in Lucas’s tone when he said tour. “And thanks. For this. I promise not a drop of it’ll go to waste.”

  “See that it doesn’t, young man. That’s a mighty fine bottle of Scotch you’re holdin’ there.” He sighed. “I’d offer to stay and join you for a glass, but I’m guessing you’ve got better company to indulge with.” There was a slapping sound, and I could picture my dad giving Lucas a friendly clap on the shoulder. “I’ll see you two at the party tonight.”

  You two?

  He knew. Crap, crap, and triple crap. My dad knew I was in here.

  And then, before I could stew on it any longer, decide how—or whether—to respond at all, the door closed decisively. The sound rang hollowly in my ears.

  “You can come out now,” Lucas called. But I’d already figured as much.

  I glanced at Lucas, trying to figure out where we’d gone wrong.

  But it was right there, plain as day. Right next to Lucas’s shiny new bottle of Scotch, sitting on the counter. Right next to the ibuprofen I’d brought too, which also happened to be where I�
��d set my cell phone . . . complete with its bedazzled pink case. Even if my dad hadn’t suspected I was here, he probably could have guessed I wouldn’t be far from my phone.

  “Crap,” I said. “He knew.”

  “Looks that way.” He shrugged. “So . . . where were we?”

  I lifted my eyebrows in an expression that let him know the massage was over. “We were about to head back to our room to get ready for the big party.” I grabbed my phone on my way to the door. “Sorry, but something about having your dad bust in on you kinda puts a damper on things.”

  I don’t know if it was the fight with my mom earlier in the day, or the fact that my dad had just caught me in Lucas’s room. Or maybe it was all the extra pent-up sexual frustration I’d been left with, but I was suddenly fit to be tied. So when I passed the window on my way to the shower and saw the light on down in Lucas’s room, I hesitated.

  This was the first time I’d ever cared that the view from my room to the pool house was a straight shot. Maybe because Lucas had never stayed out there before. Maybe because I’d never been so damned horny I wanted to scratch my own skin off like some sex junkie in need of her next fix. And, unfortunately for me, my showerhead wasn’t of the detachable variety.

  So . . .

  If I had to walk around feeling all wound up and tense, maybe Lucas should too.

  That’s when I’d come up with a plan. An incredibly devious, unsportsmanlike plan.

  And all it required was for Lucas to be paying attention . . .

  LUCAS

  Emerson had turned me into a Peeping Tom, and as torturous as it was—sheer and utter torture—it wasn’t exactly against my will. I was free to look away anytime I wanted. Close the blinds or my eyes. But I didn’t.

  I stood there watching. Like some pimple-faced teenager spying on the girl next door.

  But, shit, how could I not? When she was straight up stripping?

  And fuck if she wasn’t doing it on purpose.

  It was bad enough I was still sporting a hard-on from where her hands had been all over me. That massage of hers had turned sexy as hell, and she’d made me forget all about the beatdown I’d taken at the stadium. As much as I’d like to think I’d held my own, I’d been outdone by her brothers and her old man, and no matter how many times they tried to laugh it off as a “friendly game,” they weren’t kidding anyone. Those guys had been out for blood.

  But Emerson had made the whole thing worthwhile. If her father hadn’t busted in on us when he had, I was pretty sure I would have scored with her, ending our standoff about who could be the better friend to whom.

  Now, here I was, a guest in her family’s home and taking advantage of my bird’s-eye view of her childhood bedroom, while she stood in front of the window (probably . . . almost certainly deliberately) undressing in a way that would give any skilled stripper a run for her money.

  She’d already shimmied out of her jeans and shed her top. She was down to only her bra and a pair of lacy trimmed panties. The dim light behind her gave her skin a radiant glow as she ran one finger suggestively along the inside of the delicate waistband, never once glancing my way, as if she were clueless to her captive audience of one.

  “Fuck,” I cursed, running my own hand through my hair. I’d definitely need another shower.

  What had I expected? I already knew she wasn’t a play-fair kind of woman.

  And, if I was being honest, Emerson wasn’t the only one playing games. My whole let’s-be-friends campaign wasn’t having the results I’d hoped for.

  What did I really want from her? With Emerson, I never know whether I was coming or going. On the surface, it should have been simple. She was drop-dead fucking gorgeous, and when she’d first moved in, I’d expected her to be an uncomplicated fuck buddy. Someone to have a few laughs with, but who would be gone by the end of the summer.

  Over time though, I’d seen past all her swagger and gotten a glimpse of the parts of her she tried to keep hidden from the rest of the world. She was driven, and had graduated at the top of her class in both high school and college. She never said as much, but I knew from her conversations with her best friend, Lauren, that the internship she was starting next month—the one she played off as no big deal—was a huge deal. She’d beaten out a field of thousands of qualified applicants to get it. I also knew from their conversations that she was loyal . . . aggressively so. So much so, that I feared for Will’s safety if he ever fucked Lauren over—no joke.

  But Emerson wasn’t my biggest obstacle to the two of us being together, it was me. My baggage. My life had become a mess since Adam had died. Not just because of Aster or the gala, or even the fact that I was still lying to my mother about my engagement to Aster. But I no longer had any idea who I even was anymore . . . or what I wanted.

  Even if I wasn’t trying to hide my breakup with Aster, I couldn’t afford to give anything more than friendship to anyone.

  Before Adam’s death, I’d been ready to take on the world. I thought I had my shit together. Losing him destroyed me. It was as if I’d died too. I wasn’t like my mother, or even my father, who only needed to say the words it’s for the best and took comfort in knowing he was no longer suffering.

  Nothing about losing Adam was for the best. Part of me never really believed he would actually die. Somehow, I guess I thought he’d manage to beat the disease. He would be the one person, who, no matter how many times he got sick . . . no matter how bad it got and how hard it was for him to breathe . . . would beat the odds.

  He’d win.

  We’d win.

  I mean, I knew better. Of course I knew. I’d lived with that truth all my life.

  But there I’d been, still not willing to accept the truth.

  He was my brother and he was all I had.

  I’d clung to that hope right up until the final day. The final minutes. Until my parents had agreed to take him off life support. And when they did, they’d unplugged me too.

  If I went anywhere during those first weeks after his death, I don’t recall. If I ate, I don’t remember. If I showered, slept, if I even breathed, it was all a blank.

  Aster had been there though. She’d taken care of me. She made sure arrangements were made and my needs met.

  Before Adam died, I’d admitted to him that I was going to break off my engagement to Aster. He was the only person who knew my plans.

  But then, before I could tell Aster, everything had changed so quickly. And afterward, when Adam was gone and things became so muddled . . . I’d been so untethered from everything, and it was only Aster who was there, holding me down.

  So I stayed.

  And I let her stay.

  For too long.

  Then one day I woke up and realized it was time. I had to start living again. Not just for me, but because Adam would have wanted that. It was what he’d always wanted for me.

  I did all the things my family—my mother, in particular—had never let me do, back when she’d insisted I stay close in case Adam needed me. I quit working for my uncle, at a job I hated. I started the foundation so I could honor Adam’s memory. I moved to the beach so I could finally learn to surf, the way Adam and I had always dreamed of doing.

  Before long, I realized there was no place for Aster in this new life. I never lied to her. I explained everything, trying to make her understand. But by then she considered herself a fixture in my life, permanent and irreplaceable. She refused to let go, the same way I had after Adam’s death.

  I never really stopped to ask myself what Aster wanted, mostly because it seemed obvious—she wanted me to stop messing around and come back to her. But why? I understood my mother’s motivation for wanting Aster and me together, but Aster already had social standing and fortune. Surely, she could do better. What kind of future did she really see for the two of us?

  Frankly, the future I envisioned for myself was a black hole. Then and now.

  I considered myself damaged goods. For Em’s sake, it was better
that she’d be leaving soon. I was too broken to be in a relationship with anyone. If she had any sense, she’d pack her shit and move to Arizona tomorrow.

  I stared up at her window as she reached behind her back. With an unseen flick of her fingertips, she released the delicate lace bra and it fluttered to the floor, freeing the lush peaks of her breasts.

  Goddamn, she had magnificent tits.

  I should look away. Close my eyes. Stop staring like some deviant.

  Then her gaze shifted and fastened on mine, giving up the sham altogether. My teeth clenched and I exhaled tightly. If I’d been hard before, seeing the intensity burning behind her eyes, I could cut glass with my cock now.

  Tonight would be a test. Emerson was my drug. She coursed through my veins, making me ache with need. I hoped I could survive this party tonight without bending her over, kicking her legs apart, and thrusting myself inside her from behind.

  Otherwise, I doubted the men in her family would “take it easy” on me again.

  EMERSON

  If the pulse of music and shrieks of laughter filtering up to my bedroom were any indicator, the party downstairs had been in full swing for at least the past hour. An obnoxious reminder of how late I was. If I were a better daughter, I would have been playing hostess when the first guests arrived instead of worrying over things like my hair and my shoes, and which dress gave me a show-stopping ass.

  But something about having Lucas around had turned me into one of those girls.

  Still, all my efforts were rewarded when I stepped out into the hallway and found him there, leaning against the silk-paneled wall like he had nothing better to do than wait for me.

  Hunger flared in his eyes. “You look . . .” His gaze swept over me, reminding me of a ravenous cartoon character salivating over a life-sized turkey leg, and I was the turkey leg. “ . . . dressed,” he finished on a sexy rumble that made my thighs clench.

  I’d gotten to him.

  I matched his predatory gaze, and raised it with a smug one of my own. I was more than happy to talk about my impromptu striptease. “You noticed.”