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Last night returns to me in shades of unreality as I stand there, remembering Jackie coming home and cutting off what I was going to tell Millie. After that, I told them that I’d stay to keep them safe, and my chest swelled when Millie leaped at the offer, all fiery, with that spark in her eyes that goes straight to my soul.
Then I called up my ex-SEAL contacts, a few of whom work in law enforcement now, and I fed them all the information Millie could give me about this Finn Marston motherfucker.
Now it’s just a matter of staying vigilant in case the bastard shows up again.
And protect Millie.
Because I’d never let anything happen to her.
All last night my dreams were a frenetic rush of her, the taste of her on my lips, the way she shivered when she hit her release, my engorged seed-swollen manhood pushing apart those pink lips and grinding deeply inside, watching as she shivered and took every last inch.
And then on – dreaming – seeing us standing together outside of our first home.
Sharing a smile over our child’s first word.
Millie beaming proudly in her chef’s uniform, standing in a shining metal kitchen, and then grabbing her hips through the pleated black of her chef’s pants and lifting her onto the counter, grinding, claiming, owning.
Several times last night the urge to grab my rock hard manhood came to me, but I fought it fiercely, unwilling to give in to the urge.
My seed belongs inside of her.
Nowhere else.
I return to the living room, moving quietly through the shadows and the semidarkness, used to the low light and the soundlessness from my time in the military.
I sit down next to Lava and let him rest his head on my leg, his tail wagging sleepily before becoming still like the rest of him.
I need to tell her how I feel, how I see our future together.
Otherwise, I’m just wasting our damn time.
But what if she laughs? What if she runs?Chapter TwelveMillieI sit in the passenger seat of Markus’ Chevy, my waitress’ uniform feeling like it clings far too close to my body. I glance at him and then out of the window, and then back again, trying to detect any hint of distaste in his expression from my uniform.
After last night, you really think he doesn’t want you?
I try to clutch firmly onto the delirious pleasure of last night, his mouth a contained fire between my thighs, pleasing, attacking, making me feel things I’d only ever read about before.
I woke this morning with the firm conviction that I would tell him the truth before things got too far before it becomes this huge unsaid thing hanging between us like a scythe ready to drop.
But as we drive through the forest, all I can really hear is the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.
It’s a small thing, I try to tell myself.
Compared with everything else going on – Lava being let out, the window, the car, Finn – it’s not worth stressing about.
But that doesn’t stop me from bringing my hand to my face with the intention of worrying at my already-gnawed fingernails, an ugly habit I’ve tried to kill more times than I can count.
Markus glances over at me and I quickly let my hand drop.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says.
Behind him, nature moves by, the trees standing like prickly soldiers waiting for their orders. Markus wears the same shirt from last night, his suit jacket in the back seat, his body like solid oak beneath the thin material.
“What’s on your mind, Millie?” he asks a moment later.
I force a laugh. “Apart from the obvious?”
He smirks.
One day I’ll get you to smile for real, Markus.
“Yeah,” he says. “You were going to tell me something last night before we were interrupted.”
I almost shoot back that the same could be said for him. Before Jackie walked in, when his expression became an intense inferno, I’m certain he was going to say something important.
But he’s talking about the first time when we were upstairs before the brick shattered our conversation.
My hand once again strays toward my mouth as though it has a freaking mind of its own. I remember when the notes first started arriving, how the habit began to grow within me, this need to control something, anything. It was a small thing, gnawing crazily at my nails, but at least I chose when and how it happened.
I forcibly place my hands in my lap, gripping them together.
“Maybe you should pull over,” I murmur.
He glides the car to the side of the road, over the ice and the crunchy leaves, and then brings it to a stop. The engine continues to purr, the heating blasting us, turning my cheeks red.
Or maybe that has something to do with the words trying to choke their way up my throat.
