Chapter 17

Idon’t remember falling asleep. We were snuggled up and my mind was racing, fears and worries washing over me, drowning me. But Lance was holding me close, giving me time, giving me space, giving me oxygen to be okay.

But I must have fallen asleep because I’m waking up, still surrounded by his arms, his warmth permeating me where our skin touches.

He touches me everywhere, not just where my back is pressed to his chest or where my ass cradles his cock, and not only where even our feet are tangle together. He touches me inside my soul.

It’s terrifying, it’s exhilarating, it’s everything I’ve always wanted but been too afraid to wish for. The little seed of hope is the scariest thing I’ve ever felt, because I’ve felt it before and had it ripped away, ugly strands of my innocence left in its wake.

I need to stop this or slow this down. Put us back where we were somehow, before I slice myself open and give him my heart. Because he’s going to leave. It’s what men do. They lure me in, make me think I can have it all, be it all, do it all, and then they leave. I’m left to pick up the pieces of my shattered soul, again and again, ever since I was a little girl.

I can’t do it again. I can already feel that if Lance leaves, the shattering will be epic, a disaster I don’t know if I can recover from.

Reset. I need a reset.

I must move, or somehow twitch, because Lance pulls me in closer, his arms caging me against him. As he rearranges, his hips press forward, drawing my mind and focus to where we are only inches apart.

That’s what I need to pull us back to before, thrashing and pounding and exuberant in the physicality of fucking. No drama, no baggage, no gamble that he might destroy me.

I wiggle again, this time purposefully, grinding my ass back to tease him. Slowly, Lance wakes up, a moan already on his lips. “Good morning to you too,” he says, gravel in his tone.

“I need you. I need to feel . . . everything . . . nothing,” I say, likely revealing too much.

Lance’s hand grips my hip, stilling me, but he thrusts against me, his cock sliding through my ass cheeks. “I’ve got you.”

He slips an arm underneath me, holding my chest in place. He kicks the blanket off, his other hand pulling my thigh up and back over his, opening me to the cool air of the room. It feels cleansing, purifying, vulnerable to be held in place, though the physical exposure is so much less than the emotional.

His cock nudges at my entrance like he’s testing my wetness, but I’m drenched for him, needing this. “Please . . .” I beg, my head falling back to his shoulder. “Hard.”

He nuzzles my neck, inhaling me, and I grip his hair, holding him to me too. With a fierce thrust, he enters me to the hilt, impaling me on his cock. I jerk at the intrusion, the feeling a perfect blend of pleasure and pain, much like Lance’s presence in my life, but when he starts to stroke into me, pleasure takes over.

He’s rough in the dark, both of us only going by feel, the sound of slapping skin filling the room. I can’t hold back the moans, the symphony pouring from my mouth as he plays my body like an instrument he already knows too well.

His hand moves from my thigh to my clit, teasing it in slow circles, soft in comparison with the hard way he’s fucking me. “I know what you’re doing, Charlotte. But don’t be scared. I can handle your demons. Can you handle mine?”

I don’t answer, afraid the answer is no . . . more afraid the answer is yes. He smacks at my pussy, a sharp sting that puts me on the edge, crying out as I teeter, ready to fall into my orgasm. Ready to fall into him.

He pops me once more, punishing my lack of faith, my unwillingness to jump, and I spasm. I can’t hold back the tidal wave washing over and through me any longer. “Yes. Yes . . . yes!” I cry. We both know I’m not simply calling out my pleasure but answering his question.

I tried to fight, tried to deny, tried to protect myself. But it didn’t work. In one orgasm, he’s decimated my defenses and we both know it. I may never get a happily ever after, if such a thing truly exists. But I’m fully on this ride with Lance until it goes off the tracks, which I know it inevitably will.

But I’ll take as much of him as I can get. Soak it up to get me through the days after he’s gone because even if he doesn’t go back to the SEALs, he’ll leave me eventually. They always do.

For now, though, I feel him bucking deep into me, bottoming out like he can imprint himself on my most private of places and make me believe. As he comes, his hot cum splashing inside me, I almost do.

Afterward, Lance stays inside me, his long fingers tracing along my skin like he’s leap-frogging from one freckle to the next in the dark. It feels right, like we could stay here like this forever, no ghosts of the past, no shimmery future, this moment enough to live in.

But sleep overtakes us, and once again, I relax into him and let the dreams wash me under.

My alarm is an annoying chirp that’s loud enough to wake the dead. It has to be to rouse me from the peace of the early morning hours to begin baking, but this morning, it’s even worse. I feel like I’ve been running all night, mind churning from dream to nightmare and back again.

Lance reaches over, swatting at the alarm, and blessed silence returns. But he doesn’t let me fall back asleep. He kicks the covers off us, the shocking cold making me cry out. My eyes only open to slits, but I look back and see him smiling. He’s one of those chipper morning people, which usually I don’t mind since he makes coffee first thing, but this morning, I could really use a few more minutes of shut eye.

I relax back into the soft mattress, mumbling, “Five minutes.” Or at least I think I say that.

Lance is having none of that. He spanks my bare ass, the pop loud but not as loud as my cry of surprise. “What the hell?” Yeah, as much of a morning person as he may be, I’m most definitely not.

“Rise and shine, porcupine. We’ve got work to do, muffins to muff, cupcakes to cup, and pies to . . . pie? I don’t know. I was on a roll, so work with me,” he says, laughing.

It doesn’t feel weird or heavy. In fact, it’s like he’s doing his best to make things between us seem just the way they were before, but I can see the darkness in his blue eyes, the way he’s watching me carefully, even though I’ve only got one eye fully opened now.

“Coffeeeee,” I say, sounding like a zombie hunting for brains.

“On it,” he snaps, salute and all, before disappearing out of the bedroom. I can hear him in the kitchen, the beep as the coffee maker starts, then the water turning on as he cleans up the plates from last night.

He’s nervous too. That’s his tell. Or maybe he’s just being a neat freak. Hard to know for sure, but I should get out there and help him.

I roll over, stretching long and lean on the bed, and stand, reaching for the ceiling once again to get all the kinks out of my muscles. I don’t bother making my bed—not my tendency, unlike some people—instead, grabbing Lance’s T-shirt from the floor and pulling it over my head.

When I pop through, he’s standing in front of me, blessedly bitter nectar of the gods in hand. “Thank you,” I say, taking it. It’s so dark I can feel my body getting energized just from the smell.

“Hop in the shower. I’ll make you breakfast,” he offers, taking my half-empty cup from me. “Promise, it’ll help.”

I smile. “I’m headed downstairs to make breakfast for half of Roseboro. I can grab a muffin hot out of the oven.”

His single lifted brow dares me to argue with him. “You need protein for the long day, and I saw eggs and bacon in your fridge. Now, get.” He swats at my ass again, and I squeal, running for the bathroom like he’s chasing me.

I want him to chase me, I think.

God, I’m wishy-washy as fuck. From my middle of the night freakout to wanting him by the light of day.

I suds up my hair and body, noting that I’m deliciously sore from the rough, pounding way Lance took me in the middle of the night. After a quick rinse, I dry off, braiding my hair out of the way and foregoing makeup. It doesn’t do me any good in the hot kitchen, mostly melting right off.

I yank on jeans and a Cake Culture shirt, the smell of bacon teasing at me enough to make me hurry. In the kitchen, I see Lance standing at my stove, naked save for the apron he’s tossed on. His bare ass looks downright edible peeking out the back.

I slide up behind him, standing on my tiptoes to peek over his shoulder. “Something looks delicious,” I purr.

“SEALs can cook, you know. You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

I grin, smacking his ass the way he did mine before getting in a pinch. “Wasn’t talking about the bacon.”

He kisses me, quick and casual, before telling me to sit down. I sit at the now clean table, and he sets down two plates of eggs and perfectly crisped bacon.

As he sits, he says, “Wanted to talk to you about something.”

Shit. That didn’t take long for the shoe to drop. Some fucking Cinderella I am, shattering glass slippers everywhere I go.

The bacon that was delicious a second ago now tastes like ash as I swallow, forcing it down. “Okay,” I say, resigned.

“Thomas’s challenge, the Hope Initiative. Are you doing anything yet? I thought we could do something together if not.”

Errrk! My brain gets whiplash as his words sink in. “Wait. What?”

He picks up his own fork. “The Hope Initiative. Wanna do it together?”

I can feel my eyes widen, my heart grow, and my stomach flip-flop. “You want to do a project together?”

When he nods, I almost don’t believe it. Is he for real? Like for-real, for-real? I keep feeling like I’m getting punked, but maybe that’s my own cynical self-sabotage? That starts a whole hamster-wheel of thoughts running through my mind, so I stop them with a single word. “Yes.”

With one question, my fears are pushed away and we end up discussing ideas to make a difference in Roseboro at four thirty in the morning, over breakfast in my apartment. It feels . . . amazing. As long as I keep the door shut on the little demon in my head that whispers it won’t last.

“So, Trixie suggested we do a subsidized preschool at a nursing home, bridge the generations-type thing. Or scholarships for those who need them for a brighter future.” I can’t help the grin that crosses my face at her Scholarships for Strippers idea.

“You think she’ll be okay working with me too?” Lance asks, and I can tell he doesn’t want to step on anyone’s toes by jumping in on this.

“Might cost you a couple of stories about sweaty soldiers playing volleyball in the sand, complete with descriptions of the guys’ bodies, but you can handle that, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, a devilish smile on his face, and I wonder how he’s going to torture Trixie with the tales. “But seriously, the bridging the gap type deal is a good idea. We could call it ‘Generations of Hope’ or something like that. There was something similar for our K-9 dogs when they’d retire or get injured. Usually, they’d go to their handlers, but for the dogs who needed to be adopted, they’d pair them up with a vet, usually someone with PTSD. The K-9 acts as a type of emotional support for them because they’ve both been through the same things. It’s a perfect match for them both. The generations thing sounds like that, helping them get through similar things or address universal issues.”

“Wow, I didn’t know anything like that even existed,” I say, sad at the need for something like that but thankful it exists.

Lance shakes his head, shrugging. “It doesn’t in Roseboro. But we don’t have to do that specifically. We should all get together—you, me, and Trixie—and figure something out.”

Plan made, he takes my empty plate to the sink, rinsing it before putting it into the dishwasher. “Have I told you how sexy you are when you clean things?” I say, a sultry tease woven in the question.

He flexes his arm and winks at me. “Yep, I figured that’s why you were letting me wash your cookie sheets every night. Wait, no . . . suds your pan.” He smirks like his pun is creatively hilarious.

I can’t help but laugh. He’s trying so hard sometimes. “Stick with the food puns. They’re tastier.”

“You’ve got me there.” He looks down, noting that he’s still naked except for my apron. He pulls the white fabric over his head, hanging it on the hook and damn-near strutting back to the bedroom, dick swinging like a fucking god. Or a Fucking God. Honestly, he’s both.

Which both scares me to death and thrills me beyond measure.

It’s okay, Char. You’ve got this.