Complete We (A Her Billionaires Novella #4) (8 page)

The only person she knew who she could even talk to about it was Josie, but right now Josie was so busy with the business and with Alex that Laura hadn’t had two seconds to give her a call and bring it up. Besides, she thought with a sigh as she strode toward the bathroom where Mike showered, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

Franks’s sudden appearance threw her entire life out of balance.

And rightly so.

The man was supposed to have filled the big hole left behind by having no father in her life, but instead he’d never been around. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t talk about him much, but when he breezed into town every few years they’d made a to-do about him. The one Thanksgiving and two Christmases she remembered seeing Frank were etched in her mind, because they were the only holidays where she’d watched her mother drink to the point of being drunk. Slurred words and silly behavior from a woman who, generally speaking, was mild-mannered, a diligent worker, and a steady presence in Laura’s life.

If a little boring.

Grandpa had better filled the father role in Laura’s life, and he’d been good. Not enough, though. Not what Jillian had with Mike and Dylan.

Frank’s weird appearance was triggering her emotionally, left, right, and upside down. Mike, too, it seemed.

Mike.

She shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts, eyes tracking Dylan as he carried Jillie into the kitchen to give her a snack. The two spoke to each other in rumbling laughter that faded as the sound of the shower grew sharper, filling Laura’s ears.

A loud thumping alarmed her and she barged into the bathroom, shouting for Mike.

“You okay? What’s that sound?” she called out through steam so thick it covered up the world.

“Fine. In here.” The thumping stopped. A hand splayed across the shower door, peach skin against the white condensation. A thin pink licked at the edges.

“You’re bleeding!” she gasped, opening the shower door. Rough hands pulled her in, clothed and all, the shock of being soaked through by hot needles of wetness making her breath come in hitched whoops, trying to re-establish normalcy. Mike’s hands gripped her, palms so big he could wrap his fingers around her biceps, and as that registered, the dig of frantic flesh pressing against hers, all thought was obliterated by the crush of his mouth against hers, sucking all the air out of her lungs, the room, the world.

The slick movement of so much muscle and bone, desperate hands smashing her to him, the rub of a stray button between his abs and her belly made her hot. The feel of wet heat against her ankles, her inner thighs, the slow rise of temperature from warm to impossibly scorching across too many stretches of skin. As Laura disintegrated into the kiss and matched Mike’s intensity was like a sensual violence, and she found the typical thoughts that would make her stray from the immediacy of him were gone.

Just…gone.

His urgency penetrated every cell, hands ripping at her clothes, the wet cloth flying off her as if helicopter blades shredded it, his thighs smashing into her knees as he bent to bite her breast, hands grabbing her naked ass, fingers digging in and pressing hard.

Any protests she might normally have vanquished instantly as his rock-hard cock nudged against her thighs, making her quiver with heat and urgency, his sensual rage contagious. She wanted to fuck her way out of this feeling that the world was crooked.

Maybe he could jar her back to center with the force of being taken.

As he entered her, the shower spray hit her full-on, making her gasp and gulp to find air, his teeth no longer gentle on her breasts, her shoulder, his hands cupping her ass and pulling her up along the tiled shower wall. As he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, strength matching his, daring him to try thrusting so hard.

He took the dare, bending slightly, making his thighs a platform for her invasion. She pulsed in place, his hammer strokes rough and violent, her mouth biting his shoulder now, fingers threading through wet hair as she could only cling with the barest of instinct.

Mike’s eyes were closed as she looked at him, frantic and panicked, on the edge of a climax that felt too great, too much, too…everything. The power between them created by friction and desperation, intimacy and quake, became an impulse that felt out of bounds, as if giving in to it violated the laws of physics.

Of love.

Of—

Mike’s mouth uttered a sound that vibrated from his hips on up, the rigid muscles of his neck and back a warning, the sudden force of his entry a slam into muscles inside her she could not name. The pain splintered her vision, making lightning bolts appear as Laura perched on the precipice between pain and forbidden pleasure.

One finger slid to the puckered skin of her ass, wrenching its way in as she cried out against his chest, his motions too strong for her to fight, her dire need too compelling for her to stop.

She lost her senses in one stroke, the push of Mike and his primal shout like a portal into a place where she disappeared into pure essence, where even love was too little compared to the greatness they’d created in this moment.

Slowly, she became conscious of the weight of him, his chin on her neck, the pinpricks of hot water on her cheekbone, the raw burn of his finger that penetrated her still.

“Ah, God,” he grunted, lifting her up and pulling out with a shaky sigh. “Did I hurt you?”

She couldn’t lie. “Yes.” But it was a cleansing pain, one she needed along with the intimacy and love.

“I’m sorry—”

She pressed her fingers against his lips. He would not meet her eyes. Rivers of water poured down his darkened hair, finding the path of least resistance on the planes of his face. Drops suspended on the ends of his eyelashes, like diamonds.

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry.”

And then whatever came next—whatever might have evolved in that moment—was cut short by the sound of the doorbell.

Mike slowly dropped Laura down, helping her to stand on legs that quivered.

And then he punched the tile wall with his still-bleeding hand. Over and over, like thrusting into her again and again, a rhythm designed to make a very different kind of pain go away.

Ding!

“Ding!” Jillian called out, in pitch-perfect imitation of the doorbell. Dylan gawked at her; how did she do that? Even if he tried, he couldn’t come close. Marveling at yet another discovery about the odd inner workings of tiny beings, he walked to the door, glancing at the clock. Cyndi was due in an hour, and—

He halted.

Wait. That was tomorrow. Cyndi came
tomorrow
.

Eyes narrowing by instinct, he cut to the right, avoiding being seen in the tall, narrow floor-to-ceiling windows that surrounded the front door. White sheers covered the glass, but anyone waiting outside could move an inch or two and see in.

Frank could, that is. Frank. Dylan had no doubt about who was out there.

“Dada!” Jillian called out from the kitchen, still in her high chair, fingers picking up little cereal Os with precision. The coffee machine burbled and he took careful breaths, as if five more steps to the front door would tip him into another dimension, like his life was divided by the living room carpet and how much of it he let stretch between him and his daughter.

Dylan had no reaction right now. None, other than the quick thoughts that sorted themselves like a triage nurse examining a bus crash to determine priority care. No raised heartbeat, no panic, no worry, no what-ifs like Laura.

This was the what-if come to life. Time to face it.

Head-on.

With great purpose he crossed the room, flung open the door, and barked out, “We aren’t buying it.”

“Not buying what?” said a man’s voice. Dylan looked straight ahead. The man standing before him looked nothing like Laura, and was the exact same height as Dylan, given the single step up into the cabin. After years of modeling, Dylan had an eye for what society considered “attractive” in men, and Frank was it. To a T.

The guy, in fact, could go out and get a fifty-plus modeling contract in three seconds or less, with a slight peppering of the temple hair against dirty-blonde looks, eyes that were two shades darker than Laura’s, and that devil-may-care kind of personality that people in modeling circles love, but that always made Dylan’s teeth grind.

People that casual were usually sociopaths.

And Dylan wasn’t wrong this time.

“Whatever you’re selling.”

“I’m not selling anything.” Frank spread his hands out in a gesture of supplication, like a preacher at a revival asking for God’s grace.

Or for more money from the crowd.

“No solicitors,” Dylan said, done with this game.

“Dada!” Jillie screeched, a thumping, skittery sound joining her little voice. Dylan abandoned the door, sprinting for the kitchen. When he arrived, he found her covered in cereal dust, the tiny bowl on her head, and she’d managed to grab a towel off the counter, and with it, pulled down the box of cereal.

As Dylan surveyed the mess, Frank appeared in his peripheral vision.

“Get out of my house,” Dylan growled.

Frank’s hands flew up in surrender. “I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

“Then quit scaring the fuck out of her mother.”

Frank looked like he’d been slapped. “Laura? How on earth have I scared Laura? She hasn’t replied to my emails. And by the way, I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Dylan said, ignoring the proffered hand. “And I mean it. Leave. If you want to talk to Laura, this is not the way and now is
not
the time.”

“Who was at the door—oh!” Laura said as she rounded the corner, hair soaking wet, wearing her bathrobe. Dylan cocked a mental eyebrow over that one, wondering what, exactly, Mike and Laura had just done. “Take care of Mike” meant something different to her, apparently.

“Laura.” If Frank had dipped the word in oil and offered it on a silver platter it couldn’t have sounded more slimy, his words melodic and freakish at the same time. Even Jillian did a double take, mouth open, a thin line of drool dripping over her little red bow-tie lips.

“Uncle Frank.” Laura’s words came out breathy, in a tone Dylan couldn’t recall hearing from her since that very first date they’d had two years ago, back when Laura was always nervous, always insecure, always so unaware of how much power she really had.

His gut seized with a kind of pain he couldn’t name as his fists curled with anger.

“Fang! Fang fang fang,” Jillie called out. “Mama fang.” Dylan absentmindedly picked her up as Frank’s eyes went from Laura to Jillian, then to him, clearly trying to figure out paternity. The hot ball of nuclear waste burning through his gut got hotter. If Mike came in right now…

Laura’s eyes locked with Dylan’s, and all he saw was pure panic. Nothing else.
Shit.

Brushing cereal dust off his little girl, he tried to communicate telepathically with Laura, but unfortunately that superpower appeared to be on hold right now. Frank didn’t have the decency to be self-conscious. The guy didn’t have a shred of any discomfort as he stood, uninvited, in their home while Laura shifted from foot to foot wearing wet hair and a short bathrobe.

“Why don’t you get changed, hon, and I’ll take care of Jillie?” Dylan said in a measured tone, eyes drawing Laura to him.

“Jillie?” Frank leaned forward and stroked the baby lightly on her chin, spilling a heart’s worth of giggles out of her. Dylan caught Laura flinch when Frank touched the little girl, but Laura said nothing.

“Good idea,” she said, looking in the general direction of Frank but not at him. “I’ll be right back.”

Frank took that as some sort of social apology on Laura’s part and said, “Oh, it’s fine, dear. I’m sure you’re careful not to dress down like this for anyone but family.” Her cheeks turned bright pink and her eyes widened. Motherfucker. Dylan was about to grab a cast-iron frying pan from the pot ’n pan rack in the kitchen and beat the guy senseless.

“Of course you’re fine, Laura,” he said, marching across the room to give her a gentle hug before she left. Laura stumbled slightly, clearly trying to hightail it out of there, but Dylan needed to make a point. A clear, don’t-fuck-with-us point. “It’s not as if you’ve seen your uncle in years, and there’s no reason to expect you can’t be comfortable in your own home.”

Dylan gave Frank a very unambiguous look, his eyes finding the man’s. “You’re lucky I’m wearing underwear.”

“Considering your past as a model, perhaps I’m not so lucky,” Frank said, waggling his eyebrows.

Laura began to choke with surprise. If Dylan weren’t so wired and pissed he would have laughed, too. This guy was complicated. At least he’d finally showed up, but now? Right now? Dylan took the opportunity while he could and shooed Laura into the bedroom, setting Jillie on the floor with some stacking blocks.

“Go ahead and change, and let Mike know we have a guest,” Dylan said, hoping she took the hint.

“Right. Mike,” Laura replied, the fleeting look between them transmitting a thousand words. Mike still hadn’t debriefed them on what had happened today at the office, but Dylan assumed it was a doozy.