Out of the Ashes Read online

  “Oh, yes. In fact”—she lets out a dramatic sigh—“I’d say it’s crackling tension. Like chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Or those fireworks people set off that go pop!pop!pop! rapid-fire or—”

  “Pres,” I interrupt with a small laugh, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. “I get it.”

  “Well, what are you planning to do about it?” She waves a hand in gesture. “Because after all this anticipation, we don’t want it to be a letdown in any way.”

  With a laugh, I step aside. “How about we start by heading inside?” Gesturing with my hand, I wait for her to precede me, of course. I allow my eyes to drift over her form and land right on her ass. Good God Almighty. Those jeans… More accurately, Presley in those jeans—this image is going straight to my spank bank. I’m such a sick fuck. But sweet Jesus, her ass is so damn sexy, especially encased in that denim.

  As if realizing I need to be put in check, Izzy nudges me gently. My eyes find her sweet ones, and I nod.

  “Got it,” I murmur softly, so Presley doesn’t hear me. “Be a gentleman.” Then I wave for her to enter the house, and I enter last behind my girls.

  My girls. The possessive feeling that floods through me at the thought of Presley as mine is more powerful than I could ever have imagined.

  It’s good to have dreams, I think sarcastically.

  The only problem with dreams is that you always wake up. And you’re left empty-handed.

  * * *

  “Those kids are so much more intelligent than I can imagine being back in the day.”

  We’re sitting out on the back deck, side by side in chairs, basking in the relaxing sounds of the ocean waves of the Atlantic less than a hundred yards from us. Izzy’s curled up beneath the large patio table off to the side as we discuss the Jeopardy Teen Tournament we just watched.

  Turning my head slightly to look at her, trying to ensure that the main view she has of me is mostly the right side of my face, I study her for a moment. “You can’t tell me you weren’t super smart back in school.”

  Appearing so relaxed with her head leaning back on the chair cushion, she focuses her eyes ahead and offers a soft smile. “I was pretty smart for high school standards, but those kids tonight? They were pretty damn impressive.” Shifting, she rests her eyes on me. “Plus, I’ll be the first one to admit that I can’t tell a Rembrandt from a Picasso or Botticelli.”

  I chuckle, watching as her smile widens, and I swear, right here and now, I’m the happiest I’ve been in a while. But there’s always a catch…

  Sobering, I have to voice my concerns. “Presley. I should apologize. Because”—I let out a long sigh, averting my eyes—“you’re my doctor, and even though I’m only seeing you for adjustments twice a week now, I—”

  “Feel uncomfortable with the situation,” she interjects gently.

  Meeting her gaze, I shake my head. “No. I just don’t want to put you in an…” I falter, trying to find the right way to phrase it.

  “Awkward situation.” Her expression is one of understanding. “I get it. I was actually going to bring it up because the last thing I want to do is make you feel that way.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I really love spending time with you. I do. But it’s also difficult because of”—she gestures between us—“this, um…” She trails off, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

  The fact she feels the same pull of attraction as I do is comforting. But I get where she’s going with this. No one wants to have a potentially awkward situation on their hands, especially between a doctor and their patient.

  “I’m down to only having to see you one time a week for an adjustment now, right?”

  She regards me carefully before answering slowly, “Right.”

  “Then I’ll be every other week, and then you’ll submit your assessment to the VA.”

  She nods, and we both fall silent for a beat.

  “Do you want to call it a night? For me to leave?” she asks, her tone subdued, as if she’s uncertain.

  I let out a harsh laugh. “You want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  “I don’t want you to leave. But I want you to know, I’ll continue to treat you professionally in the office regardless of whether you stay or go.” Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I’ve never felt this nervousness before because I’ve never been in this position. Never having to work up the nerve to ask a woman to stay the night, I force my words out, hoping they sound nonchalant. “What I want is for you to stay.”

  Fuck. I totally choked.

  “Is that all?” she asks slowly.

  My mouth flattens into a thin line, and I know I’ve got to find my fucking balls and say it. My voice is gravelly, hoarse. “What I want is for you to say you’ll stay the night.” Reaching out to run the pad of my thumb along her bottom lip, I find myself mesmerized by the way her lips part. “What I really want to do is lift you up on that table, peel off those jeans, and see what you’ve got on under them.”

  At my words, her hot breath washes over my thumb at her lips. “Is that all?”

  Shaking my head, I keep my eyes locked on hers. “I want a whole hell of a lot more than that. Then, I want to make you scream my name—”

  Her lips form a mischievous smile when she interrupts me. “Which would be what? Hendy or Cristiano?”

  Dipping my head closer, my lips barely a centimeter away from hers, I whisper, “You can scream my full name if you want. As long as you know who’s making you come undone, that’s all that matters.”

  Moving abruptly to straddle my lap, Presley gives me a dry look. “I know you’re probably wondering what’s going on beneath”—she gestures to her face—“this façade of mild indifference.” Leaning in closer, she locks her eyes with mine and says in a husky tone, “But the truth is you seriously made my panties melt by saying that.”

  “Really?” I grin. “So, if I were to slide beneath your jeans right here…” My hand slips down to cup her over the soft, worn denim, and her lips part to release a tiny moan. I swear I can feel the heat emanating from her core.

  “You want me to touch you here?” I ask, pressing gently.

  “Yes.” Presley’s voice is nearly inaudible. And it’s then that it hits me.

  Drawing back from her, I exhale a long, calming breath.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Disgusted with myself, I roughly run a hand over my hat, looking away. “Shit. I didn’t even kiss you first before I started groping you.”

  “It’s probably for the best anyway.”

  Fuck. The bottom of my stomach just dropped out. I’ve fucked up. I’ve never wanted a woman more than Presley, and I’ve gone and fu—

  “Because”—her voice jerks me from my self-recriminations—“you know, since I’m not a tipsy mess like before; if you had kissed me—if you had really kissed sober Presley Cole—your mind would’ve been. Completely. Blown.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Presley

  “Because you know, since I’m not a tipsy mess, if you had kissed me—if you had really kissed sober Presley Cole—your mind would’ve been. Completely. Blown.”

  I’m so full of shit, but I’m going with it. Too late to back out now. I’ve got to own it.

  “And,” I draw out the word dramatically, “you’d hear angels weep because of the beauty of it, and you would’ve found yourself wondering how you’ve managed to live on this earth all this time and not experience a kiss of this caliber.” I shrug nonchalantly.

  Like I’m not completely talking out of my ass.

  But it’s all worth it the moment I see it. That smile—the real, genuine one that’s wide and so damn addictive, especially with the way the right side lifts slightly higher than the left. If I could be the one person to make him smile like that all the time, I think life would be just about perfect.

  “Angels weeping, huh?” he asks, amusement obvious in his tone.

  “Yep.”

  We sit here, eyeing each othe
r for a moment before I roll my eyes, sliding off his lap.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? I’m ready to play doctor and wounded Navy SEAL.” I prop a hand on one hip for emphasis of my playful exasperation.

  Rising from his chair, he reminds me of how imposing he can look, but not only that, I realize what he’s doing—he’s still trying to situate himself with his left side facing away from me.

  “You need to stop.” I step toward him, placing my palms against his firm chest. Looking up into his dark eyes, I plead, “Don’t hide from me.”

  His jaw tightens as he holds my gaze. “You know I don’t like for you to have to see it.” His voice is low, barely a husky whisper.

  Slowly raising one hand, I watch him much like I would a skittish animal as my palm gets closer and closer to the left side of his face. His jaw works, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my hand finally cradles his cheek. My breath whooshes out as we stand here, and I don’t dare move for a moment—so he can get used to my touch.

  He clamps his eyes shut, his expression appearing pained as if my touch hurts him. But as we stand here, neither of us moving, I watch as his expression relaxes—an infinitesimal slackening in the tightness in his strong jaw, the pectorals beneath my palm not feeling quite so tense.

  When I slide my other hand up from his chest, lifting to gently grasp the bill of his ball cap, I raise it barely a millimeter; his eyes fly open, and I freeze.

  “I don’t want you to hide from me.” My voice is faint but pleading before I add, “Please?”

  I can see his warring emotions, and the one that pierces me the most is the fear in his eyes. Fear that my reaction will differ—that I will recoil from being exposed to the full, unencumbered view of his face. Because although he’s allowed me to see him without his ball cap at my awards banquet, he’s always been careful to turn the left side of his face away from me.

  Suddenly, I feel a presence. We both look down to find Izzy has left her comfortable spot to sit near Hendy’s feet, ears perked, alert, sensing his unease.

  “It’s okay, girl.” His large hand rests on her head, and she nuzzles him as if trying to show him she’s there and wants to reassure him, to comfort him. She gives him a doggy kiss on the back of his hand before returning to her spot, lying on her stomach, and resting her chin on her paws to watch us.

  Turning to me, Hendy presses his lips tight, drawing my attention to them, and I’m reminded of the fact that I’ve only kissed him once. That night in his bedroom after he’d rescued me from the bar.

  “Clue.” My eyes fly up at his low, subdued tone. “Running away, shrieking in horror.”

  I know what he’s doing—what he’s trying to do. But it’s not happening. I refuse to let it.

  “Answer: What is what this girl is not going to do?” I hold his gaze, begging for him to believe me.

  To trust me.

  He closes his eyes, inhaling a deep breath as if for extra fortification before he looks off toward the beach and says one word.

  “Okay.”

  Gently, carefully, I lift the ball cap the remainder of the way off his head, dropping it softly onto the cushion of the chair.

  As soon as the hat hits the chair cushion, his entire body tenses. Shoulders rising, he stiffens his spine, as if preparing himself for rejection. As if he thinks the night he’d bared his face for the night I received my award was a fluke—that there was a chance I’d cringe in horror at the sight of him now.

  With extra care, I frame his face with my palms, my thumbs grazing his cheekbones, while I peer up at him.

  “I see you. As you are.”

  He doesn’t speak for a beat. “And what do you see?” His voice is gravelly, coarse.

  “I see a man who tries to hide from me.” My thumb sweeps across one of the deeper scars on his cheek. “A man who thinks he has to hide from everyone. A man who doesn’t realize he’s far more than his looks. Although”—my lips quirk up at the corners—“he’s pretty hot if I do say so my—”

  Strong fingers encircle my wrists. “Pres. Stop.” At my confused look, he goes on. “You don’t have to do this…or say this.”

  Cocking my head to the side, I narrow my eyes. “You think I’m just saying this?”

  He rolls his lips inward before offering a half-shrug.

  Rising to my tiptoes, I scowl at him. “Listen here. I’ll have you know that you’re more impressive than any man I’ve ever met or ever known. And not because of what you’ve accomplished or what you’ve been through in your Navy career. You are so freaking smart, love Jeopardy, have a smile that makes me want to jump your bones instantly, and you’re handsome as hell. You have more integrity than most people can shake a stick at. And you have a pretty massive…” I trail off with a mischievous smile.

  His lips finally curl up in the start of what I hope will be one of those lopsided smiles I’ve come to love as he raises an eyebrow. “A pretty massive…? Heart?”

  “Would you believe me if I said heart?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Ego?”

  Another shake, his smile growing wider.

  I let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Fine. A pretty massive penis.”

  There it is. There’s that smile. Wide, with those perfect teeth showing and without the ball cap, facing me full-on, I’m wowed.

  With a soft, brief kiss, I lean back with a sigh. “God, I love your smile.”

  His eyes soften. “If it gets you to look at me like that, then I’ll do it all the time.”

  “Promise?”

  He dips his head, his hands rising to thread in my hair and bring his lips closer to mine. “Promise.”

  And then his lips take mine in a kiss I know I’ll remember for years to come. Not only because it’s a magnificent one—it is. But it’s so much more than that.

  It’s a kiss from a man who might finally allow me to truly “see” him.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Hendy

  This is it. I’m really going to do this.

  Fuck. I’ve never been so nervous before in my life. Never. Because hell if this doesn’t feel like I’m preparing to bare my soul to Presley.

  Kissing her, I pour everything into it—how much I want her, how much it means that she doesn’t recoil in horror when I allow her to see my face. It’s a hungry, greedy kiss laden with emotion.

  More than that, though, my kiss is also tinged with regret. Regret because although she’s seen my scars, seen my battered body, she hasn’t yet seen it all. She hasn’t laid eyes on my naked body—at the worst, most marred sections below my waistline, flaring out across the back of both hips and my ass. And if I can’t refrain from cringing at the sight of it, if I avoid looking at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror when I get out of the shower to dry off, then I can’t expect her not to do the same.

  She’s only human, after all.

  Her tongue slips past my lips, darting inside, sending a jolt through my whole body. My fingers tighten their grasp of her hair, the silky strands sliding over my hands, deepening the kiss.

  Her hand slides around to cup my ass, and I break the kiss in surprise. “Copping a feel, huh?”

  She grins wickedly. “A fine ass like this one? You bet.” That same hand glides to my front, cupping where I strain my khakis.

  With a choked sound, a faint smile plays on my lips. “Not holding anything back tonight, are you?”

  “Nope.” Presley looks pleased with herself, her eyes shimmering with amusement. So much that I feel the need to throw her off-balance. Both figuratively and literally.

  Scooping her up in my arms, she lets out a surprised yelp, her arms looping around my neck. “Wow. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet.” The way her fingers play with the short strands of hair at the base of my neck sends small shivers through me.

  Padding over to the door leading inside the house, I step over the threshold and close it softly behind us, knowing Izzy can come inside wheneve
r she’s ready. Making my way to my bedroom, I kick the door closed and lower Presley’s feet to the floor. The subtle streams of moonlight slipping through the blinds on the windows is our only light as we stand here. And dread fills me as I know what she’s going to ask next.

  “Can we turn on the small light?”

  Inwardly wincing at her question even though I’d anticipated it, I make the two steps to the small lamp sitting on top of my dresser in the far corner of my room. Silently, I thank Presley for not requesting the overhead light with the four bright bulbs.

  Small mercy there.

  Twisting the small knob, the subtle click sounding far louder in the quiet room, I hesitate before turning to face her.

  Her gaze is watchful as she reaches for the hem of her shirt. “I’m going to take this off.” Slowly, she raises it up and over her head before letting it drop silently to the floor. “And I want you to do the same.” The last word has a questioning lilt to it.

  Stepping over to her, I reach for my shirt, tugging it from where it’s tucked into my khaki shorts. “You aren’t completely bare-chested, so I’m not certain how fair this is.”

  Tipping her head to the side, she eyes me while reaching around her back to unfasten her bra. The moment she slides the straps from her shoulders and down her arms before letting it join her shirt on the floor, my breath catches in my throat. And I can see it.

  I see the nervousness, the insecurity she feels because of her smaller breasts. Yet here she is, being brave and baring herself to me.

  “You’re beautiful,” I breathe.

  Her lips twist, and before she even begins to say it, I know it’s going to be a brush-off. “You don’t ha—”

  My fingers release their grasp of the hem of my shirt to cradle her face with my palms, and I gaze deep into her eyes. “You are beautiful, Presley Cole.”

  Her eyes flicker with something I can’t decipher. “Really?” she whispers.

  “Really,” I whisper back.

  Our eyes remain locked for a beat before her hands grip my shirt. “We still need to get you out of this.”

  Inhaling a deep, calming breath, I allow her to push up my shirt, helping her tug it over my head and drop it to the floor. Standing before her, I hold myself stock-still as her hands smooth over my shoulders before pressing a kiss to the middle of my chest.