Want

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Want

Copyright © 2015 by Emma Rider

Comic at the back of the book – Illustrated by Alaia Rain and written by Emma Rider

Comic Copyright © 2015 by Emma Rider and Alaia Rain

Edited by Red Adept Editing

Cover Design by Book Cover by Design

Book Interior by JT Formatting

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are the prod-uct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

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To the man crazy enough to marry me. Life is never boring.

And to baby doll.

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1 - NICE NIGHTIE

Chapter 2 - AREN’T WE COOL?

Chapter 3 - SPACE COWBOY

Chapter 4 - SAFE ZONE

Chapter 5 - LATER

Chapter 6 - TEAMWORK

Chapter 7 - FIGHT NIGHT

Chapter 8 - AFTER PARTY

Chapter 9 - LITTLE WHITE LIES

Chapter 10 - CAGE

Chapter 11 - WANT

Chapter 12 - BY SUBMISSION

Chapter 13 - WORTH THE FIGHT

Chapter 14 - MINE

Chapter 15 - MISTAKES

Chapter 16 - GONE

Chapter 17 - LOSE

Chapter 18 - LEVERAGE

Chapter 19 - TRIGGER

Chapter 20 - RISKS

Epilogue - YOURS

Dear Readers

Her Greatest Mistake by Maureen Mayer

Depths of Darkness by Silla Webb

About the Author

Books by Emma Rider

Acknowledgements

I STAMPED MY leg down harder, the grooves of the pedal creating permanent indentations in my bare foot. My hands squeezed the steering wheel with white-knuckled force. As the car gained speed, my back pressed hard against the seat.

My eyes darted to the mirrors for the sixth time, seeing nothing but pitch black. That didn’t mean anything. They could still be chasing me. My throat constricted, and I tried to catch my breath, dizzy from the sudden onslaught of adrenaline.

I saw a flash of red metal and jerked the wheel, swerving violently to avoid the vehicle. The car honked repeatedly.

Sorry. So sorry, I cried, slicing a hand through my hair. Oh my God.

Something hard thumped the back of my vehicle, and I hunched down. Were they shooting at me? My foot pressed harder on the pedal, and the speedometer rose. I checked my rearview mirror again as there was another thump. My body jumped as something moved behind me.

Glancing back, I realized my trunk was open. I blew out a breath, easing up on the gas a little. The car sped over a bump, and the trunk slammed closed.

A sudden flash of white, red, and blue pierced the darkness, and a millisecond later, sirens overpowered the heart-pumping sounds in my ears. I bit my lip, and my foot hovered over the brake. He told me not to tell the police. If I did, would it put us in danger?

Knowing I couldn’t outrun the police, I quickly decided to pull over to the side of the road. I turned the car off but didn’t kill the lights. Then I hastily pushed my shirt down to cover my naked thighs.

That was all I wore. Bare feet. My fiancé’s college shirt. My hair sticking every which way. No makeup. No cell phone.

The officer came over, his footsteps heavy and his hand casually hanging near his gun.

I greeted him with a weak smile, conscious of my trembling chin. I flinched at the blinding flashlight he flicked in my face. After a moment, he shone it inside my car, searching. While he was doing that, he said, License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.

I swallowed a sob. My purse and wallet were back home.

Ma’am?

Um was all that came out.

He went on, You gotta be somewhere quick at three o’clock in the morning? He paused then continued to stare at me with a blank face.

Erm, I mumbled. I don’t have my purse with me.

Do you know your Social Security number?

I gave it to him. He stepped away and walked back to his cruiser. I tried to watch him, but the light from his vehicle blinded me. Sweat trickled down my temple, and I wiped it away. After flipping my visor down, I checked my eyes, and they were bloodshot from crying.

Crunching gravel signaled that he was coming back. The light shone on me again. Ma’am, is there anything in the car I should know about?

My brows scrunched together, and I shook my head. No.

Ma’am, please step out of the car and open the trunk for me. The door was suddenly yanked open.

I stepped out, tugging my shirt down. The officer didn’t flinch at my appearance, but he did blink twice. I swallowed, stumbling as rocks dug into my feet.

It looked bad. He probably thought I was a drunk, driving ninety on a fifty-five. I tried not to hyperventilate. Glancing down the road, I found it empty. No one was chasing me.

He gestured for me to walk in front of him. Ma’am?

I did as he indicated but halted when something caught my eye. A shredded transparent bag was trapped in the trunk and hanging down the bumper. What the—?

With a press of my keys, the trunk popped open.

I looked inside, and everything in me froze. I stopped breathing, blinking, living. The world crumbled around me.

The officer came to a dead halt, pointing his light at my worst nightmare.

I licked my dry lips, murmuring, I’m guessing that’s not powdered sugar.

14 Months Later

TRANQUIL MUSIC FILLED the air, doing a bang-up job of settling my inner turmoil. I scrubbed my hand down my face, brushing away the evidence of another sleepless night. Taking deliberate slow breaths, I tried to tame my chaotic butterflies.

My client would be there any moment, and I needed to be on guard for this one. He was a big guy and required a lot of attention my small body couldn’t accommodate, but somehow he was satisfied by the end of our sessions. I couldn’t complain, however, because for some reason he kept coming back. I wanted to ask him a bunch of questions, but we had both signed a contract that stated no personal questions unless related to the service provided.

At twenty-six, I had never imagined I would be desperate enough to do this, but desperate times called for desperate-as-heck measures. In dire financial times, opening up a business had been my only option. With a record like mine, I couldn’t get a real job—or a job that would pay back all my lovely loaners. At least that was what I had gathered from the pile of rejection letters I’d received in response to my applications.

The universe left me with few options. I threw away what little dignity I had left and sold myself. Not exactly kosher, but I had to survive. I had borrowed money from my friend Gus so I wouldn’t have to borrow a ton from my parents. The lie that I was opening a jewelry business was the worst cover I could have given them, but I wasn’t a good liar. They were the first ones I would pay back.

So I was starting anew. Surviving. It was crazy and insane, but I was alive and kicking fate’s booty.

My hair hung stubbornly in my face, but I tucked it back behind my ear. Usually, I sported a short cut, but I had been unable to go to a salon for a while and found I liked my longer hair.

I adjusted the top of my silky number—the material he had requested—and the garment slid against my skin, making me shiver in awareness. When the clock struck precisely nine, three knocks hit my door. Showtime.

Ryland wasn’t looking at me but scanning the hall when I opened the door to his hulking figure. I didn’t live in a bad area, but it wasn’t exactly a safe area either.

As soon as he appeared to be satisfied with the hall security, Ryland’s piercing gunmetal grays came to rest on me, and I ignored the electrifying shot to my body every time our gazes met. His eyes were the same gray as the illegal 9mm I had stashed in my bedside table for easy reach whenever I went to sleep at night. The color wasn’t exactly as sleek and pristine as silver but the chrome of a weapon—a weapon that could’ve been used for destruction or defense, however the owner chose to utilize it. I wasn’t sure if Ryland himself was a destroyer or a protector, but I knew he was lethal.

He did a quick scan of my body, then one half of his mouth lifted and his eyes flared knowingly.

I smiled back, giving him my best innocent face. What?

Nice nightie, baby doll.

Even though I thought I was immune to the entire male species because of my recent past, blood rushed to my cheeks at the dark and rich timber of his voice. He could say anything and it would be sexy. The old me would have surrendered to temptation and asked him out for coffee, but since being hurt so bad in my last relationship, I could barely breathe. My first rule as soon as I was free was to stay free.

Freedom meant no risks. It meant survival. Therefore, no more men for me. Even if I started dating again, no man would ever let me do what I did unless he was a swinger.

Forcing my face into a pleasant smile, I stepped away from the door and his powerful aura. He stepped inside, and the air became charged. Ignoring that charge, I led him to my workspace.

He followed me, and I felt his eyes drilling holes into my back. I forced my silky top down a little to cover my stomach. When I stopped, I turned back to him. Ryland was at ease, knowing the drill and taking his shirt off to reveal a fantastic muscular body that I wanted to map out with my fingertips. Instead, I settled for drooling in silence. I tried to hide that, too, but his eyes were all knowing. The cocky son of a hooha.

Defined slashes of art decorated his body, enhancing his dangerous vibe. I licked my lips, wanting to trace every single tattoo on his body. With my tongue.

When we were in bed and his back was turned—which was unfortunately rare because he liked spooning me more—I traced my finger in the air just above his inked skin. I was dying to ask what the script meant but held my tongue. So I pretended to know what the jet-black tribal art meant. It spanned his upper back, slicing from shoulder to shoulder and snaking around his biceps. Some of it seemed angry, but I got a mix of emotions—pride, anger, torment—but the art near his heart read as triumph.

Forcing my eyes away, I focused on the job at hand. Ryland was bad news. He had been good news at first, and I was lucky he was my client because he paid me more than I asked and kept coming back. Which was good.

But he kept coming back. Which was bad. Way bad.

This was awesome because my debts were slowly getting paid off. With the rate things were going, within a few weeks, I could kiss ramen noodles goodbye and treat myself.

But this was horrible because I didn’t want to get attached. The job was still new to me—as in, I’d come up with the specifics weeks ago and actually been doing the job for eighteen days. I figured since I had kept my guard up in front of hardcore criminals for four months, it would be easy to keep my guard up with a sexy male like Ryland.

I was wrong. It was difficult to be professional. One wrong move and I would be going backward into my past and not forward as I needed to.

I paused at each of my fake cherrywood nightstands, careful not to bump them. Reaching a hand up, I flicked on each maroon-shaded lamp, giving a calming atmosphere to the room.

My finger hovered over the buttons of the radio that played soft rock. I avoided turning on classical music as I often did. Unlike my other clients, Ryland preferred silence—or rock. Music today?

Ryland shook his head once.

With a push of a button, I killed the soft melody, and silence settled around us. I pulled back the thick comforter and eased my body in, sitting as I waited for Ryland. I forced my hands to unclench the wine-colored bedding I had chosen specifically to signify warmth and—maybe I was reaching—tranquility.

While he untied and kicked off his boots, I focused on keeping my breathing even. I stared at the white tapestry that hung on the wall. Its symbols for love, peace, and prosperity were a contradiction to what I was feeling right then.

His shirt hit the floor, and I swallowed hard. I started reaching for his shirt, saying, I can hang that—

Don’t bother, he interrupted gruffly.

I straightened and clasped my sweaty palms. Every time, I offered. Every time, it was a no, no matter how nice his shirt was.

My eyes darted to the bonsai tree nestled on one of my nightstands. It had been a gift from my mom as her way of saying Congratulations on moving on with your life and I read bonsai trees could be therapeutic to the soul. I needed that bonsai therapy to work on me. Not just my clients.

I came back to the present when Ryland stepped into my vision. He stood tall and powerful above me, and I scooted over while flipping the covers again so that he would get in bed with no problem.

I turned over on my side automatically, facing the door and in his preferred position. The bed dipped as he climbed in behind me. His thick arm hooked around my middle, pulling my back into his bare chest and my legs fitting into his like a puzzle piece. Calmly, he tucked my body into his, and his arm was heavy around my stomach. His head came onto my pillow, sharing it with me, and he sighed in contentment.

I wiggled, getting comfortable, careful not to rub into his groin area. I was so close to him, my pulse quickened as it did every time he was near. Inhaling slowly, I tried to force my heart to slow. Okay, Jade, you’re not cuddling one of the hottest badass men on the planet. You’re cuddling a rock. A bear. Santa.

That seemed to calm my heart a little. I shifted again, and once cozy, I sighed, too. My brain wanted me to engage in conversation, but I resisted, simply waiting for him to say the first word. Sometimes he talked, and sometimes he didn’t. Today, he did.

The hell is that? Sushi?

It’s made out of silk, I said in a defensive yet teasing tone. He was referring to my nightie, a two-piece pajama set. The sky-blue silk material of the pants and buttoned shirt had adorable tiny sushi cartoons scattered all over. I thought it was cute. Meets your requirements, I mumbled, not turning my head.

His arm squeezed me tighter, and a warm feeling started in my stomach. I beat it down, getting a little better than I had the first time we cuddled. I concentrated on my breathing. I’m a professional. I’m a professional.

Against my back, his chest rumbled softly in a low laugh. Smartass.

I blinked at his words. Our relationship was strictly business. After the second session, we’d been bantering like this, going into a friendly gait but also not overstepping our boundaries and taking the relationship deeper. I had to tread carefully.

I felt more than heard him breathe deeply, taking in my scent. I found floral aromas overpowering to the senses, which wouldn’t be good for business, so I had chosen a light vanilla body wash, skipping all perfumes. He inhaled once more, and my pulse picked up again.

His palm, resting on my belly above my clothes, moved to cup my hip. I would come apart if it was skin contact, but I still felt his heat through the thin silk. A protest was on my lips, but then his hand stopped above my hip and to the side of my waist. He moved his hand back and forth, petting me, slowly setting my body on fire.

Ryland Cole was becoming daring, breaking my rules, and I was afraid I was going to have to drop him as a client. Holding my breath, I tensed, trying to reject the flame building between us.

Ry— I started.

His mouth tickled my hair when he whispered in my ear, Shh, relax, Jade.

I tried speaking a second time, but he interrupted me again. Your body’s stiff.

I sighed because he was right. Taking a few deep breaths, I willed my body to relax into his, thinking I would be no good if he was holding a stiff board.

Let me help you, he said, his voice still a whisper.

It took me a moment to realize he meant help my body relax rather than help my body really relax, as in a sensual dance between the sheets, climax, rinse, and repeat. Not wanting to drown in flames, I willed my body to loosen. Give me a second, I said.

I don’t have that long, baby doll. Don’t worry. I won’t really touch you. Above clothes only.

I gave in to that. Okay.

Okay, he replied, his hand going back into motion, smoothing against my body, sliding down my side, then rubbing my back and to my side again in a circular pattern.

With my body threatening to go up in flames from his continuous petting, I threw in the towel and let myself feel for the first time in a long time. I pretended I was cherished. I pretended I felt safe. And I relished a man’s touch. If only for a minute.

Of its own accord, my body melted against him as he traced my curves through my pajamas. It felt good, almost heavenly. So heavenly that I felt my eyes drifting shut and my body succumbing to sleep while MMA fighter Ryland The Savage Cole broke the most important rule and lulled me, Elizabeth Jade Andrews, chronic insomniac, to sleep during our session.

MY MIND SLOWLY stirred awake when the bed shifted. I realized where I was, and my eyes shot to the clock on the nightstand, automatically calculating. I’d fallen asleep. And I hadn’t just fallen asleep, I had fallen into a deep sleep for six hours and thirteen minutes. I jolted to a sitting position, spying Ryland buttoning the last button of his midnight-blue Armani shirt with one hand and tapping his phone with the other.

I knew his stats by heart because I’d Internet stalked him when he was interested in becoming a client. He was six feet three, one hundred eighty-five pounds on a fighting day, and had just turned thirty.

Dark hair cut short but long enough to tousle. Chiseled cheeks and a sensual mouth that played havoc on a woman’s hormones. His nose was straight, which was surprising for a fighter. If it had ever been broken, they’d set it straight. And he was big. Big all over.

His body was unyielding strength but kept under constant control. If he unleashed it, for better or worse, it would be powerful. And he did, often, in the cage. The name Savage fit him.

The soft lamplight combined with the light of his phone cast shadows upon his pensive face. In dress clothes, he looked like a ruthless businessman instead of the famous aggressive fighter.

I rubbed my eyes, my sleep-fogged brain trying to register exactly what had happened. I fell asleep.

When he didn’t respond, I looked at him again. He was still on his phone. After a few seconds, his grays shot to me, and he looked smug. Yeah.

My nerves jump-started, and my tone conveyed my irritation at both him and myself. Ryland, that can’t happen again.

He shifted to where I was sitting on the bed, towering over me. He hunched a little and cupped my face. "I didn’t touch