Night Shift 2 Page 17

  “Are you undistracted now?” the director asks. Chuckles filter through the room as the grips and cameramen assume it’s my dick distracting me. Understandably. I bet a few of theirs are flying half-mast too at the sight of Tessa.

  She smiles smugly as I shift off her and back to my original blocking for the start of the scene. “Yeah. Let’s take it from the last mark. I’ll nail it this time.”

  At least I earn some chuckles with that one.

  The hours roll together. Take after take. Line after line. All on repeat until deemed perfect by the acclaimed director, Andy Westin. The main reason I begged, borrowed, and stole just to get the role. So I could get the monumental chance to work with him. Learn from him.

  I throw everything into my character. Tell myself to block the noise out. Ignore it. The thought of her. And get through the first part of the day and its expedited filming schedule sped up for my own benefit.

  When we break for lunch at four in the afternoon, I grab a quick bite at craft services and head back to my trailer for some peace and quiet.

  My cell on the dinette greets me as I enter. The text lingering on my mind. The woman it pertains to even more so.

  Wanting to catch a quick snooze during the ninety-minute break till next call, I lie down on the couch, feet on one armrest and my head on the other. I run the next scene through my head. The lines I know like the back of my hand. The ones I definitely can’t fuck up next go round.

  . . . Saylor . . .

  The emotion and intonation I need to inflect in each word of the script.

  . . . the seventeen-year-old girl I left behind . . .

  The facial expressions I’ll need to emulate to convey my character’s inner turmoil.

  . . . sweet smiles, soft lips, my teenage world . . .

  The physical actions required to show a man in conflict as he makes love to the woman he suspects has a hand in murdering his father and yet he can’t help but love.

  . . . the only regret I’ve ever had . . .

  “Goddammit.” I scrub my hands over my face in frustration. I need to focus. To concentrate. And not on Saylor. The girl I never said goodbye to. The promises left empty. The door I slammed shut so I didn’t feel like the selfish prick I was for chasing my dreams without a thought to hers.

  Fuck. It’s amazing how the bright lights in this big city have pushed that all away. Faded the memories. Reinforced my decision with the success they’ve brought me.

  And all it takes to bring me right back is one text from my oldest friend who never asks for anything.

  Cashing in that IOU. It’s Saylor. She needs your help. Call when you can.

  Fuck, man. Trying to forget her is like trying to remember someone I’ve never met. It’s impossible. And no matter how hard I try to push Ryder’s text out of my mind, she’s still there.

  Clear as day.

  Because nothing improves the memory like trying to forget.

  Want to read more about Saylor and Hayes in this second chance romance? Sweet CHEEKS will be available on November 14, 2016 from all publishing platforms.

  Sweet CHEEKS will be a live release on Amazon.

  To be notified when the e-book becomes available, please enter your email HERE.

  About the Author

  New York Times Bestselling author K. Bromberg writes contemporary novels that contain a mixture of sweet, emotional, a whole lot of sexy and a little bit of real. She likes to write strong heroines and damaged heroes who we love to hate and hate to love.

  She’s a mixture of most of her female characters: sassy, intelligent, stubborn, reserved, outgoing, driven, emotional, strong, and wears her heart on her sleeve. All of which she displays daily with her husband and three children where they live in Southern California.

  On a whim, K. Bromberg decided to try her hand at this writing thing. Since then she has written The Driven Series (Driven, Fueled, Crashed, Raced, Aced), the standalone Driven Novels (Slow Burn, Sweet Ache, Hard Beat, and Down Shift (Releasing 10/4/16)), and a short story titled UnRaveled. She is currently finishing up Sweet Cheeks a standalone novel out at the end of 2016.

  Her plans for 2017 include a sports romance duet (The Player (#1) and The Catch (#2)) and the Everyday Heroes series (Cuffed (#1), Combust (#2), and Cockpit (#3). She’s also writing a novella for the 1,001 Dark Night series that will be out in February 2017.

  She loves to hear from her readers so make sure you check her out on social media.

  For more information on K. Bromberg, she can be found here: www.kbromberg.com

  Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKBromberg

  Twitter - https://twitter.com/KBrombergDriven

  Instagram - https://instagram.com/kbromberg13/

  Eden Butler

  Read the final moments in Eden Butler’s Thin Love series in this deleted scene story, My Always - Every marriage has a moment—it defines the future, it settles doubt. That moment comes for Keira Riley-Hale when her marriage is threatened and she forgets how to find her way back to her husband. Will a brief getaway to the Tennessee mountains bring Keira and Kona to the moment that changes everything in their marriage? Or will that moment never come?

  Foreword

  My Always completes the THIN LOVE series which began three years ago with Keira and Kona’s first meeting and the whirlwind that became their love story. Since that time the series has grown to three full length books and a novella. This story is not an additional novella, but rather a deleted scene from the last book in the series, Thick & Thin. I hope you will familiarize yourself with those stories to appreciate the full impact of what is happening in this scene. Thank you to my readers for trusting me with these characters and sticking with them until the very end.

  Love fiercely, wildcats.

  Eden

  1

  We are never more vulnerable than when we’re naked.

  You would think that after weeks of estrangement, after all the lies and manipulations, the accusation and the silences, that the fierceness of my husband and my lovemaking following the dispelling of all our doubts, about Kona’s past, about the false claims lodged against him, about Cass’s artifice, would have brought me peace, brought me comfort. It did. But only briefly.

  Drunk. That’s what we’d been in the minutes after forgiveness was given and taken. Drunk on each other, on the love we had, on the desperate, eager exchange of our bodies. We wanted and so, like always, we took.

  Fifteen minutes. That’s all the time Kona needed to pull me through our bedroom, kissing me as he walked backward, drawing me so close I had to rest my feet on top of his just to reach his mouth.

  Us together, touching, had felt like home. Always. That thick bottom lip, the wide delicious strength of his tongue, how he held me, took me, controlled every movement we made.

  “Wrap yourself around me, baby.” He lifted me, fitting his hands under my bottom as he kissed me, held me tight. His voice bordered on frantic, desperate and I let him lead because that was what he liked best—controlling us, directing our lovemaking. Outside the bedroom, I was usually the one in control, the strong one, the one who ran a business and a career and a family. But in that room, alone with my husband, I didn’t need to be in control. I loved surrendering to him, I loved how it made him smile. I loved giving myself to him, completely.

  Moments and minutes. They got tangled in the heat that filled our bedroom, in the quick race to feel and touch everything we’d denied each other for weeks—my needing distance, him giving me my space. Now it was like dancing; the same seductive steps we’d been perfecting since the first time he’d kissed me decades before.

  Kona was strong and beautiful. That had not changed in the years we’d been together. I held his face between my hands, biting on his bottom lip, smiling at the flash of heat that darkened his eyes. They were black as pitch, those eyes, swimming with a fire I hadn’t seen in months, and I fit my fingers over that beautiful face—the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the small cleft in hi
s chin. There were generations of warriors in those features; fierce Polynesian ancestors that lived and breathed on the surface of his skin and in the strength of his large body.

  “Wildcat,” he started, kissing me so carefully I knew he held back that frantic urgency; I could feel it in his trembling fingers. “Baby, I need you. Now.”

  I hadn’t, couldn’t say anything, but kept my hands gentle on his face as his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and he lowered us down onto the bed. He pulled my leg even higher around his waist as he hovered above me, and paused; the trembling of his hands had lessened even if the quickening of his pulse had not.

  “Keira…”

  But I silenced him with my thumb over his bottom lip. “Come take what’s yours.”

  He groaned then, and the sound was something feral, something ancient. His need was so great that he couldn't even wait for us to disrobe, finding his way inside me, speeding toward completion, racing to release into me all the need and ache he’d been holding onto for so long.

  “I can’t slow down,” he gasped as his thrusts became more frantic and his orgasm rose to erupt into my body. There was an apology somewhere in that confession but I didn't need to acknowledge it. I knew my husband—he’d make up for it. He always did.

  And yes, once his breathing had steadied, and the pounding of his heart had returned to something like normal, Kona’s movements slowed and his pace shifted. Now, it was his mouth on my skin, his tongue and teeth dragging over my shoulder, across my breasts as he freed them from first my shirt, and then my confining bra. Slowly, he undressed me there, on the bed, and then he held my waist, arching my tired body as he fused his mouth against my stomach, his thick, warm tongue drawing wet lines and circles on my navel, down to my hips as I spread out before him like a meal.

  And he was ravenous.

  “I love you.” A promise, one he never spoke lightly, one that never failed to make my heart beat faster. It never went away—that feeling of excitement, the radiant energy that hearing those words from Kona gave me. “I love you, baby.” He continued to worship my skin, his hands smoothing over every inch of me, rubbing, brushing, grabbing as though he could not believe I was real, as though he needed to touch and touch again to see if I was more than merely hope and wish. “I love you so much.”

  I loved him, too. More than I ever thought I could. More today, than I ever expected I would after all those years I spent alone, with Kona off living a life that I wasn’t part of. Back then, with our baby sleeping beside me, the baby Kona knew nothing of, my mind would race with fantasies of what could have been, and memories of our short time together. How fiercely I loved him, even then. Even then, I knew that I would never love anyone else, save for that baby by my side, more than I loved Kona.

  It was almost too much, the way I loved him. Right then, at that moment, with Kona’s heavy weight over me driving me towards my own climax, right then I knew I’d go on loving him every day, and that my love for him would only grow more and more as time went on. The heart has no limits. Its capacity to love goes beyond all human comprehension. Hearts full of love never burst, they just keep taking.

  Kona loved me and I knew that. I knew it as he was pounding so deep inside of me, and I knew it a few moments later, in the satisfied, slowing breaths that moved across my damp skin when he kissed me, when he rolled onto his back satiated by the pleasure I had given him, gratified by the pleasure he’d given me.

  Ah, but we are never more vulnerable than we are naked, because then there is nowhere left to hide.

  As I lay there, with Kona at my side, as my heart slowed and my breath returned to normal, a dark shadow fell over me. One that had been lurking, temporarily pushed aside by Kona’s caresses, his heat, his hunger, but now flowed over me as I lay there naked, exposed, vulnerable. My heart that had been full just a moment before was pierced with a sudden, sharp pain, and I curled to my side with the sudden awareness that I had almost destroyed us.

  I honestly had thought that Cass Colson was going to be the artist who would help launch my new label. He was talented, handsome, charismatic. He was gritty and real, but he was also an opportunist who schemed and meddled his way into my life until he’d become a fixture in our home. Like an idiot, I didn't see how he’d manipulated everyone, how he’d lied to me. I’d almost let him convince me that Kona had betrayed me and because of the whispers Cass spoke when I was scared, when I was isolated, I didn’t believe my husband when he swore he’d never been unfaithful. I’d believed a grifter over the man who had done nothing but love me more than life itself.

  So much could have gone wrong, because of me, because of my stupidity, my negligence, my gullibility. If not for Kona, I could have lost everything—my marriage, my family, my business. Everything.

  Next to me on the bed, Kona shifted, exhausted, languidly relaxed after so long apart from me, from us. The musky scent of his body surrounded me; it was an earthy, masculine aroma I’d always loved. Now it brought a wave of guilt spilling straight into my chest, weighing me down until I could only close my eyes against the grip of it, until only nothingness could keep me from drowning.

  The dark cloud wrapped itself around me, erasing that frantic celebration of our hot, naked bodies coming together. It filled my mind with doubts, worries, and chilled my heart. It whispered low, telling me that I was not worthy of the love Kona gave me. That I’d invited the devil into our home and he’d nearly burned it to the ground.

  How could Kona forgive me? How could he forget? Now that the gleam of our reunion had dimmed, how would I ever make amends for what I’d let wedge between us? How could I be sure, fool that I was, that it would never happen again?

  I tried to dispel the dark thoughts, to banish them as mere doubt, but they remained stubbornly hooked into my heart, as if a testament to my failing, to my worthlessness.

  2

  Five hundred-four hours.

  Three weeks.

  Twenty-one days.

  It’s the longest I’ve gone in thirteen years without touching my wife. I’d only been gone a week, but it had been three damn weeks that she hadn’t let me touch her. It felt like a lifetime. My own purgatory—the not touching. The penance I paid for non-disclosures, for thinking I could do without her help, for thinking that she needed protection as if she was weak.

  She had been my first, my greatest love. My college sweetheart. The only woman to ever steal my heart and keep it without much resistance from me. Then, sixteen years I went without her. Sixteen years I’d gone without knowing my Wildcat was raising my son, a part of me that she had first harbored inside of her, and then had held next to her. I’d sent her away as a boy, not realizing that she retained a precious, vital part of me, one that would bring her joy but never fill the void she left behind. Until we found each other again, sixteen years later.

  We were closing in on time—nearing to when the years together would overtake the years apart. Then came those five-hundred-four hours. I thought those long hours of separation had ended in the heat and the hunger of our lovemaking.

  Now, naked and quiet, I thought Kiera was happy, was satisfied. Cass was gone, his lies had been exposed, I had been vindicated. I thought we were ready to pick up where we had left off, five hundred and four hours ago. Her body certainly seemed to have been willing.

  But when Keira shifted, she turned away from me, curling up on her side. I’d been inside her minutes before. My heart had only just begun to slow and now I felt my wife stiffen next to me. “Kiera?” I said softly, wanting to lean into her, run my fingers up her arm, but not sure if I should. “Nani what’s wrong?”

  She cleared her throat as though she couldn’t quite decide what she wanted to tell me. “I…” Fear flared inside of me. Maybe it would be a repeat of the anger I’d felt from her for weeks, even months, if I was honest with myself. Maybe Keira wanted to remind me how I’d almost lost her, lost all of them, how my own boneheadedness had almost cost me everything. I waited, seconds, a lifeti
me, I wasn’t sure which it was before she tried again and with each sound, I held my breath, waiting for her to tell me I was not forgiven, that maybe I never would be.

  She turned back, but not all the way towards me. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was small, lost.

  In front of me, her profile was contrasted against the late moonlight. There were lines and slopes in that profile I’d committed to memory; every feature that kept me warm, safe, lonesome when I’d holed up in my university office, each night praying for a way out of the mess I’d made. Those features were seared into my mind, burned as deep as the ache I felt every time I kissed her.

  But suddenly, she wasn’t like the woman I’d loved for half my life. Not now. Not when she curled her arms around herself, as though I hadn’t just touched her, filled her, loved her with a desperation that rattled me. Keira whetted her lips and gazed on the ceiling above us, her words breathy, weak. “I’m…sorry about…about Cass.”

  “Wildcat…”

  She closed her eyes, stopping me from saying anything else. I knew those expressions, what each tremor across her lips, each twitch beneath her eyelids meant. She didn’t want me soothing her, forgiving her without a fight. It was a struggle to keep from touching her, especially when she rubbed a palm over those closed eyes, breathing out like she was defeated.

  “If I hadn’t brought him around, he wouldn’t have started any of this mess. We wouldn’t have almost…”

  She stiffened when I hugged her back against my chest. The distance was hard, but I didn’t push. It didn’t matter to me that Cass had made a pathetic attempt to divide us. It was his manipulation that had almost brought disaster down onto this house. But I didn’t blame my wife. She’d always been a little blind when it came to judging character, and clueless when men paid attention to her, especially men that weren’t me.