Killian: A West Bend Saints Romance Read online

  He steps closer to me, crossing the space I’d put between us. “Maybe no one’s given you the right incentive yet.”

  I put my hand up, blocking him from coming any closer, and my palm hits his chest. “I don’t think there’s enough incentive in the world that’s going to get me to give you what you want here,” I say, forcing a calm in my voice that I definitely don’t feel right now. “I’d like you to get off my property now.”

  He smiles, the expression cold. I don’t guess that someone like him gets told no very often.

  “There’s a shotgun just inside the front door of my house,” I lie, my voice firm. I have a shotgun, but it's in a locked cabinet in the cidery, not the main house. I've never had a reason to need it here in West Bend. “The nanny inside knows how to use it. So I’d thank you kindly to get the fuck off my front porch and get into that expensive car of yours and get the hell out of here before my nanny has to put a bullet through your head."

  He smirks, looking at me with a mixture of disgust and hatred, as he smooths his oxford shirt with the palm of his hand and then slowly backs up. “You should be careful with your weapons, Ms. Mayburn,” he says, his tone flat. “They can be real dangerous, you know, especially in a house with a child. Accidents happen every day.”

  “Is that a warning?” I ask.

  “Just a little friendly advice,” he says. “One businessperson to another. Wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen.”

  When he leaves, I collapse into one of the rocking chairs on the front porch, my hands trembling. I’m only there for a moment before the front door opens and Greta pokes her head out. “I got Olivia down for a nap,” she says, “and I came out for the last part of that conversation. Heard the bit about the shotgun.”

  “It was the only thing I could think of to say.”

  Greta shrugs. “I’m a good shot, for the record,” she says.

  We’re standing there silently for a few minutes before I hear the sound of a vehicle on the road. I see it turning into the driveway.

  Luke’s truck.

  Son of a bitch. I silently curse my damn luck.

  “That’s Luke's truck, isn’t it?” Greta asks. “You know, I forgot I… um… left some water boiling on the stove. I was just making a cup of tea and… yeah.”

  I hear the screen door slam closed, but I’m already down the front porch steps and walking out to Luke’s truck, reaching him before he’s even out of the vehicle. “I hope you’re not about to get out of that truck,” I say. “Because I can save you some time and tell you to just get right back in there, put it in reverse, and back the hell out of here. I’ve had it up to here with bullshit today, Luke. I don’t need yours on top of the fucking mining company rep that was just here."

  “Someone from the mining company was here?” Luke asks. “When?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not any of your business, Luke Saint,” I say. “And I’ll tell you the same thing I told him – get the hell off my orchard. I have things to do, and they don’t involve you.”

  I whirl around, heading for the cidery, anything to get away from Luke. Because if I stand there looking at him, if I stand there just a little too close to him – close enough to smell him, close enough to trigger the memory of his lips on mine, his hands running over my naked skin – I’m going to definitely do something I won't be able to take back.

  So I walk, my pace quick, my feet flying along the ground, over the brown grass that’s dying off already even though we haven’t had a snowfall yet this year, and I only stop when I feel his hand on my wrist. He yanks me hard, turning me toward him, his hand sliding around me to the small of my back, holding me firm. “Stop running, Autumn.”

  “You’re going to talk to me about running?” I ask, pushing him back, my hands against his chest. I look at him and I hate him. And I hate the way that heat floods me the instant I put my hands on him. “Says the guy who has made a whole life out of doing exactly that?”

  “Goddamn it, Autumn.” He wraps his hands around my wrists, shoves me against the side of the cidery, my back pressed up against the wall. He pins my hands above my head, looking down at me, and I don’t see anger in his eyes. I see lust and sadness and pain. “I fucked up, all right?”

  “No shit,” I practically spit. I’m angry at him, except I can’t stop looking at his mouth, the way his lips are so close to mine. My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds in my chest, and I feel the way I did the first time I saw him. My entire body aches for his touch.

  “Listen to me,” he says, his voice practically a growl. He keeps one hand above my head pinning my wrists as he slides the other along my cheek, his fingers under my chin and tilting my head up to look at him. “Fuck, Autumn, do you think I haven’t been thinking about you – wanting you, dreaming about the things I've been wanting to do to you – every damn day for the past three weeks? It’s been tearing me up, ripping me in two, knowing that you hate me.”

  His mouth is so close to mine I can barely think about anything else. What he’s saying is a blur, blotted out by lust that I can’t seem to control. I swallow hard, force myself to answer, ignore the craving for him, the desperate need to press my lips against his. I choke out the words: “Screw you, Luke.”

  “Damn it, Autumn,” he says, his voice low, guttural, his lips close to my ear. “That is what you want to do, isn’t it? Say that’s what you fucking want. Say you’ve missed me inside you, that you ache for me with every breath, the way I do for you.”

  I’m practically writhing under his grip, and he can feel it. He can tell and he brings his mouth down on mine, kissing me with an intensity that takes my breath away. There’s nothing sweet or soft about this kiss, two lovers being reunited. This kiss is fucking primal, our tongues warring with each other, and his hand is on me, sliding underneath my shirt, covering my breast before I can object.

  He covers my breast with his palm, my nipple rock hard against him, and I’m washed away by lust, heat pooling between my legs, removing any sense of reason I thought I might have. When he flicks open the button on my jeans, rips them over my hips, and slides his hand between my legs, I practically melt. I moan, far too loud for being outside here where anyone could walk around this building and catch us.

  “You are so fucking wet,” he says. “Do you know how much I've been wanting to touch you?”

  This is not a good idea, the rational part of me chimes in. “Fuck you, Luke.”

  He pauses, his hand unmoving as he looks into my eyes. “I was trying to protect you, Autumn,” he says. “Both of you.”

  I clench my jaw tightly, looking up at him, the throbbing between my legs so hard it’s a painful distraction. “From who? You?”

  “I was trying to keep you out of everything,” he says. “I was trying to keep you safe. I swear. That’s why I sent Mike to keep an eye on things.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say, remembering him standing on the sidewalk with that girl. Suddenly, his phone rings, and whatever spell he had over me is broken, and I’m able to think rationally again. He sees it too, lets go of me, pulling his hands from me and stepping back. “You should have been honest with me. You should get that phone call, you know.”

  Luke exhales heavily, taking his phone out of his pocket and looking at me. “I don’t care about it,” he says.

  But it buzzes again, and this time he answers it. I straighten my clothing, smooth my hair, and it’s like whatever just happened between us never happened at all. His voice is terse, one word answers, and when he looks up at me, I know it’s about whatever he’s keeping from me and I shake my head.

  “I have to go,” he says, crossing the space between us, his hands on my arms. Then, when he sees the look of disbelief on my face, he says, “I promise. If it weren’t important, if I didn’t have to go, I wouldn’t. I’m sending Mike back over here.”

  “No,” I protest. “No more. I’m not having anyone else here. I don’t need you spying on me, trying to control my life.”