“Oh, my God, Wendy, they’re inside the house! Call nine-one-one!” Full-blown panic set in.
Those big-balled dicks were definitely not doing their namesake justice because, right about now, Chloe needed one attached to a living, breathing bodyguard. Instead, a toilet plunger would have to do. The thirty-year-old commode couldn’t flush two-ply toilet paper, and that defect just might save her from a violent home invasion.
It happened when she was halfway out of the water. While she was waist-deep in bubbles and dissolvable dicks. While she was bare-breasted, with her headlights showing.
The biggest dick of her life—literally and figuratively—finally showed his face.
“Well, if it isn’t Chloe Morgan, in the flesh.”
She froze, unable to look away from the man filling the doorway of her bathroom, causing a torrent of resentment to fill her, too.
Yeah, her pert nipples screamed lust. And her broken heart screamed love. But her protective mind screamed hate.
Unfortunately, her carefully executed revenge wasn’t going as planned. Nowhere in her scheme for retribution did he see her without hair and make-up, much less sans freaking clothes.
Never again was she supposed to be with him naked.
“And showing me your world-class tits, too.” He smirked, his gaze on her chest, his voice a deep baritone. Rougher than she remembered. “You always knew how to use them to your advantage, didn’t you, cupcake?”
He was back. Her goodbye guy. Looking fine, too.
Dark hair, more on the short side than long, and stylishly cut with high-dollar salon scissors, not ten-dollar barbershop clippers. Tanned skin, making her wonder what beachy rock, in what sunny locale, he crawled out from under. Sculpted muscles that screamed real-world activity, not steroid-enhanced gym time.
Let’s not talk about his face. Because if you saw him walking down the other side of the street, you’d cross a busy intersection, Frogger-style, to get a closer look.
Let’s not talk about his tattoos. They covered his left arm from wrist to bicep, and she imagined there was more ink hidden under his black T-shirt.
And for the love of all things holy, let’s not talk about that dark stubble covering the face we weren’t talking about.
“Sorry, Chloe.” Wendy’s grave voice sounded, her phone still on speaker. “I wanted to warn you.”
Finally regaining use of her wits, she tapped disconnect on the phone and sank back into the water. Crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed her knees together when his hard gaze narrowed, devouring her. Taking her in as if he could see every bare inch through the fizzling bubbles. Swallowing, she found her voice.
“Last I heard, you vowed never to show your lousy face in this town again. What’d you do, take a wrong turn on your way back to Assholeville? Aren’t you, like, the mayor there or something?”
Bam.
She had that line ready to go nearly nine years and nine months ago.
His hardened jaw told her the juvenile taunt made a direct hit, and it did her ego good despite being naked as a jaybird.
It wasn’t as though he should be surprised. After all, they had history. You know, the kind where a seventeen-year-old girl spends a hot Hamptons summer falling for the wrong boy next door.
The kind where, at the end of that summer, ugly words were spoken and terrible deeds were done, never to be forgiven. Where bending hearts were irreparably broken.
She never thought she’d see him again.
Yet, here she was, ten years and a wrecked view on relationships later, staring at Jameson Maine.
A boy turned man—muscled, rangy, six-foot-something man—seeming intent on his own brand of payback.
They had history.
You know, the kind where an eighteen-year-old boy spent a horrible Hamptons summer falling for the rich girl next door.
The kind where, during the worst—yet best—summer of his life, souls were destined and forever was promised, only to be stolen away. Where tender firsts were given, and no other woman was ever as rare or right.
He never thought he’d see her again.
Yet, here he was, ten years and what seemed like a lifetime of pain later, staring at Chloe Morgan.
A girl turned woman—soft and supple, her bare skin and intense beauty surrounded by bubbles—ready to exact her revenge.
For what, he’d dearly like to know.
Because if anyone had a right to throw a metaphoric punch, it was him. She’d done him all kinds of wrong.
She’d stolen something of his, and he wasn’t talking about his childhood home. It was far more valuable, and considering this property was worth more than money, that was saying something. But her diabolical act was for another day.
He was too tired to fight her tonight. Bone-deep dread had been riding shotgun since he left the gulf coast of Florida two days ago, closing up his condo for what he intended to be a quick turnaround trip to The Hamptons.
A place he vowed never to return, lousy face or not.
But death—his father’s, in this instance—had a way of getting your attention.
Truth be told, exhaustion had been his companion for years now. Along with the hate.
Hate had been his mistress during his Navy days, when being a SEAL was the only thing he wanted in life. When being Chloe’s at the same time was no longer an option. When being something else—somebody he really wanted to be—was a privilege taken from him without his consent.
Watching her now, naked and wet and squirming, eased his bad mood. So did those tits.
His days of quick and dirty strange were done, anonymous sex losing its luster years ago. But he couldn’t blame a dry spell for instigating this hard-on. Or the desire to drag her from the tub caveman-style, push her face-first against the wall, water streaming down her body, and take her hard and fast from behind—a position guaranteeing he’d not have to look at her.
No, that annoying primal urge was all thanks to Chloe and her delicious tits.
Her best asset and his downfall, those tits. And they were as spectacular today as a decades’ worth of days ago.
She was just as spectacular, her teenage beauty morphing from sweet and innocent to centerfold quality, caveman-inspiring sexy. Stunningly beautiful was an apt description.
But she didn’t seem to notice his rapid physical assessment. Her sky-blue eyes, the ones that could talk him into anything, spit anger. Anger that cooled his libido nicely. Reminded him of his own rage and resentment.
“Get out of my fucking tub,” he growled, his voice low and controlled. “Then get out of my fucking house, and out of my fucking life like you’ve been for the last decade. Until then, me and my lousy face are gonna stay right here.”
Blood pumped hot through his veins, but he’d been trained well by the Navy. Never show emotion.
Propping his shoulder against the jamb of the door, he crossed his arms and settled in. As if unimpressed by her wet, naked body.
“There’s nothing under those bubbles I haven’t seen. Been there. Done that. Don’t wanna do it again.” There wasn’t a lick of emotion in his tone, or any outward signs of weakness. The Navy taught him that, too.
Chloe Morgan taught him that.
She taught him that little life lesson first, in fact. The hard way. The Navy simply stood in awe of her handiwork and the emotionless mechanism of war he became from it.