Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) (5 page)

It was nothing more than an adjustment period. After many years spent in grad student mode, my brain was still trying to catch up to tenure-track professor mode. I was going to get through this, I knew it.

Sam pressed his knee into my thigh, and said, "Talk to me. Total honesty, remember?"

"It
was
a good class," I conceded. "We discussed interventional models, and I love getting into the different structures available because students at this level tend to think therapy is a never-ending prescription, which is clearly ridiculous because any treatment should succeed in
treating
and remedying the issue."

"If it's ever not a good class, you'll tell me. Right?"

"Definitely," I said. "And how was your day, darling?"

Sam cringed, and laughed as he handled the bill. "I told you about Matt's engineering episode. Aside from that special moment, I'm looking forward to this project. It's a beautiful Second Empire-style Victorian property out in Brookline. It's the perfect chunk of land for sustainable design, and now that Riley's running the entire Turlan restoration with minimal supervision, I can focus on this."

I swirled my straw around my water glass. "Why are you guys so hard on him?"

"Riley?" Sam asked, and I nodded. He frowned, scratched his chin, and stared at the bottles of tequila lined up on the bar. "We're not
that
hard on him."

"Maybe you don't notice it," I said. "But it's no fun being the fuck-up, and I'm speaking from experience."

"We don't…" His voice trailed off and he frowned again, deeper this time.

"Think about it," I said, running my hand over his shoulders. "I know that busting each other's balls is in your DNA and it's all hate-love with you guys, but Riley gets it the most."

Sam tapped his credit card on the bar for a few seconds before nodding and replacing it in his wallet. "Do you think he's…"

"Hurt? Emotionally damaged? Suffering from low self-esteem?" I asked. "No. None of the above. He doesn't let much bother him—at least I don't think so—and he's really laid back. But he doesn't have to reprise the role of black sheep every day, either."

"Good," Sam murmured. "Emotionally damaged is my shtick. There's no room for him in this corner."

"Your humor is remarkably dark," I said. "Now take me home. I need some snuggletime."

True to form, Riley was sprawled on the sofa with his hand in his boxers when we returned to the firehouse. He was flipping back and forth between several games, and only grunted when we told him we were turning in for the evening.

Once inside the somewhat enclosed second-floor space that functioned as our bedroom and open-air closets, Sam asked, "Did you notice?"

I was busy taking off my beaded bracelets and bib necklace. "Notice what?"

"Back there. Just now. I was going to ask Riley if he was trying to find his dick but I
didn't
. I listened to you."

Turning around as I removed my rose quartz earrings, I said, "That's real progress, Sam."

I withheld a chuckle until the bathroom door closed behind him. After changing out of my dress and into a t-shirt, I heard him rustling in his bedside drawers. He was setting out the equipment to replace his blood glucose monitor's infusion set. The fact that he was standing there shirtless, with the insulin ports on either side of his belly button exposed, said everything about the distance we'd crossed together.

"Hey," he said, beckoning me closer. He folded me into his arms when I approached, and I laid my head on his chest. "I love you. Also noteworthy: your tits look amazing in this shirt."

His hands moved down my back to squeeze my backside as I laughed. "I love you, too," I said. "And…we need to talk."

His chin bobbed against my head. "I know. Let me switch this out, and then we'll get comfortable."

I retreated to the bathroom and gave Sam some privacy to handle his device. He'd been increasingly open about his glucose monitoring, but just as I didn't want him watching while I bleached the fuzz on my upper lip, he preferred some space.

Once my teeth were brushed and makeup scrubbed off, I joined Sam under the covers. His glasses were perched on the bedside table and his hair was a little wild, and I was angry that I'd spent entire days doubting whether I was enough for this man.

"Get over here," Sam said, his arms spread wide. "And lose the shirt."

"What happened to my tits looking amazing in this shirt?" I crawled toward him. "Besides, I'm not letting you have any boob action until we discuss some stuff."

He drew the blankets over us and tugged me closer. This was my favorite spot in the world, right here with his body warm against mine. I could surrender everything to Sam, and I'd always feel safe and strong and cherished.

"'Letting you'? It's really precious when you try to take the lead," he said.

His lips dropped to my neck, and
oh yes,
my body was more interested in this than any of the knots in my mind. I shivered, and wrapped my hand around his forearm.

"Are you trying to distract me?" I asked.

"Nope," he said. The word vibrated against my neck, and it rippled through my body.

I was on the verge of annoyed, but then his fingertips started working my back and shoulders, and I realized where this was going. He was softening me up. He knew I was tense, and he was helping me get the words out.

If this was what our forever was going to feel like—ass grabbing and diabetes management, understanding each other beyond words and going to bed before eleven o'clock simply because we liked holding each other—there was no reason for my panic. Relieved tears filled my eyes, and I burrowed further into his arms.

I knew how to love Sam. He was mine, and I didn't need any vintage inadequacy getting in the way.

"I have some conditions," I said. I traced the fishhook tattoo on Sam's upper arm. "But I think…I think we should visit my family in New Jersey for the holiday."

"Tell me more," Sam said, his words muffled as he spoke into my hair. "Walk me through this. I want to hear what you're thinking, and your conditions."

"Remember when I went home for Christmas last year?"

"Vividly," Sam said.

"Then you remember how I wanted to leave because it was awful," I said, and he nodded. "And I told you the next time I was going to Jersey, you were coming with me."

"I admire your follow-through here, but I'm hoping you have another reason lined up," he said.

"I always hated helping out at my family's restaurant. It was a chore that I dreaded, and to me, it was a punishment. A long, boring loop of chopping vegetables, stacking plates, filling baskets of pita bread." I stared at the fishhook and exhaled. "I was the only one who felt that way. My sister, my cousins, they loved being at the restaurant. They knew they belonged there, but it wasn't like that for me."

Sam didn't say anything while I paused, but his hands continued rubbing and pressing along my spine.

"There were a lot of events at the restaurant. Parties, celebrations, feasts. Sometimes I performed traditional Greek songs. Everyone loved it, and playing in front of crowds from such a young age is probably why I never dealt with stage fright. See? There's the silver lining. Remind me of that later."

"Done," Sam said.

"I played at an event one night, and it was so great. I performed well, the music sounded good, the people enjoyed it…I was floating ten feet off the ground. It was one of the first moments when I felt like I belonged."

My finger brushed the tattoo above Sam's heart, the new sunburst one with my name woven into the shape.

"You know when you're young, and you overhear adults talking about things you don't understand? I was always listening to my family while I worked, and I never thought much about it. But that night, I remember walking down the hallway to the back office after I performed, and stopping before I got to the door. My mom was crying, and telling my aunt that she didn't understand why I was such a difficult kid. Why was I hyperactive? Why did I hate Greek school and church groups? Why couldn't I like the same things as my cousins? Why did I always have to be different? Why couldn't I be more like Agapi? Why was I only willing to come to the restaurant if it was to play that screechy violin?"

Sam held me tighter, and I clung to him as if I was warding against a slide into another time and place. "It's because you can't be anyone else. There's no forcing you into a mold. You're rare and wild, Sunshine."

"I didn't go in there. I went out into the alley and played The Who's 'Tommy' album until it was time to go home. And then…I overheard the same conversation last Christmas. Like nothing had changed, in all these years."

I touched the sunburst as I blinked away tears. I wasn't crying over this; me and my big girl panties were beyond this bullshit. But I couldn't dip my toes into wedding planning waters until I'd conquered something—
fucking
anything
—with my family. Ultimately, this visit to New Jersey was going to determine whether my family had a place in my life. I was holding out hope that this would be the moment when they looked at me with new eyes, and accepted that, while my choices were different, I was worthy.

"Sometimes I walk away from things I don't want to deal with. I do my own thing, I avoid, I hope it gets better while I'm not paying attention. But…I've spent every day this week worried that you were going to realize I wasn't enough for you, and—"

"Tiel," he interrupted, his tone sharp. "Do
not
finish that sentence."

I shifted to meet his eyes, and when I did, I found every shade of anger and hurt on his face. "I can't walk away anymore."

Sam's lips were pressed together in a tight grimace and his eyes were cast down. "We need to go back to the part about you feeling like you're anything less than my everything," he said. "I won't let you talk about yourself, or us, that way. Let me be your safe space, Tiel."

"You are my safe space, Sam," I said. "You always have been. But this isn't about me. I think I understand that now, and I'm trying to remind myself of that, but I have to deal with it this time. I can't walk away."

"If you're sure you want to do this, believe me when I say that I'm not letting anyone hurt you," he said. "I'm not going to stand for any of that shit, Tiel. If we're doing this, we're only doing as much as you're comfortable with. And we're not staying at your parents' house. I need to be able to rip your panties off and spank you without concern for who might be listening."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Sam sat up and gestured to my neon pink polka-dotted panties. "Allow me to demonstrate."

A couple of months ago, Shannon and Lauren threw down over the topic of panty-ripping. Shannon argued that underwear weren't made of paper, and they didn't tear as easily as some liked to believe. Lauren insisted that Matt had been known to rip a pair or two, and when the right fabric was in the right hands, the task wasn't insurmountable.

I didn't wade into that argument, but not because I didn't have strong feelings about it. No, my greater concern was suffering a bout of word vomit and accidentally mentioning that I'd been sitting at brunch bare-assed because Sam tore my last clean pair off me that morning.

Much like the ones he tore off just now.

"Are you going to be quiet?" he asked, my shredded panties hanging off his finger and the gleam in his eye telling me that every answer was the right one.

N
ovember

I
had
to tell Sam we weren't pregnant this month, and that was difficult for a few reasons.

To start, I hated talking about my period. With anyone. Ever. I didn't have major issues associated with menstruation or anything, but it wasn't something we discussed openly in my home when I was growing up. Ladies were supposed to keep those things to themselves.

Second, Sam was disappointed. He allowed it to flicker over his expression for a quick moment, but it was there.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, we were operating under the assumption that this was going to be easy. While this was only our third month of trying, our approach to
trying
was the definition of weaksauce. It was limited to no condoms, lots of sex, and hoping it all worked out well.

There was never a time in the history of Sam and Tiel that things simply
worked out well
.

We needed strategy, we needed timing, and we needed to stop with "Sunshine, I just want to come all over your tits right now."

That was how I ended up sifting through bulk bins at an herb and spice market in Somerville when I was supposed to be harassing Shannon. My portion of today's plan involved me stopping by her apartment, and cajoling her into joining us for lunch. She could ignore calls and texts, but she couldn't ignore a Saturday morning pop-in.

Shannon and I weren't close, and I wanted to change that. Our relationship was rocky from the start, and plenty of that was my fault. I didn't want to put Sam in the position of having to choose me over his siblings, and if that meant I was inviting her along for holiday weekends when she was sad and lonely, or conspiring to get her mimosa-drunk on the weekend, I was doing it.

But first, I was getting my hands on some red clover and racking my brain for the rest of my great-grandmother's special fertility tea recipe. When the kettle was on the stove and those dried flowers were in the strainer, everyone knew it was time to start knitting baby blankets because that tea never failed.

The recipe was the one gift my great-grandmother gave at bridal showers. Sometimes there was a loaf of scratch-made olive bread with the tea recipe, but only if she
really
liked you.

Without that recipe and with my luck, I'd flub the ingredients or ratios, and end up with hair on my chest or an accidental cure for indigestion. But that wasn't going to hold me back. Nope, I was full steam ahead with my smelly tea and a new app on my phone to track the comings-and-goings in my lady regions.

Once I'd navigated my way to Shannon's neighborhood, it took another twenty minutes to find a parking spot, and I was far behind schedule. Things didn't get much better. There was the odd moment of finding a very wet, very large, very tattooed, and very nearly naked man behind Shannon's door—he looked like a mighty fine way to recover from a breakup—and then the splendor of babbling that information to Andy and Lauren before discovering that Shannon wished to keep it private.

How I was supposed to know that Tattooed-and-Toweled was meant to be a secret was beyond me. Through it all, I pissed off my future sister-in-law
again
, guzzled four too many mimosas, managed to eat none of my lunch, and had to call in a favor to get my drunk ass home.

I was leaning beside a trough of butternut squash, alternately eyeing the phallic shape and laughing at my own quips when I spotted him near the main entrance.

"Hey," Riley said as I approached. My head was still swimming with light, fizzy bubbles, and I was working damn hard to keep from wobbling.

"Hi," I said, "and thank you for coming so quickly."

"Yeah, no problem. I was at the office, so I was close," he said. His hand landed on my shoulder, steadying me, and he leveled me with a skeptical look. "Everything okay?"

I nodded, and the sensation in my head was slow, reminiscent of shaking an Etch A Sketch. "I can't keep up with them," I confessed. "I don't know how those women can drink like that, and on a Saturday afternoon, no less. It's like they run on liquor and nonfat yogurt, and Sephora samples."

"Don't forget about the cupcakes." Riley tightened his grip on my shoulder as he laughed. "Where are you parked, Punky Brewster?"

I led the way, wobbling and nearly wiping out on a cracked segment of the sidewalk, and handed over the keys to Sam's Range Rover when it came into sight. Without a word, Riley turned the ignition and merged into the afternoon traffic.

"You're not going to ask?" I studied him while we were stopped at a light near Faneuil Hall. "About me texting you in the middle of the day to drive me home, and not calling Sam instead? I'm sure I dragged you away from something fun."

"At the
office
?" Riley shook his head. "Nope."

"I've had a lot of champagne, and think I'm gonna tell you anyway."

He tugged at the knotted man-bun sitting loose at the nape of his neck. "I don't fuckin' understand what it is about chicks and brunch."

"Sam's in his workshop, which means he's not going to hear his phone over the saws, and he's been all fired up about getting some table finished." Slouching deeper into the seat, I sighed. "I still can't figure out what to say around your sister. I'm always going on about the wrong things, or saying too much or not enough, or it comes out all wrong. Even when I try to help, I screw up."

I wanted to find my groove with these women. It didn't escape my notice that I'd already flamed out of one family, and I didn't want that track record following me here. But befriending adult women on the basis of our shared love for the Walsh brothers was an oversimplification of the matter. The presumption that all significant others and sisters-in-law would automatically become besties only made sense if these boys were in the market for the exact same woman, and I could attest they weren't.

Liking each other and becoming good friends wasn't merely a dress that you put on. No, it had to look right, feel right,
fit
.

And right now, despite all my best efforts, I didn't fit. At least not with Shannon.

"She'll get over it," he said. He rested his elbow on the center console and gestured toward me as we crossed the Congress Street Bridge. "Contrary to popular belief, she doesn't hold grudges. She gives everyone seven or eight second chances."

"Hmm," I murmured. "I don't think I qualify for that package."

"You do." Riley clicked the automatic door opener and drove into the old fire truck bay. "Hell, I think I'm on second chance number twenty-nine. Don't sweat it." He pointed at the street, and said, "I'm going to get some work done at Turlan. It's easier when there isn't as much noise, or people. There are all these old medallions to fix, and I can't believe anyone accepts the quality I'm getting from Sam's plaster craftsman. It's horrendous. I'd rather do it all by hand, myself, than let that shit fly, and…yeah. Don't worry about me for dinner or anything."

"Thanks for the save," I called as he backed out.

"No sweat," he said. "You've saved my ass plenty of times. And remember: there's no bite in Shannon's bark."

I wasn't sure that theory extended beyond Shannon's siblings, but Riley was already cruising down the street, and the argument dissolved on my tongue.

I stumbled inside and then into Sam's workshop, and found him running boards through the circular saw. He was dressed in a black tank top and the old pair of low-slung jeans he always wore when he was woodworking. And the battered gloves. Jesus, there was something about jeans, a tank top, and work gloves that screamed "Come a little closer so I can defile you."

That look turned my thoughts into dark, sticky molasses.

There had been times when I'd tried to look at him in this gear without turning into a stuttering pile of hormones, but it always ended with me climbing him like a tree.

I boosted myself up on the edge of the work table and watched his arms and shoulders flexing against the saw's vibrations. He hadn't lost any of that lumberjacked strength.

Slow, slow molasses.

When he finished, he shifted the safety glasses to the top of his head and shoved his gloves in his back pocket. "Why are you sitting on my table and looking guilty?" he asked.

"I'm having some very dirty thoughts about you right now, and I got drunk at lunch and I broke Shannon," I blurted.

Sam braced his hands on either side of me and leaned forward. "Tell me all your dirty thoughts, drunk girl."

Oh, hell. Those arms.

I was raking my gaze over them like they were fresh meat.

"I broke Shannon," I repeated, but instead of retreating, Sam moved farther into my space. His lips coasted over my neck and across my chest. He pulled my sweater down, exposing the swell of my breasts. He buried his face there, kissing, licking, sucking.

"Was this one of your dirty thoughts?" he asked.

There were going to be marks. Little red spots where his teeth closed around my tender flesh with the right amount of pressure to leave memories tomorrow, but not enough to break the skin. They felt like everything, all at once, and I loved it.

"I have to confess my sins," I said, gasping as Sam's tongue found my nipple. "Lunch was really bad. I
broke
Shannon. I said all the wrong things and then Riley had to pick me up, and now he's off fixing plaster because it's quiet."

Sam gazed up at me from between my breasts, his eyebrow arched. "Is Shannon in immediate danger?"

"Unlikely," I said, thinking back to Tattooed-and-Toweled in her apartment, and his fierce, possessive stare.

"Outstanding," he said as he hauled me off the table. "I'm gonna take advantage of you now, drunk girl. Let's go talk about your dirty thoughts."

Sam marched me into our bedroom, one hand locked on my breast, the other unlatching my belt. His mouth was on my neck, and I could feel him hard against my backside.

"You look like you could do terrible things to me, and then smile about it."

"Oh, I really could," he said, his hand sliding into my jeans. "You need to be spanked."

"Yes," I moaned, melting into him.

He cupped me over my panties, rhythmically squeezing and releasing until I was aching. "It wasn't a question."

There it was: the subtle shift in our power dynamic. Gone was Fiancé Sam, the one who shared all the household chores with me, the one who was exceedingly sweet and respectful as a matter of fact. In his place was Bedroom Sam, the one who was known to rip off my underwear and fashion it into a gag, or tease me until I was
crying
with need, or leave discernible handprints on my ass.

I loved Bedroom Sam, and I loved the people he let us be here. He understood me and everything I needed, even when I didn't understand it. There was something gorgeously liberating about gaining freedom from my own thoughts, and I merrily surrendered to him every time he demanded it and not only because it was good for me—it was fan-fucking-tastic—but it was good for him, too. It shuttered his smooth, charming façade and funneled it into a flavor of loosely chained aggression that looked better on him than any low-slung jeans or three-piece suit in existence.

His grip tightened on me for a long moment, and when it relaxed, the ache between my legs was now a drum-beating throb. "You need someone to take care of this pretty little pussy, don't you? Someone to make it feel better?"

"
Yesssss
," I said. Then I remembered. "Wait, no, I still have my period. It's just about over, but—"

"Don't care," Sam murmured against my neck. "Now take my clothes off."

Turning in his arms, I yanked the tank top over his head and drank in the sight of him. The jeans accentuated the deep grooves chiseled into his belly, the angular lines directing all attention between his legs.

"Mmmm, it's like you're not even real," I sighed, running my fingers down his chest and abs. "I'm so lucky. Have I told you that? I look at you, and all I can think is,
boom
. My panties just melted. Then I think, let me lick that boy's cock."

His head tipped back as his eyes drifted shut with a laugh, and I watched the rise and fall of his chest as he blew out a breath, my fingers mapping the movement in wonder.
I get to keep you
, I thought, and pressure swelled in my chest as I realized, for the millionth time, that this man belonged to me. He was going to be my husband, the father of my babies, the one I grew old and most likely senile with, the one meant all for me.

"But you're not allowed to come in my mouth," I said, my words thick and slow. "Or on my tits. Nope. We're done with that, and will you help me brew some tea later?"

"I'm going to count to five," Sam said, holding up his hand. "And when I'm finished, I want you naked and kneeling."

I nodded toward the bathroom. "Give me a minute first, but…" I bit my lower lip and lifted my eyebrows. "Maybe you could finish getting undressed and stroke your cock until I get back? Or, if you wanted to keep doing it, I wouldn't mind watching."

"You have one minute," Sam said, biting out each word. "And when that minute is over, I expect to see you on your knees with my cock in your mouth, and you will not be calling the plays anymore, sweetheart."

Hungry to comply, I stripped out of my clothes and got myself ready. When I returned to the bedroom, Sam was standing beside the bed, the blankets turned down, his jeans open and his hand wrapped around his shaft.

Rooted in place, I watched as his forearm rippled with each stroke.

"Get over here," he barked, gesturing to the space between his legs as he sat on the bed. I went, dropping to my knees and waiting until his hand fisted in my hair. It was then, and not a second sooner, that he wanted my mouth.

I took him in, savoring the weight of him on my tongue. But I wasn't allowed to savor long. Sam released a heavy, impatient growl as his hips started jerking forward, and his grip tightened around my hair. His free hand moved from my shoulder up my neck, his fingers grazing my cheek with all the tenderness his bucking hips lacked, and this was how I loved him most. Wild and rough, and never more than a blink away from flat-out adoration.