Still

By Ann Mayburn

(Long, Slow Tease, Book 1)

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

Still

By Ann Mayburn

Copyright © 2013 by Ann Mayburn

Published by Honey Mountain Publishing

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

**DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, BDSM or otherwise, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Ann Mayburn will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.**

I would like to extend a super huge thank you to my Beta readers, and to all my friends and fans that gave me the courage to self-publish Michelle and Wyatt’s story. You are, as always the wind beneath my wings.

I’d also like to thank my editor, Ekatarina Sayanova. I loved the conversations we’ve had while whipping
Still
into shape and your insight has been invaluable. I also appreciate the fact that you think there is nothing strange about yelling at my kids that zombies can’t talk while I’m on the phone with you. ;)

My little brother, an active duty Marine with more tours of the sandbox under his belt than should be legal, played an integral part in this book in making sure I got my shit right…well right with a little bit of dramatic license here and there. To him I would like to say a big and heartfelt thank you. I wish with all my might that you weren’t getting ready to deploy to that shit hole yet again and you and your family are always in my heart and prayers.

To my super awesome fans, thank you so much for once again giving me the opportunity to entertain you. A story with no readers is like a body with no heart.

Ann Mayburn

Dear Beloved Reader,

The seeds for Michelle and Wyatt’s story were sown during a conversation I had with some fellow military wives about PTSD. They were dealing with everything from their husband being unable to ride in the passenger seat of the car because he thought everyone pulling up next to them might be a bomber, to another woman who had to learn how to sleep with every light in the house on the moment it got dark outside. And if a light burned out and they didn’t have a spare bulb, a major panic attack would ensue. These were all things that we’d never even imagined we’d have to deal with in our role as a military spouse and it wasn’t just my group of friends. All over the US our men and women in uniform are coming home with an army of psychological demons in tow.

So, we got to talking about what we could possibly do to help them and one woman quipped that she’d just have to become a Dominatrix and whip his ass into shape because he only seemed to respond when she yelled at him. We all laughed, but later I kept thinking about what she said and the first chapter of Michelle and Wyatt’s story came to me that night.

While this story does have threads taken from real life events running through it, it is still a romance and in romance land a happily ever after is guaranteed. In the real world you have to make your own happily ever after, and it is fucking hard work. For those struggling with PTSD and the people that love them, I’ve included a list of resources that I urge you to use at the back of the book.

Remember, you are not alone, there is hope, and there is help if you’re brave enough to ask for it.

Kisses,

Ann- Sailor wife, Army daughter and granddaughter, and proud United States Marine Corp sister

Prologue

Present Day

Michelle Sapphire closed her eyes and counted to ten, straining with every ounce of her formidable self-control not to launch herself at the asshole secured in the restraint chair in front of her.

Grinning at her.

“Yes, Officer, I know this man.”

Oh, she knew this man all right. Wyatt Maverick Callahan. Also known as Marine Gunnery Sergeant Callahan, “Gunny” to the men and women in his unit, and darling boy to his doting mother. A decorated war hero with six tours of the Middle East under his belt. During the last tour, he'd been part of the security detachment assigned to her regiment. She'd been sitting next to him in the M-ATV when the mortar ripped through his troop transport and inflicted the wound that sent him home, essentially ending his military career and winning him another Purple Heart.

Now, here he sat wearing a vintage Pink Floyd tee shirt probably older than he was, faded, grass-stained blue jeans that fit like they'd been painted on and scuffed boots desperately in need of a polish. He had a good two to three days growth of beard that accentuated his knife-sharp cheekbones. And he still, somehow, managed to look hotter than fucking sin.

“Ms. Sapphire,” the older policeman standing next to Callahan started to say before Wyatt lunged forward as much as he could while strapped down to the chair.

“That’s
Doctor
Sapphire to you,” Callahan snarled and Michelle’s right fist ached with the need to beat his ass.

Ignoring the female officer trying to block her, Michelle got right up in Callahan's face, nose to nose. She didn’t care if she was in her Hello Kitty pajama pants and a faded pink tank top, or that her hair was hanging loose around her shoulders in a blonde frizz. This motherfucker's phone call woke her up to come bail his sorry, drunk ass out of some two room jail south of Austin after she'd worked a twelve-hour night shift at the clinic. And she hadn’t had any coffee before leaving the house.

He was a dead man.

“Hi, Callahan,” she said in a sugary sweet voice.

Up this close she could see the flecks of green and gold in his now bloodshot hazel eyes. He had long, thick dark lashes, the kind women would kill for, and a full, sensual mouth. His dark hair was longer than she’d ever seen it, but then again they’d both gotten out of the military about a year ago. Sorrow flashed through his gaze and, for a split second, she got a glimpse of the suffering man behind the wise-ass persona.

He smiled that panty-dropping smile that had every female within a fifty foot radius fluttering their lashes. “Hi Doc. You said, if I ever needed you, I could call you.”

“I did.” Nailing him with her gaze, she enjoyed how he fidgeted. “Well let me inform you of something, Callahan. Right now, I really regret saying that if your idea of help is me bailing you out of the drunk tank.”

Wyatt glared at her, his perfect upper lip curling in a manner that made her want to bite it. Sweet Mary, mother of God, put her in his presence for more than five minutes and her whole body ached for his touch. She’d hoped that their time apart would have lessened the impact his presence had on her but, if anything, it had grown stronger. Electricity, sharp and biting, arched between their bodies as their gazes locked. He was so very, very angry beneath all that sorrow, a storm of emotion battering him from the inside out.

He needed her.

“Ma’am.” One of the deputies touched her shoulder.

Not breaking eye contact with Callahan, she said, “It's all right, officer. I’ve got this. Callahan isn’t going to do anything to piss me off any more than I already am because he knows that he doesn’t want to see me really angry. Right, Callahan?”

His lips twitched the slightest bit and his angry gaze softened into that familiar devilish gleam. “Ma'am, yes, Ma’am.” Michelle was sure if he'd been able to stand up, he would have saluted just to be a smart ass. The all too pleasant image of Callahan doing mountain climbers while nude flashed through her mind. Forcing her libido to calm down, she made herself focus on this moment, on him, and gave him one hundred percent of her attention. Because, God knows, Callahan could be a right stubborn bastard when he was in the mood.

She leaned forward the slightest bit, the scent of the crushed grass on his jeans mixing with his alcohol-saturated sweat. “Now, you will behave. You will do everything they ask in a polite and respectful manner. You will not disgrace me by acting like a fool in public. Do you understand?”

The rest of the anger slowly drained from his gaze and something deep inside her tightened when he was the first to look away, to acknowledge her dominance. That gesture was as old as time and always implied the same thing, submission. When he met her gaze again, he'd rebuilt some of his mental walls, but she'd already seen what she needed.

She knew what was inside his heart.

He swallowed hard. “Roger that, ma'am.”

She gave him the smile that he’d always seen right before she laid the smack-down on him. His pupils constricted and his muscles tightened, an unconscious reaction to her emotions. She longed to soothe him, to tell him everything would be okay, but that only worked in fairy tales. In the real world, she had to take charge and
make
things right.

Fortunately, she rather enjoyed being a cold bitch in the right situations.

“Now then, can you please tell me the nature of his charges?”

The older officer motioned her away from Callahan to speak to her privately. Behind her she heard the officers talking to Wyatt, and he was as well-behaved as could be. While she still didn’t know what she was going to do with him, she did know she would do everything she could to get him out of jail and someplace to heal. Preferably at her home.

“Well, Dr. Sapphire, we got a complaint about a drunk and disorderly, but it wasn’t what we were used to.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned closer, near enough so she could smell the faint scents of coffee on his breath and the dry cleaning solution clinging to his uniform. “He was in a local cemetery. Scared the crap out of the caretaker. The old man was doing his last rounds through the property, getting ready to lock the gates, when he saw Wyatt sitting on a grave with a nearly empty bottle of whiskey.”

He had her undivided attention now. “Was it Mt. Zion?”

“Yeah. I-uh I guess you know whose grave it was.”

She knew, but she needed confirmation. “Aaron Winters?”

“Yeah.”

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, torn between the need to choke Callahan for being so reckless or hold him. “Was he armed?”