Rich Soldier (The Dirty Thirty Pledge 2)

I want to scream and rage at him for what a ridiculous idiot he is. But I also can’t ignore that I’ve missed him. Both physically and as a friend. I’ve pushed that to the side for a long time, telling myself I’ve got friends. Close friends. But honestly, nothing has ever come close to the way that Wallace and I used to be. And I’m not an idiot. I know that if we ever reconciled, it wouldn’t immediately go back to the way it was, but the possibility hanging just out of reach makes my chest ache. And keeping him at arm’s length is exhausting.

Carefully orchestrating my work schedule so I we don’t have to be near him is using up so much of my energy that I know I’m going to make more mistakes. And while I’m hoping that my dad is going to pass the business on to me, I can’t be making stupid mistakes. Even if Wallace is misguided, and spending way too much money on me, he’s an honorable guy. He’s going to respect the boundaries that I set. I’ve always known that.

If I want to resolve our relationship, one way or another, so we can both focus on moving forward, I’m going to have to be the one to make the first move.

I wait until the end of the day and watch Wallace as he leaves. We’ve been working on a new house down a shady lane of trees. He heads toward his truck and I follow after a minute, listening to the sounds of the rest of the crew packing up and heading home. His truck is parked underneath a huge oak, overlooking one of the valleys on the outskirts of town. It’s gorgeous. And I’m glad that e he’s parked hidden from the road so we won’t have an audience of any stragglers.

“Wallace?” I call as I walk toward the truck. “We need to talk. You’re not going to win me back by buying expensive gifts.” I round the truck and freeze. He’s shirtless. I’ve caught him in the middle of changing out of his sweaty clothes. His pants hang loose on his hips, and when he turns to face me, they’re unbuttoned, showing too much skin tracing down below where I can see.

Fuck.

Seeing him like this sends a shot of adrenaline to my system. I’m suddenly filled with pure need, wet between my legs and not really caring what I came here to say to him as long as I can keep staring at his body, imagining what it would be like to watch him moving over me again. My mouth is dry, and I swallow.

His voice is rough. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I say, still unable to tear my eyes from his bare chest.

A tiny smirk forms at the corners of his lips. “Okay. You need something else?”

The way he phrases it implies that it’s him that I need, and I have to force myself still to keep from nodding. “N-no,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bullshit,” he says, stalking closer. “I know we haven’t been together in a long time, Tia, but I still know you. I know that you don’t want anyone to give you flowers and I know that you love to draw more than anything in the world. I know what you like, and I know what you look like when you want me.”

“I don’t,” I say too quickly. “Want you.”

“You do.” He’s almost too close, and I can feel the heat coming off his skin. “I need you too. I know we have so much to talk about, and you have no idea how much I want to make it right. ”

I look up into his eyes, and butterflies drop to my gut, because deep down I know that he’s right. The last two weeks have been nothing but build up and tension. There’s a reason that I haven’t even been able to think straight when he’s around me. I want him so fucking bad that my body is screaming, and I hate that he knows it. I know he can see it, too, because my nipples have gone hard through my shirt and I’m having a hard time catching my breath.

“I hate you,” I say. “Just so you know.”

His mouth quirks up into a half-smile. “I do know that.” And then he kisses me.

It seems so simple, his hand curling around my neck so he can tip my face up to his. Our lips meeting softly, hesitantly at first, before deepening into each other. But for me it feels like an earthquake. The world shifts, like somehow it won’t be the same after. And something in my mind tells me that I should stop.

But I don’t stop. I keep going, running my hands down the bare skin of his chest and grasping his shoulders to pull him closer while he winds his arms around my waist, hauling my body against his. I don’t think I’m ever going to get tired of this feeling. It makes me feel feminine and delicate in comparison to his hard body. I like being reminded of that. That he’s bigger and stronger and can take me and protect me all at once. It makes me shiver. He pushes the light button-down shirt I’m wearing off my shoulders so there’s only a camisole left.