Australia, page 1
Australia
A Romance Anthology to benefit firefighters and wildlife
Contents
Skye Warren
The Last Song
Penny Reid
Pash, No Rash
Kennedy Ryan
The Rule of Always
Giana Darling
Be There With Me
Meredith Wild
A Pretty Penny
Emma Scott
Where the Current Takes You
Tijan
I Mean, It’s Cool
Noelle Adams
Date for Hire
Nana Malone
Kennedy’s Aussie
Jewel E. Ann
Just Jane
Aleatha Romig
Fireworks
Parker S. Huntington
3, 2, 1
A.L. Jackson
Virgin Ride
Carly Phillips
Dare to Dream
Jenika Snow
A Real Man Down Under
Rebecca Yarros
Basket Day
Annabel Joseph
Until Next Year
Kylie Scott
Mal + Anne + 1
Tamsen Parker
Waltz with Me, Matilda
Sierra Simone
Sanguine
Willow Winters
Love You for Always
Susan Stoker
Caroline’s Surprise
Robin Covington
Bad Reunion
Pam Godwin
King Of Libertines
Dylan Allen
The Vow
Mary Catherine Gebhard
The Boogieman
Julia Kent
Shopping for More
Emma Hart
Tenacious Bond
Melanie Moreland
Stitches
Audrey Carlan
Sweet Caroline
A. Zavarelli
The Date Arrangement
Kayti McGee
Taken By the Hobo
Michelle Heard
Preston
Celia Aaron
The Candy Acquisition
Brighton Walsh
Mine for Tonight
Chelle Bliss
One Wild Ride
Willow Aster
Lifeline
A romance anthology with over THIRTY original, never-before-seen stories from bestselling and award-winning authors. Each piece was written for this anthology to benefit firefighters and wildlife in Australia. AUSTRALIA is only available for a limited time, so one-click your copy before it's gone.
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AUTHORS INCLUDE: Penny Reid, Meredith Wild, Carly Phillips, Sierra Simone, Emma Scott, Susan Stoker, Kennedy Ryan, Willow Aster, Skye Warren, Kylie Scott, Aleatha Romig, Willow Winters, AL Jackson, Julia Kent, Rebecca Yarros, Tijan, Giana Darling, Emma Hart, Chelle Bliss, Noelle Adams, A. Zavarelli, Jenika Snow, Dylan Allen, Audrey Carlan, Robin Covington, Mary Catherine Gebhard, Melanie Moreland, Parker S. Huntington, Nana Malone, Jewel E. Ann, Annabel Joseph, Celia Aaron, Michelle Heard, Brighton Walsh, Tamsen Parker, Pam Godwin, Kayti McGee
All royalties from this project will be donated to relief funds in Australia, with 50% going to a firefighter charity and 50% going to a wildlife charity. We aren't affiliated or endorsed by these charities. We are simply authors who want to support an important cause.
The Last Song
Skye Warren
1
Samantha
The search of the hotel suite takes fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes of standing by the door clutching my violin with an armed guard while Liam and another man search every door and window and cabinet with guns drawn.
“Clear,” comes the voice from the balcony.
“Clear,” comes a tinny voice through Elijah’s headset.
Only then does Liam return from the bedroom. “All clear.”
I wade through the plush carpet and fall on the leather sofa with a sigh. Thirty-six hours on a plane has made every joint in my body stiff, especially the ones in my lower back. Some women become radiant when they carry a child. I’m the opposite of radiant. A black hole.
Masculine murmurs track the progress of settling in an entourage and security team to the five-star hotel. I wish the precautions weren’t necessary, but I can’t argue with them. Not after the man I love was shot protecting me. Threats come from my past. They come from being in the spotlight. They even come from natural disasters, like the one we’re here to fight.
I gave my last performance a month ago.
As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I stopped booking concerts. The bushfires in Australia brought me back into the spotlight one more time. It shouldn’t feel so final. Motherhood doesn’t have to end a career, but I have this secret fear that it will.
Liam unmolds me from the sofa, tearing the violin case from my arms.
Orange light presses against the windows. I’m not sure whether it’s dawn or dusk. I’m guided into the bathroom, which features an oversize Jacuzzi tub. Liam goes instead to the walk-in shower with dark slate tiles. He tests the water with his hand until it’s right.
Then he reaches for my slouchy sweater. “I’m not in the mood,” I mumble as he takes it off. I’m unresisting as he gently pulls the tank top over my head. My nipples peak in the steamy air.
“I know,” he says, his voice grave, his expression solemn.
That’s the thing about Liam. He does know. I could refuse him every day throughout eternity, and he’d still be here, undressing me, bathing me, taking care of me with his every breath. There’s something not-right about this level of devotion, something I would never give up.
“I didn’t mean it,” I say, a tear slipping down my cheek. Not sadness, that tear. Exhaustion, maybe. And pregnancy hormones. I’ve been a mess for months now. My jeans slide down my legs, and I step out of them, pliant and almost numb. “I do want you. I’m just grumpy and jet-lagged.”
My panties come off last. Liam tugs them down with a brisk, businesslike movement. I could almost believe he’s unaffected except for the very large bulge in his black tactical pants.
I’m standing in front of him. Naked.
That would have been enough to make him hard, naturally. It’s different now that I’m pregnant. Even breathing is enough to make him hard. It’s like I’m exuding some kind of sex-drive chemical. What do I know about reproductive science? Maybe I am. It makes him want me nonstop, until I’m chafed between my legs, tender in the most secret places, until I wince when he pushes inside.
He isn’t pushing inside now. No, he’s got himself wrapped up tight. Like a punishment. I let him move me under the hot spray, but I don’t let go of his hand. Two hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle. I couldn’t move him if he didn’t want to be moved. He lets me pull, pull, pull him under the water until he’s half-drenched and fully dressed.
His brow lifts, sardonic. “Do you want me to shower, too?”
Hot water plasters the black fabric of his T-shirt to hard muscle. That’s another thing that changed since I got pregnant. Five a.m. runs and three-hour workouts. Those are typical things for Liam North, ex-military, CEO of North Security. Now he’s training even harder, even longer. As if maybe this baby will be a hundred fifty pounds and need to be bench-pressed.
I reach up to place to a kiss on his bristly jaw. “Join me, Liam. Please.”
He’s stripping off his soaked T-shirt before I can finish begging. He’s hard edges and deep shadows. There’s no other word for it. He’s ripped. Droplets cling to the coarse hair across his chest. His cock rises in the spray, ruddy and rude. It should be awkward, his cock and my belly, these pieces where we don’t fit together. That’s how it feels a foot away. Then he closes the distance. Skin to skin, we fit together perfectly. No space between us. Only heat and sensation and that special familiar electricity.
“I’m sorry,” I say, breathless, though I don’t know why I’m sorry.
It seems like the right thing to say, because he laughs. A break in the clouds, that laugh. A brief reprieve of the severity with which he protects us both. “You are perfect and sweet. And most of all you’re tired. I’m supposed to be washing your hair.”
A drop of water falls from his eyelash, and I’m helpless. This strong man uses every ounce of muscle to protect me. He’s like the water wrapping around the earth. I want to soak him into my skin. “Wash my hair,” I say. “Later. I want you now. Liam, I want you.”
Those green eyes darken. “You should rest. And I should—”
“Do a perimeter check?” It’s not fair to tease him about this, but he needs the teasing. He needs something light and playful in his life. “I need my perimeter checked.”
Emerald glints down at me. “East? West? North?”
I take his hand and drag it lower. He’s my very own Atlas, holding up the weight of the world. It’s my job to make that load a little lighter. He lets me pull his hand between my legs. A light, watery touch makes me gasp. “South.”
He rubs my intimate places with blunt, casual strokes. “There does seem to be some weakness in your defenses.” Two fingers invade me, sandpaper on velvet. “Here.”
I’m gratified by the roughness of his voice, by the dark look in his green eyes. I’m spread open to him, vulnerable and wet, impaled on his fingers, but he’s affected, too. Hurting with it. His cock presses against my hip, heavy, insistent—hotter than the water that streams over my skin.
He moves his wrist. I feel the subtle shift in muscle and tendon a
The orgasm rips through me like a tornado through a town, tight spirals of pleasure that feel almost like pain, leaving devastation in its path—trees torn out of the ground and buildings split in half. That’s how my body feels once it’s over. Every muscle seizes and goes limp. I would sink to the warm tile floor of the shower except that Liam catches me. I’m boneless in his arms.
Liam
I towel her dry. She lets me move her this way and that, unresisting. When I set her down in bed, she curls into the pillow. “What about you?” she mumbles, looking at me through glazed, half-lidded eyes.
She’s asking about having sex. Or maybe giving me a handjob. Something that would be fair, considering I got her off. I don’t give a fuck about fairness. That’s not why I touch her. This isn’t a goddamn trade negotiation. The flights exhausted her, but she still had a jittery energy. That’s why I forced that orgasm out of her—so she could relax enough to sleep easy. Well, it wasn’t entirely for that reason. I also love touching her. Making her come is the best thing I know how to do. These hands know how to fight and work and kill, but they can also make Samantha come so hard she almost passes out.
“Rest,” I say, pulling the blanket under her chin.
It’s always a little disconcerting when I tuck her in, the reminder that I was her guardian before I was her lover. Those two roles are entirely different, except for one thing—that I can take care of her in both.
The suite features a balcony with a view of the Sydney Opera House. Night fell in the span of a shower. Water and night create a dark tapestry. The white arcs of the theater glow against the backdrop. In the safe bubble of the hotel, we can’t feel the extreme heat from outside. The smoke that hangs is temporarily sieved from the air due to a light shower this morning. Hard to believe that in the same state firefighters still battle bushfires.
Outside the bedroom my brother Elijah waits at the gleaming dining table. We have men and women working for North Security. One of them stands in the hallway. Another’s in place on the living room balcony. More are positioned around the hotel. I hired and trained most of them myself. I’d trust any one of them with my life. But Samantha’s life… that’s different. For that I’d prefer to have one of my brothers on duty.
“She asleep?” Elijah asks, his voice and expression casual.
Of course he’ll know what happened the next room over. It’s not hard to deduce, and Elijah’s a skilled operator. “Out like a light. Hopefully she’ll stay that way the whole night. It’ll help with the jet lag.”
“But you’re not going to join her.”
“I need to hit the gym. All those hours in a tin can.”
My brother snorts, aware that our tin can was a large Gulfstream with plush leather seats and a private room with a queen-size bed. “God forbid you go for twenty-four hours without pummeling your body in punishment for… for what, exactly? I’ve never been sure.”
“Don’t start,” I say, crossing the suite to the bar area. I twist the top off an ice-cold bottle of water and gulp it down. That’s the problem with brothers. They know too damn much about you.
“Still feel guilty about Sam? You should.”
Elijah’s the youngest North brother, which makes him closest in age to Samantha. They had more of a friendship. I was the one who met with her teachers and set the curfew. Elijah was the one she talked to about… hell, I don’t know what they talked about. Boys she had a crush on?
Now she’s all grown up, a celebrity violinist and soon-to-be mother of my child.
“Don’t worry about my shit. Worry about yours,” I say, which is a low blow. That’s brothers for you.
“She doesn’t need you to have an eight-pack. Being able to survive three months in a desert isn’t going to make you a better husband.” He points to the bedroom. “Go back in there. Sleep.”
“You don’t give the orders around here, little brother.”
“I should,” he mutters.
Hell. “If you were in charge, North Security would have gone up in flames years ago. We’d have done some heroic rescue, probably saving a bus full of nuns from a grizzly fate. Not all of us want to be heroes, Elijah. Some of us just want to survive.”
We stare at each other. I’m breathing hard. This is maybe the most honest I’ve ever been with him. We were raised like a litter of stray dogs, the three North brothers. Each of us went into the military and forged our own path. You don’t go into battle and walk away without scars.
I don’t judge my brother. He’s right about me. Guilt? I don’t need a single reason. There are a hundred. I think of them when I go downstairs and run fifteen miles on an inclined treadmill and do hundreds of reps at the bench. Every time Samantha’s feet hurt or she can’t sleep. Every time she has morning sickness. My fault, because I made her pregnant. I fucked her without a condom again and again and again. I wanted her to have a child so I’d bind her to me, so I’d make her mine.
And in doing so I may have ended her career.
Samantha
The charity concert was put together quickly. Major pop stars and bands have flown in for a single night. We don’t have time to rehearse or plan any kind of smooth transition, but it doesn’t matter. The koalas and the kangaroos need our help. The people here need it, too. Money will go to the local volunteer firefighters and a wildlife rescue organization.
When my last tour ended, I didn’t know it would be the end.
I didn’t know that two months later I’d pee on a stick and see two pink lines.
That makes this concert different. It’s the last time I’ll perform in front of people… for how long? I’m not sure. I grew up being dragged by my father from one country to the next, more like a piece of heavy baggage than a child. I won’t do the same thing to the baby growing inside me.
How long until I’ll feel comfortable leaving him or her? Five years? Eight? Ten?
It’s something that isn’t written in the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book. Being a solo violinist isn’t the kind of job you can leave and come back to. In ten years no one may buy a ticket with my name on it. Most likely they’ll forget about me in two years. There’s an endless line of talented, ambitious violinists waiting to take my seat.
A limo takes us the short distance to the Sydney Opera House.
My violin case rests in my lap.
Liam sits across from me, wearing a tux and a grim expression. “Nervous?” he asks.
“The usual.” Every crowd brings its own energy to a concert. Some are boisterous and engaging. Others are pensive and serious. It interacts with the notes in a way I can’t predict. Live music is fundamentally more raw, more expressive than when its recorded. I’ve played this song a thousand times, but in a couple hours, when I play onstage, it will become brand-new.
“The Paganini?” he asks.
It’s one of the pieces I often play when I’m in a lineup of modern music. It can feel like a drag to go from an upbeat hip-hop song to a slow classical piece. The Paganini has energy and melody that feel accessible, even if someone doesn’t usually listen to the violin. I shake my head.
