Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4) (36 page)

“Come here,” he ordered.

She turned to him, that sexy defiance on her gaze. So fucking sexy. “Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“Mamma mia che pazenzia.”
Rolling her eyes, Elle obeyed. “The things I put up with for you.”

She came to him and he lifted her chin. “And why is that? Stockholm Syndrome?”

“Nah, I can’t blame it on that. I just love you.”

“How unfortunate for you,” he murmured against her lips and kissed her while hauling her up.

Elle wrapped her legs around his waist. “You better be careful, Borg. Don’t you know women transform anything into something mighty? Haven’t you learned by now? You give a woman a spermatozoid, she gives you a baby. You give her a house, she’ll give you a home. You give her a caress, she’ll give you her heart. She multiplies and makes bigger anything that’s offered to her. So do not give me any shit or you’ll find yourself neck-deep in it. Give me problems and prepare yourself because I’ll make your life impossible.”

He took her to the sofa—a brand-new sofa that Elle had bought from IKEA and had managed to transport to the cabin with Ronnie’s complicity—and sat on it. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you want my kid?”

Elle snorted. “Is that all that you got from what I just said?”

He ignored her. “You start having my babies, we might as well get hitched.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Shitty marriage proposal, Borg. Even for someone speech-impaired. Besides, we’re in the middle of an argument. You can’t propose to me now. There are rules for that kind of thing.”

“Says who?” He cupped her face, his thumb caressing her sweet mouth. His voice was low. “You want me on my knees? Because you already have me there. Had me on my knees for a long time. They are scraped bloody, pet. I’m an embarrassment to manhood.”

Elle’s soft body moved with laughter. “I doubt it very much. I can attest to your excellence.”

“This formality is for you. As far as I am concerned, we are already married. This is it, for better or for worse, until death do us part. You want the party and the ceremony, you’ll have them, but I don’t need them. You’re my woman.”

“I might want the party and the ceremony,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “But you know what I totally and definitely need? A bachelorette party.”

“You’ll have that too.” He might trail them and shoot at every guy who glanced at her but she’ll have her bachelorette party.

“I’m thinking coed,” she continued, smirking. “At a paintball range, with me in an old wedding dress and the girls wearing bridesmaids’ ones.”

“Do the guys have to wear the dresses too? Because that’s not going to go down well.”

She laughed. “No, you can go in your badass regular outfits. So, you game?”

He nodded. He was game for any-fucking-thing she wanted. Now and forever.

“You haven’t properly answered, pet,” he whispered.

“You haven’t properly asked, Borg.”

Smart-ass.

He stared into those big, black, bottomless eyes. “Will you do me the immense honor of marrying me? I know you are way out of my league and that you could do much better, get some happy-go-lucky guy who would coordinate his wardrobe, would never snarl, and would have an extremely busy and fulfilling social life, but I love you, snarling hermit up in the mountains that I am.”

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and presented her the only valuable thing that had ever meant shit to him. “I didn’t get you a diamond engagement ring, pet.”

It was Celia’s family ring.
“Take it, mijo,”
she had said on her deathbed, forcing him to accept the ring.
“For whenever you find the person you can’t breathe without.”

Jack had found her.

“Good, because I’m not the diamond-engagement-ring type.”

Jack slid it on her finger. Perfect.

“Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“I prefer the snarling hermit with the cabin up in the mountains. Hands down. He’s much more fun to tease. The happy-go-lucky guy who doesn’t snarl and has an extremely busy and fulfilling social life? He tends to be gay.”

Man, she was so freaking funny. He had no clue how he’d managed to get her to fall in love with him but he was going to work his butt off every fucking day to make this work.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he lifted her and headed for the kitchen counter where he’d left his duffle bag.

“To get a dildo. I want to see how you use it.”

“On me or on you?”

Jack barked a laugh. “Dream on, pet.” Then he kissed her and added, “But never lose your kind of pushy. It makes me want to fuck you harder.”

“I won’t. You know, though, you won’t be able to fuck me into submission, right?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ever going to stop trying.”

She cupped his face and brushed her lips over his. “That’s my Borg.”

* * * *

James and Cole stepped out of the car, followed by Max.

They stood in the suburban cul-de-sac, in front of the pink house, not really believing their eyes.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Cole asked, looking around.

James nodded. “I double-checked. This is where she lives.”

Jack’s information hadn’t been too detailed, but the tracking was sound. The baby who Rachel Bowen had given up for adoption was living there and her name was Morgana.

“Can’t be. This is so…”

Max seemed at lost for words. James too.

“Martha fucking Stewart,” Cole offered.

True. Matching welcome mat and drapes. Flowers on every windowsill. Cute, perfectly tended garden with a couple of gnomes watching over.

“She’s supposed to be a parole officer, not Miss Peggy Sue.” James was already half expecting someone dressed like Lucy opening the front door.

“It’s the California sun,” Max offered, walking toward the porch. “It makes people do weird things.”

They knocked but no one answered, so they decided to check the backyard.

The kitchen door was ajar.

“Hello?” Cole said, poking his head in.

The door fell open.

The kitchen was creamy pink, very fifties, but no Lucy was there greeting them. More like an angry version of Lara Croft.

A man who looked rather the worse for wear was lying on the floor, whimpering, badly beaten up, and Lara Croft, aka their lost sister, was standing over him, holding a frigging chainsaw.

“This is not what it looks like,” she said, turning to them.

Loose Id Titles by Elle Aycart

The BOWEN BOYS Series

More than Meets the Ink

Heavy Issues

Inked Ever After

To the Max

Heavy Secrets

Jacked Up

* * * *

The OGs Series

Deep Down

Elle Aycart

After a colorful array of jobs all over Europe ranging from translator to chocolatier to travel agent to sushi chef to flight dispatcher, Elle Aycart is certain of one thing and one thing only: aside from writing romances, she has abso-frigging-lutely no clue what she wants to do when she grows up. Not that it stops her from trying all sorts of crazy stuff. While she is probably now thinking of a new profession, her head never stops churning new plots for her romances.

Keep in touch with Elle by visiting her at
http://elleaycart.blogspot.com
.