Owned: Book 4 in the Forever After series Read online

  OWNED

  A Forever After Novella

  Natasha Thomas

  copyright ©2017 by Natasha Thomas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Natasha Thomas

  [email protected]

  www.natashathomasauthor.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Owned / Natasha Thomas. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN:

  For Paul…

  You sir, are an idiot.

  And in case you were wondering, I love you anyway.

  Thank you for being an awesome friend and reading my smut, as you call it. I promise not to tell your dad.

  xxx

  OWNED

  Forever After Novella 4

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lucifer

  “Whoever said, “If you love them set them free,” was an idiot. I say, “Fuck that. Tie her up in the basement and fuck the hell out of her until she’s too tired to run away.” – Lucifer’s solution to life problem 1032

  Slamming the phone down, I turn to my business partner and growl, “Call your daughter and tell her to answer her damn phone. What’s the fucking point in having one if she’s doesn’t use it?”

  Trace scowls at me, which pisses me off because it’s his daughter causing me to lose my fucking mind and my temper after all. But then again, it doesn’t really matter how he’s looking at me. Especially, since pissed off is my perpetual state of being these days.

  “When are you going to give the fuck up and move on Lucifer? I don’t know how many times I’ve got to tell you this, but it’ll be over my dead rotting corpse that I’ll allow you to start dating my daughter,” he replies.

  He shouldn’t bother repeating himself; I heard him the first five hundred times he said it. After all, Trace has been telling me the same thing ever since Tatum turned twenty-one, six years ago.

  There’s no point arguing with the man where Tatum’s concerned, so instead, I grunt, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d give it to you,” and log out of the search I was running and close my laptop.

  Trace and I have been working together for a little over twelve months, so I’ve gotten used to his shitty attitude and constant complaints about his youngest three daughters, Kristina, Jayla, and Lydia. However, I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and that just happens to be when he breaks out the not so subtle references to what he’ll do to me and my balls if I even consider pursuing his oldest daughter.

  Every day it’s the same thing; I mention Tatum’s name and Trace threatens my manhood. Honestly, I could probably set my fucking watch by it. And to prove my point, a second later, he sneers, “Your balls are going to have a very unfortunate meeting with my blender if you keep that shit up. Tate is off-limits. You’ve got plenty of women lined up who would love to take a ride on your dick; go call one of them and leave my little girl alone.”

  Jesus, he’s fucking unbelievable sometimes. Not only is there nothing little about Tatum, but I don’t think he’s aware of just how impossible me staying away from his daughter actually is. Trust me, I’ve tried, and every time I fail. Spectacularly.

  “Listen,” I manage to grate out, but I’m cut off by the sound of the door to our reception area opening.

  And speak of the devil.

  “Dad,” Tatum calls out.

  Skidding to a stop when she sees me leaning against his desk, she hisses, “Oh, shit,” before turning her back on me and refusing to look in my direction. I’m not surprised because Tatum knows she’s in a world of trouble when I get her alone. And mark my words, I will get her alone; that’s a promise.

  She’s going to pay for that little stunt she pulled earlier today, and I happen to be more than happy to dole out the punishment she has coming to her. Especially, if it involves my hand and her sweet, luscious ass. Just thinking about getting my hands on all her lush curves has me hard enough to hammer nails, which isn’t ideal when her father is standing all of ten feet away from me.

  “Tatum,” I growl, letting my deep baritone act as her warning.

  At the same time, Trace ask, “To what do I owe the pleasure? You never show up to see me at work, which means one of two things. Either one of your sisters has crashed the car again, or you’ve lost your job for assaulting another patient. So which one is it, Princess?”

  “Hey,” Tatum cries indignantly. “I told you, he deserved it. And anyway, I thought it was your job as my dad to defend my honor, not the guys who grab my ass, call me sweet cheeks, and offer to take my temperature with their dicks.”

  Chuckling at her colorful explanation, Trace nods. “How exactly am I supposed to defend you when you do shit like, karate chopping a patient who is in respiratory failure in the throat, Tate?”

  “First of all, I did not karate chop him. I simply exerted the appropriate level of force on his carotid artery for less than thirty seconds until Mr. Grabby passed out. And secondly, I don’t know. Lie?” She asks almost expectantly.

  “Fucking hell,” he mutters, shaking his head derisively. “You’re going to drive me to drink, Princess.”

  “Too late. I found your half-empty bottle of bourbon last night and confiscated it for your own good,” she chirps, hoisting her tight round ass onto the desk opposite me, crossing one leg over the other.

  Tate’s body is angled away from me, and she’s sitting as far away from me as humanly possible without drawing attention to the fact that she’s actively avoiding me. Which, I have to say, is the smart choice. Tate should keep a respectable distance from me because right now, I would love nothing more than to kick her father out of his office, bend her over my lap and spank her just to see how much she can take before she’s dripping wet and begging for mercy.

  The thought has my cock lengthening in my pants again, and the constant throbbing only increases as visions of Tatum naked, her firm, full tits topped with a tight, sweet nipples ready and waiting for me to suckle them flash through my head. Everything about this woman does it for me, and I don’t know how long I can last before getting her into my bed so that I can get her off.

  The curve of her shapely hips as they narrow at her nipped in waist is the stuff my wet dreams are made of. Her long, lean legs toned from years of rigorous training to become and then keep her certification as a paramedic haunt me as I picture them wrapped around my back twice.

  I might only have my imagination to keep me company at night, but thankfully, it’s vivid, and I’m creative by nature because, in my fantasy, Tatum’s perfect cunt is waxed bare, glistening with her come after I’ve tongue fucked her to orgasm.

  And while the filthy images running on repeat in my mind are amazing, it’s Tatum’s gorgeous face that drives me to distraction. It’s what haunts my dreams when I’m in bed, alone and I have to reach into my boxers and stroke one out just to get enough relief to manage a few measly hours of sleep.

  Trace doesn’t seem bothered by his daughter’s theft; if anything, he looks a combin
ation of proud and resigned. Then grinning at her, Trace snorts, “You know, since you stole my only coping mechanism for dealing with your sisters’ shit, I’m holding you entirely responsible if you come home to find them buried somewhere in the backyard.”

  “You know; they say yoga is good for stress relief. Maybe you should try it out,” Tatum smirks, sticking out her pretty, pink tongue.

  “Not happening,” he states, narrowing his eyes at her. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Tatum gasps in mock outrage.

  Yeah, she’s up to something alright. I even feel a little sorry for Trace, the poor bastard because when Tatum has her mind set on something, she’ll do anything in her power to make it into a reality.

  Sighing heavily, Trace mutters, “She’s beautiful, Tate, but a woman like that needs a man without the kind of baggage I come with. Not to mention, I’m way too old for her, Princess. So let it go; it’s not going to happen.”

  “Seriously? You’re hardly over the hill, and she’s thirty-six, dad, not eighteen. And for God’s sake, will you stop saying you’ve got baggage. Refer to it as spatially challenged due to the delayed departure of those you share DNA with or something to that effect,” she grins.

  Cracking a grin, Trace stands up and slides his cell into the front pocket of his jeans and his wallet into his jacket. “Next time, call first, Princess. That way I can make sure I don’t have anywhere to be so we can actually have lunch together.”

  Sounding panicked, and for good reason, Tatum asks, “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got an appointment across town with Chase. A new skip came in last night, and he needs someone with my skillset to track the fucker down,” he answers, pulling her into his chest for a tight but quick hug.

  “Okay, but promise me you’ll be careful,” she mutters into his shirt. “I really don’t want to have to explain to the Triplets of Terror that they won’t be getting that pony they wanted for Christmas because their dad ran away and joined the circus,” she tacks on the end sarcastically.

  As funny as that statement is, Tatum’s not remotely incorrect with her description of her younger sisters. Kristina, Jayla, and Lydia may not be triplets – what with them being twenty-two, twenty, and only just nineteen – but they are holy terrors. And not in a good way.

  There are some women, like Tatum for example, who blow into your life like a hurricane, turn your shit upside down, and leave you a changed man. For the better, no less. Then there are women like her sisters who storm into your life, steal your shit, and fuck with your head, only to leave you broken, bitter, and angry. Thankfully, or not depending on how you look at it, I fell in love with the right sister. Because honestly, I pity the poor bastards who end up with the other three.

  Pressing one last kiss to his daughter’s forehead and giving me a scathing look, Trace makes his way to his truck. I wait patiently until he has exited the building, leaving it in his rear view mirror before moving a muscle. All the while, neither Tatum or I say a word to each other. So much so, you could probably hear crickets chirping if you listened closely enough.

  Eventually, Tatum stands up as if she’s going to leave without so much as an explanation or an apology. And if that is indeed the case, then Tatum better think again because there’s no way she’s walking out on me without answering my questions. Nor am I letting her get away with pulling that kind of a stunt without swift, yet pleasurable consequences.

  Reaching out, I snag her wrist and spin her around to face me. Her bright blue eyes and sparkling, but if you look below the surface of the brave façade she’s trying to hide behind, there’s just the barest hint of fear.

  “You got a minute?” It may be phrased as a question, but it’s not. Instead, it’s a carefully worded demand that I know Tatum won’t be stupid enough to ignore.

  “Not really, but it doesn’t look like I have much choice,” she sighs, glancing down at my hand.

  Her pointed look doesn’t prompt me to release her because I know as soon as I do, Tatum will run. Avoidance is Tatum’s middle name; it’s what she does best. It’s just unlucky for her that my middle name is persistence because, no matter how long it takes and how hard I have to fight, I will knock down those walls she’s hiding behind. Whether she wants me to or not.

  “I’ve just got one question for you before you take off and make me chase you for the next week to get you to talk to me,” I tell her.

  Cocking her eyebrow at me, a small grin creeps across her face at the knowledge her grand plan has been foiled. However, sadly, Tatum drops her head to study her shoes before I have time to look my fill and appreciate how it lights up her beautiful face.

  “Ah, okay,” she murmurs, not once taking her eyes off the floor.

  Hating that Tatum won’t look at me, I use my index finger under her chin to tilt her head up. Softening my tone and my expression, I ask,

  “Why did I hear that you were arranging a time and place for a date with some guy called, Josh this Saturday night? In case you forgot, you’re married, Tatum. And I should know because I was right there next to you signing the goddamn paperwork.”

  Chapter TWO

  TATUM

  “My brain said “crunches” but my stomach auto-corrected it to “cupcakes”.” – Tatum’s dietary issue 812

  Shit, fuck, dammit all to hell and back! I should have known the sneaky fucker would find out about that, not that I was really trying to hide it or anything. Josh is just a friend and colleague, nothing more. After all, it would be highly inappropriate for me to have a relationship with a co-worker. Not to mention, Lucifer’s right; I’m a married woman, and cheating is just plain wrong regardless of the circumstances.

  Thrown by the gruff tone of his voice and the hard length of his body pressed against mine, I try to wrench my wrist out of his hand. It’s useless, though. Lucifer has a firm grip on me and isn’t releasing me anytime soon. Not that I want him to. In fact, I want nothing more than for him to hold me close and never let me go. However, that just isn’t realistic. I have learned over the past few months, that as people, Lucifer and I couldn’t be more different if we tried.

  Lucifer is serious, if not a little scary with how intense he can be sometimes. He’s dedicated to his job as if it’s his reason for breathing. And for a while it was.

  After his wife died, Lucifer needed something else to focus on; something to help him dull the pain of losing the woman he had spent almost fifteen years with. That’s where my dad came in.

  Dad was a detective with the Waterfield PD until he was shot in the line of duty seven years ago. The dispatcher said it was supposed to be a straightforward domestic dispute; it was anything but.

  The couple lived in a single-wide in the Shady Hills Trailer Park. It wasn’t in the nicest part of town, but it wasn’t the worst, either. That claim to fame went to, Jacobs Bend, a squatters’ paradise that should have been condemned by the city a decade ago.

  Duncan and Mary-Lou Redding were what you would expect of an out of work couple, living on food stamps with a penchant for too much of everything that wasn’t good for them. They were rough around the edges, their neighbors hated them, and I’m pretty sure neither of them would live to see their forties.

  Waterfield PD had attended numerous callouts to the Redding’s residence over the years, so dad thought nothing of it when Carla, one of only four dispatchers servicing the Lower Falls/Waterfield area radioed him about the complaint she received.

  Thank God, I wasn’t working that night because from what I’ve been told, my dad was lucky to make it out of the Redding’s trailer alive.

  According to Mark, the paramedic on duty the night dad was shot, Mary-Lou was brandishing a twelve-gauge shotgun, muttering to herself, “Never again. Not ever again,” over and over until, Austin, my dad’s partner at the time pulled out his Taser, took aim, and fired. But then it was too late, though. Duncan Redding was dead, lying face down in a pool
of his own blood, and dad was in critical condition with a bullet lodged precariously close to his heart.

  It took nine hours of surgery and three weeks in the hospital due to a particularly nasty infection, but eventually, dad was given the all clear. He would have to take it easy for a few months while he recuperated at home, but the doctors were positive that dad would make a full recovery.

  My brothers, Levi and Wyatt, and I staged what dad like to call ‘a strategic intervention on a helpless dying man,’ a few days after his surgery. The three of us had spoken at length about our concerns about dad returning to his job on the force. None of us wanted him to go back, especially me, which is why we did what we thought needed to be done.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my dad. He had raised my brothers and me alone from the time Levi was five. Wyatt was four, and I was three when mom ran off with her long-time fling, Peter. She didn’t like the life of a police officer wife, but she hated being tied to the house with three children five and under more. From what I can remember about my mom, which isn’t much, she was never affectionate. What’s more, she only interacted with us when it was absolutely necessary. Needless to say, we weren’t heartbroken when she left, and neither was my dad.

  Mom’s affair with Peter didn’t come to light until she was throwing her suitcases into the back of his car. She told dad that she had never loved him, and it was his fault she ended up looking elsewhere for the attention he didn’t give her. Her explanation that there was never enough money to go around, and that when he was home, my dad doted on us instead of her summed up my mother’s true nature perfectly. She is a selfish, uncaring, heartless woman, who never deserved a man like my Trace O’Neil.

  Eighteen months after mom left us, Dad met, Lucy. At first, I thought they were perfect for each other, but I soon learned otherwise. Lucy was just as selfish, if not more so than mom; she was just better at hiding it. She would wait until dad left for work or he wasn’t in earshot before taking out her hatred for the fact dad had fathered children with another woman on us. More often than not, I shouldered the brunt of her violent rages, but Levi and Wyatt had their fair share of run in’s with her too.