I found the crest, and I reached it sobbing. Actually sobbing, the searing, painful heat of the breaking climax was so much, too much, so completely too much for me to handle. And when it crested, when I fell over that edge, sobbing too hard to even scream, Nick pulled the vibrator free and the orgasm detonated within me, a white-hot nuclear spasm washing through me, overtaking me.

  And then I literally passed out.

  When I woke up, I was in Nick’s arms—I was home. I let out a contented sigh before I even opened my eyes. I knew he was awake already, from his breathing.

  “I love you, Layla Campari.” His voice was muzzy; he hadn’t been awake long, then.

  “Even though I’m stubborn, reckless, and refuse to ever do what I’m told?”

  He rolled over, my head cradled on his forearms, his body over mine, nestling into me, gliding in where he belonged, lips kissing mine, whispering. “Especially because of that.”

  “You know I’ll listen to you when it counts, right?” I said, between gasps of bliss.

  “Yeah, babe. I know. And I promise I’ll never take it easy on you. Out there, you’re one of the guys.” He plunged, bucked, rocked, but slowly, smoothly, lovingly. “In here, though—”

  “I’m all yours.”

  “Forever.”

  “Promise?”

  He pressed his forehead to mine. “Yeah, I promise.”

  “You know I still expect a romantic proposal one day, right?”

  “You’ll get it. Someday.”

  That’s all the promise I needed. I didn’t really need a ring or a proposal, I just needed this man, no matter what.

  Keep reading for a sneak preview of:

  THRESH

  An Alpha One Security novella

  By

  Jasinda Wilder

  1

  DAMN THAT MAN

  The hospital PA system crackled over the speakers at the same time my pager buzzed in my lab coat pocket. “PAGING DOCTOR REED TO THE ER, DOCTOR REED TO THE ER, PLEASE.”

  My pager confirmed what the PA had just announced: I was needed in the ER.

  I’m not an ER doctor. I hate the pressure and the pace of the ER, and vowed after doing my time in med school that I’d never work the ER again unless absolutely necessary. I like the peace and relative quiet of the ICU. Clean, empty corridors, doors all closed, my shoes squeaking on the tile. None of the wild bustle and manic, frenetic insanity of the ER, the paramedics shoving crash carts through the doors, ambulances coming and going, nurses on the run, doctors bustling from door to door, never a moment to yourself, never a moment to breathe.

  Nope.

  So being paged to the ER was unusual. I wonder what they wanted me for?

  I quickly finished checking the vitals of the patient I was with, replaced his chart, feeling reassured that the seventeen year old boy would be okay in no time—he’d been in a car wreck, out joy-riding with some friends. I reminded him how lucky he was to be alive, hoping it would drive the message home.

  I left his room and moved at a quick clip to the elevators, down to the first floor, and across the hospital to to the ER. I found the triage desk, and the brusque, gray-haired man working it.

  “Hi, I’m Doctor Reed. I was paged to the ER?”

  He didn’t look up from the computer screen. “Waiting room. Patient asking for you.”

  “What?”

  He finally turned his attention to me. “The waiting room.” He enunciated it like I was either stupid or hard of hearing. “There is a patient asking for you by name.”

  Who in the world…?

  Anyone who knew me would come up to the ICU looking for me. Or call me. Or text me. Or find me at home. Who would come to the ER and ask for me?

  I tugged on the ends of the stethoscope looped over the back of my neck, a nervous habit of mine. I blinked a few times, and then pushed through the door and out into the waiting room.

  I scanned the crowd—it was a Saturday night, so the Jackson Memorial ER was a hopping place. People were everywhere, bleeding, holding bandages to thumbs and other appendages, moaning, leaning on loved ones. I didn’t see anyone I knew.

  And then…there he was.

  The man I’d privately nicknamed Atlas. Seven feet tall, probably somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds, maybe three twenty. A real monster. But…a ridiculously gorgeous monster, if you went in for mountains of muscle wrapped around tectonic plates of bone, all sheathed in rolling acres of tan skin. But holy hell, those eyes. Pale, pale, pale ice blue. Almost white, they were so blue. Or very pale gray to the point of being blue. An odd, piercing shade. And his hair. Platinum blond, shaved on the sides to create wide Mohawk that resembled a Roman helmet crest, perfectly trimmed and shaped. The kind of thing that, on anyone else, would look stupid, or at least juvenile. But on this man? It just suited him. Made him look even scarier. Thick blond scruff on his jaw. God, that scruff was delicious looking.

  He’d been here a little over a year ago; standing guard for a friend or co-worker who had been shot. Nicholas Harris? I think that was the name of the guy. Older, good looking in a lean and sharp and rugged way. Shot four times, or five? Lived, and walked out to tell the tale. Damndest thing I ever saw, and I’ve seen a lot.

  Now here he was again, asking for me by name?

  His left arm was a bloody wreck. His whole torso was covered in blood, but I think the worst of it came from his arm, and possibly his shoulder. Some of the blood was dried, and the blood on his black T-shirt was crusted stiff, which meant he’d been injured a while ago.

  That shirt, though—it was so big I could probably fit into it twice, yet it was tight on him, stretched across the dizzying cliffside that was his chest, and bulging to bursting at the biceps.

  I took a deep breath, crossed the waiting room.

  “You again.” I kept my voice sharp. “How can I help you?”

  He shrugged his shoulder, indicating his wounded arm. “This.”

  “I’m not an ER doctor.” I gestured at the waiting room. “This is the ER, you have to—”

  “Been waiting a while, doc. I want you to fix it.”

  “I’m not a triage physician, Mister—?”

  “Name’s Thresh.” He stood up, slowly, carefully. Woozily. Instinctively, I moved closer to him, put my shoulder under his good arm to prop him up. Not that I could do much to stop him if he were to pass out. “Don’t care what kind of doctor you are. Just…fix it.”

  “You’ll have to go through the appropriate channels, Mr. Thresh.”

  “Then I’ll just bleed out here, I guess. Been bleeding for awhile, now.” He leaned into me, and his weight nearly crushed me.

  I bore up under it, tensed, straightened. Lifted. “You can’t guilt me into seeing to your injuries, Mister Thresh.”

  “Just Thresh.” His head flopped back on his neck. His weight increased as he lost the ability to stand up on his own. I’m a pretty buff girl, but there was no way I could hold him up for much longer. “I’m getting faint, doc.”

  I stared up at him, at his sculpted, brutally beautiful features. He really did look peaked and pale. I wondered how long he’d been bleeding. What had happened to him? I shook those thoughts away; it didn’t matter.

  “First things first: we need to get you processed.” I glanced over my shoulder at the male nurse behind the desk. “Can I get his paperwork, please?”

  The nurse, once again, didn’t look up. “Wouldn’t fill it out.”

  “Can I have the blank forms, then, please?”

  He heaved a sigh, as if I’d asked him to sell his firstborn child, or a kidney, but he brought me a clipboard with the intake forms. “Here. Good luck.” He glanced at Thresh warily, and possibly a bit derisively. “You’re gonna need it.”

  Thresh growled, a sound not unlike the warning rumble you might get from, oh, say, a displeased grizzly bear. “Hey, pal, watch it. I can still crush you like a fuckin’ bug.”

  The nurse paled, shuffled backward a step. “I—I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Piss off, pissant,” Thresh said.

  The nurse fairly ran back to his desk. I hated how it made me feel, seeing Thresh put that unpleasant person in his place. I fought to keep the grin off my face. I handed Thresh the clipboard. “Fill this out please.”

  He just lifted an eyebrow. “Fuck paperwork. I ain’t gettin’ a lung transplant, here. No allergies, no relevant medical issues. Just the gunshot wounds.”

  “You still have to fill it out, Thresh. At least the basics.”

  With an irritated sigh, Thresh took the clipboard and pen from me. His hand was big enough he could almost span the width of the clipboard between his thumb and pinky. When he pinched the pen between his fingers, it nearly vanished, swallowed whole by the size of his hands. It was ridiculous. He was so huge it boggled the mind and defied comprehension.

  I watched him scribble the most basic of information—name: Thresh; age: 37; height: seven feet and one half-inch; weight: 328 pounds; sex: Yes please.

  I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Really? You’re Austin Powers, now?”

  He just chuckled and handed me the clipboard. “There. Now, can we go?”

  I eyed him. “Thresh…no last name?”

  “Nope. Just Thresh.”

  “You have to have a last name, Thresh.”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I’ve got one. But I don’t use it.”

  “And is Thresh your given name?”

  He stared me down. “It’s the only name you’re getting, doc, so best quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Ahead? How am I ahead? You won’t give me your real name, won’t give me your last name—why does it matter? What do you have to hide?”

  “Got shot more’n four hours ago, doc,” Thresh said. “Not sure how much longer I can hold out.”

  “Four hours?” I shouted this, exasperated. “What the fuck were you doing the whole time?”

  “Flying here.”

  “You flew here yourself?”

  “No, my boss did. Harris. You were his doc, year or so ago.”

  “I remember.” I moved with him, a step, two, toward the doors that led into the triage area. “Where were you that there were no hospitals closer than four hours?”

  He tripped, and we nearly went down, but he righted himself, barely. I had to bend at the knees, use my deadlifting form to get him upright again. Good thing I work out.

  “Jesus, doc, you’re a real beast, ain’tcha?” His voice was low, meant only for me, rumbling in my ear.

  I glanced up at him, not sure of his meaning. “Excuse me?”

  He reached down with his good hand—which was black-red with caked blood—and squeezed my bicep. “You got some guns under this lab coat.”

  I flushed, but worked hard to keep my tone neutral, even a little sharp. “Hands off, Atlas.”

  He chuckled. “Atlas?”

  “You’re big enough that you could probably carry the weight of the world on those shoulders so, yes. Atlas.”

  “He’s from mythology or some shit, yeah?”

  “Or some shit, yes. Greek mythology, to be specific.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “A Titan, son of Æther and Gaia, if you listen to Hyginus. God of the moon, in some cases, and generally known as the Titan tasked with holding up the sky.”

  I felt his gaze on me. “No shit? And if you don’t listen to Hyginus?”

  “Some scholars say his father was the Titan Iapetus, and his mother was Asia, the Oceanid. Some say Clymene. Opinions vary. I like to go with Æther and Gaia. Makes the most sense to me.”

  We were in the triage area, now, and I was desperately looking for a bed to deposit Thresh onto. I couldn’t prop him up him much longer and I don’t think he was faking the weakness—he’d clearly lost a hell of a lot blood. There was one bed, sitting in the hallway, freshly remade. I angled him toward it, backed him up to it, and he collapsed gratefully onto it, releasing his arm from around my shoulders. I felt light, free, as if I could float away, now that his weight wasn’t bearing down on me. I rolled my shoulders, straightened my back.

  And I didn’t miss the way his gaze focused like lasers on my chest as I stretched. Not like you could see much, since I was wearing a sports bra as well as a tight camisole under my button down. I liked to keep my girls well contained while I worked, as I didn’t appreciate the attention I received if I revealed too much cleavage. I actually dressed far more conservatively than I even cared for, but I wanted to be respected for my talent, skill, and worth ethic as a doctor, not because of my DDD-cup breasts.

  But he still looked.

  I made sure he caught my gaze, made sure he knew I’d caught him staring. He just smirked, quirked an eyebrow, not looking apologetic whatsoever.

  Nor did he look as faint as he’d acted just a moment ago.

  But he did still appear rather pale, and it was clear he’d lost a lot of blood, and had to be in an enormous amount of pain.

  I nudged his uninjured shoulder. “Lay down.”

  He moved to comply, but slowly, stiffly. As if he wasn’t used to lying down, as if it hurt to do so. He lay on his back, looking uncomfortable, and unsure. “How’s that?”

  “It’s a bed, Thresh. Try to relax.”

  “You relax with a shattered ulna.” He rolled his injured shoulder, hissing. “Or a couple of rounds in your shoulder.”

  As gently as I could, I pried his arm away from his body; he’d been keeping it clutched close for so long, it was probably cramped in that position. And yes, he was right in his assessment: his ulna was in pretty bad shape, although I wouldn’t classify it as shattered. More of a severe fracture. I peered at his shoulder, noting two entry wounds in the meat of his shoulder and pectoral muscle.

  “Can you rock to the side for me? I need to look for exit wounds.” I tugged at him, indicating the way I wanted him to move.

  He remained motionless. “No point, doc. There aren’t any exit wounds, cause the rounds are still in there. This ain’t my first rodeo. I know when it’s a through-and-through and when they’re lodged in there.”

  I sighed. “Very well. You seem to know what you’re about.” I unlocked the wheels to the gurney. “Let’s find you to a room so I can get to work. I have other rounds to make, you know.”

  “I know I could use some fuckin’ pain killers. You got any Tylenol in that sexy lab coat of yours?”

  I stared at him, a blank expression on my face. “I don’t keep medication in my lab coat, Thresh.” I couldn’t stop my eyebrows from scrunching down. “And…sexy lab coat?”

  “What? Nobody’s ever told you you’re sexy in that lab coat?”

  I stiffened. “No. I think not.”

  “Then whoever you’ve been hangin’ around with needs to get their eyes checked. That shit is sexy.” He lifted up on his good elbow, a sly expression on his face. “You ever walk around wearing just that lab coat? Maybe some black knee socks and a pair of high heels? Get that thick fuckin’ hair of yours out of that stupid bun, let it loose around your shoulders. Fuck, man.” He slumped back down. “I popped a semi just picturing it.”

  We turned a corner, and I pushed the elevator call button.

  I flushed again, and then my eyes, of their own traitorous accord, slid down, down, down. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Do not check out his package, Lola.

  I checked out his package. And if that big bulge was a semi?

  I got faint just thinking about it.

  And then I got angry, both with him for making me look at his crotch and think about how huge his dick must be, and at myself for being so weak and easily manipulated.

  “No,” I snapped. “I’ve never done…that.”

  “You should. You could give a man a heart attack, if you did that. Real spank bank material, right there.”

  “Spank bank?” I felt my cheeks going even more flame-red than they already were. “Jesus, you’re a real pig, aren’t you?”

  “More of a bear than a pig, I’d say.”

  I ran my gaze over his body, unwillingly—God, he was massive. Very much like a bear. Kodiak, maybe, or a polar bear, what with his blond hair and pale eyes.

  And shit, shit, shit, he caught me checking him out. But he didn’t say anything, just smirked and covered his eyes with his good arm as the elevator doors opened.

  “I don’t even own any knee-socks,” I said, and I wasn’t sure why I said that, or where the admission came from.

  The doors closed, and Thresh spoke without looking at me. “You should get a pair. Nice, thick, muscular legs like I picture you having under those damn baggy-ass pants of yours? They’d looking fuckin’ bangin’, doc. Bangin’. Pair it with a short skirt and some heels? Man, I’d be done. Stick a fork in me, done like dinner.”

  “Stop talking about me like that,” I said, and I admit I fairly snarled.

  “What? Can’t a man appreciate a beautiful woman?”

  I hated the curling warmth in my heart, the way part of me wanted to sit up and beg for more of the way he was talking about me. “No. I am a doctor. You are my patient. Plus, you’re objectifying me, and I don’t appreciate it.”

  His voice was sharp, now. “Hey. I don’t care for that statement. I ain’t objectifying shit. I flew here from fuckin’ Nevada, doc, just to have you specifically look at my little booboos. Because I respect your skill as a doctor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And because you’re fuckin’ hot as hell.”

  I sighed. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “A woman can be both beautiful and successful based on her skills and education, and I’m perfectly capable of recognizing that. Don’t be so fuckin’ uptight.”

  “I am not uptight,” I snapped. I hated that, hated being called that with a passion. “I’m reserved, and private. I am not uptight.”

  He chuckled. “All right, all right. Calm your tits.”

  “Excuse me?” I snarled.

  The elevator doors opened, but I didn’t move. I was so irritated. “Calm…my tits?” I got in his face. “If you want me to see to your wounds then I suggest you keep a civil and respectful tongue in your head. Do…you…fucking…understand me?”