Broken. Megan Hart

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       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Natalie Damschroder for the after-midnight parking lot adventures, the honest critique and the squeeing. Thank you for helping me make this book the best it could be.

      To Lauren Dane for the afternoon IM madness and constant support. Thank you also for helping me kick this book in the butt.

      To my family, for helping me become the person I am.

      To my children for their loving support and pride. “My mom writes books” still makes me smile – even though you’re not allowed to read them until you’re over eighteen!

      To Jude Law…well, duh. Because.

      To my Internet and real-life friends who listen to me blather on about my writing and actually buy my books. A million thanks!

      To Joshua Radin, whose song “What If You” was the backdrop for the scene on the stairs. Thanks for giving me the perfect song as inspiration. I listened to it a hundred times and could listen a hundred more.

      To Stevie Falk for letting me borrow her house and her profession, and for answering all my questions.

      To my agent, Mary Louise Schwartz, my editor Susan Pezzack, the cover artists and staff at Harlequin who worked to get this book on the shelves – thank you for your hard work and dedication. I can write it, but you’re the ones who put it out there for the world to see.

      And finally, to my husband, who listened to me talk about this book for months and months, offered insight, kept me going, hooked me up with medical information and told me how great I was. (And still does.) Thank you for helping me reach my dreams.

      Acknowledgments

      This book couldn’t have been written without the knowledge and help of the following:

      Jake Fischer, who offered insight into living with SCI

      Elaine McMichael and Karen Heffl eger, who answered my questions and helped me get the details right

      And Michael F. Lupinacci, M.D., who helped me put all the pieces into place and in the right order.

      Chapter 01

       January

      This month my name is Mary and, apparently, I’m as contrary as the nursery rhyme. First I said I wanted to fuck, but now I’m refusing to come out of the bathroom. What I don’t know is that Joe doesn’t like cock teases, nor does he suffer wasting time. He’s already done the wooing, bought the drinks, made the compliments. If I don’t put out in the next five minutes, he’ll put his coat on and go.

      I don’t know this because I only met him three hours ago in a bar downtown. His name seemed as if it were a cosmic joke, but out of all the men I met tonight, Joe’s the only one who bothered trying to have a conversation with me. That’s why I picked him. That, and the fact that’s he’s hot and well-dressed, with a charming quirk of a smile that tries to look sincere but mostly doesn’t.

      “Mary, Mary quite contrary. How does your garden grow?”

      His voice presses against me through the bathroom door. I’ve heard that rhyme a thousand times. Been called Proud Mary. Bloody Mary. Mary Poppins. My parents gave me the name thinking it had no diminutive, but people will always find a way to tease, if they want.

      The doorknob is cool under my fingers and turns easily. I open the door to show Joe I’m ready for him. That the wait was worth it. I’ve stripped down to a set of lacy white panties and a matching bra, and I fight to keep from crossing my arms to shield myself from his scrutiny.

      His eyes widen a bit. His tongue snakes out to slide along a mouth I haven’t even kissed yet. I want to kiss it. He looks as if he’ll taste good.

      “Damn.” The word’s a compliment, not a curse, and I manage a slightly more confident smile.

      I turn, slowly, so he can see me from all sides. When I come around again to face him, Joe reaches for my hand and tugs me one step, two, until, like magnets, our bodies attach to one another.

      He’s unbuttoned his shirt and the hair on his chest scratches my soft flesh. I shiver. My nipples peak against the lace and heat coils in my belly. Joe’s fingers splay on my hips. I’m all of a sudden too shy to look into his eyes.

      He pulls me to the bed—the nice, big king-size he requested from the clerk at the front desk with that same quirky smile that first attracted me. “I’m a bad boy,” that smile says. “But I’m so good you won’t care.” It had worked on me and the clerk, too, who’d taken the extra time to find us a room with a bed big enough for an orgy.

      There’s no orgy, though, just me and Joe and the sound of the heating unit blowing the curtains. The hot air coming out of it smells stale, but what did I expect? Frankincense and myrrh?

      “C’mon.” Joe’s getting impatient, tugging me onto the bed.

      He kisses me, finally, my throat and the curves of my breasts. A shoulder. I arch a little under the feeling of his mouth on my skin, and though my lips part, he doesn’t kiss them.

      His hands smooth up my sides and over my belly. When one goes between my legs, I’m startled. He doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He strokes me a few times and I melt into his experienced touch like sugar in a hot pan, all crumbling, scattered grains melting and smoothing into one liquid ooze.

      This is all happening faster than I’d imagined it would, but I can’t seem to find the words to tell him to slow down. His fingers find the small, lace-covered bump at the front of my panties and begin a pattern of slow circles. I decide fast isn’t such a bad thing.

      “You like that?”

      I nod. He smiles and reaches to flick open the front clasp of my bra. My breasts surge out and I moan in the back of my throat. I want his mouth on me, his tongue swiping across my tight pink nipples. I want him to suck on them, one and then the other, while his hand moves between my legs. I’m already wet from his caress. I can feel it when I shift.

      He pauses to shrug out of his shirt and I admire his chest. He has a body clothes are made to hang on, but naked, his shoulders are broader than they seemed before, his belly flat and tight with muscles but not rippled with them. His arms look strong, the cords in his forearms standing out as he tugs his belt buckle, unbuttons and unzips his pants. The hair on his chest, arms and belly is a little darker than that on his head, where his hair is the color of a lion’s mane. I wonder if he colors himself blond or if all men’s bodies show such disparity.

      He pushes his trousers over his thighs and takes off his boxer briefs. I can’t look. I turn my head away, my breath lodging in my throat and my heart beating pitter-pat under my left breast. The bed dips as he kneels beside me. His hand returns to its shelter between my thighs and strokes me again. I lift my hips, an uncertain cry leaking from my unkissed lips.

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