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  “No.” But she hedged with the answer and was clear about it. She didn’t want to get into this here and now—not because it was Sage but because it did no good to mourn a life she’d never have again. Those post-PTSD, pre-Violet days filled with heart-halting anticipation, when Wyatt would tell her he was knocking off early to head off with her to Chicago for the weekend…

  Chicago.

  Yesssss.

  Which also meant Dreamland.

  Funniest name in the world for a BDSM club, but also the most fitting. There, in the stylish public and private play rooms, she and Wyatt had carved out a magical new identity for their relationship, as man and woman and Dominant and submissive. The lifestyle roles gave them permission to step outside themselves and deal with the challenge of a couple finding their way back to each other after multiple deployments and a lot of time spent more apart than with each other.

  But life also moved on. And Vi had happened. Then her fortieth birthday. Then Wyatt’s involvement with various “off-books” missions helping Garrett, Zeke, John Franzen, and God knew who else beat bad guys who probably made the Taliban seem like the Golden Girls. Yes, he’d been paid well to take those risks—but more importantly, she knew he needed the gigs. The rush. The exhilaration. The danger. The adrenaline.

  The stuff she couldn’t give him anymore.

  “So, I repeat…” Sage added a tapping foot for emphasis. “What’s the difference between getting naked for an hour now as opposed to shucking it all in a club for your man? Ohhhh, wait.” She stabbed a finger up. “There is a difference. After this, you’ll have some cool pictures…”

  “No.” Josie folded her arms. “I won’t.”

  “…that’ll have your Master drooling…”

  “No.”

  “…and wanting to reward his good little girl…”

  “I said no, Sage.” She shook her head, only to be poked by guilt at her friend’s crestfallen face. “But I’ll hang out and cheer you on, okay?”

  Sage jammed her hands into her parka pockets and kicked at a stubborn patch of snow at the edge of the patio. “Nah. Forget it. Won’t be any fun without a friend.”

  “Aw, it’s okay. I bet Garrett will still want to spank your sexy ass, even if you don’t dress it up with makeup and glam filters.”

  “Sugar, I’m six months postpartum.”

  “And sugar, I’m a full year ahead of that.”

  “Which is why our asses would love us for a little rouge and airbrushing!”

  Josie chuffed at the woman’s last-ditch effort at persuasion. “Which is why I’ll be happy to lend you my killer brownie recipe.” Another snort emerged. “Oh, stop pouting, goofy girl.”

  “Whatever you say, glacier girl.”

  The guilt set in again—but only for a moment. Jo treated the feeling with the same efficiency she gave a lot of emotions these days—by wadding it, ramming it into the trash compactor of her mind, and then firmly pushing the On button.

  There. All done. No fuss, no muss. Damn good thing, since she needed the mental compactor open and freed by the time they got back to the farm—and she had to deal, yet again, with everything she felt when seeing Wyatt’s mission go bag waiting on the credenza in the mud room.

  Like the urge to hurl the whole damn thing into the combine along with the corn.

  Like the blazing curiosity about what he’d do if she did.

  Like the way her pussy clenched, hoping there would be a harsh and epic punishment for it.

  Yeah. She was damn glad her compactor was wide open and ready to go now.

  Chapter Two

  The girls returned from their trip into town as Wyatt and Garrett rolled in from checking some broken sections in the back fence. Everyone was chilled and hungry—and in the case of the two newest Hawkins family members, restless as hell. Vi and Racer hadn’t been fond of spending the last hour strapped in carriers on their fathers’ backs, and they now rolled, crawled, and squealed together on the den floor, incited even more by the fruit salad dancing on TV.

  “Well, hello there, beautiful.” Wyatt strolled into the kitchen after hanging up his jacket and toeing off his boots, beating an instant path to his wife. Though she was busy transferring groceries into the pantry, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. Her skin was still stained a rosy hue from the cold, translating to his immediate hard-on. He liked turning other “cheeks” that color too…

  “Hey. How’s the fence?” Clearly, her mind wasn’t in the same zip code. He clamped down his frustration—a recurring theme lately—choosing instead to help her restock the cabinet. After all, restocking was what they did best. Their daughter loved to snack often, though she burned off the calories as fast as she consumed them. Her energy hadn’t been so easy for Josie to handle lately. On heavy snow days, these walls had to become Violet’s world. The girl did not like walls.

  “You first,” he said amicably. “How was the trip to town?”

  “Fine. Uneventful.” She shrugged, making her cowl-neck sweater slide off a shoulder. Wyatt moved in before she could correct the angle, dipping a soft kiss to the top of her shoulder. She had gorgeous shoulders, especially when they trembled like this…because of his touch…

  That recognition alone tightened everything in his pants—and this time, Wyatt didn’t fight it. He pushed in behind his wife, making sure she couldn’t fight it either. It had been too damn long since they had interacted with each other as Master Wyatt and his sweet girl. Not that she hadn’t been “sweet” in other ways, but giving him sexual pleasure was entirely different than submitting to his direction as her Dom and honoring that extraordinary connection they had when in those roles. Funnily enough, Josie had been the one to first suggest they explore Total Power Exchange and had saved sanity because of it. Now, she was the one needing an exfil back to her right mind, but he wasn’t sure how to get her there…

  Because every time he tried, she reacted just like she did now. One spark of all the right attraction cut short by an ice storm of efficiency and resiliency. Like the ice queen from Violet’s favorite movie, alone in an ice tower, where she could be sheltered and safe.

  From what?

  The shitty—and ironic—thing was, he already knew that answer. Correction: the answers. Just like Jo had been able to open the window inside him, pinpointing how lost and anxious he’d felt after that last official mission for the Big Green Machine, he was the one with the magic glass cutter now, punching a hole into her psyche. She was a forty-year-old mother of an eighteen-month-old dynamo, living in the middle of corn fields and cow pastures, having to deal with a husband who still needed to go play G.I. Joe from time to time.

  No wonder she didn’t want to come out of her ice castle.

  But now he at least knew it—and was trying to melt those walls, even if he had to do it one icicle at a time.

  “You and Sage buy anything fun?”

  One icicle at a time, even if he had to do it with this pretense of casualness, seeing if she’d crack about the naughty nudes photo session. Yeah, he knew about that—because he’d been the one to enlist Sage to suggest it. Maybe if Jo first loosened up during a frivolous girls’ afternoon, she’d be ready to approach submissiveness again…

  “Hmmm. Sage bought a couple of new outfits for Racer. And oh”—her face lit up, making Wyatt push away from the counter—“you remember that special flagstone we were looking at, for widening the front path? It just went on sale at that cool masonry place. Sale’s on until Monday, but they said if you call, they’ll hold an order until Wednesday.”

  “Great.” He ordered his smile to stay lifted though was certain none of it reached his eyes—not that Jo was paying attention. “So…anything else?”

  But as he issued it, Garrett and Sage reentered the kitchen in time for Sage to throw a secret twitch of a head shake at him. The tiny move provided his answer three seconds before Josie did.

  “Nothing beyond the usual, honey. I got everything on the essentials list then filled up th
e truck and the generator fuel cans. If that low-pressure front moves in after you take off for Afghanistan, we’ll be set until the plows can get this far in.”

  “Afghanistan?” Garrett swung a stare around, eyebrows hiked. “What the hell are you—”

  “Bah,” Wyatt volleyed. “Don’t play prissy and shocked, boy. You know privately hired teams are used all the time for the messy minor shit. Snake eaters can’t be everywhere at once. We both know that.”

  Garrett shrugged like he’d been told to eat his peas. “Yeah, but I thought you were done with messy.”

  “Not when messy pays this well.”

  “And it’s only for a week.” Jo’s quiet affirmation came with an upsweep of her toffee-colored gaze. The message in the look, exclusively from her to him, was evident. Promise me you’ll be back in a week.

  Wyatt didn’t falter in sending her an unblinking affirmation. He also let her see his deep breath in, conveying so many things he couldn’t with words. How did you tell a woman, out loud, that you were racing back into a war zone by choice—and that the money was only the first part of that decision? That there was other shit tied into your resolve, like feeling you were doing something significant to make the world safer for your family? And then there was the uncomfortable stuff—like admitting you needed the rush purely for your masculine identity. An identity that wasn’t getting fed any other way lately…

  And maybe that was totally jacked up.

  Maybe it was time for him to clean up the mess he had at home before shipping out to do it in another country.

  “But before I leave, I think I need a little time alone with my wife.”

  Garrett joined his wife in a chuckle. “Sounds like a damn good plan to me, Uncle.”

  Sage added a mischievous grin. “Me too.”

  Josie got on board with adding her own laugh to the mix, though her mirth was cautious, tagged by lifting her to-do list. “As long as that plan lets me finish all this too, then plan away, sir.”

  With speed he’d perfected a long time ago, Wyatt snagged the paper from her fingers, stuffed it into his back pocket, and yanked his wife close, savoring the subtle but sudden melt of her icepack. How much more of her could he dissolve with a long, lusty kiss? What would she do if he redefined “global warming” with a savoring squeeze of her gorgeous ass? Garrett and Sage wouldn’t mind. Hell, they’d probably applaud.

  Yeah. He was going for it…

  Until a pair of children’s screams all but stripped the paint off the walls.

  “Bay-uh!” came Vi’s zealous shriek. “Mama. Racah steal Bay-uh!”

  Everything Josie had just revealed for him was zipped back into the mama ice queen veneer. “Annnnd the battle for stuffed-animal possession begins,” she muttered wearily—though Wyatt had instincts about this kind of shit too, and they all ordered him not to give up without at least one more push for triumph.

  “Jo.” He caught her by an elbow, making her stop just as Vi’s fourth bellow shattered the air. “Garrett and Sage can handle it.” He tucked his other hand beneath her chin, forcing her to confront his stare—and the glass cutter he still wielded.

  She drew in a long breath.

  So did he.

  Her caramel gaze melted a little more—clearly wanting to heed him.

  Silently, he willed her to.

  “Mamaaaaa!”

  And up went the woman’s frozen fortress again. Josie’s features closed off, revealing exactly that. “Garrett, throw on some water to boil for mac ’n’ cheese,” she charged before jabbing a finger at Wyatt. “And if that doesn’t calm the banshee, I’ll need your help with a Plan B, Daddy-o.” With one hand on the swinging door that led out into the living room, she turned and eyed Sage. “Ready to do this, Mama Hawk?”

  Sage’s grin was game enough to someone who wasn’t looking for more. “One sec. Let me grab Racer’s backup pacifier just in case.”

  “Roger that.”

  Sage’s grin stayed glued in place, even after Jo pushed out into the chaos. Her eyes now betrayed the extra element Wyatt had sensed before—a combination of holy shit and what the hell. All of it resonated in her voice as she repeated in a subversive mumble, “Daddy-o?”

  Garrett pursed his lips to mute his snicker. “Have to admit, Uncle, I thought you preferred Sir.”

  “I do, goddamnit.”

  “Then what the hell?”

  Wyatt snapped a glare at Sage. “Were you even able to suggest going for the erotic photography?”

  Garrett pulled the plug on the laughter. “E-Erotic…photography? Whaaaa?”

  “Wyatt thought it might be a good way to relax Jo a bit,” Sage explained. “We were going to do it together and surprise you guys with the results.”

  “I’m surprised,” Garrett said, and pleasantly so, judging by the goofy grin spreading his mouth wide. Sage bumped him a little, rubbing her head in as if to relay she’d make up for his loss, before punching her attention back at Wyatt.

  “I went at her from a few different angles, too,” she revealed then. “I even called her ‘glacier girl.’”

  “Damn.” Garrett’s tone was full of admiration.

  Wyatt scrubbed his jaw with one hand. It beat punching the wall. “What’d she say to that?”

  Sage shook her head, inserting a quiet tsk, before replying. “Turned around and told me she’d forgotten batteries and dog food and we had to go back for them.”

  “Shit,” Garrett muttered.

  “Fuck,” Wyatt growled.

  Sage crossed to her purse hanging from a hook near the door and started fishing through an outer pocket. “If you ask me, she’s shutting down on purpose. It’s not postpartum depression, though.” She turned, pacifier in hand, to trade a meaningful glance with her husband. “I have a little experience with that one. And this…” She tilted her head. “Well, this feels different. Like she’s activated a survival instinct but now made it her norm.”

  “Which hasn’t been helped by me running off to play soldier boy every few months.” Wyatt finished it off by gritting the F-word again, which was received with a few long moments of pensive silence.

  “What do we do now?” Sage finally murmured.

  “You mean what do I do now.” Wyatt braced into a determined stance. “And the answer is, I handle it—with drastic measures if need be. But I’ll need your help.”

  Garrett clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever you need, Uncle.”

  Sage added her open smile and nodded. “From both of us.”

  Wyatt gave them his gratitude with some quick hugs, not able to extend the mushfest beyond that. His mind was already spinning with what needed to happen next—with the steps required of him to make things right with his woman. The wife who’d given him a child. The submissive who’d given him his balance. The person who’d set him free to find his purpose and connection…but, right now, at the sacrifice of her own.

  It was time to make that shit right.

  Even if it meant ordering her to do so.

  Chapter Three

  This was weird.

  Rarely could Josie wake up to Wyatt’s empty pillow and be happy about it, but today was an exception. She needed a few minutes to get out her mental packing tape and fix the frayed edges on the boxes in her head.

  And her heart.

  Especially the one with her husband’s name on it.

  It wasn’t like the thing didn’t have a few layers of fix-its on it already. Wyatt’s box was a big one and even had subdivisions inside. She’d gotten everything so organized in the damn thing—until yesterday.

  She’d gotten a little wet just thinking about posing nude for him.

  She’d gotten even wetter when the man got all growly with her in the kitchen.

  But there was nothing like a farm to run and a tantrum-throwing kid to surrender a twitching pussy to sheer exhaustion.

  She’d fallen into bed, acknowledging Wyatt’s arrival between the sheets with a happy sigh, especially when he’d
moved in for some tender spooning. And yes, she’d felt his throbbing erection at her ass. And no, she hadn’t possessed a shred of energy to wake up and do something about it.

  Though now was a different story.

  Six hours of sleep later, she was ready to show her man exactly how much she’d miss him once the guys from the team showed up to haul his gorgeous ass off on this new mission. How much she missed him every second of every damn mission. Thank God their sexual chemistry had persisted past Violet’s birth, even if the magic of their D/s dynamic seemed a thing of the past now. If she couldn’t ensure the man would miss her as a submissive, at least she could remind him how thoroughly his cock enjoyed her pussy.

  What time were the guys coming to get him, anyway? Was it seven or eight a.m.? She hoped for the later call time so they wouldn’t have to rush and she could make herself halfway presentab—

  “Jimmy fucking Carter on a corncob!”

  She lurched out of bed, though her gape at the clock on the nightstand never wavered. The display had to be wrong—though a backup check on her phone confirmed what the clock’s readout said.

  She’d not just slept in by a few minutes.

  It had been a few hours.

  “What the hell?”

  The room answered her with nothing but silence as she jammed both feet into her faded slippers and all but threw on her robe over her sleep tank and baggy bottoms. There was no logic to this. She had the alarm clock set for six every morning, including weekends, with her phone’s alarm as a safety net in case of a power outage. Never had they both failed her.

  “What the hell?”

  The last of it squeaked out before she got halfway down the stairs. The second she laid eyes on the open door to the mud room, she froze in place, feet on two different steps, instantly grasping the instinct that assaulted her brain.

  Something was wrong.

  But there was the next rub. Her logic rallied for the rest of her instincts to kick in and confirm that wrongness—and got stuck for a long minute on that weird hamster wheel. Her heartbeat wasn’t kicking into double-time. Her blood was its normal temperature, not the fearful fix of flames and frost.