Текст книги "Crash Into Me"
Автор книги: Tracy Wolff
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
Chapter Five
The last vestiges of Ryder’s nightmare faded away, helped along by the honeyed peach scent of Jamison stretched above him. He knew he was still dreaming, knew in a few minutes he would open his eyes and these moments of peace would be gone. But for now he would take the comfort this Dream Jamison was offering and lose himself in it. Revel in it.
Taking a deep breath, he held her scent deep inside of himself as he battled once again to put the specters of his past behind him. It was an unwinnable fight, one that was tearing him apart a little more with each day that passed. But he had to try, had to search for just a small reprievefrom the pain of all the ways he’d failed and all the things he’d done wrong.
Above him, Jamison crooned wordless sounds of comfort. Her fingers combed gently through his hair, smoothing the tangled mess of it from his face. He stiffened for a second—it had been so long since he’d taken solace from anyone that at first he didn’t know how to accept what she was offering. But eventually he relaxed, gave himself up to her.
How could he do anything else when her touch was soothing him in a way nothing else had in far too long? He had no idea why she was here, now, in his dreams, but he wasn’t going to question it. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to give her up, not when he could feel the tension and self-loathing slowly leaking away, burying themselves deep inside of himself where he kept them locked away when he was conscious. The absence of pain, even for a little while, felt amazing.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, lost in the unfamiliar relief of having Jamison surround him. But he was grateful for every second the dream went on. She didn’t move, barely breathed, just wrapped herself around him and let him absorb her warmth and tenderness. It had been so long since he’d felt these emotions, even longer since he’d let himself accept them.
But nothing lasted forever, especially not dreams. It was how he’d gotten through every night of the last decade since Carrie had died—by knowing that eventually day would come and his nightmare would end.
This was different. He didn’t want it to end, didn’t want to leave behind the serenity he was feeling. But Jamison started to squirm a little, her body moving over and against his until a different heat started to build between them.
He groaned at the feel of her, tightened his hand on her hip and pulled her closer until her sex ended up centered directly above his cock. He would hate himself for this dream later, for reducing Jared’s little sister to the basest sexual fantasy, but right now it felt so good that he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t resist. Besides, it wasn’t real. No one else had to know what twisted, fucked-up ideas went on inside his head. This was just one more thing for him to add to the pile of his self-loathing.
But later. Much later.
Arching his hips, he ground himself against her seductive wetness and reveled in the shivers she didn’t even try to hide. Her hard little nipples stabbed at him through the thin material of her shirt and his mouth watered with the need to taste. To lick. To suck.
He slid his hand up her rib cage. He wanted to see her, to find out if her nipples were the same delicate pink as her lips. As his fingers skimmed against the underside of her breast, she jerked against him, gasped.
He liked the sound, wanted to hear her make it again, so he flicked his thumb over her nipple. Once, twice. Then again and again until her entire body was trembling.
“Ryder, what are you doing?” she demanded, her voice breaking on the last word.
He had no fucking clue. But it felt so good he didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not ever. Bringing his other hand to her hip, he pressed Jamison more firmly against him even as he swiveled his hips. Pleasure—sharp, powerful, overwhelming—shot through him at the contact and he groaned with the need for more. With the need for everything.
He wanted her, wanted Jamison, and suddenly no one else would do. Not when his brain was filled with images of kissing and touching and fucking every part of her with every part of him.
He wanted to tie her up, to have her completely at his mercy as he gave her as much pleasure as she could stand.
Wanted to bend her over the arm of this couch and fuck her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see anyone but him.
Wanted to sit her on his face and lick up every drop of her honeyed sweetness until she came, screaming his name.
It wouldn’t take much. He could smell her arousal, could feel the wet heat of her even through the thin cotton of her panties and his pajama pants.
The thought gave him pause for the first time since his nightmare had shifted into this much more pleasant erotic dream. What the hell was his subconscious up to? Why was Jamison wearing panties? And why the fuck was he in pajama bottoms? She should be naked, her sex wet and open to him so that he could slide right in—
“Ryder!” She was gasping now, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging at him, even as her lower body rocked gently against his. “Are you awake? Are you—”
He darted his tongue out to lick at the hollow of her throat. Mmm. She tasted as good as he’d hoped. He nipped at her collarbone and the sensitive skin of her neck, then used his tongue to lave away the small stings. Her heart was going crazy, beating so hard and fast that he could feel it against his chest even as he traced the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. He appreciated her excitement—reveled in it, in fact—but again found it strange that her physical responses felt so real.
And then her fingers were in his hair, tightening to the point of pain. Her other hand slapped against his chest as she tried to shove herself up and away from him. His arms went around her back and he tightened his hold, trying to keep her—to keep the dream—from slipping away. He didn’t want to go back to the cold, didn’t want to be alone anymore. Not when the dream Jamison had showed him just how much he was missing.
But she was insistent, her voice urgent now as she called his name. “Ryder. Ryder! Come on, Ryder, wake up for me. Open your eyes.”
She shook his shoulder, pulled at his hair, and the last vestiges of his dream fell away.
With a groan of dismay, he pushed himself into a sitting position. But something was off. There was a soft, warm weight on his lap, pressing against his chest. A soft, warm, womanly weight.
Alarm jolted through him, chasing away the last of his sleepiness. He flipped open his eyes, tried to focus on the concerned face only inches from him. And that’s when he knew. None of the last few minutes—hours?—had been a dream. Jamison was on his lap. Her knees were straddling his hips. And her sex, her soft, damp, glorious sex, was nestled intimately against his cock.
Jared was going to kill him. That is if Ryder didn’t do the job first himself.
…
If she’d needed proof that Ryder wasn’t really with it when he was touching her, Jamison got it the second his eyes cleared and he was obviously awake. A look of abject horror crossed his face, and then he stood up so quickly that he sent her sprawling, ass first, onto the carpet.
“I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, extending a hand down to help her up. But he looked so freaked out by what had happened that she ended up batting his hand away. Far be it for her to make him touch her when he so obviously didn’t want to.
“Are you okay?” he asked after she made it to her feet.
She shot him a disbelieving look. “I only fell about a yard.”
“I meant—” He broke off, ran a hand over the back of his neck. “You know. I didn’t mean to grab you like that. Did I hurt you?”
Only by completely freaking out once you realized who you were touching. She couldn’t say that, though, no matter how much his obvious revulsion hurt her. What did it say about her that Ryder Montgomery, lead singer and sex god extraordinaire, was—for all intents and purposes—traumatized simply because he’d touched her breast?
Oh, there was a part of her that knew this was more about who she was than what she looked like, but that part was nothing compared to the one screaming at her for being a fool. For thinking, even for a second, that Ryder might have wanted her. Might have been responding physically to her. Bad enough that she was Jared’s sister and five-eight instead of the cute, pixie type girls Ryder usually liked. Add in the fact that she was a size twelve instead of a two and she might as well have a reject-me sign plastered across her chest.
“It’s fine. You were asleep. I get it.” She crossed back to the bar and got another bottle of water, more for something to do than out of any real thirst.
“Still, you should have hit me or something.” His foot was tapping against the carpet now, a surefire sign that his agitation was escalating. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I wasn’t scared! Jesus, what kind of pansy ass do you think I am?”
He blinked at her for a few seconds, like he was shocked by her outburst or something. But really, how many times could a guy apologize for touching a girl before her ego got a little—more like a lot—bruised?
“Max nearly—”
“Give me a break. There is no situation in which I would ever mistake you for him. Remember, I was the lucid one, not you. If I were really concerned that you were going to hurt me, I would have racked you. Then I’d be the one looking sick and apologizing while you were the one telling me to knock it off.” She paused, pretended to consider. “Although, there is a chance you might not be as understanding as I am.”
He snorted. “Just a chance, huh?”
“Okay, a big chance.” She tossed him a bottle of water. “So, are we cool? You’re done beating yourself up for something you did when you were asleep?”
He drained the water in one long gulp, then slowly lowered the bottle so he could look at her with those crazy onyx eyes of his. “I wasn’t beating myself up.”
“Dude, I can practically see the bruises from here.”
“I was just worried about you. I didn’t want you to think—”
“And I was worried about you. Whatever you were dreaming about seemed pretty awful. That’s why I went over to you to begin with.” She said it deliberately, to get him to stop apologizing, but the second the words actually hit the air between them, she wished she could take them back. He literally shut down in front of her.
“Did it?” He shrugged, but his face was carefully blank. “I don’t remember anything, so it must not have been that bad.” But he crossed to the bar, set down the water and pulled out a glass and a bottle of tequila instead.
“Haven’t you had enough of that?” The words burst out of her before she could stop them. It wasn’t her business, but really. If he spent every night drinking to avoid all the ghosts that tormented him, he was going to end up completely pickled by the time he was thirty-five.
He arched a brow at her. “That seems an awful lot like the pot calling the kettle black. If I remember correctly, you’re the one who got so drunk she took three shots of Patron, went out to dance, and ended up blacking out in my arms.”
She felt heat creeping into her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. It’s been a crappy week, but that’s no excuse. I was completely irresponsible.”
“It happens to the best of us.” He saluted her with his shot of Patron before knocking it back. “Besides, I’m not the one you need to be apologizing to. You really freaked out Jared.”
She could only imagine. “Yet he had you put me in your bed.”
“I don’t sleep much. It made sense.”
She bet. With nightmares like the one she’d seen haunting him, it was a wonder he got any sleep at all. With that realization, the last of her anger at him drained away. Of course he wanted to blame himself for what had happened between them on the couch. He blamed himself for everything else.
“Do you want to try to get some more sleep?” she asked. “It’s barely dawn.”
“Nah.” He didn’t bother to glance at the clock. “I’m good. But feel free to go back to bed. You’re probably wiped.”
She was, completely. But he looked so forlorn standing there, that damn bottle of tequila clutched in his hand like some kind of pacifier, that she couldn’t just walk away from him. No matter how stupid that made her.
“Actually, I’m good,” she told him. “But I am starving. How about we order room service and watch a movie?”
“Don’t you have to go to work in a couple hours?”
“Nope. I don’t have work today.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. She did, after all, have the day off. And the one after that and the one after that and the one– She stopped herself before she ended up taking another shot of tequila herself.
“So? What do you say?” She slipped the Patron bottle from between his hands, tucked it back under the bar. He watched her with a cross between amusement and exasperation, but he didn’t say a word about the booze. “Eggs?”
“You obviously don’t get drunk often enough,” he said. “The proper early-morning-after-a-bender breakfast is waffles. Heavy on the syrup with extra bacon.”
“Extra bacon, huh?”
“Definitely.”
She reached for the phone, turning her back so he couldn’t see her grin. “Then extra bacon it is.”
Chapter Six
They ended up watching The Avengers and eating waffles drenched in syrup, with strawberries and whipped cream. It felt a little surreal after what had almost happened, but Ryder couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself more.
Sure, he had a blast when he was onstage, singing, dueling with Jared, electrifying the crowd. But his performances were loaded with expectations—from the fans, from the other members of Shaken Dirty, from the concert promoters, their managementand the record label. And from himself most of all. The worst part was that he felt like he rarely met those expectations. How could he when he spent so much time wondering how and when and where he was going to fuck everything up? It was his legacy from his father, and from Carrie.
But being with Jamison wasn’t like that. At least not after she’d made it clear he hadn’t screwed anything up with his little escapade on the couch. That he hadn’t hurt her or scared her or… He shut his mind off before it could go where he didn’t want it to. There was no need to dredge up all the things he couldn’t change. Not here. Not now.
“Okay, so I have a very serious question for you,” Jamison told him as she twisted her crazy mess of hair into a makeshift bun at the top of her head. She secured it with a couple of pencils she’d found in her purse, but within seconds it started to break free of the confinement, locks tumbling with abandon over her cheeks and the back of her neck.
With a sound of exasperation, she started to tuck them back into the bun. She hadn’t gotten very far when he reached over and plucked all three pencils out of her hair. He threw them across the room before she could demand them back, then watched as all that glorious hair came tumbling down around her shoulders. It was like a flame, beckoning him, and for a second—just a second—he imagined what it would feel like to fist his hands in those curls while he was inside her. To have them sliding over his shoulders, his chest, his cock—
“Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed in obvious exasperation. “Now I have to start all over again.” Her hands were back in her hair, this time twisting it into some kind of knot at the base of her neck.
“Leave it.” He brushed her fingers away, tucked a few errant curls behind her ear. “It looks good the way it is.”
He was playing with fire. He knew he was. Just like he knew he was going to get burned—this was Jared’s sister, after all. Little Jamison, the same girl he’d helped teach self-defense to before her first date and how to drive a car when she turned sixteen.
Only she hadn’t felt so little when she’d been on top of him, her glorious body pressed to his. She’d felt like a beautiful, sexy woman he wanted more than he wanted his next breath. Even now, part of him desired nothing more than to pull her beneath him and make love to her the way his cock was screaming for him to.
If she had been any other woman, he would have taken what she was offering without a second thought. It wasn’t like he was in the habit of self-denial and he wanted her, badly. He wanted to hold her. To touch her. To kiss her right now, with nothing between them but the desire that throbbed in the air like the final notes of a love song.
He wanted to pull her body against his and explore the sweet recesses of her mouth without worrying about his past or her brother or any of the other things that were just waiting to ambush them.
But this was Jamison and she deserved more, better, than anything he had to offer her. No matter what she thought.
“Ryder.” Her breath broke on his name and heat flooded his cock.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, deliberately severing the forbidden connection between them. Then he forced an easy smile, forked up his last piece of waffle, and offered it to her like he had a million other times through the years. For a moment, she looked like she wouldn’t accept it. As if she knew doing so was one more step away from the strange and unsteady ground where they currently found themselves.
But in the end, she must have known he needed her to make that step, because she leaned forward to take the bite, her soft pink lips closing around the fork with a low hum of appreciation.
He looked away quickly, told himself he wasn’t imagining her lush mouth closing over his dick with the same enjoyment. Of course he wasn’t. That would be wrong, so wrong. But then her hand brushed his upper thigh as she reached for a napkin and he nearly went through the roof.
Desperate for something to take his mind off Jamison—and the sex they absolutely couldn’t have—Ryder turned back toward the TV. Watched as the Hulk destroyed whole sections of the S.H.I.E.L.D. hovership just as Loki’s forces attacked. Nothing like cinematic death and destruction to take a guy’s mind off the lust crawling around in his belly.
It almost worked. At least until Jamison got up to push the room service cart into the hall. When she came back, she settled right next to him on the couch, and her lush peach scent wrapping itself around him like a blanket. He tensed, tried to pretend like he cared whether or not the huge centrifuge of the ship’s engine crushed Iron Man.
He must not have been very convincing, though, because it only took Jamison a minute before she commented, “You know, I never got the chance to ask you my question.”
Had he thought he was tense before? After that statement he was clenching his jaw so tightly that it was a miracle he didn’t break a molar…or three.
He didn’t want to have this discussion, couldn’t have this discussion. His nightmares were off limits to everyone, even the guys in Shaken Dirty, and he hated that she’d seen him like that.
Alone.
Out of control.
Vulnerable.
He ran a hand over his face. “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“What isn’t?”
“This whole…” He wagged a finger back and forth between them. “Thing.”
“This whole what?” She looked baffled. “Conversation?”
“Yeah.” He looked away, relieved that she got it. Sure, it made him look like a total candy ass, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when it meant he escaped unscathed.
For long seconds, she didn’t say anything. Then she lifted a brow, sniffed disdainfully. “I wasn’t aware that picking a superhero was such an emotional thing. I mean, I’m an Iron Man girl myself, but if it’s that big a deal to you, we can talk about something else.”
“That was your big question?” He felt like he’d missed a step or nine in the conversation. At least until he got a glimpse of her eyes and realized she’d known…and she’d tossed him a lifeline. The tension drained from his shoulders. “Which Avenger I like?”
“It’s an important question. Iron Man is clearly superior, but each of the others has his or her good points so—”
“Are you kidding me?” he said with a smirk. “Who says Iron Man is superior?”
“Who doesn’t? Seriously, who’s better than Tony freaking Stark?”
“Uh, the Hulk? Obviously.”
“Are you nuts?” she demanded, incredulous. “Iron Man risks everything to save people in this movie. He nearly dies. Plus he’s smart, hot, and rich.”
“Hulk’s willing to die for people, too. And he’s very smart.”
She scoffed. “Oh, please. Dr. Banner’s smart. Hulk is a giant green rage monster.”
It was his turn to scoff. “Like wearing a metal suit automatically makes a guy a hero?”
“It is if he uses it for good. Being a hero is about a lot more than just smashing up the bad guys. It’s about choosing to do something to make the world a better place, even if you die doing it.”
Her words hit a little too close to home, and he felt them deep in the pit of his stomach. But he didn’t want her to know how much she’d disconcerted him, so he snorted. Rolled his eyes. Worked up a decent sneer as he finally said, “Heroism is highly overrated. No one can stop something from happening, Jamison. The best anyone can hope for is to postpone the inevitable.”
“That’s not true. You saved me from Max. You didn’t let him hurt me.”
“That was sheer, dumb luck. If I hadn’t walked out when I did—”
“But you did. You did walk out then, Ryder. And you stopped him. No one else did that.”
Her eyes were shiny with gratitude and something else he couldn’t—wouldn’t—name. He looked away so he didn’t have to see it. “Yeah, well, I won’t be there the next time some asshole tries to mess with you.”
“Maybe there won’t be a next time.”
“Yeah, right.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Because the world is made up of gumdrops and unicorns.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s like you live in a different universe, Jamison. One where it doesn’t even occur to you that you aren’t the first one—and probably won’t be the last.”
Rage filled him all over again at the reminder of how he’d found her earlier. He wasn’t happy about not calling the police, but he’d known it wouldn’t do much good. No real damage had been done to Jamison—or so Max’s side would argue—and Ryder had no doubt that Max would end up weaseling out of everything.
He was going to have a talk with Max later today. Make sure the singer thought twice before he ever pulled any shit like that again. Make sure he understood that it would be detrimental to his health.
“You don’t know that he’ll hurt anyone else.”
Bullshit. If all he wanted was to get laid, why didn’t Max go for one of the many available girls backstage? He wanted to hurt you, because he could.” Ryder’s hands clenched into fists of their own volition. “How many times has that happened on this tour alone, right under my nose? I played poker with that asshole. Jammed with him more than once. And all this time he was—”
“Damn it, Ryder! You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Jamison laid a hand on top of his, squeezed tightly. “You’ve been beating yourself up for nearly a decade. It has to stop.” She tried to put her arms around him, to hug him, but he wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t. Not when a lump was trying to form in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, refused to give in to the emotions swamping him like a tsunami.
Shit, he should have ignored her. Should have had those extra shots of tequila. If he were still drunk then he wouldn’t be sitting here like a total pussy, trying not to lose it completely.
“Maybe you’re right,” he told her, reaching for the remote so he could turn the volume up on the TV set. “Maybe Iron Man really is the best Avenger. Sure, he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, but I guess that isn’t everything. Right, Jamison?”
She gasped and he knew he’d scored a direct hit, but he refused to apologize. Refused to so much as look at her. Instead, he kicked his legs up on the coffee table in front of them and concentrated on the movie like his life depended on it.
And maybe it did. God knew, he wasn’t going to make it if he had to rehash the past tonight—especially with Jamison. No, it would be better for everyone if he sat here and watched the stupid movie. The fact that he couldn’t see a damn thing thanks to the red haze in front of his eyes was entirely inconsequential.
He waited for her to take the hint that was really more of a No Trespassing sign—in neon lights—but she didn’t turn back to the movie. For long seconds, she didn’t do anything at all. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t settle back against the couch cushions. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that she breathed.
Instead, she just sat there, watching him. Willing him to look at her. To talk to her. But he wasn’t going to do that. Not now. Not—
“Ryder, please. Don’t—”
“Watch the movie, Jamison.”
“I don’t care about the movie. I care about you. About the way you always beat yourself up over things you have no control over.”
“Didn’t you get the memo? I’m a rock star, baby.” He sneered at her. “I’m way too self-absorbed to worry about anything but where my next drink and fuck are coming from.”
“Bullshit.” She put a trembling hand in the middle of his chest, right over his heart. Figuring she must be cold, he reached for the blanket at the end of the couch, started to cover her up. But then he realized she wasn’t the one shaking. He was. Goddammit.
“You need to back off, Jamison,” he told her through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“You never want to talk. Not about this. That’s why you need to—”
“I don’t need to do a damn thing except get some sleep.” He stood up, tossed the remote onto the couch. “Do you want the bed?”
“I don’t give a shit about the bed! I want to talk to—”
“I guess that means I’ll take it.” He started across the room, in total self-preservation mode now. He wanted—needed—to get away. Sure, there was a part of him that thought about staying, to bask in the warmth that was pouring out from her. To touch and kiss her beautiful body and listen to all the lies she was so anxious to tell. To tell some lies of his own. Lies that would shut her up and get her into his bed so that he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel. Didn’t have to do anything but fuck.
But this was Jamison, not some groupie just looking for a good time. He couldn’t treat her like that.
She didn’t understand. She hadn’t been there. She didn’t know what had happened to Carrie, not really. Didn’t know that he’d turned away from her because of his own guilt. Didn’t know that—
He cut himself off. There was a whole hell of a lot Jamison didn’t know and he wasn’t going to beat himself up over it. Just like she was the one who refused to acknowledge that he wanted to be alone right now. So to hell with her feelings and to hell with being gentle. She obviously didn’t give a shit about how he felt.
“Get the hell away from me,” he snarled right before he got to his bedroom door.
She’d followed him and though he refused to look at her, he felt her recoil at his words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to help.”
“What am I, a fucking charity case? When are you going to get it through your head that I don’t need your help? I don’t want your help! I’m fine,” he roared, putting his hands on her shoulders and backing her up against the hallway wall. Her eyes widened, the pulse at the base of her neck suddenly beating triple time.
He slid his hand from her shoulder to her collarbone, then up so his fingers were resting against the hollow of her throat. “I told you to stop, told you to back off. I told you I didn’t want to talk about it. But you keep pushing and pushing.”
He could feel her heart beating wildly beneath his hand, her breaths coming faster and faster. In response, he stroked his fingers over her too-fast pulse, then waited to see what she’d do. He wouldn’t hurt her—would never hurt her—but he wasn’t above backing her off if it would get him some peace.
She licked her lips, whispered his name. But his plan had backfired. There was no wariness in her eyes, no trepidation. Only the same desire that was currently raging inside of him. “Ryder—”
“You’re still talking.” He skimmed his palm up to her jaw, pressed his thumb against her mouth, and rubbed. The final remnants of last night’s lipstick smeared across her cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
She was apologizing for a lot more than saying his name, but he didn’t want to hear it. She’d pushed him too far. “So am I.”
Still, they couldn’t stand here like this all morning. He shifted, started to back off. And that’s when she did the one thing he absolutely wasn’t expecting. She bit him, hard, her small, white teeth sinking sharply into the pad of his thumb.
