More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5)

by Jay McLean

  “And the cake…”

  “How many candles?”

  Butterflies.

  For the next ten minutes, he tosses and turns in bed while I try to concentrate on anything but him. Then he huffs out a breath and says, “I skipped breakfast. I could eat now. You?”

  “Okay.”

  He rushes to his feet and opens the blinds fully. “You got a preference?” he asks, turning to me with a smile on his face—a smile that matches mine.

  “Bacon.”

  “Just bacon?”

  I laugh. “Anything with bacon.”

  “And the cake?” he asks, grabbing his phone, keys and wallet from my nightstand.

  “Anything. Just don’t forget the candles.”

  He nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  I stay in my spot and watch him slip on his shoes, trying to hide my excitement.

  His eyes stay on mine as he starts to leave. Stopping at my doorway, he says, “Riley?”

  My grin gets wider.

  “Please don’t pass out while I’m gone.” He eyes the bottle in my hand.

  I shake my head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  With a chuckle, he mumbles, “Wow. You must really like bacon.”

  And then he’s gone.

  “It’s not the bacon,” I whisper to myself, my smile wiped as I write:

  He’s giving me a wish.

  I like wishes, Jeremy.

  That’s all it is.

  Please don’t be mad.

  Seven

  Dylan

  I rush to three different places before I find the one I need. Then I speed back home, park in my garage and carefully bring the bags with me. I place them against the wall of her house, hidden from her view and then I knock on her door.

  My eyes widen when she answers. She’d changed while I was gone. Maybe even showered going by the dampness of her hair. Her eyes are still a little faded but besides that, she looks completely different. She’s wearing a plain white dress—a dress that shows off the curves she’d been hiding behind the oversized T-shirts she normally wears.

  “That was quick,” she says, the same time I say, “You look nice.”

  We both laugh, but the kind of nervous laugh I hadn’t felt since I was fifteen and Heidi started talking to me.

  I clear my throat and pull my eyes away from her. “I need you to hide out in your room.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

  “Surprise.” I try to smile but my lack of breath makes it a struggle.

  She purses her lips. “I don’t like surprises.”

  I shrug. “Suck it up. It’s only your birthday once a year.”

  She smiles at that, before walking backward and into her room, closing the door behind her.

  When I know she can’t see me, I take a calming breath. And then another. And another, wondering the entire time why it is she has my heart racing and my palms sweating when we can’t even hold a decent conversation.

  “Can I come out now?” she yells.

  How the hell long have I been standing here? “No!” I grab the bags and bring them inside and toward where I assume is her kitchen. “I’ll tell you when you can! Just don’t come out and don’t peek.”

  “Dylan!” she yells, and I picture her nose scrunched in annoyance like I’d seen so many times before. She’s fucking cute when she gets like that. Cuter than she is when she’s passed out drunk or throwing shit at me.

  “I’ll be two minutes!”

  I empty the contents of the bag, set it all out on her kitchen counter, light the candles and rush over to her room before they begin to melt. “Okay,” I say, opening the door.

  She’s standing in front of her dresser with her hands on her boobs. She drops her arms to her side and turns to me, her face fifty different shades of red. “Heard of knocking?” she snaps, raising her hands.

  I cower beneath my arms.

  “What the hell are you doing, Banks?”

  I chance a peek at her and when I see her walking toward me, her hands free of anything she could possibly throw, I relax my arms and tell her, “I thought you were going to throw something at me. Again.”

  She rolls her eyes and gives me that same annoyed look I’ve just deemed cute. Cute doesn’t do it justice. Hot. Definitely hot.

  “I told you I’d be quick.”

  “You said you were going to call out, not barge into my room!”

  “I didn’t know you were going to be fondling yourself,” I tell her, waiting until she’s walked past me before covering her eyes. She stops in her tracks causing me to bump into the back of her. “It’s a surprise, remember? Just go with it, Riley.”

  “Fine.” She starts to walk forward, her hands out in front of her.

  I bend down, my lips to her ear. “I’m not going to crash you into a wall, Hudson. Relax.”

  She brings her arms in and grasps my wrists. “I’m also a little tipsy,” she reminds me. Then she mumbles something about not being able to smell anything, but I don’t really know what she’s saying because all my other senses have been drowned out by her touch on my arm. Her back on my chest. Her breath on my cheek as she turns to me. “Are we there?” she whispers, her lips an inch away from mine. I realize we’ve stopped moving, though I don’t know when. I blink twice, forcing my eyes away from her lips—her wet, slightly parted lips and her mint/wine breath brushing against mine. “Dylan?”

  Fuck, I want to kiss her. “Huh?”

  “Can I open my eyes?”

  “Shit.”

  “What?” she says, her grip getting tighter. “Did you do something? Is the house burning down? What?”

  I shake my head to clear my thoughts and start moving again. I try not to focus on the heat of her body against mine when I stop in front of the counter, the glow of the candles setting off patterns of flickering light against the walls of the dark room. “Ready?” I ask.

  Her grip tightens again. “No.”

  I lower my hands. “Happy birthday.”

  Her intake of breath matches mine when I realize she hasn’t let go of my wrists. Now I’m standing behind her, my arms around her waist.

  She releases a chuckle, or at least I think that’s what it is, but when she turns to me, still in my arms and her eyes instantly on mine, I can see her tears. “You got me bacon cupcakes?”

  I nod. “Bacon and maple.”

  “They each have a candle,” she whispers, but she’s not looking at the cupcakes, she’s looking at me.

  “All twenty of them.”

  She takes a huge breath, causing her chest to rise, and then fall as she lets out a tiny laugh. “You gave me twenty wishes.”

  I spend the next half hour watching her blow out each individual candle. She asked that I blow them all out first, and then she’d do them individually. I didn’t ask why. If I’ve learned one thing from today, it’s to not ask questions.

  She takes her time, her gaze lifting before each blow, as if she’s really thinking hard about her wishes. I guess they mean something to her—these wishes she makes. And it’s good, I decide, because it means she has something to look forward to which before today, I would have never guessed.

  Her reaction after each wish is different. Sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she frowns. Sometimes she moves right on to the next, and others, she just stares as the smoke rises from the freshly put out candle. But on her last one she looks at me standing right next to her. Right into my eyes. I swallow loudly, my nerves on show, hoping she doesn’t see the real me. That behind the bullshit front I show her and the small details of my current existence I’ve admitted to her, I hope to God she doesn’t see that maybe I’m just as fucked up as she is. That while she uses alcohol to hide the mayhem inside her, I’m using her.

  Her eyes are gray—one hidden behind a strand of hair fallen from the loose knot on her head. I run my finger across her forehead, her lids slowly dropping. Her lips are wet again, parted slightly allowing her shaky inhales, followed by even shakier exha
les. My finger’s behind her ear now, my palm on her jaw.

  Her head tilts back.

  I lick my lips.

  And then I do something I’ve wanted to do since I saw her in that dress. I lean down, close my eyes, and press my lips to hers, and I kiss her. I ignore her loud intake of breath, her palms as they flatten on my stomach and I kiss her some more. I kiss her until her lips part against mine and her tongue slides across my bottom lip and then I do the same, and with both hands on her face, I use my lips to memorize every single thing about this moment.

  It’s the slowest form of slow dance.

  The most passionate act of foreplay.

  It’s not until she moans into my mouth, her arm curled around my neck as she drops down to her feet that I realize she was as desperate for the kiss as I was. I remove my left hand from her face and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her into me. Then I push us back until her back hits the counter. I swipe my arm along the counter, discarding the once moment-defining cupcakes and I lift her onto it, standing between her legs as they wrap around me. We break the kiss, just long enough for her to remove my shirt and for me to do the same with her dress and fuck—she’s not wearing a bra. I blink hard, staring at the perfect pink of her nipples contrast against her pale skin and lower my gaze to her white panties. I run my hands up her bare thighs as I take one of her nipples in my mouth. She arches her back and releases a moan so fucking sexy, it takes everything in me not to rip off her panties and dive right in. Her hands are on the back of my head now, my thumb running across the dampness between her legs. She reaches for the band of my sweats as I move to the other breast; paying it the same attention I did the other. I circle my tongue around her nipple, flick it, then suck it into my mouth while I push her panties to the side and now my thumb can feel the full effect I’ve had on her. She’s wet. Soaking fucking wet. So wet it drives me to the brink of explosion. I moan, releasing her nipple and move back up to her mouth. She bites on my bottom lip as she takes my cock in her hand, slowly stroking it, and if she keeps it up, it won’t be long. Before she can push my sweats down with her free hand, I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet, then dump it on the counter and blindly retrieve a condom. My sweats drop to my ankles while I insert a finger into her pussy, my eyes drifting shut when she runs her thumb across the head of my dick. I pull away from the kiss, place the condom packet between my teeth and open my eyes but she’s already watching me, her breaths heavy, her cheeks flushed.

  With my eyes, I ask a silent question—but then I realize… we don’t ask questions.

  I tear the packet with my teeth and roll on the condom at the same time she removes the only piece of clothing that’s stopping us from going all the way.

  I have to ask. I can’t not. I don’t want her to regret it. “Riley,” I breathe out.

  She responds by pressing her lips to mine, her hand around my neck, bringing me down until her entire back is lying on the counter. I grasp her thighs as best I can and pull until her ass is on the edge. Then I reach up, groping her breasts in both my hands, watching and listening to the results of her pleasure. In a single thrust, I’m inside her. She’s warm. And so fucking tight. Her back lifts off the counter, her quiet scream of pleasure and pain mixes with mine and we start to move. Slow at first, and then as one, we speed up. Her hands are on my waist as I lean up, watching her tits bounce with each thrust. My gaze moves lower, my cock getting harder as I watch it slide in and out of her perfect fucking body. She’s fucking ridiculous. Every move. Every sound. Every touch from her pushes me closer to the edge. Then she tightens around me, her body heated and covered in sweat as her stomach contracts, her release as close as mine. I hold out, just long enough for her to finish and when the shaking stops and her breaths seem to settle, I go off, releasing a grunt into her neck while her fingers curl into my back.

  And then… silence.

  I’ve never hated silence as much as I do right now.

  Because reality hits.

  And reality’s a bitch.

  She’s drunk.

  Beyond drunk.

  And now I’m regretful.

  She breaks the silence.

  I wish she didn’t.

  Because she’s crying, pushing away from her.

  I lean back. “Riley, it’s—”

  She pushes until I’m completely off her, wiping her tears and covering her mouth like she’s about to puke.

  I make her sick.

  We make her sick.

  She rushes to the sink and empties the content of her stomach. Then grips the edge of the counter, her shoulders heaving with every breath.

  I discard the condom in the trash and pull up my pants before going to her. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I say, “Riley, it doesn’t—”

  “Mean anything,” she cuts in.

  “—change anything,” I finish.

  Slowly, she turns to me, using her arms to cover her most private parts—parts I was drowning in only minutes ago. “Dylan,” she cries. “It changes everything.”

  Eight

  Dylan

  She asks me to leave.

  I do because it’s not one of those times where she’s joking around or pretending she hates me. The look she gives me mixed with the regret in her eyes is proof of that.

  And as much as I don’t want to admit it, she was right. It changes everything.

  Because now I’m in deep. Too fucking deep.

  So I do the only thing I know when nothing in the entire world seems to make sense.

  I drive.

  And then I drive some more.

  And when the sight of the sun dipping down on the horizon doesn’t give me the calm I was hoping for, I head home and face reality.

  Eric’s standing in the garage as I pull into our driveway, my tools and my engine parts in his hands. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” I yell out, getting out of my truck and making my way to him.

  “Nope,” he says, popping the P. “This car stuff has always been you and Dad’s thing. Kind of pissed me off, to be honest.”

  I stop in my tracks. “What’s with you?”

  “Where have you been, Dylan?” he says, facing me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He places his hands on his hips and widens his stance. Fuck, he looks like Dad. Acts like him, too. “You’ve been home over a week, and I’ve barely seen you.” His eyes narrow, as he cups my chin. He tilts my head from side to side while he steps closer, his eyes right on mine. “Dylan?”

  “Uh…what?”

  “Are you on The Drug?”

  I swat his hand away. “Fuck off.”

  “Dylan.” He stifles his laugh. “I’m being serious. Are you, or are you not, on The Drug?”

  “Oh my God, Eric.” I push him aside and start replacing the tools back where they belong. “I’m not on The Drug… whatever the hell that means.”

  “Good.” He leans back on the workbench and crosses his arms again. “I just feel like I should be looking out for my kid brother, you know?”

  “I’m not a kid anymore, E. I can take care of myself.”

  He points to my shoulder. “Clearly.”

  I freeze. So does Eric when he realizes what he’s just said. “I didn’t mean that, man. I overstepped.”

  “Yeah, you did.” I shut the lid on the toolbox and face him, matching his stance, waiting for him to leave.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Did you… want to talk about it or something? About what happened?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.” He takes a breath. “Well, if you do—”

  “I don’t. Ever.”

  “Right.” He nods but doesn’t look away. “Your friends know your back?”

  I shake my head and drop my shoulders.

  “Why not?”

  “Not ready,” I rush out, and when I realize this is the most we’ve had to say to each other in ten years, I ask, “What’s with the twenty questions? Dad ask you to
talk to me or something?”

  “What? A brother can’t talk to his brother to see if he’s okay?”

  With a sigh, I reply, “I’m fine, Eric.”

  “Cut the shit, okay? None of us are fine. You, me, Dad—we’ve all been there, but you’re the only one who’s come back with a scar to remind us of it. If ‘fine’ is the story you want to spread for everyone else, then good for you. But don’t use it on us. We’re your goddamn family, Dylan.”

  I turn away because if I look at him any longer I’ll probably punch him. “You’re right. It happened to me. Not you. And if I say I’m fine, I’m fucking fine. Leave it alone.” I walk to my truck and pop the hood, then spend the next few minutes ignoring his presence, pretending to fix something that isn’t broken. Which, I guess, is exactly what he’s doing… trying to fix me. I’m not broken. Or at least I wasn’t. Not until I decided to take advantage of the drunk and damaged girl next door.

  “You want to know why I came home?”

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  My truck sways when he leans against it. “For Dad.”

  My hands freeze mid-movement. “He asked you to come home?”

  “No. You know Dad, he’d never ask. But think about it… the man lost his wife, raised two boys on his own. Then I go and enlist, deploy, and eight years later you do the same and he has no one. We’re all he has—just us and the constant thoughts of where we are and what we’re doing and if we’re even fucking alive.”

  I drop my gaze, my grip loosening around the wrench in my hand.

  He adds, “So if I ask you if you’re okay or if you want to talk about shit, I’m not doing it to set you off or because I feel like I need to. I’m doing it because I fucking love you. And I love Dad. And if me coming home and giving up on early retirement means Dad will at least have one of his family members alive and standing next to him until the day he dies then that’s what I’ll do.”

  I release my anger with a shaky breath and blink. Once. Twice. Then over and over until the dryness returns. Then I swallow loudly, pushing down the lump in my throat.