Anything You Need (Cataclysm Book 1)

by Jerica MacMillan

  I’m so lost in my thoughts and worries that I don’t even notice we’ve made it to my door until Marcus clears his throat. “You going to unlock it? Did you still want me to come inside?”

  “Oh. Right. Hang on.” He releases my hand so I can dig my keys out of my purse, and he follows me inside without a word.

  Once the door is shut, he pulls me into his arms. My hands go to his chest, and I’m torn between the desire to grip the open halves of his jacket and yank him closer or push him away.

  His dark eyes study my face. “What’s wrong, Ken? You’ve been off since we left the restaurant.”

  The concern in his voice, the gentle way he cradles me in his arms, I’m defenseless against him. And even though I’m sure I’ll come off looking like an idiot, it’s time we talk about all of this. Giving his chest a gentle pat, I step out of his hold, setting my purse on the table by the door and taking off my coat to hang it up. “We need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh. That’s never an auspicious start to a conversation.”

  I try to muster a smile, but from the way his crooked grin fades, I don’t think I manage it. “It’s just … there are a few things I need to say. Before you go.”

  His eyebrows wing up, surprised. Was he expecting to stay a while? I guess I did say that I wanted him to come hang out when we left the restaurant. And I haven’t said anything else to contradict that.

  With a sigh, I lead the way to the living room, nodding my head at the couch, indicating that he should sit down.

  He does, but he doesn’t relax, sitting on the edge of the cushion, his arms resting on his knees.

  I stand on the other side of the coffee table and wrap my arms around myself. But I don’t say anything for a long time.

  Long enough for him to make a low sound of frustration in his throat. “C’mon, Ken. It’s me. Whatever’s wrong, you know I’ll do what I can to make it better.”

  “Yeah, see, that’s the thing,” I blurt out. “That’s the problem.”

  His head jerks back. I’ve surprised him.

  I put my hands over my face, and make my own sound of frustration. “That didn’t come out right.”

  Then he’s in front of me, his hands on mine, pulling them down. “Look at me, Kendra. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I shake my head, staring at the spot on his chest that’s right in front of me. “This is hard.”

  His finger tucks under my chin, tilting it up so I’ll look him in the face. His crooked smile and smoldering eyes, all for me. “What? Talking to me?”

  “That. And this whole pretending to be a couple thing.”

  Something flickers across his face, but so fast I can’t read it. “Which part, exactly?”

  I sigh and close my eyes and spit it out. “I didn’t like when you kissed me for the camera.”

  He’s still. One hand still holding mine, the other still under my chin. He doesn’t even breathe for a few beats, and when he does, all his breath comes out in a whoosh, blowing my hair back from my eyes. “You don’t like it when I kiss you, period? Or you didn’t like staging it for the photographer?”

  “The second one,” I whisper.

  “Why not?” He whispers too, like we’re telling each other secrets.

  I force myself to open my eyes and look at his face. “Because it felt fake and weird and wrong.”

  “Because it was for the photographer?”

  “Yes.”

  His breath fans over my lips as his dark eyes examine mine. Then his mouth finds mine, first just a tentative touch, growing firmer, like he’s feeling me out, giving me a chance to react before making his next move. His finger leaves my chin, sliding to cup my cheek, behind my neck. The fingers of his other hand tighten around mine as he pulls me closer, parting my lips with the tip of his tongue and sliding inside to mate with mine.

  This. This is what our kisses are like.

  Wet and hot and needy and so, so sweet.

  I press up on my toes, needing to be closer, and he wraps his arm around me, my hand still trapped in his, pressing my body against his.

  When he gentles the kiss and pulls back, his eyes still boring into mine, his chest is rising and falling faster, his pulse hammering in his throat. “Is that better?” His voice is low and harsh, a whisper heavy with desire.

  “Yes.” I blink a few times, trying to clear my head of the Marcus-lust fog that took over the minute his tongue touched mine. Reaching for the hand that’s still cupping my neck, I pull it away and step back. “We really do need to talk, Marcus.”

  He steps back, pulling his hand out of mine, his face shutting down. “Sure. Yeah. You said. What did you want to say?”

  “Can we sit?” I wish he wouldn’t shut down like that, but clearly he expects something bad. I don’t think what I want to say is bad. I just want some clarification, because after that last kiss, I’m more confused than ever.

  He resumes his place on the couch, still sitting on the edge of the cushion, this time angled toward my spot on the opposite end. His knee bounces, and the light from the entryway casts his face in deep shadows, the tick of his jaw unmistakable in high relief.

  Like the big fat chicken I am, I go for the easy thing. “The Grammys.”

  His jaw stops ticking, and he sits up straighter. “What?”

  “The Grammys are next week, right? If I’m supposed to be your girlfriend, am I going with you?”

  He blinks at me. “Um, I guess? Since the label’s breathing down my neck, and we’re having trouble coming up with the rest of the songs to fill out our album, I wasn’t sure I’d even go, actually.”

  “Oh.” It’s stupid to be disappointed. It’s not like I have a reason to go. Last year was a lot of fun, though. And going with a Marcus who kisses me and snuggles me in bed … What am I thinking? That was a one-time thing. If we went together this year, we’d probably get a two bedroom suite. Like before.

  “I could make time to go, though. If you want to.”

  “If you need to work …”

  He lifts one shoulder in dismissal and gives me that lazy half smile of his. “Maybe it would be good to get away for a couple of days. Get out of my head a little. Because being deep into it doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods. “Jon and Gabby got nominated for one of their singles. It’d be cool to go support them, too.” He lets out a sigh of relief. “Is that all you wanted to talk about? I thought …”

  I twist my fingers together in my lap. “That’s one thing. But not all.”

  His posture stiffens again. Not as much as before, but he’s obviously picking up on my anxiety. “Talk to me, Ken. You’re freaking me out. Did I do something wrong? Was it the kiss? Because—”

  “Yes!” I blurt before I lose my nerve.

  His face goes completely blank, and his voice lacks all inflection. “Yes, it was the kiss, or yes, I did something wrong?”

  “No, yes. Oh my god.” I cover my face with my hands, so irritated that I’m screwing up this conversation so badly. With a deep breath, I compose myself, straighten my spine, and put my hands in my lap. I don’t open my eyes though. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Yes, the thing I want to talk about is the kiss. Or the kissing, in broader terms.”

  When I risk glancing at him, he’s rubbing his lower lip with one finger, the two-day scruff rasping against the calluses from playing the guitar. “In broader terms. Do you …” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, muttering a curse. Then he pins me with his gaze. “Is the kissing a problem?”

  “No. I mean, not exactly. Unless it becomes one.”

  “Unless it becomes one,” he echoes, his voice again completely dead. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  There’s the Marcus I know. I take another deep breath. “I like the kissing. I’m just … afraid of what it means.”

  “What do you want it to mean?”

  Goddammit. Why does this all have to be on me? “What do you want it to mean?”
/>
  He shakes his head slowly, scooting an inch closer to me. “Nu-uh. You started this. You go first.”

  “Oh, so I have to be the brave one?”

  “If you have to be brave to say it, then I’d really like to hear what it is you want to say.”

  “Why?”

  He scoots closer again. “Because if what you really wanted to say was ‘Marcus, you realize we’re still just friends, right? The kissing doesn’t mean anything,’ that wouldn’t take much courage.”

  Closing my eyes, I suck in a shuddering breath, and when I open them again, he’s right there. “Marcus?”

  His hand comes to my cheek for the third time tonight, his breath again whispering over my face. “Let it mean what it means. See where it goes. We’ve already told everyone that we’re together. Let’s be together.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marcus

  Kendra sucks in a breath, her eyelids fluttering. I want to wait for her answer, give her a chance to say something, but I also don’t want her to say no. I don’t think she will, but just to be sure, I lower my mouth to hers, taking her lips in a soft, sweet kiss. Just in case she needs a little more convincing.

  She kisses me back, in the same sweet, restrained way I initiate it. But not for long. Soon she’s pressing her mouth to mine with more urgency, one hand gripping my arm, the other finding its way behind my neck, clutching me to her like she’s afraid I’ll stop and walk away.

  Ha. Not freakin’ likely. Not with her, the girl I’ve secretly ached for the last seven years.

  But even though I started this kiss to keep her from talking, I need to hear her say it. Agree to be mine. Not just for pretend. For real.

  Breaking the kiss, I sit back, hauling her into my lap, unwilling to let go of her. If she’s kissing me like that, I don’t think she’ll tell me no.

  She turns to straddle me, her skirt hiking up on her thighs, and I have to bite back a groan when she settles over the bulge behind my zipper. With her hands on my face, she kisses me again.

  Flexing my fingers on her hips, I hold her still, not letting her grind against me. I don’t want to stop her. I want to let her do whatever she wants. But I need her answer first.

  She pulls back, her eyes fathomless pools of dark blue.

  “Is that a yes?” My voice is gravel, scraped raw with desire.

  She pushes herself down onto me. “What was the question?”

  “We’re together. No more pretending. Right?”

  Her eyes study me for a moment, but then she nods. “Yes. That’s what I want. That’s why …” She doesn’t finish the sentence, instead shaking her head.

  I run my fingers through the soft waves of her hair. “That’s why what?”

  She lets out a sigh. “That’s why I was upset, earlier. I didn’t like the staged feeling of the kiss for the photographer. It felt fake, you didn’t kiss me like you normally do, and I want real kisses. Not staged fake ones. If I wanted fake, I’d still be with Mitchell.”

  A low growl rumbles in my throat at the mention of that asshole’s name. Her lips tip up at the corners, and she rubs her hands on my chest. “Remember, I’m not with Mitchell. I broke up with him and asked you to rescue me from fending off more of his advances. And my parents’ well-meaning meddling.” Her smile grows wider. “And here you are. Not only doing that, but making it real too.” Her eyes find mine. “It’s every girl’s fantasy.”

  “It is?”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Of course. The tall, dark, and handsome knight in shining armor dashing in to rescue the princess.”

  “You’ve never struck me as the type of princess who needed rescuing.”

  Her smile turns crooked. “Sometimes we all need rescuing.” She shifts her hips again, and this time I can’t stifle the groan. “Can I kiss you now?” she whispers.

  In answer, I run my hand up her back and bring her mouth to mine. She opens for me immediately, and our kisses are deep and hot and slow. With her mouth on mine and her hot center pressing down on me, I devour her like I’m starving.

  I’ve fantasized about something like this happening off and on over the years. Not constantly, but when I’m drunk or overly tired and my drowsy, unfiltered thoughts are allowed to wander. I knew it was impossible, but a guy can dream.

  Only now, the impossible seems to be possible. Some part of my brain can’t believe this is happening, but the rest of me—mostly my dick—thinks that this feels so right. Fated. Meant to be.

  My hand falls to her thigh, sliding under her dress, my fingers finding the lacy tops of her thigh-high stockings. Another groan.

  For some reason that makes her pull back. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Only with how sexy you are.”

  She grins at my cheesy line, her mouth returning to mine. Where it belongs.

  After another minute of the bliss of her on top of me, I wrap my arms around her and lower her to the couch, rolling on top of her. My hips flex into hers, the thin fabric of my dress pants not hiding anything. God, I want her so bad. I’ve wanted her for so long.

  My hand slides under her dress again, inching past the top of those damn stockings that turn me on even more to find the edge of her panties. Her hands go to my face, and she withdraws her tongue from my mouth. When I chase it with my own, she holds me away, closing her mouth.

  “What’s wrong?”

  With her lip caught between her teeth, she shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s just …”

  “It’s just what?”

  Her face turns impish. “I don’t put out on the first date.”

  I blink at her for a second, her words filtering through my brain. Then I can’t help letting out a rueful chuckle. “And this was a first date?”

  She gives me a shrug, but keeps a hold of my face, not letting me sit back. “Maybe not. I think it’s more like date zero. We haven’t even had a first date yet.”

  Now I do pull back, leaving the warmth of her hands, her body, frustrated. “We haven’t even had a first date?”

  She sits up, pushing her dress down her thighs, pulling her legs under her. “Not really. I mean, everything before now was you as my fake boyfriend. We haven’t done anything with you as my real boyfriend.”

  I rub my lip, contemplating her words. “And all those nights hanging out here, kissing and watching movies, that was …?”

  “Fun?” she supplies, but that’s not a real answer. I narrow my eyes at her. She deflates. “Confusing. That was all very confusing for me. Hence my desire to talk tonight.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” She edges toward me, sitting back on her heels, her hands in her lap. “Because you’re my best friend, Marcus. I couldn’t take it if anything happened to us. I’ve missed you these last couple of years while you’ve been off being a rockstar, touring the world, only getting to see you a handful of times. We used to hang out every week, even in college, which was hard enough after seeing you every day before that. I don’t want us to get caught up in the moment and regret going too far.”

  “Aw, Ken.” I reach for her, and she lets me pull her across my lap again and drop a kiss on her nose. “I could never regret loving you.”

  Her face softens, and she cups my cheek with her hand again, her thumb stroking over my stubble. “I just want to be sure.”

  I press a kiss to her lips. “I understand. But that means I have to take you out on a real date. Tomorrow?”

  She giggles. “Tomorrow.”

  After a night spent making out and cuddling with Kendra on her couch, my raging case of blue balls isn’t any better. Though at least now there’s the prospect of relief on the horizon.

  I need to take her out on a date. Or a few dates. And get the tickets for the Grammys squared away. And write an album’s worth of songs.

  Setting my pencil in front of the notebook on the piano desk in front of me, I squeeze my eyes shut and rub them with the heels of my palms. “I need a break, man.”

  Danny lo
oks up from the chair where he slouches with his feet propped up on a chair across from him, picking out notes on his favorite acoustic guitar. He stills the strings with his hand and straightens, putting his feet on the floor. “Yeah, I could do with a break.” Setting the guitar in the stand next to him, he rises from his chair.

  We’ve been working on a new song in the tiny little studio space we’re renting for the last couple of hours. One thing about my time with Kendra last night, it shook loose a few song ideas in my head. Even Danny’s happy with them, and he hasn’t been happy with much out of me lately.

  “I’m going to go make a phone call,” he says. But I stop him before he reaches the door.

  “Hold up. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  With a put-upon sigh that he doesn’t bother to disguise, he turns back to me, arms crossed. “What?”

  I hold up my hands, palms out. “Nothing. I just wanted to let you know that I’m planning on taking Kendra to the Grammys next week. So I’ll be out of town for a few days.”

  His face goes through a range of emotions—surprise, something almost like happiness, then frustration, which finally gives way to his usual look—irritation. He crosses his arms and leans against the door. “You think that’s a good plan? Right now? When we still have only half an album?”

  “What do you want from me, man? I let you drag us all out here to Bumfuck, Massachusetts so you can be close to your son without saying a word. You’ve been pissy as a country club girl with PMS, and somehow being locked in a ten by ten room with you for hours a day isn’t doing much for my creativity. Maybe getting out of town is what I need.”

  “You’d know all about country club girls, wouldn’t you?” he mutters, almost low enough to be able to pretend I’m not supposed to hear it. But I do. And with the way his eyes are locked on mine, there’s no doubt he intended me to.