by Lia Riley
“Goodbye, Jed West.”
And just like that, the door snicked shut. He turned and strode to the edge of the porch, rain came down hard, the sky breaking open. A strengthening wind stole through his sweatpants, the coolness on his tensed quads a stark contrast to the snug warmth of the cottage to his back. He flipped up his hood. A quick wet dash to his Land Rover and he’d be on his way, racing back to his real life.
It wasn’t a conscious thought that caused the pivot. He was knocking before fully registering what he’d done. The door swung open and she leaned against the frame, brow wrinkled with uncertainty. “Forget something?”
“Yeah.” He stepped forward, catching a whiff of her shampoo’s perfume, the sweet coconut. “I’ve got a question.”
“Shoot.” Her two top teeth fastened to her lower lip.
“What’s it like?” He reached for a tousled wave escaping her top knot and coiled the lush strands around his finger with a gentle tug. “Kissing that pretty mouth?”
A shy gleam flared in her eyes. “Some mysteries you can never unravel unless you try.”
He took her smiling answer as his cue and drew her close, bending her head against the crook of his arm.
Her surprised, husky laugh ended in a breathless sigh that hit him someplace deep inside the chest. He slowed, offering her nothing but a gentle press of lips, innocent, sweet, not even a hint of tongue. She tasted like tea and toothpaste.
Reaching out, she cupped one of his cheeks, tracing a thumb over his scruffy jawbone and he suppressed a shudder.
Way he saw it, there were two choices. Ravage her in the doorway in full view of her entire neighborhood or pull back and take a breath, figure out how the fuck the chastest kiss he’d had since the ninth grade just rocked his goddamn world off its axis.
Of course, he knew what it was to want a woman—how to satisfy and get satisfaction in return. But as her lips tentatively parted, deepening the kiss, a new kind of hunger grew within him, sweetly ravenous. This was a mouth a man could lose himself in. But could he afford to get more confused than he’d been of late? The only way he succeeded in his world was to anticipate the next three steps ahead.
That game seven hit and the resulting ramifications sure as shit hadn’t been in the cards.
And Breezy Angel? He’d wanted to know what it was like to kiss her, had suspected it would be good, hoped for great. But as far as firsts went in his life, it was unsurpassed.
He pressed her up in the doorway, a hint of grind to his hips, wanting, no—needing—those perfect tits crushed to his chest. She was a wild card. He dipped his hands to frame her flared hips, the dip to her hourglass waist.
“You’d better come back inside,” she said breathlessly.
“Good idea.” He hiked her up by the waist and slammed her center against his growing bulge. Less thinking, more doing. Her eyes widened in surprise as he reached down, finding purchase under her thighs. Stepping inside, he back-kicked the door before turning her around and crushing her into the wood.
Oh, hell yes. He loved having her weight in his arms, all that decadence in all the right places—voluptuous and heady. All woman. As she wriggled in closer, locking her ankles at the small of his back and gripping his shoulders hard, his control snapped and they sank to the floor.
She explored beneath his sweatshirt. Her fingers were cool, but that wasn’t what caused his goose bumps. She glanced down at the inches of bare abdomen sneaking beneath his Under Armour, flexed and rigid, and a small moan escaped her parted lips. A fierce pride lit within. All those hours punishing his body, making it hard, invincible, like a modern-day gladiator, had paid off.
She reached out as if to stroke his external obliques and paused, uncertainty on her features. “Sorry, I’m getting handsy.”
“That’s the whole idea here, Vixen.” The nickname slid off his tongue. She was foxy as hell, all curves and chaos. “Go on, get closer. A little bit closer. Yeah.” He pressed his nose against her neck. “Christ, you smell fantastic.”
Her hands fisted his hair. He’d been meaning to cut it for summer but right now was glad it was shaggy. It hurt fucking good.
“Jed.” The desperate way she whispered his name drove him wild. His name. Not West or Westy. Just Jed.
Her next kiss was more possessive, almost aggressive. She plundered and he allowed her to take the lead, let her fuck him with her tongue until his heart near burst from his chest.
“Jesus.” She whispered over and over. “Oh Jesus.”
“No one’s answering those prayers but me,” he growled, clamping her full ass, dragging her over his pelvis. “You’re slumming with the sinners now, Ms. Angel.” He broke the kiss and nibbled along her neck as she writhed, pulling his hair, rocking like a devil over his growing erection. The cotton from her pants and his sweats added a layer of friction. He hadn’t dry humped since high school, but it felt as intimate as if they were buck-ass naked and coated in oil. His stomach churned, his balls drawn up heavy and sensitive. “You’re something else, Breezy Angel.”
“I don’t know what I am,” she whispered, unsure if he heard as he tenderly assaulted her neck, his tongue skimming, his teeth nipping, lifting her to unbearable heights.
Whoever got a shot with their wildest fantasy? No one, that’s who. And better yet, here she was getting exactly that.
“Hey,” he breathed, pulling back, cupping her cheeks, forehead resting against hers.
“Hi.” She let her lids fall shut and just existed. “Be in the present,” was one of those nauseatingly pragmatic pieces of advice like drink lots of water or get eight to nine hours of beauty sleep.
Of course it was a sensible idea, but coffee was so delicious and so was wine. And who could go to bed before midnight when there was always another chapter?
But right now, right here, she was in the present and it was good here. So good. The past didn’t matter. Neither did the future. Just the now. Just this.
Jed West stroked the soft skin near her temple with his thumb, touching her like she was of value. Precious.
“Let me see those eyes, pretty,” he rumbled.
And when Jed West put the sheer force of his will to something, it happened. Her lids sprang open.
“I’d better be careful,” he whispered. “I could get lost in there.”
She mashed her lips.
“Too cheesy?”
“I happen to love cheese.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. Because those were perfect lips. Because she could. “That was a gouda compliment. Get it, good-a? Eh? Eh?”
“That’s terrible,” he groaned.
“I’m here all night, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a fake late-night host voice.
“Get back over here.” He slanted his mouth over her and they didn’t come up for air for an hour. Night fell outside the windows. An hour of nothing but kissing and it was easily the hottest encounter of her life. Finally they broke off, panting, entwined and unsure where to take it from here.
“What’s that?” he mumbled, shifting to better get an arm around her waist.
“On my shelves? They are called books.” They were literally exploding with titles. She’d stacked two more piles on either side of the case. There were classics there, Mark Twain, Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf. But also the entire Sweet Valley High series. And V.C. Andrews. Was he trying to judge her reading because nothing besides someone dissing the Hellions made her feistier.
“I meant the photo.” He squinted, rising up on one elbow. “Is that you?”
“Let me guess.” She groaned, knowing exactly what he was talking about without looking. “You want to know why I’m skating with a traffic cone?”
“I’ve seen toddlers do that I think, but . . .”
“I was eight. My mom coached me,” Breezy said grimly. “She was actually good back in the day. Really good. Qualified for the U.S. championships back in the seventies good. A couple of years ago she married the Zamboni driver at her rink, my stepdad, J
im. Neve was pretty good too. Didn’t go as far as Mom, but had the knack. They bonded over it. Mom made all her costumes.”
“What about you?”
“No knack.” She shrugged. “No bond. I appreciate skating as a sport. I do. But not going to lie, I suck monkeys at it. I’m good at reading. It’s kind of my thing. Sports? Nope. But enough about me and my boring sibling rivalry. Big sister good at everything. Little sister can’t keep up. Blah. Blah. Zzzz.”
That’s when she sensed it. A tenseness. A fidgety unease.
Zzzz was right. This was supposed to be sexy times. She was boring him batty with tales from her sad-sack childhood.
Of course he wanted to go. Could she be any more of a boner killer?
At least she’d get to have bragging rights for the rest of her life. Fodder for a sassy PG-13 story to be regaled over future family dinners.
Hey, Mom, wanna hear about the time Jed West chose me for an hour of not-so-innocent tonsil hockey. Not Neve. Me!
Yeah. Or maybe she could just keep this little chestnut to herself.
If she sucked the face of a hockey god and no one ever found out, did it actually happen?
She didn’t have to consult the Magic 8 Ball perched on the coffee table to know the verdict. Signs point to yes.
Someday in the distant future, when she forgot everything, including her own name, she’d still remember the hot press of Jed West’s mouth branding over hers. Wow. He could kiss. Those lips deserved one hell of a Yelp review.
But apparently, the satisfaction wasn’t mutual. Her stomach cooled at the hooded look in his eyes as his roving glance fixated on the door. The inner fire that had shown on his face was doused.
She’d done something wrong.
Or maybe what he really wanted was someone like Neve or Margot. Someone smaller. More dainty. Who could wear a tank top with no bra and look adorable. She on the other hand was too much. Too big. Too boobalicious. Too bootylicious.
She opened her mouth, but he beat her to the punch. “Listen, I hate to do this . . .”
“You remembered you had to be somewhere?” She glanced at the ceiling. The storm was quieter now. Less of a rage and more of a mournful trickle. What had she done? Just babbled about being the younger sister, unable to keep up?
He released her and stood, took his time gathering his things. At least he was good at this. Leaving and not looking like an asshole.
She rose herself. Clothes were straightened. Hair smoothed.
“So I gotta . . . There’s this thing . . .” He trailed off floundering before jerking that perfect chin to the door, letting that perfectly carved jaw finish the sentence with a curt gesture. “It’s important.” He nodded twice as if to convince himself, his cheeks flushed.
“Yeah. Totally. Seems like it.” It was official. Not just random insecurities floating around her head. He wanted to go. She’d blown it.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The cuckoo clock on her wall, a housewarming gift from Granny Dee, pounded into her skull. What? What? What?
Had she slobbered? Had her belly been too soft? Her ass too big.
Insecurity was an ugly thing. It gnawed at the corners. Could consume her alive if she allowed it to fester.
“What are those?” He pointed at one of her four bookshelves on his way to the door.
It took her a second to figure out what he was asking. “Oh. My Funko Pop collection?” Her cheeks grew hot. “It’s a silly hobby. I collect characters from some of my favorite books. That’s Katniss Everdeen. And that’s Jamie Fraser. And that’s Harry Potter. Oh, and Voldemort.”
“The one next to Harry, doesn’t his best friend have red hair?”
“I don’t have a Ron. Oh . . .” She trailed off. “That one’s Edward. From Twilight.”
She imagined seeing her fun, harmless little addiction through his eyes. Did it make her look like a crazy cat lady, minus the cats?
“You really do love books.” He didn’t make it sound like a bad thing, but she still bristled.
Because this was who she was. What she loved. “I adore chocolate. I require books. They are like oxygen or water, vital to my existence.”
“I see. Anyway, this was nice.” He spoke formally, making the abrupt observation as if commenting on the weather, as if they hadn’t just spent an hour bodychecking each other all over the living room. “This was fun.” He ducked in for a formal peck but she had already averted her face. His lips landed in her hair.
Hopefully he got a mouthful. Not that she deserved to be miffed. After all he was Jed West, hockey captain extraordinaire and who was she? Just an ordinary girl who should be damn grateful for this one extraordinary moment.
The worst part was . . . he still didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered by the bookshelf. Studied a few titles. Poked her Peeta Funko with something that looked a lot like regret. Good lord, and to think she beat herself up for making things awkward. He gave her a serious run for her money in that department.
More evidence that they were well matched.
It could almost be funny if she wasn’t so close to crying.
Then, after heaving a final frustrated sigh, he left, not turning around as he closed the door behind him. She grabbed a throw pillow and balled it to her chest. What was wrong? After all, shouldn’t she be giddy for the experience? Grateful for getting a taste of her dream? Not sagging faster than a deflated helium balloon.
All she knew was she was worn-out. Exhausted really.
Bone tired of never feeling good enough.
Chapter Seven
Jed went home and didn’t think about Breezy. He didn’t think about her while he tossed and turned in his California king-size bed, or got up to grab a glass of water. Not even when he watched some crappy late-night. Certainly not while playing The Legend of Zelda on his classic Nintendo NES and dying twice in the same fucking dungeon. Not even when he decided to soak in a piping-hot bath with a single-malt scotch.
It wasn’t until his hand migrated down to the erection straining against his abs that he had to own the fact.
Vixen hadn’t been out of his head since the second he left.
Instead of taking hold of his shaft, he took his time, pressing his cock down flat, rubbing his head—lightly at first—with one hand while his other squeezed and roughly pinched his nipples. It didn’t take long for his raspy groans to echo from the tiled wall. More burned in his belly than the whiskey.
God, Breezy had such a gorgeous mouth and knew how to use it. Not even two tumblers of expensive alcohol could drown out the memory of her sweetness. Her smooth satin skin, the way it flushed under his stubble. He could guess how she’d taste between her legs. The flavor. Nectar. Spring water. Citrus. Salt. Natural.
Addictive.
He’d felt close to her. Then she started talking about disappointing her mother. Living in the shadow of an older sibling.
And that had been . . . too close. Too close for comfort.
He kept up the rhythm, but his body resisted. The lust coiled inside him wasn’t a lazy, indulgent need to be wacked out on his back in slow, leisurely strokes. It was sharper. Acute. A type that set his teeth on edge. Made him want to bite down into leather. He pushed all troubled thoughts away and focused on this simple, pure desire.
His tongue had been inside her, deep kissing. Imagine what it would be like to fuck her with his mouth. The vision made him groan out loud. At first her slick inner lips would graze his like the softest of kisses. But it wouldn’t take long to turn hot and wet as she ground her hips on his face. He sensed that she was the kind of woman who could let go. Be utterly sexual. Sensual. It was all there coiled and uninhibited. Waiting for someone to flip her lid.
“Ah, shit.” He climbed up on the side of the bath, craving the release, the ceramic cool under his bare ass. Water sloshed on the floor as he hunched over, pumping his shaft, the tip of his cock gleaming and not just from the bathwater. With the other hand he rubbed his tight sac. The friction was loud, but not as l
oud as the grunt he made as his release hit him like a slug in the gut.
After, he sank back into the tub, vaguely unsatisfied. He’d taken the edge off, but the fucking pressure was still there, the desire unspent still pressing inside him, like some wild beast railing against a cage.
“Two days,” he muttered, rising from the tub and grabbing a gray Egyptian cotton towel and slinging it around his waist, wincing as it brushed his still sensitive cock. “Give it two days.”
His shoulders instantly relaxed. A game plan. Good. Yes. That’s what he needed. He’d wait forty-eight hours for the effects of this evening’s drug to wear off. If he still felt the same way then he’d call Breezy. But likely this attraction would dissipate and he’d return to normally scheduled summer programming.
And anyway, would she even want to talk to him, when he’d bolted like the king of assholes?
His own dad was a piece of work too. A rigid, intimidating guy who had expected great things from both sons, demanded nothing less than the best in school, in sport, in life. He pitted them against each other, the comparisons constant.
When Jed got moved into remedial English in junior high, he’d lost ground in the ongoing parent approval competition. That’s when he made it his life’s mission to surpass his big brother in the rink until finally Travis gravitated to football, hating the fact his younger brother skated harder, faster, left his goddamn guts on the ice. After Travis took off his skates, he never looked back. Got the big scholarship to UCLA. Star receiver as a freshman. Cutting angles to the end zone. Ready to live the dream.
Dad was so fucking proud.
Then came the game sophomore year where Travis slammed his head, his brain smashing the inside of his skull. It rocked his world right into the shitter. He had a full-blown seizure on the field, bled from the mouth. Turned out he’d gotten a concussion in an earlier game a week before. The second impact is what did it. Turned out there was a name for the injury—nothing fancy—second impact syndrome.