Something Reckless

by Lexi Ryan

  “You’re so good at this,” I murmur. “Where did you learn—” My question is cut off with a gasp, because it’s not his hands on my back and shoulders anymore. It’s his mouth. He kisses a path down my spine and back up, and his hands find my hips and squeeze. His thumbs dig into the flesh of my ass cheeks and it’s—Jesus, it’s good. My hips arch off the bed, pushing into his touch even as my head tilts to the side to allow him better access to my neck. He withdraws for a minute, and I look lazily over my shoulder to see him gripping his thick shaft in his hand.

  The sight makes my mouth water, and I start to roll over, ready for him.

  “Don’t move,” he whispers. “Let me fuck you like this. I want to watch myself slide into you. I want to squeeze that ass as you let me take you.” Then his hands are on me again, drawing me to my knees as he positions himself behind me.

  His cock is nestled against me, and I arch my back, urging him inside. I don’t care how—I just need him inside me as quickly as possible.

  He grips my hips and slowly slides inside. God. It’s so good, but he’s moving so slowly it’s killing me. I drop my head to the pillow and rock my hips back, and a groan rips from his chest.

  “You should see yourself right now,” he murmurs. “Your ass in my hands, your hair splayed over the pillow. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  Finally, he thrusts again, and I cry out with the intense pleasure of his cock pushing against my cervix.

  His hands tighten around my hips almost cruelly, but then he smooths over the spot with the gentle, careful stroke of his thumbs. Hard and soft. Hard and soft. I bite my pillow, and he growls. “Let me hear you. Don’t you dare muffle those moans. Let me hear you.”

  “It’s so good,” I whisper helplessly. Arching my back, I rock my hips to take him deeper.

  “You’re so beautiful like this. I want to watch your pussy squeeze around my dick as you come. Touch yourself for me.”

  “I don’t need to. This is good.” I look over my shoulder and his eyes are on me, hot and intense and demanding.

  “Touch yourself.”

  Licking my lips, I slide my hand between my legs and find my clit. I try to keep my eyes on his, but I can’t. The second my fingers close around my clit, the sensation is so much I have to close my eyes to be able to process it all. Behind me, he murmurs his approval as he pumps in and out of me and I rub my clit between my two fingers.

  The orgasm hits me hard and fast, claiming me before I even realize it’s coming, and I pulse around him, squeezing him as my entire body contracts and releases with exquisite pleasure.

  I’ve hardly come back down before he increases the pace of his strokes and pulls me back into that helpless, desperate peak of pleasure. I don’t want to come again—not without him. I shift the hand between my legs back a little further and cup his balls.

  Groaning, he slams into me, our skin smacking with the force of his thrust, and I cry out. I can’t separate the ache in my chest from the pleasure between my legs. There’s no line dividing one from the other, only this blurring of pleasure and emotion where everything feels better than I’ve ever known.

  I move my hand, stroking him, encouraging him. His thrusts become irregular—deep and then shallow, hard and then soft, frantic and then controlled.

  When he’s about to come, I feel him swell inside me. My body is exhausted, but I shift my hand so my palm rubs my clit and I climb with him. His hands squeeze my hips harder and harder, and I come first, seconds before he releases.

  When he withdraws, I sink into the bed, too exhausted to move, feeling used and ravaged and whole.

  I’m faintly aware of him climbing out of bed, and the mattress shifts as he returns and places a warm washcloth between my legs.

  I moan into the pillow as he washes me. He’s so tender. Sweet. I thought playboys were supposed to be selfish in bed, get off and get out. Not this man. Nothing seems to drive him and please him more than my pleasure.

  When he’s done washing me, he lies on the pillow next to me and brushes my hair from my face. “Are you okay?”

  I force my eyes to open, and nod. I’m sore but sated. Aching but exhilarated. “I’m better than okay. I think you’ve finally made up for all those months I suffered without sex.”

  “Well, I haven’t recovered from my dry spell yet, so you’re going to have to indulge me a little longer.”

  I snort. “What? As if you’ve been sex deprived since Cally and Will’s wedding. Right.” The smile falls off my face when I register his stoic expression. “Right?”

  He rolls on top of me, settling between my legs and framing my face in his hands. “I was waiting for you to take me seriously,” he whispers. “I thought I had a chance after Will and Cally’s wedding, but then you shut me out again. I haven’t been interested in anyone else, and I think I was waiting for you.”

  It feels as if my stomach is being squeezed in a hot, sweaty fist. He wouldn’t say those things if he knew about River. About Connor. Why does the universe deliver everything you want exactly when you can’t have it? “I thought you only wanted me for sex.”

  “Not even at first.”

  He tucks another lock of hair behind my ear before pressing a kiss to my forehead. Then he gathers me in his arms and pulls me against his chest, where I feel small and safe, where I’m surrounded by his scent and his strength, and I fall asleep.

  * * *

  Sam

  I’m in love with her.

  Maybe the revelation should leave me smiling or, at the very least, content, but instead I’m terrified.

  I’m in love with Elizabeth Thompson.

  Every time we’re together, it’s intense and sweet and so fucking good. She leaves my body and mind buzzing. Every time I’m with her, I find myself terrified of how badly I want to keep her in my arms, but even more terrified of never holding her again.

  I’m done being nothing but the guy she lets tie her up—the guy she uses for the occasional post-wedding booty call.

  For two years, I told myself I was okay with that. I told myself I didn’t need anything more from her, that I didn’t care that she’d so easily dismissed the possibility of anything real between us. I told myself she didn’t own my heart. Maybe I even believed those lies. Then I walked in on her in bed with Connor and felt as if she’d ripped my heart out.

  Now, she’s sleeping in my arms, those long blond curls everywhere, her pale, makeup-free lashes making her look soft and innocent. I trace her cheekbone with my thumb then the line of her jaw, the length of her neck, the delicate skin over her collarbone.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched,” I whisper. My heart aches with emotion, as if it might burst if the pressure isn’t released soon. I’m scared to love her. I’m scared to love anyone, but Liz more than most. She looks at me like Superman just walked into the room, and it makes me feel powerful and weak all in one confused breath. I find myself distracted by thoughts of her, and that was okay when it was about sex, when I found myself planning the next time I could get her naked and get inside her. But it’s not just sex now. I find myself planning things I can say to make her smile, find myself thinking of things I want to do with her years in the future.

  Last night on Facebook, I saw a picture of her holding one of her infant nieces, and I instantly imagined how she’d look pregnant, her belly swollen with a child. How she’d look holding a baby of her own in her arms. My baby.

  I’m a rational guy. Two plus two has to equal four. I don’t see how a future with Liz works. Do I take her to family dinners and remind Della of how her husband once betrayed her? Do I leave my job at the bank and go with her when she travels all over the country to work on Christine’s campaign? My head sees this mess I’ve fallen into and knows the math doesn’t add up. But my heart hurts with all this emotion I’ve trapped in there. Sooner or later, something’s going to have to give.

  She shifts in my arms and rolls over to face me. “Can’t sleep?” she whisper
s.

  I’m in love with you. But I can’t say the words, so I say the next best thing. “What are you doing on Christmas?”

  She blinks at me in the darkness, and I wonder if she can see it on my face—the terror and awe at realizing I’ve fallen in love with her. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Will you come have dinner with me at my parents’ house?”

  “I didn’t know there was anything going on. Is it some campaign event or something?”

  “No campaign, Rowdy. No cameras. I just want to take my girlfriend home to have Christmas dinner with my crazy family.”

  “I—” She shakes her head, and I could kiss the moon right now because the light peeking in through the crack in the curtains lets me see her smile. “I’d like that.”

  I gather her in my arms, and as I bury my nose in her hair and breathe in her scent, some long-tightened knot in my chest loosens a little.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Liz

  “You’re glowing.”

  I do my best to look incredulous at Hanna’s declaration—I don’t glow—but since I can’t seem to wipe this idiotic grin from my face, I’m pretty sure I’m failing.

  Hanna comes out from around the bakery counter, takes my shoulders, and cocks her head side to side as she studies me. Then she grins too. “I was up all night with the girls—who decided it was party time at midnight—and I didn’t think there was anything I wanted to see more than my bed today, but this face?” Wrapping her arms around me, she pulls me into a tight hug. “I love seeing you happy.”

  “I am,” I admit as I pull away. “Happy. I’m happy.” And I’m in love. Holy shit. I don’t even know how that happened. I woke up in bed next to Sam and he pulled me closer to him in his sleep, so I settled my head on his chest and inhaled his scent.

  “How did it go this weekend?”

  “He took me into the city. We ate and talked and made love.”

  “You made love?” Hanna asks. “Interesting.”

  “What, you want me to say we fucked?”

  She arches a brow. “I don’t want you to say anything in particular. I just think it’s interesting that your choice of words to describe intercourse with Sam has changed. Not bad, just interesting.”

  I shrug, and I can tell that goofy grin is back on my face. “I really like him, Hanna.”

  “I know you do,” she says softly. “I’m just not sure why it took you so long to admit it.”

  “I was trying to protect my heart. But that’s not actually something we can do, is it?”

  She shakes her head, but she looks worried now. “We don’t get to choose who owns our heart and we don’t get to choose who has the power to break it.”

  “He asked me to come to Christmas dinner at his parents’ house.”

  “Wow.”

  “And he called me his girlfriend.” My cheeks are starting to ache from all the smiling. “I might as well be fifteen for as happy as that word made me.”

  “Tell me you’ve told him.”

  “That I’m in love with him?”

  “That’s not what I meant, but—wow. Have you told him that?”

  My cheeks heat with the realization of what I just admitted. “No. It’s too soon. I’m afraid it will scare him off. What did you mean then?”

  “About the night at the cabin? About Connor?”

  If I walked into the bakery brimming with joy, her question just tapped a hole in it and I feel it leaking out of me. “How do I tell him that without ruining this? Never mind what it would mean for Connor. If Della found out, it would ruin their marriage.”

  “Have a seat. You need sugar.” She walks behind the counter and studies the contents of the bakery case thoughtfully before selecting a new item I don’t recognize. “This should do the trick.” She places it on a plate and grabs a fork, a napkin, and a cup of coffee. Then she joins me at the little glass-topped table.

  “What is it?” I ask. Not that I doubt her. If Hanna made it, it’ll be delicious.

  “Chocolate chip brioche. Pretty much sugar, eggs, butter, and a crap-ton of chocolate chips.”

  “Sold.” I slide my fork into the flaky dough and bring the first bite to my lips. “It’s delicious.” But I put down my fork, because her question stole my appetite right along with my smile.

  “You have to tell him, Lizzy. It’s going to come out, and it needs to come from you.”

  Fortunately, my stomach agrees to accept a few hearty swallows of coffee. “I don’t want to.”

  “Liz . . .”

  “He’s opening up to me. He’s . . .” I look out at Main Street. The road is dark and the streetlights illuminate the sidewalk. “I think he’s starting to fall for me.”

  “You think? Oh, Liz. He’s mad about you. He has been for ages. Everyone can see it but you.”

  I drop my gaze to my coffee because I can’t look at my twin. She’s the kindest, sweetest, best person in the world, and I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes while I try to explain why I want to keep this big secret from the man I love.

  “I tried to seduce Sam when I was seventeen,” I admit. “I went up to Notre Dame and went to a party at his house. I got drunk—stupid drunk—thinking it would make it easier. And he turned me down.”

  “Liz, I had no idea. Why would you keep that from me?”

  “The same reason I didn’t tell you about the first time Sam and I did hook up. Because it was mortifying. I didn’t want to be that desperate girl, and it was like if I didn’t talk about it, I could pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Pretend what didn’t happen?”

  My eyes burn, and I lift them to the ceiling to stop the tears from coming. “You know who I did sleep with that weekend? Do you know who was there to pick up the pieces when Sam turned me down?”

  Her face shifts, as if something’s registering for the first time. “Connor.”

  I nod slowly. It makes me feel guilty to regret my night with Connor. He was sweet and gentle, and as odd as it seems, that night was the beginning of a great friendship with him. But I do regret it. Because if we hadn’t slept together that night, that door wouldn’t have been opened and maybe we wouldn’t have ended up in bed together last summer when I was lonely and Della had broken his heart.

  “Sam hated me after he caught us in bed together. In his mind, I was as guilty for hurting Della as Connor was, and if he knew I had this whole online affair with someone and . . . oops, it’s Connor! If he knew the real reason I came to the cabin after your wedding, I don’t know if he could forgive me.”

  “So what’s your plan? To carry on and hope he doesn’t ever find out?”

  “Not forever. Just until things aren’t so fragile.”

  Hanna’s quiet for a minute, her eyes tired and looking too wise. She went through a lot to get to her happily-ever-after with Nate. In a lot of ways, she’s much more mature than I am. She’s definitely had to make harder decisions than I have.

  “I think you should do it sooner than later,” she says. “I don’t want you hurt. Please be careful.”

  * * *

  Sam

  I start my Christmas morning with a run. The sun’s shining on the blanket of snow, and the air is crisp but not cold enough to keep me inside. I should have had her stay over last night. What would it be like to wake up with Liz in my arms every day? To bring her coffee in bed and make love to her before I leave for the bank? What would it be like to know she’d be there when I got home?

  By the time I’ve logged five miles and am coming back around the block to my house, I’m straight up grinning. I didn’t have her stay with me last night. I didn’t get to wake up next to her on this Christmas morning, but next year—

  “It’s her second Christmas.”

  I jerk my head up to see Asia Franks sitting on the floor of my front porch. She’s leaning against the door in a big black coat that swallows her up.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here. You got your money. Leave.”

 
When she lifts her head, tears clots her thick, dark lashes. “I can’t stop picturing her. This pudgy-faced two-year-old tearing at Christmas wrapping.” She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “Get away from me,” I breathe. “Get away from my house. You have no right—”

  “How can you act like I’m the evil one here?”

  Because you took my child. But I don’t say the words, because the woman in front of me isn’t the calculating witch who blackmailed me weeks ago. This is a mother with a broken heart.

  “They won’t let me see her,” she says, her voice small. “I just want to see her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She stumbles as she pushes to her feet. God. She’s drunk. Christmas morning and she’s so drunk she can hardly stand straight. “You have to talk to that man. You walk around thinking I’m the devil and that man is the one lying to you.”

  “What man?”

  “The man who bribed me to get out of your life. The man who told me I had to tell you I got an abortion, even if I promised to give her up for adoption.”

  My thoughts of Liz must be making me hallucinate. That’s the only way to explain all this hope in my chest. It’s the only explanation for the question I hear myself asking. “Are you saying you had the baby? You had our baby?”

  “I sold my soul.” Her face is wet with tears now, and my gut twists into knots. I don’t know if I can believe her or if this is just another manipulation. “I sold my soul to a blond-haired devil and now I’m paying the price.”

  * * *

  Liz

  I don’t know why he invited me.

  The dinner table is overflowing with the dishes Sam’s mother and sisters prepared, and the dining room is so full of people, smells of warm food, and at least half a dozen conversations that I don’t feel like there’s room for me to breathe, let alone think.