Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  His throat tightened. His mouth twisted and his nostrils flared in response.

  That was the thing that wouldn’t let him rest: the nagging certainty that she thought of him as just a visitor in her life—a welcome visitor, but a visitor nonetheless—to whom she refused to become meaningfully attached. Oh, sure, there were compensations. With a little duress, she gave him the use of her body, and for that he was profoundly, everlastingly grateful. But she refused to let him in.

  True, she’d needed and relied on him after the accident, back when they were just friends and their relationship had no explicit sexual dimension, and that was all well and good. But did she need him as the man in her life? Did she trust him?

  Hell no, said that fucking voice, gleeful now.

  Justus knew the voice was right. Which made the constricting pain in his chest and throat that much worse.

  So what did they have here? A situation where he was all in and she kept one foot out the door at all times, no matter what he said or did. He was poised to present her his heart and soul on a silver platter, and she was poised to run away when he did.

  “Justus?”

  He looked up to see her watching him with a heavy-lidded gaze, her dewy skin and shining eyes the instruments of his destruction.

  And she didn’t even know it.

  In that moment, he hated her for doing this to him. He loved her more, but the hate was there, too.

  As was the desire to punish her for keeping him like some twisted pet, a knot-filled and fearful creature straining at the end of her leash.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What could be wrong?”

  Leaning down, he dipped his tongue into her navel. Candy from a baby, he thought as she raised her arms over her head and arched into the pillows. He gripped her hips. Her breath sped up. He slid lower, pressing his mouth to the meaty part of her inner thigh for a wet kiss.

  She moaned and writhed.

  Drunk on her musky scent, he nipped.

  She cried out.

  He liked that.

  He flicked the tips of his fingers against her hard little bud. She pumped her hips, and he knew she was teetering right on the brink. Which made it the perfect time to—

  He thrust two fingers deep inside the hot silk of her body, catching her by surprise.

  “Oh, Justus!”

  And there she went, her tight inner muscles massaging him.

  He really liked that.

  And he was close himself. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose and onto the sheet, emphasizing the strain of keeping his own needs on lockdown.

  But it wasn’t his turn. Not just yet.

  “Is that the best you can do, Duchess?” he asked rhetorically. He raised his head, looked up her torso, and past her pointy nipples to see her weakly move her head.

  Nod or shake?

  Didn’t matter.

  Returning to his work, he found her hard nub and rolled it between his fingers before lowering his head and licking.

  Swirling.

  Sucking.

  Her fingernails scratched his scalp as she held him in place. Her thighs clamped down around his cheeks. He felt her body began to heave and realized she was sobbing quietly.

  The sound thrilled him.

  “Justus,” she said, choked. “You have to stop. I can’t—”

  “Sure you can,” he said, replacing his mouth and tongue with his fingers again.

  Her hips hitched up again, bucking so powerfully beneath him it was a wonder she didn’t hit his mouth and knock his front teeth out.

  He’d meant to suckle her again and milk all the pleasure out of her body until she was dry as a bone, but this whole punishment business was more torture than his poor body could take. He was rock hard by then, so overwhelmed by lust that the need for a condom never crossed his mind.

  Or hers.

  Levering up on her elbows, she grabbed his upper arms and pulled him on top of her, spreading her legs and forming the perfect cradle to accommodate him. Panting and sweat-slicked, he gripped himself and drove home in a single exquisite thrust that had stars popping before his eyes. She held him closer, clamping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He slid his hands under her hips and scooped up her ass. Their mouths found each other, and they kissed as wild and deep as they fucked.

  On any other night, he’d want to pitch a tent and hang out here for a good long time.

  On this night, he didn’t have a chance.

  The pleasure built. He pumped harder and faster. Sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped into his eyes, forcing him to screw up his face against the sting. His arms began to shake from the effort of supporting his weight.

  The pleasure surged higher.

  More pleasure. More intense pleasure. Unbearable pleasure.

  Then Angela shifted her hips, just enough.

  He came with a choked shout, tensing as his body rode it out. Until at last there was nothing left of him, physically or emotionally, that didn’t belong to her.

  When it was over, his muscles gave way and he collapsed, limp as a threadbare dishrag, on top of her. Like a child, he pressed his face to her neck because he was afraid to see what was on her face and he damn sure didn’t want her to see what must be on his. For several long seconds, the only things he could hear were the pounding of his heart, the rush of his blood through his ears, and the harsh sounds of their mutual panting as they tried to catch their breath.

  He held her the whole time, as tight as he could get her, because he knew what was coming, in one form or another.

  She stirred and raised her hands, but not to pull him closer. Oh, no, not his Angela.

  To push his shoulders and get him off her.

  “Justus? Baby, I can’t breathe.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, withdrawing from her body and rolling onto his back.

  The sudden disconnection was like a fist to his gut.

  That and the ongoing uncertainty about where he stood with her were enough to make a grown man cry.

  Sighing, he covered his eyes with his arm and tried to keep it together.

  She arranged the covers around them but said nothing. She didn’t even want to snuggle, which was one of the great ironies of his life. Janet had been a big snuggler. It was funny to think about it now. Janet would try to get close to him after sex, and the unwanted intimacy had made him scatter like a roach pelted with spray. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  But right now? With Angela? He’d sign his club over to the lowest bidder if only she’d roll on top of him and rest her head on his chest and her leg across his.

  But she didn’t.

  A thought hit him.

  “I’ve never forgotten to use a condom in my life,” he told her. “Are you on the pill?”

  “Yeah,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry.”

  She sounded relieved. Which was what he should be.

  Instead, he felt like those belly blows kept on coming.

  Which was crazy, man. Fucking insane.

  He already had one unexpected child in his life.

  How many more did he think he needed?

  Yet there it was, right in front of him, dangling like a ripe peach that was close enough for him to see and want, but too far for him to reach:

  Angela, pregnant with his kid.

  Longing made his heart contract hard enough to make him wonder if he needed to get 9-1-1 on the line.

  “Justus?”

  The note in her voice—he’d call it hesitant, but determined—made all his hackles rise. So there it was. No wonder she didn’t want to snuggle. She couldn’t wait five fucking minutes to kick him out on account of “Maya.”

  Yeah, whatever.

  What a kick in the teeth.

  “I know.” Fueled by his desire to spare himself from yet another of her endless rejections, he lowered his arm and quickly swung his feet to the floor without looking at her. “Don’t worry. I was just leaving.�
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  Early the next morning, Angela marched into the kitchen hustling a bleary-eyed Maya in front of her like an Australian cattle dog with her herd and took a quick glance at the range clock: seven thirty. They were in great shape. She’d had the brilliant idea of letting Maya pick out her clothes last night, thus cutting about ten minutes off their morning routine. Maya’s little backpack sat on the table next to Angela’s briefcase and purse. Even better, she’d managed to do Maya’s hair without bloodshed. Heaving a great sigh of satisfaction, Angela surveyed her handiwork: a smoothly running household.

  Forget about making partner at the firm. Angela had achieved her own personal best.

  Wouldn’t Carolyn be proud of her now?

  After a quick breakfast, they’d be on their way. Plunking Maya onto one of the barstools, she said, “What would you like for breakfast?”

  Maya shrugged, yawning. “I dunno.”

  Angela set the kettle on for her own tea and oatmeal, then turned back to Maya, her hands on her hips. “Frozen waffles?”

  “No.”

  “No, thanks?” Angela raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  Maya’s jaw tightened into a sullen pout. “No, thanks.”

  “Oatmeal?”

  Maya slumped over on the counter, resting her chin on her arms so that only her huge, dark eyes were visible, and shook her head.

  Angela felt the first stirrings of irritation. “Cereal? Cinnamon toast?”

  But Maya’s attention was now riveted by the saltshaker and pepper mill. She sprinkled a few grains of salt on the counter, wet her finger, then licked it.

  Frowning, Angela took the shaker away and quickly wiped up the salt with her sponge. “That’s not a toy, Maya.”

  Maya didn’t answer.

  Angela glanced at the clock. Seven thirty-four. There was still plenty of time to make her hearing. “So...cinnamon toast or cereal?”

  Maya shook her head again.

  The kettle whistled. Angela grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and quickly fixed her apple cinnamon oatmeal and tea. Just as she was about to take a bite, Maya raised her head.

  “I want oatmeal, too.”

  Angela rolled her eyes and lowered her spoon. Typical. “Did you say something? I don’t understand when people don’t use nice words.”

  “I said I want oatmeal,” Maya said through clenched teeth. “Please.”

  “Fine.” Angela slid the bowl across the counter to her. “You can have mine.”

  Maya raised the spoon and stuck out her tongue to test the oatmeal’s temperature.

  “You’re welcome,” Angela added.

  “Thanks,” Maya said sullenly.

  While Angela fixed another bowl, Maya sniffed and tongued the oatmeal without ever actually taking a bite. Finally she shoved the bowl away and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “It’s too hot,” she whined.

  Angela shoveled two quick bites of oatmeal in her mouth and darted a glance at the clock: seven forty-five. Okay. Now they were into the yellow zone. Not time to panic yet, but time to get serious about getting out the door.

  “What? Do you want me to put an ice cube in, or—”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “What the—?”

  Angela had had it up to here with the little princess and the daily breakfast ordeal. Why couldn’t Maya just eat a bowl of cold cereal like every other American child? Why did they have to have this delicate negotiation, like they were engineering a plan for peace in the Middle East?

  “Maya Robinson! I stood here and made that oatmeal—”

  “I don’t want it!”

  Angela finished her own oatmeal in two more gulps while she fumed and plotted. Normally, she’d take her mother’s approach and tell the little diva her behind would stay on the stool until the oatmeal was all gone and she didn’t care how long it took. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time for that this morning. They needed to leave and Maya needed to eat something—anything—before they did. Angela could not send a child to school on an empty stomach.

  “Well, fine,” Angela snapped. “What do you want?”

  Maya flopped against the back of her stool, staring at the ceiling. “I dunno.”

  Something inside Angela snapped.

  “Maya Robinson, I am going to fix you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—on wheat bread—and I want you to eat every single bite! Do you hear me?”

  Nodding, Maya began to cry silently. To Angela’s everlasting dismay, they were not the crocodile tears she’d come to know and hate. They were genuine, heartbroken three-and-a-half-year-old tears.

  Oh, God.

  It crossed Angela’s mind to apologize, but she was still too pissed off to successfully manage a sincere apology, and they were almost out of time. Cursing under her breath—she felt like she’d kicked Bambi—she made a sloppy sandwich, threw it on a napkin, and slid it across the counter to Maya.

  Maya swiped her hand across both of her eyes, sat up straight, and took a big bite.

  Satisfied, Angela turned to soak the oatmeal bowls. She ran to the hall closet and got their jackets so they’d be ready. Jackets, backpack, briefcase—what was she forgetting? Oh, keys. She hurried back to the kitchen, swiped them off the wall hook, and put them in her pocket. Calmer now, she took a quick gulp of tea, scalding her mouth in the process. After dumping it out—there was no time to wait for it to cool down, anyway—she rinsed the mug. Now she’d just start the dishwasher, and—

  Behind her, Maya made a broken wheezing sound unlike any human noise Angela had ever heard. Angela whirled, sending the mug crashing to the floor in her terror.

  Maya was now unrecognizable. Angry red welts the size of grapes covered her cheeks, forehead, and chin. Her lips were swollen, her eyes panicked and wild.

  What is happening? Angela wondered, stupefied.

  She watched in utter disbelief as Maya struggled to draw a breath, her little hands clawing at her throat as if she meant to tear open her airway. Then she made another harsh wheezing sound, as if air was being dragged, kicking and screaming, to her lungs, and her mouth convulsively opened and closed like the death throes of a fish out of water.

  Do something, Angela! Do something!

  Angela’s adrenalin finally surged. She lunged for the phone and called 9-1-1.

  23

  Justus looked into Maya’s small room in the emergency section of the hospital and stared at Angela and Maya, his head still spinning with the medical jargon the nurse had just given him. The nurse, in her cheery blue-and-white puppy smock, had explained everything calmly and encouragingly, but his hearing had pretty much shut down after the words “acute respiratory problem.” She’d also mentioned peanut allergies, oxygen saturation levels, and epinephrine, but none of it meant a thing to him.

  All he knew was that Maya almost died this morning.

  It didn’t seem possible. She was resting quietly on the bed, her little dog tucked under the covers with her. She looked pretty much the same as she did every night at bedtime, except for the telltale oxygen mask on her face and some little plastic thing clipped to her index finger.

  And her cheeks were still red and swollen.

  Angela sat beside her in a chair, her elbow resting on the bed rail, staring as if she meant to personally count and verify every breath Maya took. Angela’s eyes looked huge and haunted in her drawn face, and she seemed to have aged ten years since he saw her several hours ago.

  “Angela?”

  Angela started and got up. He hurried forward and pulled her into his arms, desperate to comfort and be comforted. But she stiffened, submitting without participating. With a final glance at Maya, he led Angela to the doorway, where they hovered.

  “She’s okay now,” Angela whispered. “When I called 9-1-1, they had me give her some Benadryl—thank God I still had some from when she had that cold the other week—and then when the paramedics came, they gave her a shot of epinephrine. She’s been breathing okay with the oxygen. They’ll check
her oxygen levels again in a little while, and if they’re good, they’ll let us take her home.”

  This clinical recitation of the facts was all well and good, but he still couldn’t make himself understand what’d happened. “She’s allergic to peanuts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, but...” He struggled to think. “Hasn’t she had peanut butter before? All little kids eat peanut butter.”

  “This is how it happens, I guess.” Angela shrugged. “The doctor thought maybe that time you saw that rash on her face was the beginning of it. She’d had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich then, too.”

  “Oh,” he said faintly. “So what, exactly, happened?”

  “She took a bite of her sandwich, got hives, her mouth swelled, and she couldn’t breathe,” Angela said dispassionately, as if she was reciting entries in the phone book.

  Justus’s sense of unease grew. Angela was so disconnected and cool it was starting to freak him out. Was this shock? He touched her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  She moved away. “I’m fine. The important thing is that Maya’s fine and she’ll have a full recovery. We’ll have to learn about her new diet, of course. But everything’s fine.”

  If she said fine one more time he felt like he’d kick the nearest wall. Anyone who’d just witnessed the near death of a child she loved could not, by definition, be fine. But he should’ve known it would take more than a crisis for Angela to open up and lean on him.

  He shoved his fists in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for her again and making matters worse. “What happened with your big hearing this morning? Did you reschedule?”

  She stared at the floor and rubbed her forehead. “I forgot about the hearing. I didn’t think to call until after they’d stabilized her. The client was furious. So was my boss.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “I can forget about becoming partner now.” She shrugged and scraped together a lopsided smile that never reached her eyes. “I’ll be lucky if they don’t fire me.”

  That night, Vincent surged into Angela’s apartment as if he’d used a tank to weaken a gate and had finally broken through to the keep. It felt weird seeing him here, at her humble abode. The mountain had definitely come to Muhammad.