Bad Romeo: Starcrossed 1

by Leisa Rayven

  Instead, I take in a steadying breath and put my hand over his, stopping him.

  He’s sick and full of drugs. He’s allowed to have a lapse in judgment. I have no excuse. I’m just horny.

  “Ethan, we can’t.”

  “I know.” He sounds tired, and his words slur together. “ButIwanto. Somuch. Because … not touching youis …” He pauses, eyes closing. “It’s … I hate it.”

  His head slumps, and his hand falls away, and I thank God he’s asleep before he can hear my groan of sexual frustration.

  Holt sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning as the fever and drugs work their way through his system. He alternates between shoving me away as he spread-eagles on the bed, and clinging to me with desperate intensity.

  After an hour, he starts mumbling and groaning.

  “Cassie …”

  His eyes are closed, but he’s reaching for me.

  “I’m here,” I say as I touch his face. His forehead is hot and slick with sweat. “I’m just going to get a washcloth for your head, okay?”

  His eyes snap open, heavy and full of panic. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “No … please.” He pulls my hand to his chest and presses his forehead against my arm. “Don’t leave. Please, not you.”

  He looks so desperate as he grips me like his life depends on it, that I’m not entirely sure he’s awake.

  He keeps mumbling “Please, Cassie,” over and over again, and it’s only when I pull him in to my chest and run my fingers through his hair that he relaxes.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t leave. I’ll stay with you.”

  He sighs, and the air is still thick and wheezy in his lungs. “Thank you.”

  He pushes his head into my neck, and I’m a little shocked when I feel his lips on my throat.

  “Ethan?”

  He moans and kisses me again as his arms tighten.

  “I love you,” he murmurs as he rests his head on my shoulder. “I love you so much. Don’t leave me.”

  He slumps back into sleep, and I’m left reeling.

  It’s not until I feel the burn in my lungs that I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.

  EIGHTEEN

  SURE BET

  After Holt’s unexpected and semi-delirious admission of love, he continues to groan and mumble for hours.

  Predictably, he doesn’t repeat it.

  The balloon of wild hope in my chest slowly deflates.

  When I snuggle into his side and try to sleep, he wraps around me like a possessive boa constrictor. It makes me smile.

  It’s still dark when I become aware of fingers grazing over my skin. They push under the hem of my shirt and trail across my stomach.

  “Ethan?”

  He clears his throat. “You expecting some other guy in bed next to you? ‘Cause I’m not too sick to kick his ass.”

  He still sounds terrible, but there’s something about the rumbling timbre in his voice that gives me goose bumps.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to feel your skin.”

  There’s a hint of groan in his voice that worries me, but when I touch his forehead, it’s cool. The fever’s finally broken.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Horny.” He moves his hand higher, then warm fingertips stroke my side. “Want you.”

  He presses against me, hot and hard on my thigh, rocking his hips in a way that leaves no doubt as to exactly how much he wants me.

  “Oh, God …” My body reacts without engaging my brain, and I tighten my arms around him.

  “Cassie …”

  He slides his hand up to my breast and gently kneads it through my bra. The sensation spirals down all my limbs.

  Warning bells go off in my head, because I know if I don’t stop him now, what he’s doing will rob me of all the reasons I shouldn’t let him touch me like this, and I’ll be back where I was four days ago.

  “Ethan … we have to stop.”

  He pulls back and looks at me. “You think I can’t tell how much you want me? You’re practically tearing off my shirt.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “No, the point is you want me to keep going, but only on your terms. As your boyfriend.”

  “Is it so wrong that I need to know where I stand with you?”

  “Dammit, Taylor, do you honestly not know how I feel by now? I know I’m a good actor, but as far my feelings go, I’ve been stupidly transparent.”

  “I need to hear you say it.” My voice is barely a whisper.

  “I told you earlier.”

  “I didn’t think you were awake.”

  “I’m awake now.”

  “Then say it again.”

  He leans down and kisses my temple, then my cheek, then as close as he can get to my mouth without actually touching my lips.

  “I love you, Cassie. I don’t want to, but I do. Now, please …” He kisses my neck again, lips soft and open as he trails his hand down to the button of my jeans. “Shut up and let me touch you. It’s been too long. I’m losing my freaking mind.”

  I close my eyes as he pops the button and lowers the zipper. Then all I can do is press my head back into the pillow, because he’s pushing his fingers into my panties, and any sense of reality completely disintegrates. His fingers are sure and strong, making me arch and pant as he puppet-masters all the strings of my pleasure, inciting noises that are way too loud in his dark, silent room.

  He circles his fingers, his breath hot on my throat, my mind spinning as everything inside me curls and tightens.

  I groan, because what he’s doing isn’t enough. I need more. All of him.

  “Please,” I whisper as I reach between us and find him through his boxers, hard and long.

  “Jesus, Taylor…“

  I grip him and move slowly up and down, trying to draw him closer. “Ethan, please …”

  He makes a low sound and wraps his fingers around mine. “Cassie, stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I do. Want you. Love you, too.”

  “You … what?!”

  “Ethan … inside me … Love you.”

  “Cassie!”

  Then, I’m being shaken, and when I open my eyes, Holt’s looking down at me, frowning and breathing heavily as sunlight spills into the room.

  I gasp as my pre-orgasmic tension melts away, and I take stock of where I am.

  One of my hands is pressing firmly between my thighs, and the other …

  Oh, God.

  The other is on the front of Holt’s boxers, wrapped firmly around his very hard erection.

  “Oh, God.”

  I let him go, and he sits up as he pulls the blankets over himself. “You were dreaming.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Talking and … grabbing at me …”

  “Oh, God.” My face burns with embarrassment. “How long was I … ?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He sighs and says, “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I … I molested you. I’m a sexual deviant.”

  I put my hands over my face and groan, too mortified to even look at him.

  “Dammit, Taylor, stop blushing. It’s not all your fault. At first I thought you were awake, and had … you know … changed your mind about us doing stuff. But then you started talking, and I knew you were dreaming. I could have stopped you, but I’m a man, and therefore genetically programmed to resist removing a woman’s hand from my dick.”

  I pull my knees up to my chest and glance at him. “You said I was talking. What did I say?”

  He frowns and picks at the blanket as he clears his throat. “It was a dream. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  He coughs and takes a sip of water from the bottle on the night-stand, all the while not looking at me. “You were mumbling. Saying you wanted me or something. I cou
ldn’t really understand you.”

  My throat closes up. He’s lying.

  I drop my head down onto my arms and groan.

  Having him hear me say the “L” word is bad enough, but what’s worse is knowing I actually meant it. I’ve never felt this way about someone before. One day, he was just a guy who annoyed the heck out of me, and now, without any warning or permission, he’s something else. Someone different.

  Necessary and irreplaceable.

  If that’s love, then it’s dumb.

  “You know, you talk in your sleep, too,” I say, determined not to be the only one in purgatory.

  He looks at me sharply. “What did I say?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you remember?”

  He looks at me for long seconds, and the amount of panic I see in his eyes isn’t even worth it. Either he remembers and regrets it or doesn’t and is terrified about having said it. Either way, I don’t get what I want.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “You were so out of it I could barely understand you. Let’s just both agree that dream mumbling should be ignored, okay?”

  He’s silent for a few seconds before he’s hit by a vicious coughing fit. He doubles over and grabs some tissues as he nearly gags on what he’s expelling from his lungs. I rub his back until the attack passes.

  “You should take a shower,” I say as I stroke between his shoulder blades.

  “Yeah, I guess.” He sounds tired.

  He gets out of bed and heads over to his dresser to grab a fresh pair of boxers. He glances at me before looking back into the drawer. “Did you … refold my underwear?”

  I shrug. “Some of it.” Only the ones I felt up like a complete creeper.

  “You’re strange.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart.”

  When the bathroom door closes, I flop back onto the bed and exhale. I hadn’t envisioned that taking care of my sick ex-non-boyfriend would be such a mortifying experience.

  I’m just about to head into the kitchen to prepare breakfast when Holt’s phone rings.

  The caller ID says “Home,” and thinking it might be Elissa, I answer it. “Ethan’s phone, Cassie speaking.”

  There’s a pause, then, “Cassie? This is Maggie Holt.”

  My stomach jumps up into my throat, and my voice cracks as I say, “Oh, hi, Mrs. Holt.”

  A girl is answering her son’s phone first thing in the morning. This looks bad.

  “So, Cassie, how are you?”

  “He’s in the shower.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “That’s why I’m answering his phone. Showering.”

  “I see. So you’re—”

  “Just hanging out. I know how this must seem, but I just want you to know that there’s nothing going on with me and Ethan. We’re not sleeping together. Well, actually, we did last night, but that was actual sleep, if you know what I mean. He was pretty doped up. On cough medicine. He’s sick. Very sick.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to stop the ramble.

  “I mean, he doesn’t need a lung transplant or anything, but he’s sick enough to need someone to take care of him. That’s what I’m doing here. And answering his phone. Obviously. Wow, your son takes really long showers, huh?”

  Kill me now.

  There’s a soft laugh, and I take it as a cue to just breathe. My face is hotter than the surface of the sun.

  “Cassie, it’s fine. Elissa let us know at dinner last night that he was sick and that she’d asked to you to play nurse. Thank you for agreeing. I know my son isn’t the most pleasant patient. When he was a kid, I’d have to bribe him with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys in order to get him to take his medicine.”

  The image of Holt as a bratty child was almost too adorable to bear. “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  A huge coughing fit comes from the bathroom, and I hear Mrs. Holt cluck her tongue. “I don’t suppose he’s been to the doctor?”

  “No, but he’s actually sounding much better today.”

  “That’s better?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Poor baby.” She pauses, then says, ‘Actually, Cassie, I’m glad we’re speaking. Are you heading home for Thanksgiving?”

  “Uh … no. I can only afford one return trip this year, and Mom and Dad want me to come home for Christmas.”

  “So you’re free for the holidays?”

  “I guess.”

  “Great. I’d like you to come and stay with us in New York.”

  “Oh … Mrs. Holt—”

  “Please, call me Maggie.”

  “Maggie, I don’t know. Ethan—”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with him. You’re Elissa’s friend too, and she’d love you to stay. Besides, we can’t have you spending Thanksgiving alone. That would be a tragedy.”

  “Still, I don’t think that—”

  “Nonsense. I won’t take no for an answer. You’re coming, and that’s final.”

  Before I have a chance to argue, Holt emerges from the bathroom, bare chested, with just his boxers on.

  He rubs a towel across his hair and coughs before mouthing, “Who is it?”

  I hold my hand over the receiver. “Your mom.”

  He coughs again before gesturing for the phone.

  “Maggie? Ethan’s out of the shower now. And fully clothed, I might add. Well, not fully. He’s not wearing a shirt, but all the important parts are covered.” Oh, for the love of God. “It was nice talking to you.”

  “You, too, Cassie. See you next week.”

  “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

  Holt takes the phone and sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Hey, Mom.” His voice is barely there. “I sound worse than I feel.

  I don’t need to see a doctor. Yep, already taking antibiotics.”

  He pauses then glances over at me. “Yeah, Cassie’s been taking good care of me. I’m much better today.”

  He listens for a few seconds then frowns. “You what?”

  He flushes with anger and strides past me into the living room. Even though he drops his voice to a harsh whisper, I can still make out what he’s saying.

  “Mom, what the hell? You could have at least asked me.”

  I stare at a pile of books in the corner and clench my jaw. I shouldn’t be hearing this.

  “Yes, I like her, but … Jesus … it’s more complicated than that.”

  It doesn’t have to be, but it is.

  “No, she’s not my girlfriend. Having her there would be awkward as hell.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed and shake my head. Would he honestly rather have me spend Thanksgiving alone?

  I really have overestimated his feelings for me.

  Holt talks with his mom for a few more minutes, but I can no longer make out what he’s saying.

  Just as well.

  When he comes back into the bedroom, he throws the phone onto the bed and stalks over to his dresser. After he grabs a T-shirt, he yanks it over his head and slams the drawer shut.

  “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Me coming to Thanksgiving would be awkward as hell, huh?”

  He sighs. “Cassie—”

  “Why would it be awkward?”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair. “You’ve seen how Dad and I together. There’s no way I’d subject you to that again.”

  I take in a shaky breath. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  He takes one look at my face and sighs before sitting beside me. “Cassie, it’s not that I don’t want you there, but—”

  Before he can say anything else, he’s struck by another coughing fit.

  When it’s over, he flops back onto the bed, exhausted.

  I guess we’re done talking about Thanksgiving.

  I lean over and rub his arm. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He
shakes his head. “I’m just tired. And my chest hurts.” His voice is a husky mess.

  I go and grab him some painkillers and cough medicine. After he takes both, he crawls under the covers.

  I sit beside him and stroke his hair. “You know, my mother used to have this book. It was written by this self-proclaimed swami who believed that if we go against what our souls need, the disharmony in our bodies makes us sick. Like, if we don’t say what we’re feeling, we’ll get a sore throat, or if we do something we know is wrong, we’ll get a headache.”

  His eyes are bleary as he looks up at me. “And if we have a sore throat, a headache, and a chest infection we’re … what? Emotionally dysfunctional? Heartsick?”

  I shrug. “You tell me.”

  He coughs. “Sounds pretty right. I think my mother invited you to Thanksgiving because she thinks you can fix me.”

  I run my fingers across his forehead. “I didn’t realize you were broken.”

  He gives me a short laugh. “Maybe not broken, but definitely defective.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “After how I’ve treated you, you should.” He sighs and turns away from me. “I don’t work right, Taylor. Don’t you know that by now?”

  I stroke his back. “If I’d been betrayed by my girlfriend and my best friend, I wouldn’t work right, either.”

  He’s silent for a few seconds, then he says, “As much as I’d like to blame all my issues on Vanessa and Matt, I was wrong way before then.”

  “How long before?”

  “Always.” He doesn’t look at me as he talks. Maybe it’s easier for him like this. “As a kid, it was hard for me to make friends. I had trouble showing affection. I always felt kind of … off.”

  He’s silent for a long time. Just when I figure he’s asleep, he whispers, “One day, my parents sat me down and told me I’d spent the first couple of years of my life in foster care. I don’t remember it, but just hearing the words made me have a panic attack. I was nearly three by the time they adopted me.”

  Three? Oh, God.

  I used to think his insecurities were somehow augmented by his dramatic prowess, but it turns out he has real, justified abandonment issues.

  I stroke his arm, trying to be supportive.

  He takes a few shallow breaths. “I’ve never told anyone this before. But with you …” He turns onto his back and looks up at me with tired eyes. “I don’t know if my birth parents gave up on me because I was defective, or whether I became defective when they gave up on me, but the end result is the same. After I found out, every time Dad missed a track meet or canceled our weekend plans, I put it down to me not being his real son. That’s when we started fighting. I was just some loser’s castoff kid he and Mom took pity on.”