Heat Up the Fall: New Adult Boxed Set (6 Book Bundle)

by Gennifer Albin

  He nods. “He’s had a pretty rough go of it. Never complains, though. Never has.”

  “Poor Caleb,” I murmur, thinking of his paintings, all that pain.

  Daniel is watching me with a shrewd, amused expression, and I realize I’ve probably given myself—and my interest in Caleb—away. My cheeks get warm, but before I can change the subject to something safer, Daniel yanks up the hood of his jacket and heads for the door. He slaps the middle-aged guy on the back as the man exits the classroom.

  “I’m headed out, too,” Daniel says as he pulls his keys from his pocket. “If you’re the last student here, turn off the classroom lights?”

  “Sure. Nice chatting with you.”

  He opens the front door, and I hear the hiss of rain before he plunges himself into the storm. Puzzled, I turn back to my painting and try to add a bit of intensity and feeling to the image. It’s … it’s not like Caleb’s. His paintings virtually bleed emotion, and mine is flat. Hopeless. I scowl and pluck it from the easel, crumpling it up and tossing it in the garbage. The recycling bin is too good for it. As I’m turning back to the easel, the front door slams, and muttered curses echo in the entryway.

  It’s Caleb. He stalks past the classroom, not even bothering to look in. He’s not wearing a jacket—only a soaked t-shirt and jeans that hang from his lean body. Rivulets of rainwater drip from his hair, flowing down his neck. He stomps up the stairs, leaving wet sneaker footprints and scattered droplets in his wake. His head is bowed and his fists are clenched, but he walks slowly, deliberately. Like he knows where he’s going and what he’s going to do. A shiver of anxiety streaks down my spine as I watch him. I rack my brain, trying to remember if anyone else is up there. But I think everyone has left for the night.

  I sit there in silence, straining to hear him up there, and a cracking, splintering, clattering sound from upstairs gets me moving. I make sure my phone is in the droopy pocket of my skirt, and I head up the steps quietly. Something crashes to the floor as I reach the top, and I hear a desperate, low curse as I walk through the door. Caleb is nowhere to be seen, but I haven’t taken two steps toward his studio stall when one of his paintings comes flying out, a long slash carved right through the center of it. Ruined. No.

  I jog to the end of the room, no longer afraid, my chest filling with horror as agonized curses echo from Caleb’s ten-by-ten-foot space. I lean back as another ruined painting skitters along the floor and comes to a stop in front of me. It’s been ripped completely off its frame. The boy, looking at the closed door. Destroyed.

  I peek into the space to see Caleb approaching the large painting at the back of the studio. He’s holding a sharp palette knife in one hand. His breath is rasping in uneven bursts. He raises the knife, but there’s no paint on its edge.

  “Don’t,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear me.

  He whirls around and grimaces when he sees me. “Why are you here?” he demands. “You, of all people,” he mutters under his breath.

  I should step back. He’s much bigger than I am, and he’s barely under control, but he’s in so much pain that I can’t leave him like this. “I was here for the open painting time and saw you come in.”

  His hair hangs over his face as he bows his head. “Open painting time’s over.” He turns away and stares at his painting, but he doesn’t raise the knife again. “And this is private space.”

  This is my cue to leave. But—“Caleb, I don’t know what’s happened, but don’t destroy any more of your paintings tonight. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”

  He laughs, raw and hoarse. “Romy, I have so many regrets that I’m not sure I’d notice if I added a few to the pile.”

  “I would regret it tomorrow, then.”

  He looks over his shoulder. “Why should that matter to me?” His voice is a razor, a challenge, but I see it in his eyes. It’s not a throwaway question. He really wants to know.

  “Because once the art comes out of you, it doesn’t belong to only you, not anymore.” I take a step forward.

  “Are you saying it belongs to you?”

  I shrug. “I’m saying it belongs to the world, but if you needed something concrete, sure. Part of it belongs to me …” I take another step forward.

  “You make it sound so nice. But that’s the problem. No one wants them.” He turns away. His shirt clings to his body, and his bare arms are goosebumped. He must be freezing. Did he walk here from somewhere? What’s happened to him?

  I edge a little closer to the stack of paintings against the wall. There are five left. They represent hours and hours of his work and thought and effort. “I … if I had enough money, I would want one. I know there are people who would feel the same.”

  He looks up at the ceiling. “God, Romy, can’t you let me break down in peace?” He swipes his hand over his face. I wince as the palette knife comes within a centimeter of gouging his cheek.

  “Is that what this is?” I ask gently. “Are you breaking down?” I want to keep him talking. The longer he does, the more chance he has to calm down. To come back to himself.

  “I think I might be,” he whispers. His phone buzzes and he rips it from his pocket, gripping it so tightly that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Fucking—stop it—fucking leave me alone,” he grits out, then presses the power button and the screen goes dark. He looks like he wants to throw it to the ground and stomp on it, but instead, he drops it into his toolbox. That alone tells me he’s regaining control.

  “Someone’s bothering you?” I ask.

  He makes a pained sound in his throat, but doesn’t answer.

  “Are you going to paint now?”

  He shakes his head. I hold my breath and reach out. My fingertips touch the back of his hand, the one that grips the palette knife. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away. Slowly, I uncurl his fingers from the knife, and I take it from him and drop it into his toolbox. When I raise my head, he’s looking down at me. “Why are you here?” he asks.

  “Because it seemed like you needed someone.”

  He leans away from me as another strangled sound comes out of him. And that’s when it hits me. He has no one. Maybe he’s lost the person or people who held him together, or maybe they were never there in the first place. Daniel told me Caleb lived with a foster family, so I wonder how long it’s been, that he’s had to fend for himself. My hand finds his.

  “I’m here.” It’s all I can think to say. “You can tell me to leave if you want, but otherwise, I’m here.”

  He pulls his hand from mine. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Like I don’t want to look at your paintings?” I tease.

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Where did you come from, Romy? And why now? You’re making things more complicated.”

  My smile freezes. “I am? I-I didn’t mean to.”

  He turns to me, twisted locks of damp, dark hair skimming his cheeks. “I know you didn’t mean to. But you’re doing it all the same. Every minute you stand here makes things harder to figure out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His eyes squeeze shut. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Do you want me to leave, Caleb?” I search his expression, trying to figure out what’s going on for him.

  He opens his eyes. Stares at me. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to stay.”

  “Why?” I shiver as his gaze traces along my collarbone and slides up to my face.

  “Because I’m a mess.”

  “And that means you deserve to be alone?”

  He flinches, like everything inside him is raw and tender, like the slightest touch or word can hurt him. “I don’t know what it means. I’m just giving you an escape hatch. And I’m suggesting you take it.”

  We are inches apart. Outside, there’s a clap of thunder so loud that I feel it beneath my feet. The lights flicker. Caleb’s gaze meets mine. I lay my palm on his cheek, his stubble rough against my skin. He seems like a wounded animal tonight, shrinki
ng from anything that might hurt him, but as my fingers brush the hair at his temples, he lets out a long breath.

  Then, mirroring my movements, he puts his hand on the side of my face. His thumb skims my cheekbone. “What are you doing?” he whispers.

  “I’m not sure. What are you doing?”

  “I have no idea.” He ducks his head, brushes his lips over mine, and pulls back quickly. The slightest touch, but I feel it in my bones. His eyes lock onto my mouth, and his other hand rises to my face, framing my cheeks with his palms. He tilts my head up. “Say ‘no,’” he says quietly. He touches my lips with his again, lingering a bit longer, sending a wave of intoxicating warmth flowing through my body. “Say ‘stop it, Caleb.’”

  I shake my head and weave my fingers into his hair, my curiosity and desire for him taking over. For maybe the first time since my encounter with Alex last night, I am steady and sure. I rise onto my toes to ensure my mouth connects with Caleb’s again. His eyes fall shut. I run my hand along his waist, the lean, hard line of his torso. This is crazy, but right now, I can’t think of anything else I want more than this. His arm slides around my back, and our bodies press together, the rain soaking through from his clothes to mine.

  “Don’t, Romy,” he warns. But he’s not pushing me away. Quite the opposite. He lays his forehead against mine. The tips of our noses touch.

  “I told you that you could ask me to leave,” I murmur against his lips. Please don’t ask me to leave.

  He seems like he’s considering it. I look into his eyes, waiting for it, waiting for him to get spooked like he did last night. “I’m not strong enough,” he finally says.

  And then he really kisses me. His lips crash onto mine, and our noses bump together as I surge up on my toes again. He slides his hand through my short hair and groans as I open my mouth to welcome his tongue. He tastes sweet, like he’s been drinking soda, and the sugary tang only makes me crazier. I tangle my tongue with his, run it along the edge of his teeth, nibble at his bottom lip, and it’s frantic, a battle, making me lose all awareness of anything but the space between us, the friction and tension where our bodies are touching.

  He lowers his head to kiss my neck, and the rasp of his rough skin sends delicious chills right to the center of me. His hair tickles my face, paints it with rain. I put my arms around his neck, smoothing my hand over the firm muscles of his shoulder. My body is on fire, my fingers pulling tight against his scalp. The front of my shirt is soaked through, my nipples exquisitely sensitive as he crushes me to his chest. His teeth scrape against my throat, followed by the heated slide of his tongue, and a whimper flies from my mouth.

  He freezes for a moment and starts to lift his head, but when I pull his face to my neck again, his arm shoots out and sweeps over the top of his work table. Paints, brushes, sheets of sketch paper, a plastic tub of gesso, a few canvas frames, and who knows what else fly to the floor with a clatter. Caleb grips my waist in the next moment, and he lifts me onto the table so our faces are level. He puts his hands on my cheeks and looks in my eyes, searching for something. Regret or fear, maybe. But … I’m not feeling either. All I’m feeling is want. “Kiss me again,” I whisper.

  He does not disappoint me.

  Chapter Ten

  Caleb

  Romy’s destroying me, pure and simple. She’s twisting me up and tearing me apart, and it’s not even hard for her. She does it with a single look, a stroke of her fingers, a few words—kiss me again—finishing me off with the taste of her mouth, the softness of her lips, her sweet, breathless sigh against my ear. She has no idea how powerful she is, how much harder she’s going to make things for me. But I crave her more than I’ve craved anything in a long time, and for once, I want to have something just for me.

  My hands close over her hips and drag her toward me. Her knees part. Her long skirt rides up. I press myself to the soft center of her and half expect her to push me away, but her legs tighten around my hips. I know she can feel how badly I want her. My cock is throbbing, and I can’t stop myself from rocking against her, needing the friction, the resistance, wanting so much more than that. She moans into my mouth, and it only winds me tighter, until I have to force myself not to hold her too tightly. I almost forget how everything’s falling apart, how the last several hours have been a living hell.

  After a miserable, tense lunch with Amy and her family, Derrick took me into his office and told me that I needed to stop harassing his wife—my sister—for handouts. I took Katie home, and because things could still get worse, they did. My truck broke down. We had to walk a few miles in the pouring rain, during which time Katie called me every name in the book. I finally got her home and calmed down. I ordered her a pizza and cajoled her into taking her meds. I called the tow truck to haul my piece of shit pickup to the mechanic.

  I’m deep in this hole, and I was supposed to go to Claudia’s tonight, but now I can’t because I have no ride. That’s both bad and good. Bad because Claudia would probably have forked over more money in exchange for the pleasure I’d give her. Good because I don’t want to give her anything at all. I came here to let loose, to tear some things apart … but it didn’t work out that way.

  I still don’t know why Romy came up here. Or why she didn’t run screaming as soon as she saw me, because I was acting like a total psycho. But as soon as I heard her voice, as soon as I saw her standing there, looking at my paintings and at me with that soft but determined expression, the way she refused to leave …

  I can’t get close enough to her. I can’t get enough. My fingers find the bottom of her shirt and burrow under, seeking her skin. She trembles as my fingertips slide along her ribs, as they meet the bottom edge of her bra, as they skim over her breasts, over the tight bumps of her nipples. Her sharp intake of breath only fuels my fire. My thumb circles one of the perfect, taut buds, and she hooks her ankles behind my ass, trapping me in the best way possible.

  This is so different from last night with Claudia. Last night, I had to focus. I had to try. It took effort and thought. But this … this is instinct. This is easy.

  This is getting out of control.

  I lift her shirt and bow my head, pulling the silky edge of her bra away and closing my mouth around the soft, goosebumped mound of her breast. I flick her nipple with my tongue, and then I close my teeth around it. The sound that comes from her makes me insane. Rough and desperate, I run my hand up her leg, under her skirt, every muscle in my body tight to the point of snapping, my cock straining against my fly, insistent bordering on painful. I should back off … but now she’s sliding her hand down my chest, down my stomach, to my waist.

  Oh. The moan rolls from my throat as her fingers skate over the front of my jeans. She presses her palm to my cock, and it’s all I can do not to beg her to touch me skin to skin. My hand is at the apex of her thighs. I brush my knuckles over the satiny strip of fabric covering the place I really want to be.

  “Romy,” I try to say, but it comes out strangled, a word mumbled against her breast as she squeezes me through my jeans, mapping my boundaries and scattering my thoughts. My fingers move on their own, pushing her panties aside. She’s slick and wet. Good, I think. That’s because of me. I lift my head and pull her face to mine, and she parts her lips, inviting me in.

  So I accept the invitation. As my tongue explores her mouth, I slowly dip one of my fingers into her warmth, the slippery tightness tempting me deeper. Romy’s eyes fly open as she feels me inside her. Inside her. My fingers are splayed over the most sensitive part of her, my thumb pressed over her clit. Even though I know what I want, know what I’d do if I were in charge, I force myself to stay still. What do you want? If I had breath in my lungs, I’d ask. But I’m too gone to speak. I have no sense of time, only the hot scent of her in my nose, the pink tint in her cheeks, the fathomless green of her eyes, the scorching heat of her body. More, I think. Give me more of you. Please.

  She lets go of the front of my jeans.

  And she pr
esses her palm over the back of my hand.

  Her breath rushes from her lungs as I sink a little deeper. My body roars with crazy triumph as she urges me on. She’s got her arm locked around my neck, kissing me like she can’t get enough. Our teeth clack together with the desperation of it. I slide two fingers inside her and move, in and out, feeling her contract around me, wishing I could replace my fingers with my cock, but even as crazed as I am, I know that’s not a good idea for so many reasons. So I focus on her, on the soft, urgent sounds that come from her throat, on the way her slender fingers clutch at my chest and push up under my wet shirt. Her fingernails scrape against my bare skin. I feel the movements of her hips and match the thrust of my fingers to her rhythm.

  She’s soaked, but not with rain anymore. She’s to the point where she’s turned her focus inward, where she’s all sensation, right on the verge. Her movements are uncoordinated now, jerky and needy and wild. I pushed her there.

  And I’m going to push her right over that edge. I may have screwed up in a billion different ways today, but I can make this go right.

  I press my thumb against her tight, swollen nub and move my fingers deep as she pushes down against me. When I feel her inner walls spasm, I nearly come. She stifles a cry and buries her face in my neck, clinging to me as she writhes against my hand, totally lost in it. I think she whispers my name. I hope she does, at least. She presses her mouth to my collarbone, and then her teeth close around it, shooting streaks of painful pleasure up and down my spine.

  That’s when I do come, without any warning at all. I groan as my cock pulses, as my body lets go, losing awareness of myself and where I am and what I’m doing. I collapse forward onto her and wind up with my head on her chest. My fingers still inside her. Her legs around my hips. Her heart is like a hummingbird against my ear. Her fingernails are clawed against my back.

  I tilt my head to look up at her. Her head is resting on a package of oil pastels. Her hands move to my hair, holding me where I am, and her eyes are closed. She’s trying to catch her breath. Her body clenches around my fingers and her teeth scrape over her bottom lip, and though she’s just made me come in my pants like a teenage boy, the flames of want kindle again instantly. She opens her eyes and blinks up at the ceiling. I open my mouth to say … something. I have no idea what.