Losing You (Stars On Fire #4)

by Ryleigh Andrews

  “Holy fuck, Lizzie,” he swore, nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

  “Yeah,” she said, her head falling back against his chest. It was all that she could think of to say.

  His lips traveled up her neck, her jaw, and stopped on her lips and captured her whimper when he pulled out. They stayed on her mouth as he fixed her bra and sweater.

  In silence, they cleaned up. She was wondrously swollen because of the fucking he’d just given her and would feel it for the rest of the night.

  “Can we do this again?” she asked, fixing her clothes.

  “Got a condom?” he replied, tucking his hammer back inside his jeans.

  “No,” she pouted. Note to self: add condoms to purse.

  “Then you’ll have to wait until we get to my place,” he said, his arms encircling her waist and his lips feather-touching hers. “Though there are things I can do to you, especially with that skirt and your lack of underwear.”

  “Oh hell,” she said, squeezing her legs together.

  “Come on, Bits. We need to rejoin the party. You go first,” he said, unlocking the door.

  “Okay,” she said, waiting to be kissed one last time.

  Instead of the kiss she’d been hoping for, he kissed the tip of her nose. She huffed and his lips slowly descended to meet hers and the sweet tenderness of his caress made her quiver. “See you upstairs,” she said, stepping away and out of the bathroom.

  Heading down the hallway towards the back steps, a hand wrapping around her arm blindsided her. “What the?” Lizzie said, whipping around to see who it was.

  Gwen.

  “Bangin’ Tom, huh?” she asked as they stepped into the stairwell. Lizzie slipped, her hand on the railing the only thing keeping her from sliding down the stairs.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, good for you,” Gwen carried on. “It’s about time. Ollie and I have been wondering since high school when this would happen.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “When nature calls, you go, except when there is someone already in the bathroom. You are so not quiet. From the sounds of it, Tom was doing you good.”

  Lizzie blushed in embarrassment, her face on fire. “You heard us?”

  “Yeah, then I hid to get confirmation, and I got that the moment you walked out.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Of course not, whore,” Gwen said, affectionately wrapping an arm around her shoulder as they walked into the kitchen. “Though, I’d love to hear how this happened. God, I still can’t believe it. You and Tom!”

  The smile on Lizzie’s face couldn’t get any bigger. “Believe me, I can’t either. It’s been so damn wonderful. My best friend is my lover.”

  Gwen smiled knowingly at her as she grabbed them both a beer, then the two girlfriends headed into the currently empty family room where Lizzie told Gwen how she hooked up with Tom. About thirty minutes later, Tom and Ollie found them.

  “Hi ladies,” Tom said, sitting on the arm next to Lizzie, and Ollie took the empty spot next to Gwen.

  “Hey Thor . . . how’s your mighty hammer?”

  Lizzie burst out laughing. She couldn’t believe her friend, but what a way to get it out there that she knows. Tom shot a “what the fuck” look at Lizzie before answering.

  “It’s been busy.”

  “Doing a lot of pounding?” Gwen continued her questioning.

  His lips twitched trying not to smile. “Yeah. Same forecast for tonight.”

  “Yeah. I heard.”

  “You did?”

  “Oh . . . yes.”

  “Good job making her scream,” Ollie added.

  Both Tom and Lizzie whipped their heads in his direction. Ollie had a smug smile on his face. Then Lizzie turned on Gwen. “You didn’t tell me Ollie was there too!”

  “Oh . . . my bad,” Gwen said with an unapologetic laugh.

  “Seriously though,” Ollie spoke again. “You two together . . . it’s good. Don’t let any past stuff affect that, okay?”

  Lizzie knew what past stuff he was referring to—Marc. She didn’t want to think about that, about when he would come back. About how she would react. The first picture in her head was always wrapping him in her arms. That’s as far as she got.

  Never any farther.

  Maybe that was telling.

  Or maybe her brain was just a big ol’ chickenshit.

  Lizzie

  June 2009

  She whipped her head up so fast at the knock on her office door, Lizzie swore she pulled a muscle. Standing in the doorway was her boss, Parker. “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

  Even if she didn’t, her answer would still be affirmative. “Sure. What’s up?”

  He sat down at the chair closest to her desk, straightening up the papers on the small meeting table next to him.

  “You know how I feel about your work. You’ve proven yourself over and over. Those projects are routine to you now. Nothing seems to faze you, so I was thinking that I needed to do something big to challenge you.”

  While there was a big wave of pride at what he just said, there was also a small fissure of apprehension in her gut. She had no idea what this something big could be.

  “You know how we’ve been planning for the new office in San Fran?” he continued. “Well, I want you to head up opening it.”

  Shit . . . that wasn’t big—it was huge!

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No,” he chuckled. “I’m definitely not joking. Very serious here.”

  Panic clawed its way up her body. “I’ve not done anything like this . . . I—”

  “You’re wrong. How many projects have you led from beginning to end? Same kind of concept but bigger . . . I’m your client as well as your boss. I’m not going to leave you hanging. I want you to succeed. You have questions, you ask me. But I know you’ve got this, that’s why I’m putting you in charge of this.”

  Holy fucking shit!

  Normally she’d try to keep her cool, but she completely failed when a smile broke out on her face.

  “So . . . you up for the challenge?”

  “Most definitely!”

  “Eva has already booked your flight and your accommodations. She got you an apartment this time around since you’ll be out there for so long . . .”

  Parker kept talking but she stopped listening when she realized how long she’d be gone. Her excitement plummeted when reality sank in. At least one month away from Tom. Minimum. Not the kind of challenge she was looking forward to.

  “By chance do you know when I’ll be departing?” she asked.

  “Two weeks from now, I believe. Eva has the exact date.”

  She nodded . . .

  Yeah . . . this totally sucked.

  When she arrived home, the sound of Foxy barking greeted her. Smiling, she went around the house to the backyard and spotted Tom’s truck in the driveway.

  “Hey there, sweet girl. Where’s your daddy?” she asked the dog.

  “Woof,” the dog answered and pounded up the stairs. “Woof,” she repeated.

  Lizzie trucked up the stairs after Foxy and let her in, the wonderful aroma of garlic hitting her as she opened the door. She dropped her bag on the bench and went to the kitchen where Tom stood at the stove, stirring whatever smelled so good.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said over his shoulder. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit down. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  She did as told, kicking off her heels and shrugging off her suit jacket. “So . . . Pooh bear . . . why the meal?” she asked, then took a long sip of the delicious wine.

  “Just wanted to do something special for you.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “How was work?” he asked as he went about plating the food.

  “Well . . . it was definitely interesting.”

  “Do tell,” he said, placing the food in front of her.

  Inhaling, she groaned. “What are we e
ating?”

  “Just a dish my mother always makes me. Has no name. It’s just chicken, smoked sausage, potatoes, onions and squash all mixed together. Mama’s specialty.”

  “Your mama is Mrs. Myers to me . . . always will be.”

  “Despite her repeated requests otherwise,” he said before taking a bite.

  She did the same and groaned yet again. This was a meal she could eat every single day. “So damn good, Tom.”

  “Now, get back to telling me about work.”

  “Yeah . . . work was interesting,” she stalled, nervous to tell him.

  “You said that . . .”

  “My boss offered me an awesome opportunity. To lead the opening of our new office,” she told him, pushing her food around on her plate.

  “Where’s that?”

  “In San Francisco.”

  “Oooh . . . Miss Fancy Pants. That sounds really cool. So, why aren’t you more excited?” he said, stabbing at his food and lifting it to his mouth. Her best friend was way too insightful. He seemed genuinely excited for her, but she wondered how that reaction would change with her upcoming words.

  “I leave in two weeks and I’ll be there for at least one month.”

  His fork froze mid-air. “Oh.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “A whole month?” he asked, his eyes flicking to her face.

  She nodded.

  “No coming home?”

  “Probably not,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Oh,” he said again, setting his fork down and picking up his bottle of beer, taking a long drag. Resigned to what was coming, he looked into her eyes. “I’ll miss you.”

  “And I you.”

  He leaned over and kissed her, slowly letting the kiss end. “I will throw you the most epic going away party,” he said, his voice a little too chipper.

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah?” he said, busying himself with putting the plates in the sink.

  “You okay with this?”

  Sighing, he nodded. “Yeah, I am. I mean . . . not ideal in the least. It’s a month. When I put it in perspective with how long I hadn’t seen you before you moved back, this will be a piece of cake.”

  Yeah . . . a piece of cake wasn’t how she was picturing it. More like being force-fed bottle upon bottle of habanero sauce.

  Fucking torture.

  Lizzie

  Tom sure knew how to throw a party, an exhausted Lizzie thought as Tom said goodbye to the final guest. After he shut the door, he turned to her and smiled.

  She hadn’t spent as much time with him as she would’ve liked tonight, with both being pulled in separate directions. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered her except she would be leaving tomorrow morning and as the time approached, the sadder she got.

  Lizzie didn’t want to be apart from him.

  “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand. She rose from the couch to take his hand and he pulled her closer.

  “Have a good time?” he asked. She nodded her answer because she did. The night was full of laughter, drinking, and more laughter, plus a Cubs win.

  “Good.” Tom led her up the stairs and when they reached his dark bedroom, he turned his head to look at her. “I bought you a little something.”

  That thought made her feel like a kid at Christmas with a huge present under the tree. He’d never just bought her a present out of the blue before.

  “Why’d you do that?” she asked as he pushed the door further open. But instead of entering or answering, he caught her lips in a fierce kiss that had her clutching his waist to keep herself standing. He was in no hurry to end it and drank from her mouth until he was done. And by that time, Lizzie was quite turned on.

  “I wanted you to have something to remember me while you are out in California,” he said right before turning on the light. He gestured towards the bed and her eyes followed. In the center of the pillows lay a stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. In its lap rested a long, thin box. Her mouth twitched as she fought the sudden rush of tears.

  “Winnie the Pooh?” Her Pooh bear.

  “Thought you’d like it,” he answered, punctuated with a peck to the tip of her nose. “Go and open the rest.”

  She sat on the bed carefully, taking the box from Winnie and then hugged the stuffed bear to her chest. A few moments later, Lizzie flipped the lid of the box and sharply inhaled. “Oh, my God, Tom. This is breathtaking,” she said, gazing at the dainty bracelet with stones the exact color of his sky blue eyes. “It’s . . .”

  “It’s like my eyes . . .” he said, sitting next to her and putting the bracelet on her wrist. Once fastened, she drew his face to hers, claiming his mouth with a slow, intense kiss.

  “Thank you,” she said softly against his lips.

  “That kiss was worth it.”

  “That’s just the beginning . . .” she replied, one hand reaching for his belt, the other rubbing the growing bulge through the jeans. They would remember this night.

  “I need to buy you presents more often if this is how you intend to thank me,” he said, groaning against her face.

  Pushing him back to the bed, she released his cock from its confines. “Yes, you really do.”

  Marc

  Seattle, July 2009

  Staring at the steady rain, Marc sipped on his coffee, lost in his mind. The thoughtful immersions seemed to be constant the past couple weeks. He felt aimless, unsure of what to do with himself. No job, friends, or family around didn’t help with that.

  It had been okay when he’d been working on this book. He had started it while he was in rehab, growing from prescribed journal writing his therapist had pushed as a way to get out his feelings. He had something to prove. He could be the son of Beckett Kerr, tortured writer of American literature, and be his own person. He didn’t have to be the young boy who watched his father put a gun to his head and end his life. Marc would be the man that overcame that horrific event and lived—his life on his terms.

  It may have taken him a bit to define them but that was all right. He’d done it. He was moving forward. Doing what he wanted to do with his life. No longer letting the fact that his father was a writer stop him from fulfilling his dream. Marc wasn’t going to not do it because of his dad.

  So Marc had set out to prove that. The past year he’d been ferociously writing. He needed to get the words out. He’d become a driven man as the words poured out of him, his laptop his constant companion. Hell, his only companion.

  When he set out to do this, he figured it wouldn’t take long to get those thoughts out of his brain, but he’d been so wrong. Over a year later, the book was finally complete and in the hands of his agent.

  A little over a month ago, Clark had asked him again about coming back to Chicago. Marc still hadn’t been ready.

  Not yet.

  But now that the book was finished, maybe it was time.

  Gathering his bag, Marc left the coffee shop and strolled down Pike Street to his apartment. His trust fund had finally become useful.

  When he entered the sparse space, he tossed his bag on the sofa and himself on the seat next to it. Pulling out his phone from his front pocket, Marc spun it in his hands as he thought about the call he was about to make.

  Was he really ready to go home?

  Tapping the call button, he waited for an answer.

  “What up, bro?” came his younger brother’s voice and Marc knew in that instant what to do.

  “I’m coming home, Clark.”

  “Fuck,” he said, the word drawn out. “Really? For good?”

  “Yeah . . . I’m ready.”

  “I’m so damn glad to hear that.”

  “So, uh, you won’t mind if I crash with you until I find a place?”

  Clark laughed. “Of course you can stay with me. When are you planning on returning?”

  “Tomorrow?” Marc replied.

  “What? Seriously?” Clark shouted in excitement.

  Marc regarded the place he’d called
home for the past year. “It’s not hard to leave nothing, Clark.”

  Walking up the steps to his brother’s renovated Victorian, Marc smiled at all that had been done to it. Clark had turned this neglected early 20th century mansion into a charming beauty. He’d sent him updates on his progress while Marc had been away, his words full of pride for his home. Clark should be proud—of that home and of his success. His little brother had done good.

  Just as his fist went to knock on the door, it swung open and Marc was staring at his brother’s face—in person for the first time in over a year.

  Clark pulled him in and held him in a fierce hug Marc wouldn’t soon forget. He wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him right back. Saying he missed him was an understatement.

  With a clearing of his throat, Clark stepped away. “Welcome to my abode.”

  “Thanks for letting me crash.”

  “Come on, let me show you your room,” Clark said, heading up the stairs. With his lone suitcase and his backpack, Marc followed his brother to a room that had more furniture in the space than he lived with for over a year.

  Marc put his suitcase by the bed and placed his backpack on the desk.

  “Nice room,” Marc said, a little overwhelmed. So many windows letting in all the sunlight made the space feel so bright . . . cheerful. He stepped to the windows overlooking the colorful backyard. Everything in stark contrast to his situation in Seattle.

  “You hungry?” Clark asked, breaking Marc out of his brooding.

  He turned from the window and nodded.

  “Pizza?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, stepping away from the view. “Sounds good.”

  They backtracked to the first floor and went to the kitchen where Clark placed the order. His brother grabbed a couple bottles of Mountain Dew, handing one to him and went to the family room and parked himself on the sectional. Marc copied Clark then took a long drink of his pop. He knew his brother wanted to talk.

  “You done with your book?”

  “Yeah . . . a couple weeks ago,” Marc answered.

  “I never knew you wanted to be a writer. To be honest, I always thought you’d do something with film with the way that camera was always attached to your hand.”