Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  “Talent is a compliment by definition.”

  “It wasn’t one.”

  “Let’s consult Merriam-Webster then.” Before she protests, I type into my phone’s search engine and the answer pulls my cheeks into a much larger grin.

  “Richard,” she warns, hating that she mistakenly complimented me. I love it, only because it angers her this much.

  “‘A special ability that allows someone to do something well,’” I read the definition. “That was a compliment.”

  Her eyes flame.

  I stare at my screen with more humor in my features. “Also, ‘people who are sexually attractive.’”

  She scoffs. “It doesn’t say that.”

  I flash her my phone, and she snatches it out of my hands, her eyes like lasers, scorching the screen as she reads.

  “Rose Calloway Cobalt finds me sexually attractive,” I say. “If only you’d called me talented when you were fourteen.”

  She stiffens but keeps her gaze on the phone that she cups between two hands. “And what would you have done if I had?”

  I wait for her to look up at me. When she does, I see our history laid flat like an ancient world map. “I would’ve called you talented right back.”

  Her collarbones jut out as she inhales, deeply.

  My grin spreads, the one that she calls conceited. It instantaneously makes her aware of how infatuated she looks. She ices over and chucks a nearby pillow at me, narrowly missing the chessboard.

  I laugh and she pelts me with another beaded one.

  “That better not be the truth you owe me.”

  “What was wrong with that one?” I ask.

  “It wasn’t real.”

  “It was real,” I say.

  “You told me that you didn’t find me attractive until you were seventeen.”

  My smile fades. The real truth: I found Rose fascinating from our very first encounter, but if I admit that, then I’m admitting to the concept of love at first sight. The whole notion is ridiculous, fallible—one-hundred percent unbelievable. So I had to have been seventeen when I was first drawn to Rose. Anything else is just fantasy.

  “Tell me something real,” Rose prods. “And it better be fucking good.”

  I don’t necessarily know what she wants. Something from the heart. I hear her voice as I think it. My heart may be anatomically the same as hers, but it’s different. I will always be different.

  “I love your eyes,” I tell her.

  She glowers. “I already know your strange obsession with my eyes. That’s nothing new. You’re cheating.” She emphasizes the word, believing it’ll rile me the way that it does her.

  I stay complacent and pass an ivory pawn between my fingers, one that I’d collected fifteen minutes ago. And I think about a truth. Something from the heart. “The first time I had sex,” I begin, “I lasted much longer than ten-seconds. I was good at it.”

  “Calling yourself a sex god is a personal evaluation, not a truth, and you’ve already told me some of this before.”

  “How about the part where I hated it?”

  She goes rigid, her hands flat on her thighs.

  “I hated my first time,” I say again, just as calmly. “There are monumental stages in life that most people eventually take. We talk. We walk. We feel. We cry.” I pause. “We love. We fuck. And sooner or later, we die.” I lick my lips and let out a soft laugh. “Sex was a stage. It was practical. It was what I was supposed to do, but it held no meaning. It wasn’t exciting. Physically, I felt pleasure. Mentally, it was lackluster. I couldn’t figure out how to make it better than it was. I couldn’t figure out what to do differently to turn something ordinary into something that would blind me. Not at fifteen. And so, I hated it.”

  Her mind reels. I can see it spinning in her distant gaze. “You left out emotionally,” she whispers.

  “Sex was never emotional for me, at least not until I had sex with you.”

  Rose scrutinizes me, as though wondering if I’m speaking honestly or telling her what she wants to hear. But that’s without a doubt, the honest truth.

  “What else?” she asks, wanting me to spill more feelings, not just facts. I understand that now.

  “My turn.” I shut down her question and return to the chessboard.

  She crosses her arms, her hot gaze directed on my actions. I shift a pawn to align my pieces, rejecting a more obvious route. Rose plays chess aggressively, more than most. Two moves later and I capture her rook. She sighs in frustration, brows knotted as she traces the board, as if she can rewind time and alter her last move.

  “Your robe, darling.” I gesture to her clothing that I desperately want removed.

  She lets out another heavy sigh. It took years for her to be comfortable around me. She’s conquered those insecurities, so anytime she huffs, it’s because she’s stubborn, prideful, and therefore struggles submitting to me, even if it fills her with pleasure.

  Rose, rather indignantly, pulls at the straps of her silk robe. Maybe she’s purposefully being rough and less sensual and slow, so I won’t get off. Having an erection would be another bonus for me. She shoves the fabric off her shoulder, and her hostility throbs my cock, much more than anything else would.

  The robe falls to the mattress, pooling at her thighs. I almost have to readjust my bent knee, my muscles constricting at the sight of her white lingerie, one-piece like an indecent bathing suit. The lace forms delicate roses along her hipbones, the wire bodice architecting her hourglass frame. A tiny white bow sits between her full breasts, pushed up in two cups, see-through, her nipples already hardened.

  Her chest falls heavier than before, the diamond droplet necklace needing to be replaced with leather. My arms ache to pull her into my chest, hard and rough and so quick that every movement afterwards will belong to me.

  She clears her throat, scolding me for looking this long.

  Rose is so many layers of beautiful that even I’d have trouble touching each one.

  “You have me in my underwear. Congratulations.” She bends to the chess set, her cleavage nearly spilling out towards me.

  My fingers tighten on my kneecap. I attempt to control the urge to shove the board aside and split her legs open, just taking her rough without another pause.

  “Your pawn is dead,” she announces. “Give me a truth.”

  I frown and pry my gaze off her breasts. She pinches my pawn, her red polish stirring my cock again. Patience.

  I extend my leg out more, my muscles cramped. “I was good at sex because I watched porn. I found it useful.”

  “You and every other teenager,” she snaps. “That’s not a truth, it’s a fact.” Her focus quickly returns to the board, too quickly. She’s avoiding a topic we both often skirt around. Porn. The sex tapes.

  My conversation with Frederick shoots to the front of my brain, about how much those tapes have affected Rose. About my inability to claim them as a failure. Scott may have the sex tapes, but I have a multi-billion-dollar business and a new diamond franchise.

  In my point of view, I won.

  In Rose’s, I’m beginning to realize she feels like it’s a loss.

  “Make your move,” she tells me.

  “What about my truth?”

  Her eyes flit to mine and back to the board. “I don’t care anymore.”

  I care. I care if she’s hurt. I care if she’s sad or if she’s in pain. I care more about Rose than I ever thought I’d care about another human being.

  She motions to the board. “Continue on so I can crush you.”

  I latch onto her gaze. “About the sex tapes—”

  “Move your piece,” she cuts me off abruptly, “or you forfeit your turn.”

  “That’s not how this game works,” I reply. “I tell you a truth.” Maybe if I give her something bigger, she’ll be more open about those tapes with me. “I started experimenting when I was nineteen, bondage and handcuffs. I pushed it too far, for my own personal taste, just to see what I lik
ed sometimes. I never had a person instruct me. I just deduced what got me off more than anything else.”

  “What about the other person?” she asks.

  “They enjoyed it. I wouldn’t try anything on someone who didn’t. I’m in the game of pleasing people, even when I’m dissatisfied, remember?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I smile. “I don’t like when women call me sir. I won’t ever call you a slut. What I love most is the control, especially over someone who’s headstrong.”

  “Funny,” she says icily, but she clears her throat again, this time in arousal.

  “How was that?” I ask her, wondering if my truth was up to par.

  She nods. “Decent.” Her eyes soften as if to say it was much more than that. “Your turn.”

  I skim the board and go for the stupid, less calculated move. I purposely capture her bishop. My own motives usurp winning the game. Her panties, clipped to the bodice to form a one-piece. I want those off first. I imagine her sitting on the bed, nothing between the silky blue comforter and her flesh.

  By her hipbones, she unfastens the clips, and then begins to peel off the top. “Your panties first,” I demand.

  She freezes. “That’s not how this game works,” she repeats my earlier words.

  I shake my head as she sashays the straps down her elbows, off her arms, and then lifts the lace lingerie over her head.

  “You’re being obstinate,” I say calmly. “It’s going to cost you tonight.”

  She swallows hard, probably picturing how I’ll punish her. And when she tosses the bodice aside, she immediately presses her arms over her breasts.

  I barely catch a glimpse of her hard nipples before they disappear from sight. There was more to see when she was wearing the top.

  I tilt my head. “Is there something wrong with your breasts?”

  Her eyes flash hot.

  I talk swiftly before she berates me. “It’s either that or you’re uncomfortable being naked in front of me, but that hasn’t been the case for years. So what’s wrong?” She’s just being stubborn. I know the truth. So does she.

  “I hate you,” she says, dropping her arms.

  “I didn’t ask for a lie to accommodate removing your clothes, but it’s nice of you to offer me something more.”

  “There’s no way you can lose, is there?” she questions abruptly. “You will always twist things so it seems like you win.”

  Her question makes it hard to enjoy the view of her partially naked. “Je ne peux jamais perdre.” I can never lose.

  She raises a hand at my face to silence me again. “We’ll see about that.” Without another delay, Rose goes for the winning move, unlike me. She plucks my queen off the board, her knight in striking distance of my king. It surprises me—for how much she doesn’t want me to talk about our sex tapes, she’ll risk it for the game.

  She raises her chin. “Check.”

  “Truthfully,” I say my eyes fixing on hers, “I could live with the sex tapes for the rest of my life and never feel an ounce of pain from their existence. And all this time, you’ve made me believe that you could too, but I can see that’s not true.”

  She gapes. “It is.”

  “Rose,” I say her name like you know the truth like me, “that night we confronted Scott, you showed your cards.” She screamed like the sex tapes had happened yesterday, like they still hurt above all we’ve been through. “And maybe I knew, all this time, but I just wanted to believe you were like me.”

  She shivers.

  I reach across the board to take her in my arms, but she pushes my bare chest with one hand and points at me to stay still.

  “Are you calling me weak?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m calling you human. Your reaction is the normal one.”

  “You’re calling me normal.” Her eyes flame, but her features almost shatter like I took a gavel to glass.

  “It’s not a bad thing,” I say.

  “From you, it’s an insult.”

  I can’t believe I’m having trouble speaking. I try to find the right words quickly. “You are my equal,” I say this slowly so the words sink in.

  “If you could kill me, knowing that I’d be replaced with the same features but with your exact personality, would you do it?” she questions.

  “No,” I answer without a beat. “It would be pointless to date someone just like me. I would know every move, every desire, everything. I adore the way you polarize me.”

  She relaxes more and nods. “I believe you.” She tries to exhale. After a much longer pause, she says, “And I didn’t realize how much the sex tapes had still hurt me until that night either.” Rose tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hate them more in context with Scott than anything. I had no say in whether or not people could jack off to my body, and he did.”

  “You just want justice,” I realize. “Now that he’s returned, it should be easier to trap him.”

  “What are we supposed to tell Jane?” she asks, veering off course and asking me to follow.

  I try to trace the paths of her mind. Jane, in relation to the sex tapes. “We tell her not to watch them, and that we had no intention of them ever being online because we had no idea we were being filmed in our bedroom. We tell her the truth.” I fist the ivory pawn without realizing, an indention in my palm.

  “And that’ll make it okay?” Rose asks, her voice nearly cracking. “What happens when she’s ten or twelve or fifteen and another tape is released and all of her friends see it? What if she’s mocked and ridiculed and she doesn’t have our strength to face it? It’s not going to be okay, Connor.”

  “I’m going to do whatever it takes,” I declare. I’ve always fought for the things I’ve desired. I’ve never sat idly and waited for my dreams to happen. I’ll find the avenue to obtain the rights to the rest of the sex tapes. It’s more necessary now than it was before.

  I want this control back before Jane grows up. The previously released tapes, we can’t change, but maybe by the time she’s older, they’ll fall deep into oblivion.

  “Says the man who never loses,” she whispers, her lips rising a fraction.

  Mine match hers. “My turn.” I watch her shoulders drop from their inflexible state, more unworried and unburdened. She peruses the board with a quick glance, seeming secure with the outcome of this game, a win for her, a loss for me.

  The smart move: I shift my king out of harm’s way.

  The foolish one: I capture her measly pawn.

  Her breath hitches when my fingers grasp her marble chess piece and I eye her last article of clothing.

  [ 14 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  He did that on purpose

  It was an idiotic move that left his king vulnerable.

  “Checkmate,” I say under my breath. His gaze trails over my body, devouring every curve. It’s not the look of someone who just lost a game. “You lost.” I emphasize this point so he feels the sting of defeat.

  “I have what I wanted,” he says. “As do you.” A grin envelops his face. “Like I said, we’re both winners.” Connor leans forward and seizes my ankle. With a firm, swift grasp, he pulls me closer to his body, my back thudding to the mattress and my ass bulldozing the chessboard, pieces spilling around my body, my elbow digging into a knight.

  My panties now in reach, Connor rips the fabric with a harsh tug, the lace biting into my flesh. The force pinpricks my nerves, a strong pulse between my legs. He pulls again, this time freeing the fabric completely.

  I glare. “Those were expensive.”

  His lips brush my ear, nibbling, biting. “Et c’est inestimable.” And this is priceless. He clutches my face and kisses me, forcibly, strongly—his dominance bridging my body closer to him. I lose breath when his tongue parts my lips, when he pulls my whole frame off the chessboard and up into his body. My fingernails dig into his muscular back for support.

  His assuredness, his overwhelming confidence drowns me beneath passion, my head
sunk below a seemingly calm, motionless river. I don’t fight to reach the surface.

  While he kisses me, he shoves the chessboard off the mattress, the entire set clattering to the ground. I open my eyes at the violent noise, and I notice the charcoal king still in his grip. He lifts me higher on the bed, setting my head on a light gray pillow.

  He kneels over me, my panties still in hand too.

  I fixate on my ripped underwear. “There was an easier way to do that.” I try to control my ragged breath.

  He tenderly brushes my hair off my face and then unclasps my necklace, setting the delicate strand aside on the nightstand. It’s a ploy.

  Connor Cobalt is many things in bed—tender is rarely one of them.

  “If I wanted your opinion about removing these”—he dangles my torn panties on one finger—“I would’ve asked for it.”

  I attempt to lock my legs, my heat clenching, but he uses his knees to keep them wide, wide open. “How considerate of you,” I reply with empty spite. My natural reaction is to be combative, even if I don’t mean it half the time.

  He lowers his head to me, his teeth nipping my bottom lip, and very deeply, he whispers French in the pit of my ear. I struggle to translate the velvety words, blood rushing out of my head. He squeezes my ass, his palm large, masculine, and then he slaps me. A noise catches in my throat.

  “You like that,” he states, bringing his hand to my cheek. I expect him to manhandle me, but instead, he softly caresses my skin. “Too bad you’ve been obstinate tonight.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m only obstinate so your ego doesn’t mushroom and asphyxiate every living thing, including me.”

  He grins, further confirming that his ego is uncontrollable, untamable and on the verge of smothering me. I wish that Connor didn’t arouse me, but then I’m happy to be aroused by him. God, why can’t I just hate him without loving him? It’d be so much easier.

  I’m one second from contesting him with more words, but he’s faster. He balls my panties and stuffs them in my mouth. My neck burns at the new situation, and my toes curl, craving his hard body against mine, his rough, vigorous movements, pounding inside of me.