My pulse speeds. “Are you going to kiss me?” I question, hearing the anxiety in my voice. I hate that sound. I chug the rest of my appletini.
He strokes my head, all my hair pulled into a tight, sleek pony. “Get out of your mind, Rose,” he coos.
It’s not that easy for me, not with so many eyes on us. I set my empty glass on the counter, and he flags down the bartender again. I realize I’m still clutching onto Connor’s forearm like if I let go, I’ll fall.
This isn’t exactly normal for me. Be the fucking shark, Rose.
I will be. I’ll snap my jaws over every human here.
“Rose.” That’s not Connor. Ryke sidles next to me while Daisy slips in front of my body, settling on a nearby vacant stool. Four-leaf clover sunglasses shroud her eyes while she’s dressed in a graphic tee that says, Shake your Shamrocks. Since her back is to me, I can’t spot a smile.
I face Ryke.
His jaw is scruffier, making him appear older. He spent the past week camping with Daisy and their Siberian husky in the mountains, still no approval from his doctors to rock climb. Daisy thought camping would help ease the wait.
“What?” I ask, ice frosting the word. At least my bite hasn’t disappeared yet. I almost pick up my empty glass and take a sip. I remember not to be a drunken fool this time.
Connor detaches from me, except for his fingers that just barely hook around mine. He leans over the counter to speak to the bartender, the persistent music drowning their conversation.
Ryke places a hand on my shoulder and leans closer to me, all so he doesn’t have to raise his voice. “Do you have any Advil or Midol?” he asks.
My back straightens, and my eyes flit to my sister. She has her feet on the stool, legs tucked to her chest, sitting in a fetal position. When she swings her head to me, she paints on a bright all-consuming smile. I almost believe her, but silently, I hear her saying, I don’t want to be the reason you have a bad time.
“How bad are her cramps?” I ask, opening my clutch first. Lipstick, compact mirror, mini perfume, powder, mints, safety pins…
“Enough that she has to sit down.” He runs a hand through his hair, watching me dig around my clutch that’s two sizes larger than Lily’s. All of my items are packed neatly in pockets and little wallets.
…mini sewing kit, bobby pins, stain removing pen, small brush, driver’s license, debit and credit cards, super glue (god forbid my high heel should break) and—
“Advil,” I say, handing him a mini-tube of pain reliever.
He pops open the bottle. “It’s empty.”
“What?” I snatch it back and shake…to find nothing inside. “Lily might have some.” I unclasp her clutch to find her ID, cash, her phone, and condoms floating around.
At least she carries protection.
“Nothing?” Ryke says off my frown. “Fuck.” He groans and looks back at Daisy.
“I’ll be fine!” she shouts. “It’s really okay!” She playfully twirls her green glittery glasses before placing them back on.
He’s not buying it, and neither am I.
“Find Poppy,” I tell him, my stomach flip-flopping at the thought of being so unhelpful that I have to pass this task off. “She’ll have something on her.”
He nods, more hopeful. “Keep an eye on Dais for me?”
“Of course.” While he squeezes through the masses to search for Poppy, I’m about to fully detach from Connor and join Daisy.
In unison, Connor not only holds more of my hand but Lily’s phone buzzes. My head swirls from the alcohol, distracted by the cell enough to click into Lily’s texts.
Lil. How long does it take to pee? – Lo
I thought they were dancing? The alcohol must be fucking with my sense of time. It’s already 2 a.m.
I whip my head from side to side and finally spot Loren outside the girl’s bathroom door, one that has stalls so he doesn’t burst through or bang on the wood.
I curiously scroll through my sister’s old text conversation. Sober Rose would never do such a disloyal act unless it helped Lily, but morality has all but flitted away.
Their most recent discussion:
Moffy just said poop! We’ve been saying poop too much, Lo. – Lily
I soften and my frozen joints unthaw. My little sister is precious, and luckily, her son’s first word wasn’t poop. It was boo. They’ve been playing peekaboo a lot with him.
I keep reading the texts.
At least he didn’t say shit. – Lo
I roll my eyes, and a new message pings, my drunken gaze landing on every word without permission.
Please just reply so I know you’re okay. – Lo
I’m sure Lily is fine, and if Loren didn’t irk me so much, I might reply with that. With my free hand, I type out this message with quick, sloppy fingers: Green appletini.
It’s as random as I feel.
I press send and watch his face scrunch in confusion. He texts back rapidly.
??? – Lo
I snort under my breath, a roguish smile rising. Go fuck a cactus, I type and press send…only to reread the message and realize I sent: Gig fuck a castings.
Really, Rose?
Lo wastes no time, pushing through the bathroom door. Camera flashes go off again, brightening the back area of the pub. In maybe a minute, he exits with Lily by his side, and I watch his daggered eyes pierce and search the room.
They set on me. Lily probably told him that I have her phone. He raises his hand in the air and gives me the middle finger.
I raise mine and—I accidentally drop Lily’s cell. Nothing is going according to plan. I bend down to collect the remnants. Don’t be broken, I chant with an angry growl.
I discover a perfectly intact phone and return it safely to her clutch, all of which I place on the bar next to Daisy.
“Watch these?” I ask, Connor’s hand still in mine.
She gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, her green sunglasses masking whatever pain she may be feeling. I’m literally seconds from asking our bodyguards to go make a drugstore run for us. I’d even leave and go make one with them.
“I have Advil!” Poppy shouts, weaving through the crowd with Ryke and Sam behind her. My tan older sister is more prepared for the luckiest day of the year than I am. Her long, straight hair splays over her green tunic, wooden bracelets decorating her forearm.
Poppy is “chill” in comparison to me, as Loren has said before. I’m not surprised. When I was younger, she always disappeared to our backyard to paint, finding quiet places away from our mother. She discovered calmness in her teens that she’s carried to thirty.
I’m twenty-six and calm has still evaded me, even boozed.
Maybe that’s why I have Connor. Just as I think it, he finishes speaking with the bartender. I slide closer to him and scan his hands and the counter for my new drink. It’s nowhere to be found.
“Have you just been talking with him this whole time?” I question, my feet aching. Not because of the shoe but because my muscles keep constricting.
My heels have not betrayed me.
Connor clasps my hips and pulls me against his body a little more, guiding me so that my back digs into the lip of the bar. I look over my shoulder, hoping to spot the bartender making my drink, but he’s helping another girl.
“Rose,” Connor forces my name and simultaneously grabs my attention. I focus on him, his deep blue eyes almost eating me out. His gaze is as dirty as that sounds.
You love it, Rose.
I do, but there are onlookers…
He holds my face, possessing me with one strong move.
“I’m not ready…” The words prickle my skin. “I need another drink, Richard.”
He lowers his head, his lips grazing mine before he whispers something in French. I can’t translate it, not unless he speaks slower. The alcohol jumbles my thoughts, and he notices the confusion blanketing my face.
“Concentrate on me,” he repeats.
I scrounge
up a decent glare. “I am.”
I expect him to kiss me now. He’s going to make out with you against the bar with everyone watching. I wonder if he can feel my pulse race, my chest collapsing, half-anxious, half-wanting.
Very swiftly, he grasps my waist and lifts me onto the bar.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
My ass hits the wooden surface, and cameras swing in our direction. My legs hang off, and I grip his forearms so hard that my nails must be leaving imprints.
“Connor…”
I expect him to kiss me now.
He doesn’t.
Instead he effortlessly hoists himself onto the bar, and he kneels on either side of my thighs. The crowd cheers, and I sweep his features: his grin lifting, his eyes only dead-set on me, his fingers—his fingers remove his first layer of clothing…pulling his long-sleeve shirt over his head, now in a white button-down and tie that he’d been wearing underneath.
He tosses the navy, long-sleeve shirt aside.
The band dies down, leaving only chatter and this event on the bar, spotlighted by camera flashes. Everyone is watching him.
More him than me.
This fact begins to morph my anxiety into sexual awakening, a pulse mounting below. My brain tries to register what’s happening, his fingers loosening his tie.
He clutches the back of my head with his other hand. And very slowly, so I understand, he whispers, “Get ready, darling.” His breath heats my neck. “This may spin your head.”
[ 31 ]
ROSE COBALT
My body thrums, and he slyly fastens his tie around my wrists, binding them behind my back. The cheers inside the bar nearly pull me out of the moment, but Connor rests a hand on my cheek.
“Only look at me,” he reminds me.
I nod, trusting him. Then he kisses me so powerfully, nipping my bottom lip with his teeth before he rises to his feet, no longer kneeling.
He towers above me, my head level with his crotch.
Oh God.
I cross my ankles that hang off the bar and glue my thighs together, the pulse starting to hurt. My body is screaming for him to ram inside of me, this need escalating while in a fully-packed pub. This can’t be happening.
But it is.
He strokes the top of my head with his hand, in arm’s length of me, even standing. I look up at him, and he unbuttons his shirt with a heady, seductive gaze that nails me like a hard fuck between my legs.
“Take it off! Take it off!” so many people chant. Among them are my sisters and friends, crowded near the bar.
Connor tugs my ponytail, forcing my attention back to him and not my surroundings. Focus, his eyes say loud and clear.
His fingers unbutton the last one, his shirt opening to reveal his infuriatingly defined set of abs and those carved biceps. My husband is stripping on a bar, a show meant to stir the media, but also meant for me.
His confidence transforms what could be a silly, sloppy act into a commanding, stimulating experience that has undoubtedly roused my body. I am completely soaked. I’m thrumming for his cock. Not to mention, I’m horniest the few days before my period, and this is one of those days.
And his hand—his protective and possessive hand on my head is doing a number on me.
He tosses his button-down aside, now shirtless.
“TAKE IT OFF!” the chants grow.
His pants…is he…?
I instinctively want to use my hands to shield my mouth that literally keeps falling. My wrists jerk against the restraint, and Connor tugs my pony again, until my eyes meet his intimate gaze that pushes right into me.
I take shallow, short breaths.
The corners of his lips begin to lift once more, especially as he unbuckles his belt, right near my face. Fuck…me. He steps closer so that my cheek is almost pressed up against his cock, an inch of space separating us. As he unbuttons his slacks, his knuckles brush my nose.
“TAKE IT OFF!”
The howls of approval sit far into the back of my head. My skin heats like we’re having sex on the bar. Are we? This feels like he’s fucking me, right here, right now. Everyone is watching.
He never falters. Never even balks. He acts as though it’s just us here, as though this is the easiest adventure he’s ever taken.
“Connor…” I say, not so much in warning just in place of expletives and exclamation marks that blare inside my brain. He teasingly pulls down the hem of his pants, inch-by-inch, revealing the band of his navy boxer-briefs.
I quickly steal a glance at my sisters, and they all have their fingers pressed to their wide smiles. Lily’s eyes look ready to pop out of her head.
I internally experience all of that and a pulsating arousal that screams fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!
Connor switches hands on my head, holding me with his left one—for Connor, his left hand is his more dominant hand.
Loren comes behind Connor, and he pulls down his pants and boxer-briefs enough to show off his bare ass. Connor is grinning at me. I must wear every emotion that pounds at my mind.
Lo pinches his ass. “Happy St. Patty’s Day, motherfuckers!” Everyone cheers and raises their pints and green cocktails. He lifts Connor’s boxer-briefs back, but I’m aware that Connor has my head entirely stationary, in line with his cock.
He thrusts against my cheek three times, my entire body combusting, and a strangled moan latches in my throat, the noise smothered by the euphoria around us.
I break through the tie restraint, and I grasp his thigh with one hand and a little higher with the other. His ass flexes beneath my palm.
I’ve frozen.
He lowers, kneeling on either side of me again, and while my head spins in a million different directions, his lips meet mine, the force—the power returns. Though it’s never left. It just fills me orally, his tongue parting my lips, his arms pulling my chest into his body.
I can’t keep up. I fall into wherever he directs me. Into the headiness that he supplies me. I just hold onto his biceps, and he slides off the bar, bringing me with him, setting me on my feet.
He’s still kissing me, still wrapped up against me. Yes, I think. He manhandles me the way I love to be manhandled, and I accept him, every action, every flick of the tongue. My lips sting beneath his, my skin flushed, the alcohol not even coming close to the effect that Connor has on me.
“DO IT AGAIN, CONNOR COBALT!” the nearby shout breaks into my actions, and I squint at the harsh light of camera flashes, coming in waves once again. My husband is still shirtless, his belt unbuckled and pants unbuttoned, but his slacks rest in the proper place, covering his ass from view.
Connor holds my face caringly, his grin lifting higher and higher. “You liked that.”
I smack his chest, still breathing heavy, and he’s hardly even winded. He seizes my hand and kisses my knuckles. I realize I didn’t even need to be on-the-floor wasted to accomplish a bigger public display than most people will ever commit to in their lifetimes.
He made me feel safe.
Comfortable. He’s done this before, switching an event onto himself so it eases me into it. His confidence has a way of seeping straight through me, and I love this person in front of me…a man that I always want to be with.
I splay my palms flat on his bare chest, and he hugs his arms around me, even if I don’t really reciprocate it with my arms around him. I just keep my hands right here.
My tipsy-self almost wants to tell him, you’re so hot. I want to bang you. You’re bangable, you know? Your hair is perfect. Your lips even more so. I keep opening my mouth, but even the thought of uttering an overly sweet compliment tastes strange and wrong.
So I land with this, “I hate you.”
He grins more. “So much so that if I stayed up there for three minutes longer, you would’ve climaxed.”
I scoff. “No…” I trail off, remembering the pulse of my body that was climbing towards a peak. You would’ve orgasmed on a bar, Rose. In front of e
veryone.
I believe it, but I just raise a hand to his face to shut him down.
He clasps my wrist, and he lowers his lips to my ear. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”
Translation: Keep drinking if you want.
I do want.
And then I watch his eyes slip off me, and I follow them to Ryke. Everyone laughs around him. Even Daisy looks like she feels better with a brighter, more genuine smile. However, he wears a dark questioning glare, pinned on us.
It says: why the fuck are they doing this? Did they lose a bet? It doesn’t make fucking sense…
What we can’t reply: we’re doing this to draw attention off our kids and onto us.
This might be the night where Ryke refuses vague excuses and fights for a real answer.
[ 32 ]
CONNOR COBALT
Daisy and Rose stumble down the hotel hallway together, drunkenly laughing and clutching onto each other for support. They both took tequila shots until the pub closed, and they’ve been singing “My Heart Will Go On” by Céline Dion, all incredibly out of tune.
I’d enjoy the whole scenario more if Ryke wasn’t beside me, silently overthinking my striptease back in the pub. I can practically feel his mind at work as we walk behind the girls, and he steals reticent, cautious glances my way, hoping I’ll meet his eyes and regurgitate every secret I have.
I’m not that easy to crack.
The girls trip over each other near our hotel door, and they collapse in a heap, giggling. I rub my lips, trying not to laugh since Rose never makes this noise. It’s a rarity that I’ll remember—it’s one that I do adore.
I stop in front of them, staring down as they look up. “Girls,” I say, passing Ryke the hotel keycard.
Daisy with glazed eyes says, “Rose wants a cupcake. Don’t you, Rose?” She pets Rose’s cheek.
Rose wears a pleased smile. “Yes…cupcakes, please.” She holds out her hand, as though waiting for me to kiss her wedding ring or deliver her a treat.
“How about bed, darling?”
She makes a face at me like I offered her dirt in a bag. “That’s a horrible present, Richard.”
Fuel the Fire Page 26