Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  You’re a fucking lioness, Rose. Let him mount you.

  Something cold and delicate skims my ankles. I crane my neck further over my shoulder, about to turn onto my back and sit up. He places a firm hand on my ass, keeping me stationary. “Don’t move,” he orders.

  “What are you doing?”

  He turns to me, an item in his closed fist. I bet it’s a duplicate of whatever is wrapped around my ankles. It’s so thin that I think I can tug it off and raise it with my toes, all without shifting onto my back. However, the moment I lift a single foot, Connor seizes my leg, trapping me.

  “You don’t want to do that, Rose.”

  I glare. “Why not?”

  And then he leans forward to reach my wrists. He pulls them higher, clasping them together with one strong grip. “Because if you move, you’ll break this.” He reveals a never-ending, tantalizing strand of diamonds, the necklace fragile and faint like a whisper in your ear. He carefully wraps it twice around my wrists before clipping the tiniest clasp.

  I wonder if these are new products for Cobalt Diamonds. Even if they weren’t, I’d hate to shatter jewelry—especially a piece that’s my style, my taste, perfectly me.

  “Are you bribing me?” I wonder.

  “No,” he says adamantly. “I need you to not squirm or bolt upright or spread your legs open. And you’ve grown too used to handcuffs.”

  I can still crane my neck over my shoulder to peek at him. He’s in the same position, his hands on my lower back. “Close your eyes.”

  “No.”

  He spanks my ass. I shudder and bite my pillow, my body aching for more stimulation. His fingers comply, massaging my clit for two agonizing seconds.

  “You need to be completely relaxed.”

  He’s reminded me before that if I tense up, it’ll cause me pain, so he’s trying his hardest to calm me before he does anything.

  “I’m going slow,” he communicates, knowing I can’t be left in the dark with this. “I won’t enter you all at once, I promise.”

  Translation: I know your body. I know your limitations. Trust me.

  I do. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on my soft pillow, attempting to relax. I feel a new temperature, cold but a little warm. Lube, I assume. Not long after, Connor gradually pushes his way inside of me. Just when the expansion begins to pinch, his fingers dip and rub, creating hot friction.

  My mind shadows the pain as higher, orgasmic sensations blink in Technicolor. I gasp into the pillow, my lips parting in a staggered breath. He removes his fingers and pushes further in and out, edging his way deeper inside. The fullness (full of him—oh God) is unlike anything…

  When I’ve stretched to his size, he thrusts in every second, not too rough but assured pumps. The pulsing between my legs grows and seems to time with his movement in my ass.

  I open my eyes and glance back at him. With hands firmly clasped to my love handles, his body flexes with each drive forward. I keep watching him. How he’s kneeling, how he’s thrusting into me, how his focus is on my being. The arousal in his deep blues spins me to another sweltering place.

  “Connor,” I gasp, my mouth unable to close. I moan into the sheets, resting my spinning head back on the pillow.

  A groan sticks to this throat, and he leans back to unclasp the diamond strand from my ankles, never missing a beat. He suddenly seizes my ankle and lifts it higher while he continues to thrust, allowing for fuller, deeper penetration. “Stay still—”

  He warns too late. The quick burst, his powerful force, causes me to shift my arm, to brace myself for better support. The diamond chain snaps in two. He never stops to let me fixate on what I did.

  With my palm flat on the bed, he grips underneath my bent elbow with the other hand, holding me secure in a slightly altered position. He takes me harder from behind.

  He has my limbs. In his grasp. And he never ends the rhythm. I’m so aware of his cock inside of me, more than ever. I’m full of Connor Cobalt, and it’s…

  My eyes roll back. My toes curl.

  Mount the fuck out of me.

  I can’t believe I like this.

  But then I can. I’ve liked many things that I never believed I would.

  * * *

  If Connor is a god during sex, then he’s certainty a god afterwards. He’s so attentive to my body’s needs, to be handled with the strange mix of rough and tender care. He massages my raw and reddened skin, from being slapped, with warm, smooth lotion.

  I can tell he enjoyed it as much as I did—his heavy breaths and grin a sign enough. He helps me to my feet and we take a shower together, then put on new pajamas, and I crawl back into clean sheets. I face him and he tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

  “You’re going to say I told you so and that my limitations are all in my head,” I predict. He was right. I liked it.

  “No,” he surprises me. “Everyone has limitations, and I’m certain that some of yours aren’t just constructed by fear.”

  My mind is on a slow, tired descent, so I try to imagine what my limitations even are. “You’re not sucking my toes,” I note.

  I feel his smile in the dark. “I won’t.”

  What else is there?

  I realize I say the words aloud because he answers with, “Fisting.”

  I cringe. “No.”

  “I don’t want to either,” he whispers in the pit of my ear, pulling me closer. Sometimes we cuddle (such a soft word) after sex, and I let him hold me for a little while, drifting in the security of his strong arms.

  [ 52 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  I cup a mug of coffee in bed with Connor, Jane playing with a picture book between us. We brought a newspaper to the lake house, and I hold one end while Connor holds the other. My eyes glaze over some of the words, the weight of our last day here hanging in the back of my mind.

  I have to broach the topic. “I’m going to speak after you at the press conference,” I say. “So if you change your mind at last minute, I’ll just go along with whatever you decide.”

  Connor tenses, and Jane taps a button on the book, the speakers letting out a sheep’s baaaa. I hope he doesn’t feel the irony. Fate is cruel. Why couldn’t the book let out a lion’s roar or a wolf’s howl? No, it had to be a sheep.

  He lowers his side of the newspaper. I lower mine and cup my mug with two hands.

  “That’s more than considerate, Rose,” he says, “but I’m not going to let you go in there blind and be surprised with the rest of the world.” He angles his body against the headboard so he’s more turned towards me.

  “So you’ve made a decision?” I take a sip of coffee.

  His calm features never waver, even if his mind does. Connor brushes my bottom lip with his thumb, and I see his thoughts spinning.

  So I ask, “To strip naked in front of a crowd or to speak a truth where no one understands you—”

  “I’d strip naked,” he chooses before I even finish.

  I nod, my chest hurting for him.

  “I’m leaning towards queer,” he tells me. He plans to define himself then. “It’s an all-encompassing, broad term that has positive connotations. I like how other people proudly identify as queer, and I think it’s a safe middle ground for me.”

  Everything out of his mouth sounds practiced, as though he’s been tossing the phrases around in his head for weeks. I hone in on the way he says, people proudly identify. He didn’t say, I identify. He left himself out.

  I straighten up. “If that’s what you want, I’d be okay, and I want you to know that you can’t hurt me either way. And you shouldn’t worry about hurting my father or my mother or anyone with your decision.”

  He lifts my chin with two fingers. “Believe me, I’ve thought about every possible surface of this choice.” His thumb sweeps my cheek. “I’ve weighed every cost, every benefit, and it’s all pointing to this.”

  I stare right at him, my eyes churning hotter than I’d like. I want them to be soft for him. That’
s what he needs, isn’t it? My voice isn’t even velvety. It’s harsh and icy. “On what scale do you weigh these?”

  “My scale.” He grins.

  I roll my eyes. “Well, on my scale, the cost of your soul outweighs everything else.”

  “How selfish am I going to be, Rose?” he asks me.

  Baaaaa! Jane hits the same button. She giggles, and Connor leans forward and flips the page to a frog on a lily pad.

  “Fate says you should be as selfish as you want.”

  “I can’t listen to your fate or lambs in children’s books. I just have to listen to the facts.”

  “You can’t listen to your heart?” I roll my eyes again at how banal it sounds.

  “If I listened to my heart, it would only say to protect my girls, nothing more.”

  “If you listened to your heart, it would ask if you’re alive,” I combat. “After the press conference, will you truly be? And I’m not talking literally, Connor, so don’t bring up anatomy and blood vessels.”

  A fraction of a smile appears and then falls back into deep contemplation. “I don’t know, Rose.”

  I don’t know. It’s a phrase Connor rarely utters. Hearing it now pulls at me.

  “Let’s do the crossword,” I say, setting my mug aside and gathering the newspaper. “I’ll let you choose the topic.”

  He arches a brow. “You’ll let me?” His grin almost returns, and it’s enough to shove the press conference in the back of my mind, shelving it once more.

  [ 53 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  I help Lo clean out the lake house’s fridge before we leave. We toss anything that might spoil in a black garbage bag. My mind is always at work, but it’s been spinning faster today, roaming through hundreds of thoughts.

  “You okay?” Lo asks again, chucking leftover scrambled eggs.

  I wear this faraway look that I can’t quite extinguish. “You remember your wedding?” I put an extra packet of hamburgers in the freezer.

  “You’re thinking about my wedding right now?”

  I’m thinking about everything. “It’s taking up a portion of my brain,” I say easily. I officiated his wedding, so I had an opening speech prepared. I only shared it with Rose before I spoke that day, and the girl who rarely sheds tears started bawling in our bedroom. I knew it was right, but after everything I’ve personally been through recently, the meaning holds greater power for me.

  “I can’t forget my wedding day, not that I would ever try,” he tells me with a smile, opening the trash bag wider as I chuck the milk.

  I hold his gaze. “When I said that you and Lily were the strongest people I’ve ever had the honor to meet, I meant every word.” I can’t even imagine, for a moment, battling the type of demons that they have every day of their lives, where it affects the person they love, where it tears them down equally. It’s torture that I can barely experience, and I am in awe that they came out alive, together.

  Lo nods a couple times, watching me to find the origin of my thoughts. “You and Rose—you’re pretty much superheroes in my world, you know? If anyone wins in the end, it’s you.”

  I have trouble believing words I always thought to be true.

  My doubt is new, but it’s lingering softly. I know in a few days, I’ll push it away. It’s just the uncertainty, the gray-washed future with no detectable paths that clouds my usually sound and assured judgment.

  “Lo!” Lily calls from the top of the staircase. “Did you already put Moffy’s diaper bag in the car?!”

  “Shit,” he curses, hesitating to leave.

  “Go,” I tell him, taking his trash bag.

  “Thanks, love,” he says. “You always know how to finish strong.”

  I smile as he leaves. I spend a couple minutes tossing mostly empty and half-eaten items. We don’t have enough room in the trunk to pack coolers and save perishable food. I grab the quarter-full carton of orange juice.

  “Hey, don’t fucking toss that.” Ryke approaches and steals the carton from my hand. He unscrews the cap and chugs the juice. While he drinks, he shoves something hard in my chest.

  I take hold of the item…a decent-sized book. The title and part of the cover is obscured by a sticky note. I make out his handwriting that says, Merry fucking Christmas.

  I can’t hide my surprise, not today.

  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I planned to give it to you next Christmas, but I couldn’t wait.” His voice is less rough than usual. He nods to me. “Page two-sixty.”

  I’m honestly speechless, but he doesn’t linger for a reply. He trashes the now empty carton of orange juice, leaving me alone.

  I peel off the sticky note and skim the cover, orange and yellow hellfire blossomed around gargoyle creatures, like they’re nestled in flowers made of flames.

  It’s the Penguin Classics edition of Man and Superman, a four-act drama by George Bernard Shaw. I’ve read it once before, but in no way can I recall what’s on page two-sixty by memory. So I do as he instructed and turn to the precise location.

  The play ends on two-forty-nine, and Shaw’s Maxims for Revolutionists begins. In a section titled “Reason”—Ryke highlighted a quote in yellow.

  I silently read the words:

  “The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”

  I rest my forearm on the counter, and the trash bag falls out of my grasp. The passage hits me harder than I thought it could.

  I’ve always been the reasonable man. It’s easier. I tend to go after the harder challenges, but not when it’s like beating my brains against a brick wall.

  To be unreasonable for the first time in my life—can I even do it?

  [ 54 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cobalt won’t be taking questions from the press, so if you have any planned, we suggest you put them away,” Naomi advises the collection of journalists and photographers that have gathered for the press conference. I stand backstage with Rose, our daughter, and her parents and our friends, waiting for my cue to greet the media.

  Lily whispers, “It’s already streaming live on GBA News.” She has Lo’s cellphone cupped in her hands, and she flashes the screen to us. Sure enough, my publicist stands behind a podium with about ten microphones attached, insignias of each news station printed on them.

  In seconds, that’ll be me.

  I can’t determine what I feel in this particular moment. I don’t have time to call Frederick to ask. Rose lifts Jane higher on her hip, and Jane says, “Daddy!” Her exclamation echoes in the speakers of Lily’s phone, which means the microphones caught her voice.

  I rest a hand on Rose’s back and then kiss Jane’s cheek. She touches my jaw with a wider smile, and I say quietly so only Rose and Jane could possibly hear, “The only apology I will make today is to the two of you.” What I decide affects them, more than anyone else backstage.

  “It’s unneeded,” Rose tells me, her shoulders pulled back, chin raised, ready for war. I love her for it. “So pocket your unnecessary apology.”

  I smile at the passion in her voice. “My pockets are full, darling.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Of what?”

  “Of love.”

  She presses her lips to stop from smiling, but she’s doing a horrible job hiding it.

  “She’s smiling for me,” I muse. “It’s a standing ovation before the speech has even begun.”

  She controls her expression and it morphs into a glare.

  I grin. “Rose, Rose, Rose,” I feign contemplation, “always making me work for the win.” Just how I like.

  “Richard, Richard, Richard,” she practically smites my name. And then she pauses, her eyes drilling into me. “Go win.”

  It brings me back to the moment, and Naomi pads through the black curtain, entering backstage. “They’re waiting for you,” she tells me.

  I kiss
Rose’s cheek and then Jane’s again. I leave their side.

  Corbin lingers by the stage entrance. “Where’s your speech?” His eyes dance around my suit.

  “In my head,” I say easily.

  He curses like this is going to go terribly.

  “Do you know me?” I ask him. I never cower, not an inch of my six-foot-four build. With every ounce of confidence I possess, I remain upright, assured and tall.

  He takes too long to answer, so I extend my hand to shake his, as though we’re meeting for the first time. By the guile of my assertive demeanor, he does shake my hand.

  “I’m Richard Connor Cobalt,” I tell him. “The man whose IQ doubles yours. I would suggest scripts for yourself, maybe line-by-line and in large font, but I won’t ever need one.” I pat him on the shoulder. “I’d tell you to remember this, but I’m extremely hard to forget.”

  I push past his startled body and enter the main stage. Cameras flash in quick succession, journalists seated in about eight rows with tripods stationed around the parameter, filming the conference. I stand behind the glass podium.

  No paper.

  No teleprompter.

  I haven’t rehearsed a poignant speech for hours on end. I haven’t recited anything to Rose or in the mirror. I construct what I need to say in the moment, and I trust myself wholeheartedly to accomplish this to my high, impossible standards.

  I’m used to the bright flashes, and I hardly blink as they appear in waves. Every journalist sits erect, eager for answers: Did you really sleep with those guys? Have you had sex with Loren? Do you really love Rose? How does Jane fit into all of this?

  When the cameras settle and I’m no longer bathed in blinding light, I finally speak. “There is nothing that the media could say to me that would justify the way they’ve acted. You can hound me. You can follow me, but in no way should you frighten those around me. To harm my wife and potentially harm my daughter—there is no excuse that could put any of you on the right side of morality.”

  The day where Rose almost fell in a hoard of cameramen floods me. Many news stations condemned the paparazzi for surrounding us, for causing Rose to rip out her hair just to protect our daughter, but not much has changed since then.