Combust

by K. Bromberg

  “You good, man?” Grant asks from the doorway.

  “Yeah. I’m . . .” Grady lowers his eyes for a second before looking back at his brothers. “Thanks, guys.”

  “Yep. Later, Grady.”

  The door shuts behind them as I’m searching the freezer for a bag of frozen vegetables to put on his cheek. Sadly, I know from my experience with Jett that this is what works best. I finally find one, and when I turn around, Grady is still staring at me with that look.

  “What happened?” I ask again as he hisses when I bring the bag to his cheek.

  “It was nothing.” He takes the frozen vegetables from me and walks to the other side of the kitchen. I swear he says something under his breath, but I can’t make it out.

  “It was nothing? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

  “Yep.” He drops the makeshift icepack on the counter and heads to get a beer out of the refrigerator. I push down the irritation that bubbles up at how cavalier he’s being toward me when I’ve done nothing wrong.

  “Seriously, Grady? You waltz in here with what looks like the start of an impressive black eye, bruised knuckles, and blood on your shirt, and all you’re going to tell me is it was nothing?”

  “Blood?” he asks, disregarding everything else I said and pulling on his shirt to look at the back of it where the blood is smeared in a few spots. “Fucking Christ.” He mutters and grits his teeth for a moment before tilting up his beer and downing the entire bottle in long swallows.

  There’s tension building between us, and I can’t help but feel like he’s mad at me for some reason. Although, I have no idea what it could be for other than Jett. But Jett isn’t here so . . .

  Grady throws his empty bottle in the sink and then, in one swift move, pulls his T-shirt over his head. When he goes to toss it in the trash, I wince. Some of that blood is from him. I don’t get a good look because the shadows of the kitchen fall over him, but it looks like there are slight cuts in a few spots on his back.

  How the hell did his back get cut?

  “How’s Jett?” he asks with a bite as he turns around, and I mentally cringe when he catches me staring at his back. He doesn’t realize it’s because he’s bleeding and not because of his scars, but he doesn’t comment.

  “I don’t know. He isn’t here.”

  There’s a slight hitch in his movement as he leans his hips back against the counter and stares at me.

  “Ah, the wonder boy decided to let you out of his sight for more than five minutes?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t,” I say, suddenly feeling like there is an unspoken and testosterone-laced competition being waged that I have no knowledge of. “I’m not interested.”

  “Hmm.” He folds his arms across his chest, angles his head to the side and studies me as if he’s trying to figure out whether to believe me or not. “Where is he, then?”

  “Napa.”

  “Why?”

  What is this, twenty questions?

  “To see an old friend.”

  “Huh.”

  He continues to glare at me without saying anything else, and I’m more confused now than ever. What happened to the man who kissed me on the head this morning as if we were husband and wife? I want that guy back. Not this version who’s treating me as if we’re a married couple on the verge of splitting up.

  “Grady? Why do you seem pissed at me?”

  “Because I am.” The way he says it—void of all emotion—knocks me on my heels for a second.

  “But why?”

  His aqua eyes are impenetrable, and that muscle in his jaw tics as he clenches and unclenches it. Without a word, he pushes off the counter to leave. Aghast that he would just walk out like that, I go to say something, but he stops right in front of me and crushes his mouth to mine.

  It takes a second for my mind to catch up to what my body is already reacting to—the onslaught of everything that is Grady Malone.

  Because this isn’t a let’s-play-house kiss.

  Oh no.

  This is a take-no-prisoners, no-holds-barred kiss.

  His hands are everywhere. On my waist. On my breasts. Sliding up my back beneath my shirt.

  His lips are on my lips. On my neck. On the slopes of my shoulder. His tongue waging an all-out war against my senses.

  There’s so much greed. So much need. So many pent-up emotions that I feel each and every time our bodies connect.

  My fingers thread through his hair. My palm runs over the coarseness of his five o’clock shadow. My body presses against his in the most delicious of ways as he pins me with his hips against the kitchen counter.

  I don’t have time to think. I don’t want time to think, because Grady is intoxicating in his finesse and demand for more.

  His hands frame my face and direct my head back as he breaks from our kiss. The same intensity as before is in his eyes as his chest heaves against mine.

  “Thank fuck he isn’t here because I’m going to fuck you, Dylan. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t pull you into this, but hell if I’ll be able to stop myself until I’m buried in that hot, wet pussy of yours. You got that?”

  My head dizzies with his explicit promises. He waits for my answer, his gaze fused to mine, and I know there is no way I will deny him. Not that I want to. The thought has crossed my mind more times than I care to count, and I’d be five shades of foolish to turn him down. And my body will disown me if I let the feel of him hard and ready pressed against me go to waste.

  But can I do this? Can I sleep with him and then live with him without getting involved? Without letting my emotions get involved?

  Yes.

  His eyes darken and hands tense on my bicep.

  Christ, don’t make this complicated. It’s one time. It’s what I need. Grady said so himself. The best way to get over someone is to sleep with someone else.

  Yes.

  He waits with muscles so taut that his body vibrates from the restraint.

  There’s only ever been one answer when it’s come to thinking about this question.

  Yes.

  I keep my eyes on his as I slowly run my hands down his ribcage and scrape my fingernails ever so slightly over those incredible abs of his to the button of his jeans.

  I love hearing his quick intake of air. I revel in seeing his eyes widen in surprise before they darken with lust. “Dyl . . .” My name is the sexiest of groans on his lips as I tug his zipper down and slide my hand inside his boxer briefs.

  He’s hard already, and his dick pulses when I cup him as best as I can within the confines of his denim.

  “Don’t tease me, Dylan.” I scrape my fingernails against the bottom of his balls. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it before we continue because once we start, we won’t be stopping for consent.”

  The fact that he’s asking me again when I am so blatantly telling him yes only adds to the seduction.

  I lean forward, my lips a whisper away from his. “Yes.”

  And no sooner do I say the word than his lips are on mine again. His tongue commanding mine to give and take and want and need just as his hands are doing the same to my body.

  Every touch is a splash of gasoline on a smolder. Every kiss is the match being lit. Every groan a lick of flame searing both my skin and my soul.

  I’m not sure who starts the movement, but we slowly make our way down the hall. My back bumps against the wall. We stumble over the rug. When we enter his room, we become a frenzied mess of removing clothes. Each item one less barrier between us.

  There’s a brief moment when our clothes are strewn around us, and we stand completely naked, staring at each other. I expect his gaze to dip, to check out my body, but it doesn’t. It stays fixed on my eyes, telling me he sees me without ever looking at my nakedness.

  It’s incredibly intimate. The look in his eyes. The way he steps forward and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The unspoken way he has o
f knowing this quiet moment is exactly what I need to prevent the nerves and insecurity from suddenly buzzing inside me like it typically would.

  He takes a deep breath, and this time when he leans into me, the kiss is slow and mesmerizing. It’s as if he’s kissing every single ounce of oxygen from my lungs and holding it hostage until he can kiss me the next time.

  “I want you.” His words are soft, but they reverberate loudly in every part of my body.

  And then the tenderness is gone. The next kiss is one of hungry desperation. How much can he take from me and how fast can he take it. We move backward until we tumble onto the bed, our laughter turning into my drawn-out moan and his libidinous groan as he sucks on my nipple.

  “Grady.” His name is the sound of unrequited need.

  Impatient and greedy.

  My hands are in his hair. Fisting. Tugging. Keeping his head right where it is so his mouth can continue to tease me with the sweet torture of his tongue and teeth against my nipples.

  Not only does he not stop, but his hands part my thighs, finding me wet and ready for him. My breath hitches as he slides his finger up and down my slit, his thumb rubbing over my clit, his fingers toying with my entrance so I buck my hips, begging for more.

  He doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he leaves his fingers right there, just barely entering me so the heel of his hand can rub and press against my clit. I squirm. I writhe. I groan. I beg. All I want is something of him in me. Right. Now. The pressure is building, and I need that cock of his to fill me, to grate over those nerves and ignite the wildfire of bliss starting to brim beneath the surface.

  “Grady.” I moan his name again, letting him know I need him. That my body is succumbing to his touch.

  “Condom,” he murmurs against my chest as the weight of his body eases off me so he can reach in the drawer of his nightstand.

  I can’t wait, so as he sits back on his knees to open the condom and roll it over the delicious girth of his shaft, I let my fingers travel their way between my thighs. I’m a mess of arousal, so my fingers slide easily into me before coming back out.

  He groans as he watches me. Teeth biting into his bottom lip. Hand working ever so slowly over his jacketed dick. Eyelids heavy and drugged with desire.

  Watching him watch me is erotic, and while I’m typically shy when it comes to my body, the way he’s looking at me pleasuring myself—the pads of my fingers on my clit, the way I slide between my lips to find more arousal before tripping back up to build my orgasm again—is empowering in a way I’ve never experienced before.

  My breath grows shallow, and it becomes hard to keep my eyes open as the pleasure builds, one wave after another, and just when I’m about to come—back arching, legs tensing—Grady locks his hand over my wrist.

  “Let me.”

  Those are two of the sexiest words I’ve ever heard.

  My eyes flash open to watch as Grady moves between my thighs. He grabs the underside of my knees and pulls me closer. His thick head teases my entrance. He pushes in just enough for me to feel the slow, sweet burn of my flesh giving way to his invasion before he pulls back out. Wicked, delicious torture.

  “You like that?” he murmurs as he watches where he teases.

  He does it a few more times, and just as I’m about to grab his hips myself to prevent him from pulling back out, he enters me fully in one dizzying thrust so he’s sheathed, root to tip.

  We both moan from the onslaught of pleasure. From the restraint tested. From the frenzy of our bodies begging for more.

  Our eyes meet. Our hands connect and fingers link. And then he moves again. Slowly at first, giving me time to adjust to him. When I have, I clench my muscles around him to tell him I’m good, and I love the way his eyes close partially from the sensation.

  And then he picks up the pace.

  He leans forward so our joined hands are pinned on either side of my head and adds to his pleasurable assault by kissing me again. His tongue moves in sync with his hips, and I writhe and buck, trying to draw out every ounce of bliss from our connection.

  It’s one bruising thrust after another. Every nerve of mine thrums and pulses as he rubs and grinds against them, until all I can concentrate on is him and the climax bearing down on me without mercy.

  My body is a confusing combination of pleasure building to pain, want bending to need, and desperation feeding gluttony.

  Seconds turn to minutes. Each one that passes a badge of honor for holding out, but I know it won’t be for much longer. There’s too much sensory overload, and I welcome every single moment of it.

  The sound of our bodies connecting. The slap of flesh against flesh with each drive.

  The feel of him. The girth of his cock. The way my fingers spread to fit his between mine.

  The taste of him. His kiss on my lips. The hunger in it laced with desire and edged with the beer he had in the kitchen.

  The smell of him. Soap and shampoo and fabric softener. And sex.

  The look of him. Visual porn in every way imaginable. Muscles rippling. Sweat misting. Body aware.

  And then the surge comes—every part of my body attuned to him, every nerve touched, every erogenous zone satisfied. I cry out when I come. At first, it’s a tidal wave of sensations—pushing me up, pulling me under, stealing my breath—then just when I’m about to drown in the pleasure of it all, another wave hits. One after another until I’m floating in a sea of ecstasy.

  My hips lift to meet his. My nipples become ultra-sensitive to the feel of his chest grazing them. The muscles pulse around his dick and milk his own orgasm out of him.

  It’s my name on his lips now. It’s my hands he crushes as the haze engulfs him. It’s my body he uses until he’s spent and lying on top of me, breath labored and lips pressed against the underside of my jaw as our heartbeats struggle to calm.

  Eventually, our fingers loosen from each other’s and the gravity of the moment settles over me.

  “Well, that’s one way to avoid talking about your fight.”

  “Look at it this way,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my skin and sending chills over me. “We just had make-up sex and we haven’t even had a proper fight yet.”

  “Next time I’ll throw a plate at you first.”

  “Good idea.” He chuckles.

  Next time?

  Next time.

  If this is what make-up sex is like with Grady Malone, then I sure as hell can’t wait to see what regular sex is like.

  I wake with a start. My mind is scrambled from the dream that started out with Jett kissing me. Then, when he leaned back, it was no longer Jett but Grady whose lips were mesmerizing mine.

  But now it’s no one’s. Now it’s only the muted light of the predawn and the chill of the morning air against my nakedness. Trying to snuggle back under the covers, I roll to my side and am met with Grady’s back.

  My breath catches at the sight of it up close. Scars are layered one upon another in a plane of destruction. Some areas look tight to the touch, the scar tissue constricting the skin. Others look like a sea of lava slid its way down his back and left different grooves from spot to spot. There is red and pink and every shade in between, every texture from smooth to puckered, every indication of the hell he endured.

  Add to that, there are tiny lacerations in various spots of his scars where his skin has cracked open some and bled.

  The fight. The blood on his shirt. It wasn’t the other guy’s. It was Grady’s.

  So many thoughts race through my mind. Are the small tears painful? And if so, will it ever get any better so he doesn’t hurt? Add to that, does it hurt when I touch him?

  “We were in a three-alarm fire on the edge of town in an industrial park,” he begins in a whisper, but the pain is just as raw and real as the scars on his skin. He keeps his back to me but continues on, somehow knowing I’m awake and studying them. “Drew . . . God, Drew. He wouldn’t fucking listen. We were trying to knock down some debris in a room that was fue
ling the fire when he swore he heard someone calling for help. I couldn’t hear shit besides the crackle and pop of the flames. We’d been told the building was cleared, but he swore he kept hearing it.”

  “Grady.” I don’t know what to say. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

  “Well, it seems kind of pertinent since we are dating and all that.” I hear the smile in his voice, and for a brief second, I wonder if he’s being serious since we’re both in bed—naked. Then I realize he’s referring to the Jett situation.

  I chuckle and give in to the urge to reach out and touch his arm in a show of silent support. He jerks when my fingers connect, but I keep them where they rest. Away from his myriad of scars but close enough for him to know they don’t disgust me.

  After a few seconds, he exhales a shaky breath and relaxes.

  Baby steps.

  “It seemed like it happened so fast and took forever all at the same time. I knocked a window out, and when I turned around, he was heading into the next room when we should have been getting the hell out because the fire was too damn hot. But that was Drew . . . selfless. Wanting to take care of others before he took care of himself. We got separated when a ceiling beam fell. Then another. And another. I couldn’t get to him, and he was trapped somehow. Then I heard his PASS alarm. He’d stopped moving. I went crazy trying to get to him, but then the roof collapsed on me.”

  “Jesus, Grady.”

  “There was no Jesus there that day. If there had been, he wouldn’t have taken Drew.”

  There’s an understandable anger in his voice. The silence settles around us as I try to imagine the horror he endured. The fear. The helplessness. And I know that no matter what I imagine, the reality was a hundred times worse.

  “The other day at the farmers’ market,” he continues, “that was his widow and their son. Shelby and Brody. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you . . . I just—sometimes it’s hard for me to talk about it. I think about it twenty-four seven, and we were having a nice time. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Drew’s last words to me were to take care of Brody since he knew his son was going to lose his father.” I squeeze my hand where it is, words failing me as my eyes well with tears. “Do you know how hard it was hearing him say that and knowing he knew?”