Slow Burn by K. Bromberg

  I just raise my eyebrows and keep moving out the side exit of the club, where a bouncer approaches me and then steps back when I say, “She’s gonna throw up. Watch out.”

  And that just makes Haddie struggle more, fists pound harder, and me laugh louder. When I clear the exit, I keep on walking though. Down the sidewalk, the whole two blocks to my conveniently and centrally located condo.

  I hear her say Bastard and Put me down and How dare you? I get puzzled looks from passersby, and I am actually quite shocked that not a single one of them tries to stop me to make sure she’s all right and that I’m not some random psycho kidnapping her. Either the crazy-ass grin on my face tells them all is okay or that I am a lunatic and to back the fuck off. Regardless, I’m so busy trying to concentrate on not dropping her squirrely body that I don’t have a moment to think about this narrative on our society as I normally would.

  Of course, by the time I walk up the front steps to my building, Haddie’s skirt has inched up so handily that my arm is touching bare flesh, meaning my only line of sight is toned legs and four-inch heels.

  I work a swallow down my throat as I wait for the elevator. I debate taking the stairs—think it might be best to work off some of this pent-up lust, which makes me want to take her up against the elevator wall right now—but I know that she’s going to put up a damn good fight—already has—and I’m going to need my strength to make sure she hears me this time around.

  Because I’m not letting her go until she hears what I need to say.

  And I need to say a whole helluva lot.

  Chapter 13

  I can’t focus on much. But the few things I take in between my rage and my incessant pounding on his back is Becks being the ever-consummate gentleman as he carries me down the streets of Los Angeles.

  Over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  All the while saying, “Good evening,” to people like he’s on a goddamn Sunday stroll.

  I’m seething. Fucking bastard.

  I’m tired—my head feels like it weighs fifty pounds as I try to lift it up again to work out where we are—and I’m about to succumb to the exhaustion and sag over him from the mixture of too many shots and expending too much energy when all of a sudden, I’m being thrown through the air.

  I’m shocked into what I’d like to think is semisobriety—but really is probably far from it—when I land with a loud oof on the softness of a couch beneath me. But soft or not, the impact of my weary muscles against the cushions is jarring. The moment I hit it, though—the minute my mind catches up with my body—I’m scrambling to get up, to get in his face and ask him how dare he treat me like this.

  Before I’m even standing, Becks is on me: knees straddling my hips, hands pinning my wrists on either side of my head. And God, I’m so fucking pissed at him, I want to knee him in the crotch, and at the same time, I want him to lean in closer so that I can devour that sexy-as-sin mouth of his, which is so temptingly close to mine.

  I know I’ve had a lot to drink—the alcohol must be making me want him as desperately as I do—because as angry as I am at him right now, all I want is for him to release one of my hands so I can fist it at the base of his neck and force his mouth down to mine. I want to steal a taste of the man who’s been owning my thoughts.

  Did he really think I didn’t see him sitting in the club across the dance floor? It was like an electric current buzzing through the room the minute my body became aware of his presence. A lightning strike to my libido. And yet he kept his distance.

  The. Whole. Time.

  It unnerved me.

  Me, the girl who’s always on her game. I knew Cal was there observing how I ran things, but fuck, having Becks there was ten times worse. I tried to tell myself he was there with his friend—that it was merely a coincidence he was at the same club as the Scandalous event—but I don’t put that much stock in fate.

  As the night wore on, I could feel his eyes on me the whole time. I knew he was watching and waiting, but for what? He had farmers’-market-what’s-her-name, didn’t he? And then I was hurt thinking about it—also confused—all the while trying to paint a damn smile on my face and make sure everyone was having a good time. Pretend to focus my mind on them when it was always fixated on him.

  And with each shot I slung back, the nerves got a little less powerful, and the anger grew a little more. How dare he make me like him? How dare he make me like the idea he was sitting over there just to make sure that I was okay? And how do I know that’s why he was there? Because that’s just the type of guy he is. Fuck, I don’t want that. It’s just not a possibility.

  And that made me even angrier.

  So another shot down, a smooth line delivered by a decent-looking guy to my alcohol fuzzed mind, and I was so game to be a little festive. To lose myself in him and forget Becks. And then by the time I realized I was progressing from wanting to use sex to forget the grief of losing Lexi to wanting to forget the ache of not allowing myself a chance with Becks, it was too late.

  I was kissing the guy except the problem was even with the shots and the high of kissing a different person, the thrill was nonexistent. He wasn’t what I wanted. And then what I wanted was there, all alpha and arrogance and sex on a stick. As Becks pulled him away from me, I was pissed at being caught, at what it looked like, at what he thought of me now. I turned the embarrassment into anger, and a lot of fucking good that did me.

  Now the man I don’t want to want is tempting me in so many ways, it’s comical.

  And arousing as all get out.

  “Let. Me. Go.” I pant out the words as I struggle against him.

  “Uh-uh.” He grunts with exertion as I buck beneath him, trying to escape. And of course, I can feel him thick and heavy against my lower belly, and that sets off warning bells to my staunch resolve not to have him, not to want him.

  And a slow burn of liquid heat starts to spread from my core through my body, the ache coiling like a loaded spring waiting for its chance to spiral out of control.

  “Goddamn it, Montgomery. Calm the fuck down, and I’ll let you go … but you’re not leaving until we talk.”

  “Fuck. Off.” The words are out of my mouth before I can filter them. I don’t really mean them but damn if he’s not riling me up something fierce.

  He laughs at me. Fricking chuckles at my assertion, and that irks me even more. I hold my head still and look up at him, the shadows and the muted light from the hall playing over the angles of his face. He leans in closer, his mouth a mere whisper from mine, causing my breath to emit a betraying hitch, and says, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to walk away without asking you a single question.” I furrow my brow as his slow, even cadence hits my ears. He licks his lips, and I swear to God, my nipples tighten at the sight alone and the memory of that tongue of his.

  “Fuck you.” I grit the words out as I writhe beneath him, struggling within the confines of his thighs, my hips grinding up against his. My thoughts scatter momentarily when I feel him hardening against me. Damn if my desire isn’t surging through my body like the blood in my veins.

  He emits a sliver of a laugh—the sound of a man on the edge of losing control—before he continues. “Oh, believe me, I’d love to do just that right now, to fuck you, but I prefer my women to be willing participants in the act … and you, sweet Haddie, are nowhere near compliant.”

  Compliant, my ass. He thinks that he can throw me over his shoulder and force me to go wherever the hell we are, and I’m going to be a willing participant? Is he fucking crazy? Obviously. And he’s … he’s … My thoughts are lost as he lowers his mouth to mine.

  I part my mouth on reflex. My tongue and lips are so thirsty for a taste of him that I arch my neck in a nonverbal begging motion. I’m stunned momentarily, but it’s a split second before I feed my craving.

  And take.

  I let his tongue lick against mine—absorb the warmth, the comfort, the desire, all mixed into one heady combination that has
a moan in the back of my throat before his lips even begin moving against mine. His hands tighten their grip on my wrists as his mouth takes without asking, as it brands and claims and owns every inch of mine.

  I fist my hands—a useless attempt to halt the freight train of desire hurtling out of control within me. But it’s too late … especially when I can taste the mint mixed with rum on his breath and smell the earthy scent of his cologne, the fragrance of his shampoo—because all I want is more of the man I’ve told myself I can’t have.

  Before the kiss even ends, I’m telling myself this—the taste of Beckett Daniels on my tongue and the comforting feeling of his weight on top of me—is enough, but I know it’s not. I try to convince myself that it’s the alcohol screaming in my mind to beg for more, to ask him to drive me to that mind-numbing place I know he can help me find, but just as I’m about to blurt the words out, Becks tears his mouth from mine.

  And his weight lifts from my body.

  “Goddamn it!” I hear him bark out the curse beside me as I’m busy trying to assess what the hell just happened. How we went from the club to the couch to nothing in such a short period of time. “I need a minute.”

  I scramble up from the couch, and I stare at the broad lines of his back as he walks away from me, both hands shoving through his hair as he confuses me even more when he mutters something else about the click and how it’s fucking ridiculous. “Haddie …” My name is a groan on his lips, but when he falls silent, I can’t figure out what in the hell he wants right now.

  I’m so primed with need, so invigorated by his kiss and amped up with anger, that my body reacts on instinct. I want him—no, need him—to quiet the constant sadness that hasn’t been silent since the last time we were together. And hell yes, I know I want to use him right now. Need him to use me right now. Because if I know it’s mutual, I won’t feel bad when I have to walk away because I can’t commit to anything more than this with him.

  Or anyone.

  I step into him, cup him through his jeans, and bring my lips to his. He tries to resist me at first, tries to talk, but I can feel the pulse of his dick through the fabric as it hardens. His breath hitches and his body tenses with the demands made by my greedy hands. But when our mouths meet again, a vicious meeting of lips and unspoken needs, he relents. He kisses me back with just as much aggression. We bruise and nip and take from each other. Our actions scream anger, carnality, pure need, but he doesn’t touch me, hands flat against the wall beside him.

  I tear my lips from his, as his refusal to touch me—a blatant denial of what I want—challenges me, urges me to push a little harder, seduce a little more. I’m a woman used to getting what I want, and what I want is him. I decide to change tactics and press my lips to the underside of his jaw, lacing openmouthed kisses up the line of his neck. His skin is warm. the slight taste of salt and pure Becks hits my tongue and enrages the heat he seems to control within me.

  He remains stiff—both in posture and in my hand—as he wavers on whether to give into the primal need that continually reverberates between us or to resist this temptation for whatever reasons he seems to have. And I don’t care what the reasons are, nor do I want to think about how impressive his restraint is, because all I want to do is satisfy the ache in my core.

  “Haddie, we can’t … my rules … We shouldn’t—”

  “Sh-shh!” My finger is on his lips stopping him. “I know … but we’ve broken all the rules so far. Why stop now?” I look at his lips and then back up to his eyes before leaning in closer, my teeth tugging on his earlobe in a move that earns a hiss from him to help reinforce the words I murmur in his ear. “Please, Becks. I want to feel you.”

  “Damn you, Had. I’m trying to do the right thing here.” His hands start to move now, his head angling back, and I fear it’s so that he can pull away from me, so I curl my fingers in his hair to hold him still.

  I wait for him to look into my eyes so he can see how badly I want this. How badly I need this. “You can respect me all you want later. Right now, though, I’m all about doing what’s wrong.” I see a flicker of unfettered need in his gaze and know he wants me. Know that he’s riding that razor-thin line of restraint. Time to tip the scales. “I want you to make me feel owned.”

  His eyes widen, his teeth clench, and I know I’ve gotten him with my forward demands. My body tenses in reaction at his silent acknowledgment.

  We stare at each other in a suspended state of acceptance of the hard and fast that is about to happen. I feel like everything raging inside me is reflected perfectly in his eyes and in that telling hitch of his breath.

  And between one heartbeat and the next Becks’s mouth is suddenly on mine, where it belongs. One hand fists in the sequined shirt on my back and presses my body against his while the other cups my ass through my skirt, fingers kneading into the flesh there. He nips my bottom lip, soothing it with a tender lick of his tongue before taking ownership of the kiss once again.

  There’s something about the way he kisses that makes me hope he never stops. Soft and firm. Demanding yet giving. Teasing but desperate. I get lost in it. Get lost to him. I can’t think. His tantalizing assault on my mouth doesn’t allow me to. I’m ready and willing, my body his for the taking, and he’s done nothing more than kiss me.

  That single thought breaks through the haze of desire clouding my mind and causes little flutters in my stomach and tingles in my toes at the anticipation of what’s to come.

  I want to urge him to hurry, to rip my clothes off and take me right here, right now, but something tells me that I might have gotten away with ordering Beckett Daniels around one time, but one time is all I’m going to get.

  Becks just might be that rebel at heart that I go for after all. Sweet, ever-loving fuck yes!

  My hands find the hem of his shirt and snake their way beneath the fabric so I can score my fingernails against the hardened slab of muscle. I feel his torso flinch in reaction, as I use touch to entice him, to connect with him, to tease him. I map my hands along his flank and then up the strong lines of his back.

  His hands inch under my skirt so that his fingers can tempt my bare flesh. Chills race across my skin from his incendiary touch despite the surge of heat intensifying with each passing second. I lift my leg and wrap it around his hip so the apex of my thighs rubs perfectly against his denim-clad erection.

  The moan falls from my lips without thought. My hands act on reflex to pull his shirt over his head while our mouths break contact for the first time so that it can pass over his face, and then our lips crash back together as if we need each other’s air to breathe.

  My hands roam freely now. So many places to discover, so many nerves to tease into a frenzy. And I know it’s working—the combination of kissing and touching—because slow-and-steady Becks begins to move faster, dominance evident in his touch, but he’s anything but steady. Cupping my face, taking the leisurely trip from the curve of my ass up the line of my spine to fist my length of hair, demanding more of me from our kiss before easing back some and then starting the process all over again.

  I’m left breathless by his thoroughness—no man has ever kissed me this completely—and I’m ready to scream for him to lay me back on the couch or table or floor and press into my wetness. Drive me to the edge so that I can score his back and yell out his name.

  “Becks …” His name is a pant on my lips, my call to him that foreplay is overrated because right now I don’t care about lighting the fuse or the leftover collateral damage.

  I’m in the moment—the here and now—and all I care about is the detonation, the need for release.

  I allow my hands to leave his skin for a moment, crossing them in front of me as I pull my shirt over my head, tossing it to the side without a second thought. And hell if the groan that Becks emits from the back of his throat when he realizes that there’s nothing else beneath my top—no bra, nothing—isn’t sexy as hell and spurns my need brighter.

  I back away fr
om him, ready to take this erotic dance to the next step. I stay facing him and retreat to the couch until the backs of my legs hit the edge. He follows, eyes locked on mine before momentarily running up and down my naked chest, miniskirt, and high heels. My lips are numb from his kisses and my sex is damp and humming with anticipatory need.

  And he just stands there, fists clenched, body tense, staring at me as if the thoughts in his head are working way too hard when it’s the other head on his body that I want working hard in me right now.

  “Fuck me, Becks.” I have no shame in admitting that I want him. No embarrassment in confessing my needs. But a trace of unease tickles the base of my spine when he stands there and looks at me, head angled to the side, eyes probing through the darkened room into mine.

  He glances up to the ceiling momentarily as if he’s gathering his strength to push me away. Panic fires anew because his words from moments ago hit me. I’m not letting you go until we talk. I know that he’s going to start asking questions I don’t want to answer. But why now? Why in the middle of what was about to become some incredible nail-scratches-down-his-back and teeth-marks-left-in-my-shoulder type of sex?

  Because he wants more.

  The thought dawns on me. Well, at first it dawns on me, and then it turns into a wrecking ball of panic bearing down on me. I know Becks isn’t that manipulative, know that he grabbed me from making a mistake with that guy from the club because he’s a good guy, but hell if the mixture of alcohol and his possible rejection isn’t feeding my irrationality right now.

  He rolls his shoulders and spits out a slew of curses as he turns from me and stalks away for the second time tonight.

  My temper ignites into an inferno of rage fueled by warring pride and desire with a touch of disbelief. “What?” I yell, the sound of my heels filling the frigid silence as I stomp after him. He starts to walk one way and then stops and paces back the other way, shaking his head, shoulders tense. I walk the few feet to where my shirt lies discarded and tug it over my head as if it’s a layer of armor to protect me from what I fear will come next. “You haul me from the club, kiss me like you want to fuck me, and then what? Change your mind?” There’s fire in my veins and ice in my voice.