One True Pairing: A Geek Girl Rom Com (Fandom Hearts) Page 5

  “I want to,” he said, starting to bend back to the task, but she tugged his head up again.

  “You’re too far ahead already,” she said. “This has been all you, serving me. We need to get even.”

  “What, is it a competition?”

  “More like . . . quid pro quo,” she said, tugging him back up so they were face-to-face. She looped her arms around his neck, kissing that marble jawline of his, feeling the scruff of beard that was starting. She gave him a quick lick, her tongue tracing the tiny hollow where the hinge of his jaw met his neck, just below his earlobe.

  “You like being in control, huh?” He chuckled, and it was a fun, carefree sound. “Why am I not shocked?”

  She bit her lip. Then she bit his, causing him to snort out a surprised laugh. “You’ll like me being in control, too,” she promised.

  “Bossy,” he teased.

  “Maybe.” She looked into his eyes. “Let me?”

  He sighed, then leaned back on the bed. “I’m yours.”

  That sobered her more than anything he could’ve said. For the tiniest moment, she was thrown. This guy probably had groupies—God, she hated that term—and may well have slept with thousands of women, for all she knew. Just because he’d had a six-month break didn’t mean the guy was a monk. She was sexually active, and perfectly okay with that fact. But this guy may well have been sexually voracious, with a wide and assorted variety of experiences. From women who probably took frickin’ continuing education classes in “getting your freak on.” His body had probably been rocked and his mind blown by more people than she could easily name, in ways she’d only seen in porn.

  She was confident, sure, but even for her, this was intimidating.

  She faltered in her exploration, frowning. She didn’t want to be just another lay, for whatever reason. She wanted to be memorable. She wanted to affect his life the way he was currently affecting hers, because she knew that even though they hadn’t had sex yet, she wasn’t going to forget any of this. It was blazed into her psyche, something she both marveled at and even regretted, because she knew other men were going to have a tough time measuring up. She wanted him to feel that way about her and other women. Normally, she wouldn’t care, but tonight was different. Somehow.

  She wanted tonight to be different. For both of them.

  So she took a deep breath, then rested her forehead against his for a long moment. She stroked his chest, his shoulders, his arms, memorizing the feel of his skin.

  He’d startled her with his attention to all her details. She realized she needed to flip the script, and take a page out of his book. Her first instinct had been to devour him, but she knew that was the wrong tack to take: it was her own impatience and eagerness and sheer desire. If she just leaped in there and started mauling him, she’d be no better than those douchebag guys who were more intent on “giving it to you good” than actually making sure you had a good time. She didn’t want to be that guy.

  Instead, she studied him.

  She breathed in the scent of him, where his neck met his shoulder. Smoothed her palms over him, pressing kisses over his sternum, his pecs, his clavicle, his chin. Tiny sharp bites. Caressing kisses. Investigative touches.

  Who would’ve guessed a guy this big was ticklish around his sides? Or that he had sensitive earlobes, where a well-placed nibble would make him shudder and clutch his arms around her waist?

  She felt—hyper real. Everything was emphasized. The smell of him, like clean winter air undershot with hints of something expensive and musky, like sandalwood or amber. The feel of his skin, velvet over the corded steel of his muscles. The sound of his growls and low moans. Even the taste of him.

  He was touching her, tasting her, as she explored, distracting her in the most delicious way as the combination of her discoveries and the passionate responses he was drawing out of her simply overtook her. She wasn’t in charge anymore, didn’t care that she’d lost track of what she was trying to achieve. She didn’t have anything to prove right now. She was just indulging in the feelings that crashed through her.

  It was different than any sexual or sensual encountered she’d ever had. That might freak her out later. Right now, she was in over her head and she didn’t give a damn.

  She reached for his fly, smoothing her palm over the long, hard length straining against the fabric. Then she paused, her hands on the button. She glanced at him, asking permission silently.

  When he nodded, she couldn’t help it. She smiled, and if it were anything like the hungry, sensual smile he had . . .

  Oh, yeah. This was going to be good.

  She undid the button, undoing the zipper tooth by tooth. Now it was his turn to growl impatiently. It felt like a drug. She could get addicted to this slow jam business.

  She kissed him, nipping at his lower lip, licking his upper lip. Then she peeled down his jeans, shoving them off his hips. He took them the rest of the way off. Now they were finally even: down to underwear only. His boxers were plain navy cotton, his cock tenting them like the big top at a circus.

  She felt her body tense. She couldn’t wait for the main event.

  She crawled on top of him, her panties brushing against the hard length of him, and her body shivered, going wet in a rush. She let his covered cock stroke between her thighs, and she cradled it gently, weaving from side to side above him, the lace of her bra whispering against his muscular chest. He reached up, removing the silky barrier, then cupped her bare breasts. She arched, pressing herself more fully into his hands even as it made her hips and thighs fit more snugly against his erection.

  “You feel so . . . fucking . . . good,” he ground out, his hips rising to meet her as his hands kneaded her breasts gently, but insistently.

  She leaned down for a hungry kiss, smiling against his lips. “Not so bad yourself,” she replied breathlessly. “This slow enough for you?”

  He grinned back, then pulled her to him, his cock pushing insistently at her entrance, separated only by thin films of cotton and lace. “I’ll show you slow,” he promised in a growl against her throat.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she said. Then she pulled away, slipping out of her panties. Now she was completely naked. She pulled down his boxers. His erection was everything she’d hoped, and then some, thick and straight and . . . yum. She stroked it, and it strained against her palm.

  She needed to grab a condom. She wanted him inside her, now.

  She gave him one more kiss, feeling the hot iron of him brush against her stomach. She was going crazy. “Let me just grab a . . .”

  She froze as she heard her phone ring. Not just any ringtone. It was “Carry On Wayward Son.” That meant Rachel’s phone.

  That meant trouble.

  Chapter 3

  Jake felt taut as fucking piano wire. This woman—holy hell, she was like lava, molten hot and sinuous. He had never in his life wanted a woman as much or as badly as he wanted Hailey.

  Calm it down, he warned himself. At this rate, he’d come as soon as he entered her. So much for slow, he thought, grinning.

  He heard her cell phone ring, let out a low growl. They probably should’ve shut their phones off. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t thought of anything but her. And now . . .

  She’d been graceful in her movements, like a dancer. But the moment that phone rang, she grabbed for her cell like she was slapping out a fire, with an instinctive, clumsy haste. “Hello?”

  The heater chose that moment to kick on, drowning out the other side of the conversation, but he saw Hailey’s expression fall slack, her eyes glittering with resolve. “All right. Don’t worry. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She didn’t even look at him as she clicked off her phone. She was up and off the bed in a flash, snatching up her clothing, putting it on like a firefighter who had just heard the alarm.

  Just like that, it was as if he didn’t exist. She moved like a machine, all her previous grace and sensuousness gone.

&nbs
p; “What happened?” he asked quickly, standing up and reaching for her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go. Now.” Her deep violet eyes that had been so hot just a moment ago were now hard, cold. “Where did you put my bra?”

  He pointed numbly toward the other bed, where he’d tossed it. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about.” She shimmied into her underwear, then tugged on her jeans. He felt a moment of loss as she put her bra back on. “I just need to go.”

  His body ached like a son of a bitch, but he wasn’t a complete ass. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I got it.” Each word was clipped, like she’d chipped it off an ice block with a pick. Then, seeing that he wasn’t going anywhere, she shrugged. “Family stuff,” she added, but the look on her face suggested something more.

  What kind of “family stuff” happened at eleven o’clock at night, he wondered. Something that would . . .

  Wait a second.

  “Do you have a kid or something?” he blurted out. A sick kid would be the reason a woman would shut down and go into emergency mode.

  “Or something,” she said. The look of derision on her face was venomous. “And what if I did? Have a kid. Kind of a boner killer, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t care,” he said honestly. He imagined any kid of Hailey’s would probably be awesome, and was momentarily intrigued. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on. You were really into it, and now you’re racing out of here like there’s a hostage situation . . .”

  “It’s family stuff,” she said tightly, with the silent and it’s none of your business so clear, she might as well have held up a sign. She slipped into her boots as she pulled her sweater back on, then sat on the edge of the bed to zip them.

  He grimaced. Then he sat next to her. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” she muttered. Her movements were choppy, frantic. “No, we don’t need any rescuing, thanks. This isn’t a problem you can fix. I just need to go, okay?”

  He felt anger bubble up in him. “What the hell is with the attitude? I’m just trying to help!”

  “And I’m just trying to leave!” She said, yanking her coat off the other bed and pushing her arms through the sleeves. “I don’t have time to hold your hand and reassure you. Don’t like my attitude? I’ll be gone in a minute, so no worries, you don’t have to deal with it. Good luck with the convention and the show and all that.”

  That was the worst thing. Her tone. He’d gone from “incredible object of desire” to “obstacle and distraction” in the blink of an eye. She was also palpably anxious about that phone call. Whatever could scare this powerhouse of a woman had to be pretty goddamned bad.

  He knew, instinctively, that she could probably handle it herself. But he found himself caring, and wanting her to know that maybe she didn’t have to.

  “Wait. Wait, damn it,” he said, holding the door as she unlatched it.

  Her blue eyes gleamed, her arctic gaze going from his hand, to his eyes, then back to his hand, with growing fury. “You do not want to try to stop me from leaving,” she said, her voice icy.

  “Just give me one second to throw some clothes on,” he said, keeping his palm flat against the door and stepping closer to her. “I’m going with you.”

  She moved like lightning, slamming him against the wall, surprising him. “I need to get to my sisters,” she said in a low growl. “Do you understand? They need me. Right. Now. Do not fuck with me on this!”

  He let her shove him away from the door frame, worry, anger, frustration, and—yeah, sexual tension, he admitted—swirling around in him in a toxic cocktail of emotions. “Damn it! Why can’t you accept some help? Why do you have to do this all by yourself?”

  “Asking if I needed help? That was considerate. Your hand on the door, though? Telling me you’re going with me?” She glared at him as she opened the door. “Why the fuck do you have to make this about you?”

  His jaw dropped. “About me?”

  But she didn’t stop to answer his question. Instead, she was already moving, striding down the hall like the Terminator, like she’d kill anything that got in her way. She broke into a sprint about halfway to the elevator bank.

  He watched as she disappeared into the elevator, then grumbled, realizing he was buck naked and standing in a hotel room doorway. Security cameras were going to love that, he thought, rubbing his hand over his face as he locked the door.

  He gritted his teeth, then headed to the mini-bar, grabbing a small bottle of tequila. How did he always attract the crazies, he thought, downing half of it with one swig. Cheating ex-girlfriends. Persistent groupies. That damned stalker. And now Hailey Frost, Queen of Hot and Cold. He was probably better off without her.

  Why the fuck do you have to make this about you?

  Her words rang in his head, and he grimaced, finishing off the tiny bottle. Try to be nice, he thought defensively, and it bites you on the ass.

  Asking if I needed help was considerate. Your hand on the door, though?

  He frowned, grabbing another mini bottle. He didn’t open it immediately, though. Instead, he rolled it around between his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  The thing was, he’d liked Hailey. Sure he was attracted to her, but there was more than just that flash burn of sexual combustibility. There was a warmth to her. She was fun to talk to, clever, quick, with equal parts of heart and snark. And there was a palpable passion when she talked about how much she loved her little town. She was a mystery, too, one he was dying to unravel.

  “Goddamn it,” he grunted, opening the second bottle.

  He’d held the door because he wanted her to listen. He wanted to go with her, to help her. To fix her problems and erase the tension that had flooded through her. To learn more about her, delve deeper into her life.

  She was right, he thought.

  He’d made it about what he wanted. He hadn’t listened to her at all, hadn’t backed off when she obviously needed him to. She wasn’t posturing—she was telling him, and he’d bulled through and made it about him.

  He rubbed his face.

  When he got the chance, he thought, he’d apologize.

  That is . . . if he got the chance. Because there was a really good possibility that he’d screwed up his one and only shot at Hailey Frost.

  * * *

  Please, God, let her be okay. Everything else—the almost-sex, the stupid scene with Jake, the whole thing—disappeared beneath the weight of that one thought.

  It was lucky Hailey was just up the hill from their house. She was never a slow driver to begin with, but adrenaline and fear made her roar down the road like a Valkyrie before screeching to a halt in front of the dilapidated Victorian that was both her home and her sister’s business.

  Her half sister Rachel opened the door, obviously waiting for her. Where Hailey was the hell-raiser, Rachel was the librarian—quiet, staid, studious. She and Hailey shared indigo eyes and full lips, but that’s where the similarities shifted. Where Hailey was overblown, Rachel was perfect: perfectly symmetrical, perfectly proportioned. Stunning without being showy, sensuous without being overt. She was petite, about five foot three, with a slight but definitely womanly frame. She also had a face like an angel, like something carved out of marble. Right now, she looked like a luminous statue, somber and beautiful.

  “Cressida?” Hailey asked quickly.

  “She’s in her room,” Rachel said, her eyes filled with concern. “In the closet.”

  Hailey stepped in from the cold night air, peeling off her leather coat as Rachel shut and locked the door. “What the hell happened?”

  Rachel sighed. “She tried to go outside while I was working. Vickie was driving by on her way to the store tonight, and saw Cress lying there on the front steps. Vickie said it seemed like she’d been there a while, given how cold she was.” Rachel’s voice sounded like jagged glass. “I worked late, which meant I stayed late
at the library studying. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .”

  Hailey felt her stomach clench like she’d been punched hard in the gut. “Jesus.”

  “I rushed home, got her back upstairs.” Rachel’s face looked like it could’ve been carved out of porcelain, but her eyes were pure agony. “She’s . . . Well. Balled up on the floor, beside her books. She hasn’t talked in a few hours, though, and . . . I wasn’t going to call you, but I was so worried. Maybe she should go to the hospital . . . ?”

  “Fuck. No, she hates hospitals. I’ll make sure she’s all right.” Hailey gripped Rachel’s thin hand. It was like ice. “You okay?”

  “Just wish I could help her more,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry I called. I know tonight’s your, um, night off, but I didn’t . . .”

  “Don’t ever apologize for something about Cressida,” Hailey said, and then let out a little huff of breath when Rachel made a tiny, almost imperceptible wince. “I love you, Rache, you know that. But Cress and I . . .”

  “I know.” Rachel squeezed her hand, then nodded to the upstairs bedrooms. “Go on.”

  Hailey bolted up the stairs, barely knocking on Cressida’s door, more out of habit than anything. She opened it, grateful that Cressida hadn’t locked it, and then stepped in, closing it behind her.

  The room was neat as a pin, with deep blue walls and black-and-white artwork in white frames. An intricate-looking computer set up with two screens was on the Ikea desk, and the bed was made with a cheerful quilt. All in all, it was a cute, cozy room. But she couldn’t see Cress anywhere, and that caused a moment of panic. She stood, silent, listening for any sound over the frightened pounding of her own heart. The closet door was closed, and Hailey could hear the soft, almost panting breaths inside.

  “Cress?” she said, leaning against the closet door. “Cress, honey, it’s Hailey. Are you okay? Let me see what’s going on.”

  “Hailey?” Cressida’s voice sounded reedy. “Damn it. Rachel shouldn’t have called you.”