Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (11 page)

“Yes,” she answers through a pant, digging her nails into my skull as she straddles my lap.

God help us both. I’m about to take her right here in my car. Lips still plastered to mine, she reaches to the side and yanks up on the seat recliner, sending us flying back. She dives in for more, her kiss frantic, nearly begging me to pound the ever-loving shit out of her. Hard and
fast, I lick into her mouth, my cock twitching as I rough my hands under her tank top, squeezing her ribs.

She moans, rocking her hips in rhythm with our rushed breathing. “The only thing you have to offer me is a good lay, and I can find that anywhere.”

“You think so?” I snarl, kneading my thumbs under her bra. I brush a hardened nipple.
Christ.
“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m positive,” she hisses over another moan as she works the fly of my jeans.

I pull my hands from under her tank top, grip her waist, and tear my mouth from hers. “Then why the
fuck
are you still kissing me?”

Realization twists her face a split second before she rears back. She looks at me, hungry for more, and just when I think she’s going to kiss me again, she smacks the very same cheek she smacked the day we met.

A smirk dusts my lips. “You have
no
idea how hard you make me when you do that. Here.” I tap the cheek she has yet to assault. “Go at it, peach. Smack this one if I piss ya off that much.”

“You’re an asshole!” She pushes open the door and stumbles out, her knees coming close to kissing the pavement before she rights herself.

I sit up and shake my head, not even attempting to try to understand where her thoughts are at as she storms toward what I assume is her building.

Purseless.

I yank her purse from the seat, roll down the window, and punch the horn a few times. “Hey, Moretti!” I catch not only her attention as she whirls around, but several other students’. I dangle the thing in the air. “You forgot this.”

Breathing heavily, she’s rooted in her spot.

I grin, step from the car, and lean against the hood, cheerfully swinging the strap around my finger. “Well? Do you want it back or not?”

“You drive me nuts, Ryder!” She throws her arms out to the side. “Fucking nuts!”

I chuckle, completely convinced the girl’s lost her shit. “Good!”

“Good?” she parrots, her eyes as wide as basketballs. “Good? You think this is
good
?”

“Did I stutter?” Acting like two certified idiots has officially gained us a large crowd who’s curiously watching us. Amused, I resume acting like an idiot, well aware that I might have to transport us both to the nearest psychiatric ward by the time we’re finished. “And who’s the one driving who nuts, Amber?” Eyes still pinned on hers, I point at my hardened cock. “I didn’t do this on my own. You’re a fucking tease.”

Her jaw hits the ground.
“What?”

“You heard me.” I smirk, testing just how far I can bring her. “You’re the queen of cock teasing. Take a bow for the crowd, peach.”

She looks around, and with a smirk of her own, she does just that. She takes a bow, straightens, and gives everyone the finger. “The show’s over, assholes. Time to go away.”

Yup. She’s my missing half.

As the crowd disperses—eye rolls, whispers, and laughter hot on their heels—I dig my free hand into my pocket, the other still taunting her with the purse. “You comin’ to get this, or what? Since I have nothing but a good lay to offer you, I promise I won’t attack that gorgeous body of yours.”

Amber lets out a frustrated sigh, her feet furiously pounding the sidewalk as she makes her way toward me. She steps into my face, snatches the purse, and stares into my eyes, her breathing labored as she licks her lips. Before I can blink, think, or say a word, she throws a fast arm around my neck and pulls me down to her mouth, slowly skirting her glorious tongue against mine as she fists my hair.

Fuck. Me. Now.

Her little moan causes my blood to shift into fifth gear, my heart speeding faster than that of a teenage boy about to get laid.

But it only lasts a second.

Without warning Amber spins, shoots up the stairs, and disappears into the building. I’m left with not only the reality that I
will
be jerking off the minute I get back to my apartment, but a clusterfuck of thoughts racing through my brain.

The first: I wonder if Amber realizes I won our bet. Despite
how
I achieved it, I got her to admit the color of her panties. Sex has no rules, and if it did, I’d break every fucking one of them.

The second: She initiated that last kiss, and considering she didn’t smack either of my dimples afterward, I’ve moved up a notch somewhere in her beautiful, psychotic head.

The third: I’m in deeper horse shit than I’d originally thought I was.

Still, whether it was because of the few hours we spent talking, opening up to each other in ways I’m positive neither of us expected, or the last few minutes we spent physically and mentally ripping each other apart, I have a feeling I’m about to dig my own grave with this girl.

Again, God help us both . . .

CHAPTER 6

Amber

W
ITH SWEAT DOTTING
my upper lip and my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, I jet down the hall, fumbling with the keys to my room as I try to figure out what the hell just came over me.

“Temporary insanity,” I mumble as I unlock my dorm door. I close it and press my back to the frame, my weakened, sex-starved body trembling. “That’s what it was.” I pull in a shuddered breath, drop my purse, and try to get myself to believe the excuse I’ve come up with.

No, it’s not an excuse. It’s a fact. I’ve been tested harder than this. God knows I have. Ryder doesn’t control any part of me.

Not one bit.

I move across the room and glance at myself in the mirror, my once-normal legs—now turned jellied—barely holding me upright. “That’s all it was,” I reinforce, staring at my reflection. “Temporary Ryder-induced insanity.”

Simple.

There’s no denying my physical attraction to him. From the second I landed in his lap, I knew he was a potent force. One that could effortlessly set my world aflame, incinerating it to ashes with each flicker of my helpless heart. Ryder’s an all-consuming vortex made up of nothing but pure, primal, fierce, mind-fucking alpha male. There’s
not a girl on campus who doesn’t chew her lip, clench her thighs, or giggle like a stupid twit when he’s within a hundred feet of her.

Still, my participation in all of the above acts—and then some—has nothing to do with the fact that Ryder’s the owner of a quick-witted personality I could get used to. A personality I could so easily trip, stumble, and fall for. It has nothing to do with the fact that when I spoke, he genuinely listened to everything I said. I saw it in his eyes. The way their light steel blue melted into cobalt, hanging on every word I spilled. It definitely doesn’t have to do with the fact that there’s a lot more to Ryder than sexual god–like tendencies and a kissable face. He actually has a heart. A heart that cares for a sister with cancer, a grandmother, and a single mother. A heart that adored a grandfather who’s no longer in his life. And it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I just listed a slew of reasons why Ryder Asshole Ashcroft possesses
more
than enough ideal characteristics to be considered “relationship material.”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Not him.”

He’s too dangerous, sexy, and toxic for me. We’re mismatched. Two jagged pieces of glass that’ll never fit. He’s a cocky, outspoken bastard; I’m a closed-off, delusional bitch. He walks, talks, and breathes sex; I use it in whatever disturbing way I deem necessary. He loves and cares for his family; I loathe mine for what they did to me. Though I’ve used sex to fuck away the ghosts torturing every anxiety-driven breath I take, I’m not a cheater, and I don’t intend to become one. Brock and I aren’t official in the Merriam-Webster sense, but I’ve made a connection with him, and it’s one I’m unwilling to break.

Brock!

I swing my eyes toward the digital clock. Five thirty. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five short minutes until I have to meet him at the main entrance for our first official date.

My heart sinks, buckling my knees as I grip my hair. “Shit!”

I zip over to the closet, pluck out a red linen skirt and white button-
up blouse, and toss the duo onto my bed, my nerves rioting as I swipe my toiletries from my dresser. Breaking a record, I’m in and out of the communal bathrooms within ten minutes, having showered, shaved, and moisturized all of the necessary body parts for the evening.

By the time I’m in front of the mirrored closet and doing my makeup, my nerves are no closer to decompressed. As I brush the last bit of mascara over my lashes, I can literally recall only one time in my life when I felt as undone as I do right now. Considering that was the moment my parents took their final breaths, it’s pretty safe to say I’m a complete mess.

Still, no matter what surprises today’s given me, I’m determined to clear my head of any and all disturbances.

One very dangerous disturbance in particular.

One with blue eyes that see into my soul, reading beyond the fortress I’ve built around my heart.

One who kisses like he’s literally fucking me, making me feel like I’m about to orgasm by that simple act alone.

One who doesn’t care who he has to step on, best friend included, to make me his.

For the rest of the evening, no matter how many times Ryder tries to sneak into my skull, Brock Cunningham
will
own every emotion flying through my head.

Done.

I stand and shimmy my skirt over my less-than-flattering hips, button my blouse around my more-than-generous C cups, and slip on a pair of fuck-me-now red stilettos. A scowl anchors my face when I glimpse myself in the mirror. No matter how much effort I dump into my appearance, I’ll forever be uncomfortable in my skin. No amount of paint on my face or fancy clothing will ever change that.

I make myself cringe.

My practically mute roommate walks into the room and yanks me from my scattered thoughts. As usual, she pays me no mind as
she rummages through her drawers. I sigh, instantly uncomfortable. I’m not quite sure why her lack of conversation bothers me, but it does. We’ve literally spoken less than twenty words since the semester started a few weeks ago.

Other than knowing the chick’s name—Madeline—I know more about aliens overtaking the universe than I do about the girl whom I’ll be rooming with the next few months.

I made a decent attempt to talk to her the day my foster parents dropped me off. After unpacking, I tried the normal “Where’d you grow up, and what’s your major?” questions. Instead of answering, she stared at me as if I had a dick protruding from my forehead.

And I’m the one deemed to have mental issues?

I brush off my recurring urge to put in a request for a new roommate, grab my purse, and slide it over my shoulder.

As I make my way for the door, Madeline the mute says, “Nice hit.”

I stop dead in my tracks and turn around.
“Huh?”

“I saw you smack Ryder Ashcroft a few weeks ago.” A cheeky smile appears on her lips, her dark-as-sin brown irises sparkling with mirth. “You were the first girl to ever do that to him. Well, that I know of. Either way, he deserves to be put in his place. Though completely merited—considering he’s sex on a chocolate-covered dildo—that boy thinks
way
too much of himself.”

I’m shocked that the mute knows how to form coherent sentences and that she actually seems pretty . . . cool. A slow smirk climbs over my face. “Good. I’m happy I was his first. I devirginized him.” Little does she know, my hand’s fucked up his dimples twice.

Madeline giggles and claims a seat at her desk, flipping open and turning on her laptop.

I decide the conversation’s come to an end and check my watch. Ten minutes. I breathe deep, continuing my journey toward the door. “Nice . . .
talking
with you.”

“You’re going out with Brock Cunningham, aren’t you?”

Not the response I expected. I halt and turn around, the slight chastising tone in her voice piquing my interest. “Kind of. Why?” Though her back’s facing me, I see her shaking her head in quick little jolts.

“I’ve seen you two around campus. I can’t say that he’s not right up there with Ryder as far as sex appeal goes. He’s
definitely
a fine-looking specimen, but you should really,
really
think twice about making him anything long-term.”

I suddenly feel like I’m being reprimanded by a nun. “Who are you, my
mother
?”

She shrugs. “Just a concerned citizen.”

Is this chick for real? She’s spoken fuck-all words to me, and now she’s my relationship mentor?

“And your need to play the concerned citizen card stems from what, dear roommate of mine who’s decided now’s the perfect time to exhibit her skills in speaking English?” Sarcasm drips from each word like melting icicles. “Do tell.”

“He’s a drug dealer,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands and faces me. “Though preppy in his looks, Grecian god–like in his build, and as cordially sweet as they come, Brock Cunningham’s a chameleon. Wits outwitting the best of them, he races more cocaine in and out of the DC metropolitan area than NASCAR drivers complete laps.”

My heart stops, my breathing following suit.

As my purse slides from my shoulder, she continues to clog my head. “They all do.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” My voice comes out grainy, like sandpaper rubbing against sandpaper.

With guarded eyes, she tosses her crimson hair over her shoulder. “Ryder; my boyfriend, Lee; and a few local dirtbags Brock’s got on his payroll.”

Other than Ryder’s name, I heard the word “boyfriend.” Okay, she’s lost me so much that for a split second I find myself scrambling to form a sentence. But in true Gemini form, I never fail to word-vomit my thoughts.

I pick up my purse, a wicked
you’re a walking contradiction
smile rearing its ugly head across my lips. “Your boyfriend’s on his payroll, huh?”

“Yeah.” Her brow lifts in slow hesitation. “Why?”

“Why?”
I laugh, tapping my chin in mock thought. “Let’s see. Could it be because you’re saying
I
should think twice about someone who deals, but
you
shouldn’t?”

“Lee sells it for Brock but doesn’t actually
run
the whole ring. That’s the point.” Her ridiculous defense comes out in fast, clipped strokes. “There’s a difference. A
big
difference.”

No longer interested in this bullshit conversation, I swing open the door, convinced the girl I’m rooming with is going to drive me nuts. Borderline psychotic. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s how easily humans throw rocks—no, boulders—against the same glass houses they reside in.

Can I deny my mind is spinning, whirling like an amusement park ride? No. Absolutely not. The captain of the football team, who’s completely unaware that he’s already dipped his way into my shallow soul, has managed to lump himself into the ilk of slimy bastards who turned my parents into what they were, what they died as.

He’s an addict’s dream, dragging unsuspecting victims off to never-never land.

Yet as I make my way down the stairs, I can’t stop my feet from moving. I try, but I can’t. I push open the doors, the late August sun showing no mercy as curiosity about who Brock Cunningham
really
is seizes every cell in my body. Desperation nearly blinds me as I scan the student parking lot for Brock’s Hummer, snagging it before I can take another nervous breath. Though my movements appear unperturbed,
my pulse’s thumping like an angry fist against a punching bag. I hear the vehicle’s locks unclick, their sound mimicking that of a cocked shotgun.

Bang, bang, bang goes my heart as Brock gets out, but I open the passenger-side door, preventing his intention of doing it for me. I slide in, my senses vibrating from the effusion of expensive leather and masculine cologne sweetening the air. Every nervous tic inside me comes to a complete stop as Brock ducks back in, our gazes connecting with an instant sizzle. Though it feels like an eternity’s swept by, it’s only a few seconds before a warm smile steals his lips, the deep sea green of his eyes dizzying my head the same way they did the first time I saw him.

That’s all it takes. A single look. A single heart-stopping, breath-thieving look from him and my mind changes scripts, deciding that things between us, in our current state, are too perfect, that my questions will only bring what we’re becoming—a fucked-up duo—to an abrupt end, leaving me to wonder what could’ve been.

Regret: the universe’s way of keeping each of us a slave to its brutality. Holding our hand in its poisonous grip, regret’s toxicity is the last visitor remaining by our side as we lie on our deathbeds.

Though I yearn to unearth every mystery this man’s trying hard to conceal, the world around me disappears, taking with it any and all questions I had but a few seconds ago. I don’t want to meet Brock’s demons, the skeletons he’s holding captive in a trunk of buried secrets. I have no desire to acquaint myself with them. Not now. Maybe never.

But I have to. I opened myself up to him, and he lied to me, keeping the biggest piece of himself hidden beneath a petrifying camouflage. That makes me want to run, flee, fly away from him and his world. However, as a lethal blend of curiosity and nervousness shifts through my limbs, I can’t move. Something more powerful than I’ll ever be keeps me planted to the seat.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Brock says, backing out of the parking space. His deep baritone curls through my stomach, every tendon a live wire
as he rests his hand on my thigh. The subtle act causes my blood to thrash though my veins, my breath caught in my throat as his fingers flirt along the edge of my skirt.

“Hey,” I reply with a fake smile, attempting to hide the anxiety cording my spine. Heated, confused, and beyond pissed off, I try to concentrate on the lick of air-conditioning tickling my skin instead of the hypnotizing warmth of Brock’s touch.

He pitches me a salacious grin, his gaze bouncing between me and the road as he makes a right out of the university parking lot. “You clean up well, Miss Moretti.”

I pretend to find something of interest in the passing neighborhood. “Is that your version of a killer pickup line?”

“You’re already sitting next to me.” He chuckles, his fingers trailing a path down my knee, then back up my thigh again. “I could be wrong, and forgive me if I am, but I’d say we’re past killer pickup lines, no?”

“True,” I say flatly, “but we’re not past the part where you forgot to tell me you’re self-employed. You know? The whole coke-selling business you own.”

He pulls to the side of the road, shock shadowing his features. “Amber—”

“How could you
keep
something like that from me?” I hold back my need to punch him by looking out the window.

“Please listen to me,” he whispers. Cupping my chin, he brings my gaze back to his. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, my name’s Brock Cunningham. I’m nothing like my friend, but I sell coke for a living’?”