Fuel the Fire (27 page)

He checks his watch. “We have thirty minutes.”

I inhale a breath of confidence and then scoot closer to him. His fingers splay in my hair, holding my head steady while my lips descend to his neck. His large hand practically engulfs the back of my head. His firm grip reminds me that he has
some
control here. It’s not all on me.

This lights my core, but it doesn’t numb the fact that my tongue is on his skin. I kiss him gently, not sure what else to do.

I’ve never really kissed Connor here, not like how I need to right now.

My tongue laps at his nape with uncertainty. He massages my scalp, as though to say,
come on, darling
in a caring yet fierce manner. If he could give himself a hickey, I’m sure he’d prefer that over me being hesitant and uncomfortable.

“Harder,” he demands. He fists a chunk of my hair and pulls. The pressure steals my breath for a moment.

I lift my lips off his skin, and a frustrated noise—like a dying hyena—breaches my throat. “This is a stupid idea,” I complain. “Teenagers give each other hickies. Stupid, idiotic, hormone-induced teenagers.”

I just feel so silly and uncertain each time I kiss his neck, my confidence depleting like some fiend is vacuuming it right from my soul. I hate feeling this way so I usually avoid the tasks that put me in this position.

Sucking on his neck until it reddens and bruises is definitely one of them.  

“You just called Daisy stupid,” he tells me with the arch of one brow. She’s nineteen. A teenager. And like all of my sisters, she has absolutely no problem giving Ryke giant “pleasurable” welts.

I scowl. “Stop twisting my words. My
teeth
are near your neck.”

“Do you plan to bite me?” he asks seriously. “Go ahead, Rose.” He knows I won’t, so his smile grows and my eyes narrow. I want nothing more than to wipe his grin off his face. You know what…

I press my hand against his mouth; at least I don’t have to look at it. And then I
feel
his lips rise in a smile beneath my palm, but I don’t retract my hand.

“You should just give me a hickey,” I say. “Between the two of us, you’re obviously more hormonal.” I shift on his lap, referring to his erection that presses up against me. I don’t mention how it’s starting to affect me, the pulse between my legs beating in sync with my heart.

He lets out a ragged noise, one he tries to contain. His hands settle low on my ass, where my black dress rises, my bare flesh exposed. I drop my hand off his mouth, needing to hear his response.

“Your argument lacks evidence, darling,” he tells me, his palm dipping down my inner thigh. I snatch his wrist before he touches my lace panties to deduce how wet I am.

I am wet, okay. But I’d rather him not smirk in satisfaction.
I
am satisfied by the appearance of his erection.
Let me gloat.

His brow arches again, more combatively.

“We don’t have time for you to gather evidence and cross-examine witnesses and consult a jury,” I refute. We’re supposed to be at the hospital soon.

Three days ago, Ryke underwent the liver transplant surgery with his father. Before Ryke was rolled away, he hardly spoke. He just said a few
I love yous
to my littlest sister and I heard him say one to his brother.

We all took off work and stayed in the waiting room. Hours later, we learned that everything went smoothly between the donor and the recipient, and we could finally see Ryke. He was groggy and nauseous from the anesthesia, but he was alive and healthy, still saying
fuck
every sentence or so.

Since cameramen have practically set up camp outside of the hospital, eager for photos of the five of us entering and exiting, Connor and I devised a strategy to stir more media attention off Jane and Moffy and onto us.

A simple task: Get Connor photographed with red welts on his neck.

Only problem: I have to put them there.

“Let’s use makeup,” I offer suddenly. It’s the perfect solution. I almost swing my leg off his lap, but his hands tighten on my hips.

“The media may not care if it’s real,” he says, “but people online will be able to dissect the photos and discover a farce.”

My lips draw into a flat line, my pulse about to follow. How do I do this with confidence and without feeling like a sloppy, horny teenager?

Connor’s deep blue eyes fill mine, and then in a swift movement, he lifts me up in his arms, my legs around his waist as he stands. I think he may drop me to my feet, call it quits, but instead, he hooks his ankle to the vanity stool, dragging it halfway across the room. He stops right in front of our ornate full-length mirror.

Fuck me.

This is even worse.

My exacerbated eyes sear his skull, branding exclamation points across his brain. He sits on the stool with me on his lap, as though we’ve been here all along. He takes my chin in his large hand. “I’m going to do you first,” he says. “Watch and learn.” Those last words should sound condescending, but they don’t. He’s being serious.

And I realize, Connor is tutoring me.

He ties my hair into a pony, holding my gaze for a moment. I think I would’ve allowed him to teach me as a teenager too, even though we were competitors. I’m not sure I would’ve listened all that much or been a very compliant student, but I would’ve tried.

His thumb skims my bottom lip before he leans into my neck and kisses the soft flesh. I focus on the mirror, able to watch his lips close over my skin, his tongue gliding before sucking
hard.
An uncontrollable moan escapes me, a sharp breath attached. His fingers squeeze the base of my neck, and his teeth nip at my skin.

My body throbs just watching.

He moves as though he’s meant to give pleasure, never unsure, not silly or inept at the task. He’s a man emblazoned with confidence and power that I want to mimic and then surpass.

I absorb every little action, every lift of his head. I count the seconds he sucks and the moment his teeth bare into my skin. My eyes flutter as his hand lowers and pinches one of my nipples.

I slap his thigh. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

He grins into the next kiss.

It lasts for a few more minutes before he raises his head. He rubs my neck with his thumb, the spot reddening. “You’ll need to put makeup on to hide this,” he tells me.

I nod. This was just a demonstration, and he’s been very adamant about dolling out equal tasks to stir the media.
It’s my turn
, he told me with resolution.

His eyes set on my lips. “Let’s see how good of a student you are, Miss Highest Honors.” He caresses my cheek with the stroke of his thumb, and my lips part with a heady breath. He slips his thumb into my mouth, and I feel his cock grow underneath me. It pours confidence through my bones.

When his thumb leaves my lips, wet and glistening, I scoot forward, grinding on him, and then I press my mouth to his neck.

Every move he made, I repeat, trying to outperform him. I press my hand on the back of his neck, clutching him, and my fingers dig into his skin. I graze my teeth along his nape, tugging at his flesh.

He watches my precise movements in the mirror. I only stumble once, when he shifts my panties, his hand on its own mission between our bodies.

“Keep going,” he commands.

His fingers fill me first, and my thighs tighten around him. Then I feel something larger replace his fingers, something harder…I gasp into his neck as he pushes his erection into me.

He holds the back of my head, forcing me stationary at his neck.

“Rose,” he says sternly.

“You’re the one who went off topic, Richard—” I cry as he rocks
up
, gripping my hips. How long have I been sucking his neck? Numbers flash through my head with curse words and more exclamation points.

Fuck me.

“Harder,” I choke.

“Rose,” he snaps, his movements ceasing.

I’m a terrific multi-tasker, so this theoretically should be within my capabilities. We have little time before we need to leave, and he’s attempting to kill two birds with one stone. However, my mind keeps shutting off in favor of an incoming climax. “We don’t have time,” I suddenly say, my voice raspy.

His jaw tics in irritation. He guides my head back to his neck. “Do what you feel, not just what you saw.” I listen and suck again, my body warm and pulsing. I find myself rocking against him since he’s motionless,
needing
that friction between my legs. I never question or hesitate this time.

And then he clasps my hips again, so strongly that I stop rocking, and he moves his pelvis up and down, his cock sliding in and out in hard, deep waves.
Fuck.

I kiss him to the pulse of this fiery, vigorous rhythm. Both of us connect on another level, one meant only for two people who love winning together.

But the cautious side of me will always fear for the day where we both lose.

[ 25 ]

CONNOR COBALT

I ride up the hospital elevator with Lo. The three girls drove separately so they could drop Jane and Moffy off at Poppy’s house. None of us even considered bringing a seven-month-old and an eight-month-old into a hospital, and thankfully Rose’s older sister has no issue babysitting for a couple hours.

“Read his order to me,” Lo says, digging through the Lucky’s Diner takeout bag.

I scroll through the group text between Lo, Ryke, and me.

Chili fries, jalapeno poppers, and a Philly steak with onions, mushrooms, peppers, and cheddar cheese.
– Ryke

Also if they still have quiche, get a slice of that too.
– Ryke

Plus extra mustard…and get me a Reuben. I can save it for tomorrow if I’m still in this fucking hellhole.
– Ryke

I read his requests aloud. “…quiche, extra mustard, and a Reuben,” I finish, slipping my phone into my khaki pants pocket. Ryke eats more than the hospital provides him, so we’re trying to rectify this. He’d use food as an incentive to stand up and sprint down the street to a local diner, splitting open his stitches.

However, we can’t remedy his other need. To climb mountains, to workout, to run.

“Fuck,” Lo curses, pulling out a wrapped sandwich to peer deeper in the bag. “Did you say extra mustard?”

“Yes.” I remember specifically telling the cashier for more.

“There’s none.” His jaw sharpens, and he chucks the sandwich back, rolling the top of the paper bag in frustration.

“He won’t notice.” The elevator rises slowly.

Lo looks younger today, in jeans and a black V-neck. “Maybe.” His eyes drift to me, landing on my neck, noticing the hickies for the fifth time. I wait for his cringe to appear again.

There it is.

His brows knot and face scrunches. “I keep imagining this robotic succubus latching onto you because the Rose I know”—he shakes his head in disbelief—“would
never
give anyone a hickey, husband or not.” Worry flashes in his amber eyes, thinking for a brief second that I might’ve cheated on my wife.

In his mind, he can’t see me with anyone other than her, but he’s having trouble drawing a realistic conclusion. So he paired me with a robot.

“I can be persuasive,” I remind him.

“You know, I’d never even seen Rose kiss someone in public until you.”

“She likes her privacy.” We’ve lost almost all of it, but what we outwardly project for the tabloids isn’t entirely real. What we do alone in our bedroom is, and still, we’ve lost some of those moments through the sex tapes. It’s complicated, but I knew this life would be.

Lo motions to my neck. “Then she’s going to chop off your balls for not covering that shit.” Cameramen bombarded us when we entered the hospital, so it’s clear to him that it’ll be in some tabloid. Regardless of a hickey, there would be articles about us, but it’s important that they’re spun around me, not the kids.

Without our interference, they could say:
Where’s Jane and Moffy? Are Rose and Lily neglecting their children? Why aren’t they seen anywhere?

It doesn’t always work, but that’s why this is a test. “I’ll protect my balls. Don’t worry, darling.” I wink.

He laughs, more lighthearted. We exit the elevator and walk down the hallway, already signed-in. I find his room quickly, and when I swing open the door, we catch Ryke in a compromising position.

“Bro!” Lo shouts, pushing ahead of me.

Ryke is on the concrete floor doing push-ups, his bare ass peeking out of his flimsy, blue hospital gown. “Fuck off,” Ryke grunts as he lowers his body weight, his arms flexed as he raises himself back up.

“Frankly, I’m not surprised,” I chime in. “I thought we would’ve had to check the pound on day two. Mooning the room isn’t even that bad.”

Ryke shoots me a glare on his next rep, his IV stand wheeled beside him. “Remember that time you were cuffed beside the canned fruit and hamburger buns?”

I almost wear my irritation. “It’s amusing you mention
buns
.” I glance once at his ass for reference.

Ryke doesn’t give a shit. In fact, he does a one-handed push-up and flashes me the middle finger with the other.

He continues to do whatever he wants to do. Per the usual.

I walk deeper into the hospital room and sit on the stiff chair beside the bed. The privacy curtains shroud the second empty bed. The other patient, a gallbladder removal, left yesterday afternoon—so he’s not subjecting someone else to his nude workout.

Lo squats in front of his brother and waves the Lucky’s bag. “I’m going to toss this out of the goddamn window if you don’t stop.”

Ryke instantly snatches the bag as he stands to his feet.

Lo pats his brother on the shoulder. “Cute socks.”

I laugh into a grin. Ryke has to wear white compression stockings to help with blood flow, but I’m sure his constant trips out of bed help his circulation enough.

“Fuck you,” Ryke says lightly. He sits on the edge of his bed, already scouring the bag’s contents.

Lo takes a seat next to him. “Really though, were you coherent when the doctor said you could damage your spleen and need a second operation?”