Badd Boy

by Jasinda Wilder

  "Oops," she said, smirking around the popcorn. "Wardrobe malfunction."

  I accepted the large goblet of rich red wine from her as she sat down and covered her legs with the blanket. As she settled in, tucking her legs underneath her so she was curled up on the couch, she snuggled closer to me than she'd even been before, and now my arm was pinioned uncomfortably between us. In an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness of the position, I withdrew my arm and lifted it, unsure what to do with it next. Low, however, decided that for me by scooting closer yet, so she was nuzzling into the nook created by my arm. After a moment of my arm hovering over her, I allowed it to settle onto her. My arm was over her shoulder, and my hand was resting on her waist, inches above her hip.

  Was this real? Could this be happening? Why was she allowing this? Did she really enjoy my presence so much that this--snuggling, or cuddling, or whatever this behavior was properly termed--was enjoyable to her? It was unfathomable to me that this was really happening, that Low, a goddess made flesh, perfection made woman, could truly and genuinely want this with me.

  Yet...as I glanced down at her to see if I could gauge her expression, all I saw on her face was what seemed to be contented comfort, and even a half-smile of something like happiness.

  Low took a sip of her wine, and then made a noise of irritation. "The popcorn is too far away," she said, reaching out and grabbing at air with her hand. "Hold this," she said, handing her wine to me.

  I took it, and she rolled forward, knees on the couch, one hand on the ottoman, leaning forward to snag the bowl. It was the lean forward that did it--her robe hiked upward as she reached, baring her entire backside to me.

  Did she hesitate while grabbing the bowl?

  After a half second, she rolled back to sit curled on the couch with my arm draped over her again, and then settled the popcorn on my lap. Which was rather a problem, since my enjoyment of the view as she'd leaned forward had created a...ridge, one might say, underneath the blanket, tipping the bowl to one side rather obviously.

  She smirked at me. "Problem, Xavier?" Her smirk was too knowing.

  I eyed her carefully. "You did that on purpose, I believe."

  "Did what?" she asked, sounding far too obviously innocent.

  "Created that scenario, allowing a...what did you call it, earlier? A wardrobe malfunction."

  She sipped her wine, a study of casualness. "And if I did?"

  I had no answer for that. "Um..."

  She glanced up at me. "You saw me totally nude, earlier. Why be shy, now?"

  "That truly was an accident, Low. I didn't mean to pry, or spy, or intrude."

  "I don't think I'd believe anyone else," she said, and then ate more popcorn. "But...I believe you."

  I tried the wine, and the flavor burst over my tongue, acidic and fruity, with a barrage of undertones and hints. The popcorn, when I ate a handful of kernels, absorbed the flavor and allowed me to enjoy the way the wine exploded over my taste buds all over again.

  Soon, a third episode was beginning and the wine was making my head float and my body feel light and yet heavy at the same time, and the popcorn was gone.

  The sky outside was tinged with gray.

  I wasn't tired, though I should have been.

  Low finished her wine, and when I finished mine, she set our glasses inside the popcorn bowl, which she set on the table.

  "You give amazing snuggles," she murmured to me. "I could fall asleep like this."

  "Should I go, so you can sleep?"

  She rolled her head against my chest in a negative gesture. "No way."

  I give amazing snuggles? I had no clue I was even capable of snuggling. But this whole time, while her scent was powerful and her weight against me heavy, and her warmth was making me warm, and the contact of body against body was intense, I wasn't overwhelmed.

  Because I was starting to trust her, I realized. She'd done nothing to make me think she was anything other than real, and true, and genuine.

  Perhaps my discomfort with touch was mental?

  Possible--or more likely, it was partly true.

  Maybe it was just something about Low that put me at ease and allowed me to merely enjoy the new sensation rather than being overwhelmed by it as I typically was.

  And then, during a scene in which a male and female character on the show were engaging in sex, Low twisted to glance up at me.

  I turned my gaze away from the heaving breasts and flexing abs and buttocks, and down to her. The knot of her robe was all but undone, and the edges had come apart, yet her breasts weren't quite totally exposed. She had the blanket over her lap, her feet were tucked under her thighs, and she was twisted to face me.

  "Hi," she breathed.

  "Hi."

  She shifted, pressing against me. One hand came up to rest on my shoulder, the other on my thigh. Her blue eyes hunted, darted, searching mine; was it my imagination, or was her face closer than it had been? My hand was on her hip, setting my heart to thundering, stuttering, and I was half afraid she'd notice and move it, yet she never did. In fact, as she shifted closer to me, my palm drifted further down so I was nearly touching the curve of her buttock. Which only made the hammering of my heart worse. Could she feel the tremble in my hand, on her skin?

  Yes, she was definitely leaning up, leaning closer.

  I couldn't breathe.

  Her hand was on my chest, and then her palm was sliding across my jawline, and before I knew what was happening, what she was doing, what I was doing, I felt myself leaning forward.

  My lips touched hers.

  Her mouth was warm and her lips were damp, and pliable, and firm. Her lips softened as our mouths met, and her hand clutched my jaw, fingers on my cheek, thumb on my chin and brushing with soul-shaking intimacy across my cheekbone. I felt her tongue dance across my upper lip.

  We were kissing.

  Low was kissing me--I was kissing her.

  My heart stopped entirely for an agonizing moment, and then pounded to life, crashing madly.

  My hand was on her buttock, fully and openly grasping, cupping, clutching, tightening--and she had hers fisted in my shirt, the other caressing my jaw and cheek. It was as if I belonged to her, in some way. As if kissing me was some delirious, necessary act, as wildly crazy-making for her as it was for me. Which was utterly ridiculous.

  And then, and then--I heard a voice in my head.

  Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

  That doubt.

  What if Low was merely leading me on?

  She can't honestly be interested in me.

  There's a catch.

  She'll laugh at me.

  I'll take something too far and she'll stop me and make fun of me, or be angry at me for assuming someone like her could ever want me.

  The doubts returned, insidious, choking the moment like vines choking a tree.

  Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

  Reality crashed down on me--I had no business being in here with Low.

  This was only bound to end with me getting hurt. She couldn't possibly genuinely want this. Not with me.

  You're so dumb it's honestly adorable.

  Her scent was suddenly overpowering and cloying. Her hair tickled. Her tongue was wet and seeking. Her lips on mine, her hand on my cheek, the other delving under my shirt to scour the flesh of my chest and abs.

  Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

  Too much, too much, too much; panic hit me like a heat-seeking missile.

  I found myself lurching up, away, off the couch and stumbling to the doorway leading to the deck. The cool air of dawn drifted against my skin, but I still couldn't breathe.

  Have you ever been with a girl, Xavier?

  "Hey, whoa, Xavier--what--what's wrong? What's going on? Xavier!" Her voice, behind me, upset, confused, hurt, something like that or all of them, or--I didn't know. I was unable to read her emotions, not right then.

  I turned in place, backing toward the bow, toward th
e dock. Hands scrubbing manically through my hair. "I can't--I can't."

  She was through the door, on the deck less than a foot from me; her robe was billowing open and, for a moment, even in my panic and doubt and insecurity and fear, I felt the raw perfection of her beauty like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath I didn't have.

  She tugged the edges of her robe closed as she stepped toward me, arms hugging her middle. "Xavier, I don't understand. What did I do wrong?"

  "Nothing--nothing."

  Her eyes told me she was truly upset, or confused, but my panic overruled what my eyes and senses told me. "Then I don't understand--help me understand what's going on. Why are you leaving?"

  "Low, I--I..." Words wouldn't come. "Fuck!" A rare curse spat from my lips, ragged frustration and anger and panic lancing through me. "I'm sorry, I can't--You're--it's not--" Nothing that made any sense was emerging, and this only added to my frustration.

  My world spun, twisted, spinning in a gimbal of confused, overwhelmed senses, of panic and memory and desire. It was all too much; my raging desire, the crushing all-consuming intensity of Low, her touching me, kissing me, letting me touch her and kiss her--all tangled into the agony of the memory of a teenage girl who had once gutted me with the cruelest words anyone could hear:

  Oh...my...god! You actually thought someone like ME could want someone like YOU to touch me? Oh my god, you're so dumb it's honestly adorable.

  Instead of communicating any of this--as if such a thing were possible--I ran.

  Faster and harder than I've ever run in my life.

  Leaving Low standing on the deck, clutching her robe closed, the look of confused hurt on her face only adding to my agony.

  6

  Harlow

  * * *

  What went wrong? One minute we're kissing, and the next he's gone. I feel a thousand different things right now, but confusion is at the top of the list.

  I'd never been kissed like that. So carefully, so preciously. It was a kiss that was deep with meaning and I'd never felt so special in my life.

  But, god, could I have been any more obvious? I wanted him. I made sure he knew that. And damn, he wanted me. He'd been hard as a rock nearly the whole night. Watching Spartacus he'd been shifting during the sex scenes, as if embarrassed by them, or by his natural reaction to them.

  Or by his reaction to me.

  When I'd first realized he was standing on the dock outside my boat, staring up at me, my core had gone slick and wet and hot all at once, because the raw hunger in his eyes had been something incredible to behold. But then, instantly, he'd turned around, and the honesty in the gesture had made my heart melt. It was the gesture of someone without guile, without dishonesty, or self-serving desire.

  My body had been screaming--look at me, touch me, take me!

  My heart had been telling me to slow down.

  My mind had been torn between the two.

  When we'd settled in to watch the movie I'd made sure he got several opportunities to take advantage of my near nudity, but he never had, other than taking a few furtive glances. I thought he would untie the robe, let his hand slide down to fully cup my ass, or caress my tits. Or kiss me. Or move my hand to his cock, which had been partially hard the whole night.

  He never did any of those things.

  But I know he felt something. I know he wanted me. That kiss alone told me, in the brief moment it lasted, that he was attracted to me and wanted more with me. But he never acted on it.

  And then, halfway through the kiss, he just utterly freaked.

  My mom used to have panic attacks. She still does, but less frequently, and she manages this with medication--so I recognized the symptoms of a real, actual panic attack. And there is no question in my mind that Xavier's freak out was a panic attack.

  Had it been triggered by something? Did I do something? I wracked my brain, but could think of nothing. Yet the panic had been real and undeniable. There was pain there, too, along with fear and self-recrimination.

  He is hard to read, emotionally, and maybe a little closed off but, in that moment, his expression had been open, and I'd seen a frantic conflation of emotions, a whirlpool of intense mania--anger, fear, hurt, doubt, I don't even know what all, too much to read all at once.

  At first I'd thought that maybe he was just a very reticent type of person, but that moment made me realize he shielded his emotions from the world behind mile-high walls. Walls of archaic, formal speech, and elaborate vocabulary, and robotic syntax. He was hiding.

  When he sat, he never fidgeted, never twitched or scratched or shifted; when he stood it was the same thing, he assumed a position and held it, remaining motionless. It wasn't natural. And, I was realizing, it wasn't just a quirk of his but, like his speech, something he did on purpose, for reasons I couldn't begin to fathom.

  He was gone now. He'd taken off at a dead sprint, leaving me on the deck all but naked, worked up, confused, and feeling more hurt than I had any right to be.

  We'd barely kissed, so why did it feel like a rejection? I knew, mentally, he hadn't been rejecting me, that whatever had spurred his panic attack hadn't been prompted because he didn't want me, or because of what we were doing--I knew it was something else. But, still, his leaving hurt.

  His hands had felt so good on my body--the way he looked at me had made me feel so sexy, so beautiful, so sensual, so powerful. His words, those archaically eloquent and stunningly heartfelt compliments--they made me feel things I'd never felt before, as if I really was special and worthy and valued. They weren't just pretty pickup lines, meant to impress--he really truly meant them.

  And hearing those things was addictive.

  He was addictive.

  For the first time in my entire life, I felt like maybe I wanted someone more than he wanted me. And that feeling was scary as hell.

  What was I supposed to do?

  Chase him? And what would I even say if I found him right now?

  Would he come back? The thought that he may not come back sent a pang through me so powerful it terrified me. How could I want him this bad already?

  It had to be just a physical thing.

  Right?

  It was just libido, hormones gone haywire. It had been a long time since I'd had sex, so my hormones must be out of whack. I was simply feeling a weird form of sexual frustration.

  But that lie didn't scan even as I thought it.

  God, what the hell was going on with me?

  Maybe spending time with Xavier had been a mistake--the whole thing had been a mistake. I should never have gotten involved with him. Because now...

  Now I needed to know what had happened. I needed to know more about him. I needed him to come back. I needed him to kiss me again. I needed to laugh with him. Tease him. I wanted to know what drove him, what prompted the panic attack, why he tensed every time I touched him, why he ignored all my obvious hints that I wanted him. I wanted to be the person to get through his walls,

  I wanted to discover the way past all that.

  What was it? I couldn't put it into words, but he was just different, and it was refreshing and exhilarating.

  I couldn't figure him out, and I loved that.

  I couldn't predict him, and I loved that, too.

  Would he kiss me again?

  Would he touch me again?

  Would he come back?

  I didn't know the answers...and I kind of loved that, too.

  As an A-list celebrity, I'd grown used to having the world at my fingertips. "Yes" was the default answer to everything. Throw a stick, and I'd hit at least six people who didn't have the word "no" in their vocabulary, thus my microscopically small staff--Lindsey, Martin, and Emily. That was it. And even they went out of their way to make sure I got the "yes" no matter what.

  With Xavier, I wasn't in control of the situation. I didn't know the outcome.

  "Yes, whatever you want" wasn't the predetermined answer.

  That, too, was addictive.

/>   Everything about Xavier Badd was addictive.

  7

  Xavier

  * * *

  It was after six thirty in the morning by the time I reached the bar. I used my key to unlock the kitchen door, relocked it behind me, and headed upstairs. The light over the kitchen table was on, and Bast was sitting there, a mug of coffee in his hands, a glower on his face.

  "Where ya been, Xavier?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

  I was still out of breath, sweating, gasping, and the dregs of my panic attack were still laced through my brain. My response was, perhaps, less than mature.

  "Out."

  Bast frowned, reached over to pour coffee into his mug, then snagged another mug and poured coffee into it for me, gesturing at a chair. "Anyone else around here and a monosyllabic answer would be no big deal. With you, not so much. So I'll ask again--where you been, Xavier?"

  "I don't owe you answers, Sebastian," I snapped. "You're not my fucking father."

  He blinked at me, setting his coffee down very slowly. "Well now," he drawled. "That ain't like you either, bro."

  I heaved a long sigh, and slumped into the chair, thudding my forehead onto the table. "I'm sorry, Bast."

  "You're out all night--for the first time in your entire life as far as I know. You come back looking like someone just shot your favorite cat, you're using contractions and talking like a person instead of a damn robot, you snap at me, and you swear at me." He smirked, amused more than anything else. "Bottle of Johnnie Walker says there's a girl in this."

  I lifted my head to stare at him. "How would you know?"

  He laughed. "Because only a woman can fuck us up as much as you're fucked up right now."

  I took the coffee and sipped it. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She owns a yacht that I estimate to be very, very expensive. She is cultured, and intelligent, and educated. She is comfortable in silence, and easy to talk to." I met Bast's eyes. "Her touch brings something out in me which I never even knew existed, or was even possible."

  Bast stared at me. "You let her touch you? Like, close enough to make actual contact?"

  I nodded, staring now into my coffee. "We have held hands. She has touched my shoulder, and my chest, and my face."