Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book)

by Reinhardt, Liz

  I'm speeding a little, my foot heavy on the gas, partially in anticipation, partially from a big ass case of nerves. Other than some mild bitching about my obligations to my brother, Evan hasn't brought up any of the crazy shit my family put her through, and I don't know what she's thinking about it or what she needs from me.

  Which I fucking hate. I'm used to assessing a situation in a few minutes, deciding what needs to be done, and doing it. The problem is, all that deciding is what I do when my parents are busy running the family and all our companies. When I actually have to be around my parents, the power reverts back to them, and it's all old-regime bullshit that I really have no idea how to wrestle.

  "I'm sorry Benelli was a little bit of a pain in the ass--" I start.

  "Benelli didn't have to lend me the dress or help with my hair. She was fine." Evan is turned towards the window, her voice half lost in the whipping wind, her arms folded and partially balanced on the doorframe, her head leaned out so her hair flies back like this dark banner.

  "Remy shouldn't have been such a dick after the--"

  "He was fine. He was actually really nice." She stretches one arm out, lets her hand go flat, and watches her own fingers as the wind rides up and over, making them all move and jump slightly.

  "My mom really shouldn't have--"

  "Offered me dinner with no notice whatsoever? I'm nothing but grateful to your mother." She pulls her head back in and leans on the headrest, her hair wild and wind-blown, her cheeks tinged pink from the salty air that has just the slightest rough bite to it.

  "Evan, I don't know what my father said to you, and I can't believe what Ithaca said in front of everyone. It's just--"

  "Stop it!" she snaps, and when I turn my head to look at her, she's breathing hard, fast, and furious. "Just stop! Okay?"

  "Stop what?" I keep my eyes on the road, completely confused because her fury makes no goddamn sense. It's not that I'm shocked she furious. I expected her to be. But at my family. And this anger seems, for reasons I can't grasp, directed at me.

  She brushes her hair off her face with her fingers and rubs her hands down along her cheeks. "Apologizing."

  "They were rude to you. They embarrassed me." I glance over and her face is stony. "What? You think that was all normal? The way they acted? You looked pretty upset when we were at their house. Now, nothing?"

  "Not nothing." Her voice is low and shaky. "But you love them. You choose them over and over. I'm not making a judgment call on any one of them. They're your family. That's who they are, and I have to accept it."

  "No--" I start to argue, but I have no words for what comes next.

  "Yes! I do. Because if I don't, I'll lose you." Her voice doesn't get all sentimental on me; she sinks the fangs of her logic right into the jugular. "I already only have this night, and who knows if there will actually be a homicide? I'm not judging...but this is Remy you're relying on to not murder anyone. That may be setting the bar a little bit too high."

  Her soft, sweet lips crack into a smile that pile-drives a million pounds of solid emotion straight at my heart. She laughs, and that sound loosens something in my chest, something buried in me that doesn't ever get to come out.

  It's coming out. Tonight. With her.

  "What's not even funny is that you might be right." I laugh with her, and we make an unspoken vow to put the day, my family, her playing hooky, all the uncertainties of our relationship into the back of our minds tonight.

  I pull up at the beach house for the second time, but this time, my phone is on vibrate, and I'm eighty-nine percent sure it won't ring. Or, at least, seventy-four percent.

  The pull to take care of Remy is strong, because he's my blood. He's my responsibility. I don't take either of those aspects of our relationship lightly.

  But Evan?

  What I feel about her defies everything I've ever thought I knew about myself and my loyalties.

  I watch her jump out of the car and run to the door, her bag of beach stuff flopping against her back, her hand waving for me to follow.

  I follow. Of course I fucking follow this gorgeous girl.

  I come up behind her at the door, and the last few weeks of having to pull away at the very last second hit me hard. I wind my arms around her waist and kiss her neck, rub my face in her hair, let my hands move up along her ribs and cup under the full swell of her tits, remembering the tiny scraps of red fabric that did a fantastically crappy job of covering them a few hours ago.

  Evan drops the keys and turns around in my arms, her mouth missing mine a few times, landing hurried, sucking kisses on my neck, my bruised cheek, my ear, and finally, she catches my mouth in a hot, sweet press of her lips that tears a groan out of my throat...right alongside a wince.

  "What's wrong?" she breathes, then her light blue eyes go wide. "Oh no. I'm sorry." Her fingers brush softly over my mouth and flutter up and along my bruised eye socket. "You're still bleeding from the cut by your eye. Maybe it needs a stitch? I can take you to the hospital."

  I love the look of crazed concern that presses her dark eyebrows low over her worried eyes and makes her mouth soft, like she's begging me to kiss it. So I do, instead of answering. I kiss her hard, and don't give a fuck that it hurts, because I'm finally with her, in her arms, around her for this entire long night at least. And I plan to make the most of it.

  "Winch," she sighs, and she ducks down to scoop up the keys, then stuffs one in the lock, her hand rounds the doorknob, and we both crash in through the swinging door. I yank it closed and follow her, kissing her neck and under her hair, all the way up the huge flight of stairs to a small room with an enormous bed. The fact that we're so completely alone is making me crazy, like someone ripped the top bindings off my life. I feel free for the first time in years, free to do whatever the fuck I want.

  And I want Evan.

  I want her so badly, my hands shake and my heart beats like a boxer tearing up a new bag in training. I lay her back on the bed and kiss her face, along her neck, down to her shoulder. I unbutton the yellow dress, but I can't push enough of the fabric away to get to a satisfying amount of her skin. She moans, a sweet, sexy sound that fills the room and echoes off the quiet walls.

  "Evan." I look down at her face, all dark hair and light, sweet eyes, and that mouth tipped up in a smile that I love so much because half the time she's using it to tell me to go fuck myself. "You're gorgeous."

  She moans and presses up against me, and I have a sudden need to get everything off as fast as I can. I undo the belt on her dress, but it's just for show; it doesn't loosen it at all. The buttons on her top don't seem to go anywhere or do anything, and I'm worried about ripping the thing off of her or making a bigger mess.

  Leave it to my sister to dress my girlfriend in something I can't get her the hell out of.

  After a few minutes of watching me fumble with the fabric, she shakes her head and backs up, leaving me on the bed. She raises an arm and pulls down on this secret zipper that's underneath.

  I'm pissed at how infuriatingly complex a single piece of clothing can be with all its hidden zippers, useless belts, and frustrating buttons.

  "Why does that dress have to be so damn complicated?" I sit up on my elbows to see her better.

  She pulls it over her head, and she's not wearing a bra. Just the tiniest thong and all that long, sweet, tan skin. I work hard as hell to keep my jaw from swinging.

  I've seen girls before. Good-looking girls. But she's by far the sexiest, most confident, most in-control girl I've ever been with. She's the only girl who's ever bossed me around or questioned my every move, and I like it.

  I like the whole damn package when it comes to her.

  "Dresses that are complicated," she says softly, the smile on her lips pure wicked fun, "are essential to teach girls that they shouldn't bother with guys who won't figure out how to take off a dress."

  She walks back to the bed and straddles my lap, sinking down on top of me and pressing against my chest, h
er skin burning through the thin fabric of my shirt. I'm trying to keep calm, trying not to let go and spring at her, but it's hard to control myself when she's everywhere, the smell of burnt sugar dry and sweet on her skin and in my nose.

  "Is everything okay?" she asks softly, all her tough, demanding intensity folded back for now.

  "Yeah, of course. It is." I put my hands on the warm skin of her back, because I want to steady myself, get my emotions jarred up and lidded. But I feel like I'm a tiny kid again, trying like hell to catch a few lightening bugs, but too awed by the bright glow to actually capture even one.

  Evan's hand comes up and her fingers pull along my cheek. "You seem really tense."

  "It's hard to get a handle on all this. You and me. Being here. Together. No interruptions." I'm babbling like a lunatic. My hot as all hell girlfriend is straddling my lap, and all I can do is ramble. I feel like it's suddenly hard to swallow.

  Evan's eyes watch me for a few long seconds. "Let go." She says the words like an invitation.

  I slide my hands off her back, but she tugs them to her and up, moving them to the heavy swell of her tits. My brain flips and shorts a little, and my instinct is to pull back, pull away.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  "Winch. Let. Go," Evan repeats and taps one finger against my forehead. My hands settle over her skin, and I feel the surge, wild and primal, to grab her close. It scares the shit out of me.

  "You wanna eat? You wanna watch something?" She's telling me to let go, but I can't. I can't lose it with her like this. Today was too long and too hard. I don't have a good gauge on my emotions. I won't be able to keep control.

  Evan leans forward and kisses me, but I don't kiss back. I can't. I'm caught between not wanting it to stop and not knowing if I can go through with it, and I’d rather not fuck up, not hurt her. But Evan doesn't care about going slow or being safe. She wraps her hands around my wrists and pushes me down, arms over my head. It's sexy as hell, but I kind of hate it.

  Like she can read my mind, she smiles.

  "I don't want to eat. Not food. And I don't want to watch anything. Except you. Getting turned on. By me."

  Her voice rasps low and she keeps a solid hand on my wrists as her lips drop all these kisses, soft, light, quick on my battered face, then move to pull at my neck with tiny, damp bursts of suction.

  "Evan." I can hear how my voice is just crossing the line of begging, and I don't like it. But I can't risk unleashing things with her. I've never had this feeling with a girl, like I was about to lose control.

  She lets go of my wrists, and I relax, but only for a minute. She tugs on the bottom of my shirt and tears it over my head, and her eyes go wide and dark looking at my body. Before I can move her over to the side, she presses my wrists over my head again.

  "Winch," she breathes, dipping lower, circling her tongue around each of my nipples, kissing over the bruises that explode on my ribs. She pulls back up, her face flushed and her eyes bright. "If I let go of your hands, you have to promise not to push me away."

  It's hard to swallow. "Evan, you don't understand."

  "Then explain."

  Her fingers tighten like she thinks she's actually holding me back. Did she not just watch me beat the shit out of two hulking giants? But I love it, the way she jumps in, all balls and brass, and does whatever the hell she wants with me.

  "Today I broke a lot of my own rules. I pushed too far. And I'm scared that I'll just keeping doing that with you."

  It's hard to get out a coherent thought with her body pressed tight against mine, sliding back and forth with soft little rocks of her hips.

  She leans close and kisses my lips, pulling back before it gets too intense. I half want more, but I know, deep down, that it's better this way. I need her to keep on the other side of the line at least until I have time to get myself back under control.

  "We've done more than this before, Winch. We've almost had sex." Her eyes puzzle over my face, and she licks her lips softly. It makes every raging ounce of testosterone buck and jump in me, and that's exactly what I'm afraid of. I try to sit up under her, but she pins me with all her strength. I could push past her hold easily, but I don't. "No. Explain why today's different. Explain why the first time we've had together alone is all of a sudden not going to work for you."

  Her mouth folds small with stubborn determination, and I'm right back where I promised I wouldn't take her; I'm forging a shortcut to breaking her heart.

  My arms are starting to lose feeling, but I've seen the exact look that's on her face right now before, most recently when she convinced me to let her come to the fight. I'm still in shock that she talked me into that. She's determined as hell, and she's not going to give up until I spill.

  "The fight today?" I stop, she nods, prodding me to go on. "I like to fight. I like it a lot. More than I should."

  Pride marks her smile, and it makes something hot and crazy flash through me. Because she's proud of me. Of what I do. Who I am. Even the ugly parts. "I know you liked it. I watched."

  "I liked it, but I have to be careful. Anything that makes me lose my focus or lose control? It's no good."

  "Why?" she demands, her fingers digging into my wrists.

  "I can't trust myself. I don't lose it. It's not my thing. So when I do...I just can't. Because I don't know what will happen when I do."

  I replay my words in my brain, and they don't make an ounce of goddamn sense.

  "I don't believe you'd ever hurt me." She kisses me on the side of the mouth, softly. "No one's ever protected me the way you do."

  Her words tear me up and leave me feeling a swell of guilt. "You deserve better than what I've given you."

  "I don't want anything but you." She flexes her hips against me, and I wonder if this is just lust talking. Like she can read my thoughts, she adds, "And I'm not just saying that because I want to get in your pants."

  I can't hold the laugh back. "You're crazy." I kiss her back, softly, when she moves her lips to mine. "Can I have a few minutes? Can I just get my head cleared?"

  She lets go of my wrists and sits up, and her face is open, frank, curious.

  "What do you think a few minutes will do to change how you feel about me? How we feel about each other? You can't control everything, Winch. Neither one of us can control what we feel. You've been trying to run away from this since day one. And it's not working anyway. So let go. You'll like it. I promise."

  Her mouth comes back over mine, and I groan.

  "I know I'll like it." I run my hands, tingling with the blood that's shooting back through them, up her thighs and rub my thumbs along the curves of her hips. "I'll love it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to leave you alone once I get a taste of this."

  "Why would that be a bad thing again?" she asks, her smile sweet and wickedly sexy, tormenting me in ways I never imagined possible.

  I put my hands up at her shoulders and drag my fingertips down along her body, brushing over her nipples, hard from the way I'm touching her, along her ribs, over the soft curve of her stomach, bumping over the waistband of her thong and running in at her thighs, to where I can bet she's slick and wet, ready for me.

  Ready if I can stop being a damn coward and just let go.

  "It would be a bad thing because I'm afraid to gamble with your heart, Evan. I'm afraid to hurt you." My voice catches on the words.

  Her blink is lazy. "But I love a risky bet. They're always the ones that feel the best when you win. And I have a really good feeling about you, Winch. Plus that, I'm tough as hell. You won't hurt me. I promise."

  And then it's all her mouth, her skin, her hands unlocking, opening, loosening, freeing every single thing I've held tight to for so long, and I spread my arms wide and free fall into her, not sure what either one of us is doing, but willing to take this gamble and put all my weight behind it.

  Evan 11

  Watching Winch open up is a like a cross between conducting a delicate science experiment an
d rereading the steamiest sex scene in my favorite romance novel with my hand pressed low under my waistband. I've had glimpses before, when we kissed, when we talked on my balcony and in my bed, stolen moments here and there when we've been together. But, for the most part, Winch was a closed book I always had a really hard time prying open.

  Until tonight. His arms are around me, his mouth crushes and sucks all over my body and, in the shadows of my room, in my bed, with the sound of the waves crashing outside the window, he kisses like kissing my skin is essential to his very existence.

  He runs his hands over my body like he'll lose everything if his skin isn't moving over mine.

  He whispers low, mixed things, some in a language that's foreign, but sounds a little like Russian to me. I don't need to know the language to get the drift of what he's saying. And sometimes he slides into English, and his words shock me and flood my body with the hot waves of a blush I can't control.

  Eyes wide and lust-blackened, he grips my hips with strong, sure hands and flips me underneath him, covering my body with the long, muscled crush of his. I balance between wanting to press hard against him and yank him closer, and being careful with his damaged, bruised body.

  But, if it hurts him, he's not letting it show. His kisses are hard and hungry, and I know some are going to mark my skin. His fingers bite into my hips, drag in lines that leave shallow imprints up my thighs, then dig in along my backside, up on either side of my spine, and stop only to grip my shoulders. He rocks hard and presses urgently against me.

  "Evan, Evan." My name tears out of his mouth over and over. "Evan, you feel so damn good."

  His right hand pulls down my body, brushing a rough palm over my nipple, rubbing along the skin of my hip, and grabs onto the waistband of my tiny thong. He winds the elastic around his hand once, twice, a third time, then gives a yank. I gasp when the cloth bites against my skin for a second before it shreds off, and I feel the familiar shake and pulse low down in my body when I sit up enough to see the ragged fabric laying, frayed, against my leg. His hand rubs roughly along the smooth skin and his moan is loud and appreciative.