Dangerously Broken

by Eden Bradley

  No. Not true. I want it. Need it. Need him.

  He inhaled, leaned in and exhaled against her lips, then into her mouth as she kissed him. Her body was burning with a wild need. Her mind was wild with sensation and the sound of his name in her head.

  Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Finally.

  He pulled back and locked his gaze on hers once more. Their bodies moved together, one being, flesh on flesh, inside and out. Pleasure was like a ribbon twining between them, graceful and sinuous. His mouth was only inches from hers, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the fire burning in his eyes, more intense with each stroke. The pressure built inside her, and her sex went tight. His erection went rock-hard, and she felt the first pulsing flutters that signaled his orgasm, and hers.

  He grabbed her face between his hands. “Summer Grace . . .”

  “What, Jamie?” she gasped. “What is it?”

  He shook his head, pushing deeper into her and holding himself there. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. But it’s . . . something. Jesus Christ.”

  He bucked hard into her, and she felt the heat of his come through the latex of the condom. It was too much for her—that and his words swirling through her head like some crazy aphrodisiac. Her climax rippled over her skin, through her body. Pleasure and pleasure and pleasure until she was panting with him, writhing with him, groaning with him. Then his mouth came down on hers, drinking in her cries as her nails dug into his back, her hands flexing helplessly.

  It went on for some endless period of time. Then they were simply rocking together, her head on his strong shoulder, his arms wrapped so tightly around her body she could barely breathe. But she didn’t want to. She couldn’t get close enough to him.

  They were slick with sweat, enveloped in each other and the damp New Orleans air. Finally Jamie sighed and pulled back, lifting her and laying her down on the bed, pausing to squeeze her hand tightly for a moment.

  “Be right back,” he said before getting up and moving toward the bathroom.

  She felt too naked without him beside her. She shook her head at her silliness and waited for him to return, her body sated and limp, a small, happy smile on her lips. Several minutes passed, and she looked at her bedside clock to see if it really had been that long.

  Oh, for God’s sake—don’t be so damn girly.

  But more time passed, and soon it had been a full fifteen minutes before he came back and climbed onto the bed next to her.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, fine,” was all he said.

  She would have been tempted to ask for more but he pulled her into his arms and snuggled his face into her hair.

  “Mmm, you feel good, sugar,” he murmured.

  She closed her eyes and reveled in just being in his arms. Except for the tiny voice in the back of her head that was still asking why he’d disappeared so suddenly after sex—after the intensity that had happened between them—and why he’d been gone so long. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to say the words out loud. She wasn’t going to ask if what she’d seen in his eyes had thrown him as much as it had her. Made him wonder if they’d made a mistake.

  Fuck.

  “You okay, baby?”

  “What? Yes. I’m great,” she lied. To herself as much as to him. Because this was maybe more than she could deal with. Especially right now. But she had to stop. There would be plenty of time to be freaked out tomorrow.

  Stop it. Be in the moment.

  And the moment was so good, if she only let it be. It was lovely to be taken care of the way Jamie had done tonight. When had any other man done that for her? The bath, his gentle handling of her—when he wasn’t being so beautifully rough with her. But what if . . . ? God, she could barely stand to think of it, but what if this was nothing more than an extension of the promise he’d made to take care of her? And after seeing her involved in kink, this was maybe the only way he could do that?

  And what if you’re borrowing problems where there aren’t any and he was just throwing away the condom and taking his time washing up, rather than planning his escape?

  She buried her head in his chest and breathed him in, trying to calm herself, and after several long breaths it worked. A little. She had to concentrate very hard on the slowing cadence of his breath to relax. At some point, she slept.

  * * *

  THE SUN WAS just coming up when Jamie stirred, waking her.

  “Hey.” His voice was rusty, and even in that one word she heard the touch of Scottish accent that usually made her shivery all over, her knees melting. But this morning it only made her shiver, and not in a good way.

  Please don’t let this fall apart.

  But the doubts from the night before came flooding back to her—she couldn’t help it. She wanted to run again despite the connection she’d felt with him during sex. During the bath. Hell, during the entire evening until he’d gotten up from the bed. Funny how a mere fifteen minutes could change everything.

  Too damn early to go there. She needed coffee. And maybe a lobotomy.

  “Want some coffee?” she asked. “I can put a pot on.”

  “Yeah, I do, but it’s almost seven and I need to get to the shop. I’ll pick some up on the way.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I need to get ready for work, too.”

  He yawned and kissed her forehead. “All right. Time to get up.”

  That was it? Not even five minutes of morning cuddling? No “sugar”? No “Last night was wonderful”?

  Oh, you really do need to cut this girly shit. Just let him go to work, damn it.

  “You can shower here, if you want,” she offered, but she didn’t know how sincere she was. She could use some time to catch her breath, to catch a beat without being distracted by a man who was driving her crazy and turning her into some needy, whiny little girl.

  He stretched, sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her for several moments before getting up. She didn’t want to look at him, but he was too damn hot to look away. Strong, muscled back, shoulders practically rippling in the misty morning light.

  “Nah,” he said finally. “Thanks. I’ll run by my place. Need a fresh shirt, anyway.”

  He walked into the bathroom, came back with his clothes on, making her glad she’d gotten up and slipped into a short cotton chemise.

  He grinned at her, one cheek dimpling. “I think I left the berries on my desk.”

  “Well, you’ll have something for breakfast, then.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  He moved toward her then, laid a hand on her shoulder and peered into her face. “Any subdrop?”

  “Oh. No. I’m fine.”

  Doing his duty, anyway. That’s something.

  No, it’s really not.

  Maybe you are in subdrop.

  He was, of course, oblivious to her silent conversation with herself. “Good. You can call me if you drop, okay? If you can’t reach me for any reason, call Allie or Rosie.”

  If she couldn’t reach him?

  “Of course. I know what to do. You’d better hurry. You don’t want to be late.”

  “Right. I’d better run.”

  Still no “sugar” or “sweetheart” or “baby.” She hated that her heart sank a little.

  “I have to get in the shower in a minute, anyway. I’ll just . . .” Her hands fluttered at her sides. “I’m going to put some coffee on and get ready for my day.”

  “Don’t work too hard.”

  “You, either.”

  He dragged her in and kissed her, but even the soft press of his lips on hers was missing something.

  After he left she stood in the kitchen, mentally shaking her head and her hands literally shaking as she put the coffee on. What the fuck had happened? Were they both so classically screwed
up that the intensity they’d felt the night before had shaken them this much?

  Yes. That was it exactly. There was no way to deny her emotional crash or his distance. Her instinct might be to run, but Jamie had beaten her to it. Just like she’d been afraid he would.

  Madame wandered in and demanded treats. Summer absently opened a drawer and grabbed a few out of the bag she kept there, scattering them on the floor. Madame crunched busily.

  “This is exactly why I shouldn’t get involved with anyone,” she told the cat. “Especially Jamie. This was never going to end well. I knew it. You knew it. What was I thinking? That he was hot? Okay, yes, he is hot. Jesus. Like no other man on the planet. You’ve seen him.”

  Madame looked unimpressed.

  “But I think this proves I was right. The ‘taking care of me’ stuff—it’s what I always knew to expect of him. That doesn’t make me special, except that I’m Brandon’s little sister so he has to be especially careful with my feelings. He wanted me, but he didn’t expect it to come with intimate talks about our childhoods—even if it was his idea—or Holy Grail–level sex. I think we both overdosed on closeness.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes and she dashed them away with an impatient hand, then grabbed one of her big coffee mugs from the cupboard. “See? This wasn’t a good idea, Madame. A few days of mind-blowing kinky sex and a lifetime of regret. This is not good for me.” She squatted down and stroked the cat’s snowy fur. “Except it sure felt good for a while,” she whispered quietly so she wouldn’t have to hear the words herself.

  She pulled in a deep breath as she got to her feet. “Okay. Enough of that. I have to get ready for work and . . . I think I need to take a step back and reevaluate things. Good idea? Yes?” Madame ignored her. “Yes,” she said decisively. She wanted to think she was decisive, anyway.

  In the bathroom she turned on her iPod speakers and blasted the most upbeat music she could find to keep her mind busy as she showered, but the act of washing his scent from her skin was almost painful. And Goddamn it, even her favorite violet-scented soap reminded her of him now! She might have to pick up something else at the lingerie shop today. They had rose and lily of the valley and jasmine. She could do jasmine.

  “God, what am I thinking? I am not changing myself for him!”

  She stepped from the shower and dried herself, then ran the towel over her wet hair. Today she would focus on work. Tonight she would wallow in whatever unbearable muck this was.

  But work brought no relief. Luxe was slow, as Tuesdays often were, and the only other task she had was checking in a new shipment, which was mindless work. Too mindless, offering no escape from the endless loop in her head, reviewing her morning with Jamie over and over. She wasn’t close enough with any of her salespeople to confide in them—not that she wanted to talk about it, anyway. Which was why she went for drinks with the girls from the shop after work rather than calling Dennie. She limited herself to two margaritas so she wouldn’t get too sloppy. That would have been all she needed. By ten she was home again.

  She changed into her pajamas and fed Madame, who expressed her displeasure at her late meal by meowing plaintively even after she was done eating. Summer ignored her and Madame started a thorough cleaning of her paws before slipping out the back door into the garden.

  Summer found herself at loose ends. She sank down onto the sofa in the living room and flipped the television on, but she rarely watched TV and after trying to get into a movie, then a late-night talk show, then another movie with little success she finally turned it off and went into the bedroom, intending to get a good night’s sleep. But the scent of Jamie and sex from the pillowcases hit her too hard. With a curse she stripped off the sheets, stuffing them into her wicker laundry basket and making up the bed with fresh ones. But once undressed and in bed, all she could do was stare through the curtains at the moon rising through a dark, misty sky and think of him.

  “Goddamn it, Jamie,” she muttered, flipping onto her side. “Why do you have to be so . . . you!”

  She wished he’d been mean about it. That he’d been lousy in bed. That he couldn’t make her laugh the way he did. That he hadn’t known exactly how much pain she could take with her pleasure, or what to say to make her feel special.

  She rubbed at her forehead, which had started to ache.

  She would spend the next few days—or whatever it took—obsessing over it, trying to come to some sort of peace with the situation. But the fact that he hadn’t called or texted her all day made it pretty likely he was having exactly the same ideas.

  “Damn it, Jamie,” she said into the dark for the tenth time that day.

  She had a feeling she might be cursing him for some time to come.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  BRANDON WAS SCOWLING at him and Jamie knew why.

  “Brandon, I’m trying.”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow at him—honey-gold brows and hair, just like Summer’s. And his eyes that same baby blue. Summer’s eyes. Or maybe hers were Brandon’s. Either way, he couldn’t stand that his friend was pissed at him. Even worse, disappointed in him.

  “Okay, okay. I know I fucked up.” He paused, searching his friend’s eyes, but he found them empty. Blank. Just like that day at the hospital. His last day. “Did I fuck this up?”

  Suddenly it was that last day and Brandon lay pale against the white, white sheets of the hospital bed and the smell of antiseptic was making Jamie feel sick to his stomach, but he had to hold on for his friend. He’d do anything for him. Except, apparently . . .

  Brandon’s voice was a low hiss. “This is your version of taking care of my sister?”

  “Brandon, no. No. It’s not. It’s . . . I’ll get my shit together. I’ll figure it out. I’ll take care of her the way I’m supposed to. I will.”

  “I will!”

  Jamie bolted upright in bed, the sheets a damp tangle around his waist. His heart was a hammer in his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  It was the same dream he’d had the other night. Twice in one week. Twice since he’d left Summer Grace’s house the other day and hadn’t so much as called her since. Sure, he’d sent a few texts, but she’d answered in the same short, meaningless sentences he’d used with her. “How are you?” “Fine.” It was all crap.

  Managing to escape the twisted sheets, he got up to stand by the bedroom window that overlooked the empty street below. He folded back the heavy plantation shutter. It was early, the sun barely beginning to rise in a shimmering glow of pink and gold, the streetlamps still lit. He flattened his hand against the glass, absorbing the coolness left from the night air and thinking about the dream.

  Today was Saturday. July twenty-fifth. The twelfth anniversary of Brandon’s death. Which could be the reason for the dreams, but he knew that wasn’t the whole reason. He was being fucking haunted for screwing things up so completely with Summer Grace. Either by starting this with her in the first place or by taking off the other day and hardly giving her the time of day since. He really could be an asshole sometimes.

  But maybe the worst thing he’d done had been to encourage her involvement in the kink life. Maybe if he’d left her alone her curiosity would have run its course and eventually she’d have left kink—and his club—behind.

  He scrubbed a hand over his buzz cut. No. That wasn’t how this shit worked—not for the people who were serious enough to play at the clubs. Or rarely, anyway. And she’d taken to it all too easily. She was made for this life. Or maybe that was simply more of his own selfish desires clouding his judgment.

  Selfish because he still wanted her. Wanted to be with her.

  He wasn’t entirely comfortable with that idea. But when had he done anything in his whole adult life other than make sure things were fucking comfortable? It had been years since he’d really been involved with a woman. Certainly not anything lo
ng-term. Not since the woman he’d—foolishly—married when he was almost twenty, less than a year after Brandon died. And she’d left him six months later. He’d never told a single soul what the real reason was. They’d both told everyone it was because she wanted to go to grad school in California. And that part had been true, but . . . no, the rest was his secret to carry.

  He heard the low rumble of a diesel engine and looked down to see his downstairs neighbor, Astrid, drive off to her Saturday morning nursing shift at the hospital. The same hospital where Brandon had died. Which brought him back to the fact that it was this particular Saturday. Which meant he’d see Summer Grace that evening at the cemetery.

  He pulled in a lungful of the damp morning air, blew it out, trying to clear his head. Summer Grace and Brandon and guilt were too heavy on his mind. Guilt around Ian and Traci, too, but that was always hanging over his shoulder, tangled up in everything else. But there was no way around it. Not today.

  Today they remembered.

  “Miss you, buddy,” he said quietly, pulling his palm away from the cool glass, swallowing hard as he went to get a quick shower in before heading to the shop for the day.

  * * *

  JAMIE LOVED THIS cemetery after dark. Quiet but dangerous, full of memories and mementos, life and death. In New Orleans loved ones weren’t buried beneath the dirt and forgotten—they were celebrated and enshrined. It may have originated out of necessity, but now it was a point of pride with the locals as well as being a tourist attraction. Particularly this cemetery.

  St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 had always been Brandon’s favorite. He and Jamie and their group of friends from high school had gathered here back in the day to drink beer and hang out in the shadows of the ornate marble mausoleums, following tradition by spilling drops of beer on the infamous Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau’s tomb as an offering. It was their spot whenever they needed to discuss the really deep issues, like the true definition of getting to third base with a girl and their dreams about the future.

  Now the ones left behind met here every year on the anniversary of Brandon’s death.