Fragile

by Shiloh Walker

  Made no sense feeling guilty because he’d always been happier than Quinn and was getting ready to become even more so. But Luke couldn’t put his life on hold because of Quinn.

  “I dunno, Quinn. I just . . .” He sighed, closed his eyes. “I haven’t been in this place before; still trying to figure it out. Not real sure how to handle it.”

  “I’m no expert, but I think you just keep doing it. There’s no trick to handling life. You just live it.” Quinn’s voice, when he replied, was a little less edgy, almost understanding, and though Luke couldn’t see his brother, he felt the understanding—and the envy. Without saying a word, Quinn got it.

  “Going into psychology now that you’re out of the army?” Luke asked, trying to force some humor into the tense silence.

  “Shit, no.” His words were derisive, but Luke could hear the faint smile in Quinn’s voice. “What’s it like?”

  “What’s it like?” Luke repeated.

  “Yeah. This thing . . . with her. You love her?”

  He shrugged restlessly. “Not real sure yet.” Liar. Damn it, that voice of his conscience was getting annoying. Abruptly, Luke wished Quinn were there. Yeah, the guy wasn’t much for talking, and he didn’t mess with giving advice, but he knew how to listen. “Yeah . . . yeah, I think I do.”

  “So what’s that like?”

  Luke blinked, a little surprised by the question. Quinn . . . actually giving a damn about love? Curious about it? Might seem a little unfair to somebody that didn’t know Quinn, but Luke knew how his twin was. Quinn didn’t let himself care about too many people, and he liked it that way. He didn’t want to care about people; if Luke and his dad weren’t family, if Quinn hadn’t had that bond with them, Luke doubted Quinn would have a soul in the world to truly call a friend, and he also suspected Quinn would be just fine with that.

  Yet here he was . . . asking Luke what it was like to love somebody, and feeling envious. “I don’t know that I can explain. I wake up, and I want to see her. I go to sleep, and I miss her, even if it’s only been an hour since I saw her last. I think about her, wondering what’s she doing, if she’s had a bad day and if there’s anything I can do to make it better.”

  “Sap.” But there it was again, that undercurrent of envy. “Would I like her?”

  And that was the crux of it. Two of the most important people in Luke’s life, and there really weren’t that many who mattered, and Luke wasn’t sure how they’d handle each other.

  Quinn came off as cold, uncaring, to most of the world.

  Devon, with her scars both emotional and physical.

  If they could work past their immediate hesitation, Luke suspected they’d get along just fine. But Luke suspected he knew how Quinn would react to Devon; the man seemed to have some instinct when it came to certain things: he sensed weakness, and Luke had no doubt how Quinn would peg Devon. He’d see a junkie, not a woman who’d overcome hell and heartbreak and battled an addiction as a child, but a junkie.

  Compassion wasn’t one of Quinn’s strong points.

  Of course, even as he thought that, Luke realized he’d been too damn quick to judge the woman for the actions of a troubled child. But his reaction would be nothing compared to Quinn’s. And considering these two were the most important people in his life, Luke pretty much dreaded them meeting.

  Although Quinn would probably keep his feelings to himself out of respect for Luke, Devon would pick up on Quinn’s vibes the same way she picked up on Luke’s that first near-disastrous night when he’d jumped to conclusions.

  From there, it would only go downhill.

  And Quinn, even under the best of circumstances, didn’t like a whole lot of people. Seemed like even before it got started, there were already marks against her, as far as Quinn was concerned.

  “I hope you’ll like her,” Luke finally replied as honestly as he could. “She means a lot to me. She’s a good woman, has a good heart.”

  “I get the weird feeling there’s shit you ain’t telling me.”

  Luke rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, some things are better explained in person, preferably over a couple of beers.” In person—where Quinn couldn’t hang up the phone the minute Luke tried to explain some things about Devon.

  Quinn grunted. “Hell, if you’re that serious about her, guess I need to meet her sooner or later.” He paused a beat and then made one of his rare jokes. “Might as well be before the wedding.”

  Wedding . . . Luke’s mouth went dry. “Uh, I didn’t say anything about a wedding.”

  Yeah, maybe his thoughts had run down that road a few times, but just a few. They’d only been going out a little while, a month. Not long enough to be talking about weddings.

  But even as part of his brain shied away, there was another part of him that didn’t, a part of him that wondered what she’d look like dressed in white lace, a part of him that got all rabid with glee at the thought of being able to call her his.

  “Yeah, you didn’t say jack shit about a wedding, but I don’t hear you laughing, either.”

  HANDS on his hips, Luke stood in Devon’s backyard and stared at the dead skunk. Six weeks of dating, he was dying from sheer frustration, he spent more time jacking off in the shower now than he had in high school, but instead of necking with Devon, he was getting ready to bag up a dead skunk.

  Devon stood just a few feet behind him, the collar of her shirt in her hand and held up over her nose. “What happened to it?”

  Glancing at her, he grinned. “It died.”

  “Gee, really? And here I was thinking it was just sleeping,” Devon replied tartly. “Man, I didn’t realize they smelled that bad.”

  “Go on inside,” he offered.

  He managed to bag the thing without touching it, and before he tied the garbage bag shut, he looked it over a little but he didn’t see any mark or injury on it. Frowning, he tied the bag shut and tossed in into the trash and then studied the backyard. She had a white picket fence around the yard, and there was definitely enough space the thing could have gotten between the pickets. Had it just come into her backyard to die?

  The animal hadn’t really looked old to him, but then again, Luke specialized in people, not animals. Although he’d worked with a few people who hadn’t smelled much better than the skunk.

  Heading into the house, he grimaced. The smell of skunk could permeate damn near everything, including skin and hair. Devon was at the counter, chopping up an onion with a fast, easy speed. “I don’t suppose I could take a shower, could I?” he asked, careful not to get too close.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’d appreciate it if you would. You got any clothes in your car? I could wash those for you. Sorry, Luke, but you don’t smell too sweet right now.”

  “Better be nice, or I’ll come over there and hug you. Then you’ll need a shower, too.”

  Stupid move, Luke, he thought as he left the kitchen and headed upstairs. Thinking of showers and Devon at the same time. Occupied with that torturous thought, he forgot to go outside for his gym bag. Inside her bathroom, he took a long look around and swore. Hell, this was going to be torture.

  It smelled like Devon in there. He saw a black bra hanging on the doorknob. Hanging on a hook by the shower was a cotton robe, simple and white—and short—damn short. He could see her wearing that, the cotton clinging to her wet body, her hair hanging down her back.

  “Shit.”

  His body sprang to attention as he reached out and took the robe, bringing it to his nose and breathing in. The sweet, warm scent of her had permeated the fabric, and he let it flood his senses. When he realized his mouth was actually watering all because he stood there smelling her robe, he put the robe back on the hook and started to strip.

  Luke really didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was trying to take it slow, and he knew Devon didn’t need him rushing her, but six weeks was a damn long time. Seemed like he’d spent most of those six weeks walking around with a hard-on, too, either bec
ause he was with Devon, he was thinking about Devon, or he had just walked away from her house after a hot and heavy make-out session.

  He climbed into the shower stall, planning on taking a good, long, cold one so maybe the heat in his blood would cool, but standing in the shower, surrounded by the scent of her shampoo and her soap, Luke knew ice cubes could fall from the showerhead, and the second he looked at Devon, he’d be in the same shape he was in now.

  Hard and damn near desperate for her.

  So instead, he made the water warm, letting it slide over his skin like silk. Ducking his head under the spray, he scrubbed his hair, tormented himself as he breathed it in and imagined having Devon in there with him. Taking the mesh sponge looped over the wall-mounted rack, he squeezed some of her soap onto it and then scrubbed it over his body and imagined it was her hands moving over his body.

  His erection jerked against his belly, hard and insistent. Putting the sponge up, he closed a soapy hand around his length and stroked. Up, down. Hissing out a breath between his teeth, he leaned his head back against the tile wall behind him and did it again. It was a sweet, painful pleasure, and standing there, surrounded by her scent, he could almost imagine he was with her, that her slim, soft weight pressed against his body, and that it was her riding him, instead of his own hand bringing him to completion. He could almost imagine the warm kiss of water was in fact her hands gliding over him.

  Almost.

  But not quite. Quicker and quicker, he stroked himself, lips peeling back from his teeth in a grimace of ecstasy, his heart pounding like he’d just parachuted into enemy territory. When he came, it was hard and fast—and empty. Swearing under his breath, he washed himself again, quicker this time, because the water was cooling.

  Damn it, if he didn’t have her soon, Luke suspected he just might lose his mind.

  Then, as he dried off a few minutes later, he realized he was probably a little closer than he’d thought. He’d climbed into the shower and scrubbed himself clean from the skunk smell, but he’d left his gym bag out in the garage. He swore as he wrapped the dirty clothes in a towel to contain the smell. Then, with another towel wrapped around his hips, he left the bathroom and headed downstairs. Not wanting the smell to spread through the house any worse than it already had, he stopped by the small alcove off the garage where her washer and dryer sat. He dumped the clothes in, added some detergent—then a little more for good measure—before closing the lid.

  “Hey . . .” Devon came around the corner and then stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened, she slid her tongue out, licked her lips.

  “Uh . . .”

  The look that entered her eyes as she stared at him made it seem as though he hadn’t just jacked off in her shower. His body reacted, blood draining south until his erection was throbbing under the cotton towel.

  The towel started to slip, and he fisted the ends in his hand, anchoring it to his hip as he stared at her. Hoarsely, he said, “I forgot to grab my gym bag.”

  “Uh . . .”

  Closing his eyes, Luke tried to block out the look on her face: hungry woman. “Devon, if you don’t quit looking at me like that . . .”

  There was a whisper of movement, but until she reached out and touched his chest, he hadn’t realized she was moving closer. Closer to him, not away. He caught her wrist in his hands and opened his eyes, staring down at her. “Not a good idea, Devon,” he said roughly.

  She flexed her hand against his chest and looked up at him. Her eyes were serious as she asked, “Why not?” Leaning into him, she pressed her mouth to his chest and licked away a stray bead of water that had dripped off his hair.

  The feel of her tongue on his flesh was hell. It was heaven. It was somewhere in between, and it was neither. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he jerked her against him. Through the thin material of her dress and the cotton of the towel, they could feel each other. Luke could feel her warmth and her softness, and Devon could feel the strength and hunger radiating off of Luke. “Because of this,” he rasped, rocking his hips, cuddling his hard length against her belly and just barely managing to keep a rough growl behind his lips. “Because I want you so bad I can’t think for it, and my control is pretty much shot.”

  Devon tugged against his restraining hold, and when he let go of her wrist, she trailed her hand down his chest, back up, smoothing over his shoulders, his face. Everywhere she could touch, it seemed, and she left behind a trail of fiery hot sensation that only made him burn even hotter. “Maybe you should stop trying to be in control so much,” she suggested softly.

  Her hand stroked back down, passing over his shoulders, his pecs, brushing against one flat nipple. Luke gritted his teeth and reminded himself he had good reasons for not rushing her into bed. Or up against a wall—hell, the floor under their feet would work just fine. Reasons—reasons for . . . oh, yeah. He had reasons for not rushing her. Reasons for staying in control. But for the life of him, with her leaning against his body and touching him with soft, smooth hands, he couldn’t remember those reasons very well.

  “You’re not ready for this, Devon,” he said gruffly, reaching up and capturing her wrists. Stopping those light, feathery touches before she totally destroyed any control he had left.

  A smile flirted with the corners of her lips, and she leaned forward, pressed her lips to his chest. “I really don’t think that’s your call, is it?”

  Then she stepped back. Luke had one second to breathe out a sigh of relief, but as he blew out a harsh, ragged breath, it turned to fire inside him. Hot, explosive fire—because Devon hadn’t pulled back. She’d only stepped away enough to reach behind herself and tug down the zipper at the back of her dress.

  It fell to her feet in a heap of red and white, and under it, she wore a strapless bra and a pair of underwear that must have been designed to drive a guy nuts. They were cut almost like a pair of men’s boxers, but shorter—a lot shorter, and snug enough to cup the curves of her ass, the subtle flare of her hips.

  “Devon . . .”

  She smiled at him, stepped against him, and pressed herself against his chest. Her breasts, small, perfectly formed, and round, flattened against him. “Stop being so careful with me, Luke.”

  That was when he realized she knew. She knew why he had been so careful, knew why he had spent so much time trying to keep himself in control. Pushing up on her toes, she licked his lower lip and then murmured, “I won’t break, Luke.”

  Blood roared in his ears. Need, throttled into submission for weeks, rumbled to the surface. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he hauled her against him and lifted her off her feet. Her body, soft, sleek, and delicate, pressed against his, and her knees came up, squeezing his hips. The towel didn’t have a chance. It fell free from his hips, and when she started to rock against him, it slid to the floor so that now, the only thing separating them was the thin, almost nonexistent scrap of cloth between her legs.

  “Bedroom?” he muttered, his voice gone harsh and tight from need.

  Smiling, she pressed her mouth to his. “Not worried about a bedroom, Luke.”

  He swore, and this time, his voice cracked a little on the end. He was this close to turning, pressing her against a wall, and fucking her until they both collapsed. But common sense intervened, and he headed down the hall instead. His wallet was where he’d dropped it earlier, and inside was a rubber.

  Just the one, although he did have a few more stashed in his car. He hadn’t been planning on this happening, although hope sprang eternal, and thank God he was an optimist, because he would have been dying . . . Oh, shit, he was dying anyway, he thought, as Devon leaned forward and bit his earlobe. Her breasts pressed flat against his chest, and he could feel the silky rain between her thighs as she rocked against him.

  Damn—yeah, screw the bedroom. The kitchen table would work just fine. It was solid oak, and when he laid her down on top of it, it had her hips at just the right height. Just the right height for him to sink to his knees in fron
t of her and lean in, press his mouth to her core, and feast. Slick, wet, and sweet. He groaned at the taste of her and cupped her butt in his hands, hauling her closer.

  Her thighs tightened around his head as she tried to bring her legs together. She tugged on his hair, and he glanced up at her, saw her face was pink with embarrassment.

  He shook his head and muttered, “I need to, Devon. I’ve been dying to do this, to taste you like this and feel you come against my mouth.” And that’s exactly what he did, using lips, teeth, and tongue to bring her to the edge of orgasm, and once she was writhing and whimpering and screaming his name, he tore the rubber open, rolled it down his engorged flesh, and then he stood.

  Leaning over her, he stared down at her flushed face. Their eyes locked as he pressed against her. The thin barrier of the rubber couldn’t hide her heat, couldn’t disguise the silky wet embrace of her sheath, yet it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted her with no barriers, with nothing between them.

  “Wrap your legs around me,” he said gutturally as he bent over the table and slid his arms under her shoulders, bracing her body.

  She shuddered under him as she lifted her thighs and slowly wrapped them around his waist. Pressing his forehead to hers, he asked, “You good?”

  Her smile was all female, all sexual heat and promises. “Oh, I’m more than good. Make love to me, Luke. I’m dying . . .”

  Slowly, he forged his way inside her, the silken tissues giving way and yielding to him. Wrapped around his engorged flesh, she was tight as a vise, sweet as sin, and soft as a kiss. Halfway inside her, he encountered resistance and lifted his head to look at her face. Her eyes had gone dark, and he could see the pain she tried to hide. Freeing one hand, he cupped her chin and murmured, “Just relax for me, baby. Relax . . . Open for me . . . Yeah . . . Fuck, just like that.”

  He talked her through it, murmuring soft, sexy words into her ear and scattering kisses across her face, her neck, and her shoulders, moving against her with slow, shallow thrusts until Devon thought she’d die if she didn’t feel all of him. Rocking her hips upward, she tightened her thighs, tried to pull him deeper. Luke groaned, tensed against her—and then he rasped, “Fuck . . . Devon, please don’t . . .” His voice faded off, and then he lunged, slamming into her with all the force of his lower body, taking her deep and hard. Harder, harder, until she threw back her head and screamed.