Candy Ever After (Hot Candy Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  He grunts, closes his eyes, his lashes dark crescents on his cheekbones. “You’ll be the death of me, Sugar Pop.”

  “Nobody’s dying,” I say, but he wraps his arm more tightly around me, burying his face in my hair, producing a muffled sound. “Everything’s okay, Jet.”

  “Fuck.” He clutches me to him as if afraid I’ll vanish into smoke.

  “Everything’s fine.” I just hold on, feeling another shiver go through him. I wonder if I said something to set it off again.

  He pulls me slowly sideways, and we lie down on the sofa, curled around each other.

  “Everyone dies,” he informs me, his voice faint.

  “Eventually.”

  “Sometimes sooner than later.”

  I pull back to look up into his face. “Are you hiding some deadly sickness from me and not telling me?”

  He lets out a breath. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Good. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  His mouth finds my hair and his next breath ruffles it. “That’s what Joel always says, but life is a bitch.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. “Will you tell me what happened with Joel?” I ask against his cotton-clad chest. “How did you hit your head, and why he doesn’t know you’re not feeling well? Did you two have an argument?”

  “Something like that. I… pushed. I never know when to stop.” He huffs, obviously thinking his cryptic comment is enough explanation.

  “And you hit your head.”

  “I slipped and fell. Hitting my head was an accident. It’s not his fault.”

  “Never said it was.”

  I lift my hands to his crazy hair and slip my fingers through it, massaging his head. He groans, throws a leg over mine and squashes me to his chest.

  “You feel so damn good,” he rasps. “Stay tonight.”

  “Jet…”

  “I won’t do anything. I swear to God. Just… stay.”

  But I want him to do more, and I want Joel to join us, and I want so much, but the fact he’s asking me to stay, accepting my help, my touch, is already more than I could hope for.

  So how could I ever say no? “Sure. Just let me text my roommate that I won’t be going home.”

  But I don’t move, don’t want to move, wrapped up in his warmth, in his strong arms, sleep stealing over me like a thief.

  ***

  A faint noise jolts me awake. I blink blearily into the dimness. Shapes materialize around me—walls, a floor lamp, a low table, an armchair.

  Someone is sitting in that armchair, elbows propped on his knees, hands clenched in his hair. A man, from the breadth of his shoulders, the square cut of his jaw.

  Joel. I think. I squint at him and reach for my glasses, which I’ve left on the coffee table. I slip them on and look again.

  Oh yeah, it’s him.

  “He’d totally get off watching us.” Jet’s words blow through my mind like a hot breeze.

  Is this a dream?

  Probably, I decide, because there is a definite feel of arms locked around me, a jagged, muscular male body molded to my back.

  Something flickers in the corner of my vision. The TV is on, the sound low. A documentary, I think fuzzily, the reel a grainy black and white. People running. An explosion.

  Huh. That was the noise, I guess.

  Slowly, carefully, I extricate myself from the arms holding me down. The body behind me shifts, the hold tightening for a moment before going slack.

  I slide free and sit up, swinging my legs off the couch.

  The couch in Jethro and Joel’s apartment, my memory whispers as I wait for the room to stop spinning. Where I followed Jet, worried that he was dizzy and sick. Where he asked me to hold him, and to stay the night.

  I wasn’t supposed to wake up to Joel sitting across from me, to meet his light blue gaze as he lifts his head and stares right back at me.

  There’s a world of emotions packed in that look. A world of feels. Sadness. Anger. Curiosity. Heat. Amusement. Confusion. Hurt.

  Then he blinks and it’s all gone, all that emotion. Poof. Joel grins at me, his eyes a blank mirror. “Sleep well, princess?”

  His voice is low, a raspy whisper that sends a sudden bolt of heat down my center. “Didn’t hear you arrive.” I rub at my eyes. “Didn’t expect to fall asleep, either.”

  He snorts softly. “It must have been damn good for both of you to pass out like that.”

  I cock my head at him, trying to make sense of his words, but my brain is still sleep-addled. “Good?”

  His mouth presses into a flat line, and he shrugs.

  Wait, does he mean…? Wow, yes, he does.

  “You told me I should date him,” I remind him as my brain starts playing catching up—and hey, I’m not at my best after waking up, not before I’ve had some coffee. “That he deserves to be happy.”

  He looks away, jaw clenched. “Yeah, I did. Dammit.” He rises to his feet in one fluid movement, shoulders hunched. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Joel.” I’m on my feet so fast I almost fall over. I make a grab for his arm, ending up snagging his hand. “Nothing happened.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” His fingers curl around mine, and his whole body seems to be vibrating with tension—like he’s doing his best not to shake me off and take off running.

  “Jet and I. He wasn’t feeling well. I drove him home, came up to make sure he was okay. We just fell asleep, that’s all.”

  He glances down at my very dressed self, jaw working, then toward the sofa where Jet is now sitting up, giving us a dazed look, his hair sticking out in one side. He looks so cute like that. And hot.

  And dressed from head to toe.

  “You’re sick, dickhead?” Joel mutters, the tension seeping out of his tall body. “Coming down with something?”

  “He said he had a bad headache,” I reply, before Jet opens his mouth. “He was dizzy. He said he hit his head yesterday.”

  Jethro grunts and rubs a hand over his mouth.

  “Fuck.” Joel drags me back to the couch and pushes me down to sit, then sinks down on his heels in front of Jethro. “Hey, Jet.”

  “What’s up, mate?” Those pretty dark eyes are hooded, hazy.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Been better.”

  “That was a good hit, huh? Nearly cracked your thick skull?”

  Jethro grins faintly, crookedly. “You wish.”

  “Have you eaten today?”

  Jethro shrugs, mouth twisting.

  I realize I’m holding my breath. It’s so… intimate, the way they interact, the way the one cares for the other. Makes me feel like an intruder. Like the third wheel, even if what they have doesn’t seem sexual.

  “I’ll make us something to eat,” Joel says, still making no move to get up, his hands resting on Jethro’s knees.

  “Something with bananas in it?” Jethro asks, his voice holding laughter, and God, I should go. Now Joel is back, I’m not needed. Jet will be fine.

  But the moment I start getting up, Joel stops me with a hand on my leg—the exact moment Jet throws an arm around my shoulders.

  “Pancakes,” Joel says firmly. “With chocolate syrup and bananas. What do you think, Candy?”

  My stomach gurgles, and I duck my head. “Yeah. Sounds great. But you guys—”

  “Then it’s set,” Joel says and stands up.

  “Don’t you guys want to talk and eat and rest—”

  “Stay,” Jethro says, and I dip my chin.

  Why can’t I ever say no to him?

  “Then I’ll help,” I declare and scramble to my feet. “With the cooking. And everything.”

  Jet huffs and lies back, stretching his arms over his head, and my gaze snags on his bare midriff and the thin trail of hair leading into his waistband.

  Hey, I’m human. Can’t help it.

  “Right this way, then,” Joel says, giving me his blinding smile, flashing that dimple, and I follow h
im to the kitchen like a puppy.

  Oh God, is this normal? Despite my years of drooling after these two guys and building a whole fantasy world with them for everyone to read on my blog, can I really be equally attracted to both of them—and not just that, but falling for them hook, line and sinker?

  ***

  The kitchen is small and clean, with what look like drawings taped to the far wall, and chrome cupboards and dark counters. Very masculine somehow.

  Just like the sight of Joel making pancakes.

  Oh my God. Hottest pancakes, hottest chef ever. The way he’s rolled up his sleeves to whip up the ingredients, revealing ropey, muscular forearms, and the look of concentration on his face… I’m staring, standing there all useless and drooling at him.

  He sends a distracted smile my way as he reaches for a pan, and I lean back against the counter, my knees weak.

  “Thanks for bringing him home.” He puts the pan on the fire, pours the pancake mixture in it, his movements sure and fluid. Experienced. “I wish he’d told me he needed a ride.”

  “Why didn’t he? You two are tight.”

  His smile slips a little. “I dunno. Sometimes he gets this strange idea that he’s imposing on me. That he’s a nuisance.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  Joel takes out one perfect, golden pancake and pours in another. “Hell if I know. He’s my best friend. He’s pain in the ass sometimes, but I love him.” He swallows hard. “Not that way. As a friend. Fuck.”

  He almost burns the pancake, and I watch, fascinated, as color seeps into his cheeks.

  “Got a problem with guys loving other guys?” I ask.

  “What? No, of course not!” Now he looks horrified, and I chide myself for pushing him.

  Then I wonder if that was that what Jet did—pushed him into an uncomfortable zone. It sure seems like an easy feat with Joel.

  Right on cue, an amused chuckle comes from the kitchen door.

  “Talking about me?” Jethro leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side. He’s grinning like a wolf.

  “Go get the bananas,” Joel snaps. “Cut them up.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Joel sure is bossy. And Jethro sure seems to enjoy it, judging by his easy grin and prompt response.

  My mouth is dry. I lick my lips, wondering how that would translate in bed.

  Oh for God’s sake.

  I walk over to the drawings and study them, trying to take my mind off the two very sexy men trapped in the tiny kitchen with me.

  They’re… pages from a comic. Or seem to be. Fight scenes between superheroes and chases through dark alleys. A cat with arched back stands against the full moon. A fanged mouth opens in a wordless cry.

  “Holy shit, these are good.” I’ve read my fair share of comics—even more so since I started working at the bookshop, and the art of these ones is exceptional. “Which comic book were they taken from?”

  “Doesn’t have a name,” Jet says. “Not published yet.”

  I trace a female silhouette hurrying down a torch-lit corridor, the curve of her hips, the way her long hair flows. “Awesome artist. Friend of yours?”

  “You could say that,” Joel says, laughter in his voice, and I turn to find them both smirking at me.

  “What?” I’m obviously missing something.

  “They’re signed,” Joel says, turning off the stove and placing a bottle of syrup beside the perfect stack of pancakes he’s made.

  I raise my brows and turn back to the drawings, searching for the signature. There it is, at the right bottom corner. “JE. Or JC?”

  Jet laughs. Joel curses.

  “Told you it wasn’t clear,” he hisses, trying to elbow Jethro who makes a face at him.

  Wait a minute… “JC? As in Jethro Connors? You made these?”

  “He’s the best,” Joel says fondly. “Asshole just won’t believe it.”

  “And it’s a comic?” Excitement bubbles inside me. “Is it done? Can I read it?”

  Jet pauses in the process of chopping up bananas into thin slices. “It’s almost done.”

  I’m practically jumping from foot to foot, my hands fluttering at my sides. “Oh my God, you are making a comic! Can I read it? Pleasepleaseplease?”

  “Joel wrote the story,” Jet says. “Ask him.”

  Joel writes stories? And Jet draws.

  This is too much. “You’re kidding me. You’re both screwing with me, right?”

  Joel puts the pancakes on the small kitchen table, his cheeks a bright crimson. “I haven’t found a fitting ending for it yet.”

  “He wants to write an epic,” Jet says, putting down the knife, grinning. “He thinks he has to write something like the ancient history he’s obsessed with. I keep telling him real life doesn’t always end with a bang.”

  “Ancient history is real,” Joel mutters, frowning. “Babylonia. Assyria. They existed. It wasn’t a video game.”

  “Assyria,” I mutter.

  “Yeah.”

  “And Babylonia.”

  “I’m particularly interested in the reign of Ashurbanipal, as a matter of fact, but anything of that period fascinates me.”

  “Ashurbanipal.” Oh, baby, keep talking dirty to me.

  And I should probably stop randomly repeating words he says.

  “You were serious,” I whisper. “You’re interested in ancient history.” It wasn’t a come-on line. It was real.

  He rubs his chin. “I took history in college. I like that stuff. Better than fantasy.” He pulls a chair back and holds my gaze with his glittering one. “Dinner is served.”

  “I’m more of a Middle Ages fan myself,” I hear my voice saying as I cross to the table and take my seat. “I love the epics. Beowulf. The Edda. The Song of Roland.”

  “You like history?” he asks, sounding pleased. “What did you study?”

  “Still studying,” I mutter, and it’s my turn to blush. “Comparative literature.”

  “No way.”

  I wait for him to add two and two, realize we went to college together—well, that we were on the same campus, anyway, that I was one of the girls who ogled him on a daily basis, but he turns and drags Jet to the table.

  “Who will say Grace?” Jet grins at Joel as he takes his seat, the plate of chopped bananas in front of him. He steals one, right before Joel smacks his hand.

  “Grace,” Joel says and pushes the pancakes toward us. “Now eat.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  JOEL

  I give Jet a hand up from the wrestling mat. “Had enough?”

  “Screw you.” He groans as he climbs back to his feet. He’s been out of sorts lately. Falling on his ass three times in a row is unusual for him these days.

  “I’ve got your back,” I tell him, not entirely sure what has stressed him out, but the quick, grateful look he sends me tells me it was what he needed to hear. “Come on. Loser buys the drinks.”

  Seeing Jet shovel food into his mouth eases the knot of worry in my chest. The thought that he was feeling so shitty he let Candy drive him here, that he didn’t want to tell me… it burns. I want to be there for him, always, like the family he doesn’t have anymore. The family he never really had, if what he’s told me of his parents is true.

  Say all you want about my stupid, closed-minded parents, but they fed me and clothed me and held my hand to cross the street when I was little. Although Jet rarely speaks of his own parents, I doubt he had any of that.

  But he has me.

  I check his face for any sign of discomfort as I gather the dirty dishes and dump them into the sink to wash later. I watch him like a hawk for any dizziness as he gets up, collecting the silverware. He looks better than he did when he woke up, for sure. There’s color in his cheeks, and he’s steady on his feet.

  He chuckles at something Candy says, and I watch the easy way with which she touches him and makes him laugh. She’s a sight for sore eyes—gold and cream and
rounded curves, a cheeky smile that lights up her brown eyes. And the glasses.

  Can’t forget those nerdy glasses.

  The way she slept in Jet’s arms. The way he was curled around her, more relaxed than I’ve seen him in ages. She made her choice, I guess. A good choice, too.

  Hell, I can’t begrudge him this.

  But I wish I’d stop imagining them together. Jet fucking her against the wall. Candy riding him on his bed. Myself thrusting inside her from behind while he fucks her mouth.

  And… I’m hard again. Like every time my mind conjures up images of the three of us.

  Pushing the wishful fantasies deep down, where they belong, I take the glasses from Candy, the silverware from Jet, and all but shove them toward the living room.

  “Go. I’ve got this.”

  “You’re coming, too,” Candy says, surprising me when she links her arm with mine.

  Jet throws an arm around me. “What she said.”

  I give him a suspicious look. “You guys probably want some alone time.”

  “We could watch a movie,” Candy says.

  Jet leans more heavily against me, and I wrap an arm around his lean hips so we don’t topple over. “That movie you picked about Beowulf.”

  “Yes, yes!” Candy is dancing beside me, tugging on my arm, and her excitement makes me smile.

  “Beowulf it is,” I say and let them drag me to the sofa.

  ***

  We end up watching Beowulf and then The Nibelungen, and drinking half a bottle of whiskey. I’m seated between the two of them, and it’s warm, and their bodies pressed against mine turn my thoughts into spinning circles.

  If you asked me, I couldn’t tell you anything about the movies we watched. Candy’s curled up, her head ending up against my shoulder, her tits pressed to my arm, and on my other side Jet’s sprawled with one leg thrown over mine, sipping his whiskey, his throat working as he swallows.

  The TV is just a distracting box with colors in the background.

  My cock twitches. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard in my life. A voice in the back of my mind is crowing with delight.

  Another one is whispering that extracting myself from this tangle will be difficult.

  Especially when Jet mutters something unintelligible and presses his face to my neck.