Going Wild (The Wild Ones Book 2)

by C. M. Owens

It’s possibly the only thing he could have said to break the spell of this unexpectedly intense moment. I lose it, laughing so hard it hurts, and I bury my face in his chest as he warily wraps his other arm around me.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” he grumbles, sounding a little defensive.

  “Sorry,” I say through the laughter. “It’s just…beard. You’d have to know where I come from. And you’d never fit in with Tomahawk.”

  I raise my head back up to see the curious look on his face.

  “Because I can’t grow a beard?”

  “Because you can’t grow a beard,” I agree.

  He shakes his head. “See? More mystery. I think you do this on purpose.”

  I yawn as I settle down a little better. If his leg wouldn’t hurt like a hot fire-poker was being jabbed in it, I’d totally slide down on that erection and ride him all night, push him past all his limits.

  It’s not like he could run away…

  “What’re you thinking?” he asks, moving some of my hair away from my face as I grin with my eyes closed.

  “That’d you’d suck at escaping right now.”

  “Escaping what?” he asks.

  “The beaver corner of crazy,” I say.

  “Makes no sense, and yet adds even more mystery,” I hear him sigh.

  To be honest, we could probably have really slow sex that could last for hours, but that would be a lot like making love. And that would be a really slippery slope for me, since he’s already more important to me than he should be.

  Relationships aren’t my thing, and I think this may be the longest amount of time I’ve ever spent alone with someone I’m attracted to on physical and emotional levels.

  He tugs my hair, and my eyes reopen, seeing the need in his gaze that mirrors my own. Our lips collide in a searching, hungry kiss, and I slip my leg over him, straddling his waist.

  I rub against him, feeling my nipples harden and drag against his chest. He grips my ass, tugging me up, and I moan into his mouth when his hand slides around and his fingers press inside me. No, not inside my ass.

  I grind my clit against the hard cock between us, and he holds still under me, knowing if he moves, it’ll hurt.

  I remember his ribs and lift off him a little, and he continues kissing me like he can’t get enough, while his fingers continue to drive me wild.

  But his fingers withdraw before I’m finished, and my breath hitches when I feel the tip of his cock pressing in.

  “Condom,” he groans, pressing in a little deeper, stretching me as my breath come out shakily.

  My half-lidded eyes find his, and suddenly he thrusts up, going half way inside me.

  He makes a pained sound, and I curse, remembering the main reason why we’re not fucking. See? I can’t think around him when he’s naked.

  I pull off him quickly, as he once again says, “Condom.”

  “Too risky. It’ll hurt you.”

  I spin around, and my mouth goes down on him before he can protest. He grabs my hips, jerking me to his face, and devouring me in a way that has my eyes crossing.

  It’s like we can’t get enough of each other, and I don’t want it to stop, just as much as I need it to stop.

  This can only end bad.

  Chapter 7

  Wild Ones Tip #49

  Don’t bust our give-a-damn switch. We don’t get things fixed too often.

  LIAM

  “You love this song, don’t you?” I ask as Real Wild Child plays from my iPod dock.

  “Reminds me of home.”

  “They play this a lot?” I ask.

  She turns and grins at me, that secretive grin she uses so often. “The town pretends they don’t love us until we’ve been too quiet. They play this to call us out.”

  Makes no fucking sense whatsoever, and she damn well knows it.

  “I take it you’re some sort of entertainer outside of painting?” I pry, trying to get at least one of her mysteries solved.

  She snorts. “If you only knew.”

  “I’d love to know, but you won’t tell me about your home, other than it’s really named Tomahawk, you have a dad you adore, and you live on a lake.”

  She continues to keep her smile in place, looking up from the canvas she’s painting in my room.

  It’s been just over three weeks since she blew in and started helping me out. I still can’t use the crutches, because—do you know how many ab muscles that takes? And my abs contracting means pressure on my still-healing ribs.

  So Kylie is still pretty much wheeling me around in the wheelchair for short distances and helping me move from one spot to another.

  But I am getting better. And within a few more days, I may can handle those damn crutches.

  I draw the line at the bathroom and grit through the pain when I need to use it, without letting her help me. Even I have too much pride left for that.

  And she’s slept in my bed. Every night.

  I started out thinking she was cute.

  Now, the very thought of her or scent of her has me painfully hard. All the time. She’s the only thing I seem to find sexy anymore. I’ll never view sexy the same way for as long as I live.

  Because Kylie is nothing at all like anyone I’ve ever known. She can drive you crazy in four ways at once. She can make you positive you’re losing your mind.

  She’ll threaten my life one minute, and suck my dick in the next, assuring me I’d die a happy man if she killed me directly after.

  You know those little Sour Patch Kids that slap you and hug you in the next breath? That’s Kylie.

  And it’s one of the many reasons for my increasing addiction.

  “Outsiders don’t get to know about Tomahawk. Not the fun stuff. It’s for residents only. So until you become a full time local, then no; I can’t tell you anything,” she explains.

  She smirks at me and resumes painting the canvas. It looks like a grunge take on the city’s skyline. Not my favorite work of hers, but still intriguing.

  She just paints for fun usually. She only puts a lot of thought into her sculptures for the galleries, and those are unique, incredible and completely captivating.

  “What about your family?”

  She shrugs, still painting. We’ve mostly talked about me, and my family—that is going to be royally pissed when I cut them off. And my shitty friends, who haven’t bothered to call or make good on the ‘if you need something, just let us know,’ promises. And my obsession with buying art, even though I have zero artistic talents.

  I like wood work, and I do some work in my shop, but it’s limited to functional pieces. Nothing creative.

  Getting Kylie to talk about anything is like pulling teeth from a piranha.

  “My mom took off when I was five,” she says, shocking me. I’ve asked about her family daily, and it’s the first time she’s answered.

  “Why?” is the stupid fucking question I ask, as though there could be a good reason for abandoning your child.

  She snorts. “We were too much for her to deal with. My dad got saddled with my cousins most of the time, because my aunt and uncle split time between Tomahawk and Florida, where he had another set of children with his ex. Complicated family, they have. My mom finally left, and my dad raised me, while also dealing with my heathen cousins a good chunk of the time.”

  I try to sit up so I can see her better. Her expression is one of focus, because she’s talking absently while channeling all her energy into her painting.

  “Your cousins still live there?”

  A huge smile breaks across her face. “Yeah. They have their own places on our side of the lake, but our family sees each other almost daily—when I’m not doing a rare trip like this. My aunt and uncle moved to Florida permanently after the last one turned eighteen two years ago. I have a place in town I stay at when I get tired of them messing up my concentration. It’s a small, cramped apartment, but I can breathe easier there. I still go back and stay with Dad though, because he’d kill me if
I didn’t.”

  Smiling to myself and wondering what she’d be like in her own element, I try to picture her home. A ranch keeps popping into my mind, even though she swears there’s no ranch.

  “Any friends?”

  “Several. Sometimes we have to sneak around to see each other though. If we’re seeing more than one family at a time, that is.”

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  She blinks like she realizes she said something she shouldn’t have, then a daring little grin curves her lips. “Local knowledge only. Sorry, Anatomically Correct Ken.” She turns and blows me a kiss before returning to her work.

  That’s my least favorite thing she calls me.

  “What got you into painting?” I ask her.

  She laughs, moving on to a new canvas as she sets that one aside to dry.

  “I need stimulation of some sort all the time. Sometimes multiple sources. I’m not an easy person to be around, in case you haven’t noticed. Hence the reason I’m single. If I don’t have a constant outlet, then something terrible happens.”

  I love it when she says that.

  “What happens?” I ask, taking the bait, as always.

  She turns and gives me a serious look, which is debunked, due to the red paint on the tip of her nose that gives her a clownish vibe.

  “I get bored.”

  My smile only grows. “It’s a terrible thing for you to get bored?” I ask, smiling bigger.

  She nods slowly. “You have no idea. It’s a terrible thing for any Malone to get bored.”

  “Why is that?” I ask as she wipes the red paint off her nose.

  She holds up her hand.

  “Let me guess; I’d only be privy to that information if I was a Tomahawk local,” I say, grinning over at her.

  She winks at me and taps her nose, letting me know I’ve guessed it on-the-nose.

  “So when my leg heals up, are you going to let me take you out to dinner?”

  “To tell me thank you?” she asks, apparently oblivious.

  “Well, yeah. And to let me in your pants. Like with my dick instead of my tongue or fingers for a change.” It’s supposed to sound crudely charming, but instead it sounds totally…lewd, crass, and shitty.

  And I want to take it back.

  She snorts, then laughs, which has me relaxing about my mostly failed attempt to be funny.

  “I’d normally say yes, but your leg won’t be healed before it’s time for me to go.”

  That has my body tensing again.

  “Time for you to go?”

  She peers over at me, arching an eyebrow. “I have to be home in one week. The showcases end, and I miss my town. My family. My friends. Not to mention my apartment is possibly destroyed since my cousins were going to check in on it for me while I’ve been gone. I’ll have to deal with that.”

  Okay, that…sucks.

  Maybe because after three weeks of nonstop time together—other than her leaving for her showcases on Fridays—we’ve hung out like real friends. We’ve also crossed the line of friends numerous times as well.

  I don’t…I can’t even imagine what it’ll be like without her here. And I really don’t want to.

  “What about me?”

  She smiles over at me again. “I’ll leave you with all my paintings that have kept me sane.”

  Yeah…that sucks.

  Then again, it’s not like I’ve done anything to make her give a damn about me. She saved my life, and she’s been taking care of me.

  I’m just the invalid who has leaned on her and given her nothing in return, besides endless, whiny stories about my absent friends and family. And a few orgasms along the way. But she gives me almost just as many.

  I suddenly realize just how shitty I’ve been.

  I’ve been soaking up every ounce of refreshing air she’s been giving me, never once considering it had an expiration date. I’ve gotten so arrogant that I just assumed she’d stay and give up her life until we saw where this was going.

  “Maybe I can see you on my next trip to LA, and you can make good on that other promise though,” she adds, not looking at me.

  I see the blush on her cheeks, and my smile slowly starts to grow. It’s a start. I want to see more of her. I need more than another week with her. She’s the first real person I’ve ever had in my life.

  Hell, if she’s this good to a complete stranger, I can only imagine how good she’d be to someone she really cares about. And I want to be one of those people. I’m actually greedy enough to want to be her favorite fucking person.

  I never knew how fake the people I surrounded myself with were until Kylie came into my world. I’m not ready to lose her.

  I haven’t even fucked her, and I’m beyond obsessed. I can only imagine how bad I’ll be if I ever get her under me.

  “There’s no way you can stay longer?” I’m not ashamed to admit that I sound a little desperate.

  She gives me the look.

  “Something terrible would happen?” I guess.

  “My family would come after me.”

  “And that’s terrible?”

  “LA would never be the same,” she says on a shudder, then laughs under her breath.

  If I’m going to impress her and try to get her to stick around and see what could be between us, I have exactly seven days to make it happen. Which means I need to hurry the hell up.

  “Let me do something for you tonight. I may not can go anywhere, but I know a chef who owes me a favor. He can—”

  My door buzzes, and she hops up from her painting, coming to get the remote.

  “Hello?” she asks.

  I figure it’s just another delivery person, when I hear the voice that has me internally panicking.

  “Hello? Who is this?” Felicia asks.

  “This is Shirley Temple,” Kylie says, mocking the name I’ve called her for three weeks.

  “Funny. Where’s Liam?”

  “In bed,” Kylie deadpans, causing me to smile tightly, dreading the inevitable.

  “Who’s she?” Kylie asks, handing me the remote.

  Telling her she’s the girlfriend I forgot I had would not be a good idea. To be fair, Felicia has been out of the country for eight weeks, and we’re in an open relationship.

  But…Kylie is sweet, despite her objections. Sweet girls wouldn’t understand that.

  You can’t cheat on someone who has given you a permanent hall pass. Besides, it was never a real relationship—which I realize now. However, I don’t exactly have time to prepare Kylie, explain the situation, or even try to dig out of this hole.

  The door opens when Felicia decides to use her “emergency” key instead of waiting to be buzzed in, and Kylie walks around to my side of the bed, just as Felicia breezes in.

  Her hair is flawlessly straight. Her lips are lined in red. And she walks in wearing a power suit. Usually it does something for me.

  Not today.

  Like I said, I only have one idea of sexy now, and it’s the curly-haired, messy girl at my side.

  I’d rather look at her bouncy, spiral curls, and her paint-covered fingernails, along with all her clothes that have paint on them. You won’t find one drop of paint on her boots. She takes her boots seriously.

  “Oh, hi. You really do look like a grown up version of Shirley Temple,” Felicia says, her eyes on Kylie.

  It doesn’t sound nearly as endearing as it does when I say it.

  Kylie fidgets awkwardly, and Felicia grins over at me. “She’s adorable. Pick her up at one of your galleries?”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back for another few weeks,” I groan.

  She sighs harshly, flicking her gaze at Kylie again like she’s sizing her up, then she takes in the numerous painted canvases that litter the room.

  “Deal went south at the last minute, and—” She freezes, her words dying. “What happened to your leg?” she asks, her eyes widening when she finally notices.

  No, I
haven’t told her. Like I said, I sort of forgot she existed. Don’t judge. In case you haven’t noticed, my life has been pretty damn superficial up until this point.

  I never noticed it.

  Never cared.

  Almost dying makes you see things a little differently.

  My eyes flick to Kylie as she moves to a canvas, busying herself with it.

  Almost dying makes you want really different things too.

  “I almost died. Kylie saved my life, and she’s been here ever since, considering I had no one else who gave a damn to help me out,” I say, looking back at Felicia, whose eyes have widened even more.

  “Holy shit, Liam! Why didn’t you call me? Usually the first thing a man does when he almost dies is call his damn girlfriend!”

  I see it when it happens. I see it the moment I lose her. I see it in the way her shoulders go tight, her head rears back, and her back stiffens.

  “Kylie, this isn’t—”

  “We’re in an open relationship, and he’s allowed to fuck whoever he wants, Kylie,” Felicia says softly to Kylie when she notices her discomfort. “Please don’t feel awkward.”

  That doesn’t help, even though I wish like fuck it did.

  Kylie spins, looking wide-eyed and out of place as she bends to start packing up her painting materials.

  “Actually, we’re not…um…never mind,” Kylie tells her, her eyes staying on the ground. “We’re just friends. He needed help, and I didn’t want dirty gym socks icking up my pretty boots.”

  Felicia is only momentarily distracted before she looks back at me.

  “So why didn’t you call?”

  I’m busy watching as Kylie hurries up and finishes putting away the paint.

  “I forgot,” I finally admit.

  Kylie tenses, but then stands and excuses herself, walking out the door.

  I hear her in the next room where she’s been keeping her stuff, and my eyes shift back to Felicia.

  But Felicia snaps a picture of my leg, before typing something on her phone. Probably posting on her social media about how her poor boyfriend is laid up and hurt.

  “Well, what can I do?” she asks, still typing on her phone.

  Until this moment, it hasn’t dawned on me that I’ve barely even glanced at my phone while Kylie has been here. She doesn’t have one, so I haven’t used mine. Unless it was to call in food.