Addicted for Now (Addicted Series 2)

by Ritchie, Krista

  I was sure I resembled the sloppy drunk between the two of us.

  “Lily.” His lips lifted into a crooked grin. “How do you feel?”

  “Wobbly,” I admitted. “And horny.” The alcohol repressed any embarrassment because I added, “Really horny, actually.” But I couldn’t find a one-night stand at my parent’s intimate party. Besides the fact that most were in their fifties, the few young people knew my family too well. I was not in the market to scatter rumors that I cheated on Loren Hale. We were still pretending to be a couple, after all.

  He kept smiling. “Is that how you get guys hard? Blunt honesty?”

  My eyes immediately fell to his groin. “It doesn’t seem to be working on you,” I countered. I slipped out of his arms and found his stowaway of Macallan in my desk drawer. I uncapped it and took a quick swig. His face darkened, and he yanked the bottle away from me. He put the rim to his lips and drank a large gulp, his throat bobbing three times.

  He set the bottle back on the desk. “You’re always horny. I’d have an eternal hard-on if that’s all it took.”

  My mind started to wander to sinful places, thinking about what exactly would get Loren Hale off. But this was Lo. My best friend. A relationship I couldn’t devalue with a quick lay. We’ve crossed lines a few times before, but I was determined to never jump over the ultimate line—the one that ends with him inside of me, with the highest, brightest climax.

  “I usually don’t say things,” I admitted. “I just do things.”

  He gave me a bitter smile. “I bet you give a spectacular blow job.”

  I was about to offer one, but I remembered who he was and my throat went dry again. I held out my hand for the Macallan. “Hit me,” I said.

  He laughed as he pressed the bottle to his lips again. “Cute.” He took another long sip. He was always so territorial over his booze.

  I stomped back over to the drawer and fished out an airplane bottle of vodka.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have anything to chase that with, big shot.”

  I shrugged, screwed off the cap, and tossed the liquor back in my throat.

  “Hey!” he shouted and rushed to my side just as the liquid burned its way down my esophagus. I coughed roughly. I’m on fucking fire, I thought. He snatched the bottle away from me but eighty percent was already invading my stomach.

  My nose crinkled in disgust. “Why do you do that?” I asked. I’ve seen him drink straight liquor. I rub my hand on my tongue, trying to rid the taste. Ugh.

  He just laughed and let me complain for a few minutes, and then the alcohol slowly began to warp my mind, turning my lustful thoughts on overdrive. I craved touch. For hands to slide up and down my legs and thighs.

  I plopped on the edge of the bed, my eyes drifting over Lo, falling to his ass as he stared out the window, mesmerized by the twinkling Christmas lights and the flutter of snow.

  I wanted sex.

  I wanted to feel as good as he was feeling. Alcohol made him relaxed, at ease, and I yearned for that type of temperate peace.

  “Lo,” I breathed. “Are we still pretending?”

  His eyes met mine. “I’ll be sleeping in your room tonight because we’re supposed to be dating. So…yes.”

  “Can I do something?” My eyelids felt heavy from the liquor, and hopefully my voice was not so slurred.

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “I can wait in your father’s study. I don’t think there’s anyone there.”

  He moved towards the door, about to give me privacy for self-love. But that’s not what I wanted. “Wait,” I called out, my heart beating rapidly. His feet halted in the middle of the floor, and he spun around, facing me with the tilt of his head.

  “You can stay,” I told him. “Right there. Just…stay right there.”

  I slid underneath the covers and tried to avoid his gaze as I fumbled with my dress. I pulled the fabric over my head and threw it to the floor—along with my panties. I had enough sense to keep my strapless bra on at least. Not that it was covering much.

  Now situated, I looked back at him. An amused expression danced across his face. “How drunk are you?” he asked.

  Truthfully, I hoped I wouldn’t remember doing this in the morning. That didn’t end up happening though. “Enough,” I said. Enough to touch myself in front of you.

  He licked his bottom lip and held up the bottle to his mouth. He waited to see if I’d go through with it. My fingers dipped between my legs, finding the soft, wet spot that ached for touch. My breath deepened as soon as my fingers pulsed along my clit, and I basked in the way it lit up my core.

  I stared longingly at his pants, imagining his cock that I never really saw during our college years. I never wanted his penis to spike my temptations, so I avoided eye contact with it most days. But that night, I didn’t care about any of that. Sex was on my mind, and it wanted something more.

  His fingers traveled to the button on his pants, and my breath hitched as he pushed it slowly through the hole.

  I looked at him questioningly. What was he doing?

  “If you want to watch me while you get yourself off,” he said, “you might as well do it the right way, love.” He tugged down his pants to his ankles and slowly stepped out of them. My mouth hung open, and I stopped moving my own fingers in shock.

  He was hard.

  Not completely, but definitely more firm than before. His tight black boxer-briefs exposed every muscle and curve and of course the bulge that I fixated on.

  “Keep going,” he urged.

  My fingers reignited at his words, and I moved them faster, my hips writhing and pumping in animation. His cock slowly grew. I was beckoning it to me, like I had become a little snake charmer. I loved that control…that power.

  I stole a glance and caught Lo drinking in my features, the way my lips parted and my eyes fluttered back. But when we locked gazes, I dropped my focus, his hand disappearing below the hem of his boxer-briefs.

  A moan caught in my throat as I watched him rub himself beneath the fabric. I couldn’t see his cock, not really, but that felt even sexier. More sinful and wrong and just about right.

  His heavy breath became deep and rough, as ragged and wanting as mine. “Lily,” he groaned. My climax arrived in that idyllic rush, in a tidal wave that blew me over in staggered successions. My body shook and my toes curled, my high blistering me from the inside out. Lo grunted, his breath sharp, and he came right along with me.

  The usual shame was absolved by the booze and the reminder that we hadn’t broken any rules. I convinced myself that he’s probably heard me come in the next room thousands of times. Seeing the act couldn’t have been much different. And I had never done something like this with any other guy before.

  It felt special.

  I turned to ask him if we could do it again. Once was never enough.

  He saw the desperation before I uttered a word.

  “If you do it in front of me again, I’ll have to fuck you,” he said.

  “Have to or want to?” I asked in confusion.

  He smiled easily, but never gave me a clear answer. “I may not get hard when you tell me you’re horny, but I’m still a guy. And you still have rules. Ones that I won’t take advantage of when you’re drunk.”

  “So when I’m sober?”

  His smile turned mischievous. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  He gripped the neck of the Macallan. I must have looked disappointed still because he went to my closet instead of the bathroom. He pulled out a pink Victoria’s Secret shoebox from the bottom and set it gently on the bed beside me. He knew it was filled with all my toys. The gesture was kind.

  He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear and kissed me on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Lil,” he said and left for the bathroom.

  He never came back. I spent the next four hours in a self-love coma until I passed out. In the morning, I found him asleep on the tiled bathroom floor hugging an empty bottle.
We never spoke about it again. I buried the memory with my fantasies, and I’ve always believed he lost the memory in his booze.

  { 38 }

  LOREN HALE

  “I can’t believe you’re fucking engaged,” Ryke tells me.

  We stretch by the small koi pond at the edge of our property, trying our best to run without nearing the wrought iron gates. Paparazzi camp on the street, peering through the gate that does little in terms of privacy. Rose already called a landscaper to plant tall hedges, but they won’t be finished for a whole month.

  “In a scandal management perspective, marriage is the clear solution,” Connor says. He stretches his quads on the ground.

  “Yes because now people will think Lily’s an adulterer and not just cheating on her college boyfriend,” Ryke retorts.

  Connor stares him down. “Society believes marriage shows commitment, a stronger bond.” He stands to his feet. “Not to mention gossip mongers eat up a good love story. And what’s better than love uniting a sex addict and an alcoholic?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in New York right now?” Ryke snaps back, surrendering the fight. Everyone has an opinion about the engagement, but the only one that matters to me is Lily’s. “I thought Rose was running around with her fucking head off her shoulders.”

  All of our family’s companies have been hit financially from the scandal, but unlike Fizzle and Hale Co., Calloway Couture is a young business already on shaky ground. The blow toppled it over. The menswear line that she’s been slaving over for months—the one I briefly modeled for—is being reviewed for Fashion Week. Even Connor said that the likelihood of the line surviving is slim to none. So she’s going to be pulled from the show, two department stores just dropped her, and she had to let go her assistants, including Lily. Rose won’t tap into her trust fund to pay her employees, and she’s losing money too quickly to keep them.

  “She called and told me not to come,” Connor admits. “She doesn’t want me to be in the way.”

  “Is Sebastian there?” I ask. I can see that scheming motherfucker trying to whisper his awful opinions about Connor into Rose’s ear. With the slow annihilation of her company weighing on her, she must be vulnerable.

  “He’s been helping her with the line. I’m sure he’s there. Why do you ask?”

  I should tell Connor that Sebastian is not fond of him, but he probably already picked up those signals. I should definitely mention how Sebastian is most likely plotting a way to cut him out of Rose’s life. But Lily still needs those tests. “No reason,” I say with a shrug.

  He stares at me for a long moment, disbelieving, but he doesn’t prod further. We start walking back towards the house, our shoes crunching the stones on the path.

  “Speaking of Calloway girls,” Connor says, “I read that Daisy is doing a spread in Vogue. Is that true?” After Lily and I talked with the lawyers, Daisy went to stay at her parent’s house again. Her modeling career catapulted because of the scandal. Magazines and photographers are lining up to book her for five-page spreads, labeling her as a “sex symbol” in ads that transform the sixteen-year-old into a man’s wet fantasy. They call her a young Brooke Shields, but comparing her to another teen icon doesn’t settle my stomach. And my blood is on boil, angry that anyone is willing to exploit that girl.

  What’s worse, her own mother booked her the jobs. But it’s not my place to stick up for Daisy. I often wonder whose it is. Poppy has taken sanctuary at her small house in Philly, trying to protect her three-year-old daughter from the paparazzi. Rose is frazzled enough with her fashion line, and Lily and I are just trying to keep our heads on straight.

  So who’s protecting Daisy?

  Her parents sure as hell aren’t.

  “I’m not sure,” I admit. “I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

  “She’s doing it,” Ryke says. “She says it’s tasteful or whatever.” He shakes his head, disgruntled by the situation. “She was a high fashion model and overnight she became a fucking supermodel, and instead of sheltering her from the media, her fucking mother is pushing her into it. I think I hate that woman.”

  “You and me both,” I say, “and since when are you talking to Daisy?”

  He gives me a glare. “Don’t fucking get onto me about that shit,” he snaps. “She needs a friend.”

  “You know, I heard about that recession of sixteen-year-old girls,” Connor says. “It must be difficult for her to find a friend her own age.”

  I smile and Ryke glowers. “Fuck off, Connor,” he snaps. “You know what all her prep school friends are doing? They keep asking her if she’s a sex addict too. As if it’s genetic. She needs someone who knows Lily, who fucking understands what’s going on.”

  “So she needs you,” I say like he’s an idiot.

  Ryke throws up his hands and stops walking. “For fuck’s sake,” he exclaims. “I’m giving her rock climbing lessons, not taking her on a date. We’re friends. The perverts who stare at her in magazines may forget she’s sixteen, but I won’t.” He starts uncapping his water bottle. “I also thought we talked about badgering me. We made a fucking deal in Cancun, remember?”

  I won’t admit it, but there’s a piece of me that’s lashing out in guilt. I should be the one talking to Daisy and being a friend to her, yet I’m swamped in my own bullshit. If I was a better person, I’d probably actually thank Ryke. She does need someone to talk to, even if that someone has to be my hot-headed half-brother.

  When we start walking again, Ryke ignites a conversation I thought we dropped at the beginning of our run. “Maybe you should start a company about pissing people off. You can call it Bastards-R-Us.”

  I knew I shouldn’t have told him about accepting my trust fund or being obligated to build a company from scratch, like I’m a little kid playing with Legos. Ryke is vehemently against anything that puts me in contact with my father. He even went so far as offering me half his inheritance.

  I turn around and he walks right into my chest. He takes a step back and glares. “What? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

  “I’m not taking your goddamn money,” I sneer. “Stop bringing it up.”

  “Children,” Connor says, breaking our feud. “As entertaining as this is, doesn’t Lily have a Stats exam in a half hour?”

  I glance down at my watch and curse. We’re supposed to be escorting her to her class, since she refused to accept the bodyguard her father wanted to hire for her. It was a generous offer that Poppy and Daisy accepted. Rose was too fucking stubborn, and Lily didn’t want to be “shadowed by a big beefy guy,” which I took to mean she doesn’t want to be tempted by someone that isn’t me.

  We jog back to the house quickly, but Lily isn’t in the kitchen where I left her. She’s become sedentary since the leak, moving at a snail’s pace. So I can’t imagine she wandered too far. I’m about to check the living room when I hear the pipes groan through the walls.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask, turning to Connor and Ryke for clarification.

  “Sounds like someone’s taking a Jacuzzi bath,” Connor tells me. That doesn’t make any sense. Lily took a shower this morning. Why would she need to bathe again?

  Holy fuck.

  My first thought: She’s masturbating. My second: She slit her wrists. The second thought propels me into hyper-drive. I am running up the fucking staircase before I can think anything else. I must look scared out of my mind because Ryke and Connor are right behind me. Maybe they fear it too.

  I’d like to believe Lily couldn’t reach a low like that, but I’d be fooling myself. I’ve been there. I know she has too. It’s what happens when you hit a bottom that you can’t crawl out from.

  I push through the door, envisioning her cold lifeless body. She jumps, and I don’t have time to breathe in relief. Because if she’s not dead, it means she’s masturbating.

  I can’t believe this is how my world works.

  Bubbles cover her naked body but don’t hide her cheeks
that burn bright red. Connor and Ryke stumble in behind me and then Connor swivels right back around. “Sorry.”

  Ryke blocks the door so Connor can’t leave.

  “Get out!” Lily yells at them.

  I haven’t moved closer, but she is bathing in guilt. You don’t just shower and then fifteen minutes later hop into a bubble bath.

  “No, stay,” I tell them.

  I’ve chastised her about porn.

  I’ve pleaded with her to be honest with me.

  Obviously, I need to find different fucking methods to make her stop doing this shit. I don’t want to embarrass her, but how else is she going to stop?

  Ryke spreads his arms in the doorway, sufficiently blocking Connor’s exit.

  “Really?” Connor raises his brows.

  Ryke shrugs, and Connor shields his eyes with his hand as he backs into the counter.

  I keep my gaze on Lily.

  She avoids me and the two guys. “Make them leave,” she says, looking anywhere but here. “I have to get changed. What time is it?” She acts like nothing’s wrong. Like she’s innocent in all of this.

  “Why are you taking a bubble bath?” I ask, sitting on the porcelain ledge.

  She shrinks back and begins descending, her chin disappearing beneath the suds. “I dropped my ring into the trash. And then after I fished it out, I smelled like our leftover sausage, which is not a pleasant stench. So I decided to take a bath, but I dozed off. Baths do that, you know. They’re like nap-whisperers or summoners or whatever.”

  “Is the shower broken?”

  She shakes her head. “You know that pink soap ball—I saw it on the counter just before I hopped in the shower. And curiosity just kind of overtook me. I was hoping it’d turn this thing pink.” She holds up her left hand, flashing the diamond. “But alas, soap chemicals are inferior to shiny rock.” Her eyes flicker nervously to Ryke who stares at her, unflinching. “This is awkward.”

  “Not for me,” Ryke replies.

  She points to Connor, who still covers his eyes. “You’re making Connor uncomfortable,” she tells me. “You have done the impossible.”