Crash Into Me

by Jill Sorenson

  She clutched his hair. “I have to be in control.”

  A wave of heat washed over him. On board with whatever kinky game she wanted to play, he raised his head and held his hands out to her, palms up. “Where do you want them?”

  She put them on her breasts. “How about here?”

  He groaned in agreement, backing her up against the rock wall and taking her mouth under his once again. Instinct had him pinning her in place with his body, his erection swelling against her belly, her nipples hardening at the brush of his thumbs. Frustrated with all the fabric between them, he unbuttoned her dress to the waist and released the front clasp of her bra.

  “Wait,” she panted.

  He stared down at her naked breasts. Her nipples were like pale brown sugar, beautiful, delicate, and unexpected. With a tremendous effort, he brought his eyes back to her face. “Why?”

  “You’re going way too fast.”

  “Oh. Fine.” He retreated, sitting in a cushioned patio chair, waiting for his heart to stop pumping blood to his groin.

  She didn’t give it a chance. She straddled his lap, giving him a spectacular view of well-toned thighs and sheer white panties. His throat worked convulsively, his erection throbbed, and his fingers itched to touch her.

  Clutching the underside of the armless chair, he closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing, but he hadn’t been with a woman for so long…

  “Okay,” she said, looking down at his face.

  He couldn’t keep up with her thought processes. “Okay what?”

  “You can touch me now.”

  “Where?” he asked reverently.

  Impatient with him, she pressed her delightful breasts to his face. “Here.”

  Wrapping his arms around her, he took one sweet, caramel-colored nipple into his mouth, hearing her sharp intake of breath and feeling her shiver of excitement. Greedily, his fingers slipped under her skirt, past the flimsy barrier of her panties, between her legs.

  She was slick and hot and…crushing his trachea with her forearm.

  “Stop,” she warned, applying pressure by holding one arm behind his neck, another in front. It was a damned effective headlock.

  His hands fell away from her. Hell, in a minute he might pass out if she kept squeezing.

  When she released him, he coughed and sputtered, covering his aching throat with one hand. “Goddamn,” he said in a strangled voice. “I’ll have to tie you up to have sex with you. No man is safe around you.”

  She moved off his lap, closed the clasp of her bra with shaking hands, and pulled her skirt down over her legs.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Home,” she said, buttoning the front of her dress.

  He rose to his feet and went to her, taking her by the hand. “Wait. I didn’t mean it. I won’t tie you up. Hell, you can tie me up. Stay.”

  She let out a slow breath. “No. You’re right. I’m a menace.”

  “I don’t care. I like it.”

  Shaking her head, she pulled away. “You’re not a masochist.”

  “Sure I am. Whip me, beat me, make me sorry. Just don’t leave me like this.”

  His insinuation that she owed him something for getting him worked up did not go over well. “Hey. I never said I was going to sleep with you.”

  He still wasn’t thinking with his brain. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I am. Bye.”

  He held on to her arm, detaining her. Her eyes flashed a violent promise, a warning that he recklessly ignored.

  It was a mistake.

  In an instant, the arm holding hers was wrenched up between his shoulder blades and he was flat on the ground, face pressed into the stone patio. “Please,” he wheezed, short of breath and instantly contrite. “Feel free to leave, whenever you like.”

  “You’re damned right I’ll leave.” She pressed her knee into his back, punishing him a little.

  “Will you please let me up?” he asked, resisting the urge to struggle. He didn’t doubt she could hurt him some more if she wanted to. How she’d incapacitated him so easily, he couldn’t fathom. He had at least fifty pounds on her, all of it muscle.

  When she relaxed her grip and moved away, he breathed a sigh of relief. Wincing at the blow to his ego, not to mention the pain in his shoulder, he pushed himself up off the ground, hoping he wouldn’t be too sore for surfing tomorrow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Nathan was right. I have been dating myself way too long. There hasn’t been anyone since Olivia.” He studied her from beneath lowered lashes, anticipating her response.

  For a moment, he was sure she was going to walk out on him. Then she cocked her head to one side and said, “If you treat yourself as badly as you have me, I don’t suppose you ever get lucky at the end of the evening.”

  Burying his hands in his jeans pockets, he shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “Actually, I’m a pretty cheap date.”

  Her lips twitched. “I’ll just bet you are.”

  He liked her, he realized. Not just her face and her body and her sadistic sexual quirks, but her sense of humor, her personality, and her kindness. “Where did you learn those moves?”

  “Self-defense classes.”

  “Oh, yeah? Will you teach me?”

  “No.”

  He supposed he deserved that. “Will you teach Carly?”

  She considered. “Maybe.”

  “Want to come over tomorrow?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He thought fast. “Carly and I go to Tijuana every Christmas Eve for midnight mass. Come with us. I promise not to make any insulting overtures.” He smiled ruefully. “At least, not in front of her grandparents.”

  She regarded him with suspicion. “If all you want from me is sex, why are you inviting me to family gatherings?”

  He didn’t have a good answer for that question. Neither did he want her to read too much into his invitations. “At this time of year, it’s all I have to offer,” he said finally. His game was way off, he knew. He used to be able to tell women what they wanted to hear.

  She smiled at his honesty. “I’ll think about it.”

  “The sex?”

  “The midnight mass.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Rise and shine, sailor.” The smell of whisky pervaded the room.

  James opened his eyes with great reluctance. He’d been dreaming of Carly, of taking her on a trip around the bay, just the two of them. When he dropped anchor, finding a romantic cove where they could while away the day, he’d seen something swimming in the water, a dark shape, shimmering just below the surface…

  “What?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve. We aren’t working today.”

  “Yes we are. Piss away that hard-on and make me breakfast.”

  Groaning, James threw back the pile of wool blankets and stumbled into the bathroom. The cold, more than anything else, brought his constantly raging hormones under control. Arlen Matthews didn’t believe in wasting money on central heating.

  James pulled on his clothes and headed toward the kitchen. With only the basic food items available, the morning meal was never a grand affair. James made do with cold cereal, as usual, after mixing a disgusting concoction of raw eggs, hot sauce, orange juice, and milk for Arlen. He was supposed to add a little hair of the dog, but judging by his dad’s breath, he didn’t need any more alcohol.

  James sighed. He’d be captain and first mate today.

  He drove, navigating Arlen’s old blue pickup truck through light traffic to Stephen’s place downtown. His brother must not have been expecting to work either, because he wasn’t waiting on the front steps of the run-down duplex as usual.

  “Goddamn druggie,” Arlen mumbled, taking a swig from a flask.

  James turned off the engine. “I’ll go in.”

  Arlen shrugged and settled into the passenger seat, pulling his trucker cap down over his bloodshot eyes.

  The door wasn’t l
ocked, and James didn’t bother knocking. It was an informal kind of place. Inside, two guys he knew by face, if not name, were playing video games in the predawn light. Drug paraphernalia littered the coffee table. They barely glanced at him as he passed by.

  At the open bedroom door, he paused, knowing from experience to keep his eyes averted. His brother’s girlfriend was an exhibitionist. “Stephen?”

  “James,” Rhoda murmured. “Come in, honey.”

  A little voice in his head told him not to look. He should have listened to it. Rhoda was on the bed, her nude limbs entwined with someone else’s. James blinked, thinking he was seeing an optical illusion, for he counted more breasts than should have been present. Then he realized that Rhoda was with another woman.

  “Want to join us?” she asked, sliding her hand over the curve of her partner’s belly.

  The other woman was passed out cold.

  James pulled the door shut and continued down the hall, shuddering with revulsion. He couldn’t believe his brother crawled into bed with that. Rhoda was a dizzy blonde, overdyed, overused, and worn out. Drugs had sucked up all of her feminine curves, but it was her personality, more than anything else, that made her unattractive.

  Stephen was in the back room, shirtless, barefoot, doing a line. It was probably 60 degrees in the room. The Matthews men weren’t big on cranking up thermostats.

  When he noticed James standing there, he jumped to his feet, wiping powder from his nose. “Motherfucker! I thought you were the cops.”

  James rubbed a hand over his face. If Stephen was worried about getting busted, why did he leave the doors open, have strangers coming and going at all hours, and keep glass pipes out everywhere? “Dad wants to work.”

  Stephen didn’t consider saying no. “Shit. Let me get ready.”

  An hour later, on the water, the early-morning sun broke over the horizon. It was going to be one of those spectacular winter days, crisp and clear, with miles of visibility and hardly any churned-up surf marring the smooth blue blanket of ocean. A good day for fishing, although James would rather be anywhere else.

  When they pulled in the net, it was heavy with catch. James normally didn’t care for his brother’s company when he was wired, but today he was thankful for it. Arlen was snoring at the helm, dead to the world, and it took the strength of three men to pull in the net, even with the motorized spool. Stephen was so hyped up he had the energy of two, and James had more muscle than meat on his bones, so they were able to bring the net up to the surface together.

  “Feels like a thresher,” Stephen said, indicating the extra weight.

  “Merry Christmas,” James replied with a grin, wiping sweat from his forehead. A large shark would be a good catch, more than enough to call it a day.

  But it wasn’t a thresher. Two bluefin were tangled in the net, still squirming, not enough to warrant an early dock.

  The weighty portion of the catch was a different species altogether.

  A woman.

  The surf was up at Windansea Beach. Waves like glass had been breaking in picture-perfect sets since dawn.

  Ben had promised to make Carly blueberry pancakes for breakfast, so he dragged himself out of the water midmorning for a break. After hosing down his gear, and himself, he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and made his way to the kitchen, whistling, his mind on six- to ten-foot swells and a killer offshore flow.

  “You have to take me shopping,” Carly announced. She was flipping pancakes, having given up on waiting for him to do it.

  He grabbed a plate and helped himself. “On Christmas Eve? I’d rather not.”

  “Please, Dad? I don’t have anything for James. Did you see the sweater he had on last night? He’s awfully poor.”

  “So what?”

  She changed tactics. “Did you buy a gift for Summer?”

  “No,” he admitted, gazing out the window with longing. “I don’t need to,” he decided.

  “Dad, you can’t invite her to our Christmas party and not give her anything. It’s totally rude.”

  “What do you care? On Thursday you told her to take a hike.”

  Carly turned off the burner. “I like her now.” She fixed herself a plate and sat across from him. “You want her to be your girlfriend, right?”

  He took a huge bite. “Wrong,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Oh,” she said, arranging a napkin over her lap self-importantly. “I see. You’re just using her for sex.”

  He didn’t bother to deny it. Maybe Carly could learn a few things from him about the male brain. “I’m an adult. I can do whatever I want.”

  “That doesn’t make it right, Dad. What if James was using me for sex?”

  “Is he?” Ben asked, putting his fork down angrily.

  “No. Don’t you get it? Summer is somebody’s daughter, too.”

  Yes, but she wasn’t his daughter. “Summer is old enough to make her own decisions,” he said dismissively. “You aren’t. James isn’t.”

  “James is the same age you were when you got Mom pregnant.”

  He closed his eyes against the pain, having never seen the knife before she slid it between his ribs. “Carly, the last thing I want is for you to go through that same heartache.”

  “You’re lucky she took you back,” she said after a moment.

  He couldn’t deny that. The unlucky one, in all of it, had been Olivia. If she hadn’t forgiven him for all those years of drunken abandonment and flagrant infidelity, maybe she’d be alive today.

  Pushing aside the guilt, before it suffocated him, he studied his daughter’s beautiful face. She looked exactly like Olivia had when she was seventeen. “Are you thinking about having sex?”

  Carly blushed. “No.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m not! Not right now anyway. I’m not ready.”

  She started to get up, to clear away the plates, but he detained her, holding her wrist. “What if he wants to, and you don’t? What will you say?”

  “I’ll say no, Dad. He won’t pressure me. He’s not like that.”

  “All boys are like that, Carly.” Some grown men were, too. Ones old enough to know better, and dumb enough to do it anyway. “They say they’re in pain. They say all the girls do it, and you’re a tease if you won’t. They say they’ll find another girlfriend who will. What if James says those things? Are you ready for it?”

  She met his eyes. “Yeah. If he says anything like that, we’re over.”

  “Okay.” He thought of another thing boys did when they wanted something a girl wouldn’t give. “What if you say stop, and he doesn’t?”

  “I’ll kick him in the balls, Dad. But don’t worry. James stops when I tell him to.”

  He felt like he’d been sucker-punched. “He does?”

  “Yeah. We were kissing, the day before yesterday, and he tried to, um-” Carly broke off, wondering how to phrase it.

  “What?” he growled.

  “Dad, if you’re going to get all mad, I’m not going to tell you this stuff.”

  Ben much preferred being in the dark. “Tell me,” he said anyway, clenching his hand into a fist beneath the table.

  “He touched my, um”-she made a sweeping gesture over her chest-“you know. I made a noise, and he thought he hurt me, so he stopped. It wasn’t that kind of a noise, I said, but-”

  Ben held up a hand, having heard more than enough. “I get the idea. Don’t you think you guys are moving a little fast? How long has he been your boyfriend?”

  “Not very long. But I’m not a little girl anymore. I can decide when I’m ready.”

  Ben and his daughter were close, but he was far from comfortable with this topic of conversation. His parents had never said a word to him about sex, and at St. Mary’s, the private school where he’d suffered through adolescence, sexual education was limited to receiving penance for confessing to impure thoughts.

  Maybe that was why he’d been so intent on educating himself with every willi
ng female he could find when he was Carly’s age.

  He didn’t want to encourage her to take the same path he had, yet he couldn’t bear to treat sex like a sin. “When you’re ready, will you use protection?” he asked finally, wondering if he sounded too permissive.

  “Of course. I’m not as stupid as you and Mom were.” She took the plates to the sink. “Do you want to know? I mean, if I decide to do it?”

  He didn’t want to know anything more, ever again, but if she needed to talk to someone, he had to be there for her. It was his job. “Yes. You can tell me anything.” As she rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher, he said, “Carly?”

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “You know I love you, right?”

  Her hands, busy wiping down the granite countertop, stilled. “Yeah.”

  She never said it back to him anymore, like she used to. That was normal for a teenager, he supposed, but it still hurt. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t thinking I was ignoring you, or feeling like I didn’t care. That I’d rather go surfing than spend time with you.”

  “Well, that last one is true.”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “Don’t get all mushy, Dad. Just take me shopping.”

  “Cut her loose.”

  Stephen couldn’t tear his gaze from the girl’s ravaged face. Her hair hung like lank seaweed, curling around her throat. Scavenger marks riddled her naked body, and her skin was tinged greenish black.

  “Did you hear? Take out your blade and cut her loose. She’s tangled up.”

  James staggered to the side of the boat and lost his breakfast over the edge. A motley mess that had once been Fruit Loops floated on the surface. Tiny surfperch made jerking, stabbing motions at it while he groaned with nausea.

  “Do it,” Arlen said, motioning at Stephen with his knife.

  “No way. They’ll know if I touch her. Don’t you watch those police shows?”

  “They won’t know jack shit. Her skin’s sloughing off all over the place.”

  Stephen grimaced, glad he was still jacked up enough to feel numb. At the helm, James started dry-heaving.