Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  “On time?”

  “I assumed you had a meeting or something.”

  “Oh, no. Just busy. Needed to get caught up—hey, hold on a sec.” I hear a door open, followed by a rush of voices. The door closes and it’s quiet again. Darian sighs. “I need to go, but I promise to leave at a decent hour and bring home dinner. How’s Thai?”

  “Perfect. It’s a date.”

  By six, I decide I’ve been productive enough and lie down on the sofa in the family room, giving in to the sleep that’s been calling to me all day. When I wake, Darian’s standing at my feet dressed in a suit.

  I sit up and rub my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven,” he says. “I have a meeting at eight.”

  “A meeting? Tonight?”

  His brow furrows. “Babe, it’s morning. You were out cold when I got home. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

  “Oh no!” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And you brought dinner.”

  “Actually, I didn’t. I got home kind of late.”

  “How late?”

  He screws up his face. “Ten-ish?”

  “Are you asking me?” I grab my phone from the coffee table and turn on the display. There are no missed calls. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Yesterday got pretty hectic, and I just…”

  “Forgot? You forgot about me?”

  “It’s not like that,” he says. “There was a lot going on. We got carried away.”

  I let out a slow breath. “We?”

  “Me and Amanda.”

  “Carried away,” I say, my cheeks flushing hot. “You and Amanda…”

  You didn’t just forget about me. You forgot about me in front of Amanda.

  “Carried away. Sidetracked.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Francesca, what difference does it make? We were busy. We lost track of time.”

  I yank the blanket off of me and swing my legs over the side of the sofa, but before I can stand, Darian sits down, placing his hand on my knee.

  “Wait. I’m sorry,” he says. “It was a long night, and I’m obviously cranky. You’re right. I should have called.”

  “Did you have another nightmare?”

  “No,” he says quickly, but I’m not sure that’s true.

  I thread my fingers through his. “I know you have a lot on your mind right now, with the nightmares and…everything. But is something going on at the label too?” I swallow thickly. “Something you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m just tired is all.” He squeezes my hand and then pushes up from the sofa. “And late. I’ve got to go or Amanda will have my head.” He presses a kiss to my palm. “I will be home on time tonight. I promise.”

  “I only need you to promise to call me if you aren’t, okay?”

  He pulls his keys out of his pants pocket. “Okay.”

  Darian makes it home by six thirty. He finds me in the library, perched on the arm of the sofa, a notepad in one hand and a tape measure in the other. He looks tired but handsome in what remains of the suit he was wearing this morning—slacks and a fitted white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Redecorating?” he asks, a smile curling his lips.

  “You caught me,” I say, emptying my hands and flattening them against my belly. “I’m thinking of tossing out all the books and turning this room into a nursery.” Darian’s smile slips, and I immediately wish I could take back my thoughtless joke. Shit! The anniversary of the crash that took his little girl is in two days, and here I am teasing him about being pregnant.

  “Oh my God, Darian, I’m so sorry. I was…” Being a careless asshole. “I was going to see if you’d mind me moving my desk in here, but I wanted to make sure it’d fit first.”

  “It’s um…it’s fine.” He runs his fingers along the neck of his undershirt and swallows. “Will it fit?”

  “I think so,” I say quietly, my voice thick with embarrassment. “If I move the couch over a few feet, it should.”

  “That’s going to be tight. If you need an office, we can convert the guest room, or hell, you can take mine. I rarely use it.”

  “I don’t actually need an office. I need a space that says I’m working.” I bite my lip. “I love Gloria, but…”

  Darian smiles. “She wants you to play dice all day and you can’t bear to say no to her?”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “I’m familiar,” he says, rubbing his chin as he considers the space. He gestures to the first set of french doors. “How ’bout for now, we put your desk here. We’ll get rid of the sofa, and when my carpenter comes to do our closet, I’ll have him build you a custom desk along that wall.”

  “I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary. I’m fine where I am. I just thought—”

  “It is necessary. Setting you up in the master was only supposed to be temporary. You need your own space.” He holds his hand out for mine. “I brought the Thai I promised you. Fancy dinner and a movie?”

  After dinner, we retreat to bed, where we opt for books instead of a movie. I smile at Darian with his old school sci-fi paperback. This time it’s Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.

  “Do you ever read any new sci-fi?” I ask him.

  “Sure, but not this late,” he says, glancing at me over the rim of his glasses. “If I read something new, I might not be able to put it down. I’ll want to find out what happens.” He holds up his book. “I know this one like the back of my hand.”

  I return my gaze to my phone. “Old sci-fi. Sounds thrilling.”

  “It is. You should try it sometime.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says. “But just so you know, The Doors wouldn’t be The Doors if it weren’t for Aldous Huxley.”

  I lower my phone and look up at him.

  “The Doors of Perception. That’s where Morrison got the name.” He turns back to his book. “It’s in your new office if you ever want to give it a shot.”

  “I’m good,” I say as I pull it up online.

  And this is what it’s come to. I’m sneak-reading old sci-fi.

  Darian makes it about thirty minutes before he begins to nod off. “I’m beat,” he says, bending to kiss me goodnight. “Will you be able to read if I turn off the lamp?”

  I wave my phone in front of him. “Technology. You should try it sometime.”

  He laughs. “I think I’ll pass.”

  I alternate between reading and watching him sleep. He’s so still, so serene, I’m certain tonight he’ll get a reprieve. The thought’s comforting, and it isn’t long before my own eyes grow heavy and I drift off too.

  When morning comes, I wake to Darian’s easy smile reflected in the mirror as he gets ready for work.

  He was spared.

  And with the lustful gaze of a schoolgirl, I watch him dress. He catches me staring when I sit up to get a better view.

  “Morning,” he says, smirking, as he very seductively tucks his shirt into his pants.

  “You look handsome. Another meeting?”

  “Another meeting.”

  “I would have made breakfast.”

  “No need,” he says. “It’s a breakfast meeting.” His fingers twine with mine as he sits beside me. “And don’t bother with dinner either because I’m taking you out.” He grins. “To an actual restaurant with candles and everything.”

  “Candles, huh?”

  “Real candles, not the battery-operated kind.”

  “What did I do to deserve real candles?”

  “Nothing,” he says, lifting his hand to cup my cheek. “And everything.”

  That evening, Darian hires an Uber to take us to a small Italian bistro on the waterfront. He’s dressed in charcoal slacks and my favorite pale pink shirt—the one he wore on our night out in SoBe. I’m wearing a long, flowy black skirt with a white silk tank that’s taking real e
ffort to keep clean. It’s our first actual date since Austin, and now that we’re here, I can say with one hundred percent certainty, we needed it.

  “This is nice. Thank you,” I tell him as the waiter leaves with our empty plates.

  It isn’t just nice, it’s perfect. With the full moon reflecting off the Gulf, the real candle flickering between us on the table, and Darian’s hand frequently brushing mine, it’s easy to forget what’s been troubling us, what prompted him to bring me here in the first place.

  “We need to do more of this,” he says, leaning toward me and taking my hand. A light breeze blows from behind him, bringing the subtle scent of his cologne with it. “Dating, I mean. I know we get out plenty, but I rarely take you out.”

  “It’s more my fault than yours. You tried when I first moved here, remember?”

  “I tried whisking you away to SoBe for the weekend, not taking you out for a romantic dinner.”

  “You make me romantic dinners.”

  “And I love doing that,” he says, “but it’s not the same thing. You deserve more.” He nudges the candle toward me and grins. “You deserve this.”

  I bark a laugh. “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl.”

  “I’m trying to get under your skirt. Is it working?”

  “Take me home and find out.”

  An hour later, Darian’s stripping out of his clothes as I slip into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I scrub my face and brush my teeth hurriedly, eager to collect on the wine-laced promises he whispered in the back of our Uber. Wearing only a pink satin robe, I step out of the bathroom and find him fast asleep, lips parted and snoring softly in that adorable way he does when he’s had too much to drink. We only shared one bottle of wine, but as exhausted as he’s been, I should have known. A smile tugs at my lips at the sight of him—sleeping as peacefully as he did last night—and it comforts me to think he’ll get another pass.

  I shrug out of my robe and climb into bed beside him, my naked body wrapped around his, my head against his chest. With the hum of his heart beneath my ear and the lulling pull of the alcohol still in my system, I fall into a deep sleep, and it isn’t until I feel Darian physically withdraw from me that I wake.

  “Did you have a nightmare?” I ask, my eyes adjusting to the bright light spilling from his lamp.

  He nods. His back is to me as he sits on the edge of the bed, drawing on his boxers.

  “Don’t go,” I say.

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  His chin drops to his chest, a sigh gusting out of him.

  I swallow hard. “Is it me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why won’t you stay?”

  “I can’t, Francesca,” he says, glancing at me briefly before turning back to face the window. “I need…something—TV, a book…” He leans forward with his elbows propped on his knees, fingers laced. “I need to clear my mind of it.”

  “You need a distraction.”

  “Yes.”

  I crawl across the bed and sit behind him, my legs on either side of his, my bare breasts pressed against his back. He stiffens at the contact and my heart cracks a little from the rejection.

  “Why can’t that be me?” I ask, sliding my arms around his waist, slipping my fingers inside the elastic band of his boxers. “Let me be your distraction.”

  “Francesca, please…don’t.” His large, masculine hand closes around my wrist. “I don’t want…”

  “Don’t want what?”

  He lifts his head, his eyes catching mine in the window’s reflection. “I don’t want to have to say no to you.”

  “If you leave, you’re saying no to me. What’s the difference?”

  He gives my wrist a gentle squeeze, then lets it go. “It’s not you, I swear. I’m just not in the mood…”

  My heart begins to pound as I move my hand lower and close my fingers around the erection that tells me otherwise. “Are you sure about that?”

  His breath hitches. “I’m not in the mood to…”

  “Make love?” I ask boldly, and his averting gaze confirms it. “Then don’t.” Tightening my grip, I slowly begin to stroke him. “I know you love me; you don’t have to make love to me to prove it. Not everything has to be black or white. Making love or fucking. Sometimes sex can just be sex.” My hand picks up speed. “Sometimes sex can just be me pleasuring you. Distracting you.” The moment his body begins to respond, I release him and scoot back on the mattress. “Do you want me to distract you?”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice gruff.

  I climb off the bed and stand in front of him, completely naked, my heart beating so fast I wonder if he can see it as his hungry eyes rake over me. His fists clench at his sides, and he lets out an approving moan that sends me to my knees.

  “Tell me what I can do to distract you, Darian. Tell me what you want.”

  He lifts a hand to my cheek and slides his thumb across my bottom lip. “Your mouth,” he says slowly.

  “What about my mouth?”

  “I want to fuck it.”

  His words feel like licks of fire searing my skin. It’s a strange dichotomy, being this turned on yet completely neutral to my own pleasure—I only care about his.

  My gaze slides down his body, down the hard planes of his chest and the defined ridges of his stomach, to the bulge of his cock straining against his boxers. I gently tug at the waistband and he lifts up just enough for me to pull them off, freeing his eager erection that’s undeniably in the mood. I hold him at the base and run the flat of my tongue up the shaft and around the head, meeting his darkening eyes as I suck him into my mouth. I’m in control, gradually working my way down his length, every growing inch earning me a growl or a hiss or a fucking hell until I reach both the end of his dick and his patience.

  “Let go,” Darian whispers thickly, and I do, bringing my hand to my side, though my lips stay closed around him.

  He takes over then, twisting his fingers in my hair, pulling the strands almost painfully as he begins to move. With each rock of his hips, he drives himself deeper into my mouth until he hits the back of my throat with enough force to make me gag. His wary gaze is hard on me, but he doesn’t hesitate. I give him no indication that I want him to stop because I don’t.

  “Francesca.” My name sounds like a benediction and I relish in the reverence in his voice—and in the power I hold over him, even in my surrender. “Jesus, fuck, Francesca.”

  My jaw begins to ache and my eyes burn, but I don’t let up. I take every thrust he gives me, and when he comes, it’s like a storm surge—sudden and fast and strong—and I take that too.

  Darian blinks away from my gaze as he straightens, untangling his fingers from my hair and curling them around the bunched sheets at the edge of the mattress. I sit back on my heels and peer up at him, waiting. After several long seconds, he looks at me, and a hint of regret flashes in his eyes that pulls at my heart.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, scrubbing a hand over his face. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  I let out a sigh. “Darian, don’t.”

  “I got caught up. That was…”

  “Amazing? Sexy? Hot?”

  “You can’t be serious.” He sits up and drags the sheet around his waist. “Your eyes are watering and I…I fucking choked you.”

  “Look at me; I’m fine. Nothing happened that I didn’t want to happen.” I reach for his undershirt lying beneath the nightstand and pull it over my head. “I thought you liked it.”

  “I did. Too much, I think.” He stares straight ahead, his heavy gaze unfocused.

  “Darian,” I say, getting to my feet. I liked it too. “Please don’t be upset. I was only—I mean, I wanted…”

  His eyes snap to mine and he reaches for my hand. “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just…”

  “Overreacting?”

  “Yeah. Overre
acting.” His thumb slides across mine. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.”

  “So should you,” I say, flashing him a small, willful smile as I return to my side of the bed and slip beneath the covers.

  “Goodnight, Francesca.”

  I wait for the bed to shift, for Darian to stand and grab his pillow. I wait for him to tell me he’s sorry, that it isn’t my fault he has to go and to try to understand.

  But when he doesn’t move, I think maybe he’s waiting for me.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “If you need to go, go. I won’t ask you to stay.”

  “You did once, when we were at your cabin,” he says as he turns off the lamp and settles in behind me. “The morning after I’d left you alone on the couch, you said, ‘Stay with me next time,’ and I told you that I would.” His arm goes around my waist, hugging me to him. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “I keep breaking that promise. I keep leaving you.” He kisses my neck. “I won’t leave you again.”

  Darian whisper-sings, “Good morning,” in my ear, and I yank the comforter over my head—right before his persistent fingers pull it back.

  “You suck,” I mumble through a yawn. “It feels like I just fell asleep.”

  “You’re not far off.”

  I lift my head to glance at the clock, then let it fall heavily back to the pillow. “God, it’s barely seven,” I say as I turn my squinted gaze toward him. The new light of morning pours through the french doors, casting an unpleasant glare. “How are you so chipper?”

  He slips a hand beneath the sheet to cup my breast. His mouth follows, trailing languid kisses down my stomach. “Do you really have to ask?”

  My cheeks flush. I rake my nails through his hair, gripping it tightly at the ends. “Is this payback?”

  Dark olive eyes peer up at me through thick lashes, and a slow, satisfied grin spreads over his lips. “Something like that.”

  “You know it’s not necessary,” I say, though my writhing body begs to differ. “I’d be just as happy with another hour of sleep.”