Rafe

by Jo Raven

I force my gaze back ahead, but it doesn’t help with the images of her in my memory—her naked body stretched underneath me, miles of flawless tanned skin, mouthwatering curves, those sweet round tits and her pussy… The taste of her lingers, like caramel, on my tongue.

  The cold shower helped, but now I’m rock hard again, and it’s making walking hard. Why didn’t I take the Mustang? Fuck me…

  “I’ve been wondering...” Her fingers tighten around mine, and she leans closer. “When is your birthday?”

  I grimace. Another of those questions nobody else ever asks, because they know—and she doesn’t. “In a week. But I don’t celebrate it.”

  “Why not?”

  God, it’s almost here. Way too soon. A spasm goes through my muscles, and fuck, I really don’t need this now. Enough madness for one night.

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  We walk in silence, and she’s not leaning into me anymore. It felt good, having her close, and I fight the urge to put my arm around her and feel every inch of her. Then I realize that she’s in fact pulling away, tugging her hand out of mine, and a pang hits me.

  I release her hand, and she crosses her arms over her breasts. Defensive. Putting distance between us.

  Here I go, scaring her again. Clamming up and making her feel uncomfortable. She was only trying to make conversation, and I snapped at her—again.

  Shit. I wish I could just tell her everything, take it off my chest, but if that doesn’t send her running…

  “If you’d rather go home,” I say, slowing down and shoving my hands into my jeans pockets, “just say the word. I know I’m not good company.”

  I wasn’t always such an antisocial creep. Hell, until last summer I’m pretty sure I kept a smooth façade. Turns out a look at my family’s murderer was all it took to reveal that for the mask it was. To show I’d been just covering up the cracks and pretending they weren’t getting wider, deeper. Cutting me to the bone.

  “Home.” Her voice is low, rich and soft, like velvet. “I don’t know what that word even means.”

  I stop and turn to really look at her. She stops, too, shoots me an uncertain look. A shiver goes through her. Her jacket’s too thin, I realize, and her low-heel boots not ideal for walking through the frozen slush that’s covering the sidewalks. A sharp wind is blowing, but I hadn’t even felt it, lost as I was in my thoughts.

  “Come here.” I lift my arm, and for a moment I think she’ll refuse. I can see it in the stubborn tilt of her chin, and if possible, it makes me even harder. “Please.”

  I see the moment she gives in and burrows under my arm, snug against me. Her arm goes around my back, and I hold her close as we start walking again.

  The silence between us feels easier now.

  “You’re not bad company,” she says as we approach the restaurant.

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  She squeezes my waist and it surprises a huff out of me. Not used to casual touches. Lately, the only people I let near me are the guys at the gym, and only to fight, every encounter violent and punishing, just like it should be.

  “You obviously had a bad day, too,” she says.

  More like a bad year, but yeah. “I’m sorry.” I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—honey and roses. “You deserve better.”

  And not just tonight.

  “Tonight I was going to go home alone and cry myself to sleep,” she replies as I push the restaurant door open and we enter the warmth and noise. “But you came. You took me to your apartment, took me out to dinner for my birthday.” Her voice lowers, that velvety whisper that gets me every time. “And what we did on the sofa… What you did to me…”

  A faint blush colors her tawny cheeks, and my body jolts at the memory. I grin at her, absurdly proud of myself for having pleasured her so well she blushes when she thinks about it.

  We look around for a free table. I finally spot a small one in a corner and sit down quickly, to hide my persistent hard-on.

  She slides into the chair across from me and her dark lashes do a long sweep along her cheekbones. Sending me a quick, unsure smile, she tucks her hair behind her ears—small, slender ears with silver hoops. Christ, everything about her is fine, beautiful. Damn sexy. How’s a guy supposed to think when faced with such a girl? A girl who’s all woman.

  She’s killing me. I stare at the elegant curve of her neck and imagine marking the smooth skin, then sinking my teeth into her earlobe, while my hands move over her full breasts, cupping them.

  Fuck… I shift on my chair, trying in vain to get comfortable with what feels like a slab of hot metal between my legs.

  I reach blindly for the menu and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to not only eat and drink without choking, but also make intelligent conversation when I can’t take my eyes off her face and body—when the dark shadow of her cleavage holds my gaze captive, and my dick is trying to drill a hole through my pants.

  Hot damn. Guess this is gonna be an interesting evening.

  ***

  “So you grew up here, in Madison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And went to school with Zane and the other guys?”

  I nod. “And you grew up in Philadelphia?”

  “Lived there most of my life. Left a year and a half ago.”

  “Running away from your mom’s ex-boyfriend, because you testified against him.”

  She stops cutting up her burger into bite-sized squares and gives me a level look. “And now he’s sent someone after me.”

  “If that’s the case, why hasn’t the stalker done anything yet? If he was sent to rough you up, what is he waiting for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, could this be something different? Are you involved in anything else that might incite a criminal to trail you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I rub a hand over my face, wondering if this constitutes normal conversation for a birthday evening, and why I can’t seem to find anything light and fun to tell her and make her smile. Dammit, making her smile was supposed to be my mission tonight, and I’m wandering further and further away from my goal.

  “It just doesn’t add up,” I say tiredly. “And I want you to be safe. If I don’t know everything, if I don’t understand what’s going on, how am I gonna protect you?”

  “Maybe you can’t. You can’t save everyone, Rafe.”

  Startled, I look up and study her face. Fear lurks in her eyes, but also determination and courage.

  Damn. I’ve tried fighting it, but I’m intrigued by this girl. She’s so delicate-looking, with her pretty face and sexy clothes, and yet she’s hiding a dark past.

  That alone should send me running as far away as possible. I have my own shit to deal with. Can’t take more. But something draws me to her. Something tells me maybe she can understand me like nobody else can—and it sets off every alarm in my head.

  Proximity alarms. Getting too close to her, too close to feeling good. I should walk away from this, from her, right now.

  Only it’s her birthday. Giving her a good evening out is a small thing, right?

  It would seem so. Easy. Steal her away, go down on her, take her out to dinner. Only an idiot could fuck this up.

  But I am fucking this up. She’s poking at her burger and fries, looking unhappy. Damn, she didn’t like her food. Such a simple task—take a girl out and show her a good time—and I’m doing a damn fine mess of it.

  “Listen…” I reach across the table and catch her hand before she pokes one more fry with her fork. “Why don’t you order something else?”

  Her brows lift. “Why?”

  Confused, I give her plate a pointed look. “You haven’t touched your food, except to cut it up in little pieces.”

  She frowns, glances down. “Crap.”

  Then she drops her fork on the table and laughs. It’s a delicious sound, free and unrestrained, rich and warm like everything she is
.

  Contagious.

  I let out a bark of laughter, something painfully twisting in my chest.

  “I’m not difficult with food, I swear,” she says, breathless with laughter. Her eyes shine. “If I was, I’d have starved. I’ve been cooking for me and Mom for as long as I can remember, and I even inherited these cookbooks from my grandma and my good-for-nothing Greek dad, but my cooking’s crap, and…” Her expression twists, and she looks away. “God, I wonder how Mom’s doing without me.”

  “Why were you cooking for the both of you?” I hate the way the light has gone out of her gaze. I wince. “Shit, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s okay.” But her eyes well up. “Told you, Mom’s an alcoholic. She’s always drunk, plus she has crap taste in men. They beat her up, she drinks until she passes out…and I’ve taken care of her the best I could, but I can’t do it anymore.”

  Jesus. This is fucked up, and the last thing I wanted was to make her cry.

  “Listen…” I rub the back of my neck. “Why don’t we get out of here, go for a drink?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” She wipes angrily at her eyes. “God, what am I gonna do?”

  Fuck. Where her smile fired me up, and her laughter almost broke me down, her tears make me reach for her, because pain… Well, that’s something I understand.

  Pain made me who I am. It defines my life.

  “Come on,” I say, throw some money on the table and tug her to her feet. “Let’s walk.”

  Chapter Nine

  Megan

  He has his arm around me, and I let him lead me out of the restaurant, walking blindly into the night. Embarrassment burns through me, warms my neck. Can’t believe I cried again in front of him.

  But Rafe’s strength, his protectiveness, is stripping me bare. I never felt safe with my mom and her string of abusive boyfriends, or even after I ran away. Never felt like a child. I was always the adult of the house, taking care of mom when she was drunk and passed out on the couch, or after a guy beat her up and left. Nobody ever took care of me.

  Until Rafe.

  I mean, Zane has been a true friend. He found me the apartment I’m sharing with Raylin—was sharing with Raylin, and remembering this makes new tears well up in my eyes—and helped me find a job. But Rafe has been checking on me, making sure I’m all right. His arm around me feels like a wall against the craziness of the world.

  As if sensing my thoughts, he drags me up against his side, muscles flexing in his arm. “All right?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” The cold air is freezing the tears on my cheeks. I can’t seem to stop them from falling tonight.

  When I look up into his face, though, he doesn’t look disgusted, angry, or bored. He looks concerned.

  “You don’t seem fine. Meg…” He stops, turns to face me, dips his chin to look into my eyes. “How can I make you smile?”

  That has to be the sweetest thing a guy has said to me. “I don’t know.” I duck my head.

  “There has to be a way.” His amber eyes are serious, dark smudges underneath them telling me he doesn’t sleep well, but his hands sliding from my waist to my hips distract me. “What do you really want tonight?”

  Oh God. I want to erase the past, I want not to worry about the future, about the money for the rent and whether there’s a stalker after me. I want to go to college and study, be something one day.

  But above all… Christ, above all I want to keep this feeling I get when I’m with Rafe. The security, the warmth, the ease—but also the excitement, the burn, the need and hunger for him.

  “Anything?” I whisper.

  His head tilts to the side, and one corner of his mouth tips up. “If I can give it to you, yeah. Tell me.”

  “Careful what you promise. What if I ask you to buy me a car? Or to take me to a really expensive restaurant?”

  “Sure. Let me just go quickly and sell everything I own. I’ll be right back with the cash.”

  I snort softly. “Hurry up, then. A Porsche would be nice, by the way.”

  He pulls me against him, and his hardness is hot like a brand iron against my side. It feels as if he’s aroused all the time. “If it will make you smile…”

  Oh shucks. “Why do you care about making me smile?”

  “Because.” His head dips lower, his mouth inches from mine. “You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

  My lips tremble, and I look away. Crap. Not the right reaction when a gorgeous guy you’ve been lusting after makes you a compliment. What’s wrong with me today?

  “Besides the Porsche…” He places a fingertip under my chin, lifts my face back up. He winks at me. “Anything else you would like? Selling my stuff might take time.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I blurt out. “You don’t really know me.”

  Hell, Meg, shut up. I want to bang my head against a wall. Someone shoot me now.

  “I know you,” he says. “We haven’t talked much, and you think I know nothing about you, but I see you.”

  It makes me smile, and oh dear God, I have to be scaring him, swinging between moods. He must think I’m going crazy.

  “There it is!” He takes my hand, lifts it to his mouth. His eyes sparkle. “A smile.”

  I tug on my hand, but he turns his head, brushes his lips over my fingers, and I shiver, feeling it everywhere.

  “Last chance to ask for something,” he warns teasingly, grinning against my skin.

  I lick my lips, and his gaze zeroes in on them, laser-hot. “Take me home?”

  He nods, his grin fading, a serious air returning to his expression. “Of course.”

  He takes my hand in his and leads the way to his street and his black Mustang. By the time it sinks in that he thinks I want to go back to my apartment, it’s too late to explain I meant his home, that the whole point was not to spend the night alone—and it feels weird to speak out now. To show more weakness.

  So I buckle in and watch him as he starts the car, watch his strong hands on the gearshift and the wheel.

  Then I close my eyes and drift away.

  ***

  “Meg. Megan.” The soft, masculine voice is delicious. It drips over my senses, hot and sensuous.

  Rafe, I think, floating in the darkness of sleep. Rafe.

  But I’m too far gone to reply. I’m warm, comfortable, curled up against a soothing beat like a heart, a smoky, musky scent surrounding me. I don’t want to move. Don’t want to surface.

  “Here we go,” he whispers, and I sway in my warm cradle, as if we’re walking. I bury my nose in scratchy cloth, curl my hand behind his neck, in the fine hair curling there.

  Mmm… Rafe. I’m in his arms. They’re holding me, cradling me to his chest. Feels so good. It’s his heart beating beneath my ear, its bass drawing me back under.

  I fight the pull, try to open my eyes. My lids are like lead. Where are we? Still on his sofa, in his apartment? Why do I feel as if I’ve lost time?

  More swaying. A soft curse.

  Oh right, we’re walking.

  What?

  I twist, forcing my eyes open, my pulse lurching. “Rafe?”

  “I’m here. It’s okay.” He shifts me in his arms. “I need your keys.”

  “My keys?” I’m blinking up at him. His golden eyes look amused. “Why?”

  “To open your apartment door.”

  Oh. Oh! Memory rushes back. I glance around. We’re outside the apartment, on the staircase landing. “You came up the stairs carrying me?”

  “Had to. You were fast asleep.”

  “Oh God.” Mortified. And here I thought crying was embarrassing. Gah. “Put me down. Where’s my purse?”

  “I have your purse. Just open the door.”

  I put my hand in my pocket, find my key, and turn in his hold to unlock. It feels so weird, doing it from my perch high off the ground, my other arm around his neck. Like I’m a child.

  Makes my heart clench. Because although Rafe makes me feel one hundred percen
t woman, I sometimes want to crawl in his arms, like this, and hide.

  He pushes the door open and steps inside, hefting me like I weigh nothing. He turns, kicks the door closed, and continues into the living room, his strides long and confident.

  A meow sounds from somewhere at the vicinity of his feet, and he slows down.

  “Hi, Raf,” he says.

  He remembered the kitty’s name. I hide a smile on his shoulder as he crosses the living room and heads unerringly for my bedroom. He turns around when he enters its dimness, shoves the door closed, muttering something about cats, then walks over to my bed and lays me down on top of the covers.

  Still bent over me, he strokes long strands of hair out of my eyes, and all I can think of is, man, this is a damn strong boy. A damn handsome boy, and his face is so close, so tempting. As he leans over me, I bury my fingers in the soft hair of his nape and draw him down to kiss his mouth.

  He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, then he captures my mouth. He kinda falls over me, bracing his hands at my sides not to crush me, and kisses me deeply, his tongue thrusting past my lips to stroke mine.

  Nothing tastes like him. I can’t get enough. I clutch at his shoulders as he kisses me harder. His tongue strokes deeper inside my mouth, bold and aggressive, sending bolts of pleasure down my belly. His strong body is stretched over mine and, as he shifts, his hard-on presses into me, urgent and insistent. Even through the layers of cloth, I think I feel metal bars.

  He’s pierced?

  The thought makes me moan deep in my throat, and clench deep inside. I pull him to me, to feel him closer. I desire him like I’ve never desired anyone before.

  He groans and pulls away, breaking the kiss. “Oh shit,” he breathes.

  “I want you,” I whisper. I swallow hard.

  Never said that to anyone before, just like that. I bite my lip. What the hell am I doing? A harsh word from him could break me now.

  He bends his head, breathing harshly. “Damn, girl. Why can’t I stop kissing you, touching you? You’re like an addiction, and I thought I was done with addictions.”

  My breathing hitches. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

  “There’s,” he licks my mouth, making my eyes roll with pleasure, “nothing bad about you. It’s all good.” He moves down, his hot mouth trailing on my neck. “The bad is all in me,” he whispers, kneeling between my legs.