Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

  She studies me for a minute. “Oh, shit. Claire left today, didn’t she? That’s why you look like that.”

  I frown. “Look like what exactly?”

  “Like someone just stole your organs for the black market and didn’t bother leaving you with even one of your kidneys.”

  I have to laugh. “Yeah, that’s probably the best description I’ve heard yet of how this feels.”

  She bites back a smile. “Thank you for the key. It means a lot to me, and just so we’re clear, so do you.”

  I reach out and skim my thumb along her jaw, but she shakes her head and steps away from my touch.

  “You’re a great friend, Max, and I need as many of those as I can get right now.”

  “Understood,” I say softly. But she makes a liar out of me as soon as I say the word, because she rises onto her toes and presses her lips to mine in a kiss that should be the definition of chaste but feels anything but. I don’t understand at all.

  * * *

  Nix

  I used his key.

  I got home from Brady’s and checked on Marmalade, then put on my PJs, and decided there was no way I was sleeping alone tonight. So I used the key.

  I slide into bed with him and he rolls toward me. “Nix?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper into the darkness.

  He sits up and clicks on the bedside lamp. “Is everything okay?”

  Oh, God, I’m ridiculous. Wasn’t I the one who gave him the “we’re just friends” speech? And now I’m making a surprise visit to his bed. Awkward.

  I sit up next to him, my body twisted sideways, my shoulder leaning into the headboard. “You didn’t want to let her leave. You think it’s good for her to spend the time with her mom, and you don’t want to stand in the way of that relationship, but having her taken so far from you for three weeks is killing you.” I’m rambling, so I stop and take a breath, before trying a second time to explain why I climbed into his bed. I mentally processed this justification just moments before I opened his door. This is about more than selfishly wanting to sleep in his arms. “When I had a bad day, you made me feel better by sleeping next to me and reminding me I’m not alone. I wanted to return the favor. But I can leave if you’d rather have your privacy.”

  “So you’re not here to console me with really great sex?”

  I bite back a smile. “Afraid not.”

  “And you don’t need me to console you with really great sex?”

  “You don’t struggle with confidence in that area, do you?”

  His lips twitch. “Would you prefer I be some insecure man begging you to reassure me that your lack of interest isn’t a reflection on my skills between the sheets?”

  I feel my eyes go wide. “You think I don’t want to have sex with you because I didn’t like it?”

  He chuckles. “No, I really didn’t think that at all. You didn’t leave much room for interpretation in the ‘whether or not you liked it’ department.”

  “Would you rather not know?” I smack him in the stomach with the back of my hand, and he lets out a light “oomph” as he chuckles.

  “I didn’t say that. I liked listening to you. Liked it a whole hell of a lot.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and his smile slowly falls away. “But I’m not such a Neanderthal that I think a woman’s choice of whether or not to sleep with a man is as simple as whether or not she thinks she’ll enjoy it.”

  “That’s good,” I whisper.

  “But I’m also not such a Neanderthal that fucking is the only way I can enjoy myself with a woman.” His fingers slip from behind my ear and slowly down my neck. “I liked sleeping with you in my arms last night, and you’re right, I had a shit-tastic day, and having you here makes it better.” He swallows. “I was hoping you’d come.”

  I want to say that I’m glad and sink into the blankets to fall asleep, but his fingers are still doing magical things that have turned my neck into a highly erogenous zone, and I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make him stop.

  His fingertips skim over the pulse point at my neck, and his eyes dip to study that spot. “Is it okay if I kiss you now?”

  There are so many reasons that’s a bad idea, but when I open my mouth to tell him that, I say, “Yeah,” and then he’s lowering his mouth to mine and his lips are so soft and gentle and warm that I’m glad my lips are little sluts who can’t resist Max’s special brand of sexy.

  He sweeps his tongue across my mouth, and that hot, wet contact makes me moan. I tilt my head to the side and open my mouth under his, and he kisses me fully.

  What I love about Max’s kisses is that they’re all different. With some guys, every kiss is the same, every move done by rote. But Max seems to have a kiss for every occasion. There were the frantic, gotta-have-you-now kisses of our first night together, then there were the tender kisses after, and this one is something else altogether. It’s long and deep and intense without asking for anything at all. His mouth is on mine and his hand is on my neck, but even though we’re in his bed together, that’s it. He doesn’t pull me down and roll on top of me. He doesn’t try to cop a feel. He just kisses me until my mind is fuzzy and my lips are tingling.

  When he pulls away, I’m breathing hard and ready for more. I’d take the frantic kiss now, or the playful one, even. Anything that keeps his lips on mine.

  “I know you have a lot going on, Phoenix Reid, and I know you haven’t shared half of it with me or your posse, but I’m here when you need someone. I hope you know you can trust me.”

  “Why do you think I’ll need someone?” I ask.

  “Everyone needs someone. Some of us are just better at lying to ourselves than others.” Then he clicks off the light and sinks into bed. When I roll to my side, he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls my back against his front. “Is this okay?” he murmurs in my ear.

  No. It’s not okay. It makes me want things I’ve already decided I can’t have. “It’s okay with me. Is it okay with you?”

  He groans and presses a quick kiss to my neck. “Let’s go to sleep now. Before I forget what I said about not being a Neanderthal.”

  That makes me smile despite myself. I take his hand from my waist and guide it just under the hem of my shirt but below my scars so I have the heat of his skin against my belly. “Sweet dreams.”

  “With you in my arms?” He grunts. “You bet your ass.”

  Thirteen

  Max

  When I open my eyes, she’s in my arms, all warmth and softness, her sweet smell filling my head, her breathing the slow and measured rhythm of sleep.

  The clock reads six a.m. Not so long ago, I would have been at the club by now, would have opened the doors for the five o’clock crowd and been starting into a fifteen-hour day. Thank Christ things have changed since then. Now, I mostly manage the business side of the club and train a select few clients who’ve been with me from the beginning. Back then, I did it all—the business side, the training, the cleaning, the marketing, and the endless budgeting to bring it all together.

  Things are different now. I have Claire. I have the house. And right now I have Nix in my arms.

  We slept like this all night, in a position that was both intimate and innocent, but there was nothing innocent about my dreams. I dreamed of touching her, tasting her, getting her to let go of whatever fear it is that makes her pull away from me.

  I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but I know that slow is what she needs. Hell, maybe it’s what I need too. Regardless, I’m willing to roll with it and see where it takes us.

  She shifts in my arms, stretching in the dance of the well rested waking with nowhere to go.

  “For an insomniac,” I say, “you sleep like the dead.”

  She sighs heavily and shifts to face me. “How long did we sleep?” She looks at the clock then back to me. “Almost six hours? I rarely manage more than three in a stretch. You’re magical.”

  My arms tighten around her. “Happy to help.”


  “You know, you could sell your services. Go around holding sleepless women so they can relax enough to rest.”

  “Hmm. I’ll remember that if things don’t work out at the gym.” I want to drop a kiss to her lips—quick or slow, I’d take either—then roll onto her and kiss my way down her body. I settle for brushing her hair out of her face and looking into those emerald eyes.

  “I forgot what this was like,” she says.

  “What’s that? Sleeping?”

  She laughs. “For starters.”

  I trail my fingertips down her neck, and her eyes close softly, her dark lashes resting against her cheek.

  “Being held all night. Waking up in the arms of someone you care about.”

  Someone you care about. I take that, wrap it tight, and put it away to examine later. “When was the last time you had that?”

  “His name was Kent. We met in medical school.”

  I hold my breath, hoping she’ll share more, desperate for a window into the soul of the woman who somehow grabbed a hold of mine.

  “He was charming and self-assured. He made me laugh like I hadn’t in years.”

  I hold her gaze, and the hand at her neck drifts lower, tracing the peaks and valleys of her collarbone. “Was he in med school too?”

  “He was a trauma surgeon, about ten years older than me. Medical school destroys more romances than it creates, and I wasn’t looking to get involved with anyone. It was all about the goal and having tunnel vision until I reached it. But Kent was . . .” She shrugs and seems to search for the words. “He wasn’t something else on the to-do list. He was my reprieve. He didn’t really have a family either—was raised by a single mother who’d passed away while he was in college. I fell hard and fast, and two years later we were engaged.”

  “And he was the one who held you while you slept,” I say softly.

  “You know, a lot of men can’t stand to listen to a woman talk about how great another guy was.”

  I shrug and shift my weight onto my elbow so I can continue my exploration down her body, between her breasts but over her tank top. “He couldn’t be that great if he let you go.”

  A shadow passes over her face, and she turns her eyes from mine. “He was amazing. I was the problem.”

  “Nix . . .” I take her chin in my hand and gently tilt it until her eyes meet mine again. I want to understand everything she’s not saying, but if eyes are windows to the soul, hers have blackout shades. She’s giving away nothing. “Was Kent attractive? How’d you put it? Pretty on the outside, ugly on the inside?”

  She shakes her head. “Not in conventional terms. He was beautiful because he was kind. But he wasn’t beautiful in all the ways you are.”

  The rest of my questions dissolve on my tongue as she lifts a hand to my chest and runs it across my pecs and down until she’s scraping her nails over my abs.

  “Kent didn’t leave me because he was a jerk,” she whispers. “He left because I’m screwed up. And I still am. I’m smart enough to know that, but I don’t know if I can resist this.”

  “This?”

  “You and me. We’re playing with fire here.”

  Her touch is killing me, so I do what I’ve wanted to do since I woke up with her in my arms. I kiss her.

  The second my lips touch hers, she moans and slides her fingers under my waistband until they’re brushing the tip of my cock. My whole body shudders as I fight the urge to push into her touch, to get her hand wrapped around me. She arches her back and opens her mouth under mine, and my tongue sweeps in to rub hers as she takes me in her grip.

  Holy fuck, that’s good.

  I break the kiss and touch my forehead to hers, fighting for control. She’s stroking me, her grip tight, as if she needs this as much as I do.

  “What happens if we don’t stop, Nix?”

  Her hand stills and she squeezes her eyes shut. “I imagine we’d have sex again, and then I’d spend the rest of my day feeling guilty for letting my libido drag you into my mess of a life.”

  I swallow. Hard. And pull her hand from my shorts. I should get a fucking medal for overruling my cock on this. I press a kiss to the back of her hand. “Then let’s not. Next time I’m inside you—and there will be a next time, Nix. With you and me it’s inevitable—I won’t have you feeling guilty after. Maybe sore, maybe exhausted, but not fucking guilty.”

  She draws in a ragged breath.

  “And for the record,” I whisper, “I’m already in your life and you didn’t drag me here. I’m in it because I choose to be.”

  * * *

  Nix

  Thirteen years ago . . .

  The click of my bedroom door closing yanks my attention from my book.

  “You haven’t been around much,” Patrick says.

  Since what happened in the honeymoon cabin, I’ve done the majority of my living in the pages of books and as little as possible in my own world. Luckily, no one seems to mind my reading habits as long as I do my chores, show up for worship every evening, and complete my requisite “supply runs”—a.k.a. burglaries. You see, the rich are worshipping a false god in their wealth, so says Vicar Jeremiah, and this justifies his disciples stealing what they need. Whatever. I did as much from time to time before moving here. Everyone has morals until they have an empty belly.

  I frown as Patrick sits on the edge of my bed. “Should you be here?” Mom and Amy are across the camp learning quilting from one of the vicar’s wives, so Patrick and I are literally alone behind closed doors, and I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

  “I’ve been praying about what happened in the honeymoon cottage. Every moment I’m awake, I set my mind to it. Praying. Asking for forgiveness. Promising God I’ll do whatever it takes to repent.”

  I close my eyes. It’s not like he’s tarnishing a beautiful experience for me—it was more traumatic than beautiful—but it still hurts, and his remorse is only another reminder on top of the hundreds I get every day that I don’t belong here.

  “I asked Him for a sign,” he says. He lifts his eyes to mine, and the pain in them makes my heart hurt for him. “Because every moment I’m not praying, I’m thinking about touching you again.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “Patrick . . .”

  “I asked God for a sign. I asked him to tell me which path I’m supposed to take, which way I’m supposed to go, and when I opened my eyes, the camp was covered in clouds, but a single beam of sunlight shone down onto your cabin.” He shakes his head. “I thought you were Satan’s temptation when all this time you’ve been God’s gift. I should have known before. That’s why He saved you from the fire. For me.”

  He holds my face in his hands, and I’m so horribly lonely that I welcome his lips touching mine. When he climbs on top of me, I spread my thighs to take him. He’s gentler this time, and when he leaves, he’s smiling instead of angry, but I’m just confused.

  I still don’t want to be here, and even if Patrick believes our intimacy is God’s will, I know the others won’t see it that way. What we’re doing is dangerous, but in a life where I’ve been starved for attention, I’ll take any scraps I can get. Even if they’re tainted by guilt and fear.

  Fourteen

  Nix

  I like to tell myself that staying at Max’s house is as good for him as it is for me, that I’m doing my part to keep him company until Claire comes home. But the truth is, I’m terrified to sleep in my house alone. If Patrick got in once, he can get in again.

  I don’t understand, though. If he wants to hurt me, why hasn’t he done it? If he wants revenge . . .

  My stomach clenches. Don’t think about it.

  I have ulterior motives for going out with Cade on Wednesday. I need him to get me some answers, and I think he might be able to. I’m counting on it.

  When I get to Max’s house after work, Amy is waiting for me on his front porch.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting.”

  I’m surprised she
didn’t let herself in—she could have, I don’t doubt it—but I’m guessing she wants to stay off Max’s radar. I’d prefer she did too.

  I nod toward my house, and she follows me over, silent as I unlock the door and disable the alarm.

  She follows me into the kitchen, her face a mask of uncertainty. I don’t know what she’s after, but I do know how much trouble she’d be in if they found out she was here. She’d disagree. She’s always tried to convince me I’d be welcomed back to Camelot, and she might believe Vicar Jeremiah would forgive her visit to the outside if I were the reason.

  “Are you hungry?” It’s really a rhetorical question. I hate that I sent her away last time she was here. This time I’ll feed her and listen, even if hearing her brainwashed speeches breaks my heart.

  “I could eat.”

  I open the cabinet and start pulling out ingredients for pasta. She’s skinnier than I remember, her face gaunt, her arms as thin as twigs, and I want to feed her but I also want something to busy my hands with while she talks.

  “The vicar’s preparing to choose a new wife,” she says. “It might be me.”

  My stomach twists in disgust. “Oh.” The idea of my little sister marrying that old man . . .

  “I hope it’s me. This is all I’ve wanted since I first visited Camelot.” She toys with the stack of napkins on the table and her eyes flick to mine. “Do you ever think about what life would have been like if you hadn’t run away?” I still at the question, but Amy goes on. “Maybe we would both be wives to the Chosen One.”

  I drop the box of spaghetti and watch it spill all over the floor.

  I grab a dustpan, stoop to sweep it up, and dump it into the trashcan before turning to look at her. “Why are you visiting me like this? What do you really want?”