Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

  But we have to go talk to Cade. Fucking Cade.

  “I can’t believe we just did that,” she whispers. Her cheeks are flushed and she keeps tugging her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Reluctantly, I remove my hand from between her legs. “I kind of enjoyed it myself.”

  “I’ve never been with anyone who makes me feel like you do.”

  “Glad to hear it. For the record, the only reason we’re leaving this room is because Cade might know something important about this guy who’s been harassing you, and I want to keep you safe.” I rub the hem of her slip between my fingers. “Now let’s go get this over with so we can come back in here and finish what you started when you slipped that on and climbed into bed with me.”

  * * *

  Nix

  Max drops his hand from my breast and steps away from me, and it’s way too early for dramatics, but his body no longer being pressed against mine kind of feels like a tragedy.

  “Cade’s waiting,” he murmurs, “but he’d be fine waiting a little longer if you wanted to get dressed first.”

  Right. I have to go talk to a police officer now. A police officer who was waiting on the other side of this wall while Max gave me an orgasm.

  My brain is more in gear to get naked in bed, but we’re going to get back to that when Cade leaves. I’m sure I can put all thoughts of what Max’s going to do to me aside and carry on an important conversation. Right.

  “I’ll meet you out there,” I mutter. I rush to my things in the guest bedroom and pull on jean shorts, a bra, and a shirt. And, okay, yeah, maybe it’s my prettiest bra and my shortest jean shorts, but Max just whispered really sweet and sexy things in my ear, and I don’t want him to forget his promise.

  When I reach the living room, the guys are holding mugs and sitting on opposite sides of the coffee table. The earlier heat in Max’s eyes has gone cold and his jaw is hard, so instead of taking the seat next to him on the couch, I sit in the chair between them.

  Cade’s eyes immediately drop to my Daisy Dukes. Or, more accurately, to the flesh said Dukes do little to cover.

  Max passes me a mug of steaming hot coffee.

  “Thank you.” I tear my eyes off Max and look to Cade. “What’s going on?”

  Cade hands me a short stack of glossy photos. “This is Patrick Henry, thirty-two-year-old technical writer living in Lafayette. Is this the guy you’re afraid of, Nix?”

  The picture on the top of the pile sends a harsh chill through me—the kind that wants to freeze me down to my bones and paralyze my limbs and my heart. That’s Patrick. The picture is in profile and he’s a little older, but he’s still as striking as he was when I fell in love with him—the hard angles of his face, the intense eyes.

  “Nix?” Cade says.

  I nod and struggle to find my breath so I can speak. “That’s him.”

  Cade leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Again, he shifts his gaze to Max and then back to me. “Are you aware that this man has ties to a religious extremist group operating a short drive from here?”

  “Camelot,” I say, nodding.

  “Max told me that nothing more has happened since the texts you got the night I walked you home.”

  “That’s right. Maybe he lost interest. Or . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  Cade takes a breath. “Patrick is at Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis. He’s in the ICU in critical condition.”

  My head snaps up. “So it wasn’t him.”

  “More likely,” Cade says cautiously, “it was him, and the incidents have stopped because someone broke into his house a few days later and worked him over real good. He probably would have died if the neighbor hadn’t had a key. He stopped by to borrow the paper, and when he saw Patrick beaten and bloody on the floor, he called an ambulance.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper.

  “Thanks to Patrick’s ties to Camelot, I convinced the judge to give me a warrant. He probably wouldn’t have otherwise, given how minor the incidents have been, but he did.”

  “And?” Max says, his jaw ticking.

  “We’re sending officers today to search his apartment for the burner cell phone you were getting texts from.”

  “Who do you think assaulted him?” I ask.

  “We don’t know. According to the police report, the place was ransacked, and it appears a lot was stolen, so it may have been a home robbery gone wrong.”

  A chill rushes over me.

  Cade takes a breath. “The hospital has instructions to call me if his condition changes. The second he wakes up, you’ll know. In the meantime, we can draw up a restraining order, a no-contact order, the works.”

  “Do they think he’ll wake up?”

  “He’s in bad shape. We just don’t know,” Cade says, but the truth flashes across his face. Patrick is going to die.

  I slowly flip through the pictures in my lap until I find one of Patrick head-on—showing both his beautiful side and the opposite, fire-ravaged side of his face. Next to me, Max draws in a sharp breath, and I know he sees it.

  I cut my eyes to him and wish I had telepathy so I could tell him what I’m too much of a coward to speak. I did that. Would you still want me in your bed if you knew?

  “He can’t hurt me anymore,” I whisper. I wish the thought of him dying gave me comfort, but my emotions are a quagmire I’m not sure how to navigate.

  Once, Patrick was the man I loved. Once, he was the man I believed I would do anything to protect. That all changed in a single night, and if he dies, I will mourn for the boy I loved.

  Twenty-One

  Max

  This isn’t over. I can see it on Nix’s face. She’s still afraid of something. Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks something is off about all this. What Cade said makes sense—it probably was Patrick stalking her, just as she suspected, and it’s stopped because he’s unconscious in the hospital. But a random burglary gone wrong just seems too convenient.

  “Well,” Nix says after we show Cade out, “I didn’t expect that.”

  I step forward and wrap her in my arms. “Do you need anything? Or want to talk about it?”

  She shakes her head. “I need to stop by the hospital for a few hours today for my rounds, and I guess . . . I guess I can stay at my own house now.”

  That’s a fist in the gut, but what did I expect? That she’d move in with me? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. But I hear myself whisper, “Stay. Until we know for sure he was the one. And then after that . . .” I swallow hard. “Claire won’t be home for another week. I’d like to spend that week sleeping with you in my arms.”

  She leans into my chest and sighs. “Careful, Maximilian Hallowell. You keep saying those things and I’m going to fall for you whether I want to or not.”

  I grin. “Oh, she’s discovered my evil plan.” I resist the urge to kiss her. After the news Cade delivered, I’m avoiding anything that might give her the idea I intend to pick up where we left off this morning. “Go out with me tonight. Let me take you to dinner and hold your hand.”

  “Like you’re my boyfriend or something?” she asks.

  I wouldn’t know how to describe the tangle of emotions those words cause in my chest. “Yeah. Like I’m the guy who spoils you and takes you home and kisses you whenever he wants. And like you’re the girl in my life and not just my dreams. Not just my bed.”

  She bites her lip. “That sounds really nice.”

  “Okay. So it’s a date. I’ll spend the whole day looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.” Her eyes drop to my mouth. “I’m going to go feed my cat now.”

  “You do that.”

  Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she nods then heads out the door. And my balls may be so blue they’re setting new records, but I’m smiling like a fool. Because the girl I’ve been crushing on for months just agreed to be my girlfriend.

  Damn straight.

  * * *

  Nix

 
; When I get back to Max’s, he’s in the shower. I stand in his bedroom for a solid minute, staring at the bathroom door and imagining his hard body under the spray. I should go to the hospital. I should definitely wait until tonight to see him naked. Do the whole wine-and-dine thing first.

  Fuck it. Life’s too short.

  I strip out of my clothes and head into the bathroom, only to stop in my tracks at the image that greets me.

  Max is in the shower, head bowed under the spray, hand wrapped around his cock as he strokes himself. My throat goes dry and my pulse kicks up.

  He’s beautiful, and the sight of him working his hand up and down his shaft in long, even strokes is about the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

  I could let him finish. I almost want to. I’d like to see his face as he brings himself to orgasm, would love to know just how he uses his hand when he touches himself. But I’m too greedy, and two weeks of foreplay is more than I can handle. So I open the glass door and step into the shower.

  He stills when he sees me. His nostrils flare and his eyes go dark, but he doesn’t take his hand from his cock. Turning sideways, I step under the spray behind him and press my breasts against his back. Any nerves I had about doing this fizzle away under the weight of my need.

  I lather my hands with soap and let them roam his back and along his sides. When I slide my soapy hand over his, he exhales heavily.

  “Show me how you like it.” I fumble as I stroke him, my grip awkward over his.

  Turning to face me, he removes his hand and guides my fingers to wrap around his length. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me breathless as I stroke him. He’s so thick and hard. I could drop to my knees and take him into my mouth, suck him, the water washing over us until he’s coming onto my tongue.

  His hands roam down my neck and to my breasts, where he toys with my nipples. “Have you ever made love in the shower, Doc?”

  I shake my head, tiny shivers of anticipation racing through me.

  “Don’t move.”

  I blink at his back as he leaves the shower, but seconds later, he returns, rolling a condom down the length of his erection. I draw in a ragged breath. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.

  He comes straight for me, backing me against the cold tile as his mouth crashes down on mine. I don’t have time to panic about not knowing the proper techniques for shower sex.

  “Link your hands behind my neck,” he demands against my mouth.

  I do as instructed, and he hooks his hands behind my knees and guides my legs to wrap around his waist. He holds me there, propped between his body and the tile wall, and he slowly enters me.

  “I’ve fantasized about this since the first time,” he whispers, his voice husky against my ear. “I’ve thought about how you’d look under the spray, imagined these fucking perfect legs wrapped around me as I fucked you.” With those words, he begins to move.

  All I can do is hold on as he drives into me, his hips thrusting and circling, and his dick pressing deep against my cervix. When he frees a hand to find my clit with his thumb, I bite his shoulder to hold back my scream.

  “Let me hear you,” he demands. “I want to hear you scream when I make you come.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper. “I’m not . . .” He adds more pressure to my clit and I bite back a moan.

  He scrapes his teeth against my neck. “You don’t ever have to hold back with me.” He sucks my earlobe between his teeth and I cry out. “That’s what I want to hear. Let go.”

  Something snaps inside me, lowering a wall I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding between us. I kiss him. Hard. Bite his lip. Drive my fingers into his hair and pull as I rock my hips against his and moan into his mouth.

  He returns every crazy, desperate touch with his own. Our pace turns frantic. I lead his head to my breast, unashamed to show him where I want his mouth. He groans his approval before drawing my nipple between his teeth and sucking hard.

  His dick swells inside me. “I’m so close,” he whispers. “Come with me. I want to feel you come around my cock.”

  The words shatter me, and I fly over the edge. My orgasm whips through my whole body, leaving me quivering and shaking. I open my eyes in time to watch his hit. His fingers dig into my hip and his thrusts grow jerky. When he throws his head back and comes inside me, I know I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as the pleasure on his face.

  * * *

  Max

  “I’ve never been much for playing hooky,” Nix says, “but you sure do know how to make it fun.”

  We’re in bed, the sheets twisted around us, her wet hair sprawled across the pillow. After we cleaned up in the shower, I led her here, parted her legs, and tasted her until she was moaning and begging for more. When I was inside her the second time today, I went slower. We kissed and touched and took our time. After, she looked at me with that wonder in her eyes, and I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t tell her the words so anxious to fall from my lips.

  I have fallen in love with Phoenix Reid, and I’m afraid if she finds out she’ll run.

  “Nix . . .” The words sit on my tongue, not heavy but light and airy. I press my lips together so they can’t escape. I’m in love with you. But the memory of releasing that truth and finding it unrequited is still too fresh. I might be over Hanna, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to hand out my heart without being cautious.

  I’ll tell her. Soon.

  “Tell me about the scars.”

  “They’re from Camelot,” she says softly, her fingers tracing each of the three circles. “When we moved in, Vicar Jeremiah baptized us and marked us so God would know who to save at the second coming.”

  “God wouldn’t know otherwise? I thought He was omniscient?”

  She smiles. “Yeah, me too, but that was the reasoning. Even at sixteen, it was so obvious to me that it was just another way for Patrick’s father to exert control over his ‘flock.’”

  I kiss my fingers and touch them to the scars. “How did he do it? I thought it was from a knife at first, but the circles are too perfect.”

  “Branding iron. Like we were cattle. Patrick held me down and praised me after because I didn’t scream.” She shakes her head, but her eyes have gotten a far-off glaze. “My sister’s still there, you know.”

  “Why? Can’t she live with you?”

  She rolls to her side and puts her hand on my face, her eyes sad. “She’s there because that’s where she wants to be. I’ve tried to convince her to leave—repeatedly—but she won’t. She’s drunk on the proverbial Kool-Aid.”

  “Maybe someday she’ll change her mind.”

  “I hope so.”

  I want to ask her why she looks so sad, but what a fucking stupid question when we’re talking about her sister living in a cult. Of course she’s sad. “What about your mom?” I ask. “Is she still happy there too? Does she miss you?”

  “She hates me.” She drops her gaze to my chest and shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “She likes to say, ‘The Devil’s fire runs through Phoenix’s veins.’ She blames me for . . .” Her eyes flick to mine then back down. “Everything that went wrong.”

  I pull her into my arms and kiss her forehead. I need her to know that I’m her safe place, but also that I know there’s more to her story than she’s telling. “I have all these questions,” I whisper, “but I won’t let myself ask them until you’re ready.”

  “Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you more. I do.”

  “We’ll take this slow, remember? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready, but no pressure.”

  “The stuff I haven’t told you is the stuff that made Kent decide he couldn’t be with me. We were engaged, had our picture in the paper, and were planning one of those big-ass weddings. The kind that costs so much you could use the money to feed the people in a small country for a year. Then one day he told me he couldn’t marry me, and he wouldn’t talk about why. But the
way he looked at me . . . it was like he’d woken up and realized he was engaged to a monster.”

  I can’t hold her any closer, but I would if I could. Grief radiates off her when she speaks about Kent. I want to soak it up and free her from the weight of it.

  “Later, my sister told me that Kent had tracked down my mom. He knew we were estranged and he thought it would be a great surprise if he could get her to show for the wedding. But instead of agreeing to that, she told him about the night I escaped. And I guess he panicked.”

  The night I escaped. That’s where her story is. Her secrets. Her shame. But I don’t let myself ask about it. “I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. I lace my fingers through hers.

  “He left the country after that. Just picked up and moved to South America. In the span of three days, I went from engaged and planning a wedding to a man I loved deeply to reading a note from my fiancé saying that he’d left the country, and that he didn’t want me in his life. A note. He couldn’t even tell me to my face.”

  “You told me his mom had died, but what about the rest of his family? What did they think of him running away?”

  She shakes her head. “He didn’t have any. I was the only one he had and the only one he was leaving.”

  I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss each knuckle. “I’m not Kent.”

  “Do you believe a person can do a bad thing and still be good?”

  Those words make my chest ache. All of this does, but those words more than the rest. “Yes, Nix.” I hold her hand to my lips. “And I believe good people sometimes do bad things because they don’t have a choice.”

  I stroke her hair and wait for the tears I expect to come next, but they don’t. I hold her for a long time, and when I draw back to look at her face, she’s fallen asleep.

  When my phone buzzes on the bedside table, she doesn’t stir.

  “Hello?” I answer softly.

  “We found the phone,” Cade says. “As well as kerosene, the keys to Nix’s house, and pictures of her. Lots of pictures. Max, Patrick Henry has been stalking Nix for years.”