Crazy for Your Love

by Lexi Ryan

  When he plunges a finger inside me, I’m already wound so tight that I think I might come immediately. All my focus, my energy, my need narrows to that one spot, and my body clenches.

  “Hold on,” he murmurs between licks up my neck. “I’ve got you.”

  He’s slow, torturously slow, pumping in and out of me in deliberate strokes that are the antithesis to the frenzy in my blood. His thumb scrapes over my clit as his finger gradually drives deeper and deeper.

  Some modest part of my mind worries I should slow the thrust of my hips against his hand or quiet the wanton pleas slipping from my lips. I ignore it and beg him to move faster. I tell him how good it feels, how close I am to coming on his hand, and oh God please, yes, like that, please.

  Carter.

  When I can’t hold back anymore, he presses his thumb to my clit with the perfect pressure and slides a second finger in. Deep. Stretching me. Pushing me over the edge the moment his mouth opens over mine.

  And I fall apart.

  Carter

  I can’t stop tasting her. Touching her. I trail more kisses up the side of her neck as she comes down from her orgasm. She shudders in my arms, and I want to make her come again and again. I want to drink her desperate moans, let them fill my head until they block out the rest of the world.

  Her hands are up my shirt, one on my back, the other on my stomach, stroking lazily, her fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of my dress pants with each pass. It’s all I can do not to thrust into her touch, to guide her hand to my aching cock and feel her there.

  But I don’t want this to be a quickie in a vacant office. I’ve wanted her for too long to settle for that. “Come home with me.”

  “What?” Her eyes are unfocused, heavy—from the alcohol or the pleasure? Maybe both.

  “Come home with me. Spend the night with me.”

  I see the fog clear, and she stiffens in my arms. She pulls her hands out from under my shirt and shakes her head. “I shouldn’t. I mean, we . . . shouldn’t. I’m sorry, I . . .” She searches my face. “Carter, we’re friends, and if I go home with you . . .”

  I wait, giving her time to finish that thought and willing myself to see it as a bad idea. But I can’t. Right now, that’s all I want. Teagan in my bed, in my shower, under me, over me, in front of me. I squeeze my eyes shut as the images roll through my mind, as thrilling as they are tormenting. “It’s your call,” I say, but I want to beg. I need her in a way I can’t explain.

  Her eyes search my face. “I’m scared of what happens if I do.”

  And I’m scared of what happens if you don’t. But I nod. Even if I want her more than I can remember ever wanting anything, I won’t push. “I’ll get a cab. Let me see you to your door, at least.”

  “You don’t need to do that. Molly is driving me home.” She presses her palms to my chest, gently urging me back, then steps out from between me and the wall. “She’s probably wondering where I am.”

  Tell Molly your plans have changed. Fuck the consequences, and go home with me.

  I swallow the words. I recognize regret when I see it, and right now, it’s all over her face. That’s not what I want to be to her—a regret or a mistake. This isn’t about her plans, and I’m not the guy who gets pushy when the end of a night doesn’t go his way.

  “I’m sorry.” Even her voice sounds shaky. “The booze and that dancing . . . I got carried away.”

  I should let her go, but I cup her face in my hand and stroke my thumb along her jaw. “Promise me you won’t go home and freak out about this?”

  She nods, but we both know she already is.

  I force a smile, for her benefit or mine, I’m not sure. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” she says, the word as broken as I fear our friendship just became.

  Carter

  Something’s not right. It’s too hot. I thought this was contained.

  There’s static on my portable, then Gordak’s voice. “New activity in the southwest quadrant. Pull out, boys.”

  I gesture to Max and wave toward the door. He’s on the line only a couple of feet in front of me, but the smoke is so damn thick that I can barely make out his silhouette. “Come on!”

  In together. Out together.

  “There are kids on the second floor,” Max says.

  “I said, pull the fuck out,” Gordak growls. “You can’t see what I can see, boys.”

  I tug on Max’s arm. We’re all guilty of pushing the rules of engagement when kids are involved, but if Gordak says to pull out, we’ve gotta do it.

  “Fine,” Max mutters, turning. He nudges me forward, urging me to lead the way, and I follow the rope line we’ve strung up and follow it to the exit. When I glance behind me to make sure he’s close, Max isn’t there. The heat is suffocating. I take a step back into the depths of the warehouse, but the rafters groan in protest. A warning.

  “Mayday!” I shout into my portable.

  I know what comes next. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and watch as it comes down on me. Suddenly, I’m in the navy-blue suit I wore to my father’s funeral, and my mother is clinging to my arm.

  “He was so proud of you, Carter,” she says, right before the ceiling collapses and everything around me goes up in smoke.

  I wake up with aching lungs and the taste of ash in my mouth. My throat is raw, and my heart is racing. Across the room, my alarm clock screeches from beside my bed. I’m in the middle of my bedroom floor, and my blankets are scattered around the room, as if I tore apart the bed in my sleep. I’m guessing I did. This isn’t the first time.

  I push myself off the floor and walk across the room to shut off the alarm. My vision’s still blurry from sleep, and my hands are shaking from the nightmare I can feel as vividly as if someone set fire to my room while I was out cold.

  Sleeping through my alarm is new, but the dreams aren’t. I live a fucked-up variation of the night at the warehouse every time I close my eyes. This morning wasn’t the first time my subconscious mixed that night with the day of my father’s funeral.

  “They were both traumatic for you,” my friend Bethany said when I told her about my recurring nightmare. “Your subconscious is trying to sort through the pain and guilt that come with trauma and loss.”

  It made sense to me, so I haven’t talked about it since. Talking doesn’t change anything anyway.

  I pad to the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot before heading to the shower. I was going to hit the gym first thing, but all I want now is to wash away the damn dream.

  I stand under the spray with closed eyes, willing the water to work its magic—wake me up and wash the illusion of smoke from my nose. I lean my forehead against the wall and focus on my breath. It’s over. It’s done. I can’t go back.

  Can’t go back. Can’t go back.

  Maybe I should be glad Teagan didn’t come home with me last night. I wouldn’t want her to see me scrambling on my bedroom floor in the dark, crawling from a fire that burned the First Avenue warehouse to the ground months ago but has never fully left my mind.

  But maybe that’s why I invited her. For six months, I’ve walked around broken but pretending to be okay. When she was in my arms, the taste of her skin on my tongue, I felt whole again. For those moments, I could forget my failings. I could . . . be.

  I almost called Myla when I got home. She’s always happy to come by and distract me, and she never pushes to sleep over. But I couldn’t. Not when I wanted Teagan. Not when a few hours with her made my other relationships feel . . . cheap.

  I turn off the shower and grab my towel, drying off quickly before throwing on a pair of jeans, a tank, and a long-sleeve University of Michigan T-shirt.

  When I go to the kitchen, my phone blinks at me from its spot on the charger. I grab it while pouring my coffee, expecting a text from one of the girls or a message from Shay demanding to know what’s going on between Teagan and me.

  Sure enough, there are three texts from Shay, and another from Le
vi. I scroll past those and spill my coffee when I see there was a text from Isaiah at three a.m. Just over two hours ago.

  “Shit.” I shove the pot back onto the burner and grab a paper towel to clean up my mess.

  Isaiah: Don’t freak out. I was in a car accident last night. I’m in the hospital but I’m okay. I might be in trouble though.

  I tap the screen to call him but stop myself. One thing I’ve learned in the past few months is that Isaiah will spill his heart out over a text, but he freezes up about the same topic over the phone and in person.

  Exhaling slowly, I reply to the text.

  Me: What’s your room number? I’ll be there in twenty.

  When I walk into Isaiah’s room and see him bandaged up and connected to all those tubes and wires, I’m thrown back in time. The same hospital, the same dark skin and broad shoulders, the same beeping machines.

  No. Not the same. There’s no ventilator pumping up and down here, no machine forcing his lungs to do the work they won’t do on their own.

  Tears sting the back of my eyes, and I tilt my face toward the ceiling to hold them back.

  “Hold it together,” Marta says.

  I was so distracted by the machines and my own memories that I didn’t even notice Isaiah’s grandmother sitting in the corner. I clear my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He’s gonna be okay.” Marta’s voice is crackly on the best of days, but this morning she sounds even older than her seventy-five years. She might be hunched over her cane, and her ebony skin might be more wrinkled than smooth, but only an idiot would miss the shrewdness in those wise, dark eyes. “This might look like Max, but it’s not the same. Isaiah will be okay.”

  “And what about you?” I ask.

  “I’ve been better, as you can imagine.” Tears slowly trail down her cheeks. “I try to do right by this boy, but I . . .” She takes a ragged breath.

  “You’re doing just fine.”

  She shakes her head. “He drank half a case of beer before getting behind the wheel.”

  “Five,” Isaiah says, his voice rough, his head lolling to the side. “Five beers.”

  I draw in my own ragged breath and realize I didn’t expect him to be conscious—ridiculous, since he texted me himself and asked me to come. Maybe Marta’s right and my mind had already entwined his fate with his father’s. Not the same.

  “I’ll go get coffee downstairs so you two can talk,” she says. “But he’s doped up pretty good, so don’t be surprised if he starts talking nonsense.”

  I offer my hand, helping her stand from the chair. “I can hang out for a while. Why don’t you go home and get a shower, maybe take a nap in your own bed?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re a good boy, Carter Jackson.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Isaiah, I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma,” Isaiah says. He forces his eyes open, but they only float shut again.

  “You can apologize once you’re better,” she says. “That’ll be the only way I’ll accept it.” She hoists her purse up on her shoulder and gives me a nod before using her cane to help her out of the room. She leans into it more than usual today. Her arthritis is flaring up again.

  I lower myself into a chair, still too shaken by the sight of Isaiah like this to trust my legs.

  “They said I broke my femur,” he whispers. “And a couple of ribs.”

  I nod, not that he can see me. He can’t seem to keep his eyes open. I want to ask him what on earth he thought he was doing, getting behind the wheel after drinking, and why the fuck he was drinking in the first place. Instead, I say, “You’re strong. You’re gonna get through this.”

  “Carter?”

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “Don’t tell my dad. Okay?”

  I know he’s confused—delirious from the meds and the trauma. But the words are like a blow to the chest.

  I won’t tell his dad. I can’t. Because his dad is dead, and if I were the hero everyone claims I am, he wouldn’t be.

  Teagan

  There’s a knock on my door way too early on Sunday morning. I groan as I roll over in bed and look at the clock. It’s just after eight a.m.

  I pull a pillow over my head. What kind of sadistic asshole thinks this is an appropriate hour to wake me up on my day off?

  “If you don’t answer this door, I’m going to assume it’s because you’re in my brother’s bed, and I’ll gossip with the girls about it at breakfast!”

  Shay’s warning has me bolting upright and flying toward the front door.

  On my way, I grab my robe from the hook in the bathroom and shove my arms into the sleeves. I don’t bother to tie it as I stomp toward the door. If Shay doesn’t want to see me in my boy-short “Can’t Touch This” undies, a tank top, and no bra, then she shouldn’t be pulling me out of bed with threats of Jackson family gossip.

  I unlock the door and open it, scowling. “What do you want?”

  “Cute panties.” She grins and folds her arms. “But you don’t look like you spent your night getting ravished.”

  “Because I didn’t.” She’s all sweaty and in shorts and a T-shirt so thin that I can see her blue sports bra through it. My scowl deepens. “Have you already worked out? Do you know how early it is? Don’t you ever sleep in? What is wrong with you?”

  Completely unfazed by the bite in my tone, she pushes past me and into my house. “I ran here. Because, as you know, it’s Sunday, which means I’m having brunch with the family later.” She plops down on my couch and arches a brow. “A brunch at which you’re likely to be the main topic of conversation if you don’t show your face.”

  It’s not uncommon for me to go to the Jackson family brunch. In the four years since I moved here, the Jacksons have become my surrogate family of sorts. They’re the kind of people who are more inclusive than exclusive, so they make it easy for a single girl like me to have a place that feels like home. But that’s on days when I didn’t just have a hot make-out session with one of the Jackson brothers.

  I shake my head. “I can’t go today.”

  “And why is that, may I ask?”

  Because things happened between Carter and me last night, and it was supposed to be nothing, but it felt . . . like something.

  I need to stay away from him for long enough for the buzz in my blood to fade. Since the thought of those dark eyes and that arrogant smile has my stomach doing Olympic-level gymnastics, I think it’s fair to say I’m not there yet. A girl doesn’t simply forget getting finger-fucked senseless by Carter Jackson, let alone forget it in less than twelve hours. “I need to clean the house.”

  Shay looks around, obviously not buying it. “Your floor is still gleaming from the housekeeper. Try again.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I don’t want to go.”

  “You don’t want to because you’re avoiding him, or because you’re avoiding us?”

  I snort. “Can’t it be both?”

  “You two looked awfully cozy last night.”

  I sigh. “It was . . . He was only . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. He told me when I saw him in the parking lot after. It was all pretend.”

  Oh, this sneaky bitch. I glare at her. “If you saw him leaving alone, then you knew I wasn’t in his bed this morning.”

  “I didn’t know for sure. You could have gone to his place after having Molly drop you off here. Trust me, I’ve jumped through bigger hoops to keep my own rendezvous secret from my family.”

  I arch a brow. “Do tell.”

  “Oh no. You’re not getting off the hook that easy. We’re talking about you and Carter right now.”

  I pad to the other side of the island that separates my kitchen from my living and dining area. I’m still struggling to keep my eyes open. This morning—this conversation—calls for coffee. “You’re overthinking this,” I mutter. “I promise you, there’s no secret relationship you’ve been missing out on.”


  “But you weren’t just pretending. I saw you two dancing. Any closer, and I’d be asking if you used protection.”

  I yank out the carafe and shove it under the faucet. “Don’t start with the matchmaker stuff.”

  “If you insist,” she says with a sigh.

  I pour the water into the back of the pot, grind beans, and dump them into the filter while she toys with her phone. When I flip the pot on, she wanders into the kitchen, still staring at the screen.

  “Here,” she says, handing me her phone. “You might need to know about this.”

  My stomach drops. On her screen is a picture of me dancing in Carter’s arms, his forehead touching mine as I smile up at him, his arms wrapped around me and holding me close. We look . . . deliriously smitten. The headline above it reads, “Foxy Fireman’s Charity Auction Takes Unexpected Romantic Turn.”

  I look at Shay, who’s smirking like she played her trump card. “Is this local?”

  “That is. The local paper got the picture, but it was picked up by some tiny online gossip pages. You’re lucky Carter fever has mostly died down, or this would be everywhere. People love their puppy-rescuing firefighter, and they love a good romance.”

  “Shit.”

  “Surely you both knew this could happen when he called you up on that stage.”

  “I never imagined he’d do it, honestly, and once he did, I was too shocked to think that far ahead.” But I’m thinking ahead now. Specifically, about the call I’m bound to get from my mother and sister the second they see the article.

  There’s another knock on the door. Shay looks toward the sound, then to me.

  “Teagan?” Carter’s voice is low, cautious. “Are you awake?”

  Shay snorts. “Just an act, huh? Who exactly are you two acting for this morning?”