Fuel the Fire (33 page)

It’s coming from Lily’s purse. I procure her phone, too curious not to, and maybe if I wasn’t tipsy, I’d be more respectful. At least, I think I would.

A text illuminates the screen.

Look how adorable
– Mom

I unlock Lily’s phone with her password (Moffy’s birthday), and then I see the photo my mother attached to her message. Moffy is cuddled in a blue blanket, sleeping on my mother’s lap.

What?
I check my phone—no updates about Jane. I’m happy that my mother and Lily have rekindled parts of their relationship, but I would’ve liked
something
about Jane.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asks, rubbing the small of my back. He looks between the two phones in my possession.

“It’s just hard leaving her there overnight,” I admit. I do have a little guilt about not being with her for this long, but my mother urged us to go out. She wanted “grandma” time. I never thought she’d be this enthusiastic about grandmotherly roles. She wasn’t when Poppy’s daughter was born, but maybe the empty nest is still eating at her since Daisy moved out.

“Jane will be okay,” Connor assures me. “If you want to go back to Phili—”

“No,” I cut him off. If I return home and mess up our plans, I fail. I need to let go sometimes. “I’m perfect.” I make a point of sipping my appletini, and he watches with the most impassive, stoic expression—blank and unreadable and therefore slightly frightening.

Connor cups my face, his eyes dancing around my features, and when his thumb skims my bottom lip—I turn my head, spotting any onlookers. I catch the bartender peeking over, along with
hoards
of people, camera phones still angled towards us…though most are directed at Lily and Loren dancing.

Connor pinches my chin, turning my head back towards him. “Concentre-toi sur moi.”
Concentrate on me.
His tone is partially comforting, partially as strong as his grasp. He’d never push me into the deep-end if he thought I’d drown.

My pulse speeds. “Are you going to kiss me?” I question, hearing the anxiety in my voice. I hate that sound. I chug the rest of my appletini.

He strokes my head, all my hair pulled into a tight, sleek pony. “Get out of your mind, Rose,” he coos.

It’s not that easy for me, not with so many eyes on us. I set my empty glass on the counter, and he flags down the bartender again. I realize I’m still
clutching
onto Connor’s forearm like if I let go, I’ll fall.

This isn’t exactly normal for me.
Be the fucking shark, Rose.

I will be. I’ll snap my jaws over every human here.

“Rose.” That’s not Connor. Ryke sidles next to me while Daisy slips in front of my body, settling on a nearby vacant stool. Four-leaf clover sunglasses shroud her eyes while she’s dressed in a graphic tee that says,
Shake your Shamrocks.
Since her back is to me, I can’t spot a smile.

I face Ryke.

His jaw is scruffier, making him appear older. He spent the past week camping with Daisy and their Siberian husky in the mountains, still no approval from his doctors to rock climb. Daisy thought camping would help ease the wait.

“What?” I ask, ice frosting the word. At least my bite hasn’t disappeared yet. I
almost
pick up my empty glass and take a sip. I remember not to be a drunken fool this time.

Connor detaches from me, except for his fingers that just barely hook around mine. He leans over the counter to speak to the bartender, the persistent music drowning their conversation.

Ryke places a hand on my shoulder and leans closer to me, all so he doesn’t have to raise his voice. “Do you have any Advil or Midol?” he asks.

My back straightens, and my eyes flit to my sister. She has her feet on the stool, legs tucked to her chest, sitting in a fetal position. When she swings her head to me, she paints on a bright all-consuming smile. I almost believe her, but silently, I hear her saying,
I don’t want to be the reason you have a bad time.

“How bad are her cramps?” I ask, opening my clutch first. Lipstick, compact mirror, mini perfume, powder, mints, safety pins…

“Enough that she has to sit down.” He runs a hand through his hair, watching me dig around my clutch that’s two sizes larger than Lily’s. All of my items are packed neatly in pockets and little wallets.

…mini sewing kit, bobby pins, stain removing pen, small brush, driver’s license, debit and credit cards, super glue (god forbid my high heel should break) and—

“Advil,” I say, handing him a mini-tube of pain reliever.

He pops open the bottle. “It’s empty.”

“What?” I snatch it back and shake…to find nothing inside. “Lily might have some.” I unclasp her clutch to find her ID, cash, her phone, and condoms floating around.

At least she carries protection.

“Nothing?” Ryke says off my frown. “Fuck.” He groans and looks back at Daisy.

“I’ll be fine!” she shouts. “It’s really okay!” She playfully twirls her green glittery glasses before placing them back on.

He’s not buying it, and neither am I.

“Find Poppy,” I tell him, my stomach flip-flopping at the thought of being so unhelpful that I have to pass this task off. “She’ll have something on her.”

He nods, more hopeful. “Keep an eye on Dais for me?”

“Of course.” While he squeezes through the masses to search for Poppy, I’m about to fully detach from Connor and join Daisy.

In unison, Connor not only holds more of my hand but Lily’s phone buzzes. My head swirls from the alcohol, distracted by the cell enough to click into Lily’s texts.

Lil. How long does it take to pee?
– Lo

I thought they were dancing? The alcohol must be fucking with my sense of time. It’s already 2 a.m.

I whip my head from side to side and finally spot Loren outside the girl’s bathroom door, one that has stalls so he doesn’t burst through or bang on the wood. 

I curiously scroll through my sister’s old text conversation. Sober Rose would
never
do such a disloyal act unless it helped Lily, but morality has all but flitted away.

Their most recent discussion:

Moffy just said poop! We’ve been saying poop too much, Lo
. – Lily

I soften and my frozen joints unthaw. My little sister is precious, and luckily, her son’s first word wasn’t poop. It was
boo
. They’ve been playing peekaboo a lot with him.

I keep reading the texts.

At least he didn’t say shit.
– Lo

I roll my eyes, and a new message pings, my drunken gaze landing on every word without permission.

Please just reply so I know you’re okay.
– Lo

I’m sure Lily is fine, and if Loren didn’t irk me so much, I might reply with that. With my free hand, I type out this message with quick, sloppy fingers:
Green appletini.

It’s as random as I feel.

I press send and watch his face scrunch in confusion. He texts back rapidly.

???
– Lo

I snort under my breath, a roguish smile rising.
Go fuck a cactus
, I type and press send…only to reread the message and realize I sent:
Gig fuck a castings
.

Really, Rose?

Lo wastes no time, pushing through the bathroom door. Camera flashes go off again, brightening the back area of the pub. In maybe a minute, he exits with Lily by his side, and I watch his daggered eyes pierce and search the room.

They set on
me
. Lily probably told him that I have her phone. He raises his hand in the air and gives me the middle finger.

I raise mine and—I accidentally drop Lily’s cell. Nothing is going according to plan. I bend down to collect the remnants.
Don’t be broken,
I chant with an angry growl.

I discover a perfectly intact phone and return it safely to her clutch, all of which I place on the bar next to Daisy.

“Watch these?” I ask, Connor’s hand still in mine.

She gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, her green sunglasses masking whatever pain she may be feeling. I’m literally seconds from asking our bodyguards to go make a drugstore run for us. I’d even leave and go make one with them.

“I have Advil!” Poppy shouts, weaving through the crowd with Ryke and Sam behind her. My tan older sister is more prepared for the luckiest day of the year than I am. Her long, straight hair splays over her green tunic, wooden bracelets decorating her forearm.

Poppy is “chill” in comparison to me, as Loren has said before. I’m not surprised. When I was younger, she always disappeared to our backyard to paint, finding quiet places away from our mother. She discovered calmness in her teens that she’s carried to thirty.

I’m twenty-six and
calm
has still evaded me, even boozed.

Maybe that’s why I have Connor. Just as I think it, he finishes speaking with the bartender. I slide closer to him and scan his hands and the counter for my new drink. It’s nowhere to be found.

“Have you just been talking with him this whole time?” I question, my feet aching. Not because of the shoe but because my muscles keep constricting.

My heels have
not
betrayed me.

Connor clasps my hips and pulls me against his body a little more, guiding me so that my back digs into the lip of the bar. I look over my shoulder, hoping to spot the bartender making my drink, but he’s helping another girl.

 “Rose,” Connor forces my name and simultaneously grabs my attention. I focus on him, his deep blue eyes almost eating me out. His gaze is as dirty as that sounds.

You love it, Rose.

I do, but there are onlookers…

He holds my face, possessing me with one strong move.

“I’m not ready…” The words prickle my skin. “I need another drink, Richard.”

He lowers his head, his lips grazing mine before he whispers something in French. I can’t translate it, not unless he speaks slower. The alcohol jumbles my thoughts, and he notices the confusion blanketing my face.

“Concentrate on me,” he repeats.

I scrounge up a decent glare. “I am.”

I expect him to kiss me now.
He’s going to make out with you against the bar with everyone watching.
I wonder if he can feel my pulse race, my chest collapsing, half-anxious, half-wanting.

Very swiftly, he grasps my waist and lifts me onto the bar.

What the fuck.

What the fuck
.

My ass hits the wooden surface, and cameras swing in our direction. My legs hang off, and I grip his forearms so hard that my nails must be leaving imprints.

“Connor…”

I expect him to kiss me
now
.

He doesn’t.

Instead he effortlessly hoists himself onto the bar, and he kneels on either side of my thighs. The crowd cheers, and I sweep his features: his grin lifting, his eyes only dead-set on me, his fingers—his fingers
remove
his first layer of clothing…pulling his long-sleeve shirt over his head, now in a white button-down and tie that he’d been wearing underneath.

He tosses the navy, long-sleeve shirt aside.

The band dies down, leaving only chatter and this event on the bar, spotlighted by camera flashes.
Everyone
is watching him.

More him than me.

This fact begins to morph my anxiety into sexual awakening, a pulse mounting below. My brain tries to register what’s happening, his fingers loosening his tie.

He clutches the back of my head with his other hand. And very slowly, so I understand, he whispers, “Get ready, darling.” His breath heats my neck. “This may spin your head.”

[ 31 ]

ROSE COBALT

My body thrums, and he slyly fastens his tie around my wrists, binding them behind my back. The cheers inside the bar nearly pull me out of the moment, but Connor rests a hand on my cheek.

“Only look at me,” he reminds me.

I nod, trusting him. Then he kisses me so powerfully, nipping my bottom lip with his teeth before he rises to his feet, no longer kneeling.

He
towers
above me, my head level with his crotch.

Oh God.

I cross my ankles that hang off the bar and glue my thighs together, the pulse starting to hurt. My body is screaming for him to ram inside of me, this
need
escalating while in a fully-packed pub. This can’t be happening.

But it is.

He strokes the top of my head with his hand, in arm’s length of me, even standing. I look up at him, and he unbuttons his shirt with a heady, seductive gaze that nails me like a hard fuck between my legs.

“Take it off! Take it off!” so many people chant. Among them are my sisters and friends, crowded near the bar.

Connor tugs my ponytail, forcing my attention back to him and not my surroundings.
Focus
, his eyes say loud and clear.

His fingers unbutton the last one, his shirt opening to reveal his infuriatingly defined set of abs and those carved biceps. My husband is stripping on a bar, a show meant to stir the media, but also meant for me.

His confidence transforms what could be a silly, sloppy act into a commanding, stimulating experience that has undoubtedly roused my body. I am completely soaked. I’m thrumming for his cock. Not to mention, I’m horniest the few days before my period, and this is one of those days.

And his hand—his protective and possessive hand on my head is doing a number on me.

He tosses his button-down aside, now shirtless.

“TAKE IT OFF!” the chants grow.

His pants…is he…?

I instinctively want to use my hands to shield my mouth that literally keeps falling. My wrists jerk against the restraint, and Connor tugs my pony again, until my eyes meet his intimate gaze that pushes right into me.

I take shallow, short breaths.

The corners of his lips begin to lift once more, especially as he unbuckles his belt, right near my face. Fuck…me. He steps closer so that my cheek is almost pressed up against his cock, an inch of space separating us. As he unbuttons his slacks, his knuckles brush my nose.