Just a Number

Just a Number

Copyright © 2015 A.D. Ryan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical terms, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Ryan, A.D.

Just a Number / A.D. Ryan

ISBN 978-1515306115

Text and Cover design by Angela Schmuhl

Cover Image: Shutterstock, © kiuikson

“Good writing is essentially rewriting.”

―Roald Dahl

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

There are so many people to thank for this story, and it only seems right that I start with the readers who were fans when it was published online. So many  of you tuned in every week and were so excited about these two characters and their taboo love affair. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all for your continued and unwavering support while I finished this story online, and then in print.

My editing team, as always, has gone above and beyond. Tiff and Lynda, your attention to detail as well as all the little things you contribute to this story are invaluable. I am so very fortunate to know you, and I am beyond grateful for all you do.

To my beta readers and street team, the ones who see it sometimes before my editors, your feedback is precious, as you are within the target audience, and it helps me figure out if what I want to write is even going to be enjoyed by anyone. Thankfully, you all seem pretty keen to want more, and that’s usually a good sign I’m on the right track.

Also, my wonderful friend and my voice of reason, Marny, you were with me when this story began as a contest entry, and you were always there to listen as I expanded it and turned it into what it is now. You’re always there for me when I need someone to vent to or laugh with, and I count myself lucky to have someone so amazing in my life.

Finally, thanks to my incredible family for being so patient while I pursue this dream of writing full-time. Each and every one of you inspire me in some way, and there’s a little bit of my real life thrown in to each one of my novels.

Again, thank you all for everything. Without you, none of this would be possible. I love you all.

Cheers,

Angela

1. Fever Dreams

I
t’s dark as I stumble up the four stairs leading to the house—though, being two in the morning, I suppose “dark” is to be expected.  I shake my head and laugh quietly at myself. This is precisely why I should have stopped after my sixth beer and my...my...
Shit!
Just how many shots of tequila did I have? Should I go to the hospital to see if I have alcohol poisoning?

“Don’t be stupid, Amy,” I admonish myself aloud, fumbling in my purse for the keys to my dad’s house. After finding them, I try several times to slide the key into the lock. The double vision brought on by the mass amounts of alcohol clearly makes this simple task even harder. Finally, I bend my body into a ninety-degree angle to look at the lock dead on, and I succeed, turning the key slowly so I don’t wake Daddy.

He’s actually not expecting me until tomorrow—or is it today, now? What time is it, again?—but my friend, Liz Murphy, wanted to head home for Thanksgiving early, and since she was my ride, I decided to do the same. I tried calling to give Dad a heads up, but he’s one of those prehistoric guys who a) doesn’t have a cell phone—which is totally crazy—and b) doesn’t have an answering machine. You can imagine how it was growing up in a house with a phone that couldn’t go farther than the kitchen; he was privy to a lot of my phone conversations up until I got a job and could afford my own cell phone.

So, when we got to the house earlier, Dad was nowhere to be found. I figured he was at work still, so I left my bags upstairs next to my desk, and then accepted Liz’s offer to go to the bonfire that a few of our old high school friends were throwing just on the outskirts of town. One of the guys lived on an acreage, and his parents had given him permission to have a bunch of people over. Who could turn that down?

When we arrived, the party was in full swing, and we were each handed a beer before getting sucked into doing a few shots with Sarah and April... That’s when things begin to get a little hazy.

After closing the door as quietly as possible, I turn around and head up the stairs. Having grown up here, I know that the third step from the top has a squeak near the center, and to avoid being caught sneaking by Dad’s room, you have to basically hug the wall—of course, you could just skip that step, but in my current state of inebriation, I’d probably fall down the stairs, and then all of my stealth will have been in vain.

I make it to the top of the stairs, smiling and mentally high-fiving my teenage-self for still being able to sneak past my father’s bedroom door at two in the morning, undetected. It isn’t that I think I’ll get in trouble for getting in at this hour—or for being drunk, for that matter, as I am newly twenty-one—I just don’t want to wake him up thinking his house is being burglered...um...burgled?
That’s a word, right?

I press my face into my hand, ashamed that
this
is what has suddenly caught hold of any working brain cells that aren't currently bobbing in a pool of beer and tequila. I open the door to my room, closing it softly as well since it’s right across the hall from Dad’s, and I begin to take my clothes off. I’m far too unbalanced and drained to go through my bag to find my pajamas, so I crawl beneath my blankets in just my bra and panties and relax into my single bed, instantly met with the fading, yet familiar and comforting, smell of the fabric softener my dad uses...but there’s something else too—something equally familiar that awakens something in the recesses of my brain. I can’t quite put my finger on it as my eyes drift shut and sleep sets in; all I know is that I like this particular smell. A lot.

With the amount of alcohol flowing through my veins, my dreams start off strange and confusing, but eventually they change into welcome—and somewhat erotic—images. Okay, so “somewhat” might be an understatement. What can I say? I’ve been sexually repressed for the last few months. The last guy I dated was really sweet, but we just grew apart over the six months we were together. It’s unfortunate, because the sex was pretty great.

God, I miss sex.

The way a man’s hands would move over my body, up to my breasts as he lowered his face to take a pert nipple into his mouth… Or how about the way his tongue would flick the sensitive peak before he grazed his teeth over it? It was enough to drive me wild with desire.

My dream slowly morphs from the crazy, psychedelic happenings of leprechauns and unicorns racing down a rainbow path and into one where I’m lying in a king-sized bed with a faceless man who smells absolutely amazing—all sex and deliciousness—and my body begins to warm.

Even though I can’t hear them, ocean waves crash onto the shore of a tropical beach while my mystery man and I lie in a four-poster bed, the sheer white fabrics hanging from the bedposts blowing in the breeze. It’s all very unrealistic, but I refuse to wake myself up.

There aren’t any other people around as he grips my hip and pulls me to him. His hand is like warm honey as it trails down my thigh, his fingers hooking behind my knee and pulling it up over his hip. I can feel the hard bulge of his erection press between my thighs, and I whimper, cupping his jaw in my hands and drawing his face to mine for a searing kiss.

His tongue breaches my lips and meets mine halfway; he’s an amazing kisser—which only makes sense since my brain made him up, and why would it betray me with someone who absolutely sucked? It would be cruel and quite possibly terms for electro-shock therapy to see if I could fix the glitch.

Mystery guy—who’s actually beginning to show a few features, like the blond-and-coppery color of his hair, the shape of his nose, the angular cut of his jaw, and the laugh lines around his eyes—lets his hand move up from my thigh until he’s palming my breast over the bra I still wear, and my nipples strain against the fabric. I moan into his mouth when he hooks his fingers into the top of the cup and pushes it under my breast before rolling the taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I thrust my hips toward him, feeling his dick tease my sensitive and wanting flesh. Goosebumps arise all over my body when he abandons my chest and moves his hand quickly down my body and between my thighs. His fingers easily glide back and forth through the wetness that has accumulated there, and I shift my hips in time with his movements. The minute he sinks his fingers into me, I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and weave my fingers into his soft hair. The sensation of him pumping his fingers in and out of me brings me closer and closer to the best orgasm I think I’ve ever had.

This. Dream. Fucking. ROCKS!

“Yes,”
dream-me moans, breaking our kiss and throwing my head back to catch a breath.
“Oh, god, yes...”

His hand begins to move a bit faster, thrusting a little harder and pressing his thumb against my clit to push me over the edge. Then he speaks for the first time. “That’s it, baby,” he says hoarsely, his hot breath tickling the skin below my ear as he peppers it with open-mouthed kisses. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

Mixed emotions run through me immediately; while I don’t want this dream to end until I’ve come, I also realize that something is amiss. Something feels—

Holy shit! I know that voice!

While he has been the object of many fantasies over the last five years, something in my brain tells me to push him away, and when I do, I fall off the edge of the bed. Instead of meeting the warm sand on the beach, however, I meet the cool wood of my bedroom floor. My eyes snap open when I bang my elbow on the edge of my bedside table, and I look up toward my bed to find that it’s not empty.

In it, sits Owen Cavanaugh…my dad’s best friend.

2. Misunderstandings