Crazy Cool (18 page)

Her hesitation wasn’t lost on him, or on Travis, who after a few more seconds of her silence, dropped his hand from her waist.

“Good to see you,” he said with another nod, before turning back into the crowd.

Kid was so grateful the guy had left he couldn’t move at first, only stand there holding on to her hand and wishing she would look at him.

She didn’t.

But neither did she remove her hand from his.

Stalemate. He took a deep breath and led her toward the dance floor. She was wearing the most outrageous shoes, high-heeled platform boots with short cuffs around her ankles, purple patent leather with silver swirls.

And the dress.

The dress made him hot all over. Like the black skirt she’d been wearing the day he’d met her, the dress just barely covered her butt, and he meant just barely. It was sleeveless, backless, and almost sideless.

Squares of pink and purple satin, and silky string, that’s all there was to the whole damn thing. He didn’t have a doubt in the world that she’d made it herself; the squares of cloth were hand-painted. He just wished she’d made more of it—until he turned her into his arms and slid his hand across her bare back. Her skin was smooth, and soft, and warm, and touching her triggered a thousand sensory memories. The boots added inches to her height, making her head fit perfectly against his chest.

He pulled her close, felt her soften against him, felt her hand slide up to his shoulder, and for the first time in days, the knot of tension that had been holding his heart in a vise began to ease. It was dangerous, letting go of the tension, but for her he was willing to do it, on the chance he could draw some of her inside himself, some of her heat, some of the life pulsing through her.

Gathering her closer, he bent his head to hers and eased her backward in a slow dance of swaying hips and barely moving feet. She felt like heaven in his arms. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have moved at all, just held her, just run his hands over her and buried his face into the curve of her neck, remembering.

But tonight was about winning, and he wanted to win more than just the memory of making love with her. He wanted to lose himself inside her. He wanted to forget who he was for a while, and she was the one, the only one, who could give him that kind of oblivion.

A brief smile curved a corner of his mouth. She smelled like Nikki, a little like paint, as if her dress might not have had time to completely dry. She also smelled warm and sweet and so very female. Her scent wrapped itself around him, seeped into his pores, filled him, and another layer of tension melted away.

This was going to work. Finally, he could see a path out of the abyss. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

A sigh left him, and he kissed the top of her head, then let his mouth slide lower—to her temple, her cheek, to the tender skin of her neck. God, it was heaven to hold her, to feel the softness of her skin with his lips, to take a taste and feel her tremble. He opened his mouth on her ear, let his breath warm her, let his teeth gently graze her lobe—let his body tell her how much he wanted her. How much he’d needed her.

Even in the tropical heat of the Colombian jungle, he’d been frozen inside. Those last few days after Hawkins left had been hell—pure hell, and then it had turned into a nightmare. The sight of J.T. inside the body bag was burned into his memory. It followed him into sleep. It was waiting for him when he woke up—but Nikki could save him. He had to believe it, had to believe in her. She was all he had left.

He slid his hand lower on her back, underneath her dress and down to the base of her spine, caressing silken skin, rediscovering silken curves. A tremor went through her, and even knowing he was out of line, he turned her away from the crowd and slowly brought his hand all the way back up, until his open palm rested on her rib cage and his thumb softly caressed the underside of her breast.

She went very still in his arms, her breath catching against his chest, and he gave up all pretense of dancing.

“I missed you.” He felt safe telling her that much. “I missed you so much it hurt.” What he didn’t feel safe telling her was that he still hurt, everywhere, all at once, all the time, and if she couldn’t save him, he was afraid he’d be lost forever.

Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “I missed you, too.” Her voice was so soft that if he hadn’t been holding her in his arms, he wouldn’t have heard her.

But he did hear her, and it was all the reason he needed to give in to more of what he wanted.

“Is there someplace we can go?” He didn’t want to sound desperate, but he was afraid he did.

“After the show?” she asked, looking up.

Taking a breath first, he plunged ahead. “No. Now. I—uh—really want to kiss you.” That didn’t sound so bad. Kissing wasn’t so bad. “
Really
want to kiss you,” he admitted, and tried a smile. He meant it to be reassuring, but from the look on her face, he might have just scared her off.

He didn’t blame her. If she was smart, she would run as far away from him as she could get. He was a mess. He knew it, and he wasn’t at all sure how much longer he could hide it—and the longer they stood there, the harder his heart started to pound. What if he’d blown it? Christ, he wasn’t even sure he could get back to Steele Street on his own. He needed help. He needed something, and he’d wanted it to be her.

Fuck. He hadn’t planned this out very well. His dad was so broken up, he hadn’t been able to stay at the house, but he could have gone to Superman’s. Dylan had left straightaway for Washington, D.C., and hell, Quinn had just gone back to the one place he couldn’t handle tonight, but Hawkins was around—somewhere. Hell, even Skeeter wasn’t bad in a pinch. A little nutsy, but dependable, and definitely one of the guys. Skeeter knew the score, better than he did sometimes.

But he’d wanted Nikki. God, how he wanted her.

She was looking him over pretty good, her gray-eyed gaze focused on his, taking his measure, which was damned demoralizing. No way did he look worth taking a chance on tonight.

“Come on,” she said, surprising the hell out of him.

Taking his hand in hers, she led him across the gallery to a door in the back, and when they went through it, she turned around and locked it behind them.

“We should be safe in here for a couple of minutes,” she said. He heard a switch get flipped, but nothing happened. “Oh, no lights, sorry. I think this is an office, or maybe a closet. It feels kind of small, doesn’t it?” And she sounded kind of nervous.

A lot nervous.

His night vision was excellent, and with the help of a window that looked out on the alley, there was enough ambient light from the city that he could see just fine.

A small office, maybe, he silently agreed, or a storeroom. There was a lot of art piled against the one wall, an office chair shoved into the corner, a closet rod full of clothes next to the door, with a desk underneath the clothes.

She hadn’t let go of his hand, and when she turned back around, she was practically in his arms—and looking very unsure about being there.

“Kid, I—”

He lifted his hand to her face, touched his fingers to her lips. He didn’t want talk, not about anything. Talking wasn’t going to get him anywhere. What he needed was her mouth, her body. What he needed was her all over him, until he couldn’t think.

That’s what he wanted—not to think. He smoothed his thumb across the top of her cheek, then ran his finger down the length of her nose. Another grin lifted the corner of his mouth.

He’d “painted” her that night, with an empty brush, smoothed the soft, superfine bristles across her skin and marveled at his self-control—which he had damn little of tonight.

But she knew what he wanted. He’d been mostly honest.

He rubbed his thumb across her mouth again and felt his breath tighten in his chest. He’d told her he wanted a kiss. She knew.

He lowered his mouth to hers, telling himself to take it easy, not to push too hard, too fast, not to devour her. He was twice her size, and he wanted to make love to her, not hurt her.

Her tongue slid across his, the first intimate touch, and he brought his other hand up to cup her face, knowing he’d never been so miserable and so happy at the same time in his entire life. It tore him up, but he knew this was what he’d wanted, what he’d longed for, to have her mouth be so hot and sweet under his.

He opened his mouth wider, asking for more, and she gave it to him, moving deeper into his arms. A welcome surge of pleasure washed through him, the cleanest thing he’d felt in days, and he let himself fall, just fall off the edge of the earth. Her tongue was delicate and soft, and having it in his mouth again felt like a miracle.

God, she felt so good. He pressed himself against her, rubbed against her.

“Nikki,” he murmured, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. Everything about her was so soft and smelled so good. She was everything he’d needed, her hands sliding up over his shirt, her breath so gentle on his skin.

Go slow,
he told himself, even as he slid her dress up over her hips, a very short trip, especially when she stopped him with her hand on his.

Fine. He’d just wanted to touch her. He’d just wanted to breathe without it hurting in his chest, but kissing her was working. He let another barrier fall away, opened himself up a little more, just to take her in, just to get closer to her heat.

Wrapping his hands around her waist, he lifted her onto the desk and moved between her legs, getting there, closer to where he needed to be. Everything about her turned him on, which was such a relief. He hadn’t been sure he would still function. Everything had gotten so screwed up.

Everything.

So goddamn screwed up.

He pulled her against him, fighting off a little surge of panic.

She was warm and giving, and that’s what he needed to think about. Nikki. Not J.T.

Another surge of panic sizzled into his veins, and he held her tighter, kissed her harder—too hard. He could tell by the little sound of distress she made deep in her throat, where he was trying way too hard to put his tongue. She pushed against him, and for a second, just a second, he wondered if he was going to let her go. He was locked onto her like a heat-seeking missile, and so help him God, all he wanted was more. He did not want to back off, and it crossed his mind that if he just kept at it, just kept pushing, she would loosen up, just give in and let him do what he needed to do.

Oh, shit.
He broke off the kiss and froze where he stood, pretty much horrified by his last train of thought. His head was resting against hers, his heart pounding.
Shit.
He was holding her way too tightly, and he immediately loosened his hold—but he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t.
Geezus,
he was so freaking whacked. He had a pocket full of condoms, a hard-on, and a full-blown panic attack jacking his heart rate up into the danger zone. He was sliding off the deep end into nowhere, and if he let go of her, something terrible was going to happen. He didn’t know what. He just knew it would be terrible—which was so fucking irrational, he was afraid it was already too late for him.

Nikki could feel his heart pounding, hear him hyperventilating, and it scared the hell out of her. Something was wrong with him. His face had been flushed in the gallery, and his smile had been weak, barely a curve—but God, he was so beautiful, and his mouth, his mouth had been everything she’d missed, everything she’d wanted since he’d been gone, up until his kiss had gotten so fierce.

He was like tempered steel beneath her hands, his whole body rock hard. There was no softness left in him, no protective layer. He’d been honed down to sinew and bone, and all of it was frighteningly focused on her.

“Kid?” She whispered his name, so scared he was going to break right there in her hands. He’d gone so rigid.

He’d been trying to take her clothes off, hardly five minutes after showing back up after walking out of her life, and she didn’t know what in the world to think about that. She wanted to kiss him. She felt like she wanted to kiss him forever, but she didn’t know what she wanted after that—and she was sure she was supposed to have more pride than to let him strip her naked in a closet.

Or maybe not.

There was an edge to him, and she could imagine all the reasons why.

“Kid?” she whispered again. He’d gone so still, she couldn’t stand it.

Turning her face, she kissed him again, a soft touch of her lips on his cheek. When he didn’t respond, but just stood there, his head bowed, his eyes closed, a shiver of panic skittered across her brain, and suddenly, she knew she didn’t dare lose him, not like this. She knew what she’d felt when he’d made love to her: cherished. He’d been so sweet, so careful.

That wasn’t the way it was going to be tonight. She’d been a virgin the first time they’d made love, but she hadn’t been naive. She’d unraveled too many men in her studio to be naive about them. He’d been taking her clothes off for a reason. The only mistake she’d made had been in underestimating just how serious he’d been about doing it.

Kissing him again, she pulled her dress up and pressed his hand to her breast, let him feel her heartbeat, which even though it was racing was a darn sight mellower than his. Then, without another thought, she pulled the dress completely off over her head and let it puddle into a silky pile next to her hip.

That got his attention. His hand closed on her, so gently, and his mouth slid down to kiss the curve of her ear. A tremor went through him.

“I won’t hurt you, Nikki,” he said, kissing her again. “I promise, I won’t hurt you.”

He wouldn’t deliberately hurt her. She knew that, but neither did she delude herself into thinking he was going to be the tender lover she’d had before—before his brother had died doing God knew what in Colombia and Kid hadn’t been able to save him.

“I won’t hurt you, either,” she whispered against his throat between kisses—and she meant it from the very bottom of her heart. She would hold him tonight, love him the best way she knew how, and hope she could save him from himself.