Unbroken (10 page)

Hell, he'd been in the mood every day for four years. Every minute. Every hour. Except maybe during the weddings of his siblings and the birth of his niece.

No, even then, if a woman would have tried to tempt him into a nearby supply closet, he would have probably gone.

Four years was a long time.

A long time not to be touched by someone else. Someone who wanted you. A long time of feeling like a eunuch. Because your leg didn't work, your dick must be broken too.

Because his limp seemed to shout,
I'm dragging baggage—steer clear
.

Because he couldn't seem to bring himself to make a move on anyone for fear of rejection, and it made him feel like the horse may as well have stomped his balls into butter, because he sure as hell wasn't using them.

But Amber was making this way too easy. Amber wanted him. Amber's hands were on his fly now, unzipping his jeans slowly, the sound mingling with his ragged breathing.

Then her fingers were on his skin, low on his stomach, sliding down beneath the waistband of his underwear and wrapping around his cock.

“Hell, baby.” He let his head fall back, every good intention he had, maybe every good intention he'd ever had in his entire life, leaving him completely.

He wasn't stopping her now.

He needed it.

She wanted it.

And he was too far gone.

Because nothing had ever felt as good as her fingertips stroking the head of his erection. Nothing. That first touch from another person's hand after four years of using only his own.

She stroked him gently and he gritted his teeth, trying to think of unsexy things so that he wouldn't come before she even got her lips on him.

He was close. He was that damn close.

She tugged him up out of his jeans, her lips forming an O, her eyes getting rounder. She looked up at him. “I had no idea,” she said.

“What?” he asked, his voice strangled.

“That you were so big.”

Oh, dammit, that was obvious too, and it was the hottest thing he'd ever heard. “I don't know if I would have left you alone back in high school,” she said, squeezing him tight.

His hips thrust up from the couch, the motion completely involuntary. Seeing her, Amber, her hand on him, her face so close to him. Why was it so hot? Why was this, the worst idea in the world, the sexiest thing he'd ever experienced?

He'd had just enough to drink that bad seemed good, but not enough to erase the realization that this was very, very bad. The combination was a heady one. To say the least.

“Amber . . .”

She smiled. “Yes, Cade?”

Oh . . . his name on her lips. There wasn't anything sweeter. Yeah, they were impaired, he could admit that, but she knew it was him. And she wanted him.

That was all he needed.

“Nothing.” He smoothed her hair back. She was so damn soft. And yeah, he was repeating himself, but he didn't care.

She leaned forward, her eyes still on his. His breath caught in his chest; everything seemed to freeze around them. The world outside. Hell, he couldn't even be sure the world was still outside at all. Maybe it had all fallen away. Maybe they were the only two people left, and this was the only thing happening.

Right in the moment it felt possible.

She parted her lips and flicked the head of his cock with her tongue. He curled his fingers into a fist, tightening his hold on her hair.

“Fuck,” he breathed. Like a curse. Like a prayer. Like both, because this was heaven and hell, right here on Amber's couch.

“Maybe after?” she said, pausing for a moment and smiling broader. Like a cat who knew she was about to catch the canary.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

That was not his brain doing the yessing.

His brain was currently unavailable for comment.

She leaned in again, and this time, she took him deep in her mouth, humming slightly as she did, the vibrations combined with the wet suction sending a shot of heat straight to his groin that spread through the rest of him like wildfire.

He swept her hair to the side so he could see her face, the elegant line of her neck as she angled her head and took him in deeper.

It was too much. And not enough. And when she squeezed him down at the base of his shaft, the pressure combined with the slick friction of her lips and tongue, he realized there was no holding back.

It was going to be the shortest blow job on record since he'd gotten his first at the age of seventeen.

“Amber . . .” He started to pull away from her but she held him firm, continuing to stroke him with her hand while she pleasured him with her mouth.

And she pushed him straight over the edge.

He tightened his hold on her hair, rode out the storm as release raged through his body, leaving him spent, and sweating and shaking.

She pulled away from him and licked her lips. That would have been enough to get him hard again, if he hadn't just had the kind of orgasm that made him wonder if his body would ever function properly again.

She'd slain him.

“I feel better,” she said, tracing a line from his stomach down to the patch of hair just above his cock. “Don't you?”

There were no words for how much better he felt. Regret would hit hard like a bite in the ass tomorrow, along with his hangover. That was a given.

But right now there was nothing. Nothing but a post-orgasmic buzz and the fuzzy edges of sleep creeping into his vision.

He needed something. A drink of water. A chance to get his pants in order. A second to breathe. “I'll be right back.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Don't leave me, Cade.”

“I'm not, baby,” he said, tracing the line of her cheekbone with the edge of his thumb. Then he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. Because right now it felt like it was okay. And tomorrow it no doubt would go back to being un-okay.

He winced against that thought. Against any thought of tomorrow at all.

“Just need the bathroom.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I'll be back.”

He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Buckled his pants back up. And when he came back out, she was stretched across the couch, asleep like a lazy cat.

He sat on the edge of the couch and looked down at her, and he didn't think. Not at all. Because that way lay madness. And he just wanted to sleep. He wanted no madness. He wanted orgasm brain and sleep.

He maneuvered them both so that he was behind her, holding her against him. Tomorrow there would very possibly be hell to pay.

But tonight he would just hold her.

Nine

Amber opened her eyes and looked across the living room,
into the cold, dark fireplace. There was ash in the bottom of it. There hadn't been any ash in it yesterday, because she'd cleaned it since the last time there was a fire in it.

Oh yeah, and her head hurt like a sonofabitch.

Those were the first two things she noticed.

Then there was the heavy, warm arm slung over her waist, a large hand resting flat against her stomach. Her awareness spread out from there. The heat behind her. The solid, big body that she was resting against. And what was very surely an erect penis against her backside.

Well, this was new and interesting.

She didn't panic, because she was still fuzzy. And because the man who was holding her felt so good. How long had it been since she'd been held like this? Had she ever been held like this?

Dimly, she remembered Cade wrapping his arms around her and holding her against him in the bathroom while they waited for the paramedics.

Oh no.
That
had happened. That was yesterday and . . . and . . .

She shifted and looked behind her, her eyes level with Cade's chin. He was asleep, also fully clothed, thankfully. And he was holding on to her still.

She wiggled against him and winced when she came into contact with the penis again. It was a morning thing, not a
her
thing, and she knew that, but . . . but it made her feel strange and a little bit warm.

It just wasn't the kind of thing you should be aware of when it was attached to your best friend.

Something tugged at the back of her mind, but it hurt too badly to think too deeply, and she had a feeling she was repressing the memory for a reason.

She should move. Because she felt like she was violating Cade in some way by taking part in this early morning male ritual that he couldn't really control. And it felt a touch too intimate to be allowed.

But she didn't want to move, because her head hurt and being in Cade's arms felt good.

Because life hurt. Her grandpa was in the hospital, and she had no idea if he would recover. Because if she moved out of Cade's hold she would feel as alone as she was, and she just didn't want that to happen.

So she stayed there and tried to focus on the way his chest felt, rising and falling against her back. Just breathing with another person helped with the alone feelings. Made it seem like she was connected to earth instead of floating around in space all by herself.

Her head gave a nice, crashing throb, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Okay, she needed to get up and find the painkillers.

She took a deep breath and sat up, bracing herself for the wave of pain it would cause and gritting her teeth hard when it hit like a tsunami.

Cade cleared his throat and stirred behind her, his arm coming around her waist again, his hand on her stomach.

It sent a shot of desire straight down between her thighs. Strong enough that it rivaled her headache. That was strong freaking desire.

She looked back over at him and watched him scrub his other hand over his face. He wasn't conscious yet. He was probably having a buckle bunny flashback. Imagining she was one of his stacked blonde conquests from his rodeo circuit days.

She was stacked, she would grant herself that. But blonde she was not. And she'd never been one to haunt rodeos looking for the biggest . . . belt buckle.

She put her hand over his and tried to ignore the little pop of attraction that shot from her fingertips up to her elbow, spinning into electricity and spidering out through her veins to points beyond. Very interesting points beyond.

“Hey, Cade,” she said, tweaking one of his fingers.

He only tightened his hold on her and pulled her butt hard against his stomach. Which was quite firm. Congrats to him.

“Cade!”

He started and blinked, then looked up at her and slowly removed his hand from beneath hers. “Good morning,” he said.

“Yeah. Good morning,” she said. “Well, 'cept for the hangover. And the fact that my grandpa is still in the hospital. And I need to call and see how he's doing, but . . . ow, hungover. Soooo hungover.”

“Maybe we should come up with a better way to handle grief.”

She arched against the back of the couch, Cade a solid lump beneath her lower back. “Are you suggesting we become emotionally well-adjusted?”

“No. I wouldn't know where to begin. I'm just wondering if we're too old to drink like that anymore.”

“You seem much more chipper than I feel.”

“I didn't drink as much as you did. Mainly because you drank everything.”

“Meh.” She paused to fully appreciate the pounding in her skull. “I did, didn't I?”

“You were a wreck, sweetheart. I don't blame you.”

Again with the sincere-sounding “sweetheart.” It made her feel gooey. She didn't like to feel gooey. On the way to gooeyness lay madness, or something.

She wasn't really sure if that made sense at all, but her head hurt far too badly for her to sort out basic sentences, let alone any kind of metaphor.

She let out a long breath and levered herself up off the couch, the floor tilting under her feet. “Oh, bleah.” She blinked hard. “You're right. We are too old. I am, anyway. I need to call the hospital.”

“Go take an ibuprofen. I'll fry you some bacon. Then you can call the hospital. It's still early, and they haven't called you, so you don't need to worry too much.”

“Yeah,” she said, walking on stiff legs toward the downstairs bathroom, where she knew she would find salvation in pill form.

She opened up the medicine cabinet and stared at the bottle for a full ten seconds before taking it off the shelf and pouring four little capsules into her hand. Then she filled up the cup that was sitting on the sink and took each pill one at a time while looking at herself in the mirror.

She was a wreck. Red-eyed and ratty-haired. It was probably a good thing she'd been over one-night stands by the time she'd graduated high school because she would have been doing one-nighters by default if she'd gone heavy drinking, hooked up and the guy had seen her the next morning.

He'd have been left wondering if he'd gone home with a sea monster.

My celibacy could babysit your celibacy.

She had a weird flash of memory. Of saying those words and then giggling.

Last night.

Oooohh. Had she really told Cade how long it had been since she'd had sex? Had she actually tallied it up—something she'd been avoiding doing even in her own head—and then spoken the years out loud?

She plunked her head against the mirror.

Yes. Yes, she had done that.

What was wrong with her? Oh, yeah, she'd been drunk off her ass. That's what was wrong with her.

She closed her eyes, and another flash of memory hit.

Cade's lips. Pressed against hers.

And she'd said . . . oh shit. And she'd put her hand on his . . . no. No no no.

She straightened, her cheeks flaming, her entire body prickling with heat. Oh, what had she done? Had she really, honest-to-goodness made a pass at him? Had she offered him a drunken blow job?

Wait. No.

Oh no. Oh no
no
no
. And dagnabbit. And dammit. She hadn't just offered him a drunken blow job—she had given him a drunken blow job.

Pictures flashed before her mind's eye, a slide show of hedonistic indulgence the likes of which she hadn't seen since her senior year of high school.

What had she been thinking? She hadn't been, clearly. It was the drunk-off-her-ass factor. And she'd made a very, very stupid decision.

Unless you were thinking very straight and you were just drunk enough to finally go after what you want . . .

Oh, hell no. Now that path surely was the way to madness, and she didn't have to be clearheaded to know that.

She'd never had a sexual relationship that wasn't simply that: a sexual relationship. And she'd never, ever merged personal connection with it. For a reason. Her emotional issues being the driving force behind that reason.

It was why she was celibate—or . . . semi-celibate, at this point. It was because she didn't know how to do relationships. Because she needed to figure herself out. Because she just didn't have the energy.

Cade was just too important to risk on an orgasm. That was the simple fact, and she'd always known that. That was why Cade had always been friend-zoned. Even though he was hot. Even though sometimes she had small, passing fantasies about him. Very small. Very passing. Fleeting, really.

And she'd never, ever gone there with him because it was stupid to go there with a guy you wanted to remain friends with. And stuff.

But now she'd gone there, hadn't she? In a very big way.

Very big indeed.

She flashed back again, to the way he'd felt in her hand. The heavy weight of him. The way he'd tasted . . . all the way until the end.

Oh Lord . . .

At least she'd been drunk. Maybe he'd been drunk enough that he didn't remember. She could always hope.

She put her hand on her chest and leaned against the bathroom door, feeling her heart fluttering against her rib cage like a panicked mouse in a flour sack. How was she ever going to look at him again now that she'd seen his . . . and touched . . . and tasted and . . . gah!

She bit her lip and pounded her head lightly against the wall a couple of times just for good measure. Then she took a deep breath and opened the door, peering out into the hall. He wasn't there.

She slinked out of the bathroom and headed toward the kitchen, feeling awkward and weird, and shamefaced, which sucked, because she'd never felt awkward, weird or shamefaced around Cade.

When they'd been in high school they'd talked about all kinds of inappropriate things. He'd told her when he'd cashed in his V card with the older bartender at The Saloon. She'd told him that Greg Jones had the smallest penis she'd ever seen.

None of that had ever made them act awkward. None of that had ever made her feel ashamed.

Of course, talking to your best friend about another guy's penis was different than actually handling your best friend's penis. So there was that.

She'd thought the word “penis” more times this morning than in the past several years combined. Which was an odd thought, but a true one.

Maybe she was still a little drunk.

“Is my bacon ready?” she asked, heading into the kitchen.

“Not quite.”

Ah, damn. He wasn't looking at her. That meant he remembered. Or maybe he just remembered the kiss. Or the offer. And his initial refusal. Or maybe he didn't remember anything.

Honestly, the odds were slim, but she had no intention of bringing up anything he might not remember. It could die a death in the annals of Cade's drunken non-memory as far as she was concerned.

He kept his back to her, his focus on the stove and very determinedly not on her.

Well, hell. Damage control was needed. How did one damage-control something of this magnitude? She had no idea. No flipping idea.

She cleared her throat and clapped her hands together. Like signaling her presence to a wild animal. “Sooo . . . bacon smells good.”

“Bacon always smells good,” he said. He still wasn't looking at her.

“Good enough to . . . eat.”

His shoulders went a little rigid when she said that, and she felt the last hold on her very comfortable he-does-not-remember-that-blow-job-you-gave-him denial slipping.

“When it's done,” he said.

“Right.” She sat down at the little breakfast table with her hands folded in front of her. Her ears were burning. And she needed a coffee really, really badly. But Cade was standing in front of the coffeemaker, and that meant she would have to reach around him to get it. Or reveal her awkwardness by asking him to move.

But the alternative—sitting at the table, playing with her fingers and trying not to look at Cade's butt—meant that she got no caffeine in her system, and that was not a particularly acceptable alternative.

Particularly with the effects of her hangover wreaking all kinds of evil on her head.

She stood up again and approached Cade with caution, trying to work out what she would have done in an alternate reality where she had not stuck her hand in his pants only six hours earlier.

She would have just reached past him and gotten her coffee. That's what she would have done. She would have gotten her mug, picked up the carafe and fed her wicked addiction.

The one to coffee, not the one to his body.

She did not have a wicked addiction to his body.

One instance of oral sex did not an addiction make.

And as she was moving to the coffeemaker, she mentally decided she liked the term “blow job” better because it did not contain the word “sex” and therefore didn't seem quite as frightening in context with Cade.