Page 43 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
I already know what I’m going to do before my feet begin to move. She’s going to hate it and so is he, but I don’t fucking care. She’s using me, and this little charade may be for her own benefit, but I might as well get something out of it too.
A way to release some of the pent-up chaos that phone call just brought. Fuck waiting for the dessert to be done. I want a taste of it right now.
“Grady?” she says seconds before my lips are on hers. Her hands are covered in cannoli cream, and she holds them out to her sides while I frame her face with my hands and do what I want.
Take.
Her kiss.
Her breath.
His patience.
My anger.
All four things are lost when my mouth meets hers. When my tongue darts between those lips. When my thoughts wander to what else I want to taste on her.
Yep. Blue balls, indeed.
“If I were you, I’d make him wait until tomorrow,” Grady says as he rounds the bed and moves to his dresser.
I stare at him from where I stand just inside his bedroom door, hesitant to go any farther in case that invades his space. “But the sooner we work on some songs, the quicker he leaves.”
Grady stops where he is and narrows his eyes. “You can come in, you know. I’m not going to bite you.”
“I know,” I say, but all I can think about is those damn lips of his and how I just might want them all over me. The way he kissed me after he hung up the phone—as if his life depended on it—makes it impossible to deny that Grady Malone knows how to pretend to be model boyfriend material. “I just . . .”
With his body facing mine, Grady takes his shirt off, and the sight of his naked torso steals every last thought from my head. He looks up at the sudden silence to find me staring at him. “What’s wrong? You do know we’re going to have to sleep together, right?”
I choke on air as I think about everything that happened with Wes, and now . . . and now there is Grady standing before me, looking a hundred times more appealing then Wes ever did. How am I . . . if I couldn’t make Wes . . .
“Relax, McCoy. I’m joking, but not really.” He smiles wide, and I notice every movement he makes to pull the pillows from the bed is deliberate so his back, his scars, remain out of my line of sight. “We have to sleep in here if you want to sell this. You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor so that—”
“That’s ridiculous. This is your room. I’ll sleep on the floor.” I hold up my hand to stop him from arguing. “Or we can sleep together in your bed. It isn’t like we can’t do that.” When his grin turns mischievous, I correct myself. “That is if you wear pajamas.”
His laugh is full and genuine. “You’re cramping my style, you know that?”
I remember what his body felt like between my thighs, and I know this is going to be a horrible idea. “I’ll stay on my side of the bed, I promise.”
“I’m a cuddler. I can’t make you any promises.”
Our eyes hold. There’s something about him—the unapologetic truth about himself he can’t entirely hide—that makes him irresistible.
And dangerous.
It was all fun and games when I labeled him as just a firefighter. Keeping him at arm’s length was easy while sleeping in my room at the other end of the hall. But tonight has been like some slow-burn foreplay I know both of us felt.
Either that or Jett being here has made me desperate for anyone who’s nothing like him.
“Thanks for the warning.” I lean my shoulder against the wall as Grady pulls a Sunnyville Fire Department T-shirt over his head. Now that our blatant attraction has been addressed in the only way we know how to deal with it—ignore it or joke about it—my mind fills with everything my Google search brought to light earlier. Every part of me wants to tell him I know about the fire but knows this isn’t the time or place for this conversation with Jett just feet down the hall. Besides, a part of me wants to know he trusts me enough to tell me on his own. It sounds stupid, but it’s the truth. “What are you going to do if I work on lyrics with him?”
“Since I don’t think you’ll be happy if I sit on your lap just to piss him off, I’m going to go work outside for a bit.” He strides toward me and surprises me when he leans in and kisses my cheek. “Don’t stay out too late with the enemy, dear.”
That brush of his lips tells me Grady Malone may be as devastating to my heart as Jett, only in a completely different way.
“What do you think about those?”
I stare at Jett. He’s in the glow of the lamp, his hair is ruffled from his hand running through it in frustration, and his eyes are tired. But when he looks over at me with the guitar across his lap and that soft smile on his lips, I remember why I fell in love with him. That hint of vulnerability behind the stage persona. The Jett I met in Excel Records’ conference room four years ago. He was defiant and cocky. Pissed that he’d been dropped from his label, and his label before that, and frustrated that he had to ask someone else to let him have the chance to do what he was born to do.
