Page 75 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“Knowing how to use my hose.”
My laugh turns into a moan as his hand slides down my torso and dips beneath the waistband of my shorts. “Mm, I don’t think you can put this fire out, Malone.”
“You bet your ass I’m going to try.”
With that, our lips crash against each other’s as his hands go to both of my hips and shift me so I sit astride his lap. I can feel him hard and ready against his board shorts, and as I deepen the kiss, I slide my hands ever so gently over his flank and onto the ridged skin of his lower back.
I swallow his gasp, refusing to let him pull away. Not allowing him to think about his back or his scars or be self-conscious. If he’s getting lost in me, I want all of him to be able to. His doubts. His insecurities. His everything.
And so I let my lips and my hands do the talking as they continue to slide over his scarred skin until they hook under his arms and pull him against me. Just like any normal couple would.
Without thinking about our pasts.
Without thinking about our future.
And I ride him under the glow of moonlight, on the steps of the back porch, and we get lost in each other once again.
“Everything going good for you?” my agent asks.
“Yeah. Sure,” I reply, distracted as I hold the phone to my ear, balance the box the delivery man just handed me in the other, and close the door with my hip.
“Are you sure?”
“Besides the fact I’m still pissed at you for telling Jett where I was? Other than that, yes, everything is fine.”
“You know I meant no harm by it.”
“Uh-huh.” I set the box down and grab a scissors to cut the tape on its edges.
“Callum was antsy. Jett was freaking because of it. I tried to fix the situation.”
“And picking up the phone was not an option, why?”
I lift the top of the box up and hold back a cry of surprise to find what looks like two dozen pale pink roses. I stare at them for a beat as memories flood back—memories I don’t want—before picking up the card resting atop them and turn it over in my hands.
“Dylan? Are you there?”
“Yes? What? Sorry. I was distracted.”
“Apparently.”
“I’m still mad at you.” I stare at the flowers and feel . . . unsettled.
“You’ll forgive me.”
“Ha.” I shake my head and turn my back to the flowers so I can concentrate for a moment. “Is there a reason you called or is this a social call?”
“How are the songs coming along?”
“Over half are completed, but you already know this because I’m sure you spoke to Jett already, right? So what’s going on?”
“Callum is getting a little nervous that you’re not around.”
“I’m sending him songs, about one a week. He can’t be unhappy with that.” I’m irritated and frustrated. I’m ahead of schedule and still being questioned.
“Yeah, but—”
“Christ. What did he do this time?” The hesitation has dread dropping into the pit of my stomach.
