Page 51 of Fire in You

But it was sweet of him, and I guessed maybe it was his way of making up for what had happened in our past or him trying to make up for lost time, because he used to do things like this years ago. Not as often, but he’d come to my parents’ house when I got home from school, carrying a slice of pie or cake from the bakery down the street from the Lima Academy. Instead of delivering coffee to the office, he’d bring smoothies and milkshakes to my bedroom.

Things were kind of like before, but not.

Brock flirted like he used to, which meant he had this amazing ability to turn almost every comment into something that dripped sex. And it might’ve totally been my interpretation, because seriously, I currently existed in a several years long dry spell, so there were moments when I could turn almost everything into a sexual thing. Like seriously. I could be watchingWalking Deadand suddenly be fixating on Daryl’s biceps or Rick’s baby blue eyes a little too long.

But the difference was I resisted letting myself get wrapped up in the way I thought I’d catch him looking at me. I didn’t fixate on how it seemed like his hand brushed mine whenever we walked to the conference room together. I refused to pay attention to how his fingers grazed mine and lingered when he’d hand me my coffee or whatever treat he’d brought me. Those moments were often.

What I hated about those moments was the fact that the simplest touch from him could elicit a heady and nearly overwhelming reaction from me. My body instantly took notice and flushed. An achy heaviness would fill my breasts and, and I would be left wanting . . . wanting so much, because something inside me was opening, an awakening, rising and searching.

Needless to say, the old trusty “magic wand” was getting a workout.

Several times over the course of the last couple of weeks, I’d find that whatever sleep I could get was fitful, either full of nightmares or I was too restless to sleep at all. I would think of the way a certain set of arms had felt around me, how strong they were and how hard the chest was under my cheek, and those thoughts would give way to fantasies.

Fantasies I tried to keep faceless. Fantasies where I imagined my fingers or the toy were replaced by a real hand or mouth. Fantasies where I pictured myself against a wall, flat on my back, on my belly in the bed, or bent over slightly, grasping the counter . . . or a polished, cherry-wood desk.

I’d give in, slipping my hand or the wand below the covers. I’d try to keep my mind empty as the acute throbbing would begin and this invisible cord inside me would spin tight, but it never failed. Just before release pounded through me, just as the cord unraveled, pulling all the muscles in my legs taut, I would see dark brown eyes and full, knowing lips.

I’d come seeing Brock’s face.

And each time afterward, with my heart rate slowing, I wanted to smack myself upside the head. Picturing him while doingthatto myself seemed wrong.

Yet it felt incredibly good.

Even though I didn’t want it to, it always felt beyond amazing.

* * *

The Wednesday before Avery and crew were coming to the Academy, I learned from a quick call with her that the guys wanted to try out a new bar in Shepherdstown that also served dinner, and I was obnoxiously nervous about this.

I tried to hide it, because it was so stupid.

As lame as it was to admit, I hadn’t been to a bar since that night all those years ago, and knowing it would be the first time I’d stepped into one had me dwelling on how my last trip to a bar had turned out. Sitting in my office, I was thrown back to that night.

Katie held my gaze for a moment and then uncrossed her slender, bare arms from her bedazzled boobs. She reached for the drink she’d brought with her over to where I was sitting. “How are you even in this bar? You’re only, like, eighteen.”

“Twenty,” I corrected her with a sigh. I looked sixteen on a good day, but tonight . . . tonight I thought I’d looked my age. “I’m actually twenty.”

“Still not of legal drinking age.” The little sparkles and beads jiggled as she lifted the double shot and tossed it back in one impressive swallow. “If Jax or Calla catch you in here, they’re going to flip.”

Calla wasn’t at the bar tonight. At least I hadn’t seen her, and Jax didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Not exactly surprising. I tended to blend right in.

The door opened and some guy strode in, shouting Brock’s name. I tensed and then deflated when Brock pushed away from the bar. “Hey!” he shouted in return. “Where’ve you been, man?”

“Yeah.” Katie shook her head. “You sure you don’t want to me walk you out right now?”

I nodded, not exactly trusting myself to speak at the moment, because there was a good chance I might start hurling curse words at everyone and anything.

Katie walked over to where I sat. Her fruity perfume reminded me of the drinks my mom drank whenever we went to the beach. She kissed my cheek. “Tonight’s not going to be any different, Jilly. I know these things.” Straightening, she tapped her finger on the side of her head. “It’s a gift, but right now, it’s a curse. He still sees you the way he did when he took you to prom. That’s not changing tonight. You should go home.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. That hurt—really hurt, cutting deep into my chest, through bone and marrow.

Katie left then, and I sat on the stool for several moments, not moving and barely breathing as I watched Brock. I’d barely gotten a chance to talk to him since I got here. He’d seen me. He’d looked at me in surprise and he’d eyed me—eyed me up and down. Brock had hugged me, and then he told me we’d be leaving soon. Then Colt and Reece showed up, and I’d retreated to the table before they remembered I wasn’t twenty-one.

Grabbing my purse off the table, I pried it open and dug out my phone. I saw that it was now getting close to nine. Oh God. Would we still be able to go to the steakhouse? I wasn’t sure what time they closed. My gaze flicked up as anxiousness burned a hole straight through my stomach. I had no idea how long I sat there, but when I checked the time again, it was past nine.

This wasn’t happening.

Tonight was supposed to be different—special.

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