Crash into Me

With a sound of exasperation, she started to tuck them back into the bun. She hadn’t gotten very far when he reached over and plucked all three pencils out of her hair. He threw them across the room before she could demand them back, then watched as all that glorious hair came tumbling down around her shoulders. It was like a flame, beckoning him, and for a second—just a second—he imagined what it would feel like to fist his hands in those curls while he was inside her. To have them sliding over his shoulders, his chest, his cock—

“Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed in obvious exasperation. “Now I have to start all over again.” Her hands were back in her hair, this time twisting it into some kind of knot at the base of her neck.

“Leave it.” He brushed her fingers away, tucked a few errant curls behind her ear. “It looks good the way it is.”

He was playing with fire. He knew he was. Just like he knew he was going to get burned—this was Jared’s sister, after all. Little Jamison, the same girl he’d helped teach self-defense to before her first date and how to drive a car when she turned sixteen.

Only she hadn’t felt so little when she’d been on top of him, her glorious body pressed to his. She’d felt like a beautiful, sexy woman he wanted more than he wanted his next breath. Even now, part of him desired nothing more than to pull her beneath him and make love to her the way his c**k was screaming for him to.

If she had been any other woman, he would have taken what she was offering without a second thought. It wasn’t like he was in the habit of self-denial and he wanted her, badly. He wanted to hold her. To touch her. To kiss her right now, with nothing between them but the desire that throbbed in the air like the final notes of a love song.

He wanted to pull her body against his and explore the sweet recesses of her mouth without worrying about his past or her brother or any of the other things that were just waiting to ambush them.

But this was Jamison and she deserved more, better, than anything he had to offer her. No matter what she thought.

“Ryder.” Her breath broke on his name and heat flooded his cock.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, deliberately severing the forbidden connection between them. Then he forced an easy smile, forked up his last piece of waffle, and offered it to her like he had a million other times through the years. For a moment, she looked like she wouldn’t accept it. As if she knew doing so was one more step away from the strange and unsteady ground where they currently found themselves.

But in the end, she must have known he needed her to make that step, because she leaned forward to take the bite, her soft pink lips closing around the fork with a low hum of appreciation.

He looked away quickly, told himself he wasn’t imagining her lush mouth closing over his dick with the same enjoyment. Of course he wasn’t. That would be wrong, so wrong. But then her hand brushed his upper thigh as she reached for a napkin and he nearly went through the roof.

Desperate for something to take his mind off Jamison—and the sex they absolutely couldn’t have—Ryder turned back toward the TV. Watched as the Hulk destroyed whole sections of the S.H.I.E.L.D. hovership just as Loki’s forces attacked. Nothing like cinematic death and destruction to take a guy’s mind off the lust crawling around in his belly.

It almost worked. At least until Jamison got up to push the room service cart into the hall. When she came back, she settled right next to him on the couch, and her lush peach scent wrapping itself around him like a blanket. He tensed, tried to pretend like he cared whether or not the huge centrifuge of the ship’s engine crushed Iron Man.

He must not have been very convincing, though, because it only took Jamison a minute before she commented, “You know, I never got the chance to ask you my question.”

Had he thought he was tense before? After that statement he was clenching his jaw so tightly that it was a miracle he didn’t break a molar…or three.

He didn’t want to have this discussion, couldn’t have this discussion. His nightmares were off limits to everyone, even the guys in Shaken Dirty, and he hated that she’d seen him like that.

Alone.

Out of control.

Vulnerable.

He ran a hand over his face. “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“What isn’t?”

“This whole…” He wagged a finger back and forth between them. “Thing.”

“This whole what?” She looked baffled. “Conversation?”

“Yeah.” He looked away, relieved that she got it. Sure, it made him look like a total candy ass, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when it meant he escaped unscathed.

For long seconds, she didn’t say anything. Then she lifted a brow, sniffed disdainfully. “I wasn’t aware that picking a superhero was such an emotional thing. I mean, I’m an Iron Man girl myself, but if it’s that big a deal to you, we can talk about something else.”

“That was your big question?” He felt like he’d missed a step or nine in the conversation. At least until he got a glimpse of her eyes and realized she’d known…and she’d tossed him a lifeline. The tension drained from his shoulders. “Which Avenger I like?”

“It’s an important question. Iron Man is clearly superior, but each of the others has his or her good points so—”

“Are you kidding me?” he said with a smirk. “Who says Iron Man is superior?”

“Who doesn’t? Seriously, who’s better than Tony freaking Stark?”

“Uh, the Hulk? Obviously.”

“Are you nuts?” she demanded, incredulous. “Iron Man risks everything to save people in this movie. He nearly dies. Plus he’s smart, hot, and rich.”

“Hulk’s willing to die for people, too. And he’s very smart.”

She scoffed. “Oh, please. Dr. Banner’s smart. Hulk is a giant green rage monster.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Like wearing a metal suit automatically makes a guy a hero?”

“It is if he uses it for good. Being a hero is about a lot more than just smashing up the bad guys. It’s about choosing to do something to make the world a better place, even if you die doing it.”

Her words hit a little too close to home, and he felt them deep in the pit of his stomach. But he didn’t want her to know how much she’d disconcerted him, so he snorted. Rolled his eyes. Worked up a decent sneer as he finally said, “Heroism is highly overrated. No one can stop something from happening, Jamison. The best anyone can hope for is to postpone the inevitable.”

“That’s not true. You saved me from Max. You didn’t let him hurt me.”

“That was sheer, dumb luck. If I hadn’t walked out when I did—”

“But you did. You did walk out then, Ryder. And you stopped him. No one else did that.”

Her eyes were shiny with gratitude and something else he couldn’t—wouldn’t—name. He looked away so he didn’t have to see it. “Yeah, well, I won’t be there the next time some as**ole tries to mess with you.”

“Maybe there won’t be a next time.”

“Yeah, right.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Because the world is made up of gumdrops and unicorns.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s like you live in a different universe, Jamison. One where it doesn’t even occur to you that you aren’t the first one—and probably won’t be the last.”

Rage filled him all over again at the reminder of how he’d found her earlier. He wasn’t happy about not calling the police, but he’d known it wouldn’t do much good. No real damage had been done to Jamison—or so Max’s side would argue—and Ryder had no doubt that Max would end up weaseling out of everything.

He was going to have a talk with Max later today. Make sure the singer thought twice before he ever pulled any shit like that again. Make sure he understood that it would be detrimental to his health.

“You don’t know that he’ll hurt anyone else.”

Bullshit. If all he wanted was to get laid, why didn’t Max go for one of the many available girls backstage? He wanted to hurt you, because he could.” Ryder’s hands clenched into fists of their own volition. “How many times has that happened on this tour alone, right under my nose? I played poker with that as**ole. Jammed with him more than once. And all this time he was—”

“Damn it, Ryder! You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Jamison laid a hand on top of his, squeezed tightly. “You’ve been beating yourself up for nearly a decade. It has to stop.” She tried to put her arms around him, to hug him, but he wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t. Not when a lump was trying to form in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, refused to give in to the emotions swamping him like a tsunami.

Shit, he should have ignored her. Should have had those extra shots of tequila. If he were still drunk then he wouldn’t be sitting here like a total pussy, trying not to lose it completely.

“Maybe you’re right,” he told her, reaching for the remote so he could turn the volume up on the TV set. “Maybe Iron Man really is the best Avenger. Sure, he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, but I guess that isn’t everything. Right, Jamison?”

She gasped and he knew he’d scored a direct hit, but he refused to apologize. Refused to so much as look at her. Instead, he kicked his legs up on the coffee table in front of them and concentrated on the movie like his life depended on it.

And maybe it did. God knew, he wasn’t going to make it if he had to rehash the past tonight—especially with Jamison. No, it would be better for everyone if he sat here and watched the stupid movie. The fact that he couldn’t see a damn thing thanks to the red haze in front of his eyes was entirely inconsequential.

He waited for her to take the hint that was really more of a No Trespassing sign—in neon lights—but she didn’t turn back to the movie. For long seconds, she didn’t do anything at all. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t settle back against the couch cushions. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that she breathed.

Instead, she just sat there, watching him. Willing him to look at her. To talk to her. But he wasn’t going to do that. Not now. Not—

“Ryder, please. Don’t—”

“Watch the movie, Jamison.”

“I don’t care about the movie. I care about you. About the way you always beat yourself up over things you have no control over.”

“Didn’t you get the memo? I’m a rock star, baby.” He sneered at her. “I’m way too self-absorbed to worry about anything but where my next drink and f**k are coming from.”

“Bullshit.” She put a trembling hand in the middle of his chest, right over his heart. Figuring she must be cold, he reached for the blanket at the end of the couch, started to cover her up. But then he realized she wasn’t the one shaking. He was. Goddammit.

“You need to back off, Jamison,” he told her through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You never want to talk. Not about this. That’s why you need to—”

“I don’t need to do a damn thing except get some sleep.” He stood up, tossed the remote onto the couch. “Do you want the bed?”

“I don’t give a shit about the bed! I want to talk to—”

“I guess that means I’ll take it.” He started across the room, in total self-preservation mode now. He wanted—needed—to get away. Sure, there was a part of him that thought about staying, to bask in the warmth that was pouring out from her. To touch and kiss her beautiful body and listen to all the lies she was so anxious to tell. To tell some lies of his own. Lies that would shut her up and get her into his bed so that he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel. Didn’t have to do anything but f**k.