Candy Ever After (Hot Candy 2)

The laughter dies in my throat.

He still hasn’t moved to get out of the car. His forehead is creased in lines of pain, his lips white.

“Crap, you don’t look so good.” I fight the worry inside me. It’s a losing battle. “Is the headache worse? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine.” But his hand shakes as he tries to open the door, and his breathing sounds ragged. “Shit. It’s stuck.”

Can the pain be so bad? The thought twists something inside my chest.

“Here, let me.” I reach over him and jiggle the handle. “It’s a trick.” The car door swings open with a screech of rusty hinges, and I gather my courage as he nods and turns to get out. “Jet…”

He doesn’t turn to look at me. Doesn’t get out, either. He’s holding on to the back of the seat like a drowning man.

“Is Joel home? Hey.” I put a hand on his shoulder, and the muscles in his back are coiled like steel ropes. “Is he upstairs in case you need something?”

He shakes his head.

“Jethro…” My courage is about to fail me, again.

“Call me Jet.”

I lick my lips, nod, and go for honesty. “Jet, you don’t look so hot right now. I’m worried.”

There’s a huge, soft beat of silence.

“Come up with me,” he says.

His words hang between us like Christmas lights, suspended in darkness.

I don’t need to be asked again. I nod, kill the engine and step outside, into the cool night.

He follows me out and grabs my hand, and I let him tug me toward the building. We ride up the elevator to the fourth floor in silence.

He unlocks the door and draws me inside.

He lets go to close the door and switch on a floor lamp. It illuminates a somber living room with a black sofa and an armchair, a long coffee table and shelves full of books.

Someone living in this apartment likes books, and if it’s not Jethro, then it must be Joel.

Interesting.

He drops onto the couch, running his hands over his face, and I sink down beside him, ignoring the urge to explore the apartment I’ve imagined a million times. The scene where my two fantasy boyfriends co

me together to love each other—and me.

Worry is gnawing at me. “What do you need?” I pull his hands down, turn his face toward me. “What can I do for you?”

“Hold me.”

It’s the last thing I expect to hear from a guy like Jethro. I have a second to think that he never said anything like this in the story I’m writing—never once showed a more vulnerable side. He’s the wild card, the dark joker, the hyper-sexual part of the equation.

Then he leans back, opens his arms, and I burrow into them. A shiver goes through him when I slip my hands around him and rest my head on his shoulder.

“Like this?” I whisper, looking up.

In the low light of the lamp, his dark eyes glimmer like wet pools at night. “Yeah.”

I slide my hand up his chest, rest it on his left pec. “God. Your heart is racing as if you’ve run ten miles.”