Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

My steps slow, and my pulse quietens. I take off my sandals and walk on the damp sand, running in my mind everything that went down tonight—from the dinner to his mouth on mine and his hands on me.

My body remembers, too, tightening inside, the ghostly trace of his fingers burning in me. Fire. Flames. Brands. His touch scorched me.

And oh God… I left him high and dry. Had my pleasure and ran. That was…

I clap a hand over my mouth, a sudden attack of laughter shaking my shoulders. This isn’t funny. I shouldn’t be laughing.

So many things I shouldn’t be doing, and yet here I am.

Running away. Why did I panic?

Because people around me are in danger.

But this isn’t a relationship. Sleeping with a hottie doesn’t count as anything but that. Sexy fun. No harm no foul. Nobody needs to know about it. He didn’t ask me out, or put a ring on my finger. We didn’t exchange phone numbers and email addresses. He had an itch to scratch—and so did I.

I glance over my shoulder at the mansion, coming to a stop. I could go back, apologize for taking off like that. Touch him. Finish what we started together.

But something holds me back. Maybe it’s the dark shadow I glimpsed in his gaze as I was about to go, his gentle concern, his attention. The fact he said he finds me beautiful. The way he kissed me, like he’s stranded in a desert, and I’m cool water.

I want to know more about him. Know why he went out into the storm. Why he limps. Why a guy like him, going around bare-chested and in old jeans, with tattoos and a scruffy jaw, is housesitting such a mansion. I want his story.

And then I see a bullet tearing through him, I see blood pooling around him. Like it happened to Mom. Like it happened to the man who shot at my brother, like it’ll happen to me once they catch me.

That’s why I shouldn’t ever go back.

***

I toss and turn all night, dreaming of him. He’s stretched out on his back, stroking himself, those blue eyes dark with desire. I can’t see his hard-on, but I see his strong fist clearly, moving up and down. I see the rose tattoos shifting on his sides with his every breath, his abs contracting, standing out stark and so very lickable.

“Kiss me, Ray,” he whispers over and over again. “Kiss me.”

His head drops back, his mouth opening as he comes, moaning my name.

And I wake up again and again to the image of him, finding myself twisted in the sheets, aroused and throbbing, drenched in sweat.

The urge to touch myself and relieve the pressure is killing me, but I don’t. Not that I want him to touch me, I tell myself as I get up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen sink. That I’d rather feel something other than his fingers inside me—something bigger, hotter, something…

Oh crap.

I whimper as the need flares in my belly. I need him inside me, need his mouth on me, his arms around me. His scent. I want to rub myself in it.

I splash my face with cold water

and sink in a kitchen chair, about to cry. This can’t happen. I can’t fall for Storm. No way. Can’t fall for anyone right now. Can’t let my walls down.

So not fair. I’m only nineteen. I want to have friends and have fun, I want a cute boyfriend, I want… I want sex. I’ve only ever had it twice before, and it sucked, but this, with Storm… It feels different, like it could be mind-blowing, and I want it. I want him. Want to see the heat rising in his eyes, find out about the sadness that surfaces sometimes.

Oh no. No, Ray.

I jump up from my seat and pace in the kitchen, wringing my hands together. I need to leave. Leave this place. My fault, for going out of my way to meet someone. I gotta keep moving. First rule of hiding: don’t sprout roots. Don’t get too comfy. Don’t talk to people.

Or kiss them and make out with them.

This is serious. The people after me don’t kid. They want something I can’t give them. They want retribution, death or worse.

I need a new plan. A new place to crash and hide. I wish I had internet to search for an exit route, but I don’t, and I wish I had money to pay for my ride, and I don’t. Hitchhiking gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I guess I’ll have to give it another go.

Typical of my life.