“I’m Raylin O’Brien,” I call after him.
Hell, I have no idea what has possessed me to tell him this. He doesn’t need to know my family name. Doesn’t need to know anything about me—about my past and my involvement with dangerous men and guns.
But as he turns, walking backward, that sexy grin lighting up his face again.
“Storm,” he calls back. “Just Storm. Nice to meet you, Raylin O’Brien. I promise you a good time if you drop by tonight.”
Holy crap. I groan quietly
as he leaves, swallowed by the evening gloom. He isn’t talking about food anymore, is he? Or my mind’s gone down the gutter.
You’re not going, I tell myself. No matter how lickable his abs are, how hot he is, and how you’d like to peel those wet shorts off him and see how big he is when he’s aroused.
Cause that’d be the worst idea ever.
STORM
What are you doing, Storm?
Hell if I know. Inviting her over for dinner. Like I do this kind of stuff back home, when things are fine… Which I don’t.
But I want to get to know her—plus, she was hungry. Damn if that little growl of her stomach didn’t grab me by the throat and flipped on all my protective instincts. The need to take care of her is overwhelming. It won’t let me breathe.
And the need to bury myself balls-deep into her is just as strong, eating me from the inside out. Fantasies of her are taking over my thoughts—of me touching her, pleasuring her, of her riding me, bending over for me.
Fucking hell.
I rub the towel over my wet hair and pull on my favorite pair of worn jeans, stuffing my hard dick inside with some difficulty.
Dammit, I’m hard as a diamond just from having been near her, from feeling the softness of her cheek under my fingertips and the scrapes on her palms. It’s getting to be a common occurrence these days. I’d be working out in the gym room, swimming in the pool or in the sea, fixing something in the house or watching TV, it doesn’t matter what. The image of her, the sound of her voice, her subtle scent of vanilla follows me everywhere, stuck in my mind, priming my body for her.
God, I wish she comes over. Raylin. I need something to take my mind off the chaos of this past year, get out of this funk, and she’s… interesting. Fascinating. Full of contradictions.
Pretty. Damn hot. Fiery.
Fuck, I want to push through the flames and hold her. Have her under me, pound into her as I eat up her pretty mouth, take her from behind against the sofa, in the shower, in the pool… everywhere. Lick her where she burns, break down her every wall, make her scream.
Make her mine.
Shaking off the thought, I head into the kitchen to busy myself with dinner. Oh yeah, glorious food. I debate ordering take-out, then say fuck it, and dig out a deep-frozen lasagna. This is good stuff. Mario special, my uncle’s favorite.
Dammit, last thing I want to do is think about my uncle now. I turn on the oven, then pour myself a Jack on the rocks while waiting for the oven to heat up and lean against the granite island. The whiskey burns pleasantly as it trickles down my throat, warming me up from the inside, and my head drops forward as my muscles start to relax.
God, I don’t know what to do with this life, this stress. I ran away from it, and I was wrenched right back into it. Death always drags me back to a business I don’t want and people I despise. I was supposed to find my own path and, dammit, I was halfway there.
At least that’s what I thought. Working construction and behind the bar, sleeping wherever I could find probably isn’t everyone’s idea of the path to enlightenment. But I wasn’t looking for any deep wisdom, any answers to the purpose of life and the universe.
No. I wanted answers to the purpose of my life, my existence. I never liked the world where my parents lived and died—their business, always at the intersection between legit, shady and downright criminal. Often I wonder if the accident that took their lives was really that, an accident. If the memories I have are real or a figment of a dream.
Dammit. I rub at the roses inked in my side, the scar curling over my ribs. If only I could remember more, understand what the images in my head mean…
Doesn’t fucking matter, though. Too late for answers to that.
What matters is I didn’t find my purpose in life by leaving. I didn’t find happiness. But I also didn’t find bullets and blood and pain, as I did the moment I returned home. Being away was a peaceful time, and it didn’t last nearly long enough.
I yank the oven door open with more force than necessary and stick the lasagna inside, smacking my hand into the hot tray.
Ow. Shaking my head, I grab my drink and head out before I punch something. I should’ve jacked off, taken off the edge.