Tracy Wolff - Crash Into Me

Like so much of Ryder was.

Oh, she’d seen him in this pose before—all wild hair, bare chest and bad-boy ink—in a layout for Rolling Stone. Just like tonight, his jaw had been shadowed with two days of facial scruff, his ears—and one of his nipples—pierced with thick hoops. But the resemblance ended there. For the photo shoot, Ryder had obliterated any trace of vulnerability until all anyone looking at him could see was the carefully crafted image of sex, drugs, and badass rock and roll. He wore the image well, so well that it was almost impossible to remember that it really was just a facade.

There was none of that distance while he was sleeping, no signs of the wall he usually kept between himself and the rest of the world. Instead he looked tired, worn-down, like the act of hiding his true self was too exhausting to handle.

It made her hurt, made her wish he could see how wonderful he was. How he didn’t have to hide who he was anymore. Not that she didn’t understand. When you grew up with a father like Ryder’s, who beat your mother and you and then blamed your very existence on everything that was wrong in the world, it was hard to look past that and believe you were actually a worthy human being. Harder still to let anyone in, not when you were desperate to hide your perceived flaws.

Ryder stirred again and she forced herself to her feet. She could spend the rest of the night just sitting there, looking at him, but it was an invasion of his privacy. One she knew he wouldn’t take kindly to if he were aware of it.

A little steadier on her feet now that she was fully awake, Jamison made her way to the bar in the corner of the suite. She got herself a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge, drank it down in long, greedy swallows. Then got another one and started in on it at a much slower pace as she swallowed a couple of Advil from the bottle sitting on the bar like it was waiting for her. After re-capping the bottle, she made her way to the large picture window that gave her a glorious view of San Diego.

The city looked so peaceful from way up here, so clean and beautiful and perfect. She didn’t know what hotel they were in, but it must be near the harbor because she could see an inky blackness past the fluorescent glow of the skyscrapers that could only be the water.

She smiled, a little giddy at the view. She might not like partying with rock stars, but she certainly couldn’t find fault with living like them. The suite was beautiful, the view amazing. It was a far cry from the apartment Shaken Dirty used to share while they were waiting for their big break. An even farther cry from her cramped little inland apartment, where bars on the windows and three locks on the door were necessities of life.

She reached out, traced a pattern on the glass as she looked at the sleeping city far below. And thought about how dismal her immediate future looked.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, drinking her water and trying not to think as fatigue weighed heavily on her. She hadn’t slept at all the night before—she’d been too worried about the car, the boyfriend, the job and the meager state of her finances to relax enough to drift off. And she must not have gotten much sleep yet tonight, either. It had been close to two a.m. the last time she’d glanced at her watch and if dawn was just now beginning to creep across the sky, she couldn’t have been out for very long.

Which meant the guys wouldn’t be up for hours. That might have annoyed her normally—she was a total morning person—but at this exact moment, it felt just about right. After all, it wasn’t like she had a job to get up for. She could sleep as late as the guys would let her.

She’d just crossed the room to turn the TV off when Ryder made a strangled sound. It was low, unintelligible,, fraught with discomfort and desperation. Her heart jumped to her throat and she whirled to face him, convinced he was going to be sick. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who had gotten drunk at the bar.

Except her first good look at his face told her that sickness would have been preferable. Anything would be. He looked terrified, traumatized, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his mouth open in horror. He was thrashing around, kicking out at the leg of the couch as he made terrible noises that cut to the very center of her.

“No!” he shouted. “Don’t! No! Please.”

Heart in her throat, Jamison dropped onto the floor beside him. “It’s okay, Ryder. It’s just a dream.”

He was too lost in the nightmare to hear her.

She’d read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to wake someone who was in the middle of a bad dream, but she couldn’t leave Ryder like this. He was obviously suffering, was making low, animalistic sounds in the back of his throat. She couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t, leave him like this.

“Ryder, please.” She put a light hand on his shoulder, shook him gently. When that didn’t work, she grabbed his hand in her own, squeezed tightly even as she wrapped her free arm around his waist in a loose kind of hug. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

His free hand shot out, fastened like a steel band around her wrist. Jamison squeaked in surprise, but she didn’t fight him. Even when he tugged her closer and rolled her onto his prostrate body, she didn’t fight. This was Ryder, and even asleep, even tormented, she knew he wasn’t like Max. Knew he would never hurt her.

“Ryder, honey. Wake up,” she whispered, her face only inches from his.

He didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge with so much as a blink or a nod that he’d heard her. That freaked her out a lot more than being splayed on top of him did. Still, she scooted around, tried to sit up, hoping that the movement would pull him out of whatever strange sleep state he was in. But all her squirming around got her was one large hand on her hip anchoring her in place and another one tangled in her hair.

“Ryder,” she gasped, shocked at how breathless she sounded. But she couldn’t help it. His body—his hot, hard, aroused body—was pressed intimately against her own. And though she knew he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, that didn’t seem to matter. Her nipples were hard, her breasts aching, her sex damp, all from the feel of Ryder beneath her. It was wrong, and she hated herself for it, but she couldn’t prevent her response any more than he could prevent his nightmares.

At the same time, she couldn’t let this continue. She needed to get off him, now. But as she shoved at his hands, tried to scramble onto the floor, he opened his eyes and stared directly into her own.

“Stay,” he whispered.

She froze. Was he seeing her, talking to her? Or was that one desperate word meant for someone else?

“Please, Jamison, don’t go. Don’t leave me.” His voice was low. Gravelly. Pleading. And she was lost, even before he tugged her down and buried his face in her neck.

The last vestiges of Ryder’s nightmare faded away, helped along by the honeyed peach scent of Jamison stretched above him. He knew he was still dreaming, knew in a few minutes he would open his eyes and these moments of peace would be gone. But for now he would take the comfort this Dream Jamison was offering and lose himself in it. Revel in it.

Taking a deep breath, he held her scent deep inside of himself as he battled once again to put the specters of his past behind him. It was an unwinnable fight, one that was tearing him apart a little more with each day that passed. But he had to try, had to search for just a small reprievefrom the pain of all the ways he’d failed and all the things he’d done wrong.

Above him, Jamison crooned wordless sounds of comfort. Her fingers combed gently through his hair, smoothing the tangled mess of it from his face. He stiffened for a second—it had been so long since he’d taken solace from anyone that at first he didn’t know how to accept what she was offering. But eventually he relaxed, gave himself up to her.

How could he do anything else when her touch was soothing him in a way nothing else had in far too long? He had no idea why she was here, now, in his dreams, but he wasn’t going to question it. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to give her up, not when he could feel the tension and self-loathing slowly leaking away, burying themselves deep inside of himself where he kept them locked away when he was conscious. The absence of pain, even for a little while, felt amazing.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, lost in the unfamiliar relief of having Jamison surround him. But he was grateful for every second the dream went on. She didn’t move, barely breathed, just wrapped herself around him and let him absorb her warmth and tenderness. It had been so long since he’d felt these emotions, even longer since he’d let himself accept them.

But nothing lasted forever, especially not dreams. It was how he’d gotten through every night of the last decade since Carrie had died—by knowing that eventually day would come and his nightmare would end.

This was different. He didn’t want it to end, didn’t want to leave behind the serenity he was feeling. But Jamison started to squirm a little, her body moving over and against his until a different heat started to build between them.

He groaned at the feel of her, tightened his hand on her hip and pulled her closer until her sex ended up centered directly above his cock. He would hate himself for this dream later, for reducing Jared’s little sister to the basest sexual fantasy, but right now it felt so good that he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t resist. Besides, it wasn’t real. No one else had to know what twisted, fucked-up ideas went on inside his head. This was just one more thing for him to add to the pile of his self-loathing.

But later. Much later.

Arching his hips, he ground himself against her seductive wetness and reveled in the shivers she didn’t even try to hide. Her hard little nipples stabbed at him through the thin material of her shirt and his mouth watered with the need to taste. To lick. To suck.

He slid his hand up her rib cage. He wanted to see her, to find out if her nipples were the same delicate pink as her lips. As his fingers skimmed against the underside of her breast, she jerked against him, gasped.

He liked the sound, wanted to hear her make it again, so he flicked his thumb over her nipple. Once, twice. Then again and again until her entire body was trembling.

“Ryder, what are you doing?” she demanded, her voice breaking on the last word.

He had no fucking clue. But it felt so good he didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not ever. Bringing his other hand to her hip, he pressed Jamison more firmly against him even as he swiveled his hips. Pleasure—sharp, powerful, overwhelming—shot through him at the contact and he groaned with the need for more. With the need for everything.

He wanted her, wanted Jamison, and suddenly no one else would do. Not when his brain was filled with images of kissing and touching and fucking every part of her with every part of him.

He wanted to tie her up, to have her completely at his mercy as he gave her as much pleasure as she could stand.

Wanted to bend her over the arm of this couch and fuck her until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see anyone but him.

Wanted to sit her on his face and lick up every drop of her honeyed sweetness until she came, screaming his name.

It wouldn’t take much. He could smell her arousal, could feel the wet heat of her even through the thin cotton of her panties and his pajama pants.

The thought gave him pause for the first time since his nightmare had shifted into this much more pleasant erotic dream. What the hell was his subconscious up to? Why was Jamison wearing panties? And why the fuck was he in pajama bottoms? She should be naked, her sex wet and open to him so that he could slide right in—

“Ryder!” She was gasping now, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging at him, even as her lower body rocked gently against his. “Are you awake? Are you—”

He darted his tongue out to lick at the hollow of her throat. Mmm. She tasted as good as he’d hoped. He nipped at her collarbone and the sensitive skin of her neck, then used his tongue to lave away the small stings. Her heart was going crazy, beating so hard and fast that he could feel it against his chest even as he traced the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. He appreciated her excitement—reveled in it, in fact—but again found it strange that her physical responses felt so real.