Fuel the Fire (3 page)

A determined look pulses in his blue eyes, ambition and confidence that’s harder and better than a slap on the ass.

He kneels on the seat and reaches beneath my dress, his fingers skimming my panties.

“Connor,” I warn. All I can think—if we don’t do this right, to their liking, then we’re screwing everything on day one.

“Ils jouent notre jeu. On ne joue pas le leur.”
They play our game. We don’t play theirs.
He adds in French, “Ensemble.”
Together.

We do this together or not at all.

I’m more in love with him, conquering the world by his side, than I ever was as his competition. He was ready to be my teammate the minute I graduated prep school, but I put the brakes on that, choosing a different college than him. I wasn’t ready to be something more. We stayed rivals. He didn’t want to wait for my cap and gown, for our entrance into adulthood, and so when the opportunity arose, he asked me out. 

We dated. We married.

We had a baby.

Together, we’re a force of nature to be reckoned with. That’s not my hubris speaking. It’s just the truth.

I nod once, power pouring through me. “Ensemble.”
Together.

He kisses my ankle as he raises my leg, slipping off my panties. I keep yanking at my dress, the side of my ass exposed. Though I’m not sure how much someone can spot through the windows.

Connor sets my panties on the dashboard and then places his hand on mine, shielding more of my body from view. He lifts my left leg over his shoulder, his body hovering over the middle console.

He whispers, “Lean back and shut your eyes.”

I do as told, even if I’m not in the bedroom, this is a bedroom activity. And I’d rather not be in control.

I rest against the car door and close my eyes, trying not to think about anyone lurking outside.

Connor grips my hips and scoots me closer to him, so my back is at a better angle, only my shoulders braced against the door handle.

In the quiet moment, a distant car honk sounds closer, and my eyes snap open. I try to straighten and peer out the windshield.

Connor grips my face, rotating my head to him. “Focus on me. Or would you rather suck my cock?”

I glare. “Would
you
like to switch?” I challenge, even though I
in no way
want to be photographed with my head above his pants. Not if there’s an alternative.

His head in my crotch. I approve.

“You know what I find mildly irritating?” he asks, his voice calm, collected, but I hear the tightness of his words, as though annoyance, a hidden emotion, fists each syllable.

“Your voice,” I rebut.

He withholds a grin. “Answering a question with a question.” His clutch is still forceful on my jaw. My body is in his complete possession. “This is how you answer a question, Rose.”

I listen closely.

“No,” he says, “I do not want to switch places with you. They believe we’re their marionettes. We’ll show them the strings, but we will
always
move on our own accord.” He pauses, his eyes flitting to my mouth again. “But most importantly, you believe my tongue is expendable.” His face nears mine, which he grasps, and I breathe so heavily as he whispers, “You’re going to remember, Rose, why it’s
absolutely
essential.”

I feel myself clench.

“Now close your eyes,” he commands.

I have no problem listening to him now, blocking out our surroundings—or at least my imagination that is doing more harm than good.

I shut my eyes again, and as he lowers his head between my legs, his hand travels from my jaw to my neck. He’s reaching up and choking me with the right amount of force.
Oh God.
His tongue and mouth kiss my heat—I shudder and grip the leather, the back of my head hitting the glass window, shoulders digging into the handle.

“Please,” I cry deeply, feeling him adjust his fingers around my neck, gripping slightly harder so I can’t speak. My head lightens…
God yes.

The sensitivity that his tongue plays with—it’s better than any of my toys. It shocks each nerve and flames my core, my skin flushed. I only hear my staggered breaths in the silence of the car.

I open my eyes. Just to see his head disappeared between my legs. One of his hands is up my dress, clutching the side of my ass. And his other long, outstretched arm lies against my body as he steals my oxygen.

That arm builds my arousal as much as everything else, my toes beginning to curl.
Connor…

I hold onto his forearm and touch his large hand that wraps around the majority of my neck. And then his phone buzzes by the gearshift, threatening to tumble beneath the depths of my seat.

He removes his hand off my ass to grab it, but he continues pleasuring me, a second cry in my throat at the way he hits a nerve.

He passes me the phone, reminding me that we’re a team here. His fingers loosen on my neck, only a little to reorient my head. I keep the cell low and open his lock screen with his password: 0610

It was a text message.

Where the hell did you and Rose go?
– Loren

I try to stifle a cringe, hating to think about Loren Hale while I’m with Connor like this. Actually, thinking about him at all is about as low on my to-do list as setting myself on fire. (Setting myself on fire ranks higher.)

Though, that’s not entirely accurate seeing as how we’re new business partners. I never thought that’d happen. I’m not wholly happy about it but I’m not disappointed either. Besides Connor, my relationship with Loren is the most complex one I have.

Before I can even tell Connor about the text, another one buzzes.

And this time, I have a hard time reading the words. Connor suddenly fills me with his fingers, and my back arches and my head tips to the side, my eyes tightening shut, too many heightened emotions overtaking me in a hot, electric wave. My body is his in this moment. He could do whatever he wanted to me, and I’d let him, willingly.

“Please,” I beg. I used to hate the sound of my voice when I was with him in bed. How weak and wanting it was—but now I love that I can give myself to someone else this way. I’m allowed to be vulnerable too.

He pumps his fingers deeper into me, simultaneously flicking my clit with his tongue. He squeezes my neck, and I reach a blinding climax, my lips parting. No noise escapes, too breathless to create a moan. My hips rise and my muscles constrict. He leaves his fingers inside of me while I pulse around them.

Connor raises his head, watching me catch my breath, his own desire washing over his features. He stares at me like he’d rather fuck me at our house than return to my parent’s. If we didn’t have responsibilities like friends and a daughter, then maybe that’d be possible.

But I like the way our life is. Minus a couple large kinks that we need to smooth down before Jane reaches a certain age. Before we decide to have more children.

These are the kind of kinks that have deadlines. If we don’t iron them by a certain point, it’s over for us. The Cobalt family will just consist of Jane, Connor, and me.

I want Jane to have a sister, more than anything else. The best parts of my childhood consisted of Lily, Daisy, and Poppy. And I can’t imagine her growing up without one.

Connor looks at me as though he’s reading my innermost thoughts, with reverence and intrigue. I touch his hand around my neck and he laces my fingers with his.

He sits up, kneeling.

I check his phone again.

What the fuck are you doing? Samantha just opened photo albums. We’re going to be stuck here for another three fucking hours if you don’t come back.
– Ryke

“It seems we’re wanted.”

“We’re always wanted,” he says, pulling my arm so I straighten up against the seat. His lips linger near my neck. “We’re the oldest, smartest and most responsible of our roommates.”

I turn my head to call him conceited and maybe note that his ego is choking me more than his hand.

The minute I swing in his direction, he kisses me, not for long, but enough that my insult disappears. He bites my lip gently before he releases.

I swallow, and as I clench between my legs, I suddenly remember something. I am not wearing panties. And I’m sitting on a leather seat.
My
leather seat. And I’m aroused and wet and—I push away from him and snatch my panties on the dashboard. I try to examine the damage I caused to my beautiful leather seat, and how gross it must be, for me, to sit here while we drive back.

“You’re not that wet, Rose,” he says.

I smack his chest. “Shut up—”

He clasps my hand again and lifts me onto his lap so I can see the seat. No stains, but I contemplate whether or not I should have the leather properly—

“I’ll have it cleaned tomorrow,” Connor tells me, easing my concerns. I nod and he slips my panties on my legs, dressing me. He reaches over and opens the passenger door before climbing out, setting me on
his
chair. When he walks around the Escalade to the driver’s side, his cell vibrates in my palm.

Got the photo. You’ll see it tomorrow.
– WA

My shoulders relax. “They accepted the switch.”

Connor hears me as he shuts the door, the corners of his lips rising. He was certain they wouldn’t have a problem. His confidence in life and his choices are unparalleled.

He turns the car on with a much wider grin. “‘Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.’”

I tilt my head at him. “Macbeth.” The quote from Shakespeare is very familiar to me.

He wears that billion-dollar grin again. We won round one of a much larger game tonight. At least that’s what it feels like.

At the end of the day, we’re still in bed with the media. And no one knows this but Connor and me.

People look to Connor to fix their problems, to solve things greater than them, and usually he says no. If there’s no benefit for him, he sees no point to help, to take that risk.

But there was one exception.

I saw it happen. That day. Weeks ago. Connor came into our bedroom and told me that he had to bury an article. He said the only way to do it was to make a deal with the press. Me and him. If we feed a tabloid scandalous photos or a headline every so often, then they’d agree to never print this one defaming editorial.

“Is it about Jane?” I asked, my eyes flaming. I was ready to raise hell at the
Celebrity Crush
offices, to march to New York and stick a finger in the face of a journalist and shout and scream. I even grabbed my purse off my vanity stool.

Connor stopped me, and I read his gaze well enough.

It wasn’t about our daughter.

The article was about someone else. He explained how
Celebrity Crush
was going to run a story on Lily and Loren’s son, my sister and my brother-in-law. How the tabloid was going to claim their paternity test a forgery, citing Maximoff’s deep chocolate brown hair as evidence of being Ryke’s son. Ryke, as in Loren’s half-brother.

Lo has light brown hair. His birth mother’s hair color. Not dark brown, the shade that Ryke, their father, and now Moffy all share.

The article is a stretch, a false claim. But one that would rock Lily and Loren’s world. After fighting for so long, they deserved a win.

Their son deserves to
never
doubt his parentage.

“I have to help Lo,” Connor said, his brows cinching at his own words. He knew. He knew that what he was doing was so out of his character. Because here was a man that always weighs opportunity cost. This, in no way, benefited him. In fact, it cost him.

And for the first time, in probably his entire life, he’s choosing a price with no reward for himself.

“You know when you asked me to do this with you?” I say softly while he drives back to my childhood house.

He nods once.

“I think I fell in love with you all over again,” I admit. This is something I would have chosen. Without a second thought. To protect the people I love. Years ago, Connor would have laughed at those words.

Love. It meant nothing to him.

Now it’s guiding his choices.

[ 2 ]

CONNOR COBALT

“I can already tell that she has bad taste in clothes,” Rose declares, our six-month-old daughter sitting upright between her legs. “I put this Chanel clutch in front of her and an ugly straw hat, and she went after the ugly straw hat.”

I rub a towel through my hair, just coming out of the shower. On our four-poster bed, Jane wears a straw hat that dips below her big blue eyes, a delighted smile pulling her soft cheeks. I can feel mine rise.

I wondered if I would feel weak by a child, like a softhearted, loving fool—emotions that my mother refused to feel with me. But it wasn’t ever the case. I love Jane, and I feel strong enough to move mountains for her, to part waters and dig through stone.

Rose is glaring at me. “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

“I find both of you beautiful.” I splay the damp towel on a chair. “The only amusing part is that you put our daughter through an experiment to test whether or not she likes Chanel.”

“I was curious.” Rose bunches her wet hair on her shoulder. She took a shower before me. We’ve been awake since four this morning.

For one, Jane was wailing and couldn’t sleep. It’s not unusual, even after six months.

For another, we’re both waiting for our late-night activity to surface on the
Celebrity Crush
website. Rose has her laptop propped open beside her, and she refreshes the page every minute.

I step into my black slacks. “She chose the straw hat because of the tassels.”

Rose examines the hat on Jane’s head, the bright yellow ribbon and the dangling strand of lime-green frill. “But the Chanel clutch has a gold clasp and it’s cuter.”

“That’s partly an opinion, not a fact, darling.”

She shoots me a look and then touches Jane’s toes, who giggles and babbles. Jane tries to raise her head at Rose but the hat falls further over her eyes. While I clip my silver watch on my wrist, I observe Rose’s smile, a smile that she only produces for Jane.