First Time Fever (Worth The Wait #2)

Chapter 1

Leah

It was a nice little service. My sister's wedding, that is. To her whirlwind new love, Decker. I'm happy.

Right?

Let's go with ambivalent.

You know what else I am?

Horny.

I can't believe I just used that word. I've never felt this before, and I'm not sure how I feel about feeling it now.

But, my God. The man about to climb into the back of this limo with me is causing crazy things to happen down low.

Crazy wonderful.

And crazy wet.

Gah.

Allister.

That's his name. That's a great name.

He's Decker's best man and best friend, and I do my best not to stare as he lowers himself into the back of the limo, leaving the door open behind him.

Allister Marshall fills the available space, side to side, roof to floor. His massive hands come to rest on his thighs, and I'm mesmerized by the veins shifting under the skin, the tendons working, hands that look like they could crush bone.

My gaze drifts as a breath swells his chest, the starched white shirt under his charcoal suit pulling taut across all that muscle.

He looks at me, and I struggle to swallow the golf ball that feels lodged in my throat. This man looks hungry.

For me.

The girl with braces on her legs. The girl who gives in to the wheelchair at night because she can't stand the pain anymore.

Me.

I think this mountain of masculinity wants me.

In some way.

Maybe in the ways I've only read about in my stacks of worn, dovetailed books with wispy, corseted women on the covers. Ways I've never known in real life.

Never felt.

I feel it now, in the dampness between my thighs and the hair prickling at the nape of my neck.

I battle to hold onto the eye contact and lose. My gaze flits and flies, alighting on pieces of him, then landing on some fascinating fleck of dust on the floor.

He looks like something a careless god built to ruin women. His heartbeat seems to thrum in the very air of the car, and mine must be taking its cue, because it's trying to break out of my chest while he sits there, calm, those cut features sharp and yet, intensely relaxed.

A short growth of dark hair covers what used to be a slick, bald head, and I wonder what made him start to grow it out.

Wilson, my driver, shuts the door behind Allister with a click, and the limo dips slightly as he settles into the front seat.

Allister’s nostrils flare slightly as I inspect his face for a blink.

I note the age difference between us in the lines around his eyes, the three across his forehead. Less than ten years between us, I’d guess. That only flutters my heart more. And he's other things besides older.

Experienced.

Controlled.

Impeccable.

The Bentley pulls away, near-silent but I feel it moving.

Why doesn’t he say something? God, this is unbearable. I’m counting my heartbeats as they bang around in my chest.

How can he sit there looking so calm?

"I can't believe my little sister is married." I blurt unable to hide the quiver in my voice.

My face flames as Allister swallows and shifts his hips, and the limo jerks as Wilson works us through traffic toward Decker's guesthouse, where I've been staying ever since the police found me locked and bound in a room in the basement of my family's mansion.

Well. The police were there. The one who actually found me was him.

Allister.

Why do I love that name so much?

"Why can't you believe she's married?" Allister's voice matches the rest of him, a sonic boom that nearly knocks my head into the headrest.

I turn to the window, hunting for an answer that doesn't make me sound like a selfish brat.

I was afraid of him when he came into that room to rescue me.

The day still plays on a loop in my dreams. The dark, the bindings, then light pouring in from the doorway, and people everywhere.

My first thought: I'm safe. Then Allister, nearly blocking out the light again, and I screamed and pounded him with my fists the second he cut me loose. Not one blow earned a wince.

Not from him. My little cotton-candy fists, banging against the solid lead under his clothes.

I'm lost in the contradiction of it. Just being this close has my breath coming short and hot. But, there’s kindness under all that menace, a golden heart glowing straight through the tailored suit.

And yet he's tied to everything I've lost. He's Decker's best friend.

Decker, who's taken May away from me.

I shake the selfish thought loose. May is happy. Decker is amazing. I'm being a petulant child.

"I don't know." I reach for something honest. "I should be the one taking care of her. Not some stranger she only just met."

His eyes settle on me, and I shrink into the seat. Tiger's eyes, gold bleeding into brown until I can't tell where one ends and the other starts.

I look back out the window. "She just doesn't seem grown up to me."

I wish my heart would stop fluttering.

"I can see that." A low chuckle catches in his throat. "Bet you had your hands full with her after your mom and dad passed. I'm sorry for your loss. Truly."

He looks at his feet, those enormous hands rasping over the gray wool that binds his thighs, up and down, up and down. I'm mesmerized by the movement.

"I know it was years ago," he says, gaze lifting to mine. "But, God. You've been hurt so much. I’m so sorry."

His voice lands low in my belly. A flock of butterflies beats its wings against me from the inside, the same ones tiptoeing over the skin of my arms and neck.

Not like Victor, who could never quite meet my eyes when he spoke, like I wasn't worth the focus. Victor is Simon's son, and Simon was our conservator, the man who owned every breath the two of us took until two weeks ago. Victor was the one who was supposed to marry May.

They should be out of my life for good.

But Victor made bond last week, and the butterflies go cold and still, a drip of ice down my spine.

Power rolls off Allister like silent thunder, and it's hard to breathe, harder still to hide the steel cradling my legs.

The bouquet sits on the seat beside me, white roses and peonies bleeding pink and purple into the caramel leather.

I didn't walk up the aisle. Couldn't stand the clink, clink, clink of the braces announcing me with every step, so I sat at May's side and rose only for the vows. Swaying, gritting my teeth, praying nobody noticed how much it cost me. I wish I didn't always have to be considered. Worked around.

The accident crushed both my femurs into confetti and strung my shins with titanium.

But May glowed today. And Decker. Decker cried during their vows, which made me cry, because there is something about a hard man showing true emotion that gets me every single time.

The way Deck looks at her is the thing I want for myself someday. My parents had it. Their marriage was arranged. In our world, that's as common as dandelions in spring. And they fell in love anyway. I grew up watching it. I wanted it.

I still do. Even if the ache behind my ribs reminds me that being a wife, a mother, may be the one thing the accident took for good. I have my writing. My books. Blueberry Pop-Tarts.

Always blueberry Pop-Tarts.

That'll have to do for this life.

The limo takes a sharp right, and I throw my arm out to brace myself. Not like Wilson to drive like that. And suddenly the flowers can't mask Allister's scent, something earthy and warm and male. That, plus the proximity, plus the single glass of champagne that's hitting like six.

I've never reacted to a man like this. My whole life has been about protecting May, keeping us safe. But right now, every time I breathe or blink, all I see is him. And the way he looks at me hurts, because I already know I'll never have the love I dream about.

May is the captivating one, chirpy, dancing through her days. I'm broken and crooked. Serious. A little distrustful.

She used to swear I was the beautiful one, that I should be the one walking runways in Paris. Looking back, maybe there was a little truth in that. Before the accident.

Now, I can barely look in the mirror.

I clear my throat and look at his hands instead of his face. "You didn't need to come, you know. I can manage on my own." Each word lands snappier than I mean it to, and I'm instantly sorry.

Allister tips his head an inch. I see his reflection in the tinted glass. His lips tighten against a smile.

"I've seen how well you manage on your own." The words only carry warmth, no pity or condescension. "I just wanted to escort you home. Every lady should have an escort. It has nothing to do with what you can or can't do, Leah."

My name on his lips sends adrenaline tearing through me.

"Sorry." I try to meet his eyes, but it lasts only a couple of heartbeats before my gaze drops and lands squarely on his crotch. Fresh fire floods my cheeks, and I bite back a moan. "I'm not sure why I'm being so rude to you."

"It's okay, Leah."

We ride the last few miles in silence. I don't look at him. I don't have to, to know his eyes never leave me.

By the time we turn into the drive, I'm ready to crawl out of my own skin. I study the house like I've never seen it. Sleek lines, glass, dark manicured green. Nothing like the opulent mansion I lived in until two weeks ago.

"Well. Thank you for escorting me." The snark creeps back, and I don't know why I keep aiming it at him. I rein it in. "Wilson will take you wherever you need to go. I'll get myself to the door." I lean forward, body tensing for the humiliation that always comes with getting out of a car.

"Do you know there's a code?" Allister smiles, and my belly does the thing it only ever does in cheap romance novels.

God, how does he do that?

"Code?" I lift a brow.

"The real-man code."

"What are you talking about?" I hate that I'm desperate to keep him here a few more minutes.

"Real men finish what they start. Real men walk ladies to the door. Real men have a code. You'll get familiar with it. But for now, just know I'll be walking you to that door."

All I can do is sit there, mute, and try not to drool.

The limo eases to a stop in front of the guesthouse.

The door clicks open, and Wilson's there with his usual warm smile, the gold-capped tooth catching the light. He's been driving my family since before the accident, before my parents died.

He’s old enough to be one of them, steady enough to feel like one. When Simon took over the house and used me to bend May to his will, half the staff scattered. Wilson didn't.

He and the two old-timers circled the wagons around me and never explained why. They just stayed.

He's the closest thing to safe I've had in a long time.

Wilson reaches in to take my hand. Allister's is there first.

"I'll take it from here. Thank you." He moves swift and silent for a man his size, easing Wilson back with nothing but his body.

Wilson grimaces. His eyes go from me to Allister and back, and there's something in them I don't have a name for. He's staff, but he’s never felt only like staff.

"I'll be here to take you back to the house—"

"We'll be fine." Allister doesn't let him finish. "I'll take her wherever she needs to go."

Both men go still, squared off, deciding something over my head. And somehow it's my job to smooth it. "I'll text you when I need the car, Wilson. Thank you."

He hesitates. Then, quietly: "You have my number."

Another look passes between them. Whatever it is, it's about me.

I barely know Allister. I learned a long time ago that almost everyone who gets close wants something, and it's usually our money. Wilson never has. Not once.

"Leah." Allister leans down until his face fills the open door. " Take my hand, let me help you inside. My gentleman card gets revoked if I don't get you in safe and sound."

I swallow hard and shift toward the door. Thank God for gauzy silk; it slides over the leather easy. I can't push off with my legs, so I use my arms to drag myself into position, reaching down to lift my feet and set them where they'll fall square under me when I stand.

If I stand. Wouldn't be the first time I've gone over. Face down, ass up.

Cute for a porn star. Not for me.

Part of me wants to trade Allister for Wilson right now, only because Wilson's already seen me at my worst.

He doesn't make me feel the way Allister does.

Or give me the urge to kiss him.

The way Allister does.

The straps bite into my thighs as I move, the steel cold through my skirt. I will the heat down out of my face and fail.

Needless to say, these are not Jimmy Choos.

My cheeks flash flaming fuchsia just as Allister leans into the doorway, both enormous hands scooping up mine. Those golden eyes never leave my face.

"I've got you, Leah. I'll never let you fall."

And the dangerous thing, the terrifying thing, is that some starving, broken part of me wants to believe him.