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“I won’t.” One hand cradled the back of her neck, while the other arm pulled her in close. Ever.
His lips found hers, sealing them together. She arched into him, her fingers tightening in his thick hair as the tip of her tongue tasted the seam of his mouth. Her soft moan sent a frisson of heat along each and every nerve. He teased her, the tip of his tongue, the cling of his lips, bearing her back on her bed to explore every curve. The spot behind her knee. The bend of her elbow. The skin of her side. Her hip. He lingered over her breasts, until each tip was pebble-hard for his mouth. Her bra and panties joined everything else on the floor, and still he took his time. His unhurried exploration had her breathing hard and hanging on to his waist.
He shivered as her fingers traced—the lightest of touches—the pattern of ink across his chest and arms. His lips parted hers, and she gasped at the thrust of his tongue and the fervor of his kiss. He was barely holding on, the press of her knees against his hips a clear invitation. When she was gasping for air, his lips traveled to the spot behind her ear, down the length of her neck, to press hot, wet kisses at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
He stared down at her as they came together, hissing as the tight heat of her body opened for him.
“Jace,” she whispered, her nails scraping his upper arms.
If this was what she needed, being in his arms, he’d give it to her. She might not be ready to admit that there was a hell of a lot more than animal attraction going on here. But she would. When she was ready. Until then, he’d be here. Giving her what she needed. Loving her as best he could.
Chapter 18
“This one says I’m a soulless millennial exploiting real issues for a profit.” Krystal skimmed the rest of the article. “All about how spoiled and entitled I am. Blah blah blah. Should be thankful for the people who’ve put me where I am—Tig Whitman included.” She set the magazine aside and poked at her grapefruit half. “I am thankful. Not for Tig, but for how lucky I am.”
“Um, luck might have something to do with it. But you know, there’s that whole hard work and real talent thing that helps, Krys. Stop reading them.” Travis pushed the magazine off the table and onto the floor.
She shrugged.
It had been a week since her interview. In that time, Tig had located two kids from the Wellness Ranch—people she had no recollection of—talking about how mean and dismissive she was of everyone else there.
One backup singer—whom her mother had fired—shared an episode confirming Krystal’s “temper tantrum mentality” when she ripped off a costume backstage and screamed at her manager. That one was true. But Steve had insisted she wear a dress that didn’t let her move. She’d almost fallen twice during her performance, so when she’d finished her set without actual bodily harm, she had taken it off and thrown it at him.
Even Misumi’s mother had been sucked into it all, her comments edited to sound as if Misumi was overworked and underpaid. But that was only partly true. Krystal and Emmy had just given her a substantial raise and her hours were self-imposed. The girl didn’t have an off switch.
Not all of these newly unearthed “close connections” were bad. The woman she’d volunteered with at the animal shelter had only nice things to say about Krystal. “I trust an animal’s instinct over a human’s any day. All the animals loved Krystal. I think what’s happening to her is shameful.”
Her choreographer praised how methodical and dedicated she was to her overall health and performance—not in the least bit relevant for this situation, but still nice to hear. Her daddy had always enforced how important being in shape was to a performer. Eating right, with the occasional splurge, and working out were a part of daily routine. A habit, not a chore or hardship.
Mrs. Charles, her favorite school tutor, had blasted the bad press. “That girl is tough because she’s had to be. It’s easy to twist things around when you have no idea what they’ve been through. She tells everyone what she’s been through and people are still twisting things around.” She had sent Mrs. Charles a thank-you note and some daisies, her favorite. Few people outside her family would dare to defend her so vehemently at this point.
She and her siblings’ entire education had been conducted through tutors and online programs. Until now, she’d hated missing out on going to school, having friends, a lunch period, recess… Now, she was relieved. Who knew what sort of backlash Jimmy from second grade could use against her? As it was, there was no Jimmy from second grade.
“You need to focus on other things right now. Good things. The single drops tomorrow,” Travis reminded her, pushing the grapefruit closer. “Eat something. You’re getting all pokey looking.”
She frowned.
Emmy appeared, sliding into the red vinyl booth beside her. “You should have ordered the waffles. With the strawberries and cream.”
She nodded.
“Why is my magazine on the floor?” Emmy stooped.
“She was reading the article.” Travis shot their sister a look. “It wasn’t kind. Imagine that, considering the title and all.”
“A Tragedy or a Tragic Liar?” It was Emmy Lou’s turn to frown. “I didn’t buy it for the articles.” She flipped the pages and held it up. “There’s a whole section on Halloween treats.” She turned the page. “Look at these marshmallow ghosts. Aren’t they adorable? And these cookie and pretzel spiders. We need to have a Halloween party so I can make all this.”
Emmy’s favorite holiday was Halloween. It was true, they had only the best memories of the holiday. Costumes made it okay for the family to go out together, without all the hubbub that would normally accompany a King family outing. As a child, having your daddy to yourself like other kids—even for one night—had made the night special.
“Halloween is a ways off.” Travis stared down at the recipe. “Why would you combine a chocolate crème cookie with pretzel sticks and licorice?”
“Don’t knock Red Vines.” Krystal pointed at him with her spoon. “They are never a bad choice.”
The bell over the diner door rang and she turned, like she had the last four times it rang, to see who had come in. Not that she was looking for someone in particular.
“He’s not coming. Said he didn’t sleep well. Or feel well. One of them.” Travis sighed, leaning back. “You need to make up your mind, Krystal. You keep stringing him along, you’re going to lose him. Guys don’t like that shit.”
“I’m not stringing him along. My mind is made up and he knows that.” Not that she or her siblings believed a word she said. Her heart definitely didn’t. With a sigh, she set down her spoon. “What’s wrong? Is he sick? Or just tired?”
