Jill Sorenson - Set The Dark On Fire

His gut clenched with guilt and longing, because he remembered the incident in achingly vivid detail.

After pocketing the cash, Juan Carlos had taken him to his dad’s workshop, a small outbuilding next to the main house. The bathroom window was visible through the shop’s dusty windowpane. Juan Carlos instructed him to stand on the worktable, and from that vantage point, Dylan could see into the shower stall.

A few minutes later, Angel had come in, taken off her robe, and stood under the shower spray in her bare naked glory.

He was floored by the sight. He’d looked at dirty magazines before, of course, but this was different. She was real. While he stared, transfixed, she’d turned and let the water cascade down her slender back. By the time she started shampooing her hair, he was painfully aroused. With his eyes peeled and his mouth slack, he’d watched soapy rivulets course down her belly and into the dark triangle between her thighs.

Juan Carlos must have decided upon seeing Dylan’s reaction that pimping out a peep show of his sister was wrong because he let out a feral growl and tackled him. They landed in a heap of arms and legs on the shop’s dirt floor, and Dylan, too stunned to fight back, didn’t even begin to defend himself until Juan Carlos bloodied his nose.

“It was your idea,” he protested when Juan Carlos let up on him.

“Cochino,” Juan Carlos shot back, spitting on the dirt. “I changed my mind.”

Dylan groaned and stayed where he was on the floor, unable to move, unable to think. Incredibly, the furious attack hadn’t eased the pressure in his groin.

“Sácate, cabrón,” Juan Carlos said, standing him up and pushing him out the door.

Walking was difficult, for the clutch of desire refused to release him. Blood was dripping from his nose but he hardly felt it. He couldn’t see anything but wet skin. He couldn’t think of anything but hot sex.

He got as far away as he could manage, into the copse of trees near his house, and jerked open the fly of his pants. A couple of awkward strokes and he was convulsing with pleasure, sinking to his knees and gasping for air. It was kind of like dying, he supposed. And so compelling an act… that when he’d recovered well enough to catch his breath, he immediately chose to die again.

Now, four years later, he was an expert in self-gratification. But he still felt awkward around Angel Martinez, the sight of her still made him breathless, and the prospect of seeing her naked again still had the power to bring him to his knees.

Angel finished drying the dishes and hung up her apron with an exhausted yawn. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and Saturdays were always rough. The amount of housework this family generated was astronomical.

Rubbing her tired eyes, she left the kitchen via the back door and rounded the side of the house, anticipating nothing more adventurous than a full night’s sleep.

Her thoughts scattered as a man came out of no where, clamping his arm around her waist and securing his hand over her mouth. Her first instinct was to scream, but she couldn’t draw breath. When she tasted the salty skin of his palm, she bit down hard, sinking her nails into his forearm and kicking out with her legs at the same time.

“Ow!” he said, releasing her.

Angel whirled around, to see Dylan Phillips standing in the shadows. “Hijo de puta,” she gasped, holding her hand over her galloping heart. “Are you loco ?”

“Sorry,” he said with a wince, cradling his injured palm. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was afraid you would see me and scream.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

When he made no reply, she realized he’d had no intention of approaching her back door. He’d been hanging around in the dark, spying on her.

For a genius, he acted pretty dumb sometimes.

“Come on,” she said, walking toward her bedroom door. Last year, when she turned eighteen, her dad had converted his dusty old workshop into a studio for her. It still didn’t have electricity, but it boasted other luxurious amenities, such as a private bathroom with running water and a door that locked.

Inside, she lit the kerosene lamp before she turned to face him.

“Is this your room now?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

She scanned the contents of her bedroom, wondering if he was being sarcastic. The place was sparsely furnished, cramped, and rustic, but it was hers. Her jail. Her only sanctuary. “Is your hand bleeding?” she asked, dragging her gaze back to him.

Frowning, he rubbed a thumb over the wound on his palm. “Nah. You didn’t break the skin. I think it’ll bruise, though. It hurts like a mother.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it was my fault. I didn’t mean to remind you of what happened last night.” Even in the meager light, she noticed the flush that stole over his cheekbones. “At the Graveyard, I mean. Not in my room.”

He wasn’t smooth, but he was chivalrous. He’d proven that much the night before. “Why did you come here?” she asked, annoyed with herself for finding him so appealing.

“You forgot to take the CD when you left.” Shrugging out of his backpack, he rummaged around for it. “Here.”

She took the disc from him reluctantly. Before last night, she’d never have considered hooking up with him. He’d always been her little brother’s friend, the skinny kid whose hair stuck up all over the place, the nerdy boy next door.

Since Angel had dropped out of high school, he’d changed. He’d grown about six inches taller, for one. He was still skinny, but now he had a lot of lean muscle under those baggy clothes. He was still nerdy, with his thrift store T-shirts and serious blue eyes, but these days he made quirky look hot. His hair still stuck up in the middle, but even that flaw worked in his favor. He had this new punk rock haircut, short on the sides and spiky on top.

The biggest difference was in his demeanor. He’d always been mischievous, and he’d often been angry. Now that he’d matured, he’d learned how to guard his emotions more effectively, but he was still troubled.

He fairly smoldered with pent-up rage.

With his edgy new look, pretty blue eyes, and fuck-you attitude, Dylan Phillips wasn’t just hot. He was dangerous.

She studied him from beneath lowered lashes, thinking it was too bad she wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend. Because after a few basic instructions, he’d been an exceptional kisser. He had great instincts. And good hands.

“Dylan,” she said, sitting down on the edge of her bed and urging him to take a seat beside her. The eager expression on his face told her everything she needed to know. “I don’t want there to be any confusion, because of last night. I know I said one thing and did another, but after what happened, I guess I felt… indebted to you.”

He was silent for a moment. “Is that how you always repay your debts?”

She flushed. Sometimes she liked him better when he was at a loss for words. “Of course not. It’s just that you’ve always been more like-”

“A friend?”

“A kid brother,” she corrected, pulling no punches.

His eyes darkened. “I’m not a kid.”

She couldn’t help but remember the way he’d touched her last night, the weight of his body on hers, and the delicious friction of his nylon basketball shorts as he moved against her. “No,” she agreed, swallowing dryly.

“Are you seeing someone else?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Then I don’t see why we can’t-”

“Sleep together on the down-low?”

“I never said that,” he murmured, less angry with her than she wanted him to be. “I’d be happy just to kiss.” His gaze, which was usually trained on her face, refreshingly enough, dropped to the apex of her thighs. “On the down-low. Or wherever else.”