Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(48)

“We call this self-destructing,” Caleb says above me. He bends down and scoops me up.

I latch on to his neck and peer into his eyes. They’re so blue, I could fall into them.

“I’m not,” I promise. “Just…”

He exhales. “Just what?”

“Washing away today.”

His face shutters. “I’m taking you home.”

Riley bolts to her feet. “She can’t—”

“I know.” He carries me out of the house, down the driveway.

Hoots and hollers follow us.

“People are mean,” I mutter. I crane my head down. His is wrapped around my back, fingers curled on my rib cage. “Your knuckles are bruised.”

He frowns. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

“This is self-inflicted,” I argue. “Maybe you’re the self-destructing one.”

He chuckles darkly, setting my feet on the ground as he fishes out his keys. “Are you going to puke in my car?”

“No.” I cross my arms, indignant, but I have to uncross them a minute later so I don’t topple over. My balance is gone.

Shot.

“If you do…”

I raise my eyebrows, leaning against the car. He frames me in and smirks at me.

“You’ll what?” I ask. “Spank me?” I shiver, picturing how that might feel… and unable to hide the goosebumps that break out across my body.

“Margo?”

I blink up at him.

Caleb smiles. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His fingers trace up my sides, pushing the hem of my shirt up, too. “A little pain with your pleasure? Does it turn you on?”

“I—”

His hand slides into my pants, cupping me. “Soaked,” he murmurs. “How drunk are you?”

I shrug. “There are two of you.”

He exhales and moves me to the side, opening my door. “Get in. Before I do something I shouldn’t.”

Turns out… doing something he shouldn’t means kissing me in the driveway, both of us straining to get closer. He lifts me and slips his hand into my pants again. Doing something he shouldn’t means putting my hand to his erection, letting me feel him through his pants.

I need more. His tongue, his hands, his dick—I’m hot with the urge to jump his bones. In public. Against his freaking car, where anyone can see.

He pulls away.

“You’re drunk, Margo,” he whispers. “And I’m not a good enough guy to tell you no.”

“Then don’t,” I mumble. Outside of our bubble, the world could be exploding for all I care.

He nips my throat.

“Caleb.” I wrap my arms around his neck, trying not to whimper.

He nearly throws me into my seat, glaring at me. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you no.”

A dose of reality comes back for a second, and I slouch. “Maybe you should take me home.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, exhaling.

We start driving, and I kind of zone out while his hand traces patterns on my leg. Before I know it, he’s scooping me out of the car and carrying me up a walkway.

“They’re gonna see,” I moan. Lenora and Robert are going to freak out if Caleb carries me into the house.

But he doesn’t stop to knock. He pushes the door open, and I crack my eyes enough to realize I’m not about to be confronted by my foster parents. We’re not even at his house. Yet he knows his way around and goes straight to the basement. I force my eyes to open. The basement has been converted into a bedroom.

“Where are we?” I mutter.

“Shh,” he whispers. “If I bring you back to the Jenkinses like this, they’ll crucify me.”

“So this is a self-preservation thing.” I close my eyes again. He’s warm.

He sets me on the bed and tugs at my clothes.

“Caleb Asher, are you trying to get me naked?” I’m not against it. I let him pull my jacket off, and then my shoes.

He pushes me back into the mattress. “You’re so fucking drunk. On one drink?”

I lift my shoulder. “In my defense, it was mostly vodka.”

“A cup full of vodka.” He snorts.

“And a dash of soda.”

“That must’ve tasted great.” He sits next to me, the bed dipping. He brushes the hair away from my face gently.

I’m suddenly reminded of my dad doing the same thing.

My lungs stop working.

“Stop.” I knock his hand away, covering my fear with annoyance. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me with confusion. “God, don’t get soft on me.”

“Sleep, then,” he offers.

“I have a curfew.”

He strokes my hair again and grabs my wrist when I try to bat it away. “You have two hours before curfew. And let me fucking be nice to you.”

I hold still as he picks up strands of my hair. He seems determined to touch me, and I can’t relax.

“What’s the issue?” he murmurs. “You’re more tense now than…”

I scoot backward, clumsily, and pat the mattress. I can’t open my eyes and bear to see emotions on his face—whatever sort of emotion that may be. Anger. Annoyance. Curiosity.