Crashed by Elise Faber

Chapter Fifteen

Fanny

She was exhausted.

It was the evening after the raffle, she’d hardly slept the night before, and only part of that was because of Scar’s shenanigans the previous evening.

The rest was nerves.

She’d driven home and laid in bed and hadn’t been able to sleep for hours.

It was so easy to be confident when all the yumminess of Brandon was in her vicinity, to lean into him when he slid an arm around her waist, to kiss him back when his lips found hers, but when he wasn’t there and she was in her bed alone, under the covers, and all was quiet, the old doubts had decided to creep in.

What if he got sick again?

What if he forgot again?

What if she got her heart broken again?

What if—

The scenarios were endless . . . and terrifying.

She’d been up until the sun had begun to rise, unable to sleep until she’d finally given in and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the scarf Brandon had given her, wrapping the only piece of him she had in her possession around her, and that was what it had taken for her finally fall asleep.

Obviously, she’d slept the day away, thanking God it was Saturday and she had no clinics to teach and could laze in bed.

Now, she was still in her bedroom, having gorged herself on caramels while she was getting ready for her date. Probably, she should deliberately dress all frumpy, just because he’d been so presumptuous with the whole date-asking, taking advantage of her being so discombobulated to get her to agree, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wanted to bring her A-game.

She wanted his eyes to pop out of his head.

She wanted him to look at her with the tangle of heat and need that had danced across his dark brown eyes the night before.

So . . . she’d brought her A-game.

Sleek black stockings that stopped at mid-thigh. A lavender garter belt that she’d bought on a whim and never worn, the thin elastic bands making her shiver where they pressed into the skin on the front and back of her legs. Her bra was hardly more than a scrap of lace with absolutely no support. It looked pretty and the material brushed over her already sensitive nipples, causing desire to pool in her abdomen, moisture to flood her pussy.

The man wasn’t even here yet, and she wanted him.

Desperately.

Her hands shook as she stepped into her dress and tugged up the zipper, thankful that it was under her arm, and she wasn’t forced to contort herself to get it pulled up.

Then she was stepping into her stilettos, knowing her feet would be killing her in no time at all.

Worth it.

They made her legs look long and lean, and paired with her gorgeous black dress with its plunging neckline, short hem, and barely-there back, she knew she looked good. Combined with the full face of makeup, fake lashes, and long, loose curls down her back, she felt ready to take on the world when the doorbell rang.

She hustled to her bedroom and brushed her teeth in record time, thankful that her lipstick was the smudge-free variety, then moved downstairs and to the door . . . just as the bell rang again.

“Impatient,” she muttered, reaching to open it.

“Sorry,” Brandon said the moment it swung wide. “I wasn’t sure you’d heard the—holy fucking shit.” His jaw dropped open—literally open—and damn, that felt great for a number of reasons. First, she wasn’t the one with her mouth gaping open, ready to catch flies. For another, she got that tangle of heat and need. And lastly, his throat worked for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice all sexy rasp that slid over her exposed skin. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” He reached for her then stopped, as though he didn’t know where he could touch her.

If he could touch her.

She helped him cross that hurdle by stepping forward, not stopping until her body was flush with his. He looked good, too. Great, actually. He was wearing another one of those suits, and it showcased his long, lean lines. Mouthwateringly so.

But then she was against him and could see nothing but the strong delineation of his jaw, the soft cushions of his lips, the deep brown of his eyes.

He had a scar to the right of his eyebrow, one she hadn’t seen before, and she found herself reaching up and brushing her thumb over it. “What happened?” she whispered. He hadn’t had it when they’d been together.

His hand came up and covered hers, the roughness of his fingertips making her lean more heavily against him.

“I should tell you I got into a bar fight,” he murmured, his words ruffling her hair.

“Or stopped a little old lady from getting mugged?” She played along.

“Then saved a stray kitten from a tree?”

She nodded, shifting back enough to see his eyes, her lips curving upward when she saw the amusement dancing through those chocolate depths. “Exactly,” she said, slowly sliding her fingers down his temple, his cheek, his jaw, his throat until her palm rested on his shoulder. “So, you clearly won the fight, saved the old lady, and rescued the kitten, and . . . ?”

“Ran into a cabinet I didn’t close?” he chimed in.

Fanny froze. Then busted out laughing. “Seriously?” she asked through her guffaws.

“Unfortunately, yes.” He pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into her face. “But I got six stitches and a lesson in why I should close them.”

“But the question is do you close them?”

A grin. “Yes, I learned that lesson, I promise.”

“Glad to hear my head is safe.”

He smiled down at her. “Should we go to dinner?”

Fan nodded, started to step out of his arms, then realized how much she hated the idea of not being held by him, even for just a couple of hours while they drove to the restaurant and ate. “Brandon?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, baby?” he asked, smoothing his hand over her hair.

“Do you want to go to dinner?”

His hand stopped, just for a moment, before weaving into her hair and gently tilting her head back. “Do you want to go to dinner?”

She shook her head.

“Thank fuck,” he muttered.

Shock had her blinking at him as he backed her into the house and shut the door behind him. Click went the lock. Then his mouth was on hers. She gasped, and he took advantage, slipping his tongue inside and kissing her until she forgot about the fact that her feet were already pinching in her heels, that her lungs needed air, that her heart threatened to pound out of her chest.

When he broke away, her pulse was thundering in her veins, her breathing in rapid gusts.

“Why . . . thank . . . fuck?” she gasped.

He grinned, not even out of breath when she was feeling like she’d run a goddamn marathon. “Because I don’t have to fight off all the other fuckers who would be looking at you tonight.”

That had her straightening, her brows dragging together. “I hope you’re not being serious.”

He just kissed her again until her lungs threatened to burst, until she forgot what she’d been saying, until her outrage—and okay, a little bit of pleasure—at his possessiveness was a long lost thought.

“Do you want me to cook you dinner?” he asked when he’d released her lips.

It was so silken, so quiet that it took her a moment to process. “Um, what?”

“Are you hungry?”

She was hungry for sure. But dinner was the last thing on her mind. But wait, she needed to remember what had sparked her annoyance a moment before. What was it? Oh—

“You’re not going to tell me how to dress,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. He’d hadn’t tried to before, but this was a different Brandon in a lot of ways—older, stronger, more intense—and she needed to set him straight right off the bat. If she wanted to run around San Francisco naked during Bay to Breakers, she damn well could. If she wanted to wear her sexy dress and not care who looked, then she damned well would.

“Of course not.”

The matter-of-fact way he said it took the wind out of her sails. She’d just been getting her mad on, and he responded with the correct answer.

“Oh,” she said.

“But I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have a claim.”

That made her brows lift.

“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked.

Fanny should say it was going to be, just out of principal. She was a strong, independent woman. The only one with a claim over her was her. But . . . she couldn’t lie and say a tiny part of her wasn’t thrilled with Brandon wanting her to be his, so long as—

“Is it going to be a problem when I claim you?” she asked archly.

He froze, his eyes got all melty, and he stepped closer. “No.” His mouth came to her ear, his tongue darting out to taste the lobe. “I’d be honored to be claimed by you.”

Her breath caught.

But she was that strong, independent woman.

Which meant that even though his eyes were warm and his tongue made her shiver, she still knew what she wanted.

And that was Brandon.

Oh fuck.

This wasn’t considering giving him a chance.

This was him having a direct path to her heart—her realizing he always had.

Pulse pounding, fear and hope, need and longing all twisted up inside her, she stepped back, spun away from him, moving as fast as she could down the hall and into the back yard.

“Fan?” He tried to catch her arm, but she dodged it, kept walking until the cool air was hitting her skin, the moon was bright overhead.

What was she doing?

She should run.

Except . . .

He’d shown up on her porch and shaken her peaceful life, rattling the branches and sending leaves scattering, shattering everything she’d thought was important into irreparable pieces.

“Fan.”

She put her hand up, not looking at him. “Please, just . . .”

He paused. She could feel his heat near her, could smell his scent, could hear the quiet rasp of his breath as he held himself back.

She needed to think, to process and—

She also didn’t.

Because when all that had been scattered had settled, the broken shards gathered—when she’d read the notebook with all of his mother’s memories of them, when he’d surprised her with the basket of gifts, with the certificate to the winery, when he’d cooked for her and offered tonight, when he’d been so gentle with her while taking off her skates, when he’d followed her home, when she remembered the hundreds of other sweet and gentle ways he’d taken care of her before—Fanny knew that irreparable didn’t mean forever broken.

She would never be the same.

Neither would he.

There were no guarantees. There never could be. Neither of them could tell the future.

The only thing she did know?

That she didn’t want to waste any more time.

Maybe the cancer would always be a frightening monster in the back of her mind.

Maybe her heart would always be the teensiest bit broken.

Maybe she would always be worried it might be taken away.

But . . . she could get mowed over by a bus tomorrow. She could get sick and die. She could lose Brandon all over again. And maybe it was the sexy underwear or the heated way Brandon looked at her, inflating her confidence, making her reckless with the urge to jump into things with him with both stilettos, but she also knew the truth.

That she was already in with him.

No matter how hard she’d fought in the beginning, she’d been sliding down this slope.

So . . . it was time to let go.

To be with the man she’d never stopped loving, even when she’d been broken into pieces by that love.

Enough time had been lost.

She didn’t need to squander any more.

And with that thought, the last remnants of indecision floated away like a balloon flying up into the sky.

“I’m not hungry for food,” she murmured.

He straightened, tilted her head back, and stared into her eyes. “What are you hungry for, baby?”

A deep breath, shoving that fear down and locking it up.

Not forever.

Because she didn’t want it bubbling back up again. She’d take it out. She’d deal with it. They would build something new, something untarnished by the past.

Something that would mean everything going forward.

So when he asked what she was hungry for, Fanny said the only thing she could,

“You.”

No hesitation. Not anymore. She was done running and hiding. She was going to grab on to her life, on to this man, and she was going to live.