Up in Smoke (King #8)

“The what?” he asks with a laugh.

“The harem. The bevy of beauties that run after you, leaving puddles of drool in your wake. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Duke Weathersby. I’ve heard that term a million times so I know you have, too.”

“I might have heard it a time or two,” Duke admits. A sly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me to the edge of the counter. “I mean I guess it’s good you don’t talk to anyone else. That way, I get to keep you all to myself.”

Duke leans in and presses his lips against mine. Our mouths meld and move together. It’s an enjoyable kiss, it always is. I liken it to finishing a great book. A nice hot shower. Or finding a killer pair of jeans on the 50% off rack.

There’s fireworks, but not the exploding colors, loud booms, fourth of July finale, kind. No, what we have is more of the waving-a-sparkler-around-in-the-front-yard kind. I like sparklers.

Sparklers are nice.

Plus, the chances of getting hurt or burned are low. And just like Duke—they’re safe.

I return his kiss. My mouth opens to his when he parts my lips with his tongue. My nipples harden when he presses closer, and I can feel the heat of his skin through our shirts. I relax and push myself up against him, needing to feel his hard body against mine. Needing to be reminded that I’m human and that I’m alive and that someone else in this world knows it, too.

Duke Weathersby is the closest I’ve ever come to having a boyfriend, even though he isn’t my boyfriend and never will be. Our pseudo-relationship consists of small talk, getting high, and making out. Which is basically a lot of over-the-clothes petting followed by me sending Duke home with a raging case of blue-balls.

Duke pulls back slightly, fingering the neckline of my shirt, brushing along my skin toward my exposed shoulder. His forehead is pressed against mine. “I think we should take this upstairs to your room. All these clothes are getting in the way,” he whispers against my lips, tugging at the frayed end of my sweat-shorts. He rocks his erection between my legs.

I smile against his lips and lift my ass off the counter, shamelessly grinding myself against him.

Duke groans into my mouth and grabs my hips, rotating them, grinding me against the hardness jutting up against the zipper of his khakis.

I’m turned on. I am. I am female, after all, and Duke’s stunningly attractive. As much as I know I’m not like other girls in school, I’m not immune to the charm, smile, or muscles of Duke Weathersby. I blame nature and pheromones. Birds and bees. You know, science-ey stuff and all that jazz.

A part of me would like nothing more than to let him drag me upstairs so he can have his wicked way with me.

A much bigger part of me just can’t go there.

I’m a damn tease. I know it. Duke has got to know it, too. But he keeps coming back, and the truth is that’s what I want. Him to come back. Company. Human contact.

My friendship with him was already breaking one of my rules. Sex would be obliterating it and I’m not willing to take it that far. Not yet, anyway. Not while there’s so much on the line.

I pull back. “I…I can’t. My dad,” I whisper, dragging my teeth along the skin of his neck— just below his ear— rejecting him while promising him the possibilities the future might hold.

“He never comes out of the basement,” Duke reminds me, peppering kisses along my neck, trying to convince me with his lips. He moves to my clavicle, adding light biting and licking to the mix. I feel my muscles tensing. My desire building. My determination to keep this relationship PG-13 crumbles as he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and traces it with his skilled tongue.

I must admit that the boy is gooooood. There’s a reason why he has a harem. A well-deserved one at that.

“Let me make you come,” Duke whispers, squeezing the tops of my thighs sending a jolt of happy pleasure between my legs.

I’m desperate. I’m needy. I’m high. I’m lonely.

So very fucking lonely.

I don’t want to be. I just want to feel…something else. Something at all. Something that doesn’t come with worry or hurt or panic.

“Okay,” I hear myself say.

Duke makes a sound low in his throat. A little bit growl. A little bit groan. He snakes his hand up my shorts. The heat from his fingers alone is driving me to the edge. I’ve never let him touch me there before. I’ve never let ANYONE touch me there before. I’m both excited and nervous and totally reckless, wrapping my legs around his waist, urging him closer.

The tips of Duke’s fingers brush across my throbbing folds and achingly neglected flesh just as a loud crash echoes through the room.

“Where did that come from?” Duke whispers.

The basement.

It came from the basement.





Chapter Three





“Shit! Your dad!” Duke leaps away from me as if he’s been stung by a bee.

I’m off the counter, ushering him to the door, while white hot fear burns inside my chest.

“Sorry, maybe some other time. I’m gonna go check on my dad.”

“I…I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at school,” Duke says with obvious disappointment in his voice.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. School.” I mumble, unbolting and unlatching the series of locks.

I get the door open in record time. Duke steps out onto the concrete porch, tapping away at his phone. I’m sure he’s sending a text to the next—more willing—girl on his grocery delivery route. I honestly wish I could bring myself to care, but I’ve either pushed that part of me so far down I can’t find it anymore, or I never had it to begin with.

I smile and try to remember to look disappointed when all I really want to do is scream at him to run for his life.

But I don’t. I wait. I have to wait.

And it’s killing me.

Duke shoves his phone into his pocket. He gives me one more killer smile before pecking me on the lips and reaching around to smack me on the ass. His gaze lingers on my body for a few seconds.

Just get in your fucking car already.

I wait patiently with what I hope looks like a smile on my face for him to walk backward down the steps with his eyes never leaving mine until he reaches the curb where his Prius is parked. It’s wrapped in the same bright green GrubTrain logo as his hat and shirt. He turns his baseball cap back around before he gets in and starts the engine. He rolls the window down. “Bye, Sarah,” he says with a wave.

The way Sarah rolls lazily off his perfect lips makes me almost wish it were my real name.