by B. B. Miller
“Fuck, stop talking. That accent…” Her words disappear on a whimper as my thumb brushes over her swollen clit. She throws her head back against the metal building, her short blond layers a tangled, freshly fucked mess, her pretty mouth parted, tempting me to taste it.
She claws at my hips, tugging me forward as my lips glide a hungry circuit along the curve of her neck. “Christ,” I mumble against her thundering pulse, and she wraps her legs around my waist.
I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve had my fair share of women and experiences, but this? Out in the open, with the New York sun blazing over us, where anyone could find me buried inside her, is something else entirely.
She meets every punch of my hips as I drive into her with firm and unhurried strokes building to something rough and decadent. On a delicious cry, she wraps her other leg around my waist; her hands seem to be everywhere, clutching at my neck, fisting my T-shirt, drifting between us to tease her sensitive skin.
A series of unintelligible groans and curses are shared between us when we find a rougher rhythm. My hands tighten against her thighs on another powerful thrust. Her back slams against the building, the sound loud and echoing in my ears. She’s a glorious, trembling mess, gently brushing her fingertips over my cheeks as my cock throbs inside her. She traces my nose, my jaw, everywhere but my lips, her gaze holding mine the whole time.
“God, right there,” she murmurs, her hips churning to meet mine.
Then she takes my face between her hands, and her intoxicating blue-gray eyes meet mine and I’m lost. Lost in the electric burn that fires down my spine, in the sensation of her shattering around me, in the shudder that rips through me with my own release.
I can feel her heart pound, and her warm, wet pussy welcoming me home. I’m desperate to crash my lips to hers. She’s still holding my face like I may break apart. She’s pinned to the building, completely at my mercy, but somehow I’m the one who feels vulnerable. She’s stripped me bare.
Her eyes burn with intensity before they drop to my lips. It’s like she can feel the same fiery need as I do, but she turns her head to the side, avoiding my lips once more. I grip her hips, and gradually lower her legs to the ground. Her eyes widen as I glide my palm along her outer thigh, reluctantly easing from her. Fucking hell. I’m completely, totally wrecked. Not breaking my gaze, she wobbles slightly with a ragged breath, and I hold her steady before leaning back to deal with the condom. Turning away from her to tie it off, my heart races as I try to catch my breath. Can you actually die from an adrenaline rush?
“Now, I definitely need a name, love.” I turn back to find her scrambling into her jeans, pushing her feet into the worn pair of trainers that hit the ground early on in our encounter, somewhere around the time she told me I had magic fingers.
“No. You don’t.” I frown as she runs her hands through her hair, trying to smooth it down. “No names, London. Don’t follow me,” she pants out. “Forget you ever saw me.” Her voice is clipped and raw. She may as well just gut me for everyone to see.
She squares her shoulders and marches her fine self along the side of the building, disappearing around the corner. No looking back, no little wave, no name or phone number… just nothing, and all I’m left with is the lingering adrenaline of the ultimate mind fuck.
Cassidy
Sweet crispy Christ! I hit the steering wheel with my fist as I speed back toward the city. What the fuck was I thinking? Fucking a total stranger out in the open air, where anyone could’ve seen me? I suck in a ragged breath and try to calm down. This is out there, even for me.
Then again…I really couldn’t help myself. Between that accent and those full lips I wish I could’ve tasted, I was done for. And his eyes…I haven’t seen eyes that green in years. I wonder what color his hair is under all that black dye. Maybe he has a goth thing going on.
I shake my head. Stop it, Cassidy. It doesn’t matter. You’ll never see him again. I shift in the driver’s seat, trying to ease the significant ache between my legs. As my granny used to say, he was touched by God, and knew what to do with the blessing. Good Lord, he was talented. It’s good I’ll never see him again, because I could become addicted to that kind of manhandling.
My cell phone rings and I jab the answer button on the steering wheel. My brother’s voice booms throughout the car before I can even say hello. “Where the hell are you? Intermission is almost over!”
I curse under my breath. “I told Mom I wasn’t coming.”
“Oh, please. Do you honestly think she believed you?” I can practically hear his eye roll. “Besides, you can’t make me face the snake pit by myself. I will never forgive you if you aren’t here by the time they start serving hors d’oeuvres.”
“You’ll get over it.” I change lanes and pass the Jeep that’s been billowing noxious exhaust for a mile. Jesus. Hasn’t he ever heard of emissions testing? “I have to put the finishing touches on a dress before Monday afternoon.”
“You have all day tomorrow to do that. I need you here, Cass. Don’t make me beg.”
The touch of desperation in his voice makes me cave. My mother is, no doubt, trying to hook him up with another “suitable match.” With a groan, I step on the gas. “Fine. I’ll be there in an hour or so—I’m almost back to the city. I have to stop and get dressed first.”
“An hour? Honestly, Cass, where are you? Aren’t you home?”
I stifle another groan. Kevin is terrified of heights and hates it when I skydive, but I love it. The thrill of flying without a net is addictive. No one cares who I am or who my parents are, and I can just…be. All my everyday worries and stress disappear. It helps put things in perspective. “I had an errand to run this morning,” I lie, not wanting to hear another safety lecture. “I’ll see you soon.” I hang up, cursing to myself. Being a player in my parents’ dog and pony show today was something I’d hoped to avoid. But I can’t say no to Kevin.
And he knows it. Jerk.
I fight my way over the Williamsburg Bridge and, a few minutes later, manage to snag a parking spot around the corner from my shop. The welcoming smell of fresh bagels greets me from the bakery across the street as I unlock my door and climb the stairs to my apartment. My shop and design studio is downstairs. I’m proud to say after five years, I’m starting to make a name for myself providing unique bridal creations to the pickiest of bridezillas and their mothers. I’m off the beaten path a bit—the garment district is about three miles away in midtown Manhattan—but I love my spot here in the East Village.
Casting a longing glance toward my sketchbook, I shake my head and rush to shower and change. Must look the part, after all.
“Cassidy! Finally!” My mother gives me a brittle smile, and I lean in to receive her air kiss. At fifty-five, Marilyn Skinner is the epitome of the political wife. Not a hair out of place, perfectly pressed suit dress, and pearls adorning her ears and neck. “We expected you hours ago.” She waves at someone across the room.
As Kevin said, she obviously ignored me when I said I wouldn’t be here. “Well, I’m here now,” I say shortly, and shoot my brother an annoyed look as he strolls up to join us. He greets me with a hug and an admiring glance at my dress.
“You look gorgeous. This is one of yours, right?”
I nod and run a hand over my skirt. Made out of dark sapphire blue taffeta, my cocktail dress is a throwback to the forties, with a narrow skirt, belt, and three-quarter length sleeves. “Finished it last week.” I wear my own creations to these events as much as possible—if I have to be here, I may as well get some free advertising out of it. I’ve scored more than one client thanks to my father’s career.
Kevin leans in to whisper in my ear. “Thanks for coming. Dad was on a real tear earlier when you didn’t show.”
I roll my eyes. Our father is always on a tear about something. The senior senator from Wyoming, Robert Skinner is currently preparing for reelection. Today’s little soiree, an afternoon performance by the New York Chamber Orches
tra followed by drinks, dinner, and a chance to meet the great man himself, is sponsored by his party’s national committee and Coleman Energy, one of dad’s biggest supporters. If I remember correctly, seats were going for fifteen hundred dollars a pop.
Chump change for some of these people.
My mother touches my arm. “I have to go say hello to the Bachmans. Don’t wander off, dear; your father wants a word. Kevin, will you show her to our table? Dinner should be starting soon.” She pats her blond helmet hair and flitters off, and my brother holds an arm out to me with a wry smile.
“This way,” he says with a ridiculous flourish, making me smile. I can never stay mad at him for long. Two years older than me, he was my partner in crime growing up. Some older brothers would’ve considered a younger sister a nuisance, but not Kevin. He showed me how to climb trees, which fishing lures to choose, and the best hiding places in our grandparents’ barn. We were inseparable until we went to college, him in New York and me in California—much to our dad’s chagrin. Not only were they liberal colleges in blue states, but they were as far away from Cheyenne as we could get. Kevin stayed in New York and joined a law firm specializing in land deals. I had originally thought I’d stay in Los Angeles, but…things didn’t work out that way.
“Does it ever strike you as hypocritical that Dad will happily spend all day lambasting New York’s liberal ways but doesn’t hesitate to raise money here?” I ask as we wind our way through the tables set with white tablecloths and little American flags.
Kevin laughs. “You say that like you’re surprised. There’s no way he could get what he needs for a run from just Wyoming donors. No one raises money solely in their own states. They go where the money is; you know that.”
I do know that. It’s disgusting how much money an election campaign requires. It’s the way it is; I’m enough of a realist to know that. But that doesn’t mean I like it. Political fundraising is a double-edged sword. Accepting money from wealthy donors and industrialists—like the ones in this room—means politicians are beholden to them, whether they want to admit it or not. It’s virtually impossible to take their money now and then tell them to go fuck themselves later if they don’t like how you’re going to vote on a crucial bill. On the other hand, without the money to keep winning elections and stay in office, you don’t get the chance to do what good you can do for your constituents. And that’s the whole point of being there. Theoretically.
We reach our table and stand behind our chairs. A few people are already seated at other tables and more are making their way here. “Hey, what happened to your arm?” Kevin holds my limb up. There’s a red scratch running the length of my right forearm.
“Oh, I caught it on a doorknob this morning.” I rub the mark absently as I lie through my teeth. In truth, it happened when London slammed my arm up against the metal building he had me pinned against while he pounded into me. I grip the chair back and smile down at my shoes. I can’t believe I did that, out in the open where anyone could see, but I can’t regret it. When I’d looked into those amazing green eyes when we’d landed and saw the exhilaration and triumph that matched my own, we hadn’t needed words. We both knew what we needed. And when he did speak, that accent…damn.
I hadn’t wanted to shower his scent off of me so soon, but it’s for the best. Maybe now I can stop thinking about him.
Kevin hums, accepting my excuse, and flags down a waiter to snag us both glasses of champagne. He’s in the middle of telling me about one of his cases when I hear a familiar voice call my name.
“Cassidy—just the person I was looking for.” Tall and distinguished with his steel-gray hair and pale blue eyes, my father gives me one of his political smiles as he leads two men over to our table. One I think is Mr. Coleman, and the other is about my age. Uh oh.
“Bert, you remember my daughter, Cassidy?” He eyes me like a prized mare. “Cass, this is Bert Coleman and his son, Jack.” I shake hands dutifully with him, a practiced smile on my lips. I know my role.
“Mr. Coleman, so nice to see you again. It’s been a few years.” He’s over sixty, with almost white hair and an impressive paunch. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met your son, though.” I turn toward the tall, dark-haired man waiting patiently to the side.
“Jack is set to replace his father as Coleman Energy CEO in a few years, once Bert finally decides to take life a little easier,” my father adds, and Bert lets out a guffaw.
“I’m not ready to go yet!” He’s full of good-old-boy cordiality, and claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “But yes, Jack here is more than up to the task. He’s my right-hand man now as it is. Coleman Energy wouldn’t be where it is without him.”
Jack gives me a self-deprecating smile, and I take his offered hand. He has classic good looks and a firm grip. “A pleasure to meet you, Cassidy.” His deep voice is smooth and melodious, but it doesn’t alleviate my growing suspicions about being set up… again.
Waiters begin to scurry about and more people have taken their seats. My mother joins us, two more people in tow. “Bob, let’s take our seats,” she says to my father, and beams at me. “Cassidy, I believe you’re sitting here, next to Jack. It’ll give you two some time to get acquainted. You have a lot in common!”
Bingo. I give my brother an accusatory glare, but he looks as surprised as I am. It’s me who’s being set up, not him. My father and Bert are giving each other congratulatory grins as they and the other table guests begin to take their seats.
Jack holds my chair out and gives me an expectant smile. “Cassidy?”
Mentally cursing a blue streak, I slide into my seat and try to pretend I don’t feel the walls closing in around me.
Murphy’s Law No. 272: Wedding preparations turn otherwise happy people into stress bombs.
Sean
THE AIRPORT IS PERFECT FOR one of my favorite pastimes: people watching. I’m at the arrivals gate at LaGuardia, waiting for my twin sister’s flight, which is delayed due to a storm or some other such nonsense. She’s spending the week in New York with me in search of the ultimate wedding dress. No matter how much I protest, this wedding is steaming ahead full throttle.
I’m relaxed as I can be in one of the stiff chairs after having done a few walkabouts through the terminal. You can learn a lot about people, watching them handle the barely contained chaos of an airport.
The balding businessman in a three-piece suit paces relentlessly in front of the screens as if each pass will bring the plane in faster. He’s wired tight, this one. A stress bomb waiting to go off.
There’s a swarm of departing passengers hovering around the baggage carousel, jockeying for position. It won’t get your bags here faster, that I can assure you.
A military man arriving from God only knows where drops his bags to the floor as he’s greeted by his family. It’s raw emotion at being reunited. There’s real tears and genuine affection that’s often lacking when you get busy with living the day-to-day.
The couple to my left refuse to speak to each other, sitting ramrod straight in their chairs, arms crossed with their scowls firmly in place. Life is too fucking short to be that unhappy.
Then there’s another couple who can’t keep their hands off each other. The man keeps his hand on his lady’s lower back while they wait for their order at the coffee stand. He takes a squeeze of her waist and bends to whisper next to her ear. She looks at him like he hung the moon.
I don’t have the faintest idea what that feels like—to look at someone like that or have someone else do the same, but it does make me think about my fly girl. I’ve been thinking about her a lot over the last couple of weeks. I don’t have a name. I don’t have a clue where she lives or what she does for a living, but fuck if I can’t get her out of my head.
Every curve of her body, every single little breathy moan against my neck is etched in my brain, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. She’s a mystery. A mystery that makes me think about things other than my band and our
next tour.
She was wild, a risk-taker with a spur-of-the-moment spirit. It’s rare to find that. I’m also not forgetting those gray-blue eyes any time soon. The streets of Manhattan offer no answers. In a crowd of hundreds, I find myself looking for those eyes, for that silky blond, sleek-cut hair. Even now as I wait for Sydney’s flight, I find myself lingering on every tall blonde that remotely resembles her. I’d call it pathetic if one of my bandmates were doing the same thing. Best to keep this mini obsession to myself, I think.
My phone chimes with an alert, and I grin at the message from Syd.
Syd: Look up!
I follow her instruction, and there she is, pulling her luggage behind her, smiling from ear to ear as she weaves through the dispersing crowd. Fuck, I’ve missed her. Syd and I are close, and between the insanity of her wedding planning and the Redfall tour schedule, we haven’t had a chance to see each other as much as we typically do.
I’m up from the chair, lifting her off the ground as she barrels toward me. Her arms wrap around me, giving me a full-bodied hug before I set her down.
“Way to keep a low profile.” She taps my sunglasses.
“Why is everyone always saying that to me?” I take the handle of her suitcase and start to lead her out of the terminal.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because bright yellow sunglasses in an airport tend to draw attention.”
“Hey! Hannah picked these out, I’ll have you know.” I shove them on top of my head.
Syd nudges me in the side. “Of course she did. How is the poppet?”
“Utterly adorable in every way. She’s got Cam wrapped around her finger.” I move around a man carrying enough bags to make him look like a Sherpa.
“Mmm. I think that’s probably fair to say for the lot of you, yeah?”
I grin down at her. “Absolutely. How was the flight?”