Someone for Me

by Addison Moore

  “It won’t be the cabin. You deserve something way more exciting.”

  “But we’re just going to be doing this.” She lowers me to her chest and I kiss her soft quivering flesh before burying my face between her blooming mounds. Kenny Jordan has perfect tits. And she’s right. We will very much just be doing this.

  “This is my favorite.” I dot each of her nipples with a kiss. “But I want you to have a dream honeymoon.”

  “You’re my dream honeymoon.”

  I trail my lips down her midsection and her stomach cinches beneath my mouth. I gurgle a laugh into her heated skin before rotating my tongue in her belly button for a moment.

  “Think about it,” I whisper. “I want to make all of your dreams come true.”

  I sink lower, gently parting her knees and burying my face in the curls just below her panty line before biting her G-string off with my teeth.

  “Are you wet for me?” I run my fingers over her folds and confirm that, yes indeed, Kenny is more than a little wet for me.

  She lets out a satisfying groan, and I bury a string of kisses in her moist slick until she’s screaming my name at the top of her lungs.

  I press her thighs back and ride my tongue over her quick and steady until Kenny’s panting hits an all-time high. I graze my teeth over her and she bucks into me hard, losing it in a fit of spasming quivers.

  “Cruise.” She moans it out while clasping her knees over the top of my head in a vise grip.

  I sit up and pull her legs over my shoulders with my hard-on ready to rock and roll again.

  Kenny bites down over her lip. Her hair is heaped over itself and she looks dangerously sexy.

  “My, my, Professor Elton.” She gravels it out low and sultry. “Aren’t you insatiable?”

  “With you in my bed, who could blame me?” I plunge into her warm, tight body and her neck arches back as she gives a heated cry.

  Neither one of us gets much sleep.

  2

  THE CHAPEL GRAPPLE

  Kendall

  Fall swoops in on Garrison University like an eagle carrying off a poor, unsuspecting summer in its icy talons, leaving dozens of defenseless coeds shivering in their skimpy first-day-of-school attire, me included.

  The air is heavily scented from the evergreens, and the sky is marbled with swirls of dark-gray and steel-blue clouds as I venture into this, the final class of the day, Creative Writing. It’s depressing, in a way, knowing Cruise won’t be in any of my classes. That he won’t be teaching them by proxy. All of those erotic, quasi-scholastic memories come flooding back and my lips curve with approval.

  The Language Arts building is archaic to say the least; decrepit is a more accurate term, but it’s the Gothic architecture that makes me love Garrison so much. I scan the lecture hall filled with mostly girls, a smattering of guys sitting lumped off to the side. A mousy-haired girl catches my eye, and I instantly recognize her skeletal frame, her thin, tight lips, that annoying little smirk on her face. It’s Cheryl—the moron I had to deal with all last semester in my Gender Relations class. She’s the one who kept bothering both Cruise and me with her deliberately annoying answers—even if they were correct.

  “Kendall!” Someone hisses my name from down front. It’s Molly, sporting an all-too-eager grin as she waves me over.

  “Molly?” I make my way down and take up the cushioned seat next to her. It’s stadium seating, the comfy kind they have in theaters, and I’m more than glad about the modern amenities. The last thing I need at the end of a long day is for my ass to go numb for a solid hour. “I can’t believe you’re in here.” Never in a million years would I have guessed I’d have a class with Cruise’s little sister. But then, she is a freshman, so I guess it’s in the realm of possibilities—though an unfortunate one. Molly has a way of landing me, or more to the point, herself, in hot water without putting too much effort into it.

  A dark-haired gentleman—hardly older than me—makes his way to the front and pans the room with a content look on his face. He pinches at his gold-rimmed glasses while squinting into the dimly lit room. He looks pleasant enough as he takes a seat on the edge of the desk. He’s clad in khakis and a Garrison sweatshirt, so I’m betting good money he’s the teacher’s assistant. God knows I’m all too familiar with those.

  “Hello, class.” He belts it out with a clear projection and his voice reverberates off the walls in the back. “My name is Professor Kurt Ertose, but you can call me Kurt for short.” He lets out a dimpled grin and half the girls swoon in response.

  I lean into Molly. “You’d think they’d never seen a man before.”

  “Are you kidding?” Molly can’t take her eyes off him. “Professor Curl-Your-Toes is going to be the highlight of this entire semester.”

  I gape over at her and she’s all hopped up, curling her toes no less, like an estrogen grenade just went off in her pants. Clearly, Molly here has fallen under the spell of his ridiculously oversized glasses, which I doubt are even prescription, and that plaid scarf wrapped around his neck like a noose. He’s a total hipster. I guess for Molly’s sake it’s a good thing I’m here. God knows I’m aware of the things a hot Garrison professor is capable of doing to a girl—not that this one qualifies as hot, not by a long shot. But, obviously, hot is in the eye of the beholder, as evidenced by the collective panting taking place in the sexed-up vicinity.

  My stomach pinches with heat just thinking about all that steamy classroom sex Cruise and I had a few months back. And we’d still be having it if it wasn’t for his wicked witch of an ex-girlfriend, Blair, who single-handedly took down his internship and scholarship, and simultaneously pulled the plug on any of his future scholastic endeavors at this fine educational establishment. The long and short of it: they kicked Cruise out on his ass. Damn bitch. To be fair, Cruise did break some scholastic code of ethics by having his way with me whenever and wherever he pleased on campus, but, nonetheless, Blair played her part in the final takedown of his teaching career. She tried pulling the same crap with Morgan, but my brother, much to his credit, has already hauled her before the school administration and now they’re “looking into the matter.” If they look into the matter any longer, she’ll have a diploma to wave in their faces before they can properly kick her out the door.

  Professor Kurt cozies up on the desk and casually glances out at the bevy of students. It’s dark in here. The lecture hall is pretty much a cave, with the exception of drop lighting just above each desk. But the front of the room is lit up as bright as a spring morning, which might explain the severe squinting he’s currently engaged in.

  Molly waves at him like a lunatic until he finally gives a little wave back.

  Great. He’s going to think there’s something wrong with her. And trust me, there might be. The jury is still out on that one.

  “You might think this is just another stuffy writing class.” He pumps a dry laugh as if it’s too far-fetched to fathom.

  I lean into Molly and whisper, “If it involves writing long, boring papers, it is.”

  Professor Curl-Your-Toes twitches in my direction.

  “I’m sorry, would you mind repeating that a little louder?” He needles us both with a glare from those fake lenses, and I can practically hear Molly panting herself into oblivion. “I’m afraid the students in the back didn’t quite hear you.”

  A series of oohs circles the room. What is this, high school?

  Not one to back down from a challenge, I clear my throat. “I said, if we have to write long, boring papers, then it will be.”

  Molly kicks me in the leg. Hard.

  A series of sharp gasps emit from around the lecture hall.

  Oh please. They all know it’s true.

  “Excuse me, what’s your name?” He juts his chin in my direction.

  Molly raises her hand. “Molly Elton, and I have a really light load this semester, so if you’re ever in need of an assistant, I’d be more than happy to volunteer.”

  He
pushes out a gentle laugh and nods at her like she’s twelve. “I appreciate the offer. And your name?” He looks right at me.

  Crap.

  “Kendall Jordan.”

  “Well, Ms. Jordan, I look forward to proving you wrong. I assure you my passion for writing goes far beyond long, boring reports. In fact, there is no syllabus, no midterm, and no final exam in this class. Your one assignment is to simply write something. It must have a beginning, middle, and end, and must be at least fifty pages in length, but I’m sure most of you will far exceed the limit by semester’s end.

  “Fifty pages?” I gulp. “That’s like an entire book.” I have a tough time writing fifty words, let alone top-to-bottom pages. I suppose that whole plagiarism thing is still highly frowned upon. Face it. I’m screwed.

  His back vibrates with a laugh. “No, I’m afraid fifty pages hardly qualifies as a novel. Don’t box yourselves in. I want you to write freely, really pull the story from your gut. This is a show of creativity at its best. My eyes will be the only pair to admire your work unless you wish to share it with others.”

  Molly’s hand spikes in the air, and I can’t help but groan. I have a feeling this entire semester is going to be one long, drawn-out episode of Molly trying to land in his much-too-tight chinos.

  “So what will we be doing in class?” She pumps her leg a million miles an hour. Molly is quickly morphing into a horse begging to be let out of the gate, and I know just whose stall she’s hoping to kick her way into.

  “Free-form exercises.” Professor Hippie McHippie gives a cheesy grin in her direction. I bet he’s the type to eschew public transportation in favor of some green retro bike he bought from a thrift store and renovated. “My desire is simply to assist in navigating your story in the right direction.” Maybe I’m being a little hard on him, but I’ll bet he’s not above giving my soon-to-be little sister a private education that neither she nor her girl parts will soon forget.

  Another student raises her hand, and he diverts his attention.

  “Did you see that?” Molly jumps in her seat with excitement as if he blew her a kiss.

  “See what?” I hiss it low enough for Molly’s ears only, lest he call me out again on my vocal exercise.

  “He looked at his crotch when he said ‘right direction.’” Her eyes get all swirly and love-struck the way they do in cartoons. “He wants me.”

  “Would you stop?” I’d belt out a full-blown reprimand, but he’s already passing around papers with a suggested book list. “The only thing he wants is for you to do some learning.” Although I’m not sure “free-form writing” qualifies as anything particularly educational—sounds like more hippie-dippie nonsense and thus a waste of our tuition fees.

  I wait until he and his roaming ears are safely situated at the opposite end of the lecture hall before leaning toward her again.

  “He’s not the one for you. Trust me, the last thing you need is getting mixed up with some professor. Look at those beady little eyes, that beer belly.” Not really, but with the lighting just right, it might pass. “Besides, he’s probably married. So keep your dating radar relegated to the Greek pool for a little while. Would you?” At least long enough for me to report her hormonal wanderings to her brother. There’s no doubt Cruise will stomp out the scholastic flames before they have a chance to burn down another educational career. Although if Professor Kurt here tries anything with Molly, his career will be the least of his worries.

  Professor Kurt sits on top of his desk and kicks off his shoes, exposing a pair of argyle socks worn threadbare at the toes.

  So gross.

  He proceeds to read out loud the list of reference material he’s amassed. But all I hear is blah, blah, blah because he’s just sitting there in front of God and every student in here with his stinky socks. I lean in to inspect him further. He’s got a bona fide hole on his left big toe, probably from his disgusting long toenails clawing their way through the fabric. He finishes off the list and gives the class the all-exciting “tell me about your summer” assignment to busy us in our journals for the next solid hour while he dips into a bag of granola.

  There’s no way Cruise would ever let Molly get mixed up with that hole in the sock, wannabe edgy, shirking mass consumerism, sitting on his desk, granola eating professor.

  But something about that dreamy look in Molly’s eyes tells me it’s already too late.

  After class, I dart over to the university chapel, which sits tucked in a sleepy corner of campus. It’s so beautiful, I sigh at the sight of it. There it is, surrounded by a sea of romantic willow trees and an aisle of bush roses that create white, ethereal clouds leading all the way to the entry. The architecture is Gothic in appeal and the doors arch skyward, with beveled glass windows cut into the center of them. Inside it’s dark, and the air is heavily scented with frankincense and myrrh and . . . Well, I don’t know what that overbearing smell is—for all I know there’s a janitor here who really likes Old Spice—but underneath it all is a subtle layer of dust that tickles my nostrils, and I let out an obtrusive sneeze.

  “Bless your heart.” An older woman appears from nowhere, no bigger than a toddler. Her skin glows like a dulled-out flashlight against the dismal backdrop. “Can I assist you?”

  “Yes, actually. I’m looking to book a wedding.” My insides do a soft roll when I say it. Just having those simple words strum from my vocal cords has set an entire firework factory off in my stomach.

  “Oh sure, right this way.” She leads me into a nearby office and pulls out a large leather-bound register. “What date were you looking at?” She pushes back the yellow parchmentlike pages as if they’ve somehow offended her.

  “Christmas Eve.”

  “Christmas Eve.” She gives a warm smile as she brings her thumb over the date. “There.”

  “It’s available?”

  “Oh yes, it’s available.” She runs her finger down the tab and her brows flex with startled amusement. “In approximately six years.”

  “Six years? And here Lauren thought it would be booked a measly three years in advance,” I say that last part to myself, but I’m so close to losing my mind I really don’t care what I sound like anymore. I wanted my wedding here at Garrison, this Christmas Eve, and now it all sounds like a joke, even to this quasi nun sitting across from me.

  “Your friend is right, generally speaking that is, but holidays in and of themselves tend to be a little more in demand.”

  “Do you have any date available whatsoever this year?”

  “This year?” She ogles me as though I’ve just sprouted another head. “I’m sorry. I have nothing available. All weekends and most Fridays have been eaten up in advance.”

  Fridays? My heart humps with a ray of hope. We can totally have a Friday wedding. It says we’re nonconformists, we do our own thing, we’re free spirits.

  Great, now I sound like Professor Kurt von Nut. Although, Cruise and I are sort of nonconformists, and we are rather free-spirited—both in and out of the bedroom. Come to think of it, that’s my favorite part of us.

  “Fridays?” I perk up at the thought. “That doesn’t sound too bad. What’s the next Friday you have available?” I’ll pull something together quick if I have to. The important part is that Cruise and I will be at this lovely castlelike setting right here at Garrison where we met and—

  “Next August.”

  “August?” I touch my hand to my chest. “We just finished August. Next August is an entire year away.”

  “You’re bright. I can see why they admitted you,” she says drily, annoyed by my matrimonial mathematics.

  “What about Thursdays?” God, what am I saying? Trust me, no little girl in her right bouquet-loving mind ever dreams of getting hitched on a Thursday. Thursday weddings are the equivalent of the double-discount rack where they keep the moth-eaten clothes that have been cursed by the fashion gods.

  “Sorry. We don’t do weekdays.”

  Crap on a crap cracker. I w
as totally going to rock the Thursday wedding. I could see the invites now: Thursday is the new Saturday!

  Lauren and her bribing father come to mind. “Can you tell me who has this Christmas Eve reserved?”

  Her eyes widen. She hugs the overgrown leather book as if she’s a protective mother keeping it safe from a roving matrimonial predator.

  “We never divulge such delicate information. I’m sorry, but here at the Chapel of Truth and Light we never betray the trust of—”

  I don’t wait for her to finish her spiel. Instead I gasp and point out the window. “Good God, is that man naked?”

  “Where?” She bolts over to the leaded glass while I dive on top of the holy of holies—the Garrison Chapel wedding calendar. “No!” She clamps on to my back like a cat in heat, but I continue to thumb my way through those pages until I hit December and trace my finger down to the twenty-fourth. Blair Lancaster.

  “Blair?” I gasp, returning to an upright position and effectively knocking the tiny cage fighter off my back in the process. “Who in the hell would ever marry Blair Lancaster?”

  I do the only thing I can think of and summon Ally and Lauren to an emergency meeting at Starbucks. Ally is already there since she works at the place, and as soon as I walk in she takes her break.

  “Lauren’s in the back.” She steers us in that direction with a latte at the ready. Ally and Lauren have been better than friends to me since I arrived at Garrison last December. In fact, they feel more like sisters. And if Morgan ever proposes to Ally, at least one of them officially will be.

  “Dish.” Lauren gives me the crazy eyes while patting both Ally and me into our seats. “What the hell happened?”

  “I went to the chapel to book Christmas Eve, and you won’t believe who’s already booked it.”

  “Cruise?” Lauren swoons like it’s the most romantic notion. And, had he done so, it would have been.

  A breath gets locked in my throat.

  “Holy shit.” My entire body seizes with panic as perspiration explodes under my arms. “It was Cruise.”