by Jane Anthony
Light conversation ping-pongs around the table, and before long, our plates are empty. We clear the table, then Dad plops on the couch for the evening news, while Maribelle and I sneak up to my room.
“So . . .,” she starts the second we’re alone. “Is tonight the night?”
A shudder rolls down my spine. “No . . . Maybe . . . I dunno.” I lie flat on my back, sprawled around Maribelle, who’s casually flipping through the pages of a Tiger Beat magazine from two years ago. “How do I know he even wants to?”
She peeks up from under one thick, black lash. “Of course he wants to. Look at you.”
I spring off the mattress like a Weeble-Wobble. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Maribelle rolls to her side and rests her head on her palm, her elbow sinking into the plush mattress below. “I hate to break it to you, but have you seen the body on you lately? You’re a total fox.”
My gaze slides to the mirror ahead. All I see is a teenage girl with dark eyes, a dead woman’s nose, and zero experience. Anthony isn’t some random boy. He’s a grown man who’s probably been around the block a time or two. “What if I’m bad at it?”
“Bad at it?” She chucks the magazine to the side and slides her knees to her chest before pushing up and settling onto her haunches. “Anthony wouldn’t be wasting his time with you if he was worried about trivial shit like that. The guy is cute as hell. I can’t imagine he’d have any trouble getting laid. Has he given you any indication that he wants more?”
I throw my hands up and slide off the mattress. “No, and that’s my point. If I were you, I’d have this guy on his knees begging me to sleep with him, but all Anthony’s done so far is kiss me.”
Maribelle stands and rests her hands on my shoulders with a gentle squeeze. “Maybe he’s respecting your boundaries. Maybe he’s unsure how far you’re willing to go, and he doesn’t want to push you. Maybe he’s gay, who knows?”
Nervous laughter pops in my throat. Just thinking about all the times I felt his rock-hard erection pressed against me makes my thighs grow warm. I shift from foot to foot in a subtle attempt to soothe the ache I feel inside. “He’s definitely not gay.”
She slips back onto my bed and folds her legs into a pretzel. “Maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move.”
I scowl. “Just walk up to him and say ‘let’s do it’? No way!”
She shrugs. “You could always move his hand to your tit.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Next time he kisses you, nonchalantly slide his hand up. It will at least let him know you’re interested in more than kissing.”
“Then what?”
“Stop overthinking it and let him lead. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”
Chapter Seven
GABRIELLA
“Are you sure this is the place?” Maribelle leans against the steering wheel, furrowing her brows at the cute little colonial house that sits back on the suburban street.
I peer down at my loopy script scrawled across the torn edge of notebook paper then back up to the green front door. “Thirty-three Sycamore. This is the address he gave me.”
“There’s fucking flowers out front.”
My gaze traces the single row of pansies that line the concrete walk. The house is sweet. Far too quaint for a twenty-something bachelor. I was expecting an apartment building. Something sad and surrounded by concrete. A lonely dwelling inhabited by a lonely guy.
“His car’s in the driveway.” I point at the Corvette sitting in front of the garage door. Turning back to Maribelle, I add, “This must be the place.”
“Okay. Well, have fun.” A wicked smile lengthens her wide mouth. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I match her grin with one of my own. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do?”
Closing one eye, she purses her lips and stares into the distance for a split second before answering, “Nah, I’d pretty much do anything.”
I reply with a timid snicker. “You have his number in case my dad calls, right? So you can run interference?”
“Yep. In the event that Rocco calls lookin’ for you, you’re in the bathroom, and you’ll call him back as soon as you’re out. Got it.”
I lean in and hook my arm around my best friend’s neck, pulling her in for a quick hug. “You’re a lifesaver, Mar. Thanks.”
“Go. Have fun. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I vow, pushing open the door to her Cabriolet.
An indigo hue sits in the sky, the promise of evening slashing the horizon. I jaunt up the stoop and rub my damp palms over my denim skirt before ringing the bell. The chime echoes inside, followed by the thump of footsteps that grow increasingly louder then come to a dead stop seconds before the door opens.
My heart leaps into my throat. The sleeves of his Mötley Crüe tee have long since been torn off, leaving frayed edges of cotton crinkling across his thick shoulders. Smooth skin peeks out from the open holes that sweep down his torso as he offers his hand. “Hey, rebel. Come on in.”
The sun glints off the row of metal studs adorning the cuffs on his wrist. Three or four in varying thickness intertwined with a silver chain. I thread our fingers as I enter the welcoming space. Blue-flowered linoleum leads to cobalt carpeting as I meander through the small entryway and take in the surroundings of Anthony’s home.
To my direct left, a small sitting room opens to a dining room that disappears behind an enclosed staircase. The kitchen lies ahead, a pass through for a larger living space in the rear of the house.
“Your house is so nice,” I compliment.
“Thanks,” he replies with a panty-melting grin. He walks ahead, gently pulling me past the foyer. “You want something to drink? I got Budweiser, Tab . . . Sunny D?”
My gaze sweeps past the shining white Formica cabinets to the hard-rock God standing in front of the open maw of his refrigerator as I try to piece it all together. Anthony doesn’t fit among the modern appliances and sleek black countertops. He’s grunge and grit; fast cars and wailing guitars. Sex and smoke and dirty denim. That’s the Anthony I’ve gotten to know. The guy with perfectly lined refrigerator shelves and a white leather sofa set? That guy’s a mystery.
“Um . . . whatever.”
He weaves his fingers around the necks of two bottles and lets the fridge door close with a quite wisp as he pops the tops before handing one over. “You okay? You seem freaked.”
“I’m fine.”
He leans his backside against the counter, crossing one bare foot over the other. An amused look dances in his coffee stare. “You expected me to live in a basement with old bucket seats for furniture, didn’t you?”
A flush warms my cheeks. “Kinda, yeah.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he jokes, kicking off the cabinets and strutting toward the large living room. “You want to watch a movie or something?”
My mouth goes dry. I bring my beer to my lips, trying not to wince as the unpleasant taste burns my tongue. Liquid courage. “I’d rather see your room.”
He stops mid-stride. The heated look he casts over his shoulder is enough to singe the clothes right off my body. “We can do that, too.” He twists on his heel and saunters back through the kitchen, grabbing my hand as he passes. We move to the stairs, our pounding footsteps padded by the thick plush as we reach the top.
Four closed doors wrap around the tiny landing on the second floor. He turns to the one on the far left and lets us in.
A frameless mattress sits on the floor. Above it, his guitar hangs from a rack on the wall, but my eyes immediately go to the glass-door stereo cabinet between two windows. Enormous speakers flank the hi-fi system. Records fill the storage underneath, a dual-deck cassette player in the middle, with a killer turntable right on top.
Anthony closes the door behind me as I enter. “This is what you expected.”
I gulp another huge swig of beer and set the bottle down on the dark wooden dresser. “Yeah,�
� I say at the end of a snicker.
His masculine fragrance swirls around. The sultry mix of pine and cotton, with the underlying hint of oil, twisting me up in a lust-filled fog that unleashes a violent swarm of butterflies low in my belly. I pull a deep breath into my lungs, holding it, savoring it. Hoping I can keep this sensual scent inside me forever, but it trickles back out against my will.
Unsure what to do with myself, I walk slowly around the room, admiring the posters that line the walls. A cluster of photos shoved into his mirror frame stops me. “Is this you?” I ask, angling closer to the black-and-white photo of a young man and a younger boy sitting on the couch. A truck sits on the boy’s lap, his face a childlike replica of the man coming up behind me.
“Yeah. That’s me. My seventh birthday.”
“And who’s that?” I ask, pointing at the smiling face of the handsome man beside him. He looks about as old as Anthony is now, but he’s lean and thin, sitting back with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap.
“That’s my brother, Daniel.”
My gaze moves from one picture to the next. On the other side, an older couple stands on the front porch of this very house. Flowerpots skirt the door, the woman in a ’60s flip, and the man with glasses perched on his nose. “Are these your parents?”
“Mmm hmmm,” he mutters behind me. The deep sound slithers up my spine, and I shiver. “Did you come up here just to check me out?” Heat hits my back. He moves in closer, his fingers closing around my hips. “I’m an open book, rebel. Whatever you wanna know, just ask.”
My stare snaps to his reflected in the mirror ahead. “Do you ever get angry with them for dying so young?”
Pain flickers in his eyes. His lips press in a thin line, his nostrils flaring with his deep inhale. “I used to, but over the years, I’ve learned how to let it go.”
Emotion stings my throat. I swallow hard, trying to quell the ache that won’t seem to dissipate. “I get so mad at her sometimes.” Tears broach the dam of my lashes. I drop my head, letting it dangle on my shoulders as the waves of despair crash against my wounded heart. “She left me here alone. I was just a baby. I needed her. There are some things a girl can’t talk to her dad about.”
Anthony lifts his hands to my shoulders and spins me to face him, but I keep my glare trained on the floor. If I look up, I’ll cry, and I don’t want to. I’ve shed too many tears for a woman I’ve never met. Instead, I fall against his sturdy chest and bury my face in his sweet embrace.
“It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to want to scream and cry and lash out. It’s how we grieve,” he whispers. Running his knuckles down my neck, he pushes my hair off my shoulder and sweeps the tips down my back.
We stand in silent sorrow, holding each other close. Two hearts, empty and shattered, yet still beating to the same stuttering rhythm.
“Anthony.” His name falls off my tongue in a breathy purr. The seductive sound catches me off guard.
He steps back, his palm catching my cheek as he finally lifts my face to meet his. There are so many things I want to say, but they all get caught in my throat as he pins me in his soulful stare. My lips part but nothing comes. It all mangles together in a twisted clump that refuses to budge. All these feelings, so new and fresh, strange yet familiar. I don’t know how to compartmentalize them.
Yet the desperate ache fills me with longing. Falling back on my heel, I skim my fingers across the hem of my tee before sweeping it over my head. The fire in his eyes burns me to ash. He rakes over my naked skin. Every look a sweltering caress as I stand for his appraisal, pulling in thick swallows of air as if I can’t get enough.
Anxiety blusters through me like a summer storm. If he doesn’t touch me soon, I’ll certainly sizzle to soot right here on the carpet. He lifts his hand to cup my breast. A sharp gasp hits my lungs as my eyes flutter closed.
Breathe, Gabby. Just breathe.
But my chest rises as he flicks his thumb over my nipple’s pebbled peak. His free hand travels to the nape of my neck. He tugs me closer, fusing our mouths in an urgent kiss that sends me spiraling into the abyss. Sucking, swirling, tasting, touching, his tongue slides against mine, his fingertips playing over my sensitive skin as he finds the latch at my back and frees my tits from their white lace barrier.
A husky growl rumbles from deep within. He scoops me in his arms and deposits me on his dresser, his hips forcing my legs apart as he fits between them. Hardness pokes against my center. I wrap my legs around his middle, holding on for dear life as I teeter into madness, a slow decline that quickly gains traction when I feel his fingers slip between our bodies.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
He toys with me at first, his fingertips flurrying over my damp panties until I whine in frustration.
“Has anyone ever touched you here?”
“Uh-uh,” I reply, heat blossoming on my cheeks as his light touch grows firm.
“Do you touch yourself here?”
“No.”
A curse mutters under his breath. His fingers stall for a moment. “I want this so bad, Gabby,” he grumbles against my neck. “I’m trying to hold back, forcing myself to take this slow, but it’s so fucking hard.”
I scoot closer to the edge, silently pleading for him to continue his sweet brand of torture. “Then don’t hold back.”
Another wicked snarl rattles in his chest. He fumbles beneath the cotton panel, pushing it to the side, as my head falls against the mirror. He skims my opening, touching just enough that my hips buck to the beat of each tender stroke.
Hesitation seeps through every move. He rubs around my slick folds, parting them gently as an impish sigh flutters off my lips. With a delicate thrust, he pushes inside until his finger fills the empty space within me.
The moan that follows is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. A deep guttural sound that claws up my throat and wraps around it. He draws out then in, crooking inside me ever so slightly, dragging me to the point of no return as he rises up to circle my clit then dives back in. Again, and again, until I’m panting and writhing, my nails digging into the flesh on his forearm.
“Are you gonna come for me, little rebel?”
“I-I think so,” I stammer through stuttering breath, my eyes pinched as he continues his single digit assault on my sensitive nerve endings.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe . . .
A keening cry tears from my lungs. As if an imaginary cord tied low in my belly was suddenly pulled. I come apart. Torn in half as lightning crashes beneath closed lids. It explodes on contact, scorching me from the inside out, fire and brimstone raining down upon my broken pieces.
Shallow breaths fan across my lips. My lashes flutter as I stare into nothing, still riding the flares of pleasure that rise and fall.
“Oh, God,” I utter to the sky.
“You okay?” The velvet timbre of Anthony’s voice brings me back to this plain.
A sense of shame washes over me. I lift my knees, shielding my naked chest from sight. Warmth sweeps up the back of my neck and across my face. I curl my spine, tucking my head into the safety of my self-contained shelter. “I’m sorry.”
Anthony runs his palms over my quivering arms. “What are you sorry about?”
Emotion thickens my voice. “Can I have my shirt, please?”
“Hey,” he soothes, coaxing my face up from my legs. I begrudgingly meet his concerned gaze. With both hands, he pushes the hair off my forehead and cups the base of my neck. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything. That’s the problem.” His thick brows clip together. “When I came here, I . . . I thought we would . . .” I swallow the saliva building on my tongue in a futile attempt to pull myself together. “I just want to make you happy.”
His hard stare softens around the edges. “You do.” He bends down and swipes my shirt off the floor, then ruffles it up in this hands to stretch the neck hole before pulling it over my head. “Listen . . .” He slides t
he fabric over my shoulder as I slip in one arm and then the other. “I would love nothing more than to take you in that bed and fuck you six ways to Sunday, but I don’t mind waiting.”
The threat of tears stings my eyes. “Really?”
“You’re worth waiting for.” He seals his promise with a chaste kiss on my lips. “Besides, judging by the way you levitated off my dresser, I didn’t think you’d be down for round two so quickly.”
A shy smile twists my lips. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah.” He steps back and helps me down. “It’s the first door on the left.”
With nothing left to say, I saunter into the hall, realizing to my chagrin that I’m walking crooked. The phantom feel of him between my thighs still remains. The slick wetness pooling in my panties as I reach for the handle and open the bathroom door, not expecting what I find on the other side.
Chapter Eight
ANTHONY
Gabby’s breathy little moans still echo in my ears as she hobbles through my bedroom door. Knowing I’m the only man who’s ever heard those erotic sounds dripping from her lips has my ego soaring. She unraveled before my eyes. A sticky, sloppy, beautiful mess I can’t wait to make again.
My cock pushes hard against my zipper. I adjust myself, hoping like hell this obnoxious hard-on recedes quickly, but the smell of her on my fingers has my adrenaline racing like Richard Petty on an open track.
I pull my guitar off the wall and sprawl on my bed, strumming lazily as I wait for Gabriella to return, but a sudden screech tears through the walls.
Throwing my Gibson to the mattress, I’m up in a heartbeat, running for the door. Gabby’s back is pressed against the opposite wall, wild eyes still pink with the remnants of her emotional outburst, now wide and full of fright.
“I’m sorry. I thought we were alone,” she explains in a high-pitched octave that rises and falls.
“Don’t worry, honey. You’re not the first little girl to see my dick. Definitely the first one to scream, though.” Unfazed, my brother strolls from the bathroom. Plaid pajama pants hang off his slender hips, his T-shirt tucked into the corner.