Kissing Frogs

by Tori Turnbull

  A sound of pleasure rolled in his chest, vibrating through every point of contact. He really was so handsome. My mind floated from thought to thought, sensation to sensation.

  My body felt strange. My hand moved to cup his bristly jaw. I enjoyed the tingly feeling of his stubble scraping my palm. Heat flared in my belly.

  My eyelids grew heavy. I struggled to open them, so I could judge his response. My body refused to listen, and I melted into his strength.

  God, it felt good. Like all the time I was out there, kissing frogs, searching for my prince, for my dream date, I’d been looking in the wrong place and it was right here: fish, chips, cheap wine, and Mark.

  He squeezed my bottom. His lips parted. His tongue stroked mine, flicking against my teeth, the roof of my mouth. Shivers of hot sensation swelled my breasts and flipped my stomach.

  This was a K.I.S.S.

  Hell, it was more than a kiss.

  It was a full-body experience.

  His hand slid up from my bottom, around my hip, dipping in at my waist before continuing up to the curve of my breast, pushing my t-shirt up and out of his way. His thick thigh wedged between my legs, setting me on fire. I arched against him, wiggling, impatient when he didn’t move the little bit higher I needed. “You like that?” he said. I jerked as his thumb flicked over my nipple. My hand fell from his face, slipping between us, to land on all the glorious hardness at his lap.

  “Oh, fuck!” Mark almost went airborne at my touch.

  I giggled.

  My head felt light.

  Everything inside zinged around.

  My heart was hammering.

  My knees sagged.

  Mark stumbled along the kitchen counter with me plastered against him, my nipples pressing like burning bullets into his chest. I wrapped a leg around his hip, snuggling closer against his arousal. I pressed my open mouth to his throat, tongue laving, tasting his salty heat, before my teeth scraped the length of his neck. The only way this could be better was if we were both naked.

  He grabbed my hand, holding it away from his lap when I started exploring.

  After clearing his throat a couple of times, he said, “Time for bed.”

  “Hell yes.”

  Chapter 12

  You look like the type of girl who’s heard every line in the book…so what’s one more?

  I was dying.

  Groaning, I attempted to open my eyes and sit up, then thought better of it and lay still. The bed was spinning. I fisted my hands in the covers and held on tight to stop myself being thrown off. I choked back waves of nausea, deep-breathing to try and ease the pulsing hammering in my head. Weak tears trickled down the sides of my face.

  Breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  Okay. Okay. If my headache was pulsing so strongly, it was unlikely I was dying.

  I just wished I was.

  I struggled to let go of the bedding and reach a flailing arm out to silence the brain-shattering bleeping of the alarm that woke me. Only it wasn’t my bedside alarm… Which meant it was the smoke detector blaring in the hallway.

  My arm fell back to the bed. I couldn’t move. I’d just have to burn to death. Hopefully, the smoke would get me first.

  Smoke eased around my bedroom door, bringing with it the nauseating smell of burning toast. Okay, I wasn’t going to die. The pop-up button hadn’t worked on my toaster for years. I knew well enough to keep an eye on it once I’d put the bread in, to jiggle the pop-up button when it looked ready and (ignoring health and safety) use a knife to pry my toast free before it started smoking.

  Safe? No.

  Effective? Yes.

  My stomach flipped before surging upwards. I battled back a tsunami of bile, breathing through my mouth to avoid the additional scent of frying bacon.

  I could hear cursing.

  There was someone in my flat?

  A man. Who was cooking and cursing.

  Something nagged in the back on my mind… I should know who he was, but my brain hurt too much and I couldn’t think. Another tear trickled from the corner of my eye to dribble down my cheek.

  I was ill.

  Really, really sick, and it was so noisy and I just wanted to sleep.

  * * * * *

  The next time I woke, my head felt heavy, my body weak and trembly, and my bladder full to the point of pain, but my stomach stayed where it should, and outside my room it was silent.

  I rolled over, then lay still, giving my head time to reattach itself to my body. Slowly, my legs dropped off the side of the bed. I rose into a sitting position and sat, head hanging, swallowing compulsively as I tried to moisten my mouth and wait for the pounding nausea to subside.

  Hangover. From. Hell.

  I was too old to do this to myself. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d done this. Hell, I didn’t remember doing it this time.

  My memory of last night was hazy at best, but as far as I could recall, I hadn’t had more than one or two glasses of wine. Although Mark might have topped my glass up a couple of times… Seeing a glass of water on my bedside table, I reached for it, gulping it all down.

  Groaning, I avoided my reflection in the mirror. I’d assess the damage later. After I’d showered, taken a couple of painkillers, put some makeup on, and let a week or two pass.

  Steadying myself with a hand to the wall, I stumbled out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom. All without opening my eyes. Bladder relieved, I stepped into the shower, cranked the spray up high, and tilted my face up to the water. After rinsing my mouth, I spat out the water and slumped against the cool glass of the shower stall. My shaking legs finally gave out, and I sank to the floor, dropping my head onto my knees, letting the water beat against me and wash away the pain.

  With the lessening of the pain came the memories. A hazy recollection of playing on my laptop. I thought I’d gone on the internet. Pictures of men, winking…? Had I signed up for one of those dating sites?

  Had I received an email?

  Yes. Yes, there was definitely an email.

  I couldn’t remember what it said. Something to do with Shakespeare, maybe? I could remember the smooth taste of Merlot. I gagged, then washed my mouth out repeatedly. I would never drink Merlot again for as long as I lived.

  Whimpering, I hauled myself out of the shower, dripping a path across to the basin. I leant over the white porcelain, gripping the edges to stay upright, slow-breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  In…

  Finally, the world stopped spinning. I scrubbed my teeth until my gums bled and my mouth felt less like something had crawled into it and died. I rubbed the steam off the mirror with my hand, then wished I hadn’t bothered.

  Hideous.

  It was a cruel miracle that I could actually see how hideous I looked, through eyes that were so bloodshot. Wrapping myself in a white towelling robe, I headed back to my room to wallow in self-inflicted misery.

  “Afternoon, hon… Ooooh.” Mark’s greeting trailed off as he caught sight of me properly.

  Great. I felt and looked like roadkill, and Mark looked like the incredible hunk. I ignored him, continuing towards my room.

  “Are you all right? You look…” He realised the error of describing how I looked and finished lamely, “… not all right.” Smug git. Like he’d never had too much to drink. “There’s a cup of coffee on the counter. ’Fraid I couldn’t find any painkillers.”

  I detoured into the kitchen. Getting dressed could wait until after caffeine. I wobbled. He snagged my elbow, steadying me, then steered me to the breakfast bar and helped me settle on the stool. Why did he have to be kind and considerate when I was thinking nasty thoughts and wishing my hangover on him? “Easy there.”

  Why was he hovering over me? I felt like crap and looked like something that had crawled out from the rubble after a zombie apocalypse. I could feel the weight of his expectation. Like he thought I should be
saying or doing something.

  I had a nagging feeling that I was missing… something.

  But my head hurt too much to try and figure it out.

  Dragging the coffee towards me, I sucked down the heavily sweetened liquid, praying for a caffeine and sugar rush to get me back into the land of the living.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Why are you being so nice?” I croaked. “I can’t trust you when you’re being nice.” I could barely remember who I was, breathing hurt, and I was tired – not helped by Mark getting up at the crack of dawn, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and nearly burning the flat down.

  In spite of my internet revelation in the shower, my memories of last night were blurry at best. I remembered being well into the second bottle of wine and not having seen him take more than an occasional sip from his glass.

  I didn’t remember him topping his glass up at any point, whereas he couldn’t have been more attentive of mine. I remembered thinking we could be friends, that he was being so nice, so supportive.

  I was a drunken idiot.

  What I didn’t remember was how I’d gotten from the sofa to bed, or what we’d talked about. I had a nagging feeling that the blank spot in my mind was something I needed to clear up. Then again, maybe I was better off not knowing.

  I pulled the thick weight of damp hair off my face, ran a fluffy-dressing-gown-covered wrist over my watery eyes, and whimpered. “Oh, God.” I slumped, slipping off the edge of my stool, wincing at the screech of metal chair legs against the tiled kitchen floor. My elbow slid along the breakfast bar, knocking a spoon to the floor, where it clattered and bounced noisily. Once the tears had cleared and silence reigned, I stared down at it morosely, stomach churning. It would just have to stay there for now. I’d pick it up tomorrow. My stomach heaved at the thought. I reassessed Operation Retrieve Spoon to the day after tomorrow.

  I was pathetic.

  How could I have been stupid enough to get all cosy on the couch with Mark and get so hammered I couldn’t remember anything I’d said? Mark, who’d made it his life’s mission to embarrass and annoy me. My mother had warned me that no good came to women who drank too much; for once, I wished I’d listened to her.

  “KT, lunch – or should I call it early dinner – is ready.”

  I closed my eyes and prayed for today to be over. I checked the clock on the cooker, staring at it until my vision cleared enough to make out the green digital numbers. It was almost three thirty in the afternoon.

  I’d lost nearly an entire day. On the plus side, that meant I could go back to bed sooner. “Honey, are you okay?” Laughter echoed in his voice. I was tempted to beg him to come closer, to save me the effort of having to get up to slap the smug grin off his face – and where did he get off calling me honey all the time?

  “Kate?” Worry was starting to edge his voice now, and he’d gone from KT to Kate, so I knew he was serious. “Kate, if you don’t answer, I’m going to get your mother.”

  “Don’t be cruel,” I croaked. “I feel bad enough as it is.” I propped my head up further so I could see him.

  “You’ll be fine after you’ve eaten something.”

  “I’m sick. I feel like something crawled into my mouth and die–” I stared at him, pure horror washing over me. I covered my mouth and continued in an appalled whisper, “Oh my God. You kissed me last night.”

  “Hang on. Are you comparing the aftereffects of kissing me with something decomposing. In. Your. Mouth?” His voice rose in pure outrage.

  I swallowed back bile. “You did. Didn’t you? You kissed me.”

  “You need to work on your morning-after conversation, KT.” He threw the frying pan into the stainless-steel sink, taking obvious pleasure from the wince I couldn’t hide. “If this is anything like what you said to Rob, it’s no wonder he climbed out of the bathroom window.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do that to me.” I pushed back from the counter, putting distance between us as he leant forward, encroaching on my personal space.

  In my haste, I knocked my laptop, sending it skidding towards the edge of the counter. Mark made a grab for it, catching it before it could fall then setting it back down with angry movements. “Everything we did was consensual. In fact, I seem to recall you begging for it.”

  “You bast–” What the…? I blinked hard as my laptop woke up, an image filling the screen. “Oh. My. God!” I stared, dumbstruck. I’d thought it couldn’t get worse. “What have you done to me?”

  “I haven’t done anything to you. Nor did I do anything with you that you didn’t want me to do.”

  I stood, staring at the screen, stupefied.

  He rounded the breakfast bar, coming up behind me, leaning over my shoulder to get a better look at what held my attention on the screen, slapping a hand on the counter and caging me in place when I tried to shift away from him. “It’s not that bad.”

  “My teeth are red.”

  “They go with your eyes,” he quipped.

  “Look at my eyes,” I wailed. Mark dropped his forehead against my shoulder, groaning. “I look like I’ve had a stroke.”

  He shifted, propping his chin on my shoulder, so he could see the image better. “We may have kissed, KT, but I promise you, there was no real stroking involved.” Bastard. “There’s no way you would’ve forgotten if we’d got as far as stroking.” He was laughing at me?

  He’d gotten me drunk and taken advantage of me. He’d let me post a picture – where I looked like a half-shifted extra in a werewolf movie – online. My whole world was falling apart and he was laughing at me?

  “I didn’t forget the kiss. I blanked it out. It’s a sign of trauma.” I glared at him over my shoulder. “I don’t know why you’re looking so smug. You had to get me drunk before–”

  “That excuse would work better if you hadn’t remembered the kiss. Which happened after we posted your photo on the website, i.e. when you were a couple of glasses of wine closer to sober. Yet kissing me is the first thing you recalled.” He did his eyebrow-raise thing. “You know, you don’t have to get drunk to ask me to kiss you.”

  I ignored him. “My skin’s all blotchy.” A kiss I could forget. It wasn’t like it was the first time I’d had to forget kissing someone in order to avoid mental and emotional scaring. I’d lost my virginity to Graham.

  But a photo online? No.

  Even if I removed it and pretended it had never happened, it could already be being turned into a viral email on the danger of internet dating. It could right now be winging its way around the globe, only to turn up in my inbox several months from now with some “witty” verse and a million comments attached. “No one will ever want to go on a date with me now.”

  Mark sighed. “So, you’re not the most photogenic of people.” He shrugged. “You still managed to get a date out of it, and at least you know you won’t disappoint him in the flesh.”

  “I got a date?” Looking like that?

  “Yep.”

  Wow.

  Who would take a chance on me looking like that? I had to see. I swiped the trackpad, manoeuvring through to Romeo’s email (ah, that explained the Shakespeare memory) and then his dating profile. My hopes improved with every word I read. “He seems really good on paper. Mr Perfect. Perhaps this is it the silver lining to my dating cloud.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. He contacted you after that photo, remember?”

  Why was I letting Mark stay in my flat, again? “Some men aren’t obsessed with looks. Some men are interested in a woman’s personality.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, honey.” He sounded pissed off. “I’d probably say something similar if a photo of me looking like that appeared online.”

  Chapter 13

  You’re so pretty, I wouldn’t even need to use an Instagram filter if I took your photo.

  “You’re not coming. I don’t want you there.”

  It was Saturday night and I was getting ready for m
y date. Mark watched my reflection in the mirror, as I smoothed moisturiser under my eyes.

  “Romeo is an intelligent, professional man. The last thing I need is you staring over my shoulder like some over protective parent, chaperoning us whilst we’re trying to get it on.”

  “You know nothing about this man except what he wrote. It could all be bullshit. He could be an axe murderer.” I rolled my eyes. Mark mocked me whenever I said that. “Or Stalker John. It’s not like you have a good track record with dates so far.”

  I squeezed foundation onto my finger and began dotting it onto my face. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that, and in all these disastrous dates I’ve had, there has been one constant.” I paused for effect. “You.”

  His head jerked back, as if I’d physically hit him, then he frowned. “Aren’t you forgetting yourself in that calculation?”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Like tonight. When you are not there.” I glared defiantly into his searching blue eyes, refusing to shy away from his scrutiny, even though I knew he’d probably seen better-looking cadavers. He was part of the reason I felt and looked this way (Merlot was the other part), so he could just deal with me sans makeup.

  “I promised to look out for you, KT.”

  “You may think I’m useless, but I’m not. I don’t need your help.”

  He scraped a hand over his hair and huffed out a breath, his expression a mix of frustration and amusement. “Last time I ignored you when you said that to me, I ended up with a broken nose and cheekbone.”

  I smiled. My baseball debut. You’d think I’d deliberately hit him in the face with the bat. “Then you should have learnt when to back off, shouldn’t you?”

  “Fine,” he said reluctantly. “But you program my cell number into speed dial number one, and if he even looks at you wrong…”

  “Be careful. I’ll start thinking you actually care.”

  “Of course I care.” Red tinted his cheeks as I stared at him, shocked by his vehemence. “I promised your mother.”