Cross Stroke

by Elizabeth Hartey

  “What am I doing? What are you doing?” She puts her hand on her hip to punctuate the defiant question.

  “I mean, what are you doing opening the door at this time of night without asking who it is first, knucklehead? It could be dangerous.”

  “First of all, there’s a peephole.” She tilts her chin toward the small glass opening in her door. Her lips curve in a smug grin as she counts off a numbered list to mimic the way I gave her one at the rink. “Second of all, did you come over to call me names?”

  “Cute,” I acknowledge her imitation of me. “First of all,” I count off in a list right back, “it’s good there’s a peephole. Second of all, you should never open your door to strangers. And third of all, no I didn’t come over to call you names.”

  “Well thank you, Captain Safety. I’ll keep it in mind.” She starts to close the door in my face.

  “Wait.” I reach out and stop her from closing the door with the palm of my hand. “I…I thought we could do some research prep.” I tug my backpack off my shoulder and hold it out so she can see I came equipped with study materials. Jeez. She has a way of making me feel so welcome. “Lovin’ the shirt, by the way,” I say to show how her mock displeasure rolls right off my shoulders, because I know deep down, okay, maybe deep deep down—she likes me.

  She holds onto the door with one hand and grips the frame on the opposite side with her other hand, only opening it enough to allow her thin body to fill the doorway. When she catches me practically drooling as I take in the sight of her from head to toe she glances down at herself and makes a quick move to cross her arms over her chest. I snap my eyes back up to her eyes before she slams the door in my lecherous face.

  “You want to study here?” She says it like I asked her to have my baby or something.

  “Well…yeah. That was our agreement. Remember? You never sent me a text. So…” Christ. This is the only chick I know who acts like I’m bothering her, and I don’t mean in a hormonal way.

  “It’s kind of noisy over at my place. I’m not getting much work done. And we need to get on this. There’s only a few days left.”

  I don’t tell her that even when there isn’t a party vibrating the walls of the house, I can’t get any work done because the noises inside my head caused by the graphic imaginations of her screaming out in pleasure in response to my sexual abilities are too fucking distracting. “What do you say? You up for it?” I certainly am.

  “Well…” She squints at me and purses her lips to one side. “Okay. I guess. Come on in.” She pushes the door open wider with her hip so she doesn’t need to drop her arms from covering her chest. She keeps her back pressed against the door, giving me plenty of room to move past her without touching her. “Only to plan out our schedule. I’m not having sex with you,” she adds matter-of-factly.

  “Huh. Must be something wrong with my memory.” I scratch my head.

  “What do you mean? Did you forget something?”

  “Yeah. I don’t remember asking you to have sex with me?”

  She glares at me and lets out a big exhale. “Very funny, jackass.”

  “I’m only here so we can make some kind of research and study plan. No hidden motives. Okay?” It’s almost the truth.

  “Okay. I’m studying in the living room.” She points to the arched doorway in front of me. “Make yourself comfortable while I go change my clothes.”

  “No need to change on my account. It’s an interesting invitation across your chest.” I give her the grin most girls drop their panties for about two minutes after I unleash it. Not Bambi. She rolls her eyes so hard I think they might get stuck in the back of her head. I think I hear her mumble the word ‘pig,’ one of her favorite terms of endearment for me.

  “Holy shit! Did your fairy godmothers have a wand fight over the colors your living room should be?” I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Bambi lives in a princess cottage.

  “My fairy godmothers?” She arches her brow and smirks.

  “What? I’m secure enough in my manhood to admit I dig the whole Disney princess thing.”

  “It’s Mackenzie-Childs furniture.”

  “What, she didn’t want it anymore so she gave it to you?”

  “Who?”

  “This Mackenzie chick.”

  “No. It’s the name of the company.” She giggles. “They’re considered works of art. My mom gave them to me. I know it’s a bit much. What can I say? She loves me.”

  She sighs and affection fills her eyes as she gazes across the furniture filled room. The corners of her mouth turn up. Damn. I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s even more beautiful when she smiles. I can tell she’s relaxing a little, even though she’s still got her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I like it. A Disney princess house suits you.” I can’t take my eyes off her when she smiles again, this time so wide her eyes crinkle up in a totally sweet way. And fuck, it’s like an arrow straight to my heart.

  “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.” She gestures toward the sofa. While I make myself comfortable, I watch her climb the stairs. Yup. I was right. Those shorts don’t completely cover the cheeks of her perfect ass. I love her ass, which leads to the need to readjust myself before the pressure of my zipper permanently disfigures me.

  Aside from her obvious gorgeousness, which got me hard at first sight, there are so many different sides to this girl. She’s smart and sassy, with a touch of insecure sadness. I’ve got to admit I want to get to know every one of them. If she doesn’t strangle me first.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tracey

  I can’t believe I’m wearing this shirt, because—of course—mister all-American- perfect happens to also be an avid surfer. I saw the pictures on his Facebook page. Yeah. I stalked the jackass’s Facebook page. Doesn’t mean I like the arrogant pig. Although the horrific truth is, I might be spending a little too much time thinking about riding that particular surfer boy. Yeah. Yeah. I know. It’s stupid.

  I slip on a pair of leggings and a loose off the shoulder sweatshirt. I hate the restraint of a bra when I’m at home studying so I don’t put one on. The loose sweatshirt will keep me from revealing my assets to the object of all my unwanted desires.

  I go back downstairs to find Dak making himself comfortable, his arms stretched out on the back of the sofa and his legs crossed on top of the Tra La La coffee table. Not kidding, that’s the actual name of the black and white checked table, which matches the black and white stripes and checks on the sofa with the Musette flowered cushions.

  God save me from my mom.

  Dak said it looks like a Disney princess house. I’d say more like a Mad Hatter tea party gone wrong house. Whatever it looks like, Dak appears to be right at home, even though the sight of his big frame lounging on all this country garden furniture is a bit peculiar. My mom would pass out if she saw him with his size huge feet up on the two-thousand-dollar table. Whatever. It is a college student’s house, after all, not high tea in an English drawing room. She can’t expect prim and proper.

  “I was making some hot chocolate. I know it’s still too warm outside for it, but it helps me relax when I’m studying. You know, the whole comfort food thing?” I shrug. “Want some? Or I have beer or wine if you want.” He’s my first guest, so I force myself to be civil.

  “Hot chocolate sounds good. Haven’t had it since my mom used to make it for me after junior hockey games. Need help?”

  “No thanks. It’s already made. Be right back.” While I pour our drinks, my mind drifts to the thought of a cherubic little Dak racing around in his hockey uniform while his mom bribes him with hot chocolate to get him to behave. But when I come back to the living room, the sight of the broad-shouldered, scorching hot guy filling my sofa dissolves the vision of the cute adolescent.

  “Damn. You’ve even got cups to match your furniture. It feels like a movie set or something.” He lets out a big laugh.

  Yup. The cocoa is served in fashionably correct O
dd Fellowes mugs, which match the flowered cushions. “Not a movie set.” I smile. “You’ve entered the parallel universe of Terace Hayward.”

  “Your mom?” He chuckles again and shakes his head.

  “That’s her.” Anyone who knows my mom would know I’m not making this stuff up. There’s already matching coasters on the table to place the mugs on—Mom’s thorough decorating scheme.

  Dak blows out a whistle of air. “What is she, like, some kind of fairyland interior decorator or something?”

  “No. Thank God. It might be even worse than it is if she was. She’s a former Victoria’s Secret model and a fashion designer these days.”

  He leans forward like he needs to get closer to hear me better. “Are you fucking with me, Bambi?”

  “About what? Even though you keep calling me Bambi, I would not fuck with you.” Nope. Not in any way.

  “Your mom was not a Victoria’s Secret model!”

  “Yes, she was. Her geeky scientific daughter couldn’t follow in her footsteps.” I shrug.

  Is it creepy he’s getting all excited about my mom? Creepy or not, if he met her I’m sure he’d be even more excited. She’s still drop dead gorgeous. Truth. My dad and her are like Mr. and Mrs. Olympia with Sloane as their little Miss Olympia offspring. It’s discouraging to be the ugly duckling in the family.

  “That explains it.” He nods and gives me an all-knowing grin like the heavens opened and revealed some important secret to him.

  “What?”

  “Why you’re so stunningly beautiful.”

  What?

  It’s like he read my thoughts about being the ugly duckling of the family. Oh, I know I’m not ugly. I’m not fishing for compliments to boost my ego. But when it comes to my practically perfect, beautiful family, they’re a tough act to follow.

  Though I don’t need some guy telling me how beautiful I am to make me feel better about myself, I confess, when the sex-god known as Dak Andersen says I’m stunningly beautiful—even though I hate him—it does tickle me a little bit. Okay. I’ll admit it. After more than a year and everything before, it’s possible a part of me needs a small compliment here and there from a guy. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up my membership card in the Rights for Women sorority. So don’t judge.

  “Right. Thanks.” I try not to sound too pleased. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Why the hell did I say that?

  I can’t even stand him. I don’t want him to think his ovary exploding looks have any effect on me.

  “Well thank you, Bambi. I thought you’d never notice,” he says all smug and sure of himself.

  Crap. Now he’s got this seductive glint in his dazzling blue eyes and I’m getting moist between my legs. Ugh. Why does he have to be so annoyingly sexy all the damn time?

  “Is your roommate home?” he asks.

  “Uh…no. No roommate. Yet,” I squeak out as I manage to unlock my eyes from his baby blues. Damn. I wish Nikki had moved in this week instead of next. Her presence would be a welcome safety net from my own desire to jump all over this guy. “Uh, we better get started on our schedule,” I suggest, hoping it didn’t come out as tense as my clenched lady parts. “It’s getting late and your cocoa is getting cold.”

  Sitting next to him on the sofa, I open my laptop to my calendar. He slides over a little closer and when his thigh brushes against mine it’s like getting zapped by the electric shock of a jellyfish. In a good way.

  I can’t explain it. When he touches me, I hold my breath waiting for the panicked reaction to sweep over me: hyperventilating, fists clenching, hammering pulse. Yet it doesn’t come. It’s absurd that he should be the one who breaks through the barricade I’ve built both mentally and emotionally around myself. I’ve got to get a grip before all my well-laid future plans go right down the orgasm trail along with all my vows of celibacy.

  I focus on my computer because no way can I look into the eyes I can almost feel burning into me from inches away with the ability to hypnotize my vagina. “Okay, let’s see. How’s tomorrow afternoon to go out and get the samples? It will give us all week to do the analysis and write it up.”

  “Why not go out in the morning? Then we’d have the rest of the day and Sunday to do the lab analysis. It’s better to get out on the water early while the sun’s shining.”

  “Can’t. I’m doing a kayak tour early in the morning. It takes two to three hours.”

  “You mentioned the tour thing in class. Are you working for one of the companies in the harbor?”

  “Yeah. I got my certification a few years ago in Delaware. It was required by the college to take out the school’s kayaks and the tour guide job was a fun way to make some extra cash. Hey, why don’t you come on the tour? I’ll take a double kayak out. You can pair up with me so there won’t be an uneven number of people. Then we can go right out after the tour. It will save time.”

  “Can’t. I…I just remembered, I have hockey practice in the morning. How about I meet you at the dock at one? Should give us plenty of time before dark.” He shifts a bit, fisting his hands on his thighs.

  He isn’t as smug and relaxed as he was a minute ago. What’s that about?

  “Sounds good. The tour is done by eleven. I can meet you at one.”

  “And…uh…speaking of hockey and skating schedules, have you thought about our Winter Fest routine and when you want to get together to practice?”

  Thought about it? Oh no. Only when I breathe.

  I can’t get the idea of skating with him out of my mind. All good skating routines should show emotion, but a pair’s routine is intimate, familiar on a very personal level. I’m not sure I can handle or even want that kind of closeness with Dak. I need to keep my distance.

  “Um, yeah. I’ve thought about it a little. I thought you might want to help pick out the music. Any ideas what you’d like to skate to?”

  If he says Romeo and Juliet, I’m changing schools again.

  “Well the music you’re listening to is pretty cool.”

  I didn’t even realize my IPad was still playing. I usually keep something classical on low in the background when studying. It helps to block out the rest of the world. Unfortunately, it hasn’t help block out the thoughts of Dak ever since the first day we collided on the ice.

  “Um, Pachelbel? You want to skate to the Canon in D?” I can’t hide the surprised tone in my voice. I’ve skated to it before in competition because it’s my all-time favorite classical piece, but I hadn’t pegged Dak as a classical kind of guy.

  “Nah. Just kidding.” He smiles and my ovaries quiver at the sight of his dimples. “I mean I like it, but I was thinking something more contemporary for the show.”

  “Oh, right.” His words extinguish my thought of licking those dimples. “Me too.”

  “A Jason Mraz song could be cool. His music got me through some tough times. Like his duet with Sara Bareilles, “You Matter to Me.” It would be perfect for a pair routine. And he did another duet with Christina Perri, also pretty hot, “Distance.” Do you know them?” His leg is pressing against mine now, and when I look up, his eyes are darkened to an inky blue and I can’t turn away from their spellbinding hold.

  Okay. Now I’m completely baffled. Sara Bareilles, Christina Perri, and Jason Mraz? The man-whore-hockey-god has the musical interests of a teenage girl. And tough times? What kind of tough times did this cocky ass ever encounter?

  I know I’m being a bit harsh. Dak doesn’t deserve my caustic attitude, even if he did crash into me on the ice and blame it on a so-called lack of my skating skills. He’s not the one who caused my current distrust of the opposite sex. But he does have the unfortunate honor of being the current available cocky athlete for my venting hostility.

  Every second I spend with him only succeeds in bewildering me more. Turns out this arrogant guy, I thought was the king of manwhores has a whole other sensitive, romantic side going on. Sara Bareilles? No way. What did he do with the cocky jackass who was
making it a little easier to resist his gorgeousness?

  “Wow. You’re one big mystery wrapped in an enigma, aren’t you? You’ve got the same taste in music as a twelve-year-old girl.” I can’t help myself from spitting out the snide comment. He seems to bring out the worst in me. Besides, sometimes a woman has to behave like an adolescent. It’s how the universe works.

  Dak smiles at my snarky words. “I can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic, can I?”

  “Hopeless, maybe. Romantic? Don’t think so.” I smile and shake my head.

  “Once you get to know me you’ll see, I can be all kinds of romantic, Bambi.”

  There’s the stupid sly grin again, which makes my easily impressed heart go boom inside my chest.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I say in an I’m-absolutely-not–interested tone. “And by the way, I think they’re both perfect choices.”

  “Yeah? Okay. Let’s do it, like a mashup or something.” His lips are so close we’re sharing our breath. He smells like a mixture of peppermint, vanilla, and leather, like Christmas and all kinds of bad choices rolled into one hot package. I’m lost in the combination, adrift in the intimate circle of Dak and me. There are no cautionary thoughts of his activities with other girls or guys.

  He leans in before I know what’s happening and kisses me with a feathery soft touch. His lips are warm and full and I whimper at their soft caress. He uses the opportunity to slide his tongue between my parted lips. I can’t resist the seductive invasion of swirling motions he’s making and I return his kiss. For a moment, there’s nothing else but Dak here with me at this minute, his lips on mine, our tongues tangling, my breath coming too fast, the heat building between my legs. He cups my face in his hand while his other hand slides down my neck and pushes the loose fabric of my shirt further down off my shoulder. I jump back, away from his touch. It’s too much.

  “What are you doing?” I push his hand away, but not before his touch causes my body to tremble and the heat to sweep down to my core.