by Cara McKenna
She stroked him rougher, loving how he squirmed. His labored breaths told her maybe he wasn’t up to much more, not without the finale arriving. She stole a glance at his face, wowed by the fact that it wasn’t familiar yet. He was still some sexy guy she’d run into on the subway, yet here he was, panting on the verge of climax from what her touch was doing to him. Weird. Weird and awesome. A better gift than a monogrammed cocktail shaker, certainly, and even more personal .
His cold fingers brushed hers, then the smooth heat of his bare cock as he pushed his waistband down. He was scalding against her chilled skin. She must have felt like ice in return, but that wasn’t what his face told her. Any discomfort he was feeling looked purely pleasurable. Short, harsh breaths huffed little jets of steam between them .
“Fuck, I’m close .”
“Good.”
Good, and then what? Two strangers, trapped together for another three hours or more, sobering up from sex and champagne in a brick tunnel of pure awkwardness .
I don’t care. I like him .
You’ll both be embarrassed once you’re back to reality. He won’t call .
You don’t know that .
Mark’s strained whimper hauled her out of the argument. One of his hands closed over her stroking one, squeezing it tighter, moving it quicker. “Oh …”
She held her breath, body all at once flushed to see him so worked up .
He pressed his forehead to hers, their hands thrashing together as he came undone. On impulse, she slid hers up to cup his crown, just in time to feel his release, warm in her palm. Through a groan she heard her name, two desperate syllables, the best sound ever. After a few hitches, his body stilled, head dropping back to lean against the wall .
He blinked. He panted. He smiled .
She couldn’t help but grin herself. “I’m going to do something really un-classy,” she warned. Mark nodded blearily, and she grabbed the nearby wad of wrapping paper and wiped her hand. He laughed, lost again in a brief fit of giggles. A sighed warmed her neck. “Beats my sleeve .”
Slowly, the tunnel asserted itself once more—the cold, the dark, the strangeness .
“I better…” Caitlin pulled back an inch or two to button her coat, find the gloves he’d lent her and slip them back on .
“Right.”
She waited until Mark had his jeans done up and his hood re-cinched, then got herself settled between his legs once more, head on his shoulder, back against his chest, his jacket wrapped tight around her legs. He smoothed her hair aside and pressed his lips to her cheek. After a moment’s shifting, he handed her the champagne bottle .
“To…well, you know. All that,” he said .
She took a sip. They passed the bottle back and forth a dozen times, until the wine was gone .
“That was delicious, if unexpected,” Mark said, setting it aside. “Thanks for sharing .”
“You’re very welcome. Thanks for helping. I probably would’ve ended up drinking mimosas all morning, then let half of it go flat. This was a much better use .”
“Glad now they gave you champagne instead of whiskey ?”
“I suppose I am.” She let her body relax, her full weight resting on him. He closed his arms around hers to pin her pleasantly in place against him. “You know what else I’m glad about? That we got locked in here,” she announced .
“Oh, yeah ?”
“Yeah. This story’s much more valuable than a good night’s sleep .”
“Speak for yourself. I have to be at work for basketball practice at ten .”
“Oh, dear .”
He hugged her tight. “You’re right, though. It was worth it. Best accidental first date I’ve ever had .”
“Indeed.” And he’d made her come without even glimpsing her underwear. Actually, that was kind of a shame, considering she’d gone to all the trouble of matching the items. But hopefully there’d be more chances to spoil him .
I hope, I hope, I hope .
5
C aitlin slept in fits and starts, deep enough to invite snatches of near-rest before something roused her—the cold, or Mark shifting behind her back .
She woke from a strange dream, its details gone before she could even recall them. A glance toward the end of the tunnel told her nothing. Even if it was early enough for the trains to start running, dawn light wouldn’t follow for an hour or more. How long since they’d stopped kissing and chatting? Three hours? Ten minutes? She was almost glad his phone was dead. Checking the time and knowing how long they still had to wait could be a curse —
A clank echoed from the direction of the exit, and she tensed, her jolt or the noise waking Mark. Was it the sound of their escape being granted ?
They shared a look, and Mark’s wide eyes said he was wondering the same thing .
“Do you think …?”
He nodded. “I do .”
She got to her knees, unsteady from the cold, or maybe the champagne. Mark looked away politely as she tugged her dress down to a more modest arrangement. She offered her hand, and he made it to standing on legs surely as rickety as her own. Her shoes were stiff as she fumbled to get them on .
She gathered the shaker and stuffed its wrapping paper and gift box in her coat pocket. Mark reached for the empty champagne bottle .
“Don’t,” she said .
“Don’t?”
“No. You know what? Let’s just leave it. I can’t believe somebody wasn’t lying down on the job for us to have wound up locked in a freezing cold tunnel all night. The least they can do is recycle a mysterious champagne bottle they find down here .”
He grinned but picked it up. “I’m taking it. Better drop some hints about your favorite kind of flowers so I can buy the right ones to fill this thing with when I turn up for our first date .”
She blushed, the warmth welcome and humbling. “I like tulips. And gerbera daisies .”
“Color?” he asked, picking up the cork .
“Surprise me .”
He handed her the cork. “Here. You should have a souvenir, too .”
She accepted it with another blush, and they headed for the exit .
Please let it really be unlocked, maybe on a timer . She prayed they might escape before any bewildered T employees found them. She was dead tired and didn’t relish filling out whatever heap of forms might be required of them after such an ordeal .
The sky beyond the iron gate was still dark. She held her breath as they reached the bars, afraid to hope, but the gate swung out with an angry squeak when Mark pushed. They stepped into the brisk winter wind, the streetlamps and Christmas lights seeming exotic. Magic .
“Cheers to that.” Caitlin tapped the bottle with the martini shaker .
She stared up at him in the streetlight, his blue eyes tinted greenish by the yellow glow .
“Do you still remember my number?” she asked .
His face went rigid with concentration, but he nailed it on the first try .
“Very good .”
“The effort probably pushed my locker combination out,” he said with a smile. “But it’s a worthy trade .”
Caitlin tenderly drew her hopeful heart from its nest between her ribs and stitched it onto her sleeve. “I hope you’ll call me .”
“I hope you’ll answer when I do .”
“If it’s in the next half hour, I’ll be dying of happiness in a boiling-hot shower .”
“I’ll try not to take it too personally, then. You must be freezing,” he said, rubbing her arms through her coat. “Do we need to find you a cab ?”
“No, no, I’m really close .”
“Can I walk you home, at least ?”
“You may .”
She’d have preferred a leisurely stroll to draw the final minutes of their strange date out as long as possible, but Mark set a brisk pace, clearly more concerned with getting her safely home and into the warmth with all her fingers and toes still attached .
As they passed through the li
ttle park, he put his hand to the small of her back, the contact feeling dangerously like that of a boyfriend. Well, dangerous only if they never saw each other again. If he came to his senses and decided he didn’t want to go on a real date with a woman who’d been dumped less than twelve hours earlier, lived alone with a cat, and had a tendency to fuck around with strangers in subway tunnels. So, dangerous, yeah. But awfully exciting .
“This is me,” she said as they reached her building. She slipped off Mark’s gloves and handed them back. “Thanks for those .”
“My pleasure. Really .”
She pursed her lips, watching his breath fog in the winter air, memorizing his face, his handsome nose, dark stubble, that little divot beside his lips when he smiled at her, as he was now .
“You may kiss me good morning, Mark Holly .”
“May I ?”
She nodded, a dopey grin wrecking any cool, casual façade she might have mustered, had she gotten any real sleep. His lips felt soft and familiar, their kiss rippling through her body, tingling in her fingertips and toes and chest. If only he could kiss her while she donated platelets. He’d get her warmer than any heating pad, keep her pulse higher than the tightest blood pressure cuff. Maybe on the Thursday she had off for vacation, they’d find themselves at the donor center together once again. Maybe side by side, sharing a movie .
She cleared her throat as they separated, cold winding itself around her bare legs. “What book were you reading, that day at the Red Cross? A thick hardcover one?” The question was spurred by both curiosity and a desire to stall, spend a few more seconds in his proximity .
He thought a moment. “Oh. Some book about behavioral disorders. Child psychology stuff. I’ve been thinking maybe I’d study that someday, when I’m too old and creaky to keep up on the basketball court .”
She smiled at that, picturing a forty-year-old Mark in a classroom full of undergrads. Will I be there to wish him luck on his first day ?
“You better get inside,” he said, taking charge and pushing in the foyer door .
She slipped past, fishing her keys from her useless little purse. With a peck on her cheek, he said, “Take care” and stepped outside, the glass door hissing shut on him. She waved, and he waved back, and she headed into the wonderful, miraculous heated hallway .
Inside her unit, Sarge greeted her with an aggressive push against her leg, one that seemed to say, And where have you been all night, young lady ?
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She stowed her keys, kicked off her stiff heels and made a beeline for the bathroom. Soon the shower was steaming, and her skin itched, going from frigid to broiled in an instant. But she adjusted, melted exactly as she had in Mark’s embrace .
How easily that thought had crept in. Easy as Mark’s smile and laugh and company. Easy as a new romance was supposed to feel, no making-things-work, nothing that felt like a second job, an obligation. Natural. Simple. Mark felt like a new friend, one she would happily kiss until her lips fell off. Just Mark plus kissing. Plus some other good stuff that came after all the kissing. If that wasn’t simple, she didn’t know what was .
But don’t go getting your hopes up, she warned herself. So she didn’t. She thought about how lovely it would be to go to sleep with the sun just coming up and not have to wake again until Monday morning if she didn’t want to .
Sarge brushed her calf again as she emerged from the steamy bathroom, leaving long gray hairs clinging to her damp skin. Ah yes, back to glamorous reality. A reality where she was freshly single, where girlfriends who asked what Kevin got her for Christmas would be set straight and moved to look at her with loving pity. Reality, where her well-meaning mom would tell her to buck up and then list all of Caitlin’s cousins who were having such great luck meeting people online, misquoting the names of the websites. You should join that WebHarmony, honey. That’s how Tina met her fiancé, and look how happy they are !
As she finished pulling on her pajamas, reality intruded further in the form of a muffled tinkling noise. Heart thumping with cautious hope, she padded to the living room and fished her neglected cell phone from her other purse. A text was waiting for her. It could easily have come last night, some guilty let’s-stay-friends message from Kevin .
Or not. Twenty minutes ago, it was stamped, from a number she’d no longer have to worry about forgetting. She tried to bite back a grin as she opened it, failing grandly .
If this is Caitlin’s (spelling?) number, I hope you’re enjoying your shower. And I hope maybe you’re free sometime for dim sum—extra wasabi, just how your eyeballs like it. I work Saturdays but my Sunday is wide open. Give me a call if you’re up for it. Oh and if this isn’t Caitlin’s number, sorry. Though if you were showering, I still hope you enjoyed it. Go hygiene .
Mark
She smirked and saved his number to her contacts. She would call him—oh, yes, she would—right after she took a nice long nap and ate breakfast or lunch or whatever meal was appropriate by the time she roused. Rest and nourishment would make for a more coherent digital flirtation. She wasn’t coy enough to make him wait a whole day, but a few hours, sure. She could play it that cool. Then he’d meet her at the restaurant or her door, and her big old dorky grin would give her away. And she’d be just fine with that .
She waved her phone at Sarge. “Guess who’s got a date, fatty fatty fur-pants ?”
His tail flicked with disinterest .
“Fine. Be a jerk. But I happen to have a date, and no, it’s not with Kevin.” She wandered to her little kitchen to open a can of cat food. She mashed it up in Sarge’s bowl and set it in its place, where he attacked it with an ardor not warranted by Caitlin’s romantic news .
“It’s with Mark,” she said, ignored. “Mark Holly. He donates his platelets and coaches youth sports, and he’s a really good kisser. And if I manage to get him back here to watch a movie and mess around, you better not watch us, all creepy and judgy .”
Sarge settled on his haunches, tail whipping around behind him .
“You better not pee on his jeans either, like you did to Kevin’s that time. Though in retrospect, thank you for that. You’ve got better taste than I give you credit for. And better intuition than me .”
She left Sarge to his gorging, stopping in the bathroom to dry her hair before climbing under the covers. After half a minute’s deliberation, she abandoned her cozy cocoon to jog to the front door, to where her coat hung. She returned to bed with the champagne cork, setting it beside her cell on the bedside table .
Just once more, she told herself, grabbing the phone and rereading Mark’s text .
One quick message, she decided, abandoning her plan to appear cool in favor of the contact. She hit REPLY and typed a single letter in succession .
Zzzzzzzzzzz…
The moment she hit SEND , Caitlin second-guessed her missive .
That was me zzzzzzzzzing from exhaustion. Not because your text was boring, she typed, and sent it. She read it again. Not because your text was coping. Oh, fuck. Stupid auto-correct .
That should have been boring. Not that your text was boring. Never mind. Dmplesmdyl adm oggusm, she finished, in a flurry of nonsense-typing. SEND. Fine. Done. Dignity surrendered .
She was still lamenting her dopiness when her phone chimed. She opened Mark’s message with a little knot in her middle .
Oggusm? it asked. Didn’t we already exchange a couple of those in the nostril of the Orange Line ?
She laughed aloud, middle untying itself. Cute. Awfully cute .
See you Sunday, she wrote. If all goes well, more oggusms to follow, preferably someplace a bit more civilized .
She waited for another chime, and Mark didn’t disappoint .
See you then. Enjoy your zzzzzzs. Going to snag a few myself, before I have to head to work. xx
She switched off her phone with a smile and wrapped the covers around her tightly. Tight like Mark’s coat around her legs, like his arms around her waist.
Tight like her chest would feel when she spotted him next, her breath drawn short from hopeful anxiety .
Tight like maybe his hand would feel around hers as they walked back to one of their homes, out of the brisk winter breeze and into the warmth. Tight like he’d hold her in bed, maybe .
Maybe maybe maybe .
Definitely, she corrected, smiling as she drifted off to sleep .
About the Author
S ince she began writing in 2008, Cara McKenna has published over forty romances and erotic novels with a variety of publishers, sometimes under the pen names Meg Maguire and C.M. McKenna. Her stories have been acclaimed for their smart, modern voice and defiance of convention. She was a 2015 RITA Award finalist, a 2014 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award winner, a 2012 and 2011 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee, and a 2010 Golden Heart Award finalist. She lives with her husband and son in the Pacific Northwest, though she’ll always be a Boston girl at heart .
Cara loves hearing from readers !
www.caramckenna.com
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Also by Cara McKenna
A fter Hours
Curio and the Curio Vignettes
Hard Time
Her Best Laid Plans
Shivaree: The Complete Series
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Unbound
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Willing Victim
Brutal Game
T HE SINS IN THE CITY SERIES
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Downtown Devil
Midtown Masters
T HE DESERT DOGS SERIES
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Give It All
Drive It Deep
Burn It Up
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A s C.M. McKenna