by Box Set
However, as the minutes pass and conversations and customers ebb and flow around us, it no longer feels as if he’s out of my league. We just click, and it seems so completely natural to be here talking. With him.
For instance, how weird is it that we both visited Nuremberg the same year, but a month apart?
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he asks, with a challenging eyebrow lift.
“Ja,” I answer, but my German’s rusty, and I say so in German. I continue in English, “It was a stop on a short tour of Southern Germany before I started my spring semester abroad in Munich. Stayed at the coolest youth hostel, a converted castle.”
He chuckles, a sound that drops into that weighty expectation and sizzles along my nerves. “I stayed there too.”
See? Click. Fate. I shift forward in my seat. “It was raining when I got there, so I didn’t get to appreciate it at first, but I met two Canadians—a brother and sister—and we had a great time holed up in our room.”
He nods along. “More people should travel abroad, if they’re able. We’re so isolated here. Most Americans don’t get how weird it is that we can travel for hours and hours and still speak the same language.”
Which leads to a discussion on the merits of experiencing other cultures. Somewhere in that time, a barista clears away our dishes. Before I know it, a whole hour has disappeared, and we’ve been talking, laughing, sharing, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt so free with someone. A whole hour in which he hasn’t once glanced at his watch as if he can’t wait for an excuse to leave my presence.
A whole hour which has been an exercise in restraint. Restraint from reaching out and touching the skin on the back of his hand, feeling the hairs brush against my palm. Restraint from running my fingers up his muscled forearm, because I totally want to feel his strength whisper across my skin. Restraint from asking, are you for real?
Restraint from leaning in and letting his warrior-like body shelter me. Which is screwed up because I don’t need sheltering. But I get the vibe that if I had a problem, he’d know how to fix it. And he’d want to.
The realization that our date is close to over washes through me and leaves behind a jittery, panicky residue. It’s the only reason I can explain my next words, “Let’s have sex.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, and I know my eyes have about bugged out of my head. “Holy shit,” I whisper. My heart’s pounding as if it’s going what-the-hell? But I actually wait for a response, because it turns out, I was kind of serious. Actually, I totally am.
Wow.
I’ve got some she-balls, and I’m loving it. The new me.
Apparently he is too, because his eyes grow dark, hooded, and the air shifts between us, growing even more charged. It’s like—we’ve clicked so well, uncovering so much common ground between us, that it’s left a vacuum which demands to be filled by a physical connection. To even the balance. To shore up the gains we made.
Except. That uneasiness returns and knocks around in my stomach. I have no time for the emotional investment a relationship takes. Yeah, I’m starting my new-me phase of my life, but I’m not ready to make time for a relationship. And then I have to laugh at myself for thinking so far ahead, but I can’t help it. It’s hard-wired. I miscalculated during my fellowship and indulged in a relationship with Phil. I can’t risk that again. I need to solidify my base here before I can…expand.
But a fling? That might be exactly what I need to prove to myself I’m not cold. And to be upfront about this, I say, “This’ll just be sex. No strings. Afterward? We part ways.”
That last bit was hard to say, because everything in me aches to explore more with this man, but I…can’t. Too much is on the line professionally. I’m already starting at the practice on shaky ground.
So if this is all I can have with him? Yeah, I want the sex too.
Then we’ll never see each other again.
I could have kept quiet. Supposedly, guys don’t care—they’d never say no to sex—but I always thought that truism was a bit too pat. Since I’m basically using him to get practice and gain some much-needed experience, I need to be honest. Especially because it feels as if we’ve made a connection.
He leans forward, his elbows propping on the table. His biceps bunch, and his whole body shudders with a slight tension.
Shit. Have I totally misread him? Us? Will the one time I say something bold and daring—the one time I take ownership of something I want sexually, the one time I decide to live a little—be the time I get shot down?
An internal struggle plays out in the depths of his green eyes. Did I mention they’re green? Well, they are. A rich, layered kind of green that surprisingly makes me want to curl up and stare into them. All day.
He still hasn’t uttered a word.
You know what? If I’m going to channel a sex vixen today, I need to own it.
Slowly, I stand and hold his gaze. Then I turn and stroll toward the door as if I know what the hell I’m doing. As if I’m super confident he’s going to follow me. As if I’ve totally done this before.
A chair scrapes.
OMG.
My thighs are shaky. I sure hope it’s not ruining the saunter I’m going for. Then, his warm presence is behind me, and a delicious shiver races down my spine. And that’s before his hand presses against the small of my back, sending a dose of heat to my core.
OMG. This is so happening.
Luke
Fuuuuck.
I’m leaning forward holding the café door open for Pepper, and I’m so close I can feel her warmth, see the short hairs that have escaped the no-nonsense bun to soften the line of her creamy neck. Begging me to lick, to taste her skin. To flick and tease the small hairs and nibble my way up to…
Lust burns through me, making it hard to think.
And I need to think, dammit.
But I’m here and holding the door open precisely because each justification I made to steal more time out of this moment has been like a domino, click-click-clicking its inevitable path down and away—out of my control. I can stop this forward momentum. I can stop and say…
Pepper, I’m Luke from high school, the one you hate, but can we forget all that and keep…connecting? I actually didn’t do what you think I did…
Pepper, we can’t do this because…
We walk down the sunlit sidewalk, my hand warming at the small of her back and…no words come out. She’s leading, I’m following, and… Yeah. She’s in charge. Which is hot. And I’m along for the ride, however that ride plays out. The little mind embodied in my cock perks up again, imagining all the “riding” we can do.
No. That’s not the point. The point is… The fucking point is…
The point is, she’s in charge, and she wants this. And I do too. And she’s set the parameters of the engagement. One time only. And maybe she’ll chicken out and change her mind before we get there…
My breath shudders, fighting against the sudden, constrictive weight on my chest.
Fuck, I’m the asshole she believes me to be because I can’t back away from this.
Yeah, the justifications are coming swift and hard, detonating like mortar shells, one after another against my rational mind. But one justification eclipses all—we’re never seeing each other again.
Chapter Three
Pepper
At Rick’s apartment complex, a naked bulb illuminates a clean but bare stairwell painted a cool blue. All is hushed anticipation except for our breaths and the scrape of our shoes as we take one step, and then another. I’m acutely aware of my surroundings, especially of the man behind me. But I’m not scared.
No, instead I’m wound up for a completely different reason. Soon I’ll be feeling him against me. Feeling his strength. And I’m…eager. Eager to taste his skin, eager to learn what turns him on, eager to explore this sizzling chemistry flaring between us. Because it’s just so unusual for me. And it could be my one chance. Phil didn’t get me worked up like this. Gu
ys have flirted with me in the past, but it just…never did anything for me. Deep down, I think the reason Phil’s text bothered me so much was because I feared it was true.
We reach the first landing, and he palms the small of my back again, the solid tips of his fingers settling into the dip along my spine, steady and sure. A shudder of anticipation and heat starts at the point of contact and fans outward. We’ve barely talked since leaving the coffee shop. In fact, all that was said was on his part.
His words, like velvet in my ear but dark with sensual promise, “My apartment’s a block away,” and I just nodded like that eager puppy.
God. This is really happening.
I’m having sex with someone I just met. Before lunchtime.
And I’m oddly fine with this.
I take the next step, and he follows more closely now, his hunky presence behind me like a heady, sensual pressure. His intoxicating scent already making my stomach flutter.
His warm breath brushes my ear, and I shiver.
“You sure about this, sweetheart?”
His voice is infused with a touch of worry, which totally checks another box in his pro column.
“Yes,” I whisper, still trying my damnedest to channel this new sex vixen in me. And since a sex vixen wouldn’t stop there, I reach down and stroke my hand down his muscular thigh. Which…might not be that sexy, but dammit, to me this is radical.
Through his suede-soft jeans, his taut muscles tense under my palm, and he growls in my ear. I clench. I friggin’ clench, which I’ve never done in my life. How pathetic. Obviously, this lack is something vital I need to fix.
At his door, he yanks me into the sheltering circle of his arm, my back flush against him, his body curled around me. For some reason, being so definitively in his personal space—his inner circle—feels more intimate than anything I’ve done in the past. My hand flexes on his thigh, itching to move up and squeeze the powerful biceps which fill my left-side vision. But I resist. Yeah, just call me Miss Self Control.
He fishes out his key from his jeans pocket, the action curving his hips into me and pressing his heavy erection against the top curve of my ass. I tremble, and heat pulses through my veins.
The door swings inward, and he edges us forward. I snatch a glimpse of bare white walls, sparse furniture, and a general lack of clutter, when I’m spun around and he sandwiches me against the now-closed door.
Our heightened breaths are all I can hear. His hard body is stretched against mine, tensed, and arousal spikes through me, a searing heat all along my skin. That was…fucking hot. Do I want to have sex against a door? Yes. Yes, I do.
He leans forward, his face mere inches from mine, his gaze searching, but his mouth doesn’t crash into mine like I expect. Instead, he says, “Listen.” His liquid voice steals over me, mixing with my desire and ratcheting it higher. “That door’s unlocked. You initiated, yes. But that doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind. Understand?”
I shiver again, because damn, the heat and control radiating from him envelops me in his protective zone. And his concern soothes any last minute anxiety that’s trying its damnedest to knock sense into me. I appreciate the check-in, don’t get me wrong, but I’m eager to explore this.
A strange noise—half growl, half groan—rumbles from his chest. “You asked, you’re in charge, but I also want. Fuck, do I want.”
He tracks his gaze down my body and back up, taking in the rise and fall of my breasts. Which are practically begging all on their own for his touch. His eyes lock with mine, and the want there sends another bolt of need through me, because—holy cow—this huge, hotter-than-sin man wants me. Wants me.
I nod. It’s all I’m capable of. That, and the hand I’d put on his thigh earlier. Yeah, I’m a regular sex vixen, all right.
I grab the neckline of his gray T-shirt and yank him the rest of the way across the sliver of charged space still between us. Somehow our foreheads or noses don’t crash together from the force of my tug, but our mouths do, and we both take, take, take, as if we’ve been waiting all our lives to do just this. He nudges me back into the door with his hips, and his strong hands cup my jaw and cheeks as if I’m a delicate creature.
But his kisses aren’t delicate. Not at all. His tongue strokes mine, and that taste punches my sensual fever higher. I brush my hands up to his muscled shoulders and do a half-grab of his neck, half-grab of his hair.
He hisses and breaks our kiss, his eyes closing.
“I’m sooo going to hell,” he mutters.
Before I can think or ask what he means, he hikes me up as if I’m some lightweight and presses his hard cock against my clit, one of the metal buttons of his Levi 501s pushing right against… Oh shit, yes. I whip my legs around his waist. Apparently, I’m channeling a gymnast now too.
He trails his hypnotic mouth across my jaw and down my neck. And that delicious weight is just…pressed there. Driving me wild. I squirm against him to relieve the building pressure, and, oh Jesus, it winds me tighter and tighter.
He growls and thrusts his hips, picking up on the rhythm I crave. Need. And then I’m panting, pulling his hair, grinding against him as if he’s my own personal sex toy, looking up at his pebbly ceiling, and thinking, holy shit, this is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. The tension is coiling and building inside me, desperate, feverish.
And just like that, I shatter.
Didn’t I say I needed to get out more?
Because, yeah, I just came against a door by grinding on a guy. Fully clothed.
Heat rushes up my skin, my legs and arms tightening around him as I ride out my climax, trembling.
“Fuck, that was hot,” he grits out. He lifts his head and glances behind him, the tension and control obviously fighting for dominance in his rigidly taut muscles, the strain around his mouth and eyes. “Not here.”
He spins around with me still clinging to him. But since my muscles feel gooey, he must be the one holding me in place.
“Bedroom. Back there.”
Apparently, he’s also reduced to simple statements. I cinch my noodle arms around his neck as best I can, and his mouth slants against mine, his breaths and lips frantic, needy. Urgent.
He heads for his bedroom, his strides long and purposeful and powerful, the movement massaging his cock against my core. I’m still all languid and limp from my release, but this sparks a new flare of desire. We pass the breakfast bar facing his galley kitchen, and his steps slow. He stops and places his forehead against mine, pulling in a deep breath and slowly letting it out. Then again.
What the—?
He pushes aside a wooden stool with his foot, crashing it to the floor. My butt hits the countertop, and his hands are grazing up my thighs, bunching my red sundress up against my hips. The soft cotton teases across my now sensitized skin. I’m totally on board, because I can’t wait either. I want him inside me.
Shit. I’d chosen plain white boy shorts in defiance of this date. A statement that I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. Minus one for me in the sex vixen role. But he doesn’t seem to mind. His devastating eyes are hooded, and he skims his hands farther up, cupping my ass. The possessive grip makes me shiver.
He tugs me toward him—my ass sliding smoothly across the surface—and traces a hand down my neck. “Just one more taste,” he rumbles.
I love that he can’t wait until we get to his room. His lips brush mine, gently this time, but apparently that’s just too damn slow for me because I’m gripping the back of his head and increasing the urgency of the kiss. All of the post-orgasmic lusciousness has transmuted into a growing need for him.
He breaks away on a sharp inhale, eyes closing. “Shit, sweetheart.”
It’s endearing he calls me that when it’s just sex, but I’m again confused by the slow-down.
My question is answered with his next words. “We can…” He clears his throat. “We can still end this now if you want. You got off…”
Does he not want…? I glan
ce down. No. I can see the evidence that he very much wants to continue.
I shake my head. “I want this. I need this.” And I do. I’ve already learned so much about myself this afternoon, with him, and somehow I feel as if this is my one chance to explore this new side of me—try it on for practice until I’m ready to implement it in my life.
I can see he’s still hesitant.
“Whatever noble ideas you’ve got pinging around in there, stop. I want this. I want you. Now.” I take another breath. Own it, own it, own it. Now I’m the one who grabs his ass possessively. “Please.” I follow up with a nibble on his ear lobe.
On a curse, he whips his wallet from his back pocket and tosses it onto the counter, the rippling and flexing of his muscles as he moves, a thing of beauty. His wallet spins and thumps against my hip. His hands fly to his waist, and he’s tugging up the hem of his T-shirt and unbuttoning his jeans. Triumph surges through me, swift and powerful. I glimpse rock-hard abs and a sprinkling of hair arrowing down, and my pulse beats hard in my neck—I can feel it—and I sway a little bit at the need that’s clawing up inside me. Need for this man. Right now.
And then I still. Whoa.
He’s a commando guy.
His cock is thick, long, and hard, pushing up his T-shirt. I need to touch. I stretch out my fingers—they’re trembling—and drag a fingertip across the swollen head. The soft cotton of his shirt, warm from being next to his skin, brushes the backs of my fingers. He shudders, and his erection jerks slightly away. I stroke down the backside and wrap my fingers around his thickness. His heat pulses beneath my palm, warming my skin. Firm, smooth, hot.
Totally hot.
He groans and snatches his wallet. Before I can even blink, he has a condom whipped out and rolled on, and now he’s shoving aside my panties. He takes a moment to stroke a blunt fingertip through my slick folds, but it’s friggin’ obvious I’m so ready for him.