Stud in the Stacks

by Pippa Grant

  “Wouldn’t be so tired if you weren’t spending all that energy chasing off all those band groupies.”

  This time, my laugh is a snort. “Yeah. All those groupies.” More like all those hours at work, busting my ass to prove myself. Chase took a huge chance promoting me to the top floor, and I don’t want to blow it.

  “I’d be your groupie.”

  Right.

  He must’ve seen it in my face, because he holds his hands up in a what can I say? gesture. “Girls with guitars are hot.”

  “The last guy who picked me up with that line spent our coffee date taking selfies with my guitar and left me with the bill.”

  “He was lying about which part he found hot. I’m not.” His smile makes his olive-green eyes crinkle in the corner and shows off his perfect white teeth. I wish he was the kind of guy who had a flaw. Like maybe he’d left the bathroom smelling like only men can, or that he had a pimple somewhere, or he’d confess to having a tiny weenie to make me feel better about the inadequacies in my love life.

  Based on how those pants fit him and my little accidental lookie-loo, though, he’s packing something bigger than an overgrown organic banana.

  Which I absolutely should not be thinking about, because his offer does not include teaching me the joy of man-made orgasms.

  “You don’t have to flatter me,” I tell him. “I can…I can go…by myself. Not a big deal.”

  “You’re not going by yourself.”

  That caveman thing shouldn’t work on me, but I’m a total floozy when it comes to men who can put two sentences together, haven’t tried to ask my breasts for their phone number—yes, my lemon breasts—and who have no earthly reason to try to be my hero, but seem to want to be anyway.

  “Your date from last weekend won’t mind?” I force myself to ask.

  “She bought a date. Not me.”

  “She was very pretty,” I say.

  He holds my gaze long enough for me to once again wonder how he got those fascinating green eyes ringed in gold. His pupils are dilated bigger than they should be in the bright bathroom lights, and his lids are getting heavy. “Parker Parker Elliott, so are you.”

  I stare at him stupidly. “Oh, please. On a good day, I’m a seven on a scale of one to ten. She’s like a fifteen.”

  “A seven?”

  “I said on a good day. Today’s not a good day, okay? I take it back. I don’t need you to go with me, because there’s no way anyone will believe this anyway. I can pull off a seven for my reunion, but you’re a solid eleven. And sevens and elevens only mix at corner grocery stores, and only when they’re coming together to sell slushies, and there’s no way you’re planning on making slushies with me, because even I know that’s a horrible euphemism, and it’s just my reunion, and—”

  “Ah, I see.” He nods knowingly. “You’re right. We need to do the chemistry test.”

  The chemistry test? Oh, god. This is not good.

  I try to pinch my lips together, but my lip muscles are apparently tired after the show, or else they’re willfully betraying me, because suddenly I’m shaking my head and trying to press myself through the door while my mouth once more demonstrates its mortifying superpowers. “I don’t do chemistry. I once dated a doctor for three months before we got to the bedroom, and everything was clumsy and awkward and his pet chicken was watching and we broke up right after that because he said I was lousy in bed. A doctor with a voyeuristic pet chicken thought I was lousy in bed. I’ve never had a man-made orgasm. And I think it’s because I’m not sexy at all, or maybe my plumbing’s broken, or maybe my hotness radar is way off and instead of picking the sexy men I actually pick losers and please, god, just let me keep the fantasy that you’re actually good in bed because if you’re not good in bed, then I’m definitely broken somewhere, and would you please make me stop talking because I’m physically incapable of chemistry with anyone and I’d kinda like to just shrivel up and die right now.”

  I squeeze my eyelids together so tight my I give myself a headache. And with my eyes squeezed shut, now my lips get the memo and clamp as well, but it’s too late.

  The damage has been done.

  Knox knows I have a defective vagina.

  At this stage in my life, I have no choice but to accept the facts.

  One, I will never be able to masturbate to thoughts of this man again, and quite honestly, with the whole Tarzan thing, he’s ruined me for all other male fantasies. I’ve just ruined my last chance of ever orgasming. Thanks, me.

  And two, it’s not the men.

  It’s me.

  If I keep my eyes pinched shut like this, I can still probably make it all the way into the stall, lock myself inside, and wait for him to figure out how to get out of the bathroom. I’d call someone, but Willow has my phone, and I doubt there’s signal down here anyway.

  A warm thumb brushes my cheek.

  My breath catches.

  He strokes my hair, and despite my utter mortification, the gesture nearly makes my pussy spontaneously combust.

  I do believe I finally understand the term hot mess. And that’s me. A total hot mess.

  “One test.” He’s so close, his breath is tickling my cheek. “If I screw this up, I’ll find you someone perfect for your reunion. But if I don’t, I’m going to be the best fucking date in the history of reunion dates.”

  “Screw what up?” I still can’t look at him, and I’m afraid if I open my eyes, he won’t be touching me, or I’ll actually be alone in the women’s room, or worse, I’ll be acting out some weird fantasy on stage while all the librarians watch.

  “You’re not a seven,” he tells me. “You’re a twenty-eight.” His lips brush mine, and I am definitely not making that up.

  They’re firm and warm, rubbing across my mouth so lightly it tickles. I squeak in a surprised gasp, and he sucks my lower lip into his mouth.

  Liquid heat surges in my pussy.

  He nips at my lip with his teeth, and Jesus, Mary, and One Direction, that one little nibble is going to make me come apart at my seams. My panties are so hot they’re smoking. Like my pussy’s going to need a cigarette after this, and neither I, nor my pussy, have ever smoked a day in our lives.

  I whimper into his kiss and cautiously touch his chest. His shirt is warm with body heat over solid rock. Touching him is making me bold, and I go exploring, tracing the ridges of his ribs and abs through the cotton material, the curves and valleys, while I kiss him back.

  His grip tightens in my hair, and I open my mouth to let his kiss all the way in. He doesn’t hesitate, plunging his tongue in to stroke mine, setting off fireworks in my belly and making my core clench. He’s devouring me like he can’t get enough, feasting on me as though I’m a rare delicacy and he doesn’t want to miss a single drop. I’m hot and horny and would it be too much if I straddled his leg and humped it?

  There’s a little voice reminding me this isn’t real, it’s temporary, it’s a test, the bottom’s going to drop out any minute, but Oh. My. God.

  His lips—and his tongue—his hands—his body—it’s all sensory overload. He pushes me back against the door, suckling and teasing and nibbling, stroking my body, pressing his hips into my belly and—

  He’s definitely not stuffing his loincloth, because that solid ridge pressing against me is thick and long and I can’t get my leg looped around his back, but I want to feel him between my thighs. I’m empty and desperate and on the edge and I need him to touch me like I need to breathe, and if he doesn’t, I’m going to—

  “Aaaahh!”

  The door bangs into my head, throwing my body into Knox’s, and I’m tumbling forward with him skittering back and— “Ow!”

  I land on my hands with a jolt. Knox rolls out of the way, and I don’t know the last time this floor was cleaned. I flop to my butt, looking around wild-eyed.

  We’re surrounded.

  Judy—his mother. A few librarians. His grandmother. Willow and Eloise—with a lock-picking kit. Of co
urse Eloise would have a lock-picking kit.

  Judy heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Knox…”

  “My fault,” I squeak.

  He easily pulls himself off the floor and offers me a hand, something dark and unreadable lingering in his expression. “My fault,” he corrects. “You okay?”

  I’m going to have a few bruises in the morning.

  But my pride has had worse. “Yeah.”

  “I’m taking Parker home,” he tells the room.

  Eloise gives me the fuck, yeah! head nod. Willow shoves my phone at me and darts back to the stage. “I’ll grab your purse and guitar,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Judy’s still giving Knox one of those mom looks, and I realize my mother will probably know about this by morning, if not in the next ten minutes, which means I’m totally screwed if he backs out of my reunion now.

  Also?

  That kiss?

  Not only has he ruined masturbation, he’s also ruined me for kisses.

  For life.

  8

  Knox

  Parker Parker Elliott.

  Holy shit.

  No wonder she was stuck in my mind. She’s there, but she’s so different. Do I remember the geeky girl she swears she was? Nope.

  But I remember fun. She didn’t turn on movies or call her friends or boyfriend on the phone when she babysat us. She played. And my brother and I loved her.

  She’s power-walking down the street, her guitar thumping her back, her ass swinging in a beautiful wave of determination. Unfortunately, that determination apparently involves not talking to me. I have to hustle to keep up with her. “Hey. Where’s the fire?”

  I smile, but her face stays set in a grim pinch. “I don’t even want to know what your mother thinks of me right now. Or what my mother is going to say when she hears this.”

  “I don’t eat my boogers anymore,” I offer. “And my mother tends to stay out of my dating life. Nana might give you some trouble, but she’s harmless. She’s pretty hell-bent on getting me married off though.”

  “I’m not marrying you,” she shrieks. “I’m not marrying anyone. Ever.”

  “Parker.” I finally get in front of her and block her way. Not because I’m trying to be a dick, but because her self-doubt is killing me. This right here?

  This is my territory. Show me a woman suffering from low self-esteem, and I’ll show her just how much she should expect from the next guy after me. “I don’t know what kind of idiots you’ve been dating, but you’re gorgeous. And you’re talented. And sexy as hell.”

  Her nose crunches, and she gapes at me like I’m a moron. “You think I don’t want to get married because I’m not attractive enough to find a man?”

  There’s not a right answer here. One wrong step, and boom. Emotional landmine.

  I’m usually smoother than this.

  “I’m never getting married because I like my life.” She’s glaring at me now, and there’s so much passion burning under the surface there that the hard-on that started in the bathroom is surging to beyond-full-mast. This isn’t the cautiously bold woman who gave me her number last weekend. It’s not the hesitant woman who made a date with me for brunch tomorrow morning. Nor is it the woman who panicked at being locked in the men’s room.

  This is a woman who knows what she wants. “I don’t want to share my apartment. I don’t want to give up playing in the band. I don’t want to have to take so many days off work for sick kids that I get passed over for even more promotions.”

  She jabs me in the shoulder with her pointer finger. “You know what? You can dance all hot, and you can kiss decent, I’ll give you that, but I’ll bet the women you’ve slept with have faked it. Because man-made orgasms are a myth. They don’t exist. I can take care of myself, thank you very much, without all the trouble of having to manage your life too.”

  Did I say full-mast? Because now I’m picturing myself showing her exactly how not fake orgasms can be, and my cock’s trying to show the whole fucking navy how you raise a flagpole. It’s not enough that she’s completely clueless as to how hot she is in that cut-off tank top, short shorts, and carrying her guitar. Or that her hair’s loose around her shoulders, teased and curly and thick, perfect to hold onto while I’m kissing the fuck out of her.

  “You’d get married for good sex?” I say hoarsely.

  “I’m not ever getting married.”

  “But you want good sex?”

  “Fucking biology says I do.” She steps around me while I’m trying to get a handle on all the signals I’m getting.

  The fuck off from Parker. The can we please do her from my dick. The show her you’re not an asshole from my brain.

  “Parker—”

  “It’s not you, okay?” her voice is softer now, and her shoulders are beginning to droop. “I’m just…surprised. And a little weirded out.”

  I fall into step beside her again. Squeezing her hand is both the most natural gesture in the world and also way more charged than it should be. Touching her sends a jolt through my veins. Her insecurity is getting to me. I want to fix it.

  Nana’s right. I get off on being someone’s hero.

  And I’m going to hero the shit out of saving Parker.

  “Know what my favorite part of this is?” I say.

  She shakes her head.

  “We’re going to have the best how we met story at your reunion.”

  She covers her face and snorts with laughter.

  It’s not sexy, and it’s not seductive, but it’s real. I like real.

  “This is a little messed up,” she whispers.

  “Hey, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  She angles a look up at me, and it’s only a quick flash, but I see it.

  The spark. The intrigue.

  The raw desire.

  That buzz? She feels it too.

  Friends? We’re something, but it’s not fucking friends.

  “Yeah,” she says finally. “We’re friends.”

  9

  Parker

  Nothing says I’m just here for a business meeting like spending an hour figuring out which jeans best accentuate my butt without making it look like my cheeks are dueling blimps trapped in denim. I got my mother’s German booty, and the struggle is real.

  Also, yes, I would very much like this to be something more than a business meeting. And I’m pretty sure the uber-kissable hunk I’m taking to my high school reunion might be up for that something more.

  Provided the sight of him doesn’t turn me into a tongue-tied moron, and I don’t spill hot coffee in his crotch when I’m trying to help him optimize his blog this morning. But I don’t think I will. Something about last night—about that kiss—broke something inside me. In a good way that I can’t quite identify. All I know is, I’m not entirely myself this morning, but I like whoever it is that I am.

  She feels stronger. More ready to tackle this reunion.

  I reach The Bean Tree, an organic café on the Lower East Side, and step out of the muggy Sunday morning air and into the cool shop. Scents of hazelnut and warm croissants wash over me. The muddy green walls, natural wood tables, and eco-friendly lighting give the place a cozy feel. The café is cool, but not so cold that it makes me shiver.

  No, that shiver and the nipple-puckering is all courtesy of a man currently frowning over a laptop at a table in back, earbuds tucked in, seeming oblivious to the mommy-date on his left and a table of cute little hipster girls eyeballing him on his right.

  He’s ridiculously perfect this morning. His tousled hair and thick stubble suggest he just rolled out of bed and his gray Librarians Do It In The Stacks T-shirt is plastic-wrapped over the chest that I know first-hand is just as hard and hot as it looks.

  I weave through the tables, expecting to be right on top of him before he notices me, but I’m still two tables away when his eyes lift and land on me.

  I tell myself the smoky warmth in the green depths and his sudden smile is him practicing to be a
good reunion date, but my hooha is totally hoping it’s something more.

  “Parker Parker Elliott. You’re here.” He pushes his chair back and stands to pull me into a hug and press a kiss to my cheek, barely off the corner of my mouth.

  He smells like books and jungle heat. My knees threaten to buckle, so I drop into the seat across from him. “You didn’t think I’d miss a chance to optimize a blog on a Sunday morning, did you?”

  Yep. That’s me. Drooling in my girly bits over a hot guy—yes, yes, I know that was awful, I just can’t help myself—and denying any interest with my mouth.

  “Not necessary, but whatever turns you on,” he says with an easy grin.

  Whatever turns me on is apparently him.

  Which is still mildly awkward what with the whole babysitter-and-bachelor-auction thing, but we’re both grown-ups who hadn’t seen each other in twenty years, so I’ve convinced myself it’s not that weird.

  My mother’s so thrilled I’m not taking an escaped convict to my reunion that even she’s not disturbed.

  He gestures to an empty purple mug and tray of tea selections, along with a plate of muffins and a teapot. “Help yourself. Unless I can get you something different?”

  It’s more than most of my previous dates would’ve offered, and I’d be lying if I said the simple gesture didn’t prompt a happy sigh from my inner romantic, who’s been in hiding so long I almost forgot she existed.

  “It’s perfect, thanks.” I pull the tea bags toward me and nod to his laptop. “Working on your blog?”

  The frown is back. “A dickwad from the Times wrote an ignorant attack on romance novels. I’m contemplating if I should write a response.”

  My mother never thought I was old enough to read Sweet Valley High, much less try anything with Fabio on the cover, and my thick epic fantasy novels were one more thing that got me unwanted attention in high school. So I don’t have much specific advice for a romance rebuttal to the Times.