The XOXO New Adult Collection: 16 Full Length New Adult Stories

by Brina Courtney

  Instinctively, I hop down and step back, allowing him to scoop up the pot and rush it to the sink, trying to stop any further mess.

  He’s laughing, which causes me to laugh. Then I fall silent. The reality of what just happened hits me. A panic floods over me as I question what in the hell I am doing.

  Without a word, I turn and leave the kitchen, even though I hear him calling after me. I’m halfway up the stairs by the time his fingers catch hold of my arm. He grasps me firmly, whispering, “Belle? Are you okay?”

  I nod, my eyes shifting all around the dark stairwell, trying to settle anywhere but on him. “Yeah, I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Are you kidding, that was amazing,” he moans, leaning in close to my ear. “At least I thought it was.”

  “Yeah, it was, but ...” What am I supposed to say. I can’t think straight with him so close to me.

  “You don’t normally do things like that,” he interjects, as if he can read my mind.

  “No, I don’t,” I confirm.

  “I don’t either.”

  “Maybe we should just slow down a little,” I suggest. He releases my arm, and I make my way up the steps, but he’s following close behind.

  “If that’s what you want,” he whispers. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

  I can tell by his tone he’s concerned about what I’m thinking. That in itself is a high for me. To have this gorgeous man wondering what’s going on in my head is a power I never imagined I could have. I’m not particularly proud of this feeling, but still fully aware of it.

  I dare not watch him as he walks to his room, and I know if he stops, hesitates at all, I won’t be able to stop myself. I open my door, slide inside, and press it closed, panting, trying to catch my breath in the excitement.

  Collapsing onto the bed, thoughts are swimming around wildly in my head. I want to scream, but instead I bite my pillow in frustration. The passionate encounter in the kitchen replays vividly in my mind.

  A second later there’s a gentle knock at the door. My breath catches in my throat, and I dare not move. I hear Holden whisper my name. Slipping my hands over my mouth, I press firmly, doing my best to remain silent.

  I know why he’s here. He’s thinking about the same things, unable to shake our encounter. I can only assume he wants more. I can tell he’s still at the door, and though I’m trying to decide what I should do, I don’t budge as I play out the scenario in my mind. What would it mean if I opened that door? Allowed him to run his hands all over my body, exploring every part? Once it’s open, I know I won’t be able to stop myself.

  The decision is made for me; I hear his footsteps as he returns down the hall. I wait for his door to close before I breathe again.

  Letting out a huge puff of air, I toss a pillow against the wall. I’m frustrated with my choice, and know sleep after that experience is going to be even more of a challenge.

  Pushing myself up in bed, I pull my journal out of my nightstand and begin writing. Nothing like a little sexual frustration to get the words flowing.

  ***

  My night is riddled with dreams of Holden. His lips, his firm grasp holding my body, his teeth teasing my breasts. I awake on multiple occasions drenched in sweat. Once the sun is finally up, all I want to do is get dressed and try, once again, to find Chawton. I don’t trust myself in this building with him lurking nearby.

  I slip on jeans, a t-shirt, and an off-white cardigan, pushing up the sleeves. Making my way down the stairs, I don’t linger. I’m out the front door in a matter of seconds. Once on the gravel path I let out a sigh of relief. I’d made—

  “Where are you headed, beautiful?” Before I can even finish the thought, I hear Holden’s voice above me. I turn and look up to discover him leaning out the window at the end of the upstairs hallway.

  “I thought I’d go for a walk,” I answer, lifting a hand up to my brow to shield the morning sun.

  “Don’t move,” he shouts before disappearing.

  A few seconds later he emerges from the front door. I wonder how a pair of jeans can hug someone so perfectly. He’s wearing a faded blue t-shirt and a gray button-up that hangs open. His hair still shows evidence of his morning shower, and the image of his bare chest consumes my thoughts.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, and when I reopen them, he is standing in front of me.

  “Did you really think you could ditch me that easily?” He flashes me a mischievous look.

  “I wasn’t—” I start defensively, then laugh. “Okay, maybe I was.”

  “I was waiting for you to get up; there was no hope of you escaping me,” he says to my surprise.

  “You were?”

  “I was hoping I could convince you to spend the day with me.” He glances down at the ground in front of me, kicking the dirt around with his toe, and the moment of vulnerability makes him even more endearing to me.

  “That’s a great offer, but I was kind of hoping to visit Chawton, since I didn’t make it yesterday,” I reply, remembering Kenzie’s words of wisdom about playing hard to get, but never too hard.

  “Perfect, because that is exactly what I’d planned. Be right back.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. In a flash, he’s inside, but minutes pass before he emerges, tossing keys into the air with one hand and holding a basket at his side with the other.

  “Whatcha got there?” I inquire.

  “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” There is a flirtatious tone in his voice, and the day I was looking forward to just got ten times more exciting. I turn and walk in the direction of the truck. He sets the basket in the bed, then rushes to beat me to the handle, pulling open the heavy metal door.

  “Why thank you.” I grin and nod with a slight curtsy, hoping I look adorable and not like a complete dork.

  He walks around and climbs in, gripping the steering wheel as he does, causing his arm muscles to flex and my stomach to flip. I lick my lips, remembering the explosive kiss the night before, shifting in my seat as a slight ache begins to rise between my legs.

  “All right, confession time. I’m actually glad you’re with me,” I begin.

  “Oh yeah?” he asks; a single eyebrow lifts in anticipation.

  “Yeah.” I laugh, slapping his arm. “I’d hate to get lost again.”

  “Nice, thanks a lot. You just want me for my tour guide skills.”

  “Just being honest.”

  “Well, you’ll be glad I came with you by the end of the day,” he says, starting down the long gravel drive. My imagination is going wild with what he might mean by the statement. Is it because he planned a repeat of last night? “I’m the best damn tour guide in Hampshire.”

  “Oh ...” My disappointment is obvious.

  “Hey, dirty bird, what did you think I meant?” he taunts. Strangely, I like it when he does this.

  “I guess I can’t help myself.” I’m flirting ... I think. I’m actually flirting with this guy. And I think I’m pretty good at it.

  “After last night, I don’t blame you. I can’t get it off my mind.”

  There! He said it first. He is the first one to acknowledge the mind-blowing collision between us. The awkwardness of it going unsaid is now gone. I sigh a breath of relief.

  “Last night was ...” I start, choosing my next word carefully, “nice."

  I smile at him, and he glances at me, furrowing his brow. “That was a lot fucking better than nice!” he exclaims, lifting his arm across the back of the seat of the truck. I use the opportunity to slide in close to him, allowing his heat to envelop me.

  I don’t recognize who the hell I am, but in that moment, this close to him, his scent surrounding me, I don’t care to recognize myself. I just want to see where this day takes me.

  “So Mr. Tour guide, what can I expect today?” I ask, resting my head on his shoulder. I feel his muscles stiffen beneath me for a moment, and then he relaxes. We pass the sign for Alton and I realize just how lost I’d been the day before.
r />   “I’m sure you know Austen’s home is a museum now ...”

  “Yeah, I saw that in a brochure I picked up in London.”

  “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but there isn’t a lot there. A small collection of her possessions and you can explore the house,” he explains.

  “Are you kidding? I get to walk the halls she walked.”

  “If you say so.” He laughs, and our eyes meet momentarily in the rearview mirror.

  A few seconds later we’re pulling into a parking spot across the street from our destination.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me? I rode around for an hour, and it was this close,” I grumble.

  Holden slips his arm down my back and around my waist, squeezing my hip. “Maybe next time you won’t be so stubborn and just ask for directions, or even better, for some company.”

  Before I can argue, he’s out of the truck and racing around to open my door. I could get used to this. I exit, and we approach the museum, where an older woman at a small desk in the entryway greets us. After exchanging pleasantries, she tells us to enjoy ourselves and let her know if we have any questions. Holden takes the lead, walking into the first room off to the right.

  Lining the wall with the windows are glass display cases. Holden is already standing at one, peering in. I approach his side and catch sight of the well cared for treasure. Inside are manuscript letters penned by Jane’s own hand.

  “Can I ask why you love her so much?” he inquires.

  I think about the question for a moment, “I guess because she was so brave. I wish I was brave.”

  “What? Are you kidding me?” He gasps, turning to face me. “You hopped on a plane and flew over here, by yourself, no plan, just an adventure in your mind. I’d say you’re probably one of the bravest women I’ve ever met.”

  He leaves me with his words, turning and walking into the next room. I’d never had anyone call me brave, and though his words seem sincere, I don’t think I can believe them about myself. I knew I was smart, and I am even willing to admit I’m attractive, but brave, that is a word I could never imagine using to describe myself.

  I hurry to catch up with Holden, the next room holding one of the most inspirational things I’d seen yet—her writing desk. “Can you imagine being a woman back then trying to get your work published?” I ask.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “I’m too scared to submit anything I write now, but I can only imagine what it must have been like for her.”

  “That makes no sense to me.” He stops and turns to look at me.

  “Well, it was a pretty sexist society.”

  “No,” he corrects. “Not her ... you. Why on Earth would you be afraid? You’ve read more than most people do in a lifetime because of your job. You have a passion for the written word. You’re smart, and funny, so why would you ever be afraid?”

  “All of those things don’t mean I would have any talent as a writer, no matter how much I’d love to be one.”

  “It seems to me you’re the only one standing in the way of you being a writer.”

  I laugh at his analysis, and he flashes me a glance as though he’s hurt by my response. I grab his arm, still giggling. “All right Dr. Blackburn, how about we quit analyzing me and talk about something else.”

  “You’re just laughing because you know I’m right,” Holden scoffs, pulling my arm until it’s around his elbow.

  We walk through the museum, arm-in-arm. I admire jewelry once worn by her and the history splayed out in front of us. A family quilt made with love, milestones marked throughout her life.

  “Having fun?” he asks as we make our way through the final room.

  I rest my head on his arm. “I am.”

  “Hungry?”

  My ears perk up. “Is this when I get to discover what’s inside the basket?”

  “Maybe,” he chimes playfully.

  We thank the museum worker and make our way back to the truck. I soon realize I am blathering on about Jane and all the useless facts I know about her. We fall silent.

  “You okay?” he asks, noticing the shift.

  “I just realized I must have been boring you.”

  He shakes his head. “I love hearing you talk, especially about stuff that excites you. So I take it Jane is your favorite author?”

  “Oh God, no!” I exclaim.

  “What?” He gasps, and I realize how absurd I must sound.

  “It’s kind of hard to name a favorite. I’m into the classics, but I also love authors like Anne Rice, John Green, and Veronica Roth.” I rattle off another half dozen authors who have inspired me, and he listens closely as he drives.

  He inquires about names he doesn’t recognize, and I describe what they’ve written. I promise his life will never be the same once he reads them. Before I finish my last explanation, he’s pulling off onto the side of the road, the truck hopping as it pulls into the grass.

  “What are we doing?” I ask, realizing we are in the middle of nowhere.

  He grins at me. “You’ll see.”

  We exit the truck, the basket now firmly in his grasp, and my fingers intertwined with his other hand. This doesn’t feel real. The natural connection I have with him, the instantaneous comfort level between us. I don’t want to ruin this; it’s an amazing feeling so I keep my mouth shut and go with it.

  We walk over the hillside; a huge tree comes into sight. Walking about another twenty yards, he stops and opens the basket. I watch, intrigued, as he pulls out a blanket first, spreading it across the ground.

  “Oh my, are we going to have a picnic?” I ask, excited.

  “Depends, do you like picnics?” he asks, his hands hovering over the open basket, waiting for my answer.

  “I love them.”

  “Then yes,” he confirms, reaching in and pulling out several containers.

  I sit down on the blanket, exploring the contents. “What did you make us?”

  “Yeah, I made it, sure, that sounds good,” he jokes.

  “I see ... what did Bea make us?” I laugh.

  “Some fried chicken, a pasta salad, and I think she put some bread and butter in here—” he says, still pulling items from the basket. “Yeah, here it is. And of course, a bottle of wine.”

  “Nice, very impressive.”

  “I try,” he says, taking a seat and twisting off the wine cap.

  “Screw top, fancy,” I tease.

  “Nothing but the best.”

  A moment later we’re devouring the food; my stomach thrilled with the selections. Holden swallows his mouthful. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I smile, then answer, “I don’t know, will I not like the question?”

  “I don’t think it’s bad.”

  “Okay,” I answer, hesitant.

  “Have you ever tried to write anything?”

  I flinch at his question, surprised at the seriousness with which he asked. “I guess, in college, for assignments.”

  “No—like a book. Have you ever tried to write a book?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think I’ve experienced enough things in my life yet.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you think Anne Rice has ever actually met a vampire?” His question makes me laugh.

  “Well, no.”

  “You jumped on a plane to a place you’ve never been and had a pretty hot and steamy encounter with a stranger in the middle of the night. I don’t know, but your life sounds pretty damn interesting to me.”

  “I ...” I have nothing to say in response.

  “Exactly.”

  “Shut up and kiss me,” I growl, leaning back on my elbows.

  “Oh, I can definitely help you out with that request,” he replies, climbing on top of my body, his lips meeting mine without hesitation.

  The kiss begins tender, then he presses firmly against me, and I allow his tongue to explore the inside of my mouth. I drink him in, as he tastes me, the sourness of my last dri
nk of wine lingering on my palette.

  He pulls away, kissing my neck, and I push my lips against his ear and whisper, “You’re right. You’re a really good tour guide.”

  I feel his body convulse with laughter, as his head moves down my body, and he lifts up my shirt, trailing kisses down my stomach. My hips lift toward his head in anticipation. I close my eyes, waiting for him to tug at the button of my pants, but nothing happens.

  I open my eyes, and he’s staring at me.

  “What?” I gasp.

  “We better get back,” he says, standing up.

  “Huh?” I squeak, exasperated.

  He reaches out a hand to help me up. I take hold, and he yanks me upright, pulling my body close to him. “You said you wanted to slow down last night, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “I changed my mind,” I moan.

  Holden laughs; Jesus, I love his laugh. “Uh-huh, come on, give me a hand,” he directs me, grabbing the empty containers and tossing them back into the basket. Though I’m frustrated, Holden has just piqued my curiosity.

  ***

  I bounce down the stairs, each step exuding energy. The last two weeks have felt like a dream. I’ve spent about every waking moment with Holden. Kenzie still can’t believe I haven’t screwed him yet. She can’t seem to wrap her head around the idea that two people might be able to spend almost every minute of every day together and simply enjoy conversation.

  We do enjoy the occasional kiss; all right, perhaps more than the occasional kiss. His hands have also explored my body many times, but he doesn’t seem to be pushing me to speed things along. Though it sounds cliché to Kenzie, he’s a gentleman. I’ve told him about Jack, probably more than I should have. I explained that we had been together since college, and that I’d never really had a serious relationship besides him.

  When I lay in bed at night, unable to sleep, I tend to dive into our relationship. Analyzing every detail. My conclusion is that we’ve both been hurt. Maddie left him at the altar, and I ... well, we don’t need to rehash my issues. Two people who have experienced our kind of hurt start off in a common place. Maybe it helps to relate to one another, but I think it also makes us cautious; hence why I haven’t ripped his clothes off yet, no matter how bad both of us have wanted to.