by Annie Kelly
But after a few minutes, I manage to stop letting the worry direct my actions. Because all I can think of is how Smith’s body feels against mine. This kind of dancing feels like a wake-up call. The way our bodies brush and roll, the way our skin presses together in the sexiest way? Well, let’s just say that my liquid courage is allowing me to show Smith how much I’m enjoying it.
I exhale long and slow, then I let my head fall back against his shoulder. His right hand slides up until it’s splayed over my belly.
“Is this okay?” he asks in my ear. His tone is gruff. Strained.
I just nod, swallowing hard.
He makes an appreciative little growl, then pulls me tighter into him. I thought he’d looked strong and built before, but now that I’m touching him, I realize I didn’t know the half of it. His body is like some kind of miracle. Before I can stop myself, I reach back behind me and tuck my hand between us until my palm is pressed against his abdomen.
Immediately, I can feel the muscles beneath my fingers tighten as I explore them. This dance has evolved from hot to scorching—all the more so when his pinkie slides under the waistband of my jeans. And the waistband of my panties.
I can vaguely remember this as the moment when two things happened—first, the alcohol from my drinks hits me hard, forcing my thoughts to swim through a strange alternate universe that can only picture sex and dancing; and, second, my body took over where my mind fell short.
In a matter of seconds, I reach up with both arms and lock my hands at the back of Smith’s neck. My breasts lift and he pulls me even closer, so my ass is tucked up against his groin. I can feel his erection, hot and hard, against my lower back and, thrilled by it, I begin to grind back against him as we dance.
He hisses a breath out through his teeth and lets both hands travel up to my rib cage. His thumbs rest just below my bra. Then, almost imperceptibly, he strokes my skin.
“I can’t imagine why you think you aren’t good at this,” he says, his lips pressed against my earlobe. “Because, trust me when I say, you are very fucking good at this.”
Then he skates his lips from my ear to my neck. I can’t hold in the moan rising in my throat. His thumbs inch up, ever so slightly, and graze the very bottom curve of both my breasts. And he does this just as his tongue flickers out against the sensitive skin below my ear.
That’s it.
I turn my face to look up at him.
“I want you to come home with me.”
For a second, Smith freezes—then he slowly turns me to face him fully. With his chin tilted down, he meets my gaze.
“Are you drunk?”
I narrow my eyes. “No, I’m not drunk.”
He grins at my indignation.
“I just don’t think you’re the kind of girl who usually asks a man you just met to come home with you when you’re sober.”
“Shows what you know,” I scoff. “I don’t ask men to come home with me at all.”
Wow. That sounded a lot less pathetic in my head.
Smith chuckles a little and crosses his arms over his chest. I want to reach out and stop him—it’s a crime to cover up that amazing body. And, since apparently I have no filter after a few drinks, I tell him so.
“It’s a crime to cover up that amazing body.”
Chuckling, he unfolds his arms and reaches for me. He rests his hands on my shoulders, then squeezes gently.
“Let’s go find your friends.”
Great. He’s done with me already—and we didn’t even make it back to my apartment. How bad do things have to be that a man would turn a woman down for a one-night stand?
I can feel the heat rising up my neck and over my chest as I shake off his hands.
“Forget it, I’ll find them myself.”
Smith blinks and steps closer. “Are you mad?”
“No, it’s fine—you don’t want to come home with me and you apparently think I need a babysitter. I’ll find my friends on my own. Thanks for the dance.”
I spin around on one heel and start stomping off the dance floor. I make it only about five feet before I feel a firm hand curl around my upper arm. I set my jaw, ready to lay into him, but that conviction evaporates when he turns me back around to face him.
“Listen,” he says, pulling me close. He smooths a hand down my back to my waist and lets it rest there. “There is nothing, nothing I would rather do than go home with you right now. You have no idea how badly I want to do that. But, come on, Hyacinth—do you really want that?”
I don’t even hesitate when I say, “That is exactly what I want. I want you to come home with me. I want you to find me irresistible. I want to make you feel . . .”—I stumble for a second—“I want to make you feel fucking amazing.” Smith sort of groans and his forehead rests against mine. His eyes close, then open again. Now, the deep blue irises have gone almost liquid with something I can’t quite define. He moves his gaze from my lips to my eyes and back again.
“All I can think about is how much I want to kiss you,” he mutters, so quietly I can barely hear it over the music. “Actually, I want to do a whole lot more than kiss you.”
“Like what?” I say, my voice equally soft.
He moves a hand to my face, then lets his fingers migrate slowly from my jaw to my neck to my bra strap. He grazes it with his thumb as he says, “I want us to get the hell out of here. I want to take you back to your place. Or my place. Or any fucking place you want me to take you.”
I hold my breath as his thumb moves to trace the cups of my bra and the swells of my breasts above them.
“I’d like to be alone with you,” he continues, “so I can convince you to let me kiss you here”—he lets his knuckle dip into my cleavage. “And here”—he trails a finger down my sternum to my navel, then stops just above my jeans. “And any other place you’ll let me kiss you.”
Oh, holy hell.
“Please,” I choke out. It’s a whimper. It’s a plea. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
I reach out and place my hand over the painted emblem on his chest, then move it down and over his abdomen. He stiffens, his expression looking almost pained, and I can’t help but notice how impressive his arousal is. It’s sort of a relief to see he’s feeling this as much as I am.
“So,” I say slowly, “how about we just start with kissing. We can worry about the other stuff later.”
Smith cocks a brow at me and moves both his hands to my shoulders.
“Something tells me a kiss from you will only leave me wanting more.”
I shrug. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”
He lets one of his hands slide from my shoulder to the nape of my neck. Automatically, my head tips up and our eyes meet. The feverish burn in his feels like a mirror—I’m positive the lustful intensity in my eyes looks exactly the same. Nervously, I lick my bottom lip.
Then he mumbles something like “fuck it” and dips his head toward me. When his lips capture mine, I’m lost.
Smith is delicious—that’s the only way I can describe him. When his tongue flicks out and grazes my bottom lip, I can taste the tang of the beer he was drinking and the slight hint of something minty, like he’d brushed his teeth or chewed Altoids before coming out for the night. He deepens the kiss, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of my jeans and pulling me even closer. His torso is pressing against me, and I let my fingers graze over his shoulders and down his back. One of us groans, but I’m so preoccupied, I couldn’t tell you if it was me or him.
“Hyacinth,” he murmurs against my mouth.
Gently, I capture his bottom lip with my teeth, and this time I know it’s him making a low growl of satisfaction.
“Come home with me,” I whisper, shifting to let my mouth press against his neck, then his ear.
Around us, the strobe lights pulse and the music swells, and Smith’s eyes are trained on mine in a way that leaves me both breathless and energized. I’ve never wanted anyone or anything as much as I
want this man right now. I let my thumb stroke along his jaw, the stubble feeling both soft and rough and completely irresistible.
Smith takes a step back to look at me, then grins.
“I’ve got a better idea.”
Chapter Four
The (Re)Meeting
“Where are we going?” I call out as Smith begins pulling me through the crowd. In return, he just squeezes my hand tighter as he leads me off the dance floor.
We make it back to the bar and he stops to talk to a security guard wearing all black and sporting a serious bicep/tricep combination. For a second, Smith listens, then nods his head. He shoots me a glance, his eyes a little mischievous, and I feel my heart rate kick up. Then, the guy hands over a key.
Smith motions for me to come closer to him, and when I do, he grabs my hand again.
“Still with me?”
He pulls back to look me in my eyes and I nod, biting my lower lip. His gaze flares a bit and he dips down to press his mouth against my ear.
“Follow me, okay? The VIP suite is at the end of the hall.”
Smith leads me around the side of the bar and down a small, darkened hallway. There are two restroom doors along with another unmarked door at the very end. He uses his key to unlock that last door and makes a sweeping gesture with one arm.
“After you, gorgeous.”
For a second, I hesitate. The door opens and all I can see ahead is blackness, along with an incredibly narrow set of stairs. I blink at them, then back at Smith.
“You’re not a serial killer, right?”
He cocks a brow and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Are you?”
I grin up at him, shaking my head. “Touché.”
Carefully, I step into the darkness, making sure my heels are hitting sturdy ground. Through the walls, the pulse of the music makes the space feel almost womb-like. I can sense Smith reach around me and, suddenly, the light above us flickers to life, casting a pale blue pool around our bodies.
I feel like I should say something charming or funny, but my brain is blank—completely and utterly empty—of any thought except for my desire. And I guess Smith feels the same way, considering it’s hardly a moment later that he’s got my back pressed up against the wall behind me.
“You are so fucking sexy,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Do you know that?”
Ordinarily, I’d shake my head. I don’t know that I’m sexy. I never feel particularly sexy or hot or even pretty half the time.
But right now?
Right now, I’ve never felt sexier as I slide one hand up into Smith’s hair and pull him even closer.
“I want you,” I whisper against his mouth, letting my tongue flick out against his.
That’s all the encouragement he needs and he practically growls as he lets his tongue press and slide against mine. His hands coast from my waist to my hips, and he pulls me closer into his body.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” Smith says, running his hands over my ass. “The way you move—especially out on the dance floor. Holy shit—I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard.”
I’ve never really been a fan of dirty talk—in most cases, it seems like it’s just an excuse for assholes to use pussy as much as possible. But Smith’s words feel visceral and authentic. They feel real—and I feel the exact same way. I lean forward and capture his mouth again.
“Touch me,” I practically moan into his mouth, surprising myself.
Good Girl Hyacinth—the responsible graduate student, daughter, teacher—well, she’d never say something so brazen. But this Hyacinth? Well, she lets her lips move to Smith’s jaw as she simultaneously shifts his hands back to her waist, then slides them up until they slip up to the smooth satin edge of her bra.
Smith manages to take over from there. Slowly, his index finger slides beneath the elastic and moves backward until his hand reaches the clasp. My skin feels feverishly hot compared to his, and I give a weak moan of something like satisfaction mixed with impatience.
“Are you sure?” Smith’s tone is almost strained as he asks the question, but I know he’d stop if I asked him to. Which, of course, I have no intention of doing.
Instead, I reach back and undo the clasp myself, letting the straps of my bra fall loose along my shoulders and slide down my arms. Seconds later, it hits the floor. After that, any semblance of “taking things slow” turns into “needing it badly and needing it now.”
Smith reaches up with both hands and covers my breasts, which have never felt more sensitive than they do at this very moment. He stares down at them like they hold the key to some sort of mystery, and then shakes his head.
“These are fucking perfect.” He sounds literally blown away, as though my body was something special, something miraculous. I think that feeling is making me more drunk than the actual alcohol I’ve consumed. Slowly, Smith brushes a thumb over each nipple and watches my expression as I suck in a breath. He adds in his index fingers, pinching lightly.
“You like that?” he asks, looking up to meet my gaze. His eyes are hooded, and I swallow hard as I nod. In the pale light, our skin looks almost ethereal, as though it’s glowing with a light source from within.
“What else do you like?” he murmurs, leaning to kiss my collarbone. I moan a bit.
“I just want your hands on me,” I say quietly.
“My hands are on you.” Smith cups the lower curve of each breast and continues to stroke the sensitive skin beneath. “And trust me, I could touch your tits all day. But I have a feeling there are better uses for my hands. And my mouth wants in on the action, too.”
I barely have time to blink then as he dips his head and captures a nipple in his mouth, tonguing it with a firm pressure that makes my eyes close automatically. I bury my hands in his closely cropped hair.
“Yes.”
The word is a cross between a plea and a prayer, not to mention a verbal thank-you note to the gods of sex in a club with a near-stranger.
“I want to get my hands on you, too,” I murmur. Smith pulls back a bit, admiring the taut, red peak crowning my left breast. As he moves to kiss along my sternum, I press my fingers against his abdomen and let them creep slowly toward his waistline. When they hit the button of his jeans, I flick it open and Smith sort of groans.
“Stop.” He grabs my hand, then nods at the stairs. “Let’s take this up to the VIP suite. There’s no one up there tonight.”
Translation: We’ll be alone to do whatever we want.
For a second, I hesitate. Then Smith leans in and captures my bottom lip with his teeth.
“Then I can continue tasting every inch of your body,” he half growls, “just like I promised.”
I don’t think I’ve ever scrambled up a flight of stairs so fast.
Too fast, apparently; by the time I get to the top, the world is sort of rocking back and forth, and I have to grab the handrail to steady myself.
“Whoa.”
I lean one shoulder against the wall just as Smith moves around in front of me. I blink several times and look up into his gaze. In a split second, it’s changed from heated to confused to downright worried.
“Hyacinth? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know—it might be the drinks—”
“Are you going to be sick?”
I bite my lip a little too hard and wince. “I don’t know.”
He doesn’t miss a beat as he grabs my hand. “Let’s go back downstairs and find your friends, sweetheart.”
“But I’m supposed to take you home,” I mumble up at him, pressing a clammy hand to my forehead. “It was my number three. You’re supposed to by my number three.”
Not exactly the most brilliant response, I guess, but I didn’t have a lot of time to worry about that. As the world began to spin, I let myself close my eyes and then everything around me—the steep staircase, the blue light, and Smith’s concerned expression—disappear into blackness.
***
I can remember opening my eyes and looking up at the ceiling, wondering how all of the lights looked so much like stars. I remember waking again and thinking I was floating. It took me a minute or so to realize that someone was carrying me across the dance floor and back out into the bar. Then everything goes black again until we’re in the parking lot of my apartment complex.
The rest of my memories of the night are spotty. Of course, Carson and Rainey were unerringly thorough in painting the picture that was the hot mess of my Friday night. Apparently Smith was a gentleman, despite my spectacular failure in the hookup department. He’d insisted on following Carson to my apartment when she wouldn’t let him drive me himself, and he even carried me up three flights of stairs when we got home.
“You came home with me,” I’d said.
Or, at least, I meant to say that. I’m not sure if it actually sounded like that or not. He’d smiled and stroked my face, laying me down on the couch. Then he’d removed my shoes and I’d started trying to undress myself, forgetting that I, in fact, wasn’t wearing a shirt in the first place.
I never learned Smith’s last name. And he didn’t leave his number behind, either. Clearly I didn’t make a lasting enough impression to be worthy of a second date. Or even a real first one.
And, frankly, that sort of hurt. Look—I know it was a potential hookup, not necessarily a long-lasting, loving relationship. But, I mean . . . well, what if it was? Not only was Smith gorgeous, but he was polite. And funny. And over the course of one evening, he was able to make me feel comfortable in my own skin, something Brett couldn’t accomplish over the course of our entire relationship.
It takes me almost two days to get over the nausea and self-loathing that’s infiltrated my body—so much so that I’m actually glad when the workweek rolls around and I’m back at the Franklin School. A long workweek where I can think about anything but fantasy bars and body paint and a mysterious man named Smith who has left me guessing about so much more than his last name.