Once Upon A Wild Fling

by Lauren Blakely

  “Just one drink?”

  “You never know when someone is going to try to sink her claws into my client. But water? That sounds delish,” I say, like I need to make my case to the judge and the jury. The doesn’t-it-make-perfect-sense-why-I’m-not-drinking defense.

  He takes my hand, linking his fingers through mine. “You are some kind of fierce protector.”

  We head together to the bar, hand in hand, and I count to ten so I don’t run my fingers all over him and lick his neck.

  Because I’m tempted.

  Oh hell, am I tempted.

  I bet he’d taste a little salty, a little sweaty, and all man.

  After he orders, he turns to me. “What’s on your mind? Your eyes are all hazy like you’re drifting off.”

  “You don’t want to know,” I murmur.

  “Try me.”

  I’m thinking about running my tongue all over your body.

  Asking you to take me to the janitor’s closet and do bad things to me.

  Alternatively, can I just steal you into the girl’s room for a minute and get my mouth all over you?

  “Pedicures,” I answer with the best straight face I can muster. “A new technique I’m learning.”

  After a beer for him and a glass of water for me, we weave our way back into the crowd, his hand on my back. His hand is driving me crazy, sending sparks all over me.

  I feel like I’m living in a glass of champagne. All this warmth and noise and music is abuzz, and desire tingles on the edge of my skin.

  Maybe it’s true what they say about the second trimester: it’s a time when you’re suddenly more . . . frisky. I can’t be frisky with Miles. Only, his wandering hands aren’t helping my resistance. They’re all over me. When he slides a hand down my spine, I want to blurt out a command: “Grab my ass. Please just grab it and squeeze it and tug me against you.”

  I’m not sure where the thought comes from, or why I want his hands on my ass. I’m not a “grab-my-ass” girl. But right now, I wouldn’t mind his hands there.

  Or anywhere, for that matter.

  But I swallow those thoughts as a guy in a paisley shirt and black hipster glasses strides up to Miles. Another man follows close behind.

  “Braden. Not sure if you remember me.”

  Miles smiles. “Sure I do.”

  “You guys were awesome. Loved hearing you play. My partner and I love your music.” He points to the bearded man at his side, introducing him as Jeff. After intros all around, Braden clears his throat and says, “Thanks again for what you did at prom that year.”

  Miles waves as if to say it’s not a big deal. “Happy to come back and play.”

  Braden shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean when you did the speech during the morning announcements, encouraging everyone to go to prom.”

  A flicker of recognition seems to cross Miles’s eyes, but he waits for Braden to say more.

  I listen intently as Braden speaks, his voice laced with emotion. “And you said, ‘Everyone should go. Go with a date. Go with a friend. Prom is for everyone whether you go with a guy, a girl, another girl, another guy, or even your mom. Okay, maybe not your mom. But go with whoever you want to go with, and don’t be afraid to ask.’”

  I catalog the slow smile that spreads across Miles’s face as the memory seems to be colored in.

  Braden clasps the hand of the man next to him. “Anyway, that gave me the guts to take the guy I wanted to take, and that eventually led to me meeting this guy.”

  Jeff smiles, squeezing back, and my heart floats away to the clouds. “I guess I owe you some thanks too,” Jeff quips dryly.

  “You did that?” I say to Miles.

  He shrugs happily. “I guess I did.”

  He’s so easy about it, so free and casual it makes me want to leap into his arms and smother him in kisses. I give in to that desire a bit as I lean closer and brush a quick kiss to his cheek.

  “That’s amazing.” I understand why he was crowned prom king, and it’s not because of what he can do with that guitar, or how his voice makes women want to throw their panties at the stage. It’s because of what he did with his other gift—the gift of popularity—and how he used it for good.

  Braden takes off, and like clockwork, a new face appears.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” says a kind-eyed brunette, who’s sporting a big bump. My eyes drop instantly to her belly, and I calculate how far along she is. I’m betting six months, and I can’t wait to look as good as she does then.

  “The pleasure was all mine, Natalia,” he says, then hugs the woman who invited him here tonight. After quick intros, Natalia says to me, “You two are so cute. How long have you been together?”

  Miles glances at me. “It’s our first date.”

  Date? Does he see this as a date?

  Wait. It’s not a date, you dummy. It’s an insurance plan. But it seems I hardly need to be here at all. When Natalia leaves, I mention that. “Everyone is great.”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty chill, aren’t they?”

  “I feel useless. It seems no one is attacking you or mauling you.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “The night is young. There is still time for attacks, maulings, and other dangers that would require you to kiss me for protection.” He winks, and I want to grab his shoulders, shake him, and say do you mean that?

  But I don’t because his eyes hook into mine. “Are you having a bad time, Rox? We can leave if you want.”

  “I’m having a great time.” It comes out breathy, maybe even vulnerable, but full of truth. I figured tonight would be like Facebook, endless one-upmanship coupled with single women moving in on him and guys trading stories about silly antics, like the time the class clown pretended to jerk off in the CPR dummy’s mouth when the teacher left the room.

  But it hasn’t been that way at all. It’s been . . . illuminating.

  Miles’s lips curve up. “Me too.” He lifts his hand, brushes his thumb over my jaw. “Thanks for coming.”

  The moment slows, and the air between us crackles. For a second, it feels as if something might happen. As if that thumb might sweep across my top lip. As if I could nibble on it, saying yes, do that, do more.

  But a voice cuts through. Another hand is on my shoulder. It’s Natalia, who’s returned to tell me, “You need to make sure Miles tells you about that time we learned he liked redheads.”

  I snap my gaze back to her, confused.

  He drops his hand from my face, looking at her too. “What?”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot? It’s a hilarious story.”

  My interest is certainly piqued.

  “He was doing a presentation in history,” Natalia begins.

  His jaw drops, and he laughs. “Oh shit, I remember. It was on the rise of Stalin.”

  “Was his rise related to redheads?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, but my secret was revealed.”

  Natalia cuts in. “He had to plug his computer into the monitor to do his presentation, but he hadn’t opened his slideshow yet, so we all saw he had a folder on his desktop labeled . . .” She gestures to him, letting him finish.

  “Oh, please. You can do the honors.”

  Natalia’s smile is gleefully smug. “The folder was titled ‘Sexy Pics of Redheads.’”

  I laugh wildly, but inside I find this more of a turn-on than I expected. Maybe he does too, because he shoots me a half guilty, half I’ll-never-feel-guilty look. “What can I say? At least I’m consistent.”

  Natalia says goodbye, and I give Miles a tell-me-more stare. “I hope you aren’t after me for my hair,” I say, flicking some strands off my shoulder.

  He lifts his hand, runs his fingers over my hair. “Definitely not after you for your hair, but maybe someday you’ll send me a picture.”

  A tremble runs through me. “Do you still have a folder?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but I could start one for you.” He taps his temple. “Righ
t now, my sexy redhead pics are all kept here.”

  His voice is smoky, rich with heat, and his eyes are too, the irises like the hot blue edge of a flame.

  Take my picture, I want to say.

  And then I could smack myself for wanting to be in a folder on his desktop.

  I try to reroute my desire. “How did the presentation go?”

  “I earned an A.”

  A little later, as we stand in the corner of the auditorium, Miles moves his right elbow like he’s the Tin Man and needs to oil the hinge.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It just gets a little stiff now and then with all the playing.”

  “War wounds,” I say. “You’re like an athlete with the guitar.”

  “Will you be my masseuse and rub out the pain? You do it for the dogs.”

  “You’re such a dog,” I say, and since I like dogs, I greedily dive in, kneading his shoulder. The sounds he makes are carnal, like a man who’s free with his body, who’s comfortable with every touch, who doesn’t hold back. As I rub at his hard muscles, a rush of heat zooms through me, landing between my legs like a pulse.

  Beating.

  Aching.

  I’m turned on from rubbing his shoulder.

  Must check on order from Joy Delivered to make sure it’s still coming tomorrow.

  I wish the company had same-day shipping. I need that toy tonight. I need to get in bed with it, and roll around with it, and . . . what the hell is wrong with me? I’m like a complete sex Muppet, and all I can think about is riding, riding, riding.

  Screw overnight delivery. I need to go to a store tonight and find some fabulous new device, because I ache so deeply, I know my fingers won’t be enough.

  Because obviously I’ll be enjoying some one-handed entertainment when I return home.

  He says hi to a few more people, and as he does, I practice new answers for when they ask who I am.

  I’m Roxy. I’m with him.

  I’m Roxy. Miles is with me.

  I’m Roxy. He’s mine.

  Soon enough, it feels true, which is weird, but thrilling and powerful too. Like all the shitty dates up till now have been wiped off my slate because Miles says the sweetest things. All of it cocoons me in a buzz stronger than champagne.

  His arm around my waist.

  His possessive touch.

  A kiss on my cheek.

  We touch so much I’m giddy. I’m dizzy.

  The lights dim to silver and blue, and he eyes the dance floor.

  “Since you won’t drink with me, will you dance with me?” he asks, offering a hand.

  I want to dance with him so badly I could fling myself at him. One wild fling and I’d be in his arms, kissing his face, his cheek, his neck.

  I bet he smells delicious. I bet I’d swoon. I bet I’d melt.

  I’ve already hit record temperatures.

  One dance, and he’ll know I’m lusting for him.

  I should tell him, and I swear I will, but this feels like the best date I’ve ever gone on, and I can’t bear to ruin it with my ice bucket of news just yet. I’ll save it for the end of the evening.

  We dance and laugh, loose and fluid.

  Even though we’re surrounded by crowds, we’re focused on each other, and we’re having a blast. The fast music slows, and a song made for swaying begins. There’s no question. No awkwardness. He simply yanks me closer.

  “Hey, sexy bodyguard,” he says.

  “Hey, sexy rock star.”

  His hands slide around my waist, resting on my lower back, so close to my ass.

  Grab it, grab it.

  My arms slink around his neck, our bodies inch closer, and I’m ignited, lit from head to toe.

  “Let’s start over,” he says in a flirty voice.

  “What do you mean?” I ask curiously.

  “No bodyguard right now.”

  I arch a brow. “No?”

  He shakes his head and brushes my hair off my shoulder. “Hey, Roxy.”

  And I’m not his shield.

  I feel like his date, even though I can’t be. But I give in to the make-believe moment. “Hey, Miles.”

  And we slow dance for three minutes that end far too soon and make me want to rewind time so I can live inside that delicious bubble.

  But I really need to pee.

  Damn bladder.

  12

  Roxy

  I rush to the bathroom, wishing the urge to pee hadn’t come on so strongly.

  After I go and wash my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror. Do I look like I’m in heat? Because that’s how I feel. My cheeks are pink, and my lips are full, and my boobs are melons.

  Brittany strides out from a stall, smiling at me in the mirror. “Hi, Roxy. Are you having fun?”

  “I’m having a great time.”

  “You guys are so cute together. I think you might make the whole class jealous, especially since you’re so affectionate. I’ve no doubt we’ll see you at the next reunion.”

  I plaster on a smile. I want to say no such luck, honey, but she’s the sweetest person, and I hate to burst her happy bubble. Honestly, everyone here tonight has been amazing, and I’m wondering why he needed me.

  “Thanks, Brittany.”

  As she leaves, I pop in a cinnamon mint to freshen my breath, slick on some lip gloss, then consider my reflection again, including my profile. I’m alone right now, so I run a hand over my belly. It’s coming in, the bump. As I run my hand down my stomach, I feel a new flash of sensation in my body.

  Good Lord. I just turned myself on by touching my belly.

  I take a deep breath, smile, and tell myself to be cool, calm, like I’m talking to a worried client about a poodle haircut.

  Yes, poodle cuts will take my mind off doggy styles.

  I leave the bathroom and head down the hall to find Miles waiting outside by a trophy display case. But he’s not alone. He’s surrounded by two women. Two new women. Two new, sexy, nubile women.

  One wears a red dress that’s painted on her body, and the other is decked out in a silver one that’s too short to be legal. The woman in red curls her hand around Miles’s arm and squeezes.

  I see red, and I don’t mean her dress.

  Jealousy billows from my eyes and floods my chest. I clench my teeth.

  He’s mine. No one else gets to touch him tonight.

  Like I’ve slammed my foot on the gas, I march over to them, replaying every word he said the other day. “That's when you’d maul me, plant a big fat kiss on me, and absolutely stake your claim.”

  And his words from tonight. “The night is young. There is still time for attacks, maulings, and other dangers that would require you to kiss me for protection.”

  I stride right up to him, elbow my way past the woman in red, and hiss, “He’s mine.”

  I cup his cheeks and kiss the breath out of him.

  13

  Miles

  Roxy has launched a full-scale kiss attack, and I love it.

  Her lips devour me, her tongue explores my mouth, and her sexy, curvy body is right the fuck next to mine. She’s all over me, and what did I do to deserve this kind of claiming?

  Because that’s what this kiss is. It’s not a hey-let’s-see-how-our-lips-go-together kiss.

  It’s a slam-me-into-the-wall-and-take-me collision of our mouths.

  She’s gone 100 percent alpha female, and honestly, that’s fine with me. Because fuck . . . her mouth is delicious, like cinnamon, and her lips are soft yet determined. She nips and kisses and grabs, sliding her fingers roughly through my hair.

  Her fingers dive through my strands as her mouth crushes mine, and I nearly forget that Kathia and Tracy are here, but then the sound of shoes clicking away registers. We’re alone, and we could stop now, but I don’t.

  I take Roxy, spin her around while still kissing her because I am not letting go of this ferocious kiss, and raise her arms high above her head. Kissing her more deeply, I grind against
her, letting her feel me. Letting her know what she does to me.

  Grind, press, push.

  Our mouths consume, and this kiss feels like fucking—like our mouths are fucking. Like we have no intention of doing anything but ripping off clothes and getting it on.

  I shouldn’t do anything more. Hell, I ought to stop this. But my exploring hands have had a mind of their own all evening long, and I don’t want to stop touching her.

  Since she seems to like it rough, I kiss her harder, letting go of her hands so I can grab her ass. When I do, she whimpers, and it’s the hottest noise in all of creation. I squeeze harder, kneading these fantastic cheeks, and I swear this woman is melting against me, moaning and groaning.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice tries to tell me she’s my buddy’s sister, she’s off-limits, and she’s friends with too many people in my life. But my libido doesn’t give a shit right now, the fucking greedy bastard.

  We kiss more, and I’m going to need to get us a room soon.

  I manage to locate a modicum of self-control, breaking the kiss. “Hey.”

  “She was trying to maul you,” Roxy says, panting.

  My brain sputters as I try to make sense of her comment. “What?”

  “The woman. In red. So I planted one on you.”

  Oh.

  Ohhhhhh.

  Was that a bodyguard kiss? She wasn’t kissing me for real? But I can’t entirely process the type of kiss it was because I’m laughing at how wrong she is. And I want to fuck her badly, but I’m chuckling too hard. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Yes,” she says firmly, her cheeks going nearly as red as her hair. She glances down the hall like she might find Kathia, but both women are long gone. “I thought you wanted me to do that if someone got too frisky?”

  “Kathia is a physical therapist,” I say between laughs. “She was showing me how to get rid of some of the tension in my shoulder.”

  Roxy clasps her hands to her face, her fingers covering her cheeks. “Fuck me.”

  I groan because that’s not the way I want to hear those words from her.

  She points to the gym. “I have to go apologize.”