by L. A. Rose
He shrugs. “I’m hotter than James Franco.”
I hold up a hand, ready to lay into him—nobody puts down J.F in front of me—before slowly lowering it. He’s right. Dear lord.
“SLEEP WITH HIM,” screams my uterus politely.
“What’s the point of having a dream if you won’t achieve it?” Adrian sweeps his hand toward the empty stadium and the sky. “Nobody’s here to see you but the stars.”
“And you,” I add.
“If you want me to, I’ll look away.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes. “What other chance are you gonna have to go streaking at Fenway Park?”
He’s right. Adrenaline itches its way up my arms. He paid for this privilege, with what I’m increasingly believing was a lot of money, and it’d be a crime to waste it.
And there’s something about Adrian that makes me want to experience things. To be fully young. To let go.
“All right,” I announce, my heart pounding. “I’ll do it. But you have to go up in the stands. Far enough away where I know you won’t be seeing all the details.”
I expect him to protest, but he just nods. “Seeing you naked from any distance is more than enough.”
He turns and starts climbing the stadium stairs. When he’s high enough that all six feet of him appears small, I cup my hands around my mouth. “That’s far enough!”
“I’ll stay right here,” he yells back. Sound carries well here.
I turn and look out across the expanse of field, taking a deep breath. Then I slide my skirt down over my thighs. And pull my shirt over my head.
And just like that, I’m standing in Fenway Park in nothing but my panties and bra, with Adrian King less than a hundred meters away.
I close my eyes and try not to remember how Eric used to look at me when I was like this, with total disinterest and a fake smile. And then I unhook my bra and step out of my panties.
There’s something about being nude in the open air that’s like jumping into cold water. For a second, all your muscles seize up and it’s awful, but then the tension bleeds out as you get used to the new temperature and suddenly it feels wonderful. The breeze caresses my bare stomach, my breasts, my thighs.
I look back at Adrian. I must be as small to him as he is to me, but he can definitely tell that I’m naked. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like his body is rigid. I bite my lip. Then I spot him raise his hands to his mouth.
“What’s that in the field, folks? It’s—it’s a girl! A naked girl has run onto the field in the middle of the game! And, folks, she appears to be the most beautiful girl in the world!”
I laugh. I swallow. And then I run. Adrian’s voice, in the fakey radio announcer tone, follows me.
“Folks, this is truly incredible. Normally security catches streakers quickly, but all the guards are standing still, totally shocked by how gorgeous this girl is! A hush has fallen over the stadium! Nobody dares to breathe! Is she a collective hallucination? Some sort of mythical creature?”
He’s really laying it on thick, but I feel like a mythical creature as I race across the empty Fenway Park, my bare feet slamming into the turf. I feel drugged, alive and totally free. Wind rushes over my body as I pant, my muscles stretching and aching.
“No, she’s a real girl, folks—Cleo Reynolds, as real as it gets, as perfect as it gets. This announcer is lucky as hell that he’s here today, because never in his life did he imagine anything so beautiful.”
It may just be the effort from running, but I swear my heart skips a beat at his words. Some new feeling surges over me. I put my head down and sprint to get rid of it, but it follows me. It’s there even when I stumble to a halt at the other side of the field, daggers lancing my side, utterly out of breath and utterly exhilarated.
“Can you bring me my clothes?” I yell across the field with the last of the oxygen in my lungs. “I don’t think I can run back.”
A thrill runs through me at my own daring as Adrian heads down to the field. He appears to be taking the steps three at a time.
When I finally hear his footsteps near me, I’m lying on my back, staring at the stars. My heart is about to drill its way out of my chest, but I pretend I’m calm. His footsteps slow. I steel myself and get up, turning to face him.
“Wow,” he says softly.
I meet his eyes. My own naked (literally) desire is reflected there. His expression both terrifies and excites me—it’s a dark, savage need that somehow has found harmony with a gentle, awed tenderness.
“I need to touch you,” he says. “I’ve never needed anything more in my life.”
“I need to be touched,” is my response.
He lets out a harsh groan and suddenly I’m in his arms. He’s pulling me against his chest, his strength knocking the breath from me, or maybe it’s just his presence that does that. I can feel him shaking with restraint. Like a arrow notched taut in a bow, kept suspended. I hear the torn edges of his breath and I want him to let go. I want to be pierced.
“I want you more than I ever thought was possible,” he growls in my ear. “But I’m not going to take you. Not tonight. I’m saving that for the exact moment when I know it’ll blow your mind the most. And I can do that, because tonight isn’t the last night I’ll spend with you, Cleo. Not by a long shot.”
Before the disappointment can settle into me, he brings me down toward the ground, supporting me with his hand in the small of my back as he lays me down. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t touch you.” He runs his fingers over my stomach. “And touch you.” His hand moves up, to the side of my breast. “And touch you.” His finger makes small, expert circles over my rock-hard nipple, sending long, slow shockwaves of pleasure through my body.
“Jesus, Adrian,” I shudder. “Are you sure you don’t want to…?”
He sits back, taking me in—flat on my back, shining from sweat, nipples standing at attention, a soaking wetness between my thighs. The muscles in his neck rope and he closes his eyes briefly.
“I promise,” he murmurs, leaning forward and trailing kisses down my neck, “that the moment I do take you will be something you remember for the rest of your life.”
His lips are warm and soft and pure, molten pleasure. He bites gently at my neck, at my chest, at each breast. Every touch draws a moan out of me. He selects specific places on my body to kiss—the ridge of my collarbone, the hollow just underneath my breasts. When his lips press into the flat of my stomach below my belly button, a surge of warmth floods the space between my thighs and I nearly come.
“What the fuck,” I pant. “How is that possible? I almost just…”
“It’s like acupuncture,” he murmurs, giving me a moment to catch my breath. “There are particular places on the human body that beg to be touched. That bring so much pleasure.”
I want to make some quip, but I’m so turned on I can barely breathe. My fingers inch toward my clit, but he takes my hand and pins it to the ground. “Not yet.” His eyes are full of amusement. “You don’t get to come yet.”
“Why?” I whimper.
“I have a theory.” His fingers trace my inner thighs. “That the more times you come to the edge…” His tongue brushes the skin of my stomach. “Without being satisfied…” He brings his finger down to the dripping part of me and moves it lightly up to my clit, sliding over the surface of the sensitive skin with the barest of touches. “The better the end result will be.”
I arch my back—that simple touch made my eyes roll into the back of my head—but he takes his hand away just before the orgasm comes.
Then he straightens, smiles, and drops my clothes next to me.
“Come on,” he says. “The night isn’t over.”
~10~
ADRIAN
There’s something you need to understand before you read any further.
And that’s what it’s like to be a horny man.
Specifically, what it’s like to be a horny man who has just kissed the most beautiful girl in the world all
over her body, listened to her moan for him, felt how wet she was for him, and then not even unzipped his pants.
Try imagining you’re alone in a hot, dry desert. You haven’t had a drop to drink in days. You haven’t seen a single fleck of moisture since you came here—just miles and miles of blazing sand. You’re about to literally die of thirst. Every part of you is shriveled and wasted. And then you come upon a clean, crystal-clear, spring-fed lake.
And you decide not to drink.
Yeah, I’m pretty damn proud of my own willpower right now.
I might die, but at least I have my willpower.
“Where to now?” Cleo asks, her clothes tragically on, bouncing slightly in my passenger seat. It’s past midnight and she suddenly has the energy of a baby tiger.
“A club. I think we both need to burn off some energy.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m so hard I’m about to tear through my pants. And possibly the roof of the car.
“Yes! Dancing. You may not know this about me, but I am the best worst dancer in the world. My dancing has been classified as a weapon of mass destruction by the U.N.” She rolls down the window and lets the city wind whip her hair.
“Well, you are the bomb,” I remark.
“That was pretty corny.”
“I try.”
I drive us to Sub Zero, one of the best clubs in Boston. There’s a line, girls in stripper heels and red-eyed college boys. I park and unlock Cleo’s door.
“Actually, I’m not really dressed for this…” she starts.
“You’re right. You should probably get undressed again,” I say seriously, and she laughs. “Also, your clothes are fine. I know the bouncer. Don’t worry.”
I don’t actually know the bouncer, but three twenties and suddenly “We’re at capacity” changes to “Right this way, sir.” He unhooks the rope, and Cleo and I slip through.
“I’ve never been on a date before that involved three different briberies,” Cleo notes.
“Clearly you haven’t been going on the right kind of dates.”
“This is my first date that included streaking across Fenway Park,” she admits.
The inside of the club is dark and pulsing with music, bodies, heat. I could have taken Cleo to the most expensive club in Boston, but I’m not sure if I’m ready for her to know just how rich I actually am. People treat you differently when they find out how much money you have. If Cleo likes me, I don’t want it to have anything to do with dollar signs.
I want to ask. Does she like me, or is she just being nice to someone who had a high school crush? Does her condition at the beginning of the night, that this will be our last date, still stand?
I do something easier. I pull her against me. She looks up at me, the lust still clear in her eyes, making her gaze languid.
“Follow me,” I say.
I buy us each a shot, just to loosen up, and then we move onto the dance floor. We start slow, a few inches apart. The way we’re looking into each other’s eyes is more intimate than the way everyone else here is grinding. The music is so loud that we couldn’t hear each other if we tried to talk, but we don’t need to. She’s saying everything with her eyes.
I want you.
She moves closer, her hand sliding over my chest, and bucks her hips against mine in time to the music. The simple motion gets me rock hard. Jesus. An unconscious smile appears on her lips as she feels my length against the curve of her inner thigh.
“You’re so goddamn sexy,” I breathe into her ear.
Her response is to grind her hips against mine, hard, and repeat the motion, rocking her body into mine like we were fucking standing up. Her smile is wicked now. She’s punishing me for leaving her unsatisfied at the park.
Well, two can play at that game.
Bodies are pressing in all around us, the air thick with movement and sound. I move my hand up her chest and rub the place where I’m certain her nipple is beneath her shirt. I’m rewarded by a shiver running through her. She grabs my hand and leans into my ear.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she whispers. “It’s my turn to torture you.”
I have no idea where this sexy side of Cleo just sprang from. Something about running naked across Fenway Park seems to have released it. Although it could have come from under the floorboards for all I care. What matters is that it’s here.
She turns so that her full, lush ass is pressed up against my crotch. Then she moves, grinding against me, slowly then faster. I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life, and I’d like nothing more than to shove her up against the club wall, rip her clothes off, and take her right here.
But good things come to those who wait.
Even so, I’m not sure how much waiting I can stand. She grinds up and down on me. She’s right—her dancing is a weapon of mass destruction. And it’s destroying me. I groan, gripping her hips, knowing how torturous this is since I’ve decided there will be no release for me tonight, but unwilling to pull away.
Her skirt has hiked up over her thighs. A simple hand movement and I could stroke her slit. She deserves to feel what I’m feeling right now—that desperate desire for more. My hand drifts lower.
“Bad boy,” she says, turning, and then she’s grabbing my hardness through my pants.
I kiss her savagely and groan into her mouth. Her tongue explores me, hungrily. I’ve never felt this kind of sexual chemistry with anyone before, and it’s both delicious and agonizing. I ache to plunge into her. To feel her hot, wet folds pulling me in…
“I’ll be back,” I mutter, breaking away and squeezing her hip before slipping out of the crowd, toward the bathroom.
No, I’m not going in there to jack off. What kind of loser do you think I am?
I do think about it, though.
But there would be no point. Jacking off would only make me hungrier for the real thing. So I take a quick leak, rinse my hands, and leave the tiny, smoke-filled room only to be mauled right outside the door.
“Hey, baby,” a blonde girl purrs, wrapping herself around me. She’s hot, exactly the type I usually go for, but somehow she still leaves me cold. “Wanna have a good time?”
“I’m all right, actually,” I say, extricating myself and heading back toward the dance floor.
Where I find that I’m not the only one getting unwanted attention.
“I saw you dancing with that other loser,” some fuckhead with a lip ring is saying to Cleo, backing her up against the wall. “I like a girl who knows what a man wants.”
Something hardens in me—and no, not the thing that’s been hardening all night. I stride up and give the loser a shove. “Why don’t you back off?”
He sneers at me. “Why don’t you tell your sl—”
Before the word can get past his lips, my fist smashes into them. He crashes backwards onto the floor, yelping like a child. I crack my knuckles, tilt my head to the side, and that’s all it takes. He scrambles backwards, disappearing into the crowd.
I glance toward Cleo, expecting fear or distaste, but her eyes are shining.
“That,” she says, “was hot.”
I slip my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “I’m the only one allowed to hassle you on the dance floor.”
I sense another shiver run through her. I’m like an instrument attuned to the nuances of her body, what it wants, what it needs. I know I could coax more pleasure out of her than she could believe. But I can’t. Not yet. I have to convince her she means more to me than just another lay, and that means waiting.
Just then, Cleo makes that a whole lot harder. Among other things.
“Let’s go,” she says, tugging slyly on my hand. “Marie’s gone for the night. My apartment’s empty.”
Fuck.
~11~
CLEO
He doesn’t even take one step into my apartment.
He claims that he has to get up early in the morning. I barely hear him. A slow burn crawls over my face and eliminates all conscious thought. I mumble
a goodbye—at least I think it’s a goodbye, I might have just quoted something from Arrested Development instead—and close the door.
Then I sink to the floor, without even the strength to chuck my pants—or skirt—across the room.
“I am an idiot,” I moan at the refrigerator, since the closet’s all the way in the other room.
The fridge wisely says nothing.
“I basically threw myself at him all night and he still didn’t want me. What’s wrong with me? Do I have a third boob that I’m not aware of? Possibly on my forehead?”
I could ask you, but you’re just a reader. I could be a sentient toenail clipping whining about not getting fucked by a giant clam and you wouldn’t know.
Actually, I could probably lie and tell you that he came into my room and we had sex until next Easter, but I’ve never been good at lying.
The thing is? I do know what’s wrong with me. It’s not a third boob. Most guys would probably be turned on by that anyway. It’s just me. The fact is, he saw what I had to offer and didn’t want it. And I was so inexperienced that I thought he did.
I’m too depressed to stand up, so I make like a legless tarantula and roll across the floor all the way into my room.
The worst part is that I thought I was succeeding at being sexy.
He’s probably in his room now, wiping his forehead in relief and placing me in the category of all the things that seem like a good idea in high school and turn out to be really, really dumb. Like straight-across bangs. Or stealing beer from your mom’s fridge. Or watching Glee.
I owe him an apology. I dump everything that’s in my purse onto the floor, retrieve my phone, and type out the longest text in history:
Hey, I’m sorry I basically sexually harassed you tonight. I wish I could claim that Marie drugged me again but that’s pretty obviously untrue. Maybe you’d believe I was on crack? Let me know. Anyway, I don’t blame you for not wanting to do me. The last man on earth probably wouldn’t want to do me and then humanity would be rebuilt as half-man, half-squirrel creatures. I guess I will blame my sexual repression, because I’m twenty-two years old and a virgin and all, and actually I’m probably the only twenty-one year old virgin in history so I probably deserve a statue in my name, in some really lame place like Arkansas. I don’t know why Arkansas was the first thing that came to mind. I don’t have anything against Arkansas? I’ve never been there? I guess what I really want is to find out if it’s possible to even send a text this long? Sorry again. I didn’t mean to be Glee.