Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  I’m typically a solo runner. I don’t sign up for races and I don’t train with a running group. I never even went running with James. It’s never been about camaraderie for me; running is mostly about fitting into my jeans and shutting off my nonstop inner dialogue. Evidenced by the way Trevor maintains just enough distance without leaving me behind, coupled with the fact that he hasn’t said a word since we started up the trail, it’s apparent that he is used to going it alone, too. With nothing but easy silence between us, running with him is surprisingly comfortable.

  As we hook over what appears to be the last part of the loop, the trail starts to descend and we slow our gait to compensate for the slope. As we leave behind the open meadow, heavy bushes and trees start to crowd the trail. When we drop onto the original trail we started out on, my legs are just starting to express a bit of fatigue and I’m relieved to have survived without making a sad spectacle of myself.

  Trevor slows to a stop in the middle of the parking lot and turns to watch me take the last few steps while propping his hands on top of his head. I’m secretly thrilled to see his chest heaving as he slows his heart rate. He made it look too easy the whole time, with an enviable gait that’s relaxed and efficient.

  “Way to keep up, Mosely.” He swings his arms down from over his head. “I dialed back a little on the way up the hill, but you were on my heels like a bloodhound. You’re like a little goddam racehorse; no wonder your body looks like it does.”

  Too spent to blush or feel weird about his pointed commentary on my body, I walk around in a few wide circles, waving my tired arm toward the trailhead.

  “That hill is ridiculous. The only thing that saved me was a sheer force of will to not drop in front of you.” I gesticulate toward him. “As I stated the last time, you are a terrible date. Instead of chasing and tossing me to the ground, this time you make every attempt to put me into cardiac arrest.”

  “Yet here you are again. Must be all that sexy, funny, charming, amazing stuff about me you mentioned yesterday,” he says, while walking away to open the rear gate on the SUV.

  Of course. He would remember that part of our phone conversation verbatim. After pouring some water for Dax, he wanders over to me and hands me a water bottle. I take a long slug and then head toward the vehicle, safely away from where he is, all sweaty and sexy.

  Drinking a bit more, my muscles start to tighten up and I realize I need to stretch out before every part of my legs starts to seize up. Trevor remains standing in the middle of the lot, drinking and staring up at the hillside and the sky. I’ll happily confess to gawking at the display while his back is turned. It’s a fine sight, even if it only lasts a handful of moments before he turns back toward me to load Dax into the rear cargo area and shuts the gate with a thud.

  I brace my hand against the SUV and pull my leg back toward my behind so I can stretch out my burning quads. Switching from one leg to the other, I let out a tiny moan at the relief in my muscles. Trevor moves in behind me and gently tugs on the end of my ponytail.

  “You had fun, though, right?” The apprehension in his voice is thick and the words roll out softly.

  Releasing my leg and letting it drop to the ground, I turn to him and raise my sunglasses up so he can see my face when I answer him.

  “Absolutely, it’s a beautiful trail.” I unabashedly let my gaze wander down his body. “Great views.”

  His mouth tightens at my words, his jaw clenching infinitesimally and I can see his throat move, swallowing reflexively. Stepping closer, he puts one hand on my hip and then slides it around toward the small of my back.

  “I missed you.”

  An eye roll comes automatically, and I shift my weight so that his hand can’t settle against my back anymore. “Come on, you can’t have missed me. You don’t even know me. We’ve had one date, three phone calls, and a handful of exchanged texts.”

  Trevor steps toward me again. Instead of reaching for my hips, he extends each arm and braces them against the SUV, blocking me where I stand.

  “It sounds like somebody’s really keeping track. That’s a pretty specific list you just rattled off, sweetheart.”

  “It’s a short list.” I tap the side of my head with my index finger. “Even I can memorize a list like that.”

  He doesn’t even try to match my snarky comment. Instead, he merely lowers his head to meet my face and then presses his lips to mine. It starts gently, a few long, tantalizing kisses that leave his soft mouth barely brushing mine at the end. In the seconds when his mouth is poised just over mine, the centers of our upper lips grazing together and his stance still hovering above me, I recognize exactly how much I want this. How long I’ve been waiting to feel like this again, all those restless and impetuous cravings that come with wanting a certain man’s affection. Because I can’t say any of those things aloud, I impulsively let my tongue dart out to sweep across the spot where our lips meet.

  When Trevor grunts at the contact, his hands drops from the side of the car and land around my waist, pitching himself forward until there isn’t any remaining space between our bodies. His hands begin roaming, one drawing down my back to land against my ass, the other moving up until he has the back of my neck in a firm grip. As his mouth travels across my jaw and down toward the shell of my ear, I hear a whispered guttural curse when his hips push demandingly into my belly.

  Feeling him against me like this, his body unmistakably wanting, drives my thoughts into incredibly sharp focus. I need my hands all over his bare skin. I need to see what lies beneath all the annoying clothes he insists on wearing, because based on those web pics and the fantasies I’ve indulged in, I’m guessing I would prefer him far less covered on a routine basis. My hands move up his shirt, fingers dancing underneath for a few seconds, dragging my nails down his chest and his back. Pushing the fabric up, I want him to be clear on what my aim is. To get this stupid, unnecessary shirt off. Immediately.

  Instead of just yielding to my desperate moves, he chuckles a low soft sound and murmurs against my neck.

  “What? Are you planning to strip me naked right here in the parking lot?”

  “I really don’t care where. I just need more of you. Now.”

  With a rough-sounding groan, he pulls back from my body, putting one hand in mine, and then opens the door on the SUV. Crawling into the backseat, he drags me on top of him so that my legs are straddling his. Before I can make a snide comment about acting like horny teenagers, he leans forward and kisses my neck, teasing and laying tiny bites against the skin.

  Great. Now I’ll have hickeys on The Evelyn Summers Show. The horny-teenager concept seems perfectly fitting.

  Beating me to the punch, his hands are quickly under my top, forcing it over my head and then dropping it to the floorboard. I refuse to let Trevor trump me at this because I’ll combust if I don’t get something off him. Since I’m tugging and grabbing at his shirt, this time he bends forward so I can finally get it off. Underneath, he is everything I imagined: lean and chiseled. A large tattoo covers the inside of his left forearm, a black-and-gray piece with some kind of writing edged by intricate filigree work, but other than that, he’s just a smooth expanse of taut ridges and angles.

  Once I drag my eyes away from his bare skin, I find Trevor’s eyes hardened into mine, fierce and impatient, like he’s trying hard to resist tearing the rest of my clothes off and fucking me senseless right there. That look, the reckless urgency he’s fighting against, becomes everything I need to keep going. I slide my hand down his chest until it rests against his cock, then curl my fingers to give him a tentative stroke over the fabric of his shorts. Dropping his head back, he groans for a millisecond before sitting up ramrod straight and kissing me hard, so much that my lips start to burn a little from the way he nips at them with his teeth. His hands come to cover my breasts, almost clumsily because of the thick material of my sports bra, until the burden of the fabric frustrates him enough to prompt a few rough, full grasps. When my nipples ha
rden enough for him to notice, he eases up, but only slightly.

  Slipping my hand into his shorts, I stroke the full length of him for the first time, hard and pulsating in my palm. My fingers move to trace the tip, dragging the tiny drop of wetness over the head. He lets out a low muttering. “Fuck, baby, we can’t do this here.”

  I don’t stop. “Why? I thought you were some sort of rule-breaking bad-boy thug.”

  His mouth finds my collarbone and travels as far down between my breasts as possible. Then his head flops back to roll against the seat again. Leaning forward, I start kissing across the side of his jaw, up to his earlobe, which I take between my teeth.

  “And I thought you were a good girl from Montana. But you’re doing an excellent impression of a bad girl right now.”

  As my mouth leaves his earlobe and works down to his neck, I feel a warm, not Trevor-esque, wet lapping on my cheeks. Grimacing, I open my eyes to find Dax inches from my face, panting and tired of our shenanigans. He licks my face and Trevor’s neck, and we both let out groans and then crack up completely at the absurdity of a goofy dog ruining the moment. I roll off him and lie back on the seat with my head against the door trim.

  Trevor drops his head again, closing his eyes, and I get the impression he’s trying to will his erection to subside. With my legs splayed out haphazardly, it’s frankly not a very feminine posture. One leg bent at the knee, resting against the seat, the other stretches out to the floor. When he opens his eyes and turns to me, I let my lips curl into a small smile before running my pinkie finger over my bottom lip.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Kate.” Trevor starts to run one hand up the inside of my leg, slowly, until his thumb rests between my thighs. “You’re making it fucking impossible to make good choices right now.”

  Sliding his thumb back and forth across the skintight material, he presses teasingly harder with each pass. I squirm, raising my hips a little to meet his touch, needing more and wanting everything. After I’m rewarded with a few more determined strokes, my back curves upward and I end up letting out a quiet moan.

  With that, he pulls his hand back like it’s suddenly ablaze, grabs his shirt off the car floor, and throws open the door opposite me. He actually leaps out to put his shirt on, leaving me aching and confused on the seat. Once his shirt is on and he readjusts his shorts, effectively hiding all the good stuff, he leans back in and tugs on my ankle with a decent amount of force.

  “Come on, get out. Out. Now.” His voice is clear and direct, so I crawl out and stand there like a moron. “We have to get out of here before I take you hard and dirty right in the backseat.”

  “How romantic,” I utter sarcastically. Although I really want to beg and plead until he makes good on those words.

  “What would be worse is getting cited for indecent exposure by some Barney Fife park ranger that wanders up here. Or having a paparazzo find us instead.”

  Yikes, I hadn’t thought of that. Lacey would have a conniption fit if pictures of us in the back of an SUV ended up in a gossip magazine in that horrifically blurry style those photos always seem to have.

  Leaning back in to drag my shirt off the floor, I slip into it and walk back toward the passenger side. He smacks my ass as I stride by with my arms outstretched to pull the shirt over my head. It’s a taut effort that stings just enough to make me jump, squealing a little.

  “That’s for questioning my badass reputation. You’ll understand soon enough just how wicked I can be. Ideally, it’s going to involve you barely being able to walk in the morning.”

  “Promises, promises. You’re all talk.” I wave my hand in the air to brush off his claims. “Perhaps Simon can show me how it’s done.”

  In a split second, he grabs me roughly around the waist, his chest pressing against my back and his mouth against my neck. He bites down, adding yet another mark to the ones he already put there.

  “If he’s smart, Simon won’t get within fifty miles of you. Not unless he wants to lose all his teeth, his job, and his balls.”

  Once he releases me and I stumble into the passenger seat, Trevor starts the car and rolls all down the windows. The fresh air is appropriately cleansing, sweeping away the unquenched desire that billowed in the backseat a few minutes ago. He reaches over and takes my hand, resting our intertwined fingers on the center console between us.

  10

  During the afternoon, I am entrenched with a handful of Evelyn Summers’s annoying production assistants, all of whom keep talking to me in voices reminiscent of preschool teachers, saying things like “Of course!” “That’s fabulous!” and “We feel so privileged.” I try not to say anything too acerbic for fear they might spring some kind of therapist or life coach on me. All in a positive, life-affirming, help-you-find-your-passion kind of way, of course.

  Maintaining my equilibrium is even harder when I let my unruly mind wander to this morning. Recollecting my shameless behavior, I feel my cheeks heating. Less from embarrassment, despite the fact that I probably should be mortified for acting like a woman who just emerged from some kind of solitary confinement in Siberia. The sensation is more about how I can still feel every single kiss and touch on my skin. Dear Lord, I want to confess these sins, but talking about it would probably just make it worse. Instead of guilt or redemption, I would end up squirming in my seat from arousal.

  My brain keeps shouting at me that I need to figure out where all of these irrational behaviors are coming from. The surging desires, the longing to crawl all over him and let all kinds of crazed impulses take hold. He’s beautiful, for sure, but it can’t be that basic. I’ve never had a penchant for bad boys or trouble, so there is nothing in that old story. How I went from zero to essentially a backseat hand job is a conundrum.

  Perhaps it’s only some kind of fascinating and wild sexual attraction. The kind I’ve never felt or believed in before. While James and I had great sex, I never threw myself at him in the way I seem to be compelled to do now. Certainly not on the second date, for cripe’s sake.

  James was a good man, in every single way. Loyal, gorgeous, kind, funny, passionate, and he loved me in a way I never truly appreciated. His love, the part I actually understood when he was alive, made me whole. He was sensual in everything, from the way he touched me to the way he worked the current of a river. That intimacy was what made me safe with him, safe enough to ask for everything I wanted when we were together.

  Trevor, on the other hand, makes me want everything right now. Without any need for comfort or security. Not later, not in a while, not in a month. Absolutely right freaking now.

  There has to be more to it than lust. I’m not hardwired to triumph over people and then leave them behind. I’m a measured, logical, thoughtful person. Now, there’s a real positive daily affirmation for you. Perhaps they’re pumping some kind of feel-good aromatherapy thing through the ductwork around here.

  Buried in all of it, there’s the real riddle. Clearly, I’m capable of desire, but in the end, that doesn’t mean I can be anything more than a woman who wants him to get naked. There is probably a long list of other women who feel the same. The problem is there’s brokenness under the surface of his bravado, something raw that could be both angry and ragged. To take all that too lightly would probably be a mistake for both of us.

  I leave the pretaping in the late afternoon and take a taxi back to the hotel. Trevor mentioned he would be stuck in the studio most of the night, and I’m somewhat relieved. Maybe the obnoxious stench of self-help lingering in Evelyn Summers’s studio is clouding my head, but I spent so much of the day analyzing everything, I decide it might be best to go home and leave him in the past as a fleeting dalliance.

  The next day, I keep my alluring persona on deck for the Evelyn Summers taping. Doing my best to be a charming type of woman, I dress in a demurely sexy fit-and-flare dress that lands midthigh, covered in the cutest navy-and-white swiss dots. This is the woman Stephen said all the soccer moms want to be like. The shoes a
lone might be enough to make me an object of envy, perversely expensive sling-back stilettos in a dark blue patent leather, festooned with delicate white bows at the toe and the heel.

  Evelyn asks thoughtful questions and I’m shocked, because it never occurred to me that the former soap star had actually read my book. I figured a staff member read it and just typed out key ideas on organized cue cards. Maybe they did, but if so, Evelyn should win a ton of Emmys, because she is certainly convincing.

  There are the inevitable questions about James. This audience, after all, is the kind that eats tragedy up with a spoon and then licks the bowl clean. I had debated how to handle the questions, knowing they were coming but unsure if people really want the unfettered truth. Even if they aren’t entitled to it.

  It makes for great television, obviously. When Evelyn asks about losing my husband, I answer with a detached description of his death and the moment I realized he was gone. As I speak, my response is so cold and canned that it’s like I’m watching myself give the interview.

  Then a middle-aged woman in the audience, wearing a red cardigan decorated with appliquéd cardinals, stands and speaks clearly into the microphone, enunciating every syllable more than necessary.

  “Do you ever feel guilty?”

  I stop breathing for a moment, presented with the question no one in my hometown has dared ask, that my family has the decency to avoid. Now a perfect stranger is asking me if I experience the single emotion that has plagued my nightmares and kept me awake at night for three years. I’m sure the entire town of Crowell has stopped breathing with me, waiting to hear my answer, knowing they’d tuned in for a reason.