The heat radiates off his body in dizzying waves as this moment of silent debate rages between us. Verbally we’ve committed, but our bodies have yet to take the proverbial plunge. My gaze drifts to those full lips of his. It’s strange that I’ve never noticed the lips of any man before. I’ve noticed a lot of things about a lot of men, and their lips were not even on the short list. The subtle hint of his cologne permeates us like a cloud, spiced, luxurious, and unmistakably manly. If Jet Madden is anything, he is the textbook definition of manly.
According to his reputation, Jet has had his fair share of spontaneous moments. That fifth appendage he’s saluting me with has seen more action than prom night at every US high school combined in the history of ever. Do I really want a piece of this beautiful, hard-bodied, sculpted, well-chiseled, mapped-out-piece-of-art-that-belongs-in-the-Louvre, glowing blue-eyed man? My thighs tremble as if giving up an answer of their own.
There are so many reasons why I should turn around and run, but that dark cloud of a shitstorm that’s been following me has my feet taking root to the floor. To say I’ve had a crap week is an understatement. Those caustic phone calls from my father were enough for me to want to bury myself alive. My parents have never expected much from me. When I applied to every pricey university known to man, my father wasn’t shy about offering his opinions. He sang an entire choir of you’ll be married and knocked up before you’re twenty! Both your mother and I know you’re sleeping around! College is a waste of time for you! That right there is the sole reason I’m hoofing the tuition on my own, not that they could have afforded a state school, let alone WB. Between scholarships and student loans, I’m squeaking by without their help, but they did somehow manage to pay for my brothers’ tuition. Now they were an investment—the family treasure. Here I had proven to be the embarrassment they always knew I would be. And my boss down at Stilettos? Let’s just say I’ve been persona non grata for the last week. He suggested I come back in a few days when this entire nightmare blows over. Only, according to those stalkarazzi that have been posing as students all week, making my brand new fall semester fresh hell, this isn’t blowing over quickly. And those articles—the vile lies the media is openly vomiting on the Internet… Saying I bopped the senator’s bologna? Piper actually had to explain to me what that gross little lunchmeat tidbit meant. Who the hell speaks like that, let alone lies about it? And those hideous threats against me from the senator’s grown children? The cease and desist from his rabid wife?
The room warbles a moment, and Jet comes clearly back into focus. It’s just he and I behind these four walls. Nothing that happens between us ever has to see the light of day. I’d do anything to get my mind off the madness that’s taken over my existence. And I think I’m ready to do just about anything.
“Are you going to kiss me, or do you have a much more creative way to start the night?” This time I say it with conviction. This time my voice doesn’t warble or shake because this time I’m in control of who I’m with and why.
Jet grunts with the curve of a smile. Something about that caveman-like response gets my heat index rising to levels too hot to ever be safe.
He works my robe open nice and slow, allowing it to drop to the floor at his command, leaving me breathlessly exposed. His gaze runs down my body with a pressing heat, searing its trail all the way to my feet and back. Jet touches his lips to mine before I let him in, allowing him to probe me thoroughly, hotly, viciously with his thick, strong tongue. Before I realize it, I’m off my feet as Jet carries us down the hall, bouncing us on his bed. The heady scent of a warm breeze filters in through the slit in the window and makes this feel that much more like some nocturnal fantasy that’s come to life. His hands find my breasts as he cups them, kneads them, rolling my nipples between his fingers, and a hard moan evicts from his throat.
In a strange, and perhaps foolish way, the fact I drew that sound from his body makes me feel powerful, in control, and in charge for the first time in a long while.
His knee falls between my thighs, and his lava hot mouth rakes a sopping wet line down to where his hands still lay claim. Jet tries his God’s honest best to swallow down each of my nipples. Both the sucking and pulling draw me to the brink with every tug and pull. My wetness for him increases with each playful bite, and now it’s me groaning and moaning as he frantically buries his face in my chest.
Oh my shit. This is happening! How is this happening? Clearly, I wasn’t thinking straight. Clearly, I’m certifiably insane as evidenced by this man ravaging my boobs as if they were a five-star meal. They are, but that’s beside the point.
God, I haven’t had a decent night of sleep in a week. Everyone knows that alone can sponsor all kinds of questionable behavior. A part of me struggles to reach for my phone and put in an emergency text to the girls, but this is a real time deal, and that digital deadline has long since passed.
Jet Madden’s mouth glides down my torso—oh, wow, he’s just dove straight down to my—
“Whoa,” I moan, getting up on my elbows a moment. Through sleepy eyes, I spy Jet Madden’s dark head of hair bobbing between my thighs, and I can’t stop the moans from ripping from my throat. His tongue is frantically licking, sucking, pushing me to the brink of insanity. This is no first-timer roaming around the pink playground, no senior citizen looking to “feed the kitty”—gah! So disgusting! This is a bona fide professional, a certified skin diver who is not only familiar with the lay of the land but could map it out in detail for NASA if need be. Jet launches in an all-out assault as if his lone job in the universe were to vacuum my vulva up with his mouth.
“Oh, wow,” I groan so loud my face grows hot with embarrassment. It’s clear a shift in power is taking place beneath the proverbial sheets. If I thought for a minute that I was in the power position, Jet is making it crystal clear as his sparkling blue eyes that I’m completely dependent on the nimble flicker of his tongue. My body grinds with pleasure as my head pulsates with this dizzying state of insanity. The moment I’m trembling for is right there in front of me. I can feel my body ready and willing to collapse like a dying star, but a part of me demands I stay in control, keep the upper hand no matter how high the cost. I can’t. I won’t give in.
Jet pauses a moment, snapping his dark head up to meet with my gaze.
“Don’t fight it.” The words come out like a command as he gets back to business, and that first tender touch of his mouth sends my body bucking into a violent stream of earthquakes so hard and strong my soul reverberates from the feel-good vibes. Jet knew I was fighting it, fighting him, and called me on my bullshit. A part of me almost likes him a little for that. Almost.
He takes a hearty bite from my thigh, and I let out a sharp cry. The pain coupled with the trail of pleasure sets me off on another wild quaking spree as if he knew the exact way to prolong my ecstasy.
“You’re a mean son of a bitch.” It comes out breathy and far less caustic than I meant for it to.
“That’s right.” He gives my bottom a sharp slap. “On your knees.” He rolls me over and hoists my hips toward his, landing my face in his spring fresh sheets for a moment. The sound of a wrapper tearing precedes the plunge of a finger deep inside of me, then the far heftier sensation of his body entering mine. Jet slams into me, inciting my body forward until my head bangs against the wall, and I crane my face into the pillow, hoping I won’t die by way of a broken neck. God forbid he snaps my spinal cord, and I spend the rest of my life doing a circuit-speaking tour on the dangers of aggressive sex from the confines of a wheelchair.
Jet drags my body down the bed several feet as if he read my mind, or was tired of the racket, and in doing so fills my body until I’m certain that fifth limb of his will pop straight from my throat. He thrashes and smashes our bodies into one another until he grips my hips and lets out a roar that blows the membrane out in both of my eardrums.
Jet collapses next to me, gently rubbing my thigh as if tapping out. I land next to him and listen t
o the sound of our wild breathing until we smooth out to nothing.
A part of me wants to admonish him for momentarily deafening me, or in the least serve him a nice helping of sarcasm along with that kitten he ate for dinner, but I can’t seem to do it.
Jet and I are officially familiar with one another in the biblical sense. There, I’ve done it. I’ve officially become the whore my father accused me of being. At least now when I think of how much those words scarred me I won’t be so angry with him for getting it wrong. Maybe my heart won’t ache, and that searing wound he created as far back as my childhood will finally have the chance to heal. A hard sniffle comes from me, followed by an unexpected watershed of not so quiet tears.
The bed stirs as Jet wraps an arm around me. He buries a tender kiss to the back of my head and lingers for a moment before seemingly falling contentedly to sleep.
Then, in a miracle to end all miracles, I fall right asleep, too.
My phone never stops buzzing.
A text from my mother. Congratulations! You’ve officially killed your father. He’s quitting the Elks. He no longer has the gumption to face his friends.
My heart sinks. I hate that this ridiculous nightmare has snowballed into a monster that’s eating through my life and now that of my family.
A text from my brother, Jonas. What the hell, kid? Tell me you’re not a dancer. And that senator? No fucking way. Jen is due in four weeks, and now she’s stressed that the firm is in danger. Lay low for the next four years, would you?
A text from an unknown number. We can talk anytime you want. I’ve got two good ears. Rumor has it I’m a good listener.
I bet they’re a good listener. It’s probably FOX Hole news or Capitalize Off Your Emergen-C-NN. No thanks. I may be blonde, but I’m not that blonde.
I reply right back. Thanks for nothing, jerkwad! Take your two good ears and shove them up your asshole!
And another, this time a group message from Tiffany Ikeman, president of the WB Legal Eagles. Remember to keep your eye on the message boards for news of upcoming events! Welcome to a brand new school year! And, remember, the future legal challenges of our great nation will be in your hands one day!
All of that enthusiasm crammed in one small text makes me want to vomit exclamation points. At least it wasn’t caustic. So what if it was a group message? At least she didn’t exclude me. Right about now, I want nothing more than to blend deep into the crowd, and at this point any crowd will do.
All day at school I drift from class to class, attempting to hide from the angry dark cloud of photographers who rabidly follow me around and yet have proven impervious to campus police. Students stop to gape at me as if trying to place my face before offering a depleted smile or an honest gasp. It’s as if I’ve singlehandedly managed to disappoint every single person at WB. How the hell is this my life again?
But the one thing that can’t seem to leave my mind, that overshadows even the most despondent of thoughts, is a replay of what happened between Jet and me last night. It’s as if I’m stuck on a replay of one earthshaking moment—the one where Jet looked up with sleepy, stoned eyes and commanded me not to fight it. My entire body quivers each and every time I think of it—think of every delicious sinful moment that took place on that mattress last night. Not that I could forget if I wanted to. I’m so sore I can hardly walk without being reminded of it, of him. I wonder if my body had somehow left a calling card of its own? Doubtful. Men have it easy in just about every respect. Sex doesn’t hurt. God knows bringing a child into this world doesn’t cause them one ounce of pain. Nope. Men have the sexual version of paradise, and women, as in life, are left to carry the burning, the polemic pain that comes with it all.
Whitney Briggs University is bustling with skateboards and bicycles. If you’re not careful, either one will land you on the ground with tire tracks running down your back. It’s a virtual cluster of limbs and mechanics all moving in a stressful symphony as bodies jostle to get to classes. I’m all through with my last classes for the day. They’re all just okay with the exception of Interpretive Art, which is shaping up to be the best class I’ve ever taken. The first thing we’re going to work on is sketches, so in addition to the books I’ve already purchased, I need to make a quick run into the student store to pick up a few supplies, sketchpads, charcoal pencils, and a kneaded eraser.
I wish life came with a giant kneaded eraser. I’m still making headlines on every tawdry website known to modern man. It seems the senator has lost his backers for his upcoming presidential bid, and every day a new lie is shed about me as a punishment. I can hardly stand the heavy stares from my classmates, their heated whispers as I try to sit unassumingly amongst them. I went as far as to throw my hair into a ponytail, donning a baseball cap and sunglasses, but it’s too late.
The scarlet letter—an S to be exact is clearly stamped across my chest for all to see. I’d like to think the S stands for Slimy Senator, but I know that the world, much like my father, believes what they want to believe. The only person who doesn’t seem to have an opinion is ironically the girl who got me into this debacle. Caila hasn’t said a word to me yet, which of course, pisses me off to no end. I haven’t breathed a word to her sister, Cassidy. In fact, nobody knows of my loose connection to what amounts to a prostitution ring.
I shake all thoughts of the day off before heading up the stairs toward the campus bookstore. The heady scent of paperbacks brings a sense of calm the second I walk through the door. On my way over to the art supplies, I take a quick detour through the girls’ sports department, which is typically dotted with the cutest tennis skirts you’ve ever laid eyes on. They’re amazingly sexy with their well-cut pleats and thick ream of grosgrain ribbon running along the edge. I’ve been tempted to take up the sport a time or two just to have an excuse to purchase two or six. I’m about to fondle one when a totally cute pair of Chuck All-Stars in the prettiest shade of pale pink catches my eye, and suddenly everything in me begs to have them. I haven’t bought a single thing since this entire nightmare broke, and I’m beginning to get the shakes just thinking about it.
Last New Year’s Eve, I made the resolution to go on a thirty-day shopping fast just to give my credit cards a breather from the holidays—as much as I love spoiling myself, I love spoiling my friends. But that fast was rather short-lived, all of nineteen hours. Who knew the best deals of the year take place on New Year’s Day? But this seven-day foray into retail starvation has left me hungry and chomping at the bit, and, right about now, I have a craving for something light pink that can really take me places.
“That’s right—I’m looking at you, Chuck,” I whisper under my breath. God, an entire week and counting without a single retail purchase to call my own has me practically jonesing for everything in this girly sports section. Even the homely gray sweats with nary a trendy logo to call their own seem to be pulling me toward them.
A whole week and counting. I had three dresses on hold at Neiman Marcus that I let go to waste because I was too horrified to venture out that far into the world. Not that I have a single dress to adorn myself with at Jet’s house. I’ve been through hell and back with just a few things my friends tossed into a bag. Per my request, my things have been hermetically sealed in boxes and are currently taking up space in Jet’s living room, but I’ve been so busy, and so emotionally distraught, I can’t seem to go through them.
I can’t be expected to live in a pair of flip-flops until I get my life back in control. It’s fall for fuck’s sake. The weather in Hollow Brook has been known to turn on a dime. My feet are the foundation of my body. They’re expected to last a lifetime. I can’t just leave them without stability, exposed to the elements, and expect them to offer up decades’ worth of loyal service in return. I practically deserve these shoes. My feet deserve them. Also, I snatch up a couple of OPI nail polishes in the university’s team colors of blue and orange for the big game coming up next week. Rex is playing, and Scarlett has already insisted that I g
o. Those gray sweats somehow magically find themselves in my arms along with a couple of scarves from the Impressionist collection that catch my eye. The scarves are exceptionally cute. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist from the engineering department to know those will be snatched up quickly. If I’ve learned one lesson in my short retail related year here at WB, it’s if you see it and you like it, you buy it or you’re not guaranteed to see it the next time you visit the bookstore.
By the time I hit the register with my half dozen different sized sketchbooks, a plethora of pencils, both colored and charcoal, scarves, sweats, shoes, polish, and the cute little eye shadow palate they had on clearance in the beauty section, I’m winded.
A tall brunette with a punched-in nose quickly rings up my order. “That’ll be three hundred fifty-three dollars and twenty-two cents.”
“What?” I balk at the ridiculous total. “That can’t be right. Did you clear the last purchase? That frat boy ahead of me in line had three fat textbooks. Everyone knows what you charge for those is highway robbery.” A smug sense of self-righteous anger fills me as if I’m on a mission to right all of the overpriced scholastic wrongs—as if my shopping spree might benefit more than my shoe collection. It just might be the catalyst to start a revolution against overinflated textbook prices the world over.
“Nope. It’s all you.”
“Me?” I glance around at the line forming in the queue. God, there are six other registers. Why the heck aren’t they all open? “Um, exactly how much are the scarves?”
[3:AM Kisses 10.0] Dirty Kisses Page 5