Chasing Frost (West Side Series)

by Isabel Jolie

  Uncle Theodore and Aunt Dottie introduce themselves as they are sitting at our end of the table. A younger kid, maybe fifteen, nods but centers his focus on his phone that’s lying flat on the table, his posture and attitude making it clear he’d rather not be here tonight. I don’t blame the kid; I’ve been in his shoes.

  We learn from Uncle Theodore that Maggie’s parents bought this land over thirty years ago for almost nothing. Over the years, a neighborhood sprung up around them, and everyone fears the farmland supplying our dinnertime view will one day be sold. Theodore and Dottie’s home is about a mile away, but it also backs onto parcels of this same tract of farmland. Some years they use it for corn. This year they planted soybeans.

  The music shifts, and I immediately recognize what’s about to happen. Miley Cyrus shrieks through the speakers, far louder than the acoustic beats from before, and the younger ladies all rise.

  “Sydney, come on,” Anna calls from a few feet away. And this is the part of the night where I need a refill and to find a good spot to sit and watch.

  I say my goodbyes to Uncle Theodore and Aunt Dottie, clear our plates, and join the growing line in front of the bar table. Jackson nods and, without my saying a word, passes me an ice-cold glass beer bottle, dripping in condensation. It must have been lifted from a watery cooler.

  We find a little section beside the makeshift dance floor and stand like middle school boys watching the action. The girls sing out the lyrics, forming their own circle beneath the trees. We leave the chairs for the older guests.

  Of all the women, Sydney glows. Maybe it’s the long-ass bike ride we took earlier today, but she has a healthy sheen, flushed smooth skin, and her lustrous dark hair swings around like a veil of silk as she dances. She’s in a demure sundress, not meaning at all to be sexy. But she is. The light fabric drapes against her curves, leaving room for the imagination to roam. And boy, does mine gallop away as I watch her for what feels like hours.

  All of us stand there gawking as we make mindless jokes and jabs. Every now and then Jason steps forward and whisks his bride into his arms. When a slow song rotates through, all the men step forward to hold their women. And yes, I hold Sydney. Every. Chance. I. Get.

  Not long after the cake is cut, people trickle out. Jason and Maggie become busy as each guest attempts to hug them and wish them well. After the buffet dinner has been cleaned up, I join Jackson in helping some of Maggie’s cousins fold chairs and stack them for the rental company to pick up in the morning.

  “You boys don’t need to do this. We have help coming. You all must be so tired. Traveling from so far away. And it’s late in your time zone.” She pats us while simultaneously urging us to, well, head on back to the hotel. It’s pushing nine, so not that late, but I expect she’s probably exhausted.

  “Thank you for having us. It was a beautiful wedding.” Maggie’s mom is an older version of our friend. She reaches out and makes a point to touch each of us. Her dad looks on, watching his wife. He’s had an emotional night. No one missed his tears during the father-daughter dance.

  All the guys say something similar in thanks, and then Sydney joins me. Her fingers slide into mine, and when we gaze at each other, awareness rises. We’re going back to the hotel together. And things are going to happen. Things I want to happen are going to happen.

  We’re all quiet as we ride back in the back of the limousine. I wrap my arm around Sydney as she absentmindedly toys with my fingers in my lap. I have an urge to brush a kiss across her cheek, but Anna’s gaze on us stops me. She’s resting her head on Jackson’s chest, observing us, as he places a soft kiss on the top of her head. She’s an old friend, and I know without a doubt she’s going to have a lot of questions—or, well, her version of hazing—after this weekend.

  When we arrive at the hotel, Sam’s words jolt me out of my stupor.

  “You need help, man?” he asks.

  I scan the back of the limo then laugh. Delilah is passed out, mouth open, emitting a slight snoring sound, as her head rests on Mason’s chest, her blonde hair flowing all over him. She’s using him like a BarcaLounger. The man looks down on her with so much love even I can see it. Word on the street is he proposed and she said no, yet you’d never know it looking at the two of them. Not sure I’d be able to still be with a woman if she declined my marriage proposal. I don’t totally get them, but different strokes and all that. And his kid is super cute. I’m rooting for the three of them.

  “No, everyone, gather near them. Don’t wake her up. I want photos.” Olivia instructs us all, and we gather on both sides, crowding in awkwardly. Her phone flashes, and Delilah covers her eyes with one hand, and Mason leans over her, protective.

  Sydney and I are the first to exit the limousine. Main Street, Cedar Falls, is quiet, especially compared to New York City. Most businesses are closed, including Cup of Joe across the street. A few restaurants and bars remain open, and golden lights from those locations flood onto the street. We all slowly file into the hotel, coupled up.

  “Anyone up for a martini?” Sam calls.

  I don’t slow. I barely glance back to see who’s going to join him.

  “I’m tired. You?” Sydney matches my pace step for step as we make our way to the elevator. In reality, tired is not an accurate descriptor. With each step, I become more and more awake. Energy radiates through every muscle, an awareness I’m about to have this gorgeous woman alone, in our hotel room. And this time, we’re not just friends. She kissed me, and we’ve been touching all night.

  And now I want to kiss her. All over. The elevator door closes, blocking out the rest of the world. I press our floor number and step forward, crowding her up against the wall, my body pressed to hers, like I wanted to do all night. This woman is intoxicating. I have the smallest of tastes, dipping my tongue, testing the waters, before the elevator jolts and the doors open.

  We stumble out together, laughing, but by the time I’m turning the key in our door, there’s no humor between us. No, we both know what’s coming. There’s been a current of energy between us the whole night, with every soft touch, every glance.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to reassure her that we can go at her speed. To tell her I don’t have any expectations, just because we’re sharing a bedroom. To tell her I don’t want to do anything that makes her uncomfortable when she closes the distance between us.

  Our lips smash together, and she pushes my jacket off my shoulders. Our kiss is manic, hot, an explosion of all the energy that’s been simmering between us. She backs me toward a bed, ripping at my shirt, pulling it out of my pants. It’s a fucking dream.

  Her hands are on my belt buckle as I grip her ass, rubbing her against my wicked hard erection, when she pauses to ask, “Do you have a condom?”

  Hell, yes. I always do. It’s the way of the Boy Scout.

  I grip her dress and lift it. She understands and raises her arms. I toss the dress across the room and sit back on the bed, my pants unbuckled and unzipped, my cock standing at attention through my boxers.

  Sydney stands before me in a black lace silk bra and the sexiest matching black thong I’ve ever seen. Her stomach is flat, taut, and her breasts curve, round and erect. I fist them, dipping my head to suck and nip, making her moan. Her palms press hard against my chest, and she shoves me back on the bed. I lift onto my elbows to watch as she grips my trousers and boxers and pulls them off. They get stuck on my damn dress shoes, but it’s not a problem because within seconds she’s slipped them off and I’m naked except for black dress socks. She climbs up on the bed, straddling me, and she’s looking at me like I’m the slice of cake she refused to eat but really wanted at the reception tonight. And I like it. I like every single thing about this.

  She falls on top of me, mouth on mine, frantic, hungry. Her slender fingers grip my cock with a strength that has me grunting and flipping her over. I love that she wants this, but if I don’t take control, this is gonna be over before I’ve had a chance to slip inside th
at tight pussy.

  She bounces slightly on the mattress and lights up.

  “You like it rough?’

  She smiles then reaches between us for my cock.

  “I want this.”

  “Oh, you’ll get it. I promise. But we’re gonna take this slow.”

  I swear…she huffs.

  I lower my body onto her, cradling my arousal between her legs, against her center. Her thin lace panties are the only separation between us, and fuck if it doesn’t feel good when she thrusts her hips up over and over. She’s seeking friction, and I’ll give it to her. But first, I need to explore.

  “Patience,” I command.

  With one twist of my fingers, I unsnap her bra, slip it off, and send it sailing. I close my mouth over one of her perky, dusky rose nipples and suck hard, then bite.

  “Fuck, yes,” she cries as her nails dig into my back, urging more. This woman is on fire.

  I glide down her body, kissing and savoring as I go, then drag the thin black material to the side and venture further, tasting her. She grips my hair, directing me to continue.

  “Right there. Yes, harder.”

  I find her clit and hammer my tongue against it as she mewls her approval, then ease two fingers into her wet channel and lightly bite. Her whole body rises forward as she orgasms, whimpering. It’s the knife’s edge of pleasure, and I just discovered a pleasure point.

  I trail kisses along her hip, and her belly, and over her breasts. She’s quivering below me.

  She kisses me. Deeply. It’s as if she’s tasting herself, and it’s a flavor she likes. I pull back, breaking our kiss, breathing heavily, and look at her, long and hard, eye to eye.

  Her long legs wrap around my waist, and her hips rise, welcoming me. I’m on the verge of sliding home when I remember.

  “Fuck, condom.”

  I jump off her and hunt around the room for my pants and my wallet. Two in my wallet, more in my suitcase. Not that I was hopeful, but I’m always prepared. Like a good Boy Scout.

  When I climb back onto the bed, Sydney takes the condom from me and rips it open with her teeth. Holy. Fuck. She’s aggressive, and it’s hot as all get-out. She slides the condom on, pushes me back onto the bed, straddles me, positions the tip of my cock between her folds, and slides down, taking me in, tilting her head back, looking to the ceiling, moaning. Her breasts are perky and bounce as she moves up and down, using me to take what she wants. I caress and massage her breasts, loving the tight feel of her around me, watching in awe as she rides me to bring herself closer to another climax. She’s in complete control, and it’s hot, and she’s close, but she’s gazing up, and I don’t know where her mind is, and the first time she comes with me inside her, I want to know she’s thinking of me.

  I flip her onto her back once more and claim her, the sounds of my body slamming against hers and our loud gasps for air the only sounds in the room.

  “You want to fuck me, huh?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Look at me. I want you to look at me when you come. Are you coming now?”

  I slam against her, then slow and rise, using my thumb to stroke her clit, to bring her to the edge with our gazes locked on each other. She moans and arches her back. “Right. There.”

  A thin layer of perspiration coats her skin, glistening in the streetlight through the window.

  “Are you coming?”

  And then she breaks with a quiver, milking my cock, and I let it go, never breaking my gaze, memorizing her face as it distorts in ecstasy, her lips open, whimpering.

  I collapse onto her and kiss her, enveloped in her warmth. It’s a slow kiss, a grateful kiss. I’m in awe. For it being our first time, and for us barely knowing each other, sex with Sydney was pretty fucking stellar.

  “Please tell me you want to do that again.”

  And there’s that sound again. Her giggle. Giggle might not be the right word. It’s light. It’s real. It’s the sound of her coming out of that frosty shell. And I fucking love that sound.

  Twenty

  Sadie

  A heavy, warm body presses on top of mine, comforting and cozy. I snuggle back against the heat source. A hotel room, Cedar Falls, the wedding, last night. Chase. I’m not wearing clothes, and while my naked back is to his front, without visual proof, there’s strong evidence he’s not wearing any clothes either.

  The pleasant warmth his body emanates increases to the intensity of a furnace. I inch forward to separate us.

  Bright golden light breaks through the edges of the drapes, providing little hint as to time. We’re all supposed to meet downstairs at ten for breakfast, then we’ll head home at, I suppose, whatever time we make it to the tarmac. The hotel room’s digital clock can’t be seen from the pillow level, but I always wake early. We should have plenty of time before we need to meet the others.

  I lie still on my pillow, not wanting to wake Chase. One arm is draped over my waist, keeping me near. This warm intimacy is what I’ve been craving for a long while. Not just physical intimacy, but someone to depend on, to be close to.

  When I completed my paperwork for my apartment lease, it asked for an emergency contact. Why, I’m not sure. I suppose they need a number to call if they find a body. I listed my sister’s number, and the twenty-three-year-old squinted and said, “That’s international.” She pushed the paper back to me. “It’s much smarter to have someone local.”

  Yes, I moved to a new city, and most people in my situation wouldn’t have a local emergency contact either. But here’s the thing. I lived in D.C. for years and had one person I counted as a friend I could use as an emergency contact. One.

  Is that what last night was about? Me being lonely? Did all it take is some alcohol and a sweet wedding for me to throw my inhibitions out the door and forget I’m on an assignment? Once my carefully constructed wall came down, I practically threw myself at Chase.

  He doesn’t know my real name. There’s a good chance I’ll be off the case tomorrow, or at least off UC, and then what? I admit to my boss I let myself get involved with the prime suspect? My heartrate quickens as the reality of what I’ve done bears down on me.

  Yes, we cleared him. And he’s a good guy. But I’m on a job. He’s not even my type. I tend to surround myself with rule followers, Type A competitive leaders. Not t-shirt wearing nonconformists.

  Chase’s top priority is to enjoy life, and I have to admit, it’s a draw and completely different from anyone I’ve known, but that doesn’t make any of this right. Breathe. It doesn’t matter. Chase is not something I need to wrap my head around. Chase’s priority is to enjoy life, and as such, he’ll be on to his next conquest within a week. When I don’t show up at the office, he probably won’t notice because he’ll be actively avoiding me after our hook-up. At least, that’s the behavior I predict, if I know his type. And I think I do.

  Last night was fun. A release that I needed. The sexual tension between Chase and me had been escalating, and that back yard wedding was so lovely. I bet every couple there got back home and did…well, things. Probably more than once, just like Chase and me.

  I hope this hotel washes the comforters that lie on these beds between guests because ours needs a good wash. And these sheets, let’s just say there’s UV light evidence that we rejoined during the night, making love. Making love? It might’ve felt like that, but it can’t be that when he doesn’t even know my name.

  Chase’s thumb brushes my nipple, and the areola swells. Gentle kisses trail my shoulder.

  “Morning, sexy.”

  Goosebumps rise on my arms, and my spine tingles. He presses his back against mine, and a certain part of his anatomy I came to know last night presses against me, letting me know he’s now fully awake. One last time…tempting but probably not smart.

  I push myself up and sling my legs over the side of the bed. The blaring red numbers of the digital clock on the bedside table read 9:02.

  “It’s nine.” Shocking. Never do I ever sleep
that late.

  Chase leans back on the pillow, hands behind his head, smug. “We didn’t sleep much last night.” He reaches out for me, trailing his fingers along my back. “Why don’t you slip back in bed, sexy?” I have this vision of him using an adaptation of that line on one of the scantily clad women at his sex club, and I shiver. There’s something about the way he says it that makes me feel like it’s a line he’s used a thousand times.

  My mouth feels rancid, and a dull pain resides in my frontal lobe. I need water, toothpaste, and a shower, stat. My dress from last night hangs from a lampshade on the dresser, his pants are flung over a chair across from the bed, and his shirt lies in a crumpled pile on the floor. I reach for it, as it’s closest, then change my mind. He’s seen everything.

  Naked, I walk with determination to the bathroom. “I need a shower.”

  “Would you like company?”

  The shower is a narrow bathtub with an overhead nozzle and a plastic shower curtain with a hint of mildew along the bottom edge. I almost fell yesterday on the slick porcelain surface. Two people would be flat out dangerous.

  “No, thanks. I won’t be long.” That’s what I say, but it’s almost thirty minutes later when I emerge, fully scrubbed clean. He’s sleeping peacefully on his back, and the comforter rests along his waist. I stop and stare at his athletic chest and his abs and the dark curly hair scattered over his pecs and the narrow happy trail leading down.

  “Come back to bed?”

  His deep voice startles me, and I almost drop the towel. I breathe a calming exhale, then head with purpose to my suitcase.

  “Shower’s yours,” I say with my back to him and my head down, busy pulling out my outfit for the day.

  The bathroom door shuts, and the sound of the lock clicks.