by Shandi Boyes
He’s on my heels in under a second, the hotness of his breath causing more excitement to my stomach than his delicious culinary skills.
“YOU DON’T THINK you should tell her mom?”
I lean back into my chair, the glass of wine I’m nursing balancing on my partially bare thigh. “I suggested it to Chelsea, but she’s adamant she doesn’t want her mom to know.”
Elvis tucks his still bare foot under his backside before swiveling to face me. Thankfully, a cool afternoon breeze forced him to put on a shirt. Unfortunately, a cool afternoon breeze forced him to put on a shirt. It’s good because the more he covers up, the smarter I appear, but bad because only an idiot wouldn’t want to ogle all he has going on.
My eyes relinquish their missile lock on Elvis’s biceps when he asks, “But is Chelsea really old enough to make that decision? She is only nine.”
“She’s ten next week,” I argue, hating that my good deed might not turn out so good.
I spent the last thirty minutes updating Elvis on the events of yesterday. He agreed with me that Chelsea should have never been excluded from ballet because she’s didn’t have the usual ballet body type, but I could see the caution in his eyes when I told him I had accepted Chelsea into my class without first gaining parental permission.
“You should have seen her face, E. The kids took her under their wings and showed her the basics before swapping numbers so they could practice during to the week to make sure she knows our routine before our next class. She fits into our group dynamic so well.”
“I get it, Will, really, I do. I’m just. . .” He fixes my low-hanging bra strap before raising his eyes to mine, letting them say the rest of his sentence. He’s worried about me.
I return his stare with both wonderment and shock. Our interactions today have been nothing like they were the night we met. We gushed over Dalton and Becca’s gorgeous baby girl when we visited them after our tea towel whipping competition this morning, then we picked up some fried chicken on our way home before vegging out on his couch the past three hours.
If you were a stranger peering in on us, you’d swear we’ve been friends for months—if not years. Electricity has been bouncing between us nonstop, even more so when Becca asked about us showing up together, but for the most part, we’ve set aside the spark to form a deeper, more tangible connection. It’s been amazing, and the fact it was done without mentioning the incident that led to me arriving at his house at midnight makes it even more phenomenal.
I swirl my wine around my glass when Elvis asks, “What’s the worst thing that could happen if this blows up?”
“For me or Chelsea?”
He stares me dead set in the eyes. “Both of you.”
My teeth rake my lower lip as I contemplate. “For me, I’d most likely get fired.”
I can handle being fired; my pay is half what Skylar gets at the bar gig she picks up each weekend to cover her “luxuries,” but I understand mine and Chelsea’s circumstances are very different. No matter how much she wishes it were true, she can’t divorce her parents and pick up a weekend job serving drunken baboons to put her through school.
“Chelsea would most likely get grounded; she’ll probably be forced back into ballet and lose internet privileges for a month.” I raise my eyes to Elvis’s, ensuring he can see the honesty in mine when I say, “But I truly believe she’d say the sacrifice was worth it. She has so much passion for dance, E. She reminds me of myself when I was her age. She doesn’t care if it is classical ballet or busting moves on the trampoline in her backyard, she just wants to dance. Have you ever had a passion so great, no matter how bad the odds are stacked against you, you’ll never stop fighting until you achieve your dreams?”
He nods without pause.
“That’s all I could see when I peered down at her tear-stained face. I couldn’t deny her the opportunity to reach her dreams because I was scared of the consequences. Fuck consequences; they’re barely a blip on the radar when you’re endeavoring for greatness.”
My eyes bounce between my wine glass and Elvis when he removes it from my hand. He places it on the coffee table before tilting closer to me.
“Whatcha doing?”
I choke on the spit sliding down my throat when he replies, “I’m going to kiss you,” as his sexy dark eyes dance between mine. “I’ve been dying to kiss you since you murmured my name when I carried you upstairs to my room. I’ve been dying to kiss you since you skidded across the tiles in my living room because you were trying to sneak out without saying goodbye—” I attempt to interrupt him, but him tugging my wrist until I straddle his lap stops me. “I’ve also been dying to kiss you since I spotted the cutest pool of tzatziki sauce in the corner of your plump lips, but I was waiting, hoping you’d make the first move so you wouldn’t think I was a dirty old man who brings home drunk college girls with the hope of making out with them on my three-thousand-dollar couch.”
Three thousand dollar couch?
Believing he’s showing off, I say, “You are a dirty old man hoping to make out with a college girl.”
He continues talking as if I didn’t speak, but the curve of his lips as they arrow toward mine reveals he took my comment as me being playful. “But your speech inspired me. If you want something, you’ve got to go for it, right? No matter the consequences.”
My breath fans his mouth when I reply, “That’s right.” When I breathe in and out three times to settle the ruckus in my stomach, my nipples brush against his chest. His eyes when he stares up at me—my god, they’re enough to unleash a tsunami of butterflies ripping through my gut. “Is this what you want, E? A kiss? A couch grind-up? More?”
Please say “more.” Please say “more.”
My silent prayers kind of get answered when he murmurs, “How about we start with a kiss and see where it goes from there?”
He drops his delicious mouth to mine, his tongue darting out to clear away the smudge of sauce he referenced earlier. I taste it on his tongue when he slips it between my parted lips. He kisses me fiercely, his tongue fucking my mouth as greedily as his fingers grip my ass to draw me closer. He pulls me in close enough that my earlier fear of him having a cheerio for a cock is a distant memory, but far enough away the half-inch of air between us is teasingly frustrating.
His kisses are hungry and bruising, with the perfect combination of speed and control. I’ll never forget being kissed by him, but I’ll also be begging for more long before his taste leaves my lips.
I kiss him with the same fierceness. I want to step up to the plate sooner next time, to not wait for me to make the first move. I want him to fill the last damn snippet of air between us.
“Yes,” I breathe over his mouth in a throaty groan when he answers my question by slipping his hand under my shirt to tug me in the last half-inch.
I swivel my hips and drag my skirt up my thighs without needing to remove my fingers from his shaggy mane before I execute an earth-shuddering grind down his thickened shaft. “Sweet baby Jesus. Is that thing legal?”
I stammer back with a squeal when a deep voice on our left says, “I’ve been wondering that same thing myself.” A man with more style than a straight man could pull off saunters into the room. “Any time he gets accused of using steroids, I tell him to whip out his cock.” He snaps back, holds his empty hand in the air, then clicks his finger three times. Snap, crackle, pop, Motherfucker. “Never once has he listened.”
After giving Elvis a you’re no fun look, he continues his sashay across the room. The bag of takeout in his hand swings as heavily as the tension brewing between Elvis and me, but before I can act on it, I spot the three Blu-ray discs our interrupter is clasping in his overloaded hand. A giggle bubbles in my chest when I recognize the cover of the top Blu-ray. It’s What Men Want starring Taraji P. Henson.
Someone is eager to find out how his own specimen thinks.
After adjusting his cock so it’s no longer digging into my panties, Elvis tugs down the h
em of my skirt, deposits me and my pouting backside on the spot next to him, then stands to his feet. I can’t see his face, but he’s clearly giving his uninvited guest his best fuck-off look as he clambers backward with his hand held in the air and his mouth gaped only two seconds later.
“It’s Sunday afternoon. We always have a movie marathon on Sundays. It’s how you recover after—”
“A long week at work.” Elvis’s tone is sterner than I’ve heard it before. “Yeah, that’s right, but I have a guest over.”
The uninvited hottie asks, “Does she not like Chinese?”
His eyes snap to mine when I groan. The last time I ate Chinese, I nearly died. “N. O. Say it isn’t so. You can’t be Willow my farts smell like a moldy potato chip sandwich Willow. Surely not. You look nothing like the fire-breathing witch I handled last month.”
His eccentric voice fills me with happiness. Unfortunately, that’s where my giddiness ends. I thought Windy Willow was horrid, but the nickname Elvis has shared with his friends is ten times worse.
“Thank you for a great day, but I think it’s time for me to leave.”
I freeze, unsure if I am coming or going when Elvis threatens, “If your ass moves an inch off that couch, Will, I’m gonna spank it.”
Confident he has squashed my eagerness to leave, Elvis refocuses his attention on his friend. He looks as excited by Elvis’s warning as I am. “I gave you that description to ensure you delivered the goods to the right person, not to use it against her.”
“Ohhh.” The blond drops the takeout and Blu-Rays on a table at his side before kicking off his shoes. He doesn’t care how stern Elvis’s glare gets, he ain’t leaving. “I thought you wanted it included in the package.” He shrugs. “My bad?”
Elvis’s fists clench so fast, a blood vessel nearly bursts in his wrist. “You put my description in the package?!”
“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes, as if to say duh. “How else do you think I’d find her? There were over thirteen Willows just in the co-ed dorms. I needed something to work with.”
Elvis drags his hand down his face as I finally understand. His guest is the man who brought me the pharmacy products the morning following my embarrassing escapade.
“And here I was thinking she didn’t call me because I was cracking jokes when she was five minutes from death.”
“Thank you! Finally!” I stand to my feet to bridge the gap between us. “No matter how many times I told Skylar I was dying, she didn’t believe me.”
I slap Elvis on his chest. My whack has a double meaning. I’m annoyed as hell that he told his friend what my gas smells like, but I understand his dilemma. Without an in-depth description, I may have never been found, which means I wouldn’t have had access to the medication I needed to get better.
“I’m Willow I try not to fart on first dates Underwood. It’s a pleasure to meet you. . .?”
“Danny.” The eccentric blond thrusts his hand toward mine, his greeting delivered with a mammoth smile. “I think you and I are going to be very close friends.”
Elvis looks more petrified now than he did when Dalton told him he’ll be on diaper duty if he didn’t get his lips off his wife earlier today. It was only a peck, but Elvis’s lips lingered long enough Dalton couldn’t help but react.
I’m glad Elvis is uncomfortable because I’m confident Danny is the key to unlocking all his innermost secrets.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Presley
“C an you lose points for performing a lewd act while driving?”
Willow’s wide eyes stray from the road to me. They’re darker than usual with the low hang of her eyelids hiding their sparkle. “I guess it would depend on the charge?” She sounds as unsure as her facial expression. “Why? What lewd act are you willing to lose your license for?”
She rakes down my body, missing the thousands of replies streaming from my eyes. The sexual chemistry bristling between us is so intense, if I could drive without any hands on the steering wheel, I’d have more than just her thigh covered. Danny was great; he made Willow feel at ease all while keeping my career on the downlow, but the guy is a cockblocking motherfucker.
His corny jokes, stories from our high school years, and his ability to always place himself between Willow and me meant that little taste of her mouth I had at the start of our evening was the only taste of her mouth I’ve had. I’m dying over here—like seriously dying. This is worse than food poisoning, and I’m nearing months of abstinence since I broke my back. I swear, I’ve never craved something as badly as I’m craving another taste of her mouth.
The sexy moan she released when she grinded down on me stops replaying through my head when her giggle takes its place.
“It’s lucky you asked before leaping.” She nudges her head to my rearview mirror, which shows a decked-out state trooper sedan following closely behind us. “Did you want to test the theory?”
I almost swerve onto the wrong side of the road when she pulls her seatbelt far away from her chest so she can tilt my way. She is inches from the zipper biting my cock. So close, I can picture her hot breaths leaving beads of condensation on the crest of my cock after she whips it out of my pants.
When she arrows down even lower, I really want to say, Willow, don’t be such a fucking tease. Take my dick between those pillowy lips like I’ve been dying to do all day. Instead, I say, “Willow, god damn it, don’t be stupid. I don’t want to be forced to prove my muscles aren’t just for looks when we get arrested.”
Laughing, she pulls back. “People think your muscles are for show?” I lose the chance to answer when she adds on, “I can understand their error. They’re very pretty to look at.” Her shoulder pops up two inches as a lightbulb inside her head switches on. “Oh my god. How did I not think of this earlier? Underwear model?”
“Huh?”
My eyes bounce between hers and my speedo. The trooper is still following us, meaning I’ve got to make sure I keep it under the limit. I’m not worried about a speeding ticket; I just don’t want my cover blown if he’s a 69ers fan.
“Sexy body. Panty-wetting face. You sell undies for a living, don’t you?”
“Undies?”
Her tongue peeks between her teeth as she strives to hold back a grin. “Undies. Jocks. Briefs. Nut-huggers. Trunks. Boxer shorts. Whatever you call them.” She folds one of her ankles over the other before twisting her torso to face me. “You do the seedy, head-sloped-to-the-side grins that make women like me think you lost your cock somewhere between the makeup chair and the photography studio, don’t you? You know, the oh shit, who stole my penis?! expression every magazine in America is running with these days.”
“I’m not an underwear model.” Anymore.
Five years ago, I wore the exact expression Willow mentioned when Lillian forced me to do a shoot with her. The agency wasn’t interested in the fiancée of the top quarterback in the country; they wanted the real deal. With Lillian’s ego at stake, I manned up and did the gig.
Worst decision I ever made.
I don’t care if you’re hung like a donkey, when you’re poked and prodded by over a dozen spectators before being stripped bare in front of an additional thirty people in an air-conditioned room, you’ll have shrinkage issues. Not even Lillian’s playful grind-up had my cock popping up to say “hello.” He was down for the count, preferring to have me paraded around America as if I had a corn kernel for a penis than pretend it was showtime.
That hoopla saw me swearing off underwear gigs for the remainder of my life. Although, I don’t see shrinkage ever being a problem if I were partnered up with Willow. She’s got enough curves for the nation to pay attention to. The photographer would need an extra-wide lens to capture them all.
Jeez, would you listen to me? The pompous head on my shoulders is nearly as big as the one between my legs.
Hating that parts of the man I was when I was with Lillian are creeping out of me, I switch our conversation to something that will help eas
e the throb between my legs. “I gather dance is a vital part of your life, but what’s your major?”
Willow appears stumped by the quick change in our conversation, but my mention of her first love quickly secures her attention. “It was dance—”
“You can major in dance?” I’m not being an ass. I’m truly shocked.
She smiles, loving my surprise. “Yep. It’s a Bachelor of Arts.”
My lips quirk as I nod. “Nice. So why the ‘was’ part of your statement? Your passion for dance is all over your face, so why did you give it up?”
She taps her knees as if it’s the answer to everything. It isn’t. She has a nice kneecap, but I’m not seeing the issue.
“I had a knee reconstruction two years ago. I was landing the most perfect grand jeté when my knee gave out from underneath me.” She’s not being showy. I can’t see anything but genuine honesty in her eyes. “I spent a week in hospital and another six on crutches, then. . .” Her words drift off when disappointment takes them hostage.
I’m not as willing to end our conversation. This isn’t the first chat we’ve had today, but it is the most interesting. “That was two years ago, so what’s stopping you now?”
Willow’s brows stitch as she stares at me like I’m a moron. “I had a complete knee reconstruction.”
“So?” I reply, unsure why that would stop her. I broke my back, yet, here I am, playing the game I love. “Wasn’t it you who said ‘fuck consequences, they’re barely a blip on the radar when you’re endeavoring for greatness’? Maybe you should listen to your own advice?”
“My knee can’t withstand the endurance needed for ballet.” She looks like she wants to say more, but she holds it back—barely.
“You can’t say that if you haven’t given it a chance. Besides, even if that were true, when one part of your body can’t stand the pressure, teach the ones around it to take up its slack. Your thighs, your ankles, train them to support your knee, then, over time, give your knee a shot to prove its strength.”