by Jay McLean
I felt Martin’s chest expand on a slow inhale, his fingers were digging into my arm; it wasn’t painful but it was pointed, firm, meant to communicate a message—don’t move.
“Thanks, Ben.” Martin drawled, but the edge in his voice was glacial, and he made no move to accept the cups.
Ben gave me a stiff smile, his eyes lingering on where Martin’s arm was wrapped around me, then he raised both cups. “You two should have a toast. Come down to the party.”
“Leave the drinks and go.” Martin said.
Ben frowned, glanced at the two cups and cleared his throat. “You should come downstairs, this is epic-”
“Go.” Martin repeated.
This time Ben nodded once and set the cups on a table by the door. “Sure, sure. I’ll come back in a bit to see if you need any more.” He held his hands up and backed out of the room, his eyes completing another once over of my body before he closed the door.
I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding and, just for a moment, allowed myself to lean against Martin.
“That was him. That was the guy—I recognize his voice.”
I felt Martin nod, his chin and cheek against the side of my hair. We stood—still, quiet—for a long moment, then he turned me to face him. Both of his hands moved to my waist and he backed me against the pool table.
His eyes, guarded but also tempered with curiosity, searched mine. I still saw desperation in his features and it still perplexed me. I didn’t touch him. Instead I braced my hands on either side of my hips where my body met the billiard’s table.
At length he asked, “What do you want?”
I swallowed, then responded. “I’d like to leave.”
He shook his head slowly, “That’s not what I meant. What do you want from me?”
I shrugged. “It would be great if you could tabulate the findings from last week’s assignment, but I’m not going to hold my breath.” He never did the tabulations and analyses. It was annoying.
“Parker.”
“What?”
His eyes dipped to my mouth and his voice was the softest I’d ever heard it, almost coaxing. “Kaitlyn…”
I stiffened against the feelings associated with hearing my name, from his lips, spoken in gentle tones.
I averted my eyes, and my own voice was a little strained when I said, “Martin, I honestly don’t want anything from you. I’d like to leave so I can change into my normal clothes, drink tea, eat cookies, and read a good book in the safety of my dorm room.”
“Kaitlyn, look at me.”
Once again, my neck flushed and my arms broke out in goosebumps.
I tried to ignore both the blush and the goosebumps. “I also want for you to forget any of this happened so that we can go back to being lab partners.”
He was quiet for a long time, but I knew—even though I refused to meet his gaze—that he was studying me, examining me, like I was something new.
Then he said, “Why do you hide?”
The words startled me so much that my eyes instinctively met his, and this was a mistake. His gaze—now a lovely blue fire—was taking a survey of my face, as though he were memorizing every inch. It was disconcerting and my heart quickened.
I tried for a shrug, but it likely looked like a poorly executed, convulsive shiver. “Why do you care?”
His gaze met mine, then flickered to my lips. “You have fantastic lips.”
I half choked, my eyes widening. “You care because I have fantastic lips?”
“And your eyes. They’re grey. I noticed them first.” His voice was just above a whisper; he sounded as though he was talking to himself.
I cleared my throat, not really sure what to say. But it turned out I didn’t need to say anything, because he continued.
“Early last semester you wore a tank top and your hair was down. You kept pulling it off your neck.” He lifted his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers against my swell of cleavage, skirting the neckline of the dress, a soft caress, “I tried to get your phone number, but you wouldn’t give it to me.”
“I don’t like to give out my number.” I said dumbly.
“The red pants, the tight ones that show off your ass. You torture me, bending over to get supplies out of the cabinet. That isn’t very nice.”
My voice was unaccountably breathless. “The corduroy ones? I only wear those when all my other laundry is dirty.”
“You’re better at chemistry than me, you ace all the tests.”
“I like chemistry, and you don’t study like you should.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why I come on Fridays?” His fingers curled around my neck and his thumb traced circles along the line of my collarbone. He encouraged my head to tip backward.
“So that we can get a jump start on the weekly assignment?”
He shook his head. “You.”
My eyelashes fluttered. “Me?”
His held me captive with both his heavily lidded gaze and his caressing hands. Martin leaned forward, his mouth descending to mine and he brushed his lips against me. It wasn’t a kiss. It was more like he was using his lips to feel mine, enjoy my softness.
“You.” He whispered again.
My fingers gripped the wood on either side of my hips and I successfully fought against whimpering. The tightness in my chest alternately eased and twisted, my stomach fluttering, my breath coming shallow and fast.
My brain wasn’t quite working properly because he’d muddled it—with his words, hands, and lips of temptation. Therefore, in a paltry attempt to defend myself from his seduction onslaught, I blurted out one of my greatest fears where he was concerned.
“You’ll make me cry.”
His eyes widened a little, moved between mine. “I wouldn’t.”
“You would. I’ve seen it, I see how you treat girls.”
His hand at my waist tightened. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not—I know you’re not like that. We wouldn’t be like that.”
“I don’t trust you.”
He sighed—but not with impatience. “I know.” He nodded. “But you will.”
He dipped his head again, placed a soft kiss on my lips, just a hint of his tongue. It wasn’t enough. My hands lifted on their own and gripped his shirt, staying any retreat he might have planned. I didn’t do this on purpose. In fact, I didn’t know why I did it.
“Martin, I can’t-”
“You can.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.”
“You don’t-”
“I do.” He kissed me again and he shifted his weight more completely against me. Martin crowded my space so that he filled every inch of it. Four of my senses were overwhelmed by him—the smell of his cologne, his hot and hard body against mine, the taste of his mouth, the low growl in the back of his throat when our tongues met and mated.
Briefly he drew his mouth from mine, demanded, “Say you’ll spend the week with me.”
I blinked, started to protest. “Martin, this isn’t-”
He kissed me again, moved my arms around his neck, then his hands moved up my ribs and his hand cupped me through the thin material of my dress, his thumb drew tight circles around the center of my breast.
He growled, “Say it. Spend the week with me. We’ll go anywhere you want.”
I moaned, because… aroused.
He bit my lip, sucked it between his. I moaned again.
“You’re so fucking hot, Kaitlyn. And you’re real.” He breathed the words suddenly, like he didn’t mean to say them out loud, but they burst forth unbidden. “I want you to spend the week with me. Say yes.”
He kissed me again, quickly, then trailed wet, hot kisses over my jaw and behind my ear, to my shoulder. He bit me—hard—and sucked on my neck in a way that made me squirm and my breath hitch; all the while his large hand massaged my breast and tortured me through the fabric. His other hand had moved to my bottom and pressed my center to his.
“Martin�
�” was all I could manage, because… really aroused. And not that I was an expert, but judging by the hard length against my stomach, he was also really aroused.
“Please, say yes.” He breathed into my ear.
I said, “Yes…”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
To be honest, I said it but I didn’t mean it. In that moment, I said yes because he’d asked me to and he’d used the word please and I didn’t want all the good feelings to stop; not because I had any intention of spending the week with Martin Sandeke—Hercules, jerk to women, and apparently king of seducing naïve and intimacy-starved virgins.
Regardless, my words seemed to be enough for Martin because he smiled against my skin and he stopped talking. He also moved both of his hands from their shockingly effective ministrations and encircled me in his arms. His mouth moved back to mine.
This time the kiss was slow, less urgent, gentle, and sweet. It felt like a prelude, a beginning. When he lifted his head, I opened my lids to find him gazing down at me, his eyes alight—blue flames.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow.” He said. His voice was different, softer, deeper… content.
“What?” I blinked at him.
“Be ready at nine.”
“Nine?”
“You don’t need to pack much.” He kissed my nose, released me from his arms, threaded his fingers through mine and tugged me toward the door. “I hope you like private beaches.”
PENNY REID
I'm originally from California but now live in the Southeast US with my family after going to college in the area. I work full time at a large University in the field of biomedical research (e.g. clinical research studies conducted under the auspices of the FDA). I work a lot. I also love to knit and crochet; sew bags, blankets, and clothes; carve lino blocks for fabric printing; make homemade soap, jam, marmalade; and- most recently- I'm learning to garden.
I don't like to sit still unless I'm writing, reading, or knitting and I usually only knit in my knitting group... or at red lights while stuck in traffic. I only read on planes (where I'm trapped). Luckily, I travel a lot for work.
The voices in my head (characters) became so loud over the summer of 2012-specifically, Janie Morris- that I was forced to write Neanderthal Seeks Human, my first attempt at a full length novel. It took me 7 months while working full time, crafting, and raising my people-children (boy-5, girl-3).
www.reidromance.blogspot.com
PAM GOODWIN
To Steal A Kiss
His breath beat against my neck in a pungency of beer and jalapenos. My eyes watered as my hands flexed on his ass. It was a nice pair of cheeks, round and hard, but I wasn’t groping him to entertain my lady parts.
Sun-kissed bodies of every size, wealth, and intoxication level ground and bumped to the steel drums resonating from the bar. Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, twenty-somethings sloshed drinks, entwined tongues, and staggered zigzags over the sand.
I faked my own bare-footed stumble and raised my face, seeking fresh air above the cloud of pheromones, coconut lotion, and fuzzy navels. A kaleidoscope of neon lights illuminated the beachside rooftops. The canopy of palm trees reflected party lights in a green fringe against the black vault of sky. And all around me, a treasure-trove of loose pockets and purses dangled freely, begging to be plundered.
There. My fingers made contact with a leather wallet sagging in his back pocket.
His eyes closed then one heavy lid lifted in a lazy wink. A mop of shaggy brown hair framed his dazed expression, and the corners of his wide mouth curled. Maybe that grin would spark a tingle in my hollow chest. I waited for it, smoothing a hand over his pecs.
Nope. If there had been a tingle, his dragon breath smothered it as my nostrils seared and my lungs shriveled and failed.
He dragged both eyes open and licked my bottom lip, stringing a beaded line of tequila-flavored slobber. “What’s your name?”
Wow, he was sober enough for chitchat? With my hand in his pocket, I gave his ass a squeeze and stumbled against him in a display of drunkenness. “Helga Slapalot.”
He swayed and grabbed my chest to catch his fall. “That’s nice.”
My fake name or my real tits? Didn’t matter. As he pinched my nipples, I tightened my hold on his wallet. Just needed to keep his eyes on my boobs while I slid the wallet from his pocket to the open top of the beach bag at my waist.
He clung to my body, slack-jawed and mouth-breathing, and pressed his drunk dick against my belly. Thankfully, it didn’t rise from the dead. “Where you from?”
Born and raised in Fort Myers Beach, spring break was a job, not a vacation. “Kalamazoo.”
His inky eyebrows crawled together. “Kalamawho?”
A bony body careened into my shoulder, knocking my hand from the wallet still wedged in his pocket. I jumped back to dodge the beer flinging from a clumsy blonde’s plastic cup.
She teetered and snorted a laugh, her Prada sunglasses tumbling from their perch atop her head. I caught them before they hit the sand. She stared at her cup, holding it up with two hands, seemingly more concerned about spilling than the three-hundred-dollar sunglasses I slipped into my bag.
“Oooopsey.” She giggled and reeled sideways.
Dragon Breath caught her arm, his droopy gaze raking her tanned flesh. “Easy there.” He shuffled with jelly legs and locked his knees, his head bobbing as if it were a buoy anchored to his neck.
I’d targeted him because of his merry level of inebriation, but Blondie’s Versace jeans and Gucci sandals teased a fast pulse from my thieving heart. She leaned against me, her eyes glazed and distant. Her Coach purse slipped from her shoulder to her elbow.
Intoxicated rich girls saw opportunity to drink more. I saw more opportunity in intoxicated rich girls. Hell, my broke ass was an overdraft away from writhing on a pole at Bandit Girlz topless club. And thanks to my brother skipping town, leaving me with three months of overdue rent, my options sucked.
I cranked up my drunk dancing, shaking my ass and waving jazz fingers with deliberate out-of-sync campiness. A bump of my hip into hers sent her staggering against Dragon Breath. He caught her around the waist, laughing. As expected, she juggled her cup with single-minded focus, oblivious to my hand in the purse swinging at her hip.
“Oh, I sloh slorry.” I helped her balance the swallow of beer in her cup and dug past lipstick, a phone, gum, a condom wrapper? I lifted a bulky wallet and gave her a one-armed hug while transferring it to my bag and winking at her. “I glit mo dwerrinks.”
Good lord, I needed to work on my slurring, but my fellow slurrers didn’t seem to notice. I patted her rosy cheek. She nodded, grinning, eyes half-mast and googly. Poor thing. Hopefully, her missing wallet and sunglasses would be the worst of her worries in the morning.
Pressing through the crush of bodies, I held the beach bag against my side, the top cinched by my forearm. I wasn’t one of those snatchers who got off on outsmarting people. Nor did I suffer from an inflated sense of entitlement or victimhood. Yeah, I grew up parentless, raised to pick pockets by my low-life brother, Connor. But that didn’t justify what I was doing. Stealing was Connor’s aspiration in life. For me, it was simply a means to an end, and my end included a funded education at Edison State University.
I weaved through a circle of women dressed head-to-toe in designer gear. A black gold ring glimmered on one of the manicured hands. My heart rate perked up. That beauty would bring at least five-hundred from the pawn shop two towns over.
The woman’s brown hair was the same hue and length as mine, falling around her toned arms. When our eyes met, hers pierced with clarity and awareness. Damn. She was as sober as I was.
She smiled at something her friend said, her face glowing with amusement. Connor claimed I had the kind of striking beauty that made thieving an easy gig. Sure, guys flocked to me, all but pressing their pockets beneath my fingers. But what if I’d been raised by a firm moral hand instead of a brother
who believed it was the responsibility of dumb drunk people to pay our way? Maybe my beauty would’ve been more like the smiling woman with the ring, contributing to the ambiance rather than stealing from it. My chest tightened. Good for her.
I changed course and headed for the shore. My bag bulged with nine wallets, two iPads minis, and a wealth of high-dollar accessories. A mental tally throughout the night summed to two grand—if I were optimistic about my negotiating skills with local pawn shops—not counting the cash in the wallets. I quickened my pace and rubbed my arm, anxious to return to the apartment and stash my bag of villainy.
The crowd gyrated in a discombobulated rhythm. Phones rose in outstretched hands, capturing shitfaced selfies. Impassioned drunkalogues about God-knows-what shrilled above the crescendo of Caribbean percussion.
A shirtless guy lurched into my path and reached for my waist. His Costco Dockers likely carried an empty wallet. His pants were too tight to pick through anyway.
I swerved around him, bouncing with the partiers and swishing the hem of my strapless dress. Someday, Addy Goldner would dance on the beach without calculation and ill intent. I’d dance simply because I wanted to.
I broke free from the heave of bodies and began the two-mile stroll home, following the shore, the music dimming with each step. The dark sky faded into the endless stretch of darker ocean. The cool waves lapped at my toes with a sighing sound, and my drunken pretense transformed into a fluidity of easy strides.
Slapping footsteps erupted behind me. I turned and came face-to-face with a dark-eyed man. He cocked his head and raked a hand through his tousle of black hair. His corded neck met the collar of his shirt, which hung open from his broad shoulders to his low-hung jeans. His skin was so smooth and flawless, my fingers tingled to touch him.
“Hey, pretty girl.” He flashed a hypnotic smile and—who cared that he hiccupped and stumbled over his own feet?—the carved lines of his chest and abs coaxed a purr from my throat. He leaned back, rocked forward. “I’ve been looking for you.” He swung a thumb toward the beach bar, dropping and raising his arm as if it weighed a hundred pounds.