by Alison Tyler
‘You game?’ he asked, his eyes flashing.
Dori nodded.
‘Then why don’t you start?’
He held out the knife and reached for one of the limes.
Dori shook her head. ‘You do it,’ then watched as he expertly worked the blade through the tough skin of the lime, as he cut a wedge and then set the knife down. What was he going to do next? Where was he going to squeeze it?
‘Like this,’ he explained. He licked his wrist and then shook a bit of salt onto the skin there. Then he handed Dori the bottle, and gripped the lime wedge between his teeth. She understood without having him explain, drank a large swallow of the tequila, licked the salt from his skin, and then moved forward, to suck the lime juice. He backed up, and she had to crawl on hands and knees to reach him. She felt like a pet, ridiculous, until he spit out the lime, laughing, and reached for her.
‘It’s different in a bar,’ he said. ‘You’re touching people in this intimate way. But in public. You know?’ He had her long hair in his hand, pulling her head back, rubbing his thumb over her lower lip. ‘We don’t need to play games, do we?’
She wasn’t sure. She liked games. The way he played them, anyway.
‘Tell me what you want, Emma.’
Seconds before, she’d wanted his tongue on her clit. Now, suddenly, surprisingly, she wanted him to call her by her real name. She wanted him to know who she was. But although the words were in her head to tell him, to confess, all she managed to say was, ‘Fuck me.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘You don’t usually talk dirty, do you?’
She shook her head.
‘That’s why the words sound so filthy when you say them.’
‘When I say “fuck”?’ she teased, hitting the word hard for emphasis.
Van nodded, and slowly Dori felt herself becoming more powerful, the way she had with Luke. She saw the surprise in Van’s eyes as she pulled her hair out of his grip. Saw him admire her as she pushed her body against his, tipping him onto the floor, using her hands on his wrists to hold him down.
He could have broken free if he’d wanted to, but she could tell from the way he was staring at her that he didn’t want to. Clearly, he was going to let her run the show. Now, Dori straddled him, naked on his clothed body, loving the way the seam of his jeans felt against her. She stroked her hand through his hair, pushed a wave of it off his face, and then reached for the tequila in one hand, and the knife in the other.
Van’s eyes grew wider still.
‘Do you like this shirt?’
He looked down. He was wearing a black shirt with a skeleton outline printed onto the fabric.
‘Do I …?’
But she didn’t wait to hear him finish. She ran the knife down from the neckline, cutting easily through the thin cotton, then parting the two halves of the T-shirt when she reached the hem. His bare chest was smooth and hard. She had the tequila now, and she poured a stream over him. Not caring about the mess, the puddle on the floor. She was moving, licking him, drinking the sharp-tasting liquor as she pushed back toward his feet.
‘Oh, God,’ Van sighed when her hands found his belt. She pulled open the buckle, yanked on the fly so that the buttons popped open, released him. She saw the remnants of her lipstick on his cock from their tryst at the theater, and that turned her on even more.
‘I can’t get enough of you, baby,’ Van said as she worked him, ‘come here. Please.’ He was pulling on her, moving her, so that their bodies were in a sixty-nine, Dori’s on top. Van began to do exactly what she’d fantasized, licking her in tight circles, pressing his tongue against her when she needed that extra bit of power.
She gripped onto his jeans as she worked him, paying attention to the motions he made, echoing them with her mouth. Knowing that fucking on the tequila-slick floor of her den was one of the most decadent things she’d ever done in this house, and not caring at all.
In the morning, Dori woke up with what she was starting to think was a familiar headache. But this morning, she also woke with a novel idea. What if she called her brother now? What if she dialed his number in the future? Would that work? He might be able to help her. Out of all the people she knew, he’d listen. He might actually believe.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed his number. She held her breath, waiting to hear his familiar voice, disappointed beyond measure when she reached a cool recording. The sound of an electronic voice repeating: ‘The number you have reached is out of order. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please try your call again.’
At least, she was trying. She wasn’t just accepting her fate.
‘Who are you calling?’ Van asked, wrapping his big arms around her.
‘Just a friend.’ She hadn’t known he was up. They’d ended up sleeping on the fold-out sofa in the den, and she’d tiptoed out of the room in order to make the call without wanting to wake him.
‘A boyfriend,’ he guessed, his mouth against her neck.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘I told you. I broke up with my boyfriend.’
‘One of them. You must have twenty more waiting for you in New York.’
She liked the fact that he found her so irresistible. And she liked the fact that he always seemed ready to fuck. Was that why some of her friends had declared that younger men were better? She’d never thought to try out the theory for herself. In her mind, Van was still older than she was. In reality – and she had to believe this was reality – she was nearing forty while he was nearing twenty-five. But why should she bring reality into this? Why not just let him bend her over the kitchen counter-top, slip her tiny little panties aside, and drive his cock inside of her?
He didn’t check to see if she was wet. He’d known somehow that she’d be ready for him. She was always ready for him. He commented on that every so often. ‘Look at you, you’re so wet. Right from the start. I’ve never met anyone get ready so quickly.’
Well, he was always hard. Or so it seemed to Dori. Were all boys like this? Twenty-somethings? She couldn’t remember. She’d tended to date older men as soon as she got into beauty school. And then, on the sets of movies, hanging out with the key grips and the best boys, she always found herself attracted to the men who had at least a few years on her. Forgoing the pleasure of dating her own age. But now that she was older, she could see the delight in playing with a younger crowd.
Van slid inside of her, and she groaned.
God, he felt good. His cock drove forward, hard, and she lowered her head and let the first wave of pleasure rush through her. How could she be ready for more? They’d had sex in the bathroom at The Majestic, and then again when he’d shown up in the middle of the night. Now, after only a few hours of sleep, they were both ready for one another again. She loved that. Loved the feeling of fucking him, loved the way she felt afterwards, made dizzy from the pleasure of the climax.
She thought the rumors were that boys were selfish. But Van wasn’t one of them. He kept his hand in front of her body, so that he could strum her clit the way he strummed his guitar strings. Gently at first, then with more power as the ride grew stronger. She’d watched him practice one day, and she’d felt jealous of his instrument. Now, she was his instrument.
‘You like that,’ he murmured to her, voice close, mouth against her ear.
‘Yes,’ Dori sighed.
‘Tell me about it. Tell me how much you like it.’
She sucked in a deep breath. She knew he wanted her to talk dirty to him, at least, she sensed that. And rather than blush and stammer, she decided to go with it. To give him what he wanted, because she could tell that deep down saying the words would turn her on as well. So far, everything they’d done together had turned her on. Just look at how wet she’d got in the theater, fucking Frank-N-Furter while dressed as Brad.
‘Say it,’ he insisted, when she hadn’t immediately responded.
‘I love the way your cock feels inside of me.’
She was
n’t just talking for his pleasure. She was telling the truth. And she also loved simply saying the word cock. The hard sound of the word.
‘Yeah, baby?’ he asked, rubbing against her, fucking her even better now. Hitting a steady beat inside of her. ‘You like my cock?’
A shudder ran through her body. She wanted to close her eyes, to let him do all the work. He was making her feel so good. But she took a deep breath again and tried harder.
‘Yes,’ Dori whispered. ‘You reach so deep inside of me. I can’t believe it. I feel as if you’re fucking me all the way to the back of my throat.’ That was the truth. When he slammed into her like that, she thought he might split her in two.
Van continued to strum his fingertips over her clit, making sexy spirals now as his cock pounded inside of her. Then he let his hand meet her ass with a loud slapping sound, and Dori trembled. Van could tell that she liked the sudden spark of pain, and when he let his hand land on her ass again, she gripped onto the counter and sucked in her breath. Not only from the immediate pleasure that swept through her, but from the fact that someone was outside of the kitchen window.
Looking in.
Chapter Fifteen
Rowan ducked as soon as she saw him.
Christ. He’d thought he would find Dori drinking coffee, or reading the paper. Something innocent. The last thing he’d imagined that he’d see was the two of them screwing on the countertop. What was wrong with him?
When he reached the back alley, he saw that the damn delivery boy’s van was parked there again. What the fuck? Why was she hanging out with this youngster? Rowan had planned so carefully for every contingency. Every one except, he supposed, Dori’s apparently untamable libido.
Heat flushed his cheeks, but as he shook his head, Rowan finally came to a decision. No, not really a decision.
A prediction.
He was going to fuck Mrs Hughes. That’s all there was to it. Dori had hooked up with some head-banging musician, someone not quite half her age, but in that range. What was stopping him from having a little fun, as well?
He’d always known Mrs Hughes liked him. The way she made sure to be standing outside her door early in the morning when he tossed the paper onto her front step. The way she showed off everything in her short nightgowns, or sheer robes worn over nothing at all.
Now he was a man – he couldn’t think that without hearing the Bo Diddley hit in his head: ‘I’m a man, I spell M-A-N man.’ He was an adult; he could fuck her if he wanted. Or if she wanted. And if her husband wanted.
That was the part that had held him back. There’d been those rumors for years that the Hugheses were swingers. All the parents talked about the fact that Mr Hughes liked to watch his wife get it on with the high school boys. That’s why they were always doing additions to their house, work in their backyard, inviting the most eligible of the young neighborhood studs to hang out. No girls were ever asked.
Rowan had always been curious, but scared. Now, he could find out what he’d been missing.
That is, if he wasn’t too old for her.
Rowan sprinted down the alley and away from Dori’s house, back to where he’d left his car. With the adrenaline still pumping through him, he drove to the Hugheses. His decision had already been made. Dori had made it for him, even if she didn’t realize that.
He showed up with a purpose, explaining that he’d noticed one of their tree limbs was dangling dangerously, pointing out the limb he’d broken earlier himself and offering to cut it down before it fell onto one of their cars.
They never got that far.
Mrs Hughes – her name had been Yum-Yum, he now remembered, all the boys calling her that behind her back – Mrs Hughes told him to call her Yolanda, and it took all of his strength not to run away right then.
Yolanda.
She was a ‘Yolanda.’ She was different from all the other women on the block. The average cookie-baking moms, and the old maids, and the feminists. Yolanda was unusual. Even in their small unfashionable town, she wore high-heeled shoes to go grocery shopping. She chose thin sundresses as soon as the weather heated up. She sunbathed in their front yard rather than the backyard. She had a killer body, and she made sure that everyone knew it.
But when she invited him into her house, when that familiar smell assailed him, he was seventeen once more. He was a boy, waiting for her to write out the check to pay him for the newspapers. He was a kid, watching as she hiked her dress up just a little bit more to show him acres of thigh.
He was a man.
And he just couldn’t do it.
Chapter Sixteen
‘You’ve got to come see us,’ Van insisted. ‘We’re playing The Majestic. Opening for a really good band. Bette hooked it up for me. Gael knows the owner pretty well, of course. The owner’s Gael’s landlord, as well.’
Dori lifted the tiny round bottle at her side and shook the thing in her hand. She could hear the two silver balls rattling around inside. Although she knew how to give a pedicure, she had never painted a man’s toes before. In order to receive her cosmetology license, she had learned how to do most of the jobs in an average salon. But although she’d painted her own toes, and her friends’ every so often, she’d never painted a man’s. Not even as a joke.
This was no joke.
Van had his foot set on her knee, and he watched carefully as she painted each toe a vibrant, shimmery turquoise. She glanced at the bottom of the bottle to read the name: TOTALLY TUBULAR.
‘You always have your nails painted?’ she asked him.
He winked at her. ‘Just before a gig. It’s superstitious, I guess. But I think it’s good luck.’
‘And do you always have a girl paint them for you?’
Now, he stared harder at her. She thought he was about to make a joke, but the seriousness of his expression caught her off guard. ‘No, Emma,’ he said, voice low. ‘Sometimes, I have a boy.’
She heard the inflection in his voice. Heard him say ‘have’ the way Nina had said ‘have.’ (‘Did you have Van last night?’ And her response, ‘I had fun.’)
‘Oh,’ she said, not thinking. Not able to come up with anything more clever in the way of a response. She sounded so naïve. Why did Van always manage to appear to have a wealth of experience when he was so much younger than she was?
‘Is that a problem?’ he asked next. She didn’t have any response to that either. Was it a problem? A problem for who? A problem for her?
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes, pretending that the job of painting his toenails was taking her total focus.
‘I wouldn’t have said anything,’ he continued. ‘But you asked.’
Had she? She’d asked about nail polish, not bed partners. Did they equate to the same thing for Van? Did the people who painted his nails always share his bed? Or did he only let people he’d fucked paint his nails?
Dori focused on the pedicure rather than try to continue the conversation. She painted each nail and then blew on his toes to dry them. Van reached down and put one hand on hers. She still didn’t meet his eyes.
‘Is it a problem?’ he asked again, slower.
Dori thought hard about the query, and then she shook her head. There were more serious problems in her world, weren’t there? The fact that she’d slipped back in time twenty years seemed much more of a pressing problem than the fact that her new lover was bisexual. But still the thought lingered. Did she have a problem being with a boy who also went with boys? She spent so much of her time with gay men, hairdressers and stylists, and every so often she’d developed a minor crush on one. But Van was different. He seemed equally divided, so testosterone-driven one moment, and then absolutely feminine the next, foot up for her to reach each toe.
‘So who’s in the group?’ she asked, and he grinned at her and started to explain.
He was in a band, a garage group of kids he’d known since junior high. Dori thought she remembered this from working at the beauty supply store, remembered that he w
as good. Better than your average group. They were called ‘Back Door Delivery Boys,’ in that tongue-in-cheek style that came from Van’s sense of humor. She tried to recall what had ever happened to them. Something … they’d been going to a competition, and something had happened to his truck.
She started to ask, and then caught herself. Undoubtedly what she was going to ask about was still in the future. She tried hard to think back, only half-listening as Van continued to explain where he’d found the drummer and how each one of the band members was really committed to the mutual goal of …
Dori thought harder. Chelsea’s boyfriend Dameron had been in the group, too, hadn’t he?
‘Please say you’ll come,’ he said, taking her silence for a lack of interest, and she nodded immediately. ‘Of course, I will. I’d love to.’
‘Nina and Bette will be there, too. I’m looking for as many friendly faces as we can find. If we raise enough cash, we’re going to this big gig in Los Angeles. It’s a competition. The winning band gets signed.’
‘Signed?’
‘A record deal. Can you imagine? Real records.’
He was so excited, that she couldn’t help smiling at him, the way he seemed lit up when he talked about his music. But even as she listened to him continue, she tried to remember exactly what had happened. Why the band had never made it to the gig.
She was surprised when he took her by the hand and led her to the bathroom. Her mind was still on her past and his future, so much so that she didn’t know what he wanted from her when he handed over a razor. He sat with his leg poised elegantly against the lip of the sink, then looked at her.
‘Will you?’ he asked, and she realized he wanted her to shave his legs. She fought back the giggle that threatened to give away her nerves. ‘Seriously?’
He nodded.
Carefully, she spread the shaving cream along his lean, muscular legs, realizing as she did so that he was actually a blond. That his hair must have been dyed black, then streaked emerald green, because the hair on his legs was golden. Biting her bottom lip to concentrate, she used well-placed strokes to shave him clean, but even as she focused on the task at hand, her mind continued to trip back in time.