“What?” I cry out softly. “You mean to tell me you would have asked me out if the fucking Magic 8 Ball would have said yes?”
He nods. “Pretty much.”
“Laz…that’s crazy. You can’t do that.”
“Do what?” His brows knit together. “I told you that’s what I do.”
“But this is…this is playing with other people. This is playing with me. I mean, my life…my life would be completely different now if I had gone out with you back then.”
“Different, but not better. Neither of us would have been better off.” He takes off his seatbelt and leans in closer, cupping my face in his hands. His eyes search mine. “Marina, I was an absolute fool until we got together. You would have not wanted to date me back then. Fuck, you wouldn’t have wanted to date me a month ago. The time is right, finally, now, for both of us.”
He’s right. I know he is. The timing would have been off. We would have dated then broken up because he’s such a commitment-phobe or whatever his problem is and then we would have never been friends. We would have never had what we have now.
“Just promise me, you’ll stop using that damn 8 Ball. I’m a part of your life now. I don’t want a toy dictating our fate.”
“I haven’t been. Not seriously.”
I chew on my lip for a moment, gathering courage to ask him a serious question. “Why do you do it? Why the 8 Ball? What does it mean to you?”
He squints off into the distance, looking a tad embarrassed. “Well,” he says in a low voice. “My father had one as a joke.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t have to say anymore.
But he does. “At night, when he had been drinking, he’d get me to play fortune teller. We would do this for hours. It helped calm him down. It calmed me down. Sometimes it didn’t work and he’d throw it across the room, trying to smash it, then smash everything he could lay his hands on. Sometimes that was me.”
Oh, shit.
“But, you know, that thing never broke. I did but…it didn’t.” He glances at me. “Don’t worry, he wasn’t beating the shit out of me or my mother or anything. But he would hurt me. And what would break was everything inside. You know, that place where love comes from. That’s what he’d break.”
“Your heart?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, you’d think I’d be more eloquent,” he says, his eyes wide, staring blankly at nothing. He shakes his head. “When I came home to visit right after he left us, the only thing he left behind of his was that Magic 8 Ball. I still have it. I don’t use it though. It’s in a box in the closet. But I use one because it calms me…just to know that you don’t have to make decisions, that someone else, something else, is making them for you. There’s no responsibility. And I like that. I like to think that my father consulted it before he left us and that the ball made the decision to leave us and never look back. Then…it wouldn’t be personal.” He pauses, looks at me. “But it’s personal.”
“Laz,” I say softly, my heart breaking for him. “I am so sorry.”
He stares at me for a moment then his gaze falls to my lips. He undoes his seatbelt. Shoves his chair back as far as it will go, reaches for me. “Come here,” he says gruffly.
There’s not a lot of space but there’s enough that I’ll fit. I move carefully over the console, balancing myself on his shoulders until I’m straddling him, grateful I’m wearing a miniskirt.
He grins at me, his hands trailing up into my hair, my eyes closing from that sensation. I know he’s making this physical because he doesn’t want to talk about the emotional, and that’s okay. One step at a time. Besides, I did say I wanted to fuck him in this car.
I adjust myself on his hips, my hand slipping down toward his pants. I shift to undo the top button, bracing myself on his shoulder. I bite my lip as I tug down his zipper. I can feel him hard, bare, and ready beneath me. I’m wet as hell. It’s instant now, even just thinking about sex with him.
He knows too. He puts one hand at the small of my back, the other slipping between my legs, pushing the dress up, shoving my underwear aside. My clit screams with pleasure the moment his fingers slide against me, slick and hard.
“You need to stop wearing knickers,” he murmurs, staring at me with shiny eyes. “You’re drenched.”
“You have that effect on me,” I say, leaning forward and kissing along his neck, taking in his woodsy, spicy scent that throws me into another wave of lust. I could live my whole life with my face buried here, feeling the pulse along his neck, smelling every ounce of this man, my man.
“I’m not complaining, sweet girl,” he says, grabbing my tank top and pulling it and my bra down so my breasts are exposed. “I want to see those brilliant tits of yours.”
Fuck me. Even the way he says “tits” is nearly enough to make me come. Then again, Laz’s voice is especially suited for dirty talk with that deep, warm growl of his.
His eyes rake over my chest, hot with desire I can feel. In some ways, this gaze of his feels more intimate, more penetrating than sex. I feel like I’ve been handed over on a plate for him to savor and enjoy.
Then he’s leaning over, cupping my breast with large, warm hands, and pulling my nipple into his mouth. My body becomes a roman candle, fizzing, burning, begging to go off.
I moan loudly, grinding myself into his cock, desperate for him.
“Slow, we’re taking this slow, greedy girl,” he murmurs, sending more shivers along my spine, his tongue lapping at my nipple until it nearly hurts. My other breast is practically aching, needing his touch, and when he moves his wet, hot mouth over, my body shakes in relief.
“Fuck,” I say with a moan, throwing my head and shoulders back, trying to push myself into him, wild, crazy, and desperate for more. I reach down and around, grasping his cock and pulling it out of his pants.
“Easy,” he warns, pulling his mouth away from me. “I’m a hair trigger these days,” he says, gazing up at me.
And I love that I have that power over him. I grin, bite my lip, and grip him harder.
He pinches his eyes shut, his full, luscious mouth dropping open in a moan. God, his sounds completely undo me, a thread being pulled looser and looser until there’s nothing holding me together anymore.
“You’re trying to ruin me again,” he says, cupping my face with his hand while staring feverishly at my lips. He leans in, kissing me lightly, lips brushing lips, until I roll my hand up and down over his thick, wet head. The sound is so loud in the car and when I look up from watching myself squeeze his shiny tip, the windows are already fogged.
Then the kiss deepens, a slow, hard pull that reaches deep inside me, feeding the hunger. Our mouths, lips, and tongues dance like savages with each other, violent and ravenous and wild.
He suddenly grabs my waist and hoists me up a few inches, positioning his cock just so before lowering me. I gasp at the intrusion, my body so fucking ready yet so unprepared that I have to remember to breathe. If it wanted a break after New York, it’s not getting one.
“Fuck me,” he mutters against my neck as he deliberately drives his cock upward and into me, my muscles expanding around him as much as they can. “So fucking good, Marina. You feel so fucking good.”
I can’t even answer him. I’m sucked under a wave and all I can feel is him pushing, spreading inside me, taking over every thought and feeling. I’ve never felt so full, so thoroughly complete before.
I try my best to pump myself up and down given how my knees and shins are perched on the seat but I can’t get much lift. Instead, I’m at Laz’s mercy, his hands holding onto my waist like I weigh nothing. He lifts me up, just an inch, while thrusting upwards, deeper and deeper until I can’t control the sounds that are coming out of my mouth.
I’m so close to coming, and so fast, just on his cock alone as he rubs a sweet spot deep inside and—
There’s a knock at the window.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, flinching so hard I almost fly off Laz’s dick.
&
nbsp; A flashlight comes through the fog.
“It’s a rozzer,” Laz says and I don’t even have time to wonder what a rozzer is because I’m quickly, awkwardly, climbing off of him and onto my seat, pulling my top up and my skirt down.
Laz tucks his dick away, glances at me with wide-eyes, a hint of a crazed smile, then rolls down the window a crack.
“Can I help you?” Laz says to the flashlight.
A face lowers into sight and looks at the both of us. It’s a cop. Which must be a rozzer in Manchester speak.
The cop clears his throat. “We don’t allow cars to be parked here this time of night. You’ll have to get moving.”
“Right, didn’t know that,” Laz says. “I’m foreign.”
“Uh uh,” the cop says. “Just be on your way now.”
He turns and walks away and now I can see his car. Not even a cop, he’s a park ranger. But he has a gun, so we probably should listen
Laz rolls the window down further and laughs wildly, starting the car and turning on the air to disperse the condensation.
“I can’t believe that just bloody happened,” he says, flicking on the headlights.
“I can,” I tell him. “I guess it was pretty obvious what we were doing.”
“Hey we could have been hot-boxing.”
“For some reason that’s probably not as frowned upon as sex in a public place.”
“Ah, you Americans are a bunch of prudes, I tell you.”
“Hey,” I say, smacking his arm as we drive out of the parking lot and onto Highway 1, heading north. “I’m not a prude.”
“No,” he says, a devilish look coming across his eyes. “You’re not.” He glances down quickly at my thighs. “Spread your legs for me.”
“What?”
“Do it. Spread your legs. Pull up your skirt.”
My mouth drops open, that desire that disappeared from the shock of earlier is back. I’m still wet, I’m still unsatisfied and needy.
And I do what he says, flashing him.
He gnaws on his lip, eyes darting between the winding curves of Highway 1 and the soft curves of my thighs.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” I warn him, pulling my dress down a bit as a threat.
“I will. I will.” He licks his lips and then reaches over, sliding his hand between my legs. Because the car is an old sports car, everything is compact and he doesn’t have to reach far with his long arms.
I spread my legs wider, give him easier access. His fingers slide with ease against me. The angle may be a bit awkward but given how fucking hot this is, him trying to get me off while driving, I’ll forgive it. Hell, all he needs to do is just touch me and if I want to let go, I can.
“Touch yourself,” he says. “Your tits.”
I gulp and look nervously around. There are no other cars in our direction, the only ones are passing the other way. Even if there was a car in front or behind us, they wouldn’t be able to see anything because of our lights in the darkness.
I bring my breasts out of my top, my nipples hardening in the cool air and start squeezing them, teasing them, putting on a show for Laz.
Still, I’m wary. Nervous. I’m so fucking new at this that even the simple things are big leaps for me. Not so much in courage, but in sexuality. I’m coming into my own, learning what I want, what I like, but it’s happening so fast. If it wasn’t Laz behind the wheel, controlling the proverbial ride, I don’t think it would happen.
But with him, I feel safe. Especially after he opened up earlier. The Magic 8 Ball stuff has always been a bit kooky and weird, definitely something an avant-garde artist would do, but now that I know the reason behind it all, it makes sense. I feel that much closer to him now.
“Hey, sweet girl,” Laz whispers, sliding his fingers up. “Come out of your head. Come onto my hand.”
I laugh. “Make me.”
Determination creases his brow. He works me into a frenzy in seconds flat and then I’m gripping the seatbelt, the seat, my nails digging in as I come.
“Oh god!” I yell and it feels so good to let it all out, the wind in my face, the stars in my hair. “Laz, Laz…”
It takes a moment to come back down, to realize I wasn’t in fact flying through the night sky. I was just in my boyfriend’s car, being brought to an orgasm.
Laz takes his hand way with an arrogant grin, then licks his fingers. “That was just the appetizer, you know.”
“I know,” I say, my grin dazed, my heart happy. “Take me home, Laz.”
Marina
“I Feel You”
* * *
“I can’t believe I’m at another one of these shows,” Naomi says, taking a tepid sip of her beer, her eyes scanning the crowd. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“You’re supporting your friend,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “No, I’m supporting your boyfriend.”
Tonight is Magic 8 Ball’s first show since they got their new keyboardist, the first show since they’ve made a new setlist and the first show I’ve seen as Lazarus Scott’s girlfriend.
It feels pretty good, actually.
Well, except for the fact that he has his fucking groupies that keep swarming him, more and more of them filling up the place the closer we get to showtime.
It’s Saturday night and we’re in a small venue/club in Anaheim. People are here to party. It’s loud, people are doing the night’s special Jell-o shots. It’s so not Naomi’s scene, nor mine, but this is what you do in a relationship. You support each other, even if you’d rather have them all to yourself back at home. And by all to myself, I mean, riding his cock like a fucking joystick. It’s been a week since we’ve become “official” and we’ve basically spent every day having copious amounts of hot, sweaty, monkey sex.
“What are you thinking about?” Naomi asks, frowning. “Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
I give her a smug smile but stop myself from the sex talk. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I want to talk to her about it because sex is a brand new and shiny thing to me and I want to know if certain things are normal, what’s good, what’s bad, I want to tell the world just how damn good it feels. I want to run up and down Ventura with my arms open wide and yell “I’M HAVING SEX!”
But I don’t because Naomi is obviously still grappling with her divorce. Lately, Robert has been coming back and groveling and Naomi isn’t having any of it. Which is good. I’m proud of her. I know it must be hard to have to say no and stay strong and push away the person you’re still in love with.
So, I was hoping that tonight there would be some eligible bachelors who would help her take her mind off things but so far, no dice.
“What about that guy?” I ask her, pointing to a bearded fellow in the corner wearing a red shirt that says Bazinga! On it.
“Are you kidding me?” she says dryly.
I shrug and keep looking. I’m not a very good wing-woman though because the moment my eyes lock with Laz who is hanging out by the stage and talking with Frank and their keyboardist, I don’t see anyone else.
He gives me a small, knowing smile. It’s a secret smile just between us.
He looks good tonight. Real good. This is no surprise since he always looks good but I swear he might have borrowed some of my eyeliner before we left for the venue because his eyes are exceptionally squinty and brooding and dark. He’s a bona fide. badass, rock star, wearing his boots, tight, black jeans that accentuate the python he’s packing, and a thin, black T-shirt that fits him like a glove.
And I’m not the only who thinks so, judging by all those damn groupies. Even now, they’re gathered around him and there’s a tall redhead that keeps trying to get his attention. And Laz, being Laz, and not being rude, is now talking to her, smiling at something she’s saying.
Jealousy is a bitch. I’ve always felt that touch of it when I saw him with his girlfriends but I was pretty good at ignoring it, plus I got used to seeing him with them day in and day out.
>
But now that Laz is mine, it’s rearing his ugly head. I watch him, waiting for him to look up and notice me. But he doesn’t, not for a while. And then I catch his eye, I’m waiting for him to say something to the redhead, something like “hey, that’s my girlfriend over there” and have them both look my way. But he just goes back to talking and smiling at her.
“Who’s the ginger?” Naomi asks. “She’s getting a little handsy for my liking.”
She is. She’s laughing along with Laz at something and leaning forward, her hand briefly on his chest.
“If she keeps doing that, I’m heading over there and opening up a can of whoop-ass on her white ass.”
“No,” I tell her, holding her back, because Naomi’s anger is feral these days. “It’s fine. It’s just a groupie.”
“Ugh,” she says, giving me side eye. “You better keep an eye on that boy.”
“I trust Laz,” I tell her. “They’re not all like Robert, you know.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Laz would never cheat on me.”
Right? I mean, it’s not exactly something I’ve thought about, it’s just been a given. We’re exclusive with each other, that means something. And as far as I know, he’s never cheated on any of his girlfriends.
“You don’t look so sure,” she says studying me.
I look back at Laz. The redhead is doing all the classic flirting moves. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, touching his arm. Now he’s leaning in close and saying something in her ear. His smile is cocky. She looks pleased.
I feel sick. I know I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t let this get to me but it’s getting to me.
“You need to go over there and claim your man,” Naomi says, egging me on. “Before she does.”
She’s right. I should go over there and make my presence known. But before I can, Laz and the band head up on the stage and the redhead takes a spot among the other girls at the front of the stage.
Take Me To The Beach Page 47