First Love: A Superbundle Boxed Set of Seven New Adult Romances

by Kent, Julia

  He took my boldness as permission, his own hands under my cotton shirt, and then he stopped, the kisses fading in frequency, the urgency dialed down to mere affection.

  “What?” I murmured, confused.

  “Is this what you want, Amy?” His hand caressed my jaw, the daylight showing in stark relief how strong and mature he’d become. A man’s full beard could grow on that face, a woman could see true love in those eyes, and a lover could know she was the center of his universe if she would let him.

  “Ye—yes.” He caught the hitch in my throat.

  “Not like this,” he declared, pulling me in for an embrace. My cheek pressed against the well-worn cotton shirt he wore, hip against his taut abs, his shoulder a place for my head to rest.

  Sniff. “I do want you,” I insisted. “But you’re right. Not now. Not like this.” Plus, my vagina just went through something no AppleCare plan covers. I was still sore.

  “I wouldn’t want anything more than you want to give. Ever. And I want to be together for the right reasons. Not out of sorrow or sadness. I’m not that guy.”

  Liam.

  Was Liam that guy?

  No. Just no.

  The conversation had drifted without Sam’s knowledge into very dangerous territory. How vulnerable could I really be with Sam? How much truth could one relationship handle?

  It was more than being taken advantage of, because I wanted what Liam gave. That had been entirely different, a cleansing of sorts, like being baptized and reborn.

  Sam must have felt me stiffen, because he pulled back and looked at me, the question in his eyes. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

  Sigh. “How honest are we being?”

  “Is this twenty questions?”

  “You only need to ask me two questions.” Would he take the hint?

  Puzzled, he opened his mouth to ask, then got it. “Ah. Then you need to ask me—“he began counting on his fingers “—eight questions.”

  “Are the eight anyone I know?” No one likes to play the “what’s your number” game, and yet here we were.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Any of yours?”

  Nodding my head slowly, I just stared in his eyes until he got it.

  “Liam.” The name came out like a gasp. Then a growl.

  Then a whispered roar.

  “And it was just like this, Sam. I was crying and sad and he made it—well, I asked him to—” Why was I talking about this? Way to ruin a mood. Open mouth, insert foot.

  Or phone. Or whatever.

  “Why are you telling me this now?” he asked. Dropping his hands from me, he took a step back, but didn’t seem pissed. Stunned—yes. Disturbed—yes. But angry? No.

  “Because you just saved me from myself. Again. It’s not that I didn’t want to sleep with Liam, it’s just that it was Prom night, and—”

  “Prom night?” The question was a strangled grunt.

  “Yes.”

  “I wanted to go so bad,” he mumbled.

  What?

  “Huh?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Bzzzzzz.

  My phone rang. I ignored it.

  “Maybe I should go,” Sam muttered.

  “Sam Hinton, if you leave this apartment I will take your favorite drumsticks and hide them where you can never find them.”

  “I would do a cavity search,” he said, grinning.

  “I’ve had worse things up there.” And I had.

  He snorted, relaxing. “Someday I want to hear what happened with Liam. Not—” he looked sick “—the details. Just...what happened.”

  “And someday I want to know why you didn’t take me to prom, but wanted to.”

  “Should someday be now?”

  “Can someday be someday?” The daylight was dimming and a wave of utter exhaustion hit me. “Because what I really want most is to lie in bed with you and fall asleep in your arms.”

  “That’s what you really want?”

  I nodded. Please don’t leave.

  “You’re inviting me to spend the night with you and not have sex.”

  Nod.

  “You are so weird, Amy.” Crooked grin as he folded himself into me and we stretched out on the bed, the light fading, giving in to the sadness that threatened to sweep me into sleep. Sleeping alone seemed like torture. Sleeping with Sam wasn’t right. Not right now.

  Sleeping next to him, though...

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  And then we did exactly what we said we would, and I had the best night of sleep I’d had in weeks.

  * * *

  Hot breath tickled that spot between my earlobe and my jaw, the rasp of sandpaper on skin more a sound than a sensation, the scent of him blanketing me before the heat of his body added another layer, all hardness and burn. No moon tonight, leaving the inky darkness of my apartment to turn his face into less a shadow and more a phantom. Kisses turned to demands as his mouth found mine, his sighs and my moans a composition of passion that demanded the finest orchestra to play to its fullest potential.

  “Amy,” he whispered, the sound of my name escaping his lips like a thread that tingled from toes to the base of my neck, his palms sliding from behind me to cup warm, swollen breasts, naked and needy. We spooned, his hard erection filling me with want, the press of throbbing granite against my soft skin like something out of a prayer.

  Sam pulled back and the withdrawal of his heat made me groan in disappointment, soon dispatched as he loomed over me, face serious, eyes burning with desire. Another kiss combined with hands that slid down my torso like he owned me, his thighs straddling my hips now, hands taking in my body like a man memorizing a sculpture through tactile transgressions.

  The air between us, charged with unanswered questions, unquenched need, and unleashed lust, tasted like hope. Sam tasted like man, the fevered focus of his energy straight on my body and what our twinned cores could do together arousing me more than he would ever understand. His fingers tapped out love in Morse code, while my mouth licked his shoulder, then kissed him so fiercely he stopped me, pulling back with a ferocity only a man unable to maintain restraint would ever exhibit.

  Good.

  “Amy.” This time my name came out like a growl of a man possessed. His hips covered mine, chest broad and textured by muscles, each fitting into a groove with bone, the wide expanse of his shoulder tapering to a flat waist and an exquisite cock that was, alone, a work of art.

  The complete picture was a masterpiece.

  With one knee he nudged my thighs open, my body complying eagerly, so ready—achingly ready—for him to fill me, for our bodies to join in motion and thrust, to take him in and love him like no one had love him before.

  He found me wet and wanting, and as he entered me he murmured words of love so profound that to repeat them aloud would—

  Oh.

  Oh. Sam rocked his hips and hit a spot in me that made my insides flush with fire and spasms, my legs instinctively wrapping around his pelvis, guiding him deeper. “More, Sam,” I begged, my palms traveling up his chest, over the pecs, and behind him, roaming his back as we rocked together, coaxing me to climax, leading me to a joining of our cores that would liberate what we’d never experienced in unison.

  Wet, wild, and in a frantic frenzy as some deep orgasm built layer upon layer inside me, our bodies went slick with sweat and more, throats closed and then open, nerves and pleasure bundling together to make no beginning, no end, no boundaries—

  No rules.

  Sam’s mouth teased my nipple, nipping hard just as he thrust into me, the rhythm enticing and maddening, making all thought dissipate, driving me to a place where everyone in time and space had once been, a primal energy that I connected with through him, my fingers clawing at his back as the pressure grew within, so sweet and shaky and intense that when it took me—as Sam’s body claimed me—the force of what came as I came made
me cry out his name in an endless loop.

  Sam. Sam. Sam.

  I awoke with a start, my body curled up against someone else, clit throbbing, one hand tucked between my thighs, though over my clothes, as if in sleep I were about to reproduce what my dreams had conjured.

  Confused, I sat up and peered over the shoulder that faced me.

  Sam.

  Duh. Of course it’s Sam. Who else would it be?

  I blew out a frustrated puff of air, and as I ran a hand over my face I found it slightly damp, a sheen of sweat on me. That was one fuck of a dream.

  The operative word being fuck.

  My fingertips grazed the hair on his thick muscled thigh, but it wasn’t a pass. It didn’t have to be—it was the luxurious, languid touch of a lover who knew that she could have it whenever she wanted. This felt so adult. So mature.

  That dream. Mine to touch. Mine.

  As my heart rate slowed and the very hot reverie faded, much to my chagrin, I found myself in bed with the real thing. Maybe, though, it was just what it meant to be in a true relationship with another person, this layer that you could only know when you got there. No one told you that this was the wonderful secret behind being vulnerable and real, and finding someone else who was willing to be vulnerable and real right with you. This.

  Those fingertips of mine that rested on his skin, and traced a line of sunshine that shone against the fine hairs? That was eternity, right there. As long as I knew that he was there unconditionally, and that I could reach out whenever I wanted to, it was like being immortal.

  So why the hell hadn’t I slept with him last night?

  My coffee machine bubbled as I looked at him, puzzled. Sam rested across my bed, still clothed.

  “You got up and made coffee?”

  A sly smile stretched across his face, making him boyish and free. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? You just get better and better.”

  “I need caffeine to process that.” He jumped up, rumpled and fine, and came back with two cups of coffee.

  “You like anything in yours? I should learn this,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up as he blew across the surface of his coffee, taking a tentative sip.

  Gah. That mouth. What it could do to me. And I’d turned down more of that?

  “No sugar. Milk.” I stood and fixed my coffee the way I liked it and sat back down.

  “Let me see.” He craned to look at the top of my mug.

  “Why?”

  “So I know the shade you like your coffee. I’ll try to match it when I make it for you next time.”

  That woke me up. Next time?

  Yes. Next time.

  The smile we shared was (almost) better than any sex we could have had last night, and a slow-building warmth between my legs turned into a steady throb.

  But one that had to wait.

  “I don’t want to sound rude,” I started, taking a sip, “but I have a ton of things I have to do today and tomorrow before classes start.”

  His turn to sip. Two gorgeous, speckled eyes looked up from his mug, framed by eyelashes that curled up the same way my toes were curling right now.

  “I almost forgot you were in grad school.” Sip. “Why library science? Why not law?”

  “You too?” I groaned.

  “It’s a logical question, Amy.”

  Sigh. “You want the answer I give everyone else, or the truth?”

  He shot me a duh look. “Lie to me. Please. It turns me on.” He nudged my thigh and then rested his hand on it, as if it belonged there.

  Throb.

  “I lost the killer instinct.”

  “Is that the lie or the truth?”

  Smack. I backhanded his shoulder and he tipped slightly, holding his mug aloft so he wouldn’t spill. “The truth. I decided I wanted to do something a little less...cutthroat.” The real truth was that I’d learned a hard lesson four years ago.

  Too much ambition took away what you wanted most.

  “It’s not because of me, is it?”

  Damn it. Our eyes locked. How did he know these things about me?

  “Yes,” I sighed.

  “Fuck.”

  “Not just because of you...of us...of, well, not us. After that debate I went to nationals and got creamed. Slaughtered. And I realized I didn’t even really like the cross-examination. What I liked most was the research. So I decided I’d go into a field where you get paid to learn things and help other people do research.” I finished my coffee with a few gulps as Sam set his mug on the ground next to the bed. He stood. I copied him.

  “C’mere,” he said, beckoning with open arms. Those strong hands cupped my ass and pulled me to him, the hard ridge of his bulge pushing into me, making me certain he was awake.

  “I am so sorry, again, for what happened.”

  “Sam, you don’t have to—”

  “You’ll make a damn fine librarian, but you’d make an even better law librarian,” he added.

  “Someday,” I said. We both took deep breaths, layers of muscle relaxing.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he whispered, then kissed me so well my toes uncurled and the throbbing reached my ears.

  “You have school details, and I have things to do. How about we get together at the end of the week?” he said, pulling away reluctantly.

  “Perfect.”

  The next kiss he gave me as we parted ways had to last three days.

  And it really was that good.

  But the dream was even better.

  Sam

  Moms everywhere seemed to have decided to antagonize their alienated progeny in the same twenty-four hour period, because the second I got out of Amy’s building, my own phone buzzed with my mom’s cell phone on caller ID.

  Taking a page from Amy’s playbook, I ignored it. Mom tried about every month or two to pull me back into the fold. I had to give her credit for persistence.

  Empathy, on the other hand? A big old F-.

  Shaking my head, I walked home, steeling myself for another sexfest. After Joe moved out, Darla and Trevor had become even more amorous. I had to wonder if Trevor bought stock in condoms, because he sure was invested in their use.

  At the apartment I found Trevor sitting on the couch in his boxer briefs, staring dully at some nature show on television.

  “What’s up?”

  “She’s an animal,” he said hoarsely.

  I looked at the television. “Elephants generally are.” Some British actor’s voice narrated a segment on the feeding habits of African beasts.

  “I meant Darla.”

  “Can’t keep up, Bro?”

  He actually whimpered.

  “Sam! Your mom called,” Darla shouted from the bathroom.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Trevor added. “She called my line. Wants to talk. Told me to tell you to please call and not ignore her this time.”

  Fuck.

  “And Trevor,” she said in a sing-songy voice, “I have some sweetness for you.”

  Trevor held up four fingers and winced.

  “Four times already?” It wasn’t quite 10 a.m.

  He flinched and pointed at his dick. “It feels like sandpaper.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” I said, laughing. “Random Acts of Crazy pull you in.” He threw a pillow at my head and I dodged it.

  Glad someone was getting some.

  And I was glad (OK, not entirely...) it wasn’t me. Amy wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t going to take advantage of her like Liam had. Sleeping with a crying girl was a serious low.

  Not that I’d consider Liam above it.

  So one of my bandmates, a guy I’d considered one of my best friends, had been Amy’s first, and he’d done it on prom night. And never said a word.

  For four years.

  Was this why Liam had encouraged me to tell Amy how I felt? Guilt. Liam was capable of guilt.

  Fucker damn well ought to feel guilt.

  I had no right to feel this way. I knew i
t. I’d blown it four years ago and if Amy sought comfort in an old friend’s arms, who was I to—

  Hello. Of course I was pissed. Being Mr. Reasonable was all fine and well when I was with a sobbing Amy, but right now?

  I wanted to punch a wall. Yet another missed chance at something special with her. Years lost. Prom lost. Virginity lost.

  Because I was lost.

  I’d called in those few weeks before prom. Once. And her mom took the message.

  Amy never called back.

  We’re all lost in our own ways.

  Bzzzzzz. My mom.

  Especially my own mother.

  Knowing I shouldn’t do it, I answered anyhow.

  “Sam. Thank God. Don’t you realize that if you don’t answer your phone, I assume you’re...” She sounded like Amy’s mom. Is there some sort of training you get in the hospital after you give birth to perfect the art of nagging?

  “What’s up, Mom?”

  “It’s your father.” It’s always my father.

  “What about him?” I asked, gruffly. The comment Amy’s mom had made floated into my mind.

  “He’s sick.”

  “No shit.”

  “Don’t use language like that with me!” Her voice got shrill.

  “Don’t call me and tell me what to do. You know the rules.” Two years ago I’d cut her completely out of my life with a letter that detailed my exact boundaries. My therapist at UMass health services had helped me craft it. Mom was like a toddler; I’d had to constantly remind her of the rules and make her follow them, but she still, occasionally, pushed it.

  “He’s really sick,” she pleaded.

  “His liver?” I guessed. A fifth of hard liquor a day would make any liver scream.

  “No.” Her tone told me the answer was really yes. Ah, the lies. “He has pneumonia.”

  “Poor guy. Bet his ribs ache. I know how that feels.”

  Silence.

  “Something else I need to know, Mom? Because I need to get to work.” Another lie, but least this one was mine.

  “Work?” she asked, chipper. Change the subject when reality gets uncomfortable. “You have a job?”

  “Yup.”

  Impatience came through the line. “What is it, honey?”

  “I’m a stripper,” I said, suppressing a dark laugh.