by Mary
Except I’m not looking at one of Brent’s teammates. I’m looking at Marc. And sitting next to him is a voluptuous, dark-haired goddess in a bright red, low-cut dress with a slit up the side exposing a lean thigh.
“Oh. Hello,” I say. Once the words escape I realize they sound bitchy as fuck, so I temper my words with a bright smile.
“You must be Gwen. I’m Candy.” She sticks out her hand.
I shake it, noting her firm grasp. “Nice to meet you,” I murmur.
Brent’s already made it to the driver’s seat. “Candy is a cheerleader for the Sharks.”
“That’s great.” My tone sounds dry even to myself.
This is ridiculous. Candy is probably a great person. The fact that she’s obviously in this car as Marc’s date is not lost on me and I’m being irrationally jealous. After all, I’m Brent’s date. Even though we aren’t really dating. And he’s not mine to be jealous over. Besides, I’m sure Marc just met Candy tonight anyway.
Marc speaks up. “She also volunteers at the kids club sometimes.”
Okay, maybe they have met before.
I bite my lip because all I can think to say is that’s great, and since I’ve already said that I can’t say it again.
It’s no big deal. They’re all friends.
Except they’re in the back seat, together, murmuring to each other in low voices.
My stomach twists.
Jealousy, thy name is Gwen.
“You look beautiful tonight.” Brent glances over at me with a grin and I force myself to smile back.
“Thank you.”
This is going to be a long night.
~*~
Dinner is a nightmare. I mean, everything goes smoothly and I think I put on a good show, but inside I’m a squirming mess of misery.
Brent is solicitous and charming. He holds my hand and takes my coat and does everything a man should do on a date.
Candy is actually super nice and intelligent in addition to being super fit and gorgeous, so I only hate her more as the night goes on. Especially when she continually makes excuses to touch Marc on the arm and sits way too close to him and generally is in his vicinity more than I want to see anyone. Except myself.
Okay, so apparently that whole “I can make myself not like Marc” thing isn’t working.
We finish eating dinner by ten and then it’s time to head to the club. I wish I didn’t have to go. I don’t think I can stand watching Candy and Marc dance together as they do in these types of clubs, all sweaty bodies and pressed together and . . . just no.
I can’t exactly say I want to go home because I can’t stand watching Candy touch Marc all night, can I?
Should I plead illness? Headache? Yep, I absolutely should, but I do none of these things because I enjoy torture.
It’s the only explanation.
When we pick up the car from the valet at the restaurant, somehow, I end up in the back seat with Marc and Candy is up front. By somehow, I mean when Candy talks about how much she loves Brent’s Porsche and wishes she could drive it, I gently encourage the switch by getting into the back seat and stating loudly that she can have the next best thing by sitting up front on the way to the club.
Maybe it’s obvious, but I almost don’t even care. We chat on the way there about dinner, where we’re heading, and then Candy and Brent talk about the other cheerleaders and football players that will be there. I kind of tune out. I’m too focused on Marc, sitting less than a foot away.
His hand is resting on the seat between us, and as an experiment, I lean slightly toward the middle seat, like I’m trying to hear the conversation between Brent and Candy. I rest my hand down next to his. Our pinkies are literally a centimeter apart.
For two long city blocks, I don’t move.
We go over a bump and Marc leans slightly in my direction.
Another bump and I move my hand over, enough so that the skin of our pinkies are barely touching.
Then I hold my breath.
He doesn’t move.
And then he does. With purpose. He lifts his pinkie and wraps it around mine.
My heart thumps in my chest, the tempo of my breath increasing. My stomach fills with heat. It’s only an inch of skin connecting us, but I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. He’s watching me, his eyes glittering in the darkness.
“We’re here.” Brent stops in front of the club, a celeb hotspot called 1 Oak, and then my door is opened and the connection is lost as we get out of the car and head past the line and inside.
The space is crushed with people. I catch a glimpse of a long, sleek black bar on one side. The flooring is checkered black and white, and giant chandeliers hang from the roof above us, not so much lighting the space as much as casting flecks of light into the darkness below. The air is full of a mixture of perfumes and aftershave combined with sweat and possibilities.
Brent grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd. Marc and Candy are somewhere behind us and I imagine Marc holding her hand as well. The thought makes me involuntarily squeeze Brent’s fingers harder.
We stop near the back of the club where tables and chairs are reserved for VIPs. Some of Brent’s teammates are there and they bump fists and clap backs. He introduces me to them but I can barely hear over the music.
I make small talk—as much as anyone can make when the bass is thumping and I can’t hear the words coming out of my own mouth.
I try and focus on the other players, and not Marc and Candy who have joined the group, sort of. They’re sitting at a couple of chairs in the corner, their heads leaned toward each other while they talk about something that looks important. Or intense. Or something.
In my head, they’re discussing the best and quickest way to get out of here and rip off each other’s clothes.
Ugh. I’m making myself sick. I can’t stand here and try not to watch them.
“Let’s dance.” I grab Brent’s hand and tug gently. He grins at me and then he steps way too close.
“Sounds great.” His mouth is next to my ear.
What am I doing?
It’s part of the show, a voice in my head insists.
Liar.
Before I can take it back, we’re on the dance floor, pressed against each other, his hands on my waist and mine around his neck. It means nothing. We’re not doing anything more than anyone else here is doing, in fact, some of these couples are grinding like they’re about to orgasm right in the middle of the crowd. We’re practically puritanical.
But I get the sense that Brent wants to kick it up a notch. He’s not pushy or anything, but he leans down a little closer and runs his nose against the skin of my neck.
My breath catches, but not in a sexy way. I turn my back to Brent, still pressed against him dancing, and that’s when I see them.
Candy and Marc have joined us on the dance floor. Her hands are all over him, running up and down his back. She leans closer and says something in his ear, their position not unlike the one Brent and I were just in.
But I want to puke. I’m the biggest hypocrite on the planet since Brent’s hands are gripping my waist and pulling me back against him and I’m doing nothing to stop any of it.
I can’t handle this. I am not this person.
I whip around, forcing his hands to fall off my body. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
His eyes are concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. I’ll be right back.” Without making eye contact I bolt for the ladies room.
It’s kind of far away, at the back of the club, up a flight of stairs, and down a long, dark hallway.
And of course, there’s a line. When all I want to do is hide in a stall and freak out for a minute, I can’t even get that right. After a few minutes of standing around, it doesn’t appear the line will be moving any time in the current century, so I finally give up and head farther down the hallway.
I need somewhere away from prying eyes so I can have a meltdown for a minute. Or twelve.
There’s an unmarked door farther down and I open it. It’s some kind of janitor closet. Just a narrow room with shelves of toilet paper and cleaning supplies. There’s a small glow coming from a night-light on the wall.
Perfect. I step inside, a surge of relief waving through me. I turn to close myself inside, but Marc stops the door before I can shut it.
“Hey. Is everything okay?”
I press a hand to my chest. “Jesus.”
“It’s actually Marc, but I get that a lot.”
“Haha. You scared me.” I hit him gently in the shoulder with the back of my hand.
“You seemed a little weird downstairs.”
“I’m surprised you noticed.” I immediately regret the snarky tone in my voice. It’s not fair.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry, I guess I don’t feel well.”
“Do you want me to take you home?”
Yes, that’s exactly what I want, him to take me home and ravish me within an inch of my life. Maybe then I can get all these feelings out of my system. But I can’t. We can’t.
Wait, why can’t we?
“No,” I say. “Yes. I mean, Marc, I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what anymore?”
I can’t read his eyes in the dim light, but his tone is careful.
It’s better that I can’t see him well. It makes the truth easier to spill. “I can’t keep pretending. Not since Thanksgiving. I know you think it was a mistake. But . . .”
He’s not saying anything. He’s so close, my rapid breathing pulls in the faint scent of his cologne. There’s silence between us, along with the dulled thump of bass from downstairs and the constant pulse of unmet desires.
I lean toward him, putting a hand on his shoulder. In my heels, we’re the same height so it’s only too easy to press into him and set my mouth against his.
He tenses for a split second and then erupts into motion.
This is no soft meeting of bodies and lips. We’re not in someone else’s house while everyone is sleeping and we’re stealing pie in the kitchen. We’re completely alone. There’s no reason to stay quiet.
One of his hands weaves into my hair, holding my head in place while his mouth ravages mine, full of the same pent-up emotion that’s been killing me all night long, making me groan and grasp him tighter. His other hand is on my waist, pressing me back against the wall. The heat at my front is a stark contrast to the cold wall at my back. My hands grip his back, pulling him as close as possible while my lips meet his. Every frustration I’ve felt over the last few weeks adds to the hunger between us, making the rough clashing of our mouths a heady relief.
After an indeterminate amount of time, he pulls back and rests his forehead against mine.
Our labored breaths mingle in the air between us, along with a hefty dose of sexual tension.
“Gwen,” his voice is tortured. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“My brother—” He stops, refusing to go on.
“Your brother and I are temporary. It’s not real.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
I mean, Brent has leaned a couple of times, but I’m sure it meant nothing. He’s lonely and wants some action. He doesn’t like me. Not like this.
After a few more moments of standing there in the cramped space, catching our breath, he finally steps back.
I can see him erecting his walls in the glow of the night-light. His arms cross over his chest and he won’t meet my eyes. “I’m—”
“If you say you’re sorry,” I step into his space, forcing him to look at me, “I will . . . do something highly irregular.”
God, that was lame.
Ugh. I open the door and flee into the hallway, but of course he’s right behind me.
“Gwen,” he starts. I turn around, grab him by the tie and kiss him on the mouth, once, hard.
“Don’t ever apologize to me like that again.”
“I won’t.” His hands are lifted, placating.
I sigh and glance down the dark hall. There’s still a line of people for the bathroom but none of them are paying attention to us. Not sure they could even see us from there.
A warm hand falls on my bare shoulder and I turn back to Marc.
“I’m not sorry,” he says, and then his mouth falls on mine. Not hard and bruising this time, but soft and tempting. “I was never really sorry. I never thought it was a mistake. You could never be a mistake.”
This time I pull back. “You should come over. Later. Tonight. After all of,” I wave a hand, “this is over. Please.”
He doesn’t say anything, indecision warring in his eyes.
“Please.” I whisper it against his lips, and then I pull back for good and walk away, leaving him there alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Passion is in all great searches and is necessary to all creative endeavors.
–W. Eugene Smith
Marc
I shouldn’t be here.
Standing in her building, staring at her door. She buzzed me up a minute ago and now . . .
It’s the only place in the world I want to be.
Well, second place, since she’s on the other side.
There’s a little sign flashing in my head. Abort, abort, bad decision.
Brent’s the one that brought her home. By the time I made it back down to the first floor of the club after our little moment in the closet, they were gone.
Brent texted me that he left the car for me to take Candy home and then he took Gwen home in an Uber.
Very considerate of him.
And yet here I am. I drove his car here. After dropping Candy off at her place.
I’m sure he thinks I went home with her. That was his intention. She wasn’t averse either, but she’s not Gwen. She doesn’t make my palms sweat or my heart skip a beat every time she smiles.
There’s only one woman on my mind, and she’s on the other side of the door.
I take a deep breath, thinking about tonight, everything that happened from our interlocked fingers in the car, to her dancing at the club with Brent, to our time in the janitor closet. My emotions surge all over again, from elation to jealousy and anger to pure joy.
I shouldn’t be here. I should leave. Now.
If we get caught . . . it could ruin everything. Brent’s career, the family business, my own relationship with my brother, who’s only the most important person in my life.
But then the door swings open and there she is.
She’s wearing a cropped T-shirt and boy-short-style underwear, looking like she just stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
A groan escapes my throat.
How is it possible that the smile spreading her lips is for me? That glow in her eyes? She grabs my hand and yanks me inside and all thoughts of Brent and right and wrong fly away with one touch of her skin.
I barely notice the door shutting behind us even as she fumbles at the lock. I’m too busy pulling her shirt off, and then yanking her back against me. I want to feel her skin everywhere, all over me, against me, around me.
It’s not enough.
It only takes a few seconds of tugging at her little shorts, then I’m lifting her and her long slender legs are around my waist. I press her against the wall and I’m still wearing way too many clothes.
There’s only a few steps from the entryway through the miniscule kitchen and to the futon. I carry her there, still kissing, her hands in my hair and my hands holding her up and against me. I run into her side table but it doesn’t matter because her couch is already folded down and I set her on it and then we’re scrambling to remove the remaining layers between us. Nothing else matters, not the room, not the surroundings, just her. And me. Us.
She’s unbuttoning
my pants.
I’m yanking off my shirt.
And then there’s nothing between our hot skin except our gasping breaths in the quiet air.
I rest between her spread legs. My erection is against her cleft but I’m not moving. Not yet. Our rough and tumble movements have slowed into something else, something infinitely more gentle.
We stare at each other, taking in the moment.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, her fingers tracing a path over my face.
“That’s my line.” I turn my head and kiss her palm.
Her lopsided smile moves closer and then she’s pressing her warm, sweet mouth against my scars and the tenderness of the touch makes me want to cry.
“Gwen,” my voice breaks.
“I want you inside me,” she whispers against my mouth.
The words break the temporary softness between us and I lean over, scrambling for my pants, looking for the condom I found in Brent’s glove box before coming upstairs. She takes it from me, ripping the package with her teeth. I pull myself up slightly so she can reach down and roll it onto my length. The slow and delicate movements of her hand are making me lose my goddamn mind but I bite my lip and bear it.
And then she’s tugging on me, pulling me closer again.
I slide into her slowly, taking my time, wanting to remember this moment and this feeling long after she’s gone.
Once I’m fully seated, I stop and rest for a second. I have to take this slow and make sure she enjoys it.
What if this is it?
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“No.” I drop my head on her shoulder. “You feel too good.”
She laughs, the sound warm and the puff of her breath gentle against my ear.
“You feel better,” she whispers. She tugs on my head, pulling me away from her shoulder and gripping the sides of my face until we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “I want to see you.”
My eyes search hers, seeking the truth I know is there. She wants me. Me. She wants to know it’s me moving inside her.
