by Anna Cruise
“Ah, a native. And you go to State.” It wasn't a question.
“Yes. Global Studies major. I'll be a senior in the fall.”
“Twenty-one, then?”
I nodded. “Totally legal. In every way.”
An amused expression flitted across his face. “And how did you pull this gig?”
“Excuse me?”
Stuart smiled. “Babysitting the visiting speaker.”
“Maybe I volunteered.” I grinned. “My sorority is one of the luncheon sponsors.”
He raised an eyebrow. It was not sculpted like Sheridan's. And it was sexy as hell. “A sorority, huh?”
“You don't like sorority girls?”
“I like all girls.” He didn't say it suggestively but it didn't matter. He was hot and I felt the heat begin to build between my legs.
“Phi Sigma Mu,” I offered. “PMS for short.”
He chuckled, a low throaty sound, and my fingers tightened reflexively on the steering wheel. “Isn't that every sorority, just by default?”
“Every woman,” I corrected. “Sorority or not.”
We cruised under the web of freeways, the hills to our right ablaze with lights. To our left, the Sea World Sky Tower rose out of the depths of the inky darkness of the bay, a glowing orb that slowly rotated as it made its ascent. Palm trees swayed in the breeze and the salt-soaked air filtered in through the open air vents.
“It's beautiful here,” he commented.
I glanced at him, hoping he was looking at me as he said it, giving me some type of subtle compliment, but he was staring out the window. I pulled up to the hotel and shifted the car into park. Stuart reached into the backseat and grabbed his bags.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said.
“Sure thing,” I said. My eyes roved the length of him as he got out of the car. The t-shirt stretched tight across his back and the cargo pants he wore curved around an ass most guys only dreamed of. Jesus, he was hot. “You sure you'll be okay?”
He glanced at the entrance to the resort, at the palm trees flanking the walkway and the flowering bougainvillea, at the barely visible pool bathed in light, the water a soft aquamarine. “I dunno. Looks pretty dicey.”
“Yeah, it's definitely not Africa. Or Queens. You might need a bodyguard.” I was flirting hardcore and I was pretty sure he knew it. And I didn't care.
He straightened and looped the backpack on his shoulder. “Eh, I'll be fine.”
I felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. It wouldn't suck at all to go into the hotel and have a few drinks with him. And then some.
“I assume you're my ride tomorrow? To the banquet?”
I nodded. “I can be your ride tonight, too...”
He raised his eyebrows. “To?”
I stared at him. “Anywhere. I'm open.” I let my fingers trail suggestively along the prim neckline of my blouse and wished I hadn't listened to Sheridan and had worn something else instead.
Stuart laughed. “That's a nice offer,” he said. “But I think I'll take a raincheck.”
A raincheck? Who the hell took a raincheck from me?
No one. Not ever.
Before I could say anything, he nodded his head, turned, and left.
I stared after him, watching the way his ass moved as he made his way toward the sliding doors. I bit back a sigh of frustration.
I didn't want a goddamn raincheck.
I wanted him.
FOUR
“Jesus, Annika,” Jake Abernathy breathed.
I tightened my grip on his cock, sliding my hand up and down his swollen shaft. “What?” I whispered against his jaw. I trailed my tongue along his chin, flicking it against his parted lips. “You don't like?”
He groaned. “No, no. I do. But...”
“Then stop complaining.” I knelt down and pushed him up against the door.
He looked at me with half-lidded eyes, his mouth a perfect O of surprise. “What are you doing?”
I danced my tongue along the head of his cock, teasing him. “What does it look like?”
He glanced around. “We're in the fucking bathroom of the bar.”
I sucked him gently, then pulled away. “So? You don't want?”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. His blond hair was pushed back, his forehead slick with sweat. “I just mean we should go somewhere else.”
“I don't want to wait,” I said firmly. Before he could say another word, I swallowed him, my lips like a vacuum, sucking hard. He groaned again and closed his eyes and I managed a smile, even with his dick in my mouth.
I'd gotten to Guava Beach five minutes earlier and had easily spotted Jake, his white blond hair like a beacon at the bar. I hadn't bothered going home to change. I was worked up after my non-encounter with Stuart Woodcock. Stuart Woodcock who was not a yeti but probably one of the hottest guys I'd seen in months. Stuart Woodcock who was not anything I expected and everything I suddenly wanted.
I closed my eyes and tightened my lips and imagined it was the dark-haired guy I'd just picked up at the airport I was sucking off. Jake moaned again and I lifted my hands off of him and worked the button and zipper on my pants, yanking them off my hips, letting them pool around my knees.
A fist banged on the door. “What the fuck, man?” a loud voice called. “I need to take a leak.”
“In a minute,” Jake panted. He thrust in and out of my mouth, a steady rhythm back and forth.
I tore my mouth away and he groaned. “No. Wait. I'm almost there.”
I stood up and stepped out of my pants and panties. He opened his eyes and sucked in his breath.
“Fuck me,” I demanded.
He stared at me for a half second, then reached for me. I lifted my legs and wrapped them around him and it was my turn to suck in my breath as he shoved into me. He spun me around so my back was against the door and he drove into me, his arms lifting me up. The door handle dug into my back but I didn't care.
“Harder,” I said, I reached under his shirt and dug my fingernails into his back. “Harder.”
His mouth attached to my neck and I closed my eyes and it was Stuart I saw. Stuart I felt. Stuart who shuddered inside of me and who launched my orgasm, more powerful than anything I'd ever experienced with Jake Abernathy.
I slid off of him and he slumped against me, his arms braced against the door, his forehead resting on the wooden door frame. His breathing was ragged, his eyes shut tight.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
I scooted out from under his arms and fumbled for my clothes. “This isn't church, sweetheart,” I said as I slipped back into my panties.
He tilted his head and looked at me, his expression one of pained satisfaction. “How can you be so...normal?” he asked.
I raised my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“We just had amazing sex.” He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Fucking amazing. And you're...”
I pulled on my pants and buttoned them. “I'm what?”
“You're...not wrecked.”
I smiled sweetly. “Wrecked by a man?” I laughed. “It's like you don't even know me.”
He studied me, his eyes half-closed, his mouth slack.
“No man has ever wrecked me.” I planted a quick kiss on his cheek and nudged him out of the way. I opened the door. The guy who'd been waiting was still there and his eyes widened as I sauntered out of the men's room.
I shot a look at him before casting a backward glance at Jake.
“And no man ever will.”
FIVE
My phone buzzed inside my purse. I was back at the bar, a tiki-inspired piece complete with bamboo sides and a thatched canopy, throwing back a shot of tequila. Jake had yet to emerge from the bathroom but the guy who'd been waiting at the door was standing next to me, trying to get my attention.
“What's your name, beautiful?”
I ignored him and reached for my purse. I fished around for my phone.
“Maybe it doesn't matter,
” he murmured. He shifted closer, pressing his thigh lightly against mine.
I studied him. He wasn't bad-looking. Easily 6'2, muscled up, more football player than surfer. Short buzzed hair, baby-smooth cheeks and jaw, blue eyes that bordered on gray. Another drink and he might be doable.
“Line too long for the ladies room?” he asked lightly, a dimpled grin spreading across his face.
“Not at all,” I told him.
I found my phone just as it stopped buzzing. An unfamiliar number, definitely not local. I swiped at the screen, missing it as it rolled to voicemail.
“So you just, uh, go to the men's room often?” the guy asked, his leg pushing harder into mine.
I eased into him just a little and smiled. “Only when there's something in there I want.”
He reached for a bottle of beer sitting on the bar and took a swig. His dimples reappeared. “Hmm. Why don't you tell me what you want. Pretty sure I can give it to you...”
“I want everything.” I signaled the bartender for another shot of tequila. “All the time.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”
The bartender slid a shot glass in front of me and I picked it up. I eyed the stranger sitting next to me, let my eyes rove the full length of him. For one brief moment, I entertained the thought of taking him into the bathroom and letting him show me what he had to offer. But then my phone buzzed, signaling a message. I downed the shot and held the phone up to my ear, listening. A smooth, male voice began to speak.
“Annika. Stuart Woodcock here. There's been a slight mix up at the hotel. I'm switching my reservations—”
I didn't listen to the rest but pushed the Call Back button instead. Stuart answered on the first ring.
“Sorry to bother you,” he began.
“You're not bothering me,” I told him. The muscled guy standing next to me frowned and I swiveled in my seat, turning away from him. “What happened to your reservation?”
“Apparently, I don't have one,” he said, chuckling.
“What?”
“Some mix-up, I'm sure. They don't have any vacancies—some nursing convention is in town—so they volunteered to put me up downtown. They've offered to shuttle me over.”
“Okay. So I should pick you up there tomorrow?”
“No.”
It was my turn to frown. “No? But you just said—”
“They offered,” Stuart repeated patiently. “But I found other accommodations.”
“Other?”
“I've had my share of skyscrapers and downtowns,” he said. “I found a place on the beach. Some hotel on a pier.”
“Crystal Pier?” I asked.
“Yeah, that's it.” He paused for a moment and I heard papers shuffling. “I wrote the address down. I'll be taking a cab over, figured I could grab one in the morning, too, if it's not convenient for you.”
“No,” I said, a little too sharply. “I live right near there.”
“San Diego State's by the beach?”
“No,” I said. I dug around in my purse for my wallet. I pulled out a twenty and tossed it on the bar. “But my parents' house is. Stay put. I'll come get you.”
Before he could object, I ended the call. I stood up and Muscle Man put out a hand to stop me.
“Where you going so soon, sweetheart?” He smiled. “I didn't get a chance to give you what you want.” His fingers caressed my forearm.
I shrugged away from him and held up my phone. “Pose for me.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“So I remember what I'm missing. And what I might want later.”
His lips twitched and he puffed out his chest, shoving his hands in the pocket of his jeans so his muscled biceps and forearms bulged. I snapped a quick picture and handed him the phone.
He took it and looked at me with questioning eyes. “Do I need to approve it or something?”
“No, dipshit,” I said. “You need to give me your number. So I can call you when I want you.” I reached out and cupped his crotch, stroking him through the thick denim fabric. His cock immediately swelled in my hand. “If I want you.”
He fumbled with my phone, his beefy fingers tapping the screen. I dropped my hand just as he gave it back.
“Wait,” he said, his voice thick.
“No time.” I smiled at him and held up the phone again. “But I'll call you. Maybe.”
I turned and flounced away from the bar, keenly aware that he was watching me go. I made sure to sway my hips as I walked.
“Where are you going?”
Jake stood next to the hallway where the bathrooms were located. His blond hair was mussed, his shirt slightly askew. I looked down at his jeans. He'd managed to get them back up but his fly was still open.
I smiled at him. “To make the next guy forget to pull up his zipper.”
SIX
Ten minutes later, I was back at the Hyatt, idling in front of the entrance to the hotel. And Stuart Woodcock was in the passenger seat of my car, frowning at me.
“Are you drunk?” His eyes searched mine, as if he might be able to see the alcohol level in my pupils or something.
“Of course not.”
He leaned close and sniffed. “Tequila. You've been drinking tequila.”
“I had two shots,” I said defensively. “That's not drinking. That's...sipping.”
He shook his head. “And you figured you'd be cool to drive after two shots?”
I didn't feel buzzed at all. “First of all, I'm cool all the time. Second of all, I can handle way more than two shots of tequila.” I smiled at him. “Maybe we should go somewhere and I'll show you just how much I'm capable of drinking.” I could show him other things I was capable of, too.
A frown creased his forehead and he opened the passenger door.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting out,” he spat. He pulled himself out of the car.
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
“Not interested in meeting my maker tonight.”
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.
“Yeah, him or Allah or whoever you run into after a fiery drunken car crash.”
I turned so I was fully facing him and made sure he could see my rolling eyes. “Want to call the cops? Have me take a breathalyzer test? Or maybe you just want to do a citizen's arrest.”
He slammed the door shut and crossed in front of the car. He yanked my door open.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked. Maybe he was going to arrest me.
“Get out,” he told me.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said. “You're not driving.”
“Oh, really?” I narrowed my eyes. “And how do you think you're going to stop me?”
He reached across me and pulled the key out of the ignition. I stared at him, my mouth open.
“Get out,” he repeated.
“You're taking my car?”
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Then, louder, “Yeah, carjacking in progress. Right here.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the car. “No, you idiot. I'm driving.”
I fought him the entire way as he dragged me to the passenger side. If anyone walked or drove by, they might actually think I was being abducted. But it was late and we were all alone in front of the hotel.
He re-opened the door and shoved me into the seat. I wasn't gonna lie. I loved how his hand felt against my bare skin, firm and rough. Insistent. I wanted to feel his hands everywhere, all over my body.
But not right then. Because I was pissed.
“Are you always such an asshole?” I hissed.
He smiled. “Only when someone's trying to kill me.”
He shut the door and I folded my arms across my chest. One minute later, the key was back in the ignition and Stuart shifted the car into drive.
“Alright,” he said, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
“Will the GPS be able to locate hell? Do we need to ask Siri where hell is?” he said, easing his foot off the brake. He turned on to the service road that led back to Mission Bay Drive.
He waited for me to say something. I stared back at him, expressionless. He sighed and took one hand off the wheel, digging in his pants pocket for his phone. He tapped the screen and pulled up a map. His thumbs danced across the surface and, a few seconds later, an image of a map appeared.
“I'm not drunk,” I told him after a minute or two of silence.
“And I don't believe you.”
“I'm not stupid,” I said. “I don't drink and drive.”
I didn't. My parents had drilled into me the importance of driving sober. They'd always maintained they would pick me up if I needed a ride, no questions asked. What I realized at an early age was that I could handle my liquor far better than any girl and better than most guys.
“You just did,” Stuart pointed out. He turned left on Grand, heading toward the beach.
I didn't say anything as we drove toward Crystal Pier. His phone routed us down Grand Avenue which was mostly devoid of bars and nightlife. Fast food places and convenience stores lined the traffic-clogged street but it was nothing like the action on Garnet. The main drag was bar after bar, some seedier than others, tattoo and head shops sandwiched between beachy boutiques.
I stole a peek at the guy driving my car. His eyes were focused on the road in front of him, his fingers relaxed on the steering wheel. Stuart Woodcock was apparently a humanitarian and a goody-two-shoes, two things I most definitely was not. But he was still hotter than hell. And I still had this insane urge to sleep with him.
Stuart turned right on Mission Boulevard and hooked a quick left into the tiny parking lot at the edge of the pier. The blue and white cottages lining the pier were as iconic as the beach itself, an almost century-old monument in Pacific Beach. I'd been in one of the cottages once—a random hook-up with some guy from Arizona, visiting PB with his family—and I could still picture the interior. White-washed wooden walls, a brilliant blue sofa, a tiny efficiency kitchen. We'd sat in the wooden deck chairs on the private patio just off the living room, listening to the waves crash into the pile-ons below, feeling the gentle sway of the pier as the ocean pounded relentlessly into it. And later, when his parents had gone to Kono's for a quick bite to eat, we'd slipped back into the cottage and made out on the couch. I couldn't remember his name but I remembered what he tasted like. What he felt like.
