Sexual stage fright? Great.
Finally I undo his buttons, one by one. Jude only tries to help out when he reaches for the tails tucked into his slacks. I stay his hands. “Leave it,” I say.
He chuckles quietly—more sounds to soak into my marrow. I’ll do more than remember them for the rest of my life. I’ll feel them.
When the shirt is open from neck to navel, I crisscross my hands around his chest, his abdomen, his arching ribs. If he has an ounce of fat on him, I’m made of aluminum foil. He has some hair on his chest, but not much. I like the smooth, hot, inviting textures I explore with each new push of fingers over flesh.
I must’ve made a noise—a good noise—because he says, “I know. God, I know.”
I’m not done. I don’t know where “done” is tonight, but I know I haven’t reached my finale. It’s that fascination with the back of his neck. Ever since he mentioned kissing him there, I can’t stop thinking about it.
“Bow your head.”
He makes a grunting question mark sound. I run my hands under the tucked-in shirt, touching him everywhere I can reach. When I return to the thick, silky thatch at his crown, I push down as encouragement. He complies with another rough chuckle. I tug at the now loose collar and I’m rewarded with the perfect expanse of smooth skin and shining hair.
I edge up on my knees to gain some advantage of height. I need to be above him, at least a little. He catches me when I nearly wobble off the leather seat. He crosses my arms around his chest, then covers them with his own. I’m secure. Safe to explore. He’s given me that unexpected gift.
At first I hover over his nape, just inhaling, until my mouth waters and I need to kiss him there. I need to taste him. With my nose buried in his hair, I kiss and kiss, lick and nip and kiss. I claim each inch as mine. He’ll wear a thousand dress shirts before he retires some distant day. Every time he does, when he secures the top button and wiggles the knot of his tie in place, he’ll be covering the skin I’ve made mine in the backseat of his Mercedes.
After breathless minutes, I melt onto his back. He’s still holding my arms in a hug around his upper body. Only then do I realize that I’ve bracketed his hips with my thighs. My knees press the outside of his. Not only am I flush against him, chest to back, but also pressing groin to ass. My panties are soaked. I have this terrible flash of leaving a wet spot on his slacks and try to pull away.
“Don’t stop,” he rasps.
“Kissing?”
“No.”
He reaches back and grasps my ass. I imagined something like it when we were standing against the outside of the town car, but this is reversed. We aren’t facing each other, which adds an extra blare of unimagined thrill. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s not conventional. Any frat guy at a party could kiss me to the point where he wanders south and grabs. This, with Jude, with any illusion of my control stripped away, is more deliberate. It’s no accident when he smooths his big hands over the outsides of my thighs, grips my ass, tightens his fingers, kneads.
“You were grinding your hips.” His voice is so low, his accent so thick, that I almost think my fevered imagination conjured the words.
Was I? No, I couldn’t have been.
But it’s true, because as soon as he clenches his hands again, I press against him. I’m aching, constrained by my jeans. I’ll never get relief from this rough need. I was an idiot. Playing with fire. There’s nothing so stupid and ridiculous as a turned-on girl in the backseat of a car with a guy who knows what he’s doing.
I pull free. I scamper away until I’m flat on my butt and backed against the car door. Jude whirls. His hair is a gorgeous, snarled mess. I did that. His bare chest is heaving. I did that. His pants are taut with proof of how much he was enjoying himself. I did that.
“Memorable,” he says with a beautiful, arrogant smile. “Definitely memorable.”
“Don’t make fun of me. It was stupid. Forget it.”
He turns on the seat and leans over me as if readying to do push-ups while stretched over my body. In fact, he lowers down, down, using only the strength of his arms. I can see each flex and bunch of his chest muscles, and where the caps of his bared shoulders strain. He kisses my throat, then farther down, as much as my boatneck top will permit. “Your turn.”
“My turn what? I did the . . . well, the shocking thing.”
“Right.” He grins widely, all bright teeth and salacious humor. “So if it was shocking for me . . .”
Using one arm—Jesus, how strong is he?—he flips me onto my stomach and holds me in place around my tummy. I don’t have any buttons to undo. It’s a simple thing for him to sweep my hair away and kiss the back of my neck. He lowers even deeper, so controlled that I’m going to lose my mind, until his chest encompasses my back. Maybe even my whole world. He lowers his groin and nestles his hard-on against my ass. I shudder. I turn my head to find a hunk of muscle: the bicep of the arm he has wrapped around my middle. He thrusts. He kisses. I bite. I cry out against his skin when he thrusts again.
“Like it?” he growls. A deranged part of my mind laughs a little laugh. I turned this suave businessman into a guy capable of only grunts and single syllables. “Tell me.”
I lick his bicep where I feel the slightest imprint of my teeth. “Love it.”
I arch back so that we can kiss. The angle is awkward, and there’s so much going on—my whole body sparking and flaming—that it’s not the world’s most graceful kiss. I don’t care. I know Jude doesn’t care. We’re just lips and heat and more until I’m dizzy. He tightens his hold on my waist, then settles even more of his lean body weight against my ass and back, as if to reaffirm that he has me.
He has me.
He could’ve claimed anything from that moment out to eternity. Anything he wanted from me.
Instead he lets out a long, low, frustrated groan and drops his forehead to rest between my shoulder blades. “I can’t see straight,” he says with a laugh. “Literally. Jesus, Keeley.”
Arms still tight around me, he sits up and pulls me with him until I’m sitting on his lap. I curl into him, trembling, my fingers clinging to the bare skin above his ribs, right around his pecs. As good a place as any to hold.
“Gotcha,” he says against my hair, smoothing it back from my face. “I gotcha. It’s okay. Damn, that was intense.”
“I—” I shake my head.
“I’ll wait. Find what you want to say, sugar. I’ve learned it’s worth waiting for.”
I hide my face against his chest. He’s slicked with a slight salty layer of sweat. I can’t help but take a taste. He’s delicious. He’s perfect. At least I keep myself from saying that.
I take deep breath. “I hope I wasn’t too frustrating. I mean, I know guys would think I’m being a tease.”
“Am I most guys? Seems you’ve implied that I’m not.”
I smile against his neck. “You’re not most guys.”
“Keeley, would you still be a virgin right now if I hadn’t stopped?”
Breathlessness, flirting, nerves, hopes, fears—they all drop away with that question.
“No,” I say softly. “I guess . . .” I try to laugh it off, but that’s hard to do when I’m sitting in his lap and know exactly how turned on he still is. “I guess I got carried away. Maybe I should go.”
He doesn’t budge. I’m not going anywhere unless he wants me to, which is an odd thing to realize. I’m glad I trust him or else I’d be terrified. I’m already scared enough of the impulses he pulls out of me. Little inklings become big, huge needs when Jude starts teasing and goading me. Who am I to deserve so much attention?
Oh, great. Hi, crippled self-esteem.
“Where would you go?” he asks.
“Home. Back to the dorm. Unless . . .” I shiver. “This was some big prank. Why did you get me to do all that, then stop?”
“Yeah,” I say, my throat tight. I don’t know what he’s getting at. I’m still so dizzy, and I can’t stop touching him. “But I don’t know if I should be pissed at you, or if you’re gonna unzip your pants and pressure me into finishing what we started. What—Just, what is this?”
“I don’t know.”
“No?”
He kisses the top of my head. “I like that you sound disappointed.”
“Yeah. Maybe a little. Or . . .” I swallow. “Frustrated.”
“I like that even better. Means you aren’t done having your wicked way with me.”
“My wicked—?”
He tickles me around my waist until I just about scream for mercy. We wind up back on the seat, face to face this time, with Jude’s breath hot on my cheek. I shift in his lap, only to realize he’s still turned on. His eyes roll back on a groan. “Wicked,” he says again, his mouth lax on a teasing smile.
“Most guys tend to look like you do after getting what they want.”
“Do you know so much, sugar?”
“Not a thing. You gonna teach me?”
I say it flippantly, but his expression sobers. “I’d love to.”
Whoa.
“Since you know so much about guys and sex,” he says, even when I smack him lightly on the arm, “tell me the stereotypes. About what it’ll be like to lose your virginity.”
I tick off a list on my fingers. “The guy does all the pressuring. It’s over too fast. There’s no foreplay. It hurts. It’s embarrassing after.”
He reaches between our bodies and cups the apex of my thighs. “Jesus,” he says roughly. I shake and cry out. He smiles against my mouth and whispers, “Here’s the deal, if you’re up for it.”
I nod. I can’t speak. I lace my hand over his.
“I won’t pressure you. Memorable, yeah? That’s the goal—for both of us. And it sure as hell won’t be over too fast. Every look, every word, every touch will be foreplay. And if there’s any embarrassment after, it’ll be because we want to start again too soon.” He kisses my mouth—the barest brush. Electricity shoots from my lips to where our hands clasp with a steady rhythm. “Say yes, sugar. Tell me you want to come play. A whole new game.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, Jude. Please.”
He settles his thigh between my legs and sets up a hard, quick rhythm. The rough material of the jeans rubs where I’m throbbing and restless. I wiggle and twist. He makes the quietest grunts with each thrust. I want them louder. I want him out of control too, but I’m too far gone for that. I dig my fingernails into his sides and catch sight of his wide, awed eyes just before I kiss him, deep, demanding—just before the entire evening explodes.
I think I just had my first orgasm.
Seventeen
I don’t know how he did it, but Jude didn’t make me feel embarrassed after that moment when the sexiest man I’ve ever met made me feel . . . womanly. If he could do that with hot kisses and a hand over my jeans, what could he do with the whole deal? We talked a lot about things that still burn so hot that I can’t think about them for long. He was already the sun, too bright, even though I’ve never seen him in daylight. Now he wants to show me how to have sex, make love, fuck, shag, rut, couple—pick a term—for the first time. Which would it be for us?
I think I’m trying to intentionally shock myself so I’ll back out. It doesn’t work.
It’s not like I’ve ever been in a rush to lose my virginity. More like it would happen when it’d happen. Maybe that’s why Jude’s proposition holds so much appeal. I don’t like when things just happen. That strikes too close to the way I was once forced to live—day to day, place to place, hand to mouth. I enjoyed the predictability of high school, and I’m really getting into my routine here at Tulane.
Mostly I love the beauty of the patterns I find in playing piano. That’s all there is to it, really. Find the patterns and the music follows. It has structure, rules, order. Probably the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done was perform at Yamatam’s. That was such a challenge. It’s almost made my stage fright worse. But I know what it’s like now—terrifying and thrilling and completely unscripted. The “thrilling” part was great. Whether it was enough to overcome the rest . . . I’ll have to work on that.
The idea of making love with Jude holds a similar sort of stage fright feeling. It would be terrifying, daring, and way beyond thrilling. Only, his proposition has the best of both worlds. We’d have rules and even something as unsexy as a plan, but individual encounters could be spontaneous. Freedom with safety. It’s too good to be true, but too good to pass up.
Especially after how amazing he made me feel—like there was a spotlight behind my eyes and hot honey in my veins, until wow, nothing remained but sensation.
He’s going to teach me how to make love the Jude Villars way. And I’m going to let him.
Only a few problems stand in the way.
The first is Janissa. She’s worried. I get that. She was up till all hours waiting for me to call, which made me feel ridiculous and really uncaring. I floated in at something close to three. She was still half awake, on her bed in her pajamas, with a chem text over her chest as if it constituted a little light evening reading. I had to gloss over too much, which only led to more questions and more worry on her part. I think it would’ve been easier, in hindsight, to just say, He gave me my first orgasm and he’s taking me out on Monday.
Eh, hindsight.
The second is Brandon. I’ll skip that one for now. The Saturday night date he asked for is still not a done deal, not for me, but I think he thinks it is.
The third is Adelaide. You know, for a girl who never had many friends in high school, and even fewer before then, it’s strange to realize that my list is all about people. But how am I going to bond with a girl—or even develop a professional relationship with her—if her brother and I are in the midst of . . . God, I have to come up with a name for it. My initiation?
That’s the catch. If I were dating some guy in the tried and true way, we wouldn’t talk about sex ahead of time. There wouldn’t be a plan of attack or a set of goals. There’d just be moments when things happened, good or bad. How was I supposed to enjoy myself with a grabby guy if it had taken so much effort for Jude to get me to tell him what I wanted?
I don’t want to be one of the dozens of girls I’ve heard say that their first time was terrible or, at best, a disappointment. I want it to be special. And Jude’s going to make it special.
Jude had dropped me off at the residence hall wearing a smile that was nearly contented. “You have to promise,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll do what I say.”
“How’s that gonna work?”
His grin had deepened. He ran a hand over his nape, then adjusted my wide neckline. “Let’s just say there will be plenty of opportunities for you to use your imagination. It’s too good to ignore. But you’ll have to trust me with the rest. Can you do that?”
So I promised. Spontaneity within the framework of his experience, and now it was a matter of strapping into the roller coaster and enjoying the thrill. I won’t think of it as anything more than a great, exciting adventure—one I’ve never thought of as me. Apparently I’ve been craving this, more than words or even stray feelings would let me admit. I know it’s all still a game to him. Forget a one night stand. I’ll be a conquest of a kind. He wants exclusive reign over when, where, and all the other details of how a nice little virgin girl like me gives it up for the first time.
What a rush.
Bring it, says one part of me.
Holy shit, says another.
The last and biggest catch is that I can’t concent
rate worth a damn. I’m in my sociology class when my professor asks, “Miss Chambers? What do you have to add?”
About . . . ?
Crap.
I glance down at my notes. I scratch out where I’ve written Jude’s name. Just his first name. Just once. I feel like the junior high kid I never got to be, with hearts and flowers doodled on single subject notebooks. This was the first time I’ve gotten to act like a girl with a crush, and it’s damn inconvenient. I’m a college junior, about eight years past when acting like a completely smitten idiot is considered cute. Now it’s just unprofessional.
And dangerous.
Especially when the bad thoughts creep in, thoughts along the lines of . . . So, how many other girls has he done this with? Is it his thing? He likes to mold some sweet young thing to his liking, take the final prize, make her grovel in thanks for being treated like a princess for a few weeks . . . and then poof ? Bye-bye, Mr. Villars?
I want to stand out. Back to that again: I want to be memorable.
Me, the girl who’s done her best to stay hidden for twenty-one years. Memorable to Jude. I have however long this lasts to make sure Jude doesn’t forget me.
Why is that so important? I still don’t get it.
Does it mean I’m tired of hiding? Because, wow, sometimes I really am.
And I still don’t know what Dr. Rivers is talking about.
I take a guess. “I think we’re going about it backward. Military cultures have always had ‘gang signs,’ if you will, that identified them as warriors. Insignias, mottoes, particular songs. Modern gangs with tattoos, and even sexual subcultures with piercings and symbols like cuffs and collars, harken back to tribal times.” Because I’m feeling ballsy—or I don’t care at all—I choose to assume I’m talking something other than complete BS. I raise the finger where I wear the Tulane seal. “We all want to feel like we belong.”
Blue Notes Page 11
