First Position

by Prescott Lane

  “You told him we live above my dance studio, and Google did the rest.”

  “What did he want?”

  Wesley rolled his eyes. “You, stupid! He wanted to see you, and I told him no. I thought he might kick my ass, but he said he understood. He said he was leaving town in a few days and needed to see you before he left. So, I invited him out tonight.”

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “You can thank me later,” he said, shaking her a little. “This way, I can keep an eye on you two. Plus, he misses you.”

  Emory’s face lit up. “He said that?” She peered from the staircase over the railway at Mason. The band began playing, and a few patrons made their way to the dance floor.

  “He didn’t have to. He was there looking for you. Had a cab chasing you all over town.”

  Emory twirled her hair. “He’s getting divorced. His arm is a mess. He’s just looking to feel better -- or a good piece of ass.”

  “Good grief, keep your voice down, girl. He’s like ten feet away. I don’t think sex is what he’s looking for, but even if it is, you’re both single. Let him be your rebound from Eric. Have lots of hot sex. You be the one to use him!”

  Emory punched Wesley in the shoulder. I have thought of that, though.

  “Just stop running from him -- and your past. See where it goes.”

  “After what I did, you know it can’t go anywhere.” She hung her head. “He’d never forgive me.”

  “Just take it slow.”

  “Not before the hot sex, right?” she teased.

  “Hot or slow! Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “You are impossible! I will get you back for this.”

  They walked back up the last few steps of the staircase, then turned towards Mason’s table. He stood up, ever the gentleman, his eyes growing dark with desire as he scanned her body, making out the curve of her breasts in a backless silk halter top, her long blonde hair, loosely curled, flowing down her back. No bra! Her tight, black skirt showed off her killer legs accented by stiletto black boots.

  A wave of heat flooded over Emory’s entire body under the intensity of his stare, and she quickly reached for his hand. “Let’s dance.” She knew Mason hated to dance, and would be putty in her hands on the dance floor. I’m in control here.

  “That sounds like a great idea.” Wesley winked at her. “I’m going to catch up with Tomás.”

  Mason felt a knot in his stomach but followed along, hoping she couldn’t feel the sweat on his hand. He saw only a few other couples on the dance floor. Shit, no way to blend in, especially with this fucking sling. Clive, help! “I think I’ll need a drink first. Want anything?”

  “No, I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”

  Mason walked over to the bar, a young bartender recognizing him, and Mason autographed a napkin for him. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to help me now. His heart pounding in his chest, he tried to calm himself, recalling that dancing with Emory was pretty simple: everyone stared at her. He ordered a shot of whiskey and held it, leaning up against the bar, watching Emory dance alone -- the grace, sexiness, power -- all still the same. She knew how to draw an audience, with her long legs, flowing hair, and bare back, easily the sexiest woman in the nightclub -- a fact that would escape her, but not a single man in the room, gay or straight, gawking like wolves ready to pounce.

  Her eyes glistening as she swayed her hips, Mason felt himself grow hard just watching her, and adjusted his pants. It’s been a long time. Can’t even use my right hand! Mason knew what he had done to her body before and wanted it again.

  The young bartender interrupted Mason’s thoughts. “Damn, I’d like to tap that.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” Mason crumpled the autographed napkin, throwing it on the ground, then walked towards the dance floor, holding his whiskey. Emory caught his eye and beckoned him to her. He slammed the shot, as their eyes locked on each other, her body moving in the most delicious way. Mason came up next to her, and the music slowed. She turned her back to him, pulling her hair to the side, and pushed her ass against his hips. Mason grabbed her left hip with his left hand, pulling her tightly to him and nuzzling her neck with his lips, breathing in her sweet smell. She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, sending a jolt of fire between her legs. She rolled her hips side to side feeling how hard he was.

  Mason saw they had attracted an audience. He was used to strangers staring at him -- whether on the street, or at the grocery store, or in a football stadium. But he wasn’t used to an audience for his dancing -- well, at least not for any good dancing. He knew the stares on this night were not for him, but for Emory, and she was oblivious to it all.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, and slowly pulled away to face him, their eyes burning into each other. She hiked her right leg up to his left hip, lifting her skirt slightly, and he caught her leg, pushing himself against her, his fingers massaging the bare skin of her upper thigh. Their faces inches apart, her fingers caressed his hair, and she smiled, pushing herself harder against him, as if daring him to take it further, but the song ended before he could.

  The crowd parted, as she led Mason back upstairs to the VIP area. “Nice show,” Wesley said, as they approached the table.

  “I aim to please,” Emory said. “Mason, this is Tomás.”

  “I thought you were Patrick Swayze,” Tomás quipped.

  “Road HouseorDirty Dancing?” Mason asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Mason laughed. “A little of both.”

  The foursome spent the evening drinking and talking, Mason resting his left hand on Emory’s bare thigh and gently rubbing her warm skin with his fingertips, only heightening the tension and electricity between them, making it hard for Emory to concentrate on anything but Mason’s fingers grazing her flesh. Is he doing this on purpose? Waves of heat flashed between her legs with each stroke, and she did her best to keep her breath steady, not wanting to reveal the effect he still had on her.

  After an hour, Emory could take no more and felt the urge to escape again. “Sorry, boys, but I have a photo shoot in the morning. I better call it a night.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Wesley offered. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “No way. You enjoy Tomás’ big night. I’m fine.”

  Mason seized the moment. “I’ll make sure she gets home.”

  Wesley shot Emory a concerned look, but she nodded she’d be fine. Mason helped her out of her chair, then downstairs, placing his hand on the small of her back to direct her through the crowd. Once outside, Mason hailed a cab, and they slid into the backseat. She felt him staring at her. Emory wasn’t the type to just take a man to bed, even Mason. What the hell have I started?

  ”I’m not tired,” Mason said. “Want to come back and have a drink at my hotel?”

  She shook her head slightly. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Well, I guess your place it is.” Mason leaned forward to give the cabbie her address, as her mouth dropped open.

  I walked right into that.

  The cabbie started to drive, and Mason leaned back, taking her cheek in the palm of his hand and softly kissing her lips. He then pulled away slightly, searching her eyes. Her mind had completely failed her, and Mason kissed her again, slowly at first, then placed his hand firmly on the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and parted her lips, their tongues meeting. She purred, her hands sliding to his hips, and he moaned softly, as he pushed her back onto the seat. The cabbie loudly cleared his throat, prompting Mason to stop, but not before kissing the tip of her nose and forehead. Emory blushed and tried to catch her breath.

  She remembered the first time he had done that -- two weeks after they met. Mason had just led his team to victory over a top-ranked college opponent, Emory attributing the win, at least in part, to Mason’s lateral movement, which she’d pressed him to improve. It was a huge win for the team and for Mason, his first as a starter. She
waited for him outside the locker room after the game, and when he came out, he grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers, his other hand going into her hair. Mason leaned in and kissed her sweetly on the lips, finishing with a peck on her nose and forehead. Our first kiss.

  Her memories with Mason were so familiar. She snapped herself back to the present, feeling Mason stroke her hand, a barrage of emotions sweeping through her. What am I doing? I haven’t seen him in six years. He dumped me. He’s still married. He has no current job. And I‘m making out with him like some lovesick teenager! She felt her knees weaken, and her head spin, unable to keep up with her racing heart.

  The cabbie pulled up to her apartment, and Mason paid the fare, as Emory noticed lights were on upstairs, wondering how Wesley had beaten them home. They walked inside and stopped in their tracks.

  Eric sat in her den with a bouquet of flowers and her ring box on the coffee table. The men stared at each other, sizing up the competition, then looked towards her. She felt both men’s eyes burning into her.

  Who the hell is this guy? Mason’s instinct was to pummel him, but thought better of it. He briefly left her side and extended his hand. “Daniel Mason.”

  Eric didn’t extend his, keeping his eyes fixed squarely on Emory. “Fiancé.”

  Mason swallowed hard, and gave Emory a puzzled look. Fiancé? She told me she didn’t have a boyfriend, much less a fiancé.

  Emory cleared her voice and stared right back at Eric. “Ex-fiancé.” Mason felt slightly better, and pulled Emory to his hip, staking his claim.

  Eric walked towards her, his face turning red. “Really, Emory? After all the time you made me wait, you’re going to screw the first guy who comes along!”

  His body tightening, Mason stepped in front of Emory to shield her from Eric’s stare. “I think it’s time for you to go,” Mason ordered, towering over Eric.

  She grabbed Mason’s arm, feeling his tense muscles. “Enough of this pissing contest.” She squeezed Mason’s hand to get his attention. “I need a few minutes alone with Eric. Could you please wait for me in my bedroom?” She pointed to her door.

  Mason kissed Emory on the cheek. “I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom, Em,” he said to Eric, then shut the door behind him.

  Eric paced around the den, clearly shaken. “Are you fucking him, Emory? Is that why you wouldn’t set a date?”

  “What? No, no!” Emory walked towards him, touching his arm. “It’s not like that. He’s an old friend from college I just happened to run into. That’s all.”

  As far as Emory could tell, Eric hadn’t made the connection that Mason was an NFL quarterback. He never was much into sports; still, Emory knew this looked bad. There was no way to convince him otherwise. Eric shook his head in disbelief.

  “Why are you here, Eric?”

  He took her hands in his. “You haven’t returned any of my calls, and I hated the way things ended yesterday. I never meant to ask for the ring back. I was just frustrated. I thought if I gave you a little nudge, you would pick a date, and things would be fine. It was stupid. We don’t have to get married anytime soon. Let’s just work things out. I know we can.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I love you,” he said sweetly.

  Emory looked at the flowers and the ring, knowing any rational woman would give him a second chance. But she couldn’t shake the feel of Mason’s body or his lips against hers. “I shouldn’t need a nudge, Eric. You deserve a woman who is excited to get married.” She paused, dropping his hands. “Please give me my key back. I’ll return some stuff to your house on Monday, pick up my things, and leave your key then. I’m so sorry.”

  That was not what Eric expected to hear. The certainty with which Emory spoke stunned him, his eyes filling with tears. Eric took the key to her apartment off his key chain and placed it on the coffee table. He then picked up the flowers and the ring, limping past Emory without saying another word, slamming the door on his way out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mason jumped hearing the door slam and flew out of her room, finding Emory sitting on the sofa in tears. He sat down next to her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He leaned back, pulling her to him as she wept, without any idea why she was crying. She didn’t appear injured, so Eric hadn’t hurt her. Still can’t believe she was engaged, and didn’t tell me. He wondered how long they’d dated and been engaged, and why they broke up and when. Her life seemed just as complicated as his.

  Mason didn’t know what to say, so he just stroked her hair as she cried. After a few minutes, she stopped, her breathing slowed and deepened. Mason looked down at her; she had drifted off to sleep. He reached for a pillow on the sofa and placed it on his knees, lowering her head onto his lap. Her chest slowly rose and fell. He gently pushed her hair back, so he could see her face as she slept.

  He had seen her this way many times before in college -- beautiful and vulnerable in his arms. After dating for several months, they found themselves, both virgins, on the verge of sex. Of course, they had been intimate together, using their fingers and mouths, but Emory was reluctant to take the next step. To avoid any temptation, she made a rule that they both couldn’t be naked at the same time. Mason had no choice but to comply, though it was difficult; he wanted to be respectful of Emory. But all he could seem to think about was being inside her. Mason planned out, in great detail, how he wanted their first time to be. It wasn’t going to be in the back seat of his car or in one of their cramped dorm rooms. He just needed Emory to be ready. And the waiting was driving him crazy.

  Sometimes they went to parties with his teammates. Mason was never especially fond of these parties but felt it was his duty to go -- to support his teammates and watch them make fools of themselves. He knew Emory hated to go because the guys were crass and the girls were her total opposite. They were in college to find a husband, not a career, spending hours on their hair, makeup, and clothes, always making sure their cleavage was properly set and their skirts sufficiently high. Underwear, for those girls, was optional. One girl, Alexis, routinely seemed to shove her boobs in Mason’s face, and he did his best to ignore her. Emory typically passed the time dancing alone under Mason’s protective watch, until he was buzzed enough to join her.

  On one particular Friday night party, the guys were having an intellectual debate -- whether a girl’s cup size correlated to her ability in the bedroom. Certain guys suggested that a girl with a small cup size wasn’t as exciting as a girl with a large one, but others believed that a small girl had more to prove and would put out more. Leaning up against a wall, Mason kept his opinions to himself but did chuckle as the debate raged on. He knew Emory’s small cup size was a sensitive topic for her, so he figured it was best to keep his mouth shut.

  Emory heard the conversation and was disgusted -- but pleased Mason kept quiet. She figured she had the smallest bra cup at the party -- probably three times smaller than Alexis’ size -- and it made her self-conscious. Emory decided to prove a point, at least from her perspective, and hopefully end the debate. She held her head high and walked through the group of debaters, towards Mason with her eyes locked on his. She pressed her body against his groin and chest and threw her right leg up over his shoulder -- pinning him to the wall with her leg, her foot pointing directly at the ceiling.

  The debate stopped, and a hush fell over the room. She kissed Mason passionately, like a woman who knew what she wanted and aimed to get it, her fingers moving through his hair, as she wrestled with his tongue, not stopping until she was certain she’d made her point. Emory slowly pulled away, leaving Mason gasping for breath. She bit her lower lip, and he looked into her eyes. He could see something different, something that told him, in no uncertain terms, that her naked rule was now off the table. Emory took his hand. “Let’s go.” She smirked at the debaters as they left and gave a wink to Alexis.

  They walked through the college courtyard and back to his dorm. Mason told her to wait in the lobby, runn
ing up to his room to make a quick phone call and grabbing a duffle bag from his closet he already had packed for this moment. He unzipped it quickly, looking inside to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything -- her favorite toiletries, candles, bubble bath, some lounging clothes, toothbrushes, and a large box of condoms. That should cover it.

  He raced back to the lobby and took Emory by the hand. “Where are we going?” she asked, as he led her to his car and kissed the back of her hand.

  “It’s a surprise.” He opened her door and ran around to the driver side. He threw the duffle bag in the back seat and drove off.

  After a few minutes, Emory, so excited, couldn’t wait any longer. “How about a little hint?”

  “No hints. I’ll just say we’re close. We’re almost there.” He put his right hand on Emory’s knee and made a sweeping turn of the wheel with his left. He drove another mile, then pulled into the drive of a historic hotel on the outskirts of campus.

  “Mason, you didn’t!”

  “I did.” Mason didn’t care about the expense. It drained his entire bank account, but he wanted them never to forget this moment. The hotel was the place to stay. It was where the college put up its highly-touted recruits to make a good impression, including Mason. It was where businessmen and politicians stayed when they came to town, and where fancy conventions and important meetings were held to close a deal. I’m going to close my own deal tonight.

  They walked into the lobby, holding hands. Her mouth dropped open seeing the ornate furnishings and the crystal chandeliers, and he kissed her nose and forehead. They approached the front desk to check in. “You are staying through Sunday, Mr. Mason?”

  “Yes, sir. Two nights.” Emory’s eyes widened, and he squeezed her hand. Mason gave his credit card to the clerk and received keys to room 302.

  They rode the elevator to the third floor and walked down a narrow hallway holding hands. Mason was nervous, particularly about what to do once they got inside the room. He thought they were both ready, but a trickle of doubt remained in his mind. He wanted to make sure he did everything just right, but then reminded himself that Emory, too, had never had sex, so she wouldn’t know if he messed anything up. He said a prayer that he would at least make Emory happy, but then it occurred to him that God probably wasn’t too interested in helping two college kids have pre-marital sex.