by Lila Price
Worse yet, I’m still thinking about the door and who might come through it.
Even through the danger, that last part stokes me, fanning the inner flames that lick at my belly, and I get to my knees, tugging down Tristan’s jeans as I go.
He’s not wearing anything under the denim, and my first sight of him makes me hesitate while my heartbeat pounds at my temples and I hold my breath.
Big, long, stiff. Out of pure instinct, I lean toward his gorgeous cock to rub my cheek against it. Then I nearly die from mortification. What am I doing?
I hear his choked voice. “God, Sos. Keep going.”
There’s a deep desperation in his words, and it encourages me. I take the hard length of him in my hand, then lick his tip, where there’re beads of pre-cum. He groans, and as I slowly move my hand back and forth on his shaft, I can practically feel him pulsing.
His hand is tightly cradling my head, and that tells me I’m doing something right. When I look up to see the sensual madness in his gaze, I close my eyes and swirl my tongue around him.
“Goddammit, Sosie,” he says, and this time, it’s not because I’m frustrating him. It’s because I’m pleasing him like he pleased me last night.
Spurred on by that, I take him into my mouth. Sometime, somewhere I heard a phrase that’s whispering through me right now: lips together, teeth apart. So I follow that advice as I move up him, then suck back. Back, forth, back, forth while he fists my hair, his hips moving with my mouth, setting the tempo, faster, faster.
His tip hits the back of my throat, and I falter.
“Open up for me, Sosie,” he says, the same command from last night, but we’re in such a different position now. “Relax.”
His voice still sounds as if it’s been dragged through rocks, and a feminine power buzzes through me. I do as he says, relaxing, taking him deeper.
“So good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good…”
When I reach over to caress his balls with my fingertips, it’s as if I’ve pushed a button, and he tenses, groaning. With no more of a warning than that, he comes inside my mouth, spurting once, twice, more. For a second, I don’t do anything, but then I think of those girls he usually dates, and I grip his hips, swallowing his cum. I’m going to make him see that I’m really not a cherry, that I’m the woman he’s been searching for all along.
After he pulls out of me, I trace my fingers over my lips, staying on my knees. He looks down at me with something in his eyes that goes beyond lust, and I—
The door opens, and in the next heartbeat, Tristan scoops me into his arms, pulling me to a corner of the room to hide from whoever has just walked inside.
9
We’re behind some shelves, and I’m praying that the employees who’ve just busted in don’t see us.
The clang of bottles punctuates their argument.
“…not enough rum behind the bar for the night. I told you to get more!”
“What can I say? There’s a fancy pants bachelorette party out there, and they’re ordering straight shots for the house! Usually they want cosmos, Darlene, so stop bitching me out.”
I think it’s Sammy, a bartender, versus Darlene, another bartender, and as they grab supplies from a shelf less than twenty feet away, Tristan’s hand closes over my mouth. I feel his cock against my bottom, long and satiated from what I did to it.
When a surge of warmth spins through my belly, I reach back and touch him. Then I softly bite Tristan’s hand. The thought of getting caught is making me reckless…a little insane.
Tristan tightens his hold over my mouth, and he keeps his hand there even after Sammy and Darlene finally dart out of the room, in such a hurry that they didn’t even peer around.
We’re alone now, but Tristan is still pressing me against him. Desire thumps through me, down to my sex, its beat as hard as the bass from the music outside. Is he just as turned on by almost getting caught? Is this the moment when I go from being his cherry to his everything?
He slips his hand down until he’s palming my belly, his face buried in my hair as he breathes me in, long and deep.
“Shit,” he says. “If we hadn’t been interrupted I would’ve…”
“What?” I asked.
He slips his hand between my legs, holding me there, claiming me. I melt, and even though I know Tristan would’ve given me everything my body’s asking for, I have to get back to work before Brent comes looking for me. Tristan and I had barely escaped getting caught this time, and my common sense is wrestling down my lust, telling me not to push it. Even so, almost being discovered with my stepbrother only makes me wetter.
There’s always tonight at home, though. I can wait. I’ll have to.
He seems to be thinking the same thing as he reaches up to move my hair away from my neck. When he gently kisses me there, my chest seems to fold into itself. Forget the ache between my legs, it’s my heart that wants him most of all.
“I’ve got to go.” I reluctantly pull away from him. “My break’s already lasted long enough, and I might even get fired.”
“You getting fired sounds good to me.”
He hasn’t changed his mind about my working here, and his possessiveness arouses me while angering me. Maybe they’re both the same thing now.
Behind me, Tristan gets himself back together. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of, too.”
“Like what?”
“Like none of your business, Cherry.”
He bends to kiss me on my neck, and I shiver as he moves to the door. I can’t help but wonder if we’re right back where we started, with Tristan leaving me once again on that broken wing of his.
Somehow I manage not to get canned on my first night at Shady’s. I tell Brent that I felt ill and was in the restroom, and like most males, the mention of possible lady issues put my boss off asking more questions. I suppose it doesn’t hurt when I also throw myself into work in an attempt to forget Tristan again.
But that goes about as well as usual. And when I catch sight of him across the club, laying low with some Wall Street-looking men I’ve never seen before, I get so distracted and obsessed that I start making Long Island iced teas for someone who has ordered a sex on the beach. It’s just that Tristan doesn’t fit in with those men at all—they’re clear douchebags who seem as if they never take a vacation from money—but it doesn’t matter that much since I don’t see him again after that.
It’s only when my shift is over and I’m driving home that I snap out of it.
I see headlights in my rearview mirror, and when they imitate my every move—turning every corner I turn, the car slowing down every time I do—I get nervous. I’m about head to the police station to shake off whomever it is when I pull up to a stoplight and recognize the car.
It’s Tristan’s black Chevy.
What is he doing acting like a super spy? As I wait at the light, I text him.
Why r u following me?
His answer comes right back at me.
Making sure you get home safe.
My tummy swarms with heat. Yeah, he’s still watching over me, and I should hate that, but after tonight, his gesture seems to take on new meaning. I’m not sure what it is yet—maybe he’s only going to seduce me again and then take off—but it has to mean something.
The light changes and I don’t have time to text back, but it isn’t far to the house. And the closer I get, the more my pulse jams through me, expecting this to be the night.
I’m going to lose my virginity to Tristan, and then everything between us will become clear. He’ll say he adores me just as much as I’ve always adored him.
I pull into the driveway, thinking he’ll stop his car right beside mine, like we’ve got His and Her parking spot. But he only slows at the foot of the entrance, lifting a hand to me through the open window so casually that, after he peels off, it almost seems as if he was never here at all.
Shocker. Tristan has secrets…even after tonight.
When I go insid
e the house, everything seems lifeless without him there. But maybe there’s a chance that Tristan will be home soon, and I run up the stairs to my room, trading in my work uniform for a pair of cute pink baby doll pajamas. I have a drawer of lingerie waiting for me, and it’s been there an awful long time. I don’t want to use all those lacey sweet things for anyone but Tristan.
My hopes stay strong as I watch TV.
Two hours go by.
I get ready for bed then whip the covers off the mattress, because even with air conditioning, there’s still a trace of humidity in the air. I get out my laptop and click around on facebook.
Another half hour gone.
My eyelids are getting heavy, and I make a deal with myself—I’ll check my email, and if Tristan still isn’t home by the time I’m done, I’ll go to sleep. After all, Cleo and Julia and I are set for a movie day tomorrow before I report for my next shift at Shady’s. I’m not about to just sit here and whither away like a princess in a tower waiting for my mysterious prince. And even if Tristan is keeping me waiting, I’m not going to get mad at him this time, although it’s the first thing that I want to do. There was just something in his voice and his eyes tonight when I asked about that broken wing in his tattoo…
Sighing, I access my email and find something totally unexpected—a message from my mom. Maybe those European villages she and my stepdad are visiting aren’t so out of the way after all, or maybe my parents became restless for some big-city gourmet food and they made a detour. Either way, I brace myself for what Mom has to say since I really let her have it in my own email.
I scan the first paragraph, which tells me about the wine and food they’ve tasted. And when I get to the part that’s more personal and less like a travelogue, I swallow.
There’s so much to see, and I would love to have some mother-daughter time here with you someday. Based on the tone of your email, we need it.
It sounds as if you’re still angry with me, even after all these years, and I’m assuming it’s still about what it’s always about. I know we still have a lot to work out about your real father and the mistakes I made during the divorce. You know that I did what I did because I love you, and I wanted you with me. Perhaps a therapist can help us sort through that. But if you would rather not do that, I’d like to arrange something for myself, because I never meant to drive your father out of your life, and I want to know how we can mend everything. As I told you, he loved you, too, but I made it impossible for him to work with me.
Hopefully some therapy would help us both gain more perspective and answers.
Before I let you go, though, I need to ask what you mean by having Tristan come over to watch you. Neither Dave nor myself asked him to be there. I wasn’t aware that he was coming home at all, but I’m happy he’s there. I’m sure the two of you are having a great start to the summer!
Love you lots,
Mom
At first, I can only focus on the part where she hopes we’re having a great start to the summer. Yes, Mom, very. But the ending wipes that thought away entirely, making my temper rise yet again.
Neither my stepdad nor my mom asked Tristan to be here.
That means my stepbrother has been lying to me about coming home.
I get so furious that I don’t even respond to Mom yet. Instead, I burst out of my bed and tear off the stupid lingerie that’d been meant for Tristan. I yank on a pair of shorts and a baggy T-shirt, then go down to the family room and turn on the TV to something mindless while I wait for him. Yup, the second he steps through that door, he’ll be facing an inquisition.
But as time creeps by, there’s still no Tristan. I nod off a few times during a marathon of some action show that I’m totally unfamiliar with, but I’m determined to stay up. And with every flash of the passing seconds on the DVR, my ire rises.
Neither Dave nor myself asked him to be there…
I wasn’t aware that he was coming home at all…
As much as I try, I can’t stay awake, and the TV mutters to me as I fall asleep.
When I hear a door opening, I spring up on the sofa, immediately on alert. The lights are still on, and outside the sliding glass door, the sky is the bruised and cut colors of dawn. Groggy, I get to my feet, and it’s as if I’ve been wide awake all night—and angry the entire time.
I hear the door close then boot steps on tile in the foyer, and I march in that direction, ready to launch into Tristan.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand.
He’s ready to climb the stairs, his broad back facing me, his head down so that his hair covers the side of his face.
“I got an email from Mom and—”
He turns all the way around, and the sight of him steals every last word from me.
I gasp. Tristan’s face is covered with bruises, dark and angry. There’s a long scratch down the side of his cheek, and his bottom lip is split.
He’s been in a fight.
A very bad one.
And then I remember my mother’s email, telling me that she had no idea Tristan was coming home for the summer.
A cold chill runs through me as I wonder just what it is he’s been hiding…
END OF BOOK ONE
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OBSESSED WITH HIM (Book One)
by Hannah Ford
1
OBSESSED WITH HIM
(Obsessed With Him, Book One)
Taking my clothes off in front of strangers suddenly seemed like a horrible idea. I imagined the men waiting for me in there, their hands roaming my body, running over my breasts, my hips, my ass.
I hesitated, not sure I should go into Loose Cannons after all.
It didn’t look like a strip club.
But that was probably how they lured you in. They made it look like any other bar or restaurant, innocent and unassuming, so that when you walked in, you wouldn’t feel like you were doing anything wrong.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the paper in my hand, the one I’d printed out that morning. I was clutching it so hard it was wrinkled around the edges, and I smoothed it out against my thigh. My palms were sweaty, and I wiped them off on the denim skirt I was wearing.
“DANCERS WANTED,” the ad said. “EARN UP TO 1,000 DOLLARS A NIGHT, GUARANTEED. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. APPLY IN PERSON, LOOSE CANNONS, 1800 NORTH MAIN STREET.”
There were no hours given, which I’d thought was strange. What was I supposed to do? Just show up whenever? I’d called the club that morning to ask, and the girl who’d answered the phone hadn’t been all that friendly. She instructed me to come down whenever I wanted and then she’d hung up on me.
I could have – probably should have -- taken it as a sign not to pursue this crazy idea any further. But I was desperate. And desperation could make a person do crazy things.
I took a deep breath and caught sight of my reflection in the mirrored front door. It was bizarre, the way the front door was a mirror -- it was almost like they wanted you to have to look at yourself, to confront exactly what it was you were about to do.
Are you sure you want to do this? a voice in my whispered. Do you know what they might make you do in there? Take off your clothes. For strange men. You’ve never even kissed a boy, how are you going to do that?
I adjusted the denim skirt I was wearing. It was fringed on the bottom and hit just above the knee. It wasn’t exactly sexy – you could find the same exact skirt in every Old Navy or Gap in the world, and it was completely appropriate for everyday wear.
But it was the only thing I had that showed a little skin. It was one of the only things I had, period. After aging out of foster care and then being kicked out of my group home last week (which, trust
me, I wasn’t sad to leave), all my possessions fit into one garbage bag.
The sheer white top I was wearing was a button-up, and I wore a black push-up bra under it, so that the outline of the bra was visible under the shirt. Was that sexy? I wasn’t really sure. But I figured anything that allowed your underwear to show was a step in the right direction.
I flipped my head over and shook out my long blonde hair. It was the one thing I wasn’t self-conscious about. Everything else – my body, my smile, my skin – I could find flaws with. But I liked my hair. As I flipped back over, my eyes locked on my reflection again.
What the hell are you doing, Olivia?
I pushed my hair off my face and took a deep breath.
Just relax, I told myself. You’re twenty years old, stop acting like a baby. This is just a way to make a little money. A temporary way.
But I could hear the voice of Karl, my foster father, whispering in my head. This is where white trash girls like you end up.
I squared my shoulders, and as I did, the sleeve of my shirt slid up and I caught sight of the scars on my wrist. Twisted and red, tangled with a fresh red cut from last night. Last night, when I was missing Declan so bad I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d ended up in the bathroom of the shelter, quietly unwrapping one of the disposable razors they gave you as part of the welcome kit.
I quickly pulled my sleeve down. I needed to hide the scars. At least for now– I knew I couldn’t hide them forever. I couldn’t hide anything forever if I was going to be naked.
Anxiety welled up in my chest and the urge to cut, to take the edge off, welled up with it. My feet took a step away from the door, almost like they wanted to run away. But I forced myself to turn back.
And then I opened the door and walked into the club.
There was no one inside.
Actually, that wasn’t true.
