Seth (Damage Control #3)

by Jo Raven

  I shouldn’t wonder how Seth kisses, if sweet and slow, or hard and demanding. If he’d have kissed me, pushed me against the wall and held me there, pressed his body to mine if he’d been the one with me at the party.

  Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t.

  He’s not the one I want. I’m not picturing him in the shower, naked and—

  No, I’m not.

  Clenching my hands, I get up. I want Fred. I like the fact he’s slender and sweet, that I’m not afraid of him overpowering me, taking me against my will. That he’s so sensitive and careful. The confusion will clear when I’m out of here, far from Seth.

  Can’t see my purse. I turn in a circle and spot it on the floor under the low table. I squat down to grab it and notice a crumbled piece of paper. I lift it, straighten it out on the table for Seth to find later.

  It’s a photo, and the sight of it stops me as I prepare to stand up and go. The ink has faded to brown and yellow. It’s old and spent a long time folded, the creases so deep they’re about to tear open.

  It’s the photo of two women and two boys. The women look like sisters, light-skinned and fair, and the boys look like brothers—dark hair and dark, exotic eyes. I’m pretty sure I know who they are. I smooth my fingertip over a small, smiling face, over familiar broad cheekbones and thick-lashed eyes.

  A mother he’d thought dead for—how long? I wonder. How long was she missing? And what happened to him while she was gone? It’s hard to smooth out the wrinkles in the paper. The anger that made him crumble up something he’d obviously kept for a long time, a kind of talisman, a memory, makes my eyes sting.

  Before I know it, I’m on my feet and looking for him. Can’t hear the shower running yet. I step into a tiny hallway. The bathroom door is open, and I halt before he sees me, my breath hitching.

  Whoa.

  He’s standing at the sink, a hand on his chest between his hard pecs, head bowed, dark hair hiding his eyes. But God, his back… Broad and muscular, covered in intricate ink—snakes, feathers, ladders, claws, demons—and matching ink on his chest, reflected in the mirror, spreading down his pecs, stretching over his padded shoulders.

  A snake, mouth open, fangs dripping. I know this tattoo. It’s the photo I saw hanging inside Damage Control.

  He’s so frigging hot my body ignites, my blood burns, thumping heavily in the base of my throat, deep inside my belly, between my legs.

  Jesus. This can’t be happening. I should go.

  He lifts his head, and our gazes meet in the mirror. I’m caught, unable to move, helplessly looking on as his eyes darken to black. His hand, still pressed against his chest, curls into a tight fist. His mouth is beautiful, wide and full, his jaw dark with stubble. I want to touch it, run my fingers against it, let it scrape my skin.

  He turns around before I run and this close up, with his chest bared, his ink revealed, I’m rapidly forgetting my reasons for needing to go. His beauty hits me full-force—extraordinary, fierce, striking.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  “You should go, Manon,” he whispers, and I swallow hard, hurt.

  “Okay.”

  “You should go now, before I decide to teach you how to kiss. How a boyfriend should treat you.”

  His words go through me like lightning. Suddenly I’m hot all over.

  Not sure I can speak, I lift my hands, place them on his bare skin. His flesh is warm, hot and smooth, his muscles firm, his heart beating fast under my palms. His musk rises around me, and he puts his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the wall.

  Oh God. The contact is scorching—just the press of his muscled body to mine, even though I am fully dressed, and he isn’t touching any part of me. His hands are flat on the wall, his mouth so close his breath feathers over mine, warm, smelling of mint. His lashes are lowered, his gaze intent.

  He doesn’t move or speak. He’s made his move, though I’m not sure what it means.

  He’s waiting for me to make mine.

  I lick my lips, and his eyes zero in on my mouth. He exhales, his chest rising and falling under my hands. The muscles in his taut abdomen contract deliciously.

  “I want…” My voice cracks, and I start again. “I want you to show me. Teach me how to kiss.”

  A shadow passes over his handsome face, and his dark brows draw together over his eyes. His slightly crooked nose and a whitish scar on his jaw give him a rakish air, dangerous and wild—but his mouth looks soft.

  I hope what I’m asking for is clear, despite the fuzziness in my head and the ache of need in my body. I’m doing this so I can convince Fred I’m not some inexperienced chick, that I have been kissed and know my way about a man’s mouth and body.

  And God, what a body.

  “Oh, I will,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I will teach you. Are you ready?”

  I think I am, and I start to nod—when he grips my chin and crushes his mouth to mine.

  Boy I was wrong. Never felt anything like it, I think, dazed, as he parts my lips with his tongue and thrusts inside my mouth, a delicious friction. He tastes of mint and something dark and rich like a rare brandy, driving me drunk and dizzy.

  I slide my hands up his hard pecs, and he groans in my mouth, pressing up against me, his grip on my chin so tight it hurts. His chest molds to mine, crushing my breasts on his harsh planes, and something long and thick digs into my hip.

  No time to process all this, though, because he moves again, changing the angle of the kiss, delving deeper, his hand slipping round to the back of my head, his strong body shifting so that his thigh is now between my legs—pressing, making me see stars.

  Feels so good alarms go off inside my head.

  What am I doing? I push on his chest—to no effect. It’s like pushing on a brick wall.

  Something does happen, though. He draws back, breaking the kiss, breathing hard. “You okay?”

  He licks his lips, and God help me, that’s so sexy I can’t help myself. My turn to kiss him, and he makes a small, startled sound before he surrenders to it, keeping still as I explore his mouth with my tongue, licking into it, mimicking what he did to me a moment ago.

  The sensation of his lips, his tongue, his stubble scratching my face, all that strength in his body, kept in check as he lets me have my way with him, it’s burning me alive. Can’t remember ever needing… needing release so much. I’m teetering on a brink, my pussy clenching, the pressure rising, sparks shooting up my belly.

  Oh God, so this is what it’s really like, I think, before he moans in my mouth, trembling, his thigh presses harder between my legs, and I come undone. I try to break the kiss, but he keeps our mouths fused, swallowing my cries as pleasure tears through my body, shattering me.

  He finally breaks the kiss and stares down at me, panting, a flush on his cheeks. He’s diamond hard where he’s pressed to me, the heat of his erection leaking through his jeans and my dress to mark my skin.

  Holy crap…

  The reality of what I’ve just done hits me square in the chest. Oh God. I kissed Seth. Kissed him, and let him kiss me—and get me off—in his bathroom, while Fred is somewhere else, thinking I’m at the party, talking and having harmless fun.

  “I have to go,” I say, my voice barely making it past my lips. He’s still cradling my head, his leg is still between mine. I can still smell his delicious scent, still feel every inch of his body. “Seth.”

  He blinks as if waking from a dream. Then his eyes narrow, his mouth flattens, and I can almost hear the shields dropping back into place with a clank, the defenses descending over his face, hiding any emotion he might feel.

  “Of course you do,” he mutters and pulls away, turns his back to me. “Hell. Hope I helped with your question.”

  I stare at the beautiful ink decorating the flare of his ribs, the line of his spine, the wings of his shoulder blades, and Jesus, what do I do now?

  “Yes,” I croak, feeling ashamed and more confused than ever. “Thank you.”

&n
bsp; I don’t know if he answers back, because this time I flee as if the devil’s at my heels.

  ***

  “Physical therapy, huh?” Cassie’s reaction is much milder than Fred’s and makes me feel a little bit better about myself. “Why not?”

  “Won’t you tell me I should stick to the arts? That I have to fight for dance?”

  She shrugs. “It’s your life. Do you want to fight?”

  Good question. “I want to keep dancing,” I say truthfully. “Can’t imagine life without dance.”

  “Can you dance on the side?”

  “Maybe? Depends on how much time I’ll have for it, I guess. I could also give classes to pay for college, at least partly. Pilates, ballet, belly dancing, modern dance.”

  She gives me a faint smile. “You were always so full of energy. You make me feel old with everything you’re about to do.”

  I sit back and take a good look at her. She looks terrible, thinner, with bags under eyes a bit too bright. Even worse: she’s dressed as if she’s heading for the gym—not something Cassie might do—in a café, for chrissakes.

  So out of character.

  “You okay, Cass?”

  She stares into her mug of tea. “Been better.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing new.” She takes a sip and before I press her for a real answer, she says, “So I heard you left Saturday night's party with Seth?”

  Oh crap. Stifling a groan, I lean back in my chair. “Who told you that?”

  “Ha, gotcha.” A real smile this time. “You did, just now.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “Devious.”

  “I’m a bitch, I know.” She sniffs. “Everyone knows.”

  “Hey…” I shouldn’t feel bad. She earned that title, and yet I’m pretty sure that’s why she’s like this. Like she’s really depressed. Sinking.

  “So did you have wild sex in your car? In the stairwell? On his sofa? In the shower?”

  “Cass!”

  “Why do you look so shocked? People do that, you know.”

  They do? “In the movies only,” I decide.

  “I’m sure you believe that.”

  My face warms, and I try to hide it behind my cup of coffee. “I do.”

  Cassie of course sees right through me. Well, you’d have to be blind not to see my blush. “He kissed you, at least?”

  “Fred?”

  “Fred?” She makes a face. “You still hung up on him? Guy isn’t interested, girl.”

  “What are you talking about? Fred wants me.”

  “Because he goes out for coffee with you? Do tell. Has he kissed you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah-huh. My point exactly. Whereas Seth…?”

  I almost choke on my coffee. I want to lie. I try. My mouth won’t cooperate. “Seth did.”

  “He kissed you. I knew it.” She grins, eyes twinkling. “The boy wants you.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  But even as I say it the memory of the way he held me and kissed me, the sounds he made, the feel of his hard-on branding my hip, it rushes back and makes me throb inside.

  Crap.

  “He wants into your pants.”

  “He’s just being a good friend.”

  She lifts a sandy brow. “By kissing you?”

  I open my mouth. Close it. “It’s not like that.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t want Seth.”

  Okay, by now my excuses sound lame even to me. So I’m attracted to Seth. He’s an attractive guy. Nothing strange about that, right? Doesn’t mean anything.

  But Cassie isn’t done with me yet. “Why do you want this guy anyway? This Fred?”

  “We fit. We are similar.”

  “That’s what I thought about Jesse. And see how wrong I was.”

  I wince at the bitterness in her voice. “Yes, you were, Cass.”

  “And if you are, too?”

  “The difference is, I haven’t forced myself on him.”

  “Fred or Seth?”

  “Neither!”

  Cassie nods, and I start when a tear rolls down her cheek, glittering like a crystal. She pushes back her chair and wipes at her eyes quickly. “Gotta go.”

  “Cass…” Now why do I feel like a heel? “Wait.”

  “What for? You’ve judged me, and won’t even think about taking another look at my case.”

  “This isn’t a trial, Cass.”

  “Then why does it feel like one?”

  People at the surrounding tables are openly staring at us.

  “Please sit down.” I sigh, rub my eyes. “I’m sorry. I believe what you told me, that you thought Jesse wasn’t serious about Amber. That he was only looking for a hook-up. I get it. I’m just stressed right now. Give me some time, Cass.”

  She sits back down, a wary look on her face. “Okay. Is it because of Seth? And Fred?”

  “I’m attracted to Seth, okay? But it’s Fred I want.”

  “I see.” She toys with a strand of her blond hair. “So, this Fred. Must be really handsome, huh?”

  “Yeah. He is.”

  “You don’t sound too convinced.”

  “I am.”

  “And you like it when you kiss, right? When you fuck. You want to touch him, taste him, put your hands all over him? You want him to possess you and make you his.”

  Oh God, yes. But the one on my mind right now isn’t Fred. Not at all.

  It’s Seth.

  ***

  The next days pass in a flurry of activity—running between college and the dance academy, gathering signed documents and stamps. Putting off the inevitable.

  Which is talking to my parents about my plans.

  First I need to make sure I can do this. It seems I can jump into the middle of the sports kinesiology degree program without any difficulty, given I get some help with certain classes I never took—and special care will be taken not to aggravate my weak ankle. I can focus on sports like swimming, yoga, aqua aerobics and a bunch of other stuff.

  Additional credits will be awarded for classes I’ve completed. There was even talk of the possibility of a small stipend. Once I get my degree, I can do a Master’s in physical therapy.

  I can do this. I can.

  Now I need to see if I can find work teaching dance classes, and I’ll be ready to tell my dad. As for my mom…

  Yeah, that’ll be a tough one. She wanted me to be a ballet dancer. It was her dream, since she was little, and she passed it on to me.

  Well, dreams change. They transform, and the more I think about becoming a physical therapist, the more I want it. And if it doesn’t work out in the end, I’ll have a degree I can use in lots of professions, specialize in lots of different things.

  I feel as if my horizons are expanding. Ballet was lovely, but the outcomes were specific and uncertain. Get picked by a dance company and be a dancer—or not be picked and become a teacher, which isn’t something I really wanted. Teaching yoga or belly dancing on the side is one thing. Teaching the one thing I wanted to excel in is another.

  As I run from appointment to appointment, a little freaked out, stressed and harried, as I jog in the mornings, and then do some stretches, do my routine exercises and work up a sweat, as I buy groceries and make myself some dinner—I’m glad for it.

  Because it keeps my mind off Seth—at least during the day time hours. That kiss… it haunts my dreams. I keep waking up hot and throbbing with the ghostly memory of his lips on mine, his scent and taste filling my senses.

  So I fill my days with more things, set myself deadlines. This is important. This is about my future. And Seth may have kissed me, but it was a challenge for him. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it—all about me—by now.

  God…

  By Thursday evening, I sit by the phone and steel my nerves to call Dad.

  “How’s my ballerina?” he says in lieu of greeting, and I wince. “Manon?”

  “Hey, Dad.”


  “Is everything okay? You never call me mid-week. All those rehearsals and training until late.”

  “Yeah, about that…” I pull my legs up on the sofa and fold them underneath me. “Dad, I’m changing career. I had this thought to become a physical therapist, but that’s long-term. I’ll enroll in sports kinesiology at the university here and then—”

  “Whoa, hold your horses. What are you talking about? Sports kinesiology? Physical therapy? What the hell?”

  Ow. Dad never swears, so he’s either pissed or so overwhelmed he didn’t realize.

  “Daddy.” I wait for him to quieten down. “Daddy, listen. The dance school kicked me out because of my ankle. Remember, the injury I had?”

  “How can I forget? Baby girl, we thought it was all over, but you made it back into the game. They have no right to kick you out, I’ll come over and talk to—”

  “No, Dad.” No matter how I wish I were still his little girl in times like this, I’ve got to handle things on my own. “I talked to them several times, and they explained the issue. If I continue with the intensive training, I’ll hurt myself more. This isn’t just them not wanting the responsibility: it’s my decision, too. My chances of becoming a professional ballerina were slim at best. My injury ensures that they’re non-existent, and that if I force myself, I may have trouble dancing or even walking in the future. I don’t want that.”

  “Don’t want that, either,” he says, his voice hushed. “God almighty, I didn’t realize it was so serious.”

  Me neither. Not until the director talked to me and I read the medical report.

  “Are you okay with my decision, then?”

  “I’m one hundred percent behind you, baby girl.” His voice is warm over the phone, and I relax back on the couch. “You know that. Do whatever’s best for you. Just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Daddy. Need to tell Mom, too.”

  “That’ll be a bitch,” he says, and we both laugh, because it will be.

  Le sigh… Not looking forward to that conversation.

  ***

  Friday rolls around. I’ve enrolled in belly-dancing, classical ballet—of course—and Pilates. My first belly-dancing lesson was today, and it rocked. I love the freedom of it, the sensuousness.