by Arell Rivers
Keeping the mood light, I ask, “Who’s going to write songs about all the stupid shit you do out in LaLa Land?”
I wrote “Prowling” after he left me a drunken note during freshman year. I still have it, and it makes me laugh every time I read his barely legible handwriting:
Please, please, please, I’m begging you to go prewl prawl prowling around campus for women with me—and bring that guitarr cause they loooove it.
While he didn’t appreciate his song the first time I played it for him, he seems to score whenever I perform it. His opinion of my mad writing skills went up a few notches once he realized the correlation.
“Yeah, well who’s going to be your new wingman here?”
I’ve been Dan’s wingman more times than I can count. And vice versa, although I haven’t much needed his efforts in that department. I’ve kept a steady diet of women, but none I would call a “girlfriend.” That’s not to say some haven’t tried their damnedest to get that title. With so many willing women in the City that never sleeps, why should I tie myself to just one?
I check the time. It’s getting pretty late and I have that brunette waiting for me. I glance over to her table. She seems to be in deep conversation with her friends. It’s time to indulge in something other than beer.
“Yeah,” I say, “it’s going to be crazy not living together anymore. I’m going to miss your cleaning skills when my parents come over.”
“Guess you’ll have to learn how to wash a dish, man.”
“Not tonight, I won’t. Are you going to stay here or head back to the apartment? I think it’s time for me to put that chick out of her misery.”
Rolling his eyes, Dan replies, “I’m heading out. Have a good night, stud.”
Oh, I intend to. Graduation isn’t for another month, so I don’t yet feel the urgency to cram in more time with Dan before he heads out to LA. We give each other a half-hug and he leaves.
I take a few steps toward the brunette’s table. It’s empty.
Stopping in the middle of the bar as if hitting an invisible wall, I scan the room for the girl. She was on board with being my date tonight, I’m sure of it. Maybe she went to the ladies’ room? But I glance over, and she’s not in the line. A woman has never before backed out on me like this. Well, shit.
The bar still is filled with plenty of chicks, but now I’m fixated on that brunette. She must be inside the bathroom. There’s no other explanation. While I’m holding up a wall near the bathrooms, no less than three women come over and try to chat me up. I’m on a mission, though, and they all give up.
When a girl I saw in line leaves the bathroom, it hits me—I’ve really been ditched. This sucks. And not in a good way.
I’m making my way to the bar for a shot of something—anything—when I spot the brunette walking into the bar from outside. Changing course, I stride over to her. “You left?”
She looks up at me while her fingers play with her earring. “I, uhm, it was getting late.”
Reaching out, I extricate her fingers from the hoop. Pitching my voice lower, I say, “But you came back.” She blushes and nods.
For some reason I find her behavior endearing. Kissing her hand, I stare into her intoxicating blue eyes and ask, “Do you still want me, darlin’?”
What the hell? I never ask twice.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time, Cole.” She swallows. “I don’t want to miss out on tonight.”
That’s more like it. Time to change the status of this party to private. “Do you have your own apartment?”
“No, I live in the dorms.”
I nod my head in understanding. “Are you in Hayden?”
“Yeah.”
That one simple answer tells me a lot about her. She’s a freshman at NYU and there’s no way in hell I’m taking her back there. Been there, done that. I hate the lack of privacy. One time I was literally thrusting into some redhead when the door opened and her roommate walked in. Of course, her roommate joined us for a threesome, so I can’t really complain. But I prefer to choose my partners ahead of time. Nope, not going back to the dorms.
“I have the perfect place for us to get to know each other. Intimately.” I whisper the last word into her ear and feel her shudder in response. That’s more like it.
I lead her upstairs to the room that I use to store my guitar. It’s small but clean, and there’s a sofa and a private bathroom.
Given my rather heavy conversation with Dan tonight and this cute brown-haired chick’s almost defection, I’m not interested in small talk. I want to focus on something a lot more pleasurable. Like getting inside her. As soon as we enter the room, I spin her around so that her back is to the door.
Bracing my arms at either side of her head, I lean forward and stare at her lips. She tilts her head and closes her eyes. That’s all the invitation I need. I swoop down to kiss her with an intensity driven by lust, beer and the knowledge that my college years will soon be over. My lips cover hers. This is not a gentle kiss. She moans as I thrust my tongue into her mouth and part her legs with my knee. Her hands climb my chest and encircle my neck.
I break away from her mouth and start kissing a trail from her neck up to her ear. “I think we’re both overdressed for this party.”
Hearing no objection, I reach down and remove her shirt.
“Rose.”
Wait, what? Does she want me to give her flowers? My eyes raking over her lacy ice-blue bra that matches her eyes, I say, “Excuse me?”
“My name is Rose. Rose Bloomer. I just thought you should know . . .”
Smiling, I undo her bra with one flick of my fingers and take a pert nipple into my mouth. “Nice to meet you, Rose. Rose Bloomer.” Just then her name registers. I try, unsuccessfully, to suppress my chuckle.
“My mother had an ironic sense of humor.”
“Perhaps she was a frustrated florist?” Grinning, I look at her standing against the door, half naked. Her hair smells faintly of flowers. “I like your name. It suits you.”
Kissing her again, I bring her flush against me and cup her ass. Her very nice ass. Not breaking contact with her, I turn us both and walk over to the sofa. I undo the zipper at the back of her skirt, and it drops to the floor in a puddle of fabric. I’m fully dressed; she’s only in an ice-blue thong and black heels.
“Sexy,” I whisper in her ear. “Leave the shoes on.”
I put some gentle pressure on her shoulder, then follow her onto the sofa. Her hands work the buttons on my shirt and I let her take it off me. Her eyes dilate as they roam over my chest and abs.
“You’re ripped. I didn’t know. Wow.”
All those hours at the gym were worth it to get this response. “For you, darlin’,” I reply, while looking down at her body. Something at her hip catches my attention. “What is this? A tattoo?” I ask as I lave it with my tongue.
“Birthmark,” she replies breathlessly.
“It looks like a flower. How perfect for you, Rose.”
Soon I’m distracted from her birthmark by her scent. Pulling her thong down and off her body, I begin to explore her wet folds with my tongue. Her breathing increases as my fingers join the exploration.
Lightly blowing on her, I lick her clit and demand, “Come for me.”
After a few more strokes, she clenches around me and moans. Nice.
My lips wander back to her nipple as I remove a condom packet from my wallet, placing it on a nearby table. I shuck my jeans and hear her suck in a breath. I don’t have time to look at her before she’s pulling my head to hers, devouring me with her lips, tongue and teeth. It’s my turn to moan as I relish our bodies’ contact, skin on skin.
God, this girl feels so damn good. Her tits are the perfect size, with their beautifully distended pink nipples. And that ass. I knead it while she wraps her hand around my cock and begins moving it up and down. Involuntarily, my hips thrust into her. For her part, she’s writhing under me, moaning my name over and o
ver.
“Do you want me, darlin’?”
“Cole. Oh God, Cole.”
I take that’s a “yes.” I grab the condom and quickly roll it over my throbbing cock. With a quick thrust, I enter her to the hilt. Fuck, she’s so tight and wet.
“Yes, darlin’,” I breathe into her ear.
After I give her a moment to adjust to my size, I start pumping into her welcoming pussy. I slowly pull back and push forward, over and over. Her back arches perfectly, offering her pink nipples to my mouth. Who am I to refuse?
Deciding that I would like to see her tits bouncing, I change our position so that she’s riding me. With my hands at her hips, I caress that cute birthmark and guide her into the perfect rhythm. She has one foot on the floor for balance, and the sight of her fuck-me pumps drives me crazy. I’m quickly getting close, so I stroke her clit. She falls apart. I love the look on a woman’s face as she comes for me. Her climax sends me over the edge, and I come with a loud, satisfied groan.
When sanity returns, I pull out of her body. Lightly smacking her gorgeous ass, I go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. Cupping my hands, I rinse my face with cold water and look into the mirror. My green eyes have a well-sated glint, and my brown hair is messy from all of her attention. No one would doubt that I just indulged in some seriously glorious sex.
Smiling, I walk naked from the bathroom to see her pulling her shirt on over her head. Her brown hair’s red highlights glint in the dim light. Otherwise, she’s fully dressed. “Now who’s underdressed for this party?”
“Cole, that was . . . wow. There are no words.”
“I had a great time too, darlin’.”
She reaches up and traces my dimple with her pink fingertip. Her nail polish reminds me of her nipples. She brings me in for a kiss and then turns toward the door. With her hand on the door knob she says, “I’ll never forget tonight, Cole.”
Stopping her before she can leave the room, I bring her back to me for one last, long, passionate kiss.
“It was a very good night, Rose Bloomer with the flower birthmark.”
I want to thank so many people for their encouragement and help along my first journey to publishing.
First, my #1 fan, my husband. He has given me so much support, listened to too many plot variations and loved me through it all. A great big shout out, too, to my mother, family and friends.
My critique partners, Noella Phillips and Michelle Bond. I am so lucky to have found these ladies who have laughed and cried with me, and suffered through agonizing storyline changes. Their honesty and support is humbling.
My behind-the-scenes plotting partner, Wendy Hamlin. She sat through many dinners (and drinks!) listening to me ramble on and on about crazy plot possibilities.
A great big thank you to my professional team! I was so fortunate to have found the amazing Angela Polidoro, whose edits made this book sing. With a huge heart and red pen to match, Jen Leisenheimer of Beyond the Pages Editing applied her skills to proofread this manuscript. The always upbeat Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs formatted the pages with practiced ease. And cover designer Kari Ayasha of Cover to Cover came up with the most amazing cover design, even though I couldn’t articulate what I wanted. Thanks to each of these fabulous ladies for your patience in helping me produce my debut novel.
My betas – Maria Dema, Freddie Bonaire, Frances Rosa, Chip Cavill, Carrie Sutton, Sarah Robson, Renita van Dam-Jacobi and Lee Thomas. This has been a very long road, and their good humor through it all (can I say “what about this cover or this one?”) means more to me than words can express.
My rock star go-to Greg Merkle. Thanks for all your insights into the music world!
Huge thank you to everyone who has supported me throughout my journey, especially Anne Walradt, Lilly Wilde, WT, Rekha Dave, Candice Benson, Nancy Herkness, Judy Kentrus and all of the wonderful authors in the NJ chapter of Romance Writers of America.
And finally, to all the ladies of the Playroom. You gave me the ludicrous idea that I really could write the story of my heart. I will love each of you forever for that.
To everyone who picks up this novel, I hope you fall in love with Cole and Rose. And if you do, please tells your friends and write a review.
For as long as Arell Rivers can remember, she has been lost in a book. During her senior year in college, she picked up a Danielle Steele novel … and instantly was hooked on romance.
Arell started writing her first novel because the characters were screaming at her to do so. The story started coming out in her dreams and attacking her in the shower, so she took to the computer to shut them up. But they kept talking.
Born and raised in New Jersey, Arell has what some may call a “checkered past.” Prior to discovering her passion for writing romance, she practiced law, was a wedding and event planner and even dabbled in marketing. Arell lives with a very supportive husband and two mischievous cats. When not in her writing cave, Arell is found making dinner in the crock pot, working out with Shaun T or hitting the beach.
Arell is a member of the New Jersey chapter of Romance Writers of America.
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Hard to Hold (Book #2 in The Hold series)
To Have and To Hold (Book #3 in The Hold series)
