by Edie Danford
“You have wheels?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I’ll call a cab.”
His fingers flexed and I realized he was still holding my hand. With his other hand he retrieved his phone from his pocket and I watched him manipulate the glowing screen. I’d completely forgotten the name of the street we were on—I could’ve probably named the biggest cross street if given a few seconds. But he handled it all with a couple flicks of his thumb.
No hesitations, no pauses, just smooth and easy. Slick. That was the word that came to mind. Dude was slick as hell.
“Be at the corner in a few,” he said after pocketing his phone. We walked the half block without saying anything, his boots thumping a downbeat to the slap of my flip-flops against my heels. Add in the sound of my jaggedy breaths and drumming heartbeat and we had our own funky tune. Made me want to keep walking. And walking. And walking.
Was I actually going to do this? It had seemed like a great idea a minute ago. A good solution to a bunch of problems.
But now I was remembering a couple of important things. Like why I never hooked up. And how this kind of thing had a huge chance of getting hellaciously awkward. I hated feeling awkward.
My throat ached as I struggled for good, un-awkward words. Sorry, man. Changed my mind. It’s late. Gotta be up in a few hours…
Or maybe the awkward truth would get rid of him faster. I might seem like I know what I’m doing, but I don’t. You’d be more satisfied with some good porn and your own hand tonight.
When we got to the corner, he ran his rough fingers up and around my wrist and I couldn’t manage any words at all. He tugged me over to a nearby building’s stoop. Leaning against the wide concrete post at the base of the steps, he widened his stance, drawing me close.
He gently turned my hand, the streetlight shining gold light on the pale skin of my inner arm. Before I realized what he was up to, he bent and pressed a kiss to my pulse point, covering the quarter-sized birthmark on the inside of my wrist with a hot little flick of his tongue.
I shuddered violently, feeling like the lamp over our heads had sent down an arc of electricity to zap me. I held my breath. I kept holding it as he gazed at me with that scarily mesmerizing smile. “You taste as good as I thought you would,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes, exhaling slowly. As good as he thought…
“Do I know you?” I had to ask even though I’d already made up my mind there was no way I’d met him before. But it was weird how he’d gone for my wrist like that. As if he’d known about my birthmark, known how crazy-sensitive my skin was there.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nope. You don’t know me. Should I call you Tex?” He stroked my birthmark—which happened to be almost the exact shape of the state of Texas, to the joy of my Austin-born father. The texture of his fingertip was sandpapery and the abrasion ignited prickly hot sensation across my nerve endings.
“No.” I swayed slightly, dizzy from the force of the blood flowing to my dick and every other needy pulse point on my body. “I’m, uh. I’m from New Hampshire.”
He raised his brows as if this surprised him.
Had I answered the wrong question? I blinked slowly, trying to get my brain to work better.
“It’s a birthmark, not a tattoo,” I explained, backtracking a few thoughts. “I’ve never been to Texas. I grew up outside Chicago, actually, but my folks divorced recently, and my mom moved to New Hampshire last year. When I go home for the holidays that’s where I’ll go, so…it’s home.”
He nodded slowly and said, “Got it,” smooth and easy, like I hadn’t been rambling like an idiot. His touch was comforting. But distracting too. And sexy. Mostly sexy.
I flexed my toes. My foot was stiff and achy. I hadn’t paid enough attention to it tonight. It wasn’t nearly as stiff and achy as my dick. Which I hadn’t paid attention to in way, way too long.
I swallowed and asked, “How old are you?”
The left side of his mouth turned down. I was trying to figure out if it was a sneer when it morphed into a for-real smile. “Old enough. Wanna see my ID?”
I looked down and watched the way his thumb was stroking my skin. See with your dick and not with your head…
Yeah. Tonight I wanted to goddamn act like what I was when it came to sex—a horny, healthy twenty-something human. A guy who wasn’t “too perfect” to fuck.
“Nah,” I told him, going for a return smile. I didn’t need to know his name or his address or his birthdate.
His wrist was slender, decorated with a bunch of thin, braided bracelets. He wore a couple of plain silver rings on his middle and index fingers—no skulls with ruby eyes and no crosses, thank God.
I raised my hand, touched his hair. “Soft,” I said. I petted him for a moment, jazzing my fingertips with the feel of the brown-black waves. He had an ear gauge, and I was beginning to feel as though every part of his body held some kind of secret. Or treasure. Or enticement.
“Feels good.” His whisper rumbled like a purr and he leaned into my touch.
Damn. Those creases in his cheeks were adorable.
I dipped my head and tasted one, jabbing with my tongue. He laughed and I laughed too. I didn’t usually go in for a lot of licking, but obviously I was craving new flavors in my life. Beer had gone down like swill all night. Nerves about moving tomorrow and the nasty residue of a failed summer had been thick on my tongue, making everything hard to swallow. I was wound so tight every choice I made pinged and twanged like a sour note in my ears. I was sick of it.
So when he turned his head and opened his mouth, I let myself fall into a kiss for the first time in forever. When his tongue tip met mine, I forgot about teasing and being tentative and dove into a deep, breath-sucking, belly-dipping kiss.
He raised his hands to my neck, holding me steady as he slanted his mouth against mine again and again. His fingers twined into my hair, tugging hard, painfully, but it felt fucking good, the perfect accompaniment to the thrust of his tongue in my mouth, the thrust of his hips against mine. He tasted a little bit smoky and beery, but mostly sweet and musky. Exactly how a hot guy’s mouth should taste.
He slanted his head and the kiss deepened. I grabbed a handful of his shirt, holding tight. How could he feel so fricking solid when it was becoming all I could do to stand?
I was gulping, breathing hard through my nose, practically whimpering as my dick struggled against my shorts. I wanted more contact, more of that addictive buck and grind, but he pulled back from the kiss, his fingers still twined tightly in my hair. His breath was warm against my mouth as he said, “Easy, baby. Don’t forget to breathe.”
I wanted to laugh. I couldn’t remember anyone ever calling me baby. But I couldn’t remember ever forgetting to breathe either, and so I concentrated on getting oxygen into my lungs.
“There you go…” He tugged my lower lip into his mouth and nibbled. I closed the space, wrenching my lip, not caring about the pinch and the faint flavor of blood as we connected for another kiss.
His fingers untangled from my hair and my head felt way too light until he palmed the back of my skull, the heat and strength an instant comfort. His free hand found its way under my T-shirt and when he slid his rough, dry fingertips over my shaky torso, I wasn’t so comfortable anymore. And, oh Jesus, the edge of his thumb caught my nipple, making my skin sting and burn as he rubbed hard and then even harder, and I was back to moaning and rocking against him.
“You like that, huh?” He pressed biting kisses along my jawline. “I’m gonna use my teeth on you later. My teeth and my nails and maybe a few other things I can find.”
“Oh fuck.”
“We’ll get to that too.” His laughter tickled my lips. “But right now the cab’s here.”
I took a step back. My flip-flop snagged on the sidewalk and he put his arm around my waist. Breathing hard, I let him guide me into the backseat of the taxi.
Chapter Three
Nick
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CONFIDENCE, EXPERIENCE AND, yeah, plain old big balls had allowed me to make some fierce conquests—like the French diplomat I’d met at the Art Institute in July or the drummer for a certain up-and-coming alt-rock band who’d played the House of Blues a few weeks ago. But getting Josh Pahlke hot, panting and raring to fuck in the backseat of a Boston cab was probably going to outrank memories of all other guys.
And, damn, he sure as hell was a better kisser than the French guy or the drummer. Josh’s lips were softly textured but firm under my bite. Like the not-quite-ripe plum I’d had for breakfast but more delicious—a little bit beer, a little bit salty and a lot of something pumped-up and juicy.
He’d seemed uncomfortable with the kissing after we climbed into the cab. A drag, because I wanted to keep tasting him, but there were all kinds of things I could do in the meantime—previews for what we could get up to in the hotel suite.
I couldn’t stop touching him. Goddamn, he was fine. Too much to appreciate, really. I mean, how did a guy choose? Each part of him was a luscious discovery. His thigh, for example. A thigh obsession was a distinct possibility here.
The long, hard muscle tensed and flexed under my palm—solid as concrete but so sensitive. Twitchy and warm and practically humming under my touch. Ultra-conditioned and ultra-powerful. Jesus, what did he do to get it this way?
I wanted to ask him all kinds of questions. What did he eat? How long did he work out every day? What kind of training did he do over the summer? Was he still working out with the Olympic team? Did he use a special soap or deodorant to smell so good?
I didn’t ask any of them, though.
We were strangers to each other tonight. I’d had just enough beer that slip-ups were possible even though I was hyperaware of the game I was playing. I’d already fucked up when I’d gone after the birthmark on his wrist so quickly. Only someone who knew him well—or who knew quirky details about him like I did—would have known that birthmark was there.
Luckily attraction was a powerful drug and if we stayed jacked the way we so obviously were for each other, then logic and reason and rational shit were going to keep losing out to sensation.
My fingers strayed toward the bulge to the left of his zipper. His hand came down on mine.
“What?” I asked, putting on one of my best smiles as I looked up at his face.
I was a little alarmed when he didn’t return my smile. His eyes were studying me intently. They were a color I wanted to sink into and wallow in—a warm, rich brown. Hot caramel. I couldn’t see them as well as I wanted to in the dank of the cab, but I remembered them.
“What?” I asked again, pitching my voice lower, wiggling my fingers under his. A small punch of panic hit my gut. He wasn’t gonna change his mind about this, was he? Tonight would be a different kind of fairytale if Prince Whatshisname never made it to the ball.
He licked his lip—a quick dart of his tongue. Nervous. I could do a much better job of licking that plump lower lip. I could make him forget whatever it was he was nervous about. I could lean in and capture—
“So,” he said. “The Harbor Hotel…” He repeated the name I’d given to the cabbie. “Pretty slick.”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. If his nerves were about the hotel, it was easy to reassure him. “I’m not some freaky kind of player who’d lay out half a grand just to impress you tonight. My friend’s parents sprang for it. I’ve been helping her move this week. She and her girl got a sweet little studio in Cambridge.”
“Your friend is the woman you were with?” he asked. “At the party?”
“Yeah.”
“You guys students?”
“Yeah,” I answered again. “She’s a physics genius. Starting a grad program next week.” I continued exploring the contours of his thigh, deliberately not addressing details he probably wanted to know. Like where I was a student and all that bullshit about where I lived and what was my major and what did I want to do with my degree, etcetera. Not very chatty or cool or creative of me, but I wasn’t trying to impress him with my conversational skills.
His mouth quirked on one side. It was an expression I’d fallen in love with years ago—a crooked smile that had made my heart go off kilter. In fact, my heart seemed to be doing some funky shit as I looked at him right now. Couldn’t quite believe Josh Pahlke was inches from me. Smiling at me.
“Where?” he asked.
I laughed softly. “Not super close by, but not too far.”
He rested his head against the back of the seat, still wearing that crooked smile. “That’s all you’re gonna give me? You know that just makes me more curious, right?”
“Yeah,” I answered one more time, laughing more, probably sounding way too breathy and into him.
He shook his head and the tumble of his soft, dark hair against the vinyl surface of the cab’s grungy seat was one of those jarring texture mix-ups that always made me nuts.
I raised my hand and touched one of the gleaming waves, running my fingertip over it, spreading the strands so I could feel the tough plastic beneath.
His shoulder flexed. “What?” he asked again. “This seat is rank, right? I should—”
“It’s okay,” I reassured him. I leaned in to brush his mouth with a quick kiss. “You’re so fucking gorgeous I can’t stand it. The rank seat helps balance things. The sacred meeting the profane, you know?”
He laughed, raising his head from the seat. “Did you just call my hair sacred?”
Busted. “Maybe.” I winked.
“Okay. I’m guessing you’re some kind of humanities major. So you don’t go to MIT.” He mimicked my wink. “BC? Or maybe Amherst or Williams…where you’re headed off to after the weekend.”
“Smart guesses,” I said. “I’m guessing you’re a student at one of those big-brain factories?” I’d injected some smartass into my comment but his expression got serious as he considered my question.
“I’m…” He sighed and fixed his gaze on the cab’s roof. “I’m in between gigs. I’m starting something new next week. Hopefully I’ll be able to hack it.”
I nodded, picturing someplace crystalline-white and filled with sunny, smiling ski dudes. Telluride or Squaw Valley. All the big ski places I could think of were known for alpine and snowboarding. Not cross-country stuff. I didn’t know much about Nordic skiing except for what I’d read in the occasional hometown news article related to Josh.
Words formed quickly in my throat—questions about all his plans, short-term, long-term, whatever—but I swallowed them down just as quickly. I didn’t want to know what Josh was up to with his life. I didn’t want to know where he was off to or why he’d turned his face toward the window, his mouth setting into a rigid line.
We had nothing in common except for our hard dicks and a few free hours to fuck. The only information I needed from him tonight had to do with whether he preferred to be on his back or his knees.
“I’m glad I caught you in between…” I lifted his hand from his lap and placed it on the bulge beneath my button fly. “Gigs,” I whispered, pressing down so his palm molded over my cock’s twitching shaft.
I expected him to laugh or call me out on the cheesy line. A guy like Josh must’ve heard a thousand dopey lines from a thousand dope guys. So when he looked down at my hand pressing down on his, when his fingers convulsed, when his white teeth bit down on his perfect lower lip—all things that made it seem as though he was definitely nervous about what we were up to—I was surprised.
Before I could adjust my strategy, we pulled up to the hotel. Josh jumped, snatching his hand away.
As I retrieved a credit card from my wallet, a uniformed guy from the hotel opened the cab’s door and Josh looked over at me, eyes wide, as if a doorman was the last possible thing he ever expected to face tonight.
“It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I really am staying at this hotel. I have a key card and everything.”
After I took care of the cabbie and exited the car, we followed
the doorman into the lobby. Josh was still acting a little freaked out, so I put my hand on his lower back, rubbing gently. So far he’d responded well to my touch.
The opulent space was quiet and mostly deserted. It smelled like fresh flowers and cleaner and a little like the Boston Harbor, which was just outside a wall of big windows beyond a luxe seating area. The guy behind the desk was the same hot guy who’d been there the last couple of nights. I was grateful to see him because we’d flirted like hell and so he remembered me well enough to give me a familiar little wave, proving to Josh-of-the-potential-cold-feet that I wasn’t a douche who’d get us kicked out of a five-star hotel lobby.
“I feel a little underdressed,” Josh muttered as we stood in front of the huge mirror in the alcove by the elevators.
“Nah,” I said, giving his reflection a once-over. His hair was dry now and the muted lighting picked up glints of gold in the dark waves doinking up around his ears. His eyes were red-rimmed—it was late and he’d had a few. His T-shirt had a faded snowflake on it and the name of a Vermont ski resort popular with Ellery students. There was a stain on the hem that might’ve been food. His toes were dirty. None of that mattered. It was a total cliché, but Josh glowed from the inside.
“You’re perfect,” I told him.
He snorted, but that was a good sign. He was seeing the humor in this situation. And he was also seeing me—his gaze in the mirror was glomming on my crotch.
That’s right, Josh. Keep your eye on your new best friend.
He licked his lips and his Adam’s apple bobbed. His indrawn breath echoed against the marble floors and silk-covered walls. Oh yeah. I was gonna give him the time of his life.
The elevator doors opened and we got into the car. Before the doors shut, I had him backed into a corner. I wasn’t gonna go easy on him because of a security camera or a short ride. I got my hands under his T-shirt, my mouth on his neck and my denim-covered dick against his hip.
