by Nikky Kaye
“Serena…” he whispered. “Damn it, why? How do you do this to me?” he murmured against my upturned cheek.
“I-I could say the same thing.” He affected me just as acutely as he had in high school. Now I was older, wiser, and more experienced; yet he made me feel like I was seventeen again.
His breath was hot against my closed eyes—his lips grazing my eyelashes, the curve of my eye socket and brow, and the furrow in between my eyebrows.
“Marcus, please.” I was ready to beg him to kiss me, until I realized that a) I was at work, and b) he already kind of was.
“Please what?”
I needed his lips on mine. My tongue flicked out to taste his chin. It wasn’t enough.
“You want me to kiss you, don’t you?”
Whimper.
“I’m afraid,” he murmured against my parted lips. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to stop.”
I completely sympathized, but I still pulled him down to me. I was willing to take the risk if he was.
His kiss was voracious, like he’d been missing me for days—wait, maybe he had. After one hard, full tongue kiss, he edged back to little pecks and nibbles on my lower lip.
“We are absolutely, without a doubt, having dinner in a public place.” His determined growl sent lightning bolts right to my core.
I nodded as his lips moved over my forehead. “Phone number?”
“What’s yours?”
In a daze, I told him. He pressed his mouth to the top of my head, inhaling sharply, then stepped back so quickly I almost lost my balance.
“You’re at work,” he reminded me.
Right. Work. I took a few steadying breaths.
“See you later?”
His hard hands went to my waist. I felt his touch like a hot iron through my scrubs. But he merely spun me around and prodded me forward. “Later,” he promised as he pushed me away.
Right. Work. Right.
When I looked back, he was gone. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
—Now you have my number.
More like Marcus Blake had my number, in every way.
And I couldn’t wait.
It was a typical committee meeting—too long and utterly pointless. I texted Marcus to tell him that it should be finished soon. God, I hoped so!
Lemmon talked and talked. Occasionally a tall, angular woman interjected; a former yearbook editor, I barely knew her in high school and even less now. Across the table, I avoided the assessing looks of one of the jocks who was part of my old crowd—Matt, maybe? Mike? I had selective amnesia when it came to my teenage years.
Just because I’d been roped into this committee didn’t mean I had to willingly involve myself in it. Thank god the whole thing would be over in less than a week.
“Serena?”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“What do you think of the idea?”
What had they been discussing? Drinks? Balloons? “I think it’s… fine?”
“Great! So we’ll do the award for Mrs. Blake, Marcus’s speech, then Homecoming court crowning.” Principal Lemmon was pleased as the punch that would inevitably be spiked at the party.
“Marcus Blake?” Mystery Jock choked out. “He’s coming?”
“It will be so great! I think it will be something that the current students and the returning alumni will all remember.”
The douchebag across the table snickered. I narrowed my eyes, a sick, sinking feeling curdling my stomach. Was he one of the assholes who…
I’d known Brandon and his girlfriend had been directly involved in the sex tape scandal from hell. Hell, she bragged about getting her colorectal surgeon father’s probe camera to slip under the door of our hotel room. The rest of the gang quietly joined in the torture without taking any responsibility.
They thought it was hysterical. I was mortified.
Not because I was in the video—in fact, the “filmmakers” had cleverly edited it to not show my face. When someone pointed out that it probably was me, since I’d been seen at the dance with Marcus, my “friends” were quick to include me in their master planning—even going so far as to suggest that it was my idea.
It broke my heart that Marcus believed it.
Nobody was punished. Ten years ago, that kind of thing made its way through the student population like the Ebola virus, then the video and post mysteriously vanished before parents or the administration could get their hands on it.
The damage had been done, though. Marcus barely showed his face at school for the rest of the year. And I… I said nothing.
I was horrified, but too afraid of going against my “friends” to stand up for my real friend. For a month, I was like a ghost in Mrs. Blake’s English class, not even looking up from my desk. The empty seat beside me was haunted too, as Marcus had his mother’s permission to not show up to class.
For even longer, I emailed him—telling him… what? That it wasn’t my fault? That I hadn’t meant it if he’d seen me laughing with my friends about it? That I felt as violated as he probably did, even if I wasn’t the one with screen shots of my junk taped up on every third locker?
Now, as the meeting at the school adjourned, I walked through the building, remembering it all.
I passed the gym, where shouts from students and squeaks from their sneakers drifted into the hallway. Volleyball practice or basketball practice or who the hell cared? At the end of the week, I’d be roped into decorating it or putting out tables and chairs and setting up the microphone and loudspeaker system.
There were times when I felt stuck in the “anger” stage of my grief over my parents’ untimely death. Being pulled home and thrust in the scene of the crime was part of what pissed me off.
My shoulders slumped, as though just being here made my soul sag. When I rounded the corner, I saw Marcus standing at my old locker.
He just stood there, his hands curled into fists at his side, staring up at the number on the little metal plaque above.
“Hey.” I tried to sound casual and breezy as I approached him. “Did you just get here? I thought we were going to mee—”
“You know, I used this as my bank card PIN number for a long time,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
With a lean, tense hand, he reached up and smoothed his index finger over the numbers.
Oh. That was a little… unexpected. “Why?”
“I really liked you, you know.” He said it like he was talking about a TV show. Or cheese. Actually, there might have been more passion in his voice for cheese. He tilted his head to one side as he pressed his fingertips hard enough for the number to be imprinted on his skin.
“I like you, too.” My voice was small. Liked. I meant “liked,” right?
His hand dropped. He pivoted to face me, his arms crossing over his chest. “Better not say that too loud. Not here. You have a reputation to protect, remember?”
Was he joking?
“Well, look who’s here! It’s Napoleon Dynamite!” The Jock came up behind us and slapped Marcus on the back. “I’m sorry, you’re all famous and shit now, right?”
Marcus gave him a cold look. I flushed hot, my skin prickling with fury and sympathy.
“I gotta ask, man—if you roll around in money, does it get rid of acne? Because I remember seeing some smallpox-type shit on your ass in that video.”
Marcus just stared at him with repulsion, like he was a cockroach found drowning in the salsa at a party.
The guy—what the hell was his name?—squared his shoulders and closed in on Marcus. He was bigger, broader, but his football muscle had gone to fat in the past ten years. Now he was just a big bully. Marcus was the same height, but lean and ripped. I had the feeling he could take this asshole down with his little finger—or a call to his lawyer.
I kind of wanted to see the little finger method.
“Nobody wants you here, limp dick. You or your crazy vegetable mom.”
I’d bet good money on Asshole Jo
ck getting a shitty grade from Mrs. Blake. He was so pathetic, I wanted to laugh at him. His hands came up, as though he were about to shove Marcus against the locker.
In a flash, Marcus had his wrist in an iron grip and his arm twisted behind his back. The bully hit the locker face first.
“Oof! You little shit, you ow—”
Marcus pulled the guy’s arm up toward his thick neck with one hand and held the man’s other hand behind his back. “Let me explain a few things to you. I’ll use small words, so you’ll be sure to understand.”
I stifled a giggle at The Princess Bride reference.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about you, or what you think. I feel sorry for you. It must be hard to peak in high school. Let me guess, you work in retail now? You still live at home and sit around playing video games and getting high?”
The bully grunted, his face smushed against the locker.
“I made three million dollars last year, asshole. I traveled around the world, and people paid more to see me for one day than you probably make in a month.”
Marcus shoved the bully’s lower hand around, between his crotch and the locker. Chuckled. “Huh. I was going to point out that the only limp dick here is yours, but I guess not.”
I frowned.
“Being held down by a man gets you hard, does it? Or was it the talk of money—money that you’ll never have?”
He struggled. Yelped. “Serena, get this asshole off—”
Twist. “Don’t talk to her. You don’t get to talk to her. I resent the fact that you even exist on the same planet as her.”
So did I, frankly. Marcus jammed his knee into the back of the bully’s leg, making his knees buckle and bang against the metal. As he sagged, the position of his arm worsened.
“Leave her alone. Leave me alone. Leave us alone. Or you’ll find out what a lot of money and good lawyers can do. I will bankrupt you. I will bankrupt your parents. And if you think some dick pics around a high school was bad, then imagine being on the sex offender registry. I’m sure I could find a way to make that happen—even if it isn’t true.”
My shocked gasp was loud enough for Marcus to turn his attention to me. His face was a study in sharp contrasts—his expression blank but his mouth tight and his eyes narrowed into slits.
“Now, asshole,” he said to the jock. “I’m going to take this nice lady out for dinner—a privilege I’m sure you’ve never enjoyed. And maybe I’ll fuck her brains out. Again, a privilege…” He trailed off and winked at me, mouthing “sorry.”
“And neither of us will think of you again,” he promised. “Well, I might send your parents a sympathy card. I’d like to offer my sincerest condolences to them for giving life to such a loser.”
He dropped his hold suddenly, like some kind of internal timer had buzzed, and stepped back into the middle of the hallway where I stood. When he looked down at me, his face transformed with a soft smile.
“You okay?” he asked, wiping his hands on his slacks.
“Mmmhmm.” Actually, I was a little aroused. I wish I’d done something like that back then. I wish he had.
“Dinner?” He held out his hand, which I took without hesitation.
Don’t forget about fucking my brains out.
Chapter Seven
Marcus
Walking down the hall of our old high school with Serena’s hand in mine seemed like a dream. I couldn’t help stealing glances at her, to reassure myself that she wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
I discovered that she was doing the same thing, looking up at me shyly.
“Should I not have done that?” I asked her. My body still vibrated with tension, but I put the asshole out of my head.
She shook her head.
“No I shouldn’t, or no it’s okay?”
She nodded, swinging our clasped hands between us. What the hell did that mean? The woman was infuriating.
With a low growl, I tugged her to the side just before the big glass doors at the entrance. Gently, I pressed her against the tiled wall, right beside an anti-bullying poster.
Oh, the irony.
When I laughed, she turned her head to look.
She giggled. “Oops?” Her head tilted back, lifting her face to mine. “I fantasized about this,” she said softly.
“Me kicking some idiot’s ass?”
“Well, that too. No, this. You, me.” She licked her lips. “I wanted you to kiss me at school.”
My eyebrow lifted. “You wanted me to get beat up?”
“I wanted everyone to see what I saw in you. That you were smart, kind, sensitive—”
“You’re making me sound like a pussy, Serena.”
She touched her forehead to my chest. “No, you weren’t. You were just… stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I kissed the top of her head, wrapping my fist around her hair. “And now I’m in the right place at the right time?”
Her hum vibrated against my chest, just above my heart. “Now I just don’t care.” She looked up at me, her blue eyes wide. “I still like you, Marcus. Do you—do you think—”
I grinned. With one hand I tugged her hair to tilt her head back, and with my other hand I cupped her jaw. “You want to send me a note asking me to check a box if I like you too, yes or no?”
Her cheeks bloomed. “Sounds kind of juvenile, huh?”
“No. We’re all grown up, now.” I pressed my lips to her neck, touching the tip of my tongue to her thrumming pulse.
Her scent, the warmth of her skin, her curves—they’d stayed the same yet matured in the most intoxicating way. If I thought I’d had a crush on her ten years ago, it was nothing compared to the way I could fall for her now.
Was she playing me? I’d trusted her before and gotten burned. I wanted to believe the best of her, now. I wanted to believe the best of me. That was it; that was what she meant. Forgiving her for the past was a gift to myself, not for her.
“Marcus?”
“Hmmm?”
“Kiss me?”
I touched my lips to hers. It was not a kiss, but instead barely a graze. Her lips parted in a whimper. I kissed her again, a little harder. Still, I held back, like I thought rationing myself would quell the urge to consume her totally.
It didn’t.
With a groan, I pulled her to me and tasted her fully. My tongue swept into her mouth, exploring, pushing, dancing with her. The other night, at her house, wasn’t enough. I needed to sink my dick into her tight heat. The prospect made me painfully hard and afraid at the same time.
“Do you really want dinner?” she gasped against my lips.
I jerked my head back, trying to interpret what she meant.
“Take me home. Take me to your hotel. Fuck, take me to a broom closet. Just, please, Marcus—take me.”
My cock pressed against my fly. “I think we can do better than a broom closet.”
In the end, my hotel room was closer. And while there was some nostalgic value in her parents’ house, the hotel was a kind of fresh start. It had only gone up a few year prior, so it didn’t hold any bad memories.
It was time to make new memories. I had the feeling that no matter what happened, I would remember this night for the rest of my life.
Our shoes came off. Our jackets came off. Our armor came off.
“All grown up,” she teased, her hand spreading over the crotch of my slacks.
“Jesus, you have no idea.” I steered her to the bed, lifting her arms to pull her pale blue scrub top off. I glanced down at the matching pants. She hadn’t changed after work. “Seeing you in this, I’m feeling the urge to ask for a sponge bath.”
“Ha ha,” came from beneath the fabric. She groped at my chest, her fingers walking over me. “Damn sweater. No buttons.”
I pushed her hand down to my waist. “Here’s a button for you to work on.”
She blinked at me as her head reappeared, her hair a little mussed but a smile on her face. “This one?” She popp
ed it open and tore the zipper down.
“Fuck.” I tilted my head back and groaned as she reached inside my boxer briefs.
“You’re gonna have to take off your own sweater,” she told me. “My hands are busy.”
No problem. I wrestled off the sweater and t-shirt, tossing them on the floor beside her top. It took no time at all for me to tug on the drawstring of her pants, and somehow we both kicked off everything but our underwear.
We stood there for a moment, hushed by awe. The lace of her white bra seemed like it was woven directly over her gorgeous breasts, like a spider web. Her panties didn’t match at all, and I couldn’t care less. The appearance of her undergarments—welcome as it may be—was temporary, at best.
“You’re gorgeous,” I said.
My thumb traced a line from her collarbone into her cleavage, swept under the delicate material of her bra to seek out her hardened nipple.
Her lips parted as her gaze went up and down, from my hand on her body to the weeping tip of my cock sticking out of the top of my briefs. I throbbed under her appraisal, unashamed of my need for her.
Biting her lip, she tugged my briefs down over my hips and squatted at my feet to pull them off my legs. My hands automatically went to her head as it hovered near my cock.
“Oh god, Serena.”
I asked for nothing, expected nothing—but just her position made me want. Everything.
She licked a hot trail from the base of my cock up to the tip, her hands squeezing my balls from beneath.
“Fuck!”
“I never got to do this before,” she reminded me. “I was too shy. Afraid I’d do it wrong.” Her last word was a little garbled by the way she curled her tongue around my girth.
“Holy shit, there is no wrong. Not with this, baby.”
She beamed up at me, her fist wrapped around my length. “Good to know.”
And for all that this was a new experience for us, she mastered it pretty fucking quickly. Pants and groans fell out of my mouth as she drove me to the brink faster than I’d prefer.
