by Penny Reid
I loved the feel of him. In truth I was in danger of climbing him. I just wanted to be near him, touch him, snuggle against him. He was so epically enticing.
We wove through the crowd as I tried to memorize the feeling of his hand grasping mine. I had difficulty drawing breath; my stomach was an eruption of amorous butterflies. People said hi—to both him and to me—but we didn’t pause. I was his shadow as Beau led me to the buffet table; I dreaded reaching it because he would likely release me. To my surprise we kept on walking.
He didn’t glance back at me as we skirted around a table laden with lemonade and sweet tea, heading behind a curtain that ran the length of one wall—from ceiling to floor—and obscured a set of stairs leading to a small stage. The stage, likewise, was hidden by the curtain. Beau didn’t pause once we were up the steps or on the stage. Instead he continued tugging until he had me to one side, backstage, completely hidden by the curtain, around a corner, and behind a wall.
It was dark and my eyes required several seconds to adjust; likewise, my brain hadn’t yet caught up with where we were and how we’d arrived here, not to mention who I was with. A single light source overhead cast our surroundings in a grayish murkiness. I nearly tripped over my own feet when Beau turned, his hands suddenly on my hips, and backed me into the wall.
I felt solid concrete behind me, Beau and all his gorgeousness looming before me, scant inches away. His glittering eyes ensnared mine. Then and only then did he stop.
I was so confused—really discombobulated was the word for it. This was like something out of my music video fantasies. (Did I forget to mention that my daydreams actually present themselves as music videos ala Paula Abdul’s Rush, Rush complete with glowing, imperfection-blurring lens filters?) Therefore I could only gaze up at him in wonder.
He leaned forward, and his forehead hit the rim of my hat. Scowling, he pulled it and the attached wig-beard combo from my head, dropping it to the floor.
“I like this costume,” he said in a low voice as his hands reclaimed their spot, his thumbs rubbing the area just above my hips like he was entitled to touch me and my body how he liked. The heat from his palms sent spiking shivers to my lower belly. “But I do not enjoy that hat.”
I’d known Beau for almost fifteen years, had dreamt of a moment like this since my earliest awkward stages of puberty. In all those early fantasies, Beau had been sweet and slow, gentle and coaxing, patient. As well in my daydreams, nothing ever really happened. He’d kiss me, I’d feel warm and tingly.
Basically they were the neutered fantasies of a young girl.
But Beau didn’t look patient now and he felt very, very real. Even in the murky dimness his eyes sparkled like sapphires, like they possessed their own internal radiance. I thought mournfully of my plain brown irises and, like the weirdo I was, I hoped that our make-believe children would inherit his eyes. This thought was especially ridiculous because I’d never wanted to have children.
His hands slid up my body then pushed my cape over my shoulders with a whisper-light touch. He removed the staff from my hand. I watched as Beau leaned it against the wall with care, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor.
“Jessica James, you’ve been giving me hot looks that are difficult to ignore.” He said this in a near growl, leaning a fraction of an inch closer.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what a hot look was, what it meant, or how to make it on purpose. Regardless, I surmised my inadvertent hot looks were responsible for our alone time. Therefore, I mentally high-fived my hot looks. My heart twisted then leapt as he wet his bottom lip just before drawing the succulent flesh into his mouth, between his teeth, and biting.
That’s right, bite that lip.
I almost groaned.
I was maniacally and fiercely aroused, and I was completely ill-equipped to deal with these feelings. A broken hymen while horseback riding at thirteen; lots of random kisses with random guys for fun and practice; a few inconsequential and forgettable gropings in high school and college; a drunken, laconic coupling in my dorm room with my physics lab TA last year. These were the pithy total of my adult sexual exploits.
In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least the horse had been a stallion. Looking back, my lab TA was more like a Shetland pony—hairy and small.
Truly, I didn’t know what I was doing with this guy. He was a man, not a boy I could use for kissing practice. My experience was so lackluster. Even in my younger fantasies we never made it to second base.
Instinct told me to tackle Beau, maul him before he discovered his error and tousled my hair like I was still a twelve year old. At the very least, I’d made up my mind to tempt his mouth down to my chest. Nothing fantastic had ever happened to my nipples before. I was pretty sure I’d die a happy woman after Beau Winston did something fantastic to my nipples.
Speaking of nipples, I didn’t realize I’d brought Beau’s hand from my hip to my breast until hot sparks of desire radiated from where I pressed his palm against me, the only barriers between our skin my lace bra and the thin fabric of my dress.
Beau stared at me, his mouth parted in stunned surprise. His eyebrows jumped, and his eyes widened at my forward gesture. I arched forward, again without consciously meaning to, straining to close the distance between our bodies, wanting to feel his hard against my soft.
And then I learned what a hot look was.
Because Beau Winston was giving me a hot look.
*End Sneak Peek*: Truth or Beard is available on Amazon
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Sneak Peek: Ninja at First Sight, by Penny Reid (Available now!)
Book #4.75 in the Knitting in the City series
Part 1: Two ninjas walk into a bar…
People completely fascinate me.
Take my college roommate, Dara, and her boyfriend, Hivan. They had sex in our dorm room all the time. It didn’t matter if I was asleep, and it didn’t matter if I was at my desk studying. Usually Dara was topless by the time they made it in the room. At first, Dara would be surprised by my presence and try to gently ask me to leave. Meanwhile, Hivan asked me if I’d like to join them.
I declined.
But it wasn’t the nonstop sex that fascinated me. In fact, as an eighteen year old who’d never been kissed or had a boyfriend, I was a smidge envious of the sex part.
They fascinated me because 1) they saw nothing odd or inappropriate about interrupting my sleep, studying, or privacy at all hours of the day or night, and 2) Hivan cheated on Dara all the time.
By the third week their relationship followed a predictable cycle. For three days everything would be fine. On the fourth or fifth day, Dara would burst into the room crying and sobbing and screaming, throwing anything within reach. She’d tell me that she was through with Hivan because he’d cheated on her.
He would eventually show up at some point during the next two days. I would leave. They’d have sex. Everything would be fine for the next few days, and the cycle would repeat.
Also fascinating, by the end of the first month, all pretext evaporated. They’d just plow into the room and go at it as soon as they’d breached the threshold, regardless of whether I was present. Sometimes, if I was already asleep, I’d put on my headphones, blast music, and cover my face.
The part of me that had a voracious appetite for observing and studying people was enthralled by their theatrics. It almost seemed like Hivan created the drama and excitement because he sensed Dara thrived on it. I didn’t understand this, why someone would crave this kind of drama, and so I studied them.
Honestly, the situation didn’t bother me once I adjusted to it as my reality. In addition to my fascination, I figured it was all part of the genuine college experience. I supposed I was odd in this way. Situations that typically made other people uncomfortable or angry or offended were of intense interest to me.
I’d always been an observer of h
uman nature, more content to sit back and watch than get involved, but I suspected my upbringing was the root cause. I never had many friends because I’d had very few opportunities to make friends. Social interaction, social order, and social norms and dynamics were a mystery to me.
Usually, I would discuss my observations with Hannah, my sister. But every time I called my mother would pick up the line and listen in.. Therefore, we hadn’t talked at all for the last four months about anything of significance and I missed her perspective.
I understood athletes. I understood drive and competition and ambition to succeed and to have a singular purpose. But I didn’t understand this world of normal and varied interests because I’d never lived in it.
The other two girls in my suite were Beth, a perpetually anxious and serious-minded pre-med freshman, and Fern.
Fern was Beth’s opposite in every way.
Where Beth was reed thin and dressed conservatively, Fern was voluptuous and dressed like a 1950’s pinup. Where Beth was studying all the time and waking up early to exercise, Fern hardly ever went to class and frequently staggered into the suite intoxicated at all hours of the day and night.
I think Beth and Fern got on each other’s nerves; Beth left by week six, opting to move into a single room elsewhere on campus as soon as it became available.
Fern told me in passing that she was only going to college because her parents insisted that she at least try it for one or two years. What she really wanted to do was become a Scientologist minister, and she didn’t need a college degree for that. As such, Fern decided to major in Latin. She thought this was hilarious.
Mostly, I kept to myself; watching, considering, unobtrusively attempting to solve the mysteries of those around me, and trying to soak up every day.
Being alone in a sea of strangers didn’t trouble me. I didn’t crave social interaction, but I truly enjoyed watching people. I was enormously grateful for the freedom of finally living away from home, for being around people who didn’t know me and therefore didn’t look at me like I was breakable or about to explode or didn’t understand that brain tumors aren’t contagious.
Here I was, just another college freshman, and all the normal nuttiness and theatrics and drama felt like a gift.
“What are you doing?”
I blinked at the voice and found Fern staring down at me, her bright red-painted lips curved in an impressively large smile.
I shifted in my seat; my eyes flickered to the wall clock above my desk space. I was sitting in the general suite area, curled up on my desk chair while Hivan and Dara screamed at each other. If it hadn’t been January and the weather hadn’t been sub-zero, I would have hiked to the library. My other option was the study rooms downstairs in the lobby of the dorm; however, on a day like this, those rooms were usually booked for hours.
“I’m studying.” I returned Fern’s smile.
She plopped herself down in Dara’s chair, her grin growing. “That sounds boring.”
I laughed lightly and slipped a piece of paper between the pages of my P-chem textbook to hold my place. I knew this wouldn’t be a short conversation. Over the past two weeks, Fern had been interrupting me more and more. We were often stuck together in the suite. I think the good weather kept her entertained and her options open such that she didn’t usually notice me, whereas the atrocious weather of mid-winter Iowa left her with few choices.
“What would you like to do?” I asked.
“Why are you so shy?” she volleyed without warning.
I flinched, confused by the question. “Am I shy?”
She nodded, her grin still in place. “Yes. You are shy. You speak to no one who doesn’t speak to you first. You never go out anywhere except the library and class and the gym. But you’re not a raging killjoy psycho bitch like Beth was. You’re nice…just quiet and shy.”
“Well…” I considered her statement and realized she was right. “I guess I’m not great at initiating friendships.”
“Why is that?”
I stared at her for a beat, thought about why I was this way. Probably my upbringing, first because of gymnastics and the hopes for my Olympic future; later because of the cancer.
More likely my reticence was because I typically enjoyed watching people more than I enjoyed actually speaking to them.
I didn’t particularly want to share either of these theories with anyone. I liked my anonymity, and I liked being normal. I liked blending in.
I opened my mouth to respond with something generic, but Fern cut me off. “You are so lovely once you actually speak, not boring at all. You should be more outgoing. You are too wonderful to live so quietly. You need to get loud every once in a while.”
“Okay. I’ll try to do that,” I promised, making a mental note to dedicate time to observing how people get loud.
As though reading my mind, Fern grabbed my textbook and tossed it to the floor. She reached for my hand, pulling me out of my chair.
“Excellent, let’s start right now. I’ll introduce you to everyone on the floor.”
“I-what?” My steps faltered as I glanced down at myself. I was in my ninja star pajama bottoms and an old green wool sweater. My feet were ensconced in chunky, hand-knit wool socks. I wore no makeup, and my short brown hair was a mess.
“We’ll start with the girls,” she said, meeting my eyes over her shoulder and wagged her eyebrows, “then I’ll introduce you to the boys.”
I brought us both to a stop just as she opened the suite door. “Should I go change?”
She wrinkled her nose and snorted. “No. You’re gorgeous. You’re an Audrey Hepburn.” She tugged on me again, successfully pulling me out of the suite.
“An Audrey Hepburn?”
“Yes, a Grace Kelly, Coco Chanel. You make everything look purposeful, like high fashion. You’re…” she waved her free hand through the air theatrically, “beautiful, gorgeous, you’ve got panache, infectious…joie de vivre! Sagesse, attrait! There is just something about you, something wonderfully magical and ethereal.”
I wrinkled my nose at her French flair and descriptions, found it discordant with reality, and decided Fern enjoyed making life dramatic and meaningful when it was really mundane, with messy hair, and dressed in ninja star pajama bottoms.
We started with several of the girls’ rooms. Fern, it seemed, felt free to walk into each suite without knocking. After the first encounter, each presentation followed a predictable script.
Fern would announce herself like she was a fairy godmother, clapping her hands together to assemble all who were present—which was everyone since it was beyond freezing outside. She made introductions with flourish, putting me on the spot as the center of attention for a very short time, maybe three minutes. People would typically mention that they’d seen me or that I looked familiar; they’d ask me benign yet friendly questions about my major and where I was from. Fern would cut in, tell a scandalous joke or flirt with someone’s boyfriend, and we’d be off to the next suite.
Apparently, Fern knew everyone, and everyone was really nice; but I was feeling overwhelmed by all the socialization, new faces, and new names. Regardless, even with the brief introductions, I got the feeling that this exercise was an initiation of sorts.
People would talk to me now.
I felt certain that now people would wave, stop me in the hall, ask me to join them on social outings or runs to the store. Although it seemed like such a simple thing, for the first time in my life I realized the importance of an introduction. An introduction by a mutual friend buys instant credibility, especially when the mutual friend was universally liked—as was the case with Fern.
We were leaving the fifth suite area when I collided into a solid wall. When I glanced up I realized the solid structure wasn’t a wall at all. It was a boy. And this boy was studying me with unveiled interest.
“Hey, cutie.” His green eyes flickered over me, quick and assessing. A lazy, blatantly flirtatious smile curved over his lips.
I stepped back, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. He had long, thick blonde hair that fell to his jaw, a dazzlingly handsome face, a stocky and muscled torso—the shape of which was visible through his black T-shirt—and was inexplicably tan. He also had an abundance of blonde chest hair that was poking out through the neck of his shirt.
“Uh, hello.” I gave him a polite smile and stuck my hand out. “I’m Fiona.”
“Hi, Fionaaaaah.” He grinned widely, inadvertently drawing attention to the fact that his neck was approximately the same width as his head; his voice was maple syrup, dark and rich and too sweet to be taken seriously. “I’m Sasquatch.”
“Sasquatch?”
He nodded, “That’s right.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing because I could tell he found the nickname both sexy and flattering.
“Oh,” I said and nodded. “Nice to meet you, Sasquatch.”
Still holding my hand in one of his, he braced the other on the door frame above my head and loomed over me, his gaze moving up and down my body several times in a leisurely perusal.
“So,” he licked his lips, “are you new here?”
“Ugh! It’s you!” Fern’s exclamation came from behind me, and her hands closed on my shoulders, pulling me away from…He Who Calls Himself Sasquatch.
“Oh, hey, sexy. I didn’t see you there.” Not missing a beat, Sasquatch leaned forward as though to give Fern a kiss.
She placed her hand over his face—her palm on his mouth—and pushed him away.
“Go away, beast.” She flicked her wrist and grasped my hand, maneuvering me around Sasquatch.
“That’s not what you said this morning,” he called after us.
Fern spun toward him, releasing my hand and flinging me away, and—again—I collided into a solid wall. And, again, it was not a wall but the chest of a boy.
“Oph, excuse me-” I reached my hands out to steady myself as his came to my upper arms, likely with the same goal.
