"Where are you parked?" he says, in a voice that’s deeper and more serious-sounding than it was in the bar.
"Around this way.” I gesture to the left.
As soon as we pass the side of the building and are out of view of the entrance, I stop and turn toward him, and his arms circle around me. We look into each other's eyes for the briefest of moments before our mouths are drawn together. I reach up around his neck and pull him closer.
I can taste beer on his lips, and the unfamiliarity of the flavor almost jolts me to my senses, but then he's pressing against me, and the feel of his massive, hard body makes me melt into him. I've always been attracted to intellectual or professional types, men with more developed minds than physiques. This man's body feels like a science lesson in muscle anatomy. He must work out for hours every day to maintain such well-defined bulk.
While I'm marveling at the sheer size and density of him, he seems to be enjoying my body as well. He slides his hands over my silky blouse and then lower to my skirt, where he pulls my hips against him. He could easily crush me, but his touch is tender yet firm as he caresses my body.
Our kisses deepen, and I feel a jolt of pure desire when he runs his tongue along my lower lip. Then he nips at it gently and I purr involuntarily before meeting his tongue with mine.
“You taste good,” he murmurs when we pause to catch our breath. He backs me up against the side of the building and slips a hand under my blouse. Though his touch is warm, I shiver as he grasps the bare skin at my waist. “You feel good too,” he says in a low, gravelly voice that does funny things to my body. Funny, tingly things that threaten to melt me into a puddle at his feet.
I curl my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and dig my nails into his flesh as I pull his mouth back to mine. With my other hand, I blindly explore all those muscles I'd been admiring in the bar. His chest is so hard, and his massive arms are now surrounding me as I'm trapped between him and the wall.
Our kisses grow desperate and I can feel his breathing change. His hand snakes further up my torso and brushes over my bra. He nips again at my swollen lip as his fingers find my nipple and pull at it through the thin fabric. My legs go weak as dizzying impulses fire throughout my body.
"Where's your car?" he breathes against my ear before he pulls my earlobe into his mouth and tugs. Before I answer, he continues, "Never mind. My truck’s around back."
4
My feet barely seem to touch the ground as he leads me towards the back of the parking lot. Our hands don't leave each other's bodies and we slow a few times because we can’t stop kissing each other. I feel like I’m under a spell, aware only of my body and his body, and all of the thrilling sensations triggered by the touch of his lips and hands.
At his truck, which is huge like him, he opens the passenger door and backs me into the opening. We don't get inside, but I’m vaguely aware that our position offers some privacy. We are back at each other's bodies full speed, kissing, grasping, pulling, exploring. I really can't get enough of the hardness and size of his arms and chest muscles. I could lose myself in them.
My sexy superhero pushes his hands under my blouse again, and right now, I'm really glad that I didn’t throw it away. It is again, and forevermore, my lucky blouse. He cups my breasts in his hands, rubbing across my hardened peaks with his thumbs. It feels so naughty, and so wrong, but so very, very right. I whimper as he circles around them, and I feel wetness gather between my legs.
It's then that he pushes his hips forward and I feel his excitement growing. If I'd thought his chest was big and hard, well… it's got nothing on what I feel pressing against me through his jeans. He pulls back and then pushes against me again.
"I want you…" he growls. And I want him. The energy between us is incredible. I’d never experienced anything like it.
This is so crazy. I put Clay off until our fifth date before we had sex. I hadn't been trying to play games; I just like to take things slow, to make sure things are right. I don't like to make hasty decisions and deal with regrets. Now I'm making out with someone I've just met.
He runs a hand up my leg and starts to push up the bottom of my skirt.
Actually, I haven't even technically met him. I'm getting hot and heavy with him, and I don’t even know his name.
Suddenly my head clears and I come to my senses. I'm in a public parking lot, getting felt up by a stranger. A beautiful, ridiculously sexy stranger, but still, a stranger. This man could be married, for all I know. I hadn’t even looked for a ring on his finger. He could be a serial killer, for god's sake. And we're in public. Even if he were my boyfriend, this is not how I would conduct myself.
In a rush of panic, I push him away from me and smooth down my skirt.
"I'm so sorry," I say. My breath is ragged from arousal, and I'm near tears at my sudden confusion. "I'm so sorry. I can't do this. I don't do this."
I meet his eyes briefly. I see confusion there too, but to my extreme relief, I don't see any anger.
"I'm sorry. I need to go,” I say.
I step around him and he grabs at my arm.
"Don't. Please don't," I say. I can't say much more for fear that I'll break down, and I hope my eyes can somehow convey my apologies. I didn't mean to lead him on. I expect him to be angry, but he mostly looks concerned.
"Please. I need to go." I pull away from him and he releases me. I feel the tears coming. I feel foolish and ridiculous as I head across the lot, quickly putting distance between us. I risk a quick glance backward and see that he's standing where I left him, staring after me, one arm grasping the open door of his truck, the other resting over his heart.
5
I wish I could blame alcohol. After just one mixed drink, I know that I can't pin my poor decision-making on the whiskey.
Relief washes over me as I pull out of the parking lot. I'm grateful that I came to my senses before things went too far. I have regrets, of course, but they're not nearly as bad as the regrets I could have had if I hadn't stopped the action when I did.
But I feel terrible too. I know the blame for what happened is almost fully mine, but I'm sure my sudden lapse in judgment came directly out of my anger and sorrow over Clay's betrayal.
The stranger's unbelievably hot body didn't help my judgment either. I allow myself a brief smile and feel a sudden pang of regret at the thought of his body. Maybe this experience will serve to teach me that I'm looking for the wrong kind of guys. Had I ever even seen someone with a body like his in the city? Surely they must exist. Maybe I should join a gym and start hanging out with body builders.
I try not to be too hard on myself as I continue on my way to George's house. Earlier, I'd been afraid I'd show up there crying from what had happened with Clay. Instead I'm adjusting my bra as I drive and trying to smooth down my messed up hair. I still don't want to talk to my mom about Clay, but I really don't want to talk about my brief detour that resulted in a heavy make-out session!
As I put more distance between me and the bar, the memory of it starts to seem surreal. Did I really just stop at a country roadhouse and nearly have sex with a total stranger in a dirt parking lot? It's so completely out of character for me that I almost can't believe it happened.
If I can actually pretend it never did happen, and try to forget all about it, I think I'll be much better off. I give one last thought to the hot stranger. When I think about exactly how hot his body was, I decide that he's probably not all that upset about me leaving. With the way he looked, I'm sure he gets women anytime he wants them.
After only one wrong turn and a slow drive down a long, gravel road, I finally arrive at George's house. From what I can make out in the dark, it looks exactly like what I'd pictured from my mom's description. It's a big, white, two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. With no streetlights around, I can't see much beyond it, but I can tell there are no neighbors nearby. When I step out of the car, the silence and stillness outside are striking and the air smells unbeli
evably fresh.
As I'm grabbing my bag from the back seat, I hear my mom at the front door of the house. A moment later, she has me wrapped in a hug, and everything feels right with the world, at least for the moment.
"Hey, honey, you're finally here! Did you have trouble finding us?"
"Hi. Sorry, Mom. I took my time, and I stopped for dinner." I'm not completely making that up. I did eat a few pretzels.
George joins us and takes my bag. "Welcome to the country, Kate. I'm glad you could come."
"Thanks for having me," I say.
"Would you like anything to eat or drink?" my mom asks. "You're probably exhausted after a long day at work, aren't you?"
Work. Wow, work seems a million miles away. It feels like I've lived a lifetime or two since leaving work this afternoon. A vision of Clay resurfaces but I push it away.
"I'm fine, but you're right. I am really tired."
We follow George upstairs, where he sets my bag in the first room at the beginning of a long hallway. He exits, telling me he'll see me in the morning, and I step into the guest room, which is furnished with a double bed, nightstand, dresser, and small desk by a curtained window.
"Make yourself comfortable,” my mom says. “Here are some towels, and the bathroom is just across the hall." She moves the set of bath linens from the bed to the dresser and then sits on the bed, looking up at me expectantly. “Was the drive okay? You look a bit frazzled.”
For a brief moment I reconsider telling her about what happened with Clay. The thought of sharing my burden and then being wrapped in her comforting embrace is tempting, but I don’t want this weekend to be about my drama. If we start talking about it now, I could see myself becoming an emotional mess and we’d probably be awake for hours. I’ll tell her everything sometime soon, but not this weekend.
"I'm fine. I do have a bit of a headache though.” I rub my forehead for good measure. “I think I just need rest.”
“Okay. If you need anything, just let me know.” She leaves the room and pulls the door closed behind her. I collapse on the bed and wonder if I’ll actually be able to rest.
In my mind, I'm walking into the pub again, looking for Clay and seeing him touching that woman. I feel the pain all over again. Had he just met her, or is she someone he's been seeing on the side? Has he been making a fool of me all along?
I roll onto my side and feel my skirt twist and tighten as I turn. When I try to straighten it, I suddenly remember the stranger's hand on my skirt, and on my skin. The pain I'm feeling is dulled by a rush of heat. What would've happened if I hadn't stopped him? I remember the hardness I'd felt in his jeans. Could I have even handled that? I feel myself blush at the thought of it.
Next to me on the bed, my phone vibrates inside my purse. I fish it out and see an incoming call from Clay. I don't answer, but it occurs to me that he might try to contact my mom, or even the police if he doesn't hear from me. That is, assuming he cares that much. I wait for his call to end, and then compose a text. I see that he's sent several messages to me throughout the evening, and has tried to call multiple times.
“I’m staying with my mom tonight and I'm going to bed. I'll contact you tomorrow.”
I send the message and then switch my phone to "do not disturb" mode. I'll need to confront him, but I decide to put that off until tomorrow.
6
I wake to the smell of bacon, and it takes several seconds for me to figure out where I am. I smile at the realization that it's the weekend and I'm with my mom. Then my smile fades when other events from yesterday come rushing back to me.
Out of habit, I grab my phone and bring it back to life. Only one new message from Clay: “What's going on, Kate? Did you forget we had dinner plans? Is everything okay?”
Asshole. I'll have to deal with him today, but not yet.
My room is bright and warm, and sunlight floods through the thin curtains. The first thing I do when I get up is look outside. My window faces the back of the house, and the view stretches on forever. There are no other houses in sight, only a barn and a few smaller outbuildings. There is a big, grassy backyard, an area plotted for a vegetable garden, and then fields, rolling hills, and beyond that, forest. It's really beautiful, and also foreign to me. When I look out of the window of the small bedroom in my apartment, I see the brick wall of another building.
My attention is drawn back inside to the smell of bacon. That’s also strange and foreign. Even when I lived with my mom, bacon was not something we had for breakfast. She was always a coffee and bagel type, or maybe a fruit smoothie when she was on a health kick.
I grab my small travel bag and slip across the hall to change and brush my teeth. The upstairs is quiet. Doors down the hall are open, with light streaming into the hallway, but no one seems to be around. I feel comfortable, knowing I'll be seeing my mom downstairs, but I also feel a little bit like an outsider. I'll be meeting George's sons for the first time today. I wonder how we'll all be spending our day, out here in the middle of nowhere.
I want to relax and try to enjoy the peacefulness of my surroundings, and I won't be able to do that knowing that I still need to contact Clay, so before I go downstairs, I compose another text. The good night's sleep has given me clarity, and my thoughts on the situation have been simplified.
"I stopped by the pub yesterday at about 4:30, and I saw you. With the brunette. You and I are done. Please don't contact me again." I reread my words, and feel the pain and anger of that moment rush back. How could he have done this to me? How could I have been so stupid?
I want to crawl back under the covers, but that would just feel like letting Clay win. With what I now know about him, it’s clear he’s not worth wasting time and tears over.
I click “send” and then, for good measure, I block him. I don't want to deal with any further messages from him; I definitely don't want to hear any excuses, and I don't want the stress of it affecting my weekend. Done.
I take a deep breath, and follow my nose downstairs and into the kitchen. My mom is at the stove frying eggs, and there's a boy sitting at a big wooden table.
"Good morning," I call out, and both of them turn to look at me.
"Good morning, sweetie," my mom says. "Kate, this is George's son Tommy. Tommy, this is my daughter, Kate."
I laugh. "Thanks, mom. I think we only needed names. We could've figured out the rest." I smile at her, and then turn my smile to Tommy, who grins in return. He's cute, and at that in between stage. Not a little boy, and not quite a man.
I look over my mom's shoulder as she turns back toward the stove. "So you make bacon and eggs for breakfast these days?"
"Life on the farm builds an appetite," she says. "This is what the guys are used to. Will you have some?"
"Sure." I'm actually starving, having only had pretzels and a mixed drink for dinner the night before.
"George and Billy are out working in the barn. They always get an early start. They should be back soon." I think I recall my mom telling me that Billy is twenty-five, only two years younger than me, and apparently he still lives here with his dad and brother. My mom had said he was a good kid, and yes, she referred to him as a kid even though he's twenty-five years old. I hadn't asked many questions about him.
"Can I help with anything?"
"If you'd like to make toast, that would be great," she says.
She already has a dish piled with bacon, covered with a paper towel, and there are pitchers of milk and juice on the table. Tommy is eating a slice of bacon.
"Thanks for having me over to your house, Tommy," I say. He just shrugs in reply, but he looks pleasant enough.
I know that Tommy lost his mom, George's wife, to cancer eight years ago. Tommy was only four. I wonder if he remembers her, and I wonder how he and his brother feel about my mom being in the picture. I haven't heard of any problems, or any acting out.
I try to think of what else to say to Tommy, but I'm at a loss. I almost ask him how he likes school, but I reme
mber how much I hated that question when I was a kid. Why does everyone ask that question? And why can't I think of anything but that question?
I busy myself with the toaster, and I'm glad when the first batch pops up and I can occupy myself putting butter on the slices. Just as I'm slathering butter on the next batch, I hear sounds at the back of the house: A door closing, boots stomping, male voices talking. I look towards the hall at the other end of the kitchen and see George walk in, his cheeks ruddy from the cool morning air.
I smile at him and start to say "good morning" when the words catch in my throat. George's son is behind him. His tall, broad-shouldered, twenty-five-year-old son.
My “lucky” blouse doesn’t just need to be thrown away; it needs to be incinerated, never to be worn again.
Because George's son Billy is the Greek god muscle man from the bar last night.
7
My eyes lock with Billy's. Billy. I nearly slept with a grown man who has the name of a boy.
I’m frozen in place, butter knife in hand. I lock eyes with Billy and notice that he doesn't look surprised at all. He has a bit of a smirk on his face that he's not bothering to hide. I narrow my eyes at him, but he just gives me a devilish grin. He drops his gaze slowly down my body and I feel naked in front of him, even though I'm wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Then the thought hits me: He knew who I was last night!
George is coming toward me, smiling warmly. He greets me, and then turns to introduce me to his son. Billy steps forward and holds out his hand to shake mine. I feel like slapping him rather than shaking his hand, but I know that I need to act as normal as possible in front of George and my mom. I'm relieved that Billy's acting like he's just now meeting me for the first time. That means he hasn't told them he saw me last night. I would die of embarrassment if they knew what went on.
I reach out to shake Billy's hand, and try to keep the contact as brief as possible, but he holds onto my hand and squeezes hard.
SPARKED: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance (With bonus book, PERFECT) Page 14
