Stirred

by Nancy S Thompson

  I shook my head, still working to get around him. “Whatever. Just…please... Let me by.”

  He seized me, his hands on my arms. “Do you know what the bird of love is?” he persisted.

  My grief morphed into irritation, but I just stood there and shook my head, biting back an immature response.

  He looked at his friends again before he turned back to me and said, “The swallow. Get it?” He burst out laughing, like he truly believed he was the wittiest man on earth.

  I narrowed my eyes and gave him a withering look that should’ve straightened him out. Disgusted, I pushed against him. He refused to give way and tightened his grip on my arms, With me firmly in hand, he leaned in over my shoulder as if to whisper in my ear. Instead, he presented the perfect opportunity for my knee to make acquaintance with his balls, to which he strenuously objected with a sharp yelp and a stern shove backwards into the crowd.

  “Fucking bitch!” he swore, advancing on me with rage in his eye.

  But before he could reach me, someone yanked him from behind, dragged him into the vestibule, and thrust him out the back door into the alley, knocking him into the filthy Dumpster and crowning him a true dirty hipster. My savior slammed the self-locking door shut and comically brushed himself off to the applause of the surrounding crowd.

  He raised his hands. “All right, show’s over. As you were,” he said. And with that, they all went back to what they were doing. The young man approached me with a sheepish grin. “Apologies, ma’am. We aren’t all Neanderthals, I assure you,” he explained, then asked, “You okay?”

  I nodded silently, afraid, if I said one word, I’d start to cry all over again.

  My savior wasn’t convinced. He bent down to catch my eye, his hands gentle as they caressed my arms exactly where that douchebag had grabbed me so roughly.

  “You sure?” he said as he eased me toward him, carefully pulling me into the vestibule and away from the boisterous bar crowd.

  When the last occupant exited the single-user men’s room, he held the next in line back with a pleading look before he escorted me inside, closed the door, and locked the deadbolt. He leaned back against the door with his hands clasped in front.

  “You want me to go beat his ass? ‘Cause I will if you want. Anything to help a beautiful woman,” he said with a twinkle in his eye and what actually was a charming smile.

  I stared at him and was struck dumb, reliving that time years ago, the night Jacob was killed protecting me. Every emotion I’d felt back then, and again today while visiting Ivy’s grave and telling Ashlyn about Jacob, it all began to wash over me like a rogue wave—the pain of what I’d lost, my first born, my daughter, the longing and physical ache for someone I’d loved more than life itself, an unbearable craving to see Jacob again, to touch and smell him, my first and one true love.

  This young man looked so much like Jacob, near the same age and tall, his body long and lean, muscular and broad-shouldered. He had dark hair that swept over his forehead in front and curled just to the top of his Henley collar in back. A small iron medallion hung from a cord at his neck, and a mix of leather bands encircled one wrist. But this was no dirty hipster. His jaw was clean-shaven, square and sharp. His gentle, brown eyes glowed, unobstructed by unnecessary designer glasses. And his lips were full, yet masculine, the smile different from my Jacob’s, but still just as genuine and easy-going.

  Blinking away the tears, I took a tentative step closer and raised a finger to the young man’s well-sculpted cheek, sliding it to the crisp line of his jaw, until it came to rest at his slightly dimpled chin.

  He didn’t say another word. Confident and unassuming, he just stared me in the eye in a way that quieted the turmoil and bitterness. If I believed in ghosts, I would have sworn Jacob had swooped down from the heavens and stolen into this young man’s body, had possessed his soul, even for the briefest of moments.

  My fingers moved to his lips of their own accord as I stared at the soft, dusky flesh, so tempting, as if beckoning me across time. I felt his hands drop to his sides. They never reached up to touch me, but rather waited for me to do what I wanted so badly to do.

  I moved in closer, until my body felt captured by his heat, his breath warm and gentle against my cheek. My gaze drifted over every inch of his beautiful, young face. Then, like gravity, I was drawn to him, my lips brushing his from side to side before pressing ever so lightly.

  I closed my eyes as he opened his mouth a hair’s breadth, just enough for the tip of his tongue to peek out and make an introduction. Mine joined his, and we danced about each other for a few seconds, testing the waters. We both opened a little wider, each inviting the other in.

  With a deep breath and a slight moan, my hands smoothed over his chest and up along his shoulders, behind his neck and into his soft, lush hair. I felt the warmth of his hands coil around my waist and slide up my back. His body molded into mine as I pressed him harder into the door.

  He let me have full rein, never forcing himself on me, yet never pulling back either. He gave himself to me—to use, to explore, to feed upon. Because that’s what it felt like, as if he were infusing lifeblood into every cell, to my very soul, and I was the starving animal at the very end of my rope.

  It was the single most sexually fulfilling moment I’d felt in nearly twenty years, standing here with this stranger, this man who was hardly more than a boy, really, at least compared to me.

  So young, so tender, so giving.

  And so sexy.

  Just like my Jacob.

  But he wasn’t my Jacob, and I was aware of that every second. I just didn’t want to let the moment go. I needed it like I needed air, like I hadn’t had a decent, full breath in two decades. It filled and energized me, spread through me like wildfire, igniting passions I thought long dead. And it made me realize how I’d become little more than a thin shell of the sensual woman I used to be.

  With a longing sigh, I slowly eased my tongue from his mouth, my lips from his lips, my fingers from his hair, and dropped back down from my tiptoes. His eyes fluttered open and looked down at me with an unfathomable expression, aroused and smugly satisfied, a little amused, I think.

  I couldn’t be angry with him for that. He was entirely too hot and so very young, yet obviously not the least bit inexperienced. Everything about him felt sexual, sensual.

  “What was that for?” he asked, his voice low and his heated eyes glued to mine.

  With an upward squeeze of my shoulders, I said, “Payback,” then flashed him a grin as a whirlwind of desire churned inside me, making my cheeks flame and my fingers tingle with electricity.

  His brow shot up and his smile widened. “Interesting,” he said. “May I ask for what?”

  His casual attitude emboldened me. “My husband,” I answered. “I caught him cheating earlier. With my best friend, no less.”

  His brow knitted for a moment, but the amusement remained. “You know, I’ve heard revenge can be sweet. Perhaps you should retaliate, even the playing field a little.” He raised one brow. “Or maybe…a lot.”

  I breathed a slight chuckle and skimmed my hands downward, my eyes following as I explored the chiseled plane of his chest, then the ripped expanse of his stomach below. I wanted to go farther, to smooth my hand lower and mold my fingers around the thick length of his cock, bulging beneath his blue jeans.

  He was hard. I’d felt it, hot and ready, when I pressed him against the door. My own body responded with a deep and urgent pulsing, my panties damp between my legs, and my breathing quick, in pace with my heart.

  I licked my lips, let my gaze drift from his eyes to his mouth, and said, “God, I’m so damned tempted. You have no idea.” I shook my head, just once, more at myself than him, and added, “But…I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  I stepped back and dipped down to pick my bag up from the floor where I’d dropped it moments earlier. He turned his body, as did I, and we exchanged a long, silent look. I smiled softly and reached for t
he handle, unlocking the door and pulling it open just wide enough for me to wedge through.

  Then, as my judgment warred with my desire, I let it close against my young, seductive savior.

  I relocked the door and let out a deep breath, taking a moment to collect myself and stand down the missile in my pants. Damn, that woman was hot, a MILF, my friends would call her. Obviously older. Maybe fifteen years by the weary look in her eyes. But who fucking cares? She was gorgeous and wanted it as much as I did. Probably more considering what she’d told me about her husband and best friend. Shit, I never should’ve let her go. But, as turned on as she appeared, I recognized the signs of wealth and class and didn’t think she’d be into getting bent over the men’s room sink.

  Or maybe she would. Who knows?

  What I did know was, I was a lucky sonofabitch, because—in her obviously heightened state of arousal—she didn’t notice losing something out of her purse when she’d picked it up off the floor. I didn’t either at the time, but after she slipped away, the door got caught on something small and thin wedged beneath it. I bent down and yanked it clear. It was a leather business card holder. I debated whether I should run after her and return it. In my heart, I knew it was the right thing to do, but after that killer kiss she’d planted on me, I wanted to know more about her. There was little I could do, however, since she hadn’t introduced herself, but her card would rectify that.

  With a chuckle at the serendipitous nature of our encounter, I pulled a couple cards out, surprised there were two different types, each with a unique design and occupation. I studied the blue and white one first, thumbing the logo on the cardstock before I turned it over.

  “No. Fucking. Way,” I whispered to myself.

  Holy shit! What are the chances? This was just too good to be true. Karma or kismet or whatever the hell they called it. It had to be.

  “Dude, come on, hurry the fuck up!” yelled the guy pounding on the other side of the bathroom door.

  “Keep your pants on,” I threw back before tucking the first card away in my pocket. There was bound to be a perfect time to cash in on that bit of information. I unlocked the door and pulled it wide, mumbling, “Sorry, man,” at the guy as he pushed me out and slammed the door.

  With a snicker, I walked back into the vestibule, crowded with bodies waiting for the restroom. They all grumbled at me with angry glares. I offered a community apology and stepped past them as I looked over the second card. It was glossy black and had what looked like a book cover on one side. But the other had personal information, including her name, similar to the last, but different.

  “Eden MacLaird,” I said to myself then raised my eyes, scanning the crowd for the woman who had so curiously piqued my interest. “Where’d you run off to, Ms. MacLaird?” I browsed every table as I walked through the bar and into the dining room, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.

  “Who ya lookin’ for?” asked my best friend, Trinitee Marsh.

  I plopped my ass down next to hers in the booth we were sharing and exhaled a disappointed breath. “Just some chick,” I answered, my attention still on the crowd.

  “Wow, you work fast,” she replied as she studied me. “You weren’t even gone that long.”

  “Yeah,” I acknowledged absently then pondered the card in my hand.

  “Did you do her out back or what?” Trinitee teased.

  I turned toward her, a flippant smirk on my face. “Why, you wish it was you?”

  She threw her head back in a silent laugh then said, “Been there, done that, dude.”

  “Liar,” I argued with a nudge to her arm.

  “Well, close enough anyway. Too close, in fact.”

  I snorted. “Gimme a break, Trin. You were so into it. Admit it. You would’ve gone all the way if I hadn’t stopped.”

  “I was just leading you on, dude. How could you not know that?”

  “Gimme a fucking break! You’re such a liar!”

  We locked eyes in silence for a single moment before we broke out laughing. To be honest, Trinitee was one of my few female friends I hadn’t screwed. Not that I hadn’t tried, but, at the time, it felt awkward, like I was kissing my sister or something, which was a damn shame, because, God knows, Trinitee was beautiful with her long, shiny, dark hair accented with a single purple streak, pale, porcelain skin, pouty, red lips, and those long-lashed, wide-set eyes that, depending on her mood, seemed to simmer somewhere between lavender and a hard, steel-gray. And, at five-foot-nine and a hundred and thirty pounds, it was an alluring combination that made her appear almost ethereal, above all us lowly, earth-dwelling schmucks who slithered around her feet like Lotharios waiting to be serviced.

  But, as tempting as Trinitee was, we enjoyed an extraordinary relationship that transcended sex. Truth was, I considered her my intellectual equal, someone engaged enough to discuss everything from the dumbing down of Americans too obsessed with selfies, to federal Internet censorship and the impact of new technologies on civil liberties. The girl was whip-smart. She’d graduated high school at sixteen, college at eighteen, and at twenty, she was nine short months away from earning her Juris Doctorate from the UW School of Law. And, much to my irritation, at number seven, Trinitee ranked three spots higher than I did in our third-year class of seven-hundred-and-fifty students.

  I envied not only her acumen, but her intuition, as well, an innate ability to read people on their most basic human level, the good and the bad, but especially the bad. She could tell if someone was lying just by their body language and facial expressions, a great skill for an attorney on either side of the law. Just hanging out with her was like having a sniffer dog as a companion. There was absolutely no hiding from her whatsoever, so I never even tried. Besides, after two-plus years in law school together, she knew me too damn well. When necessary, Trinitee Marsh was a master at manipulating people, including me, especially me, making everyone think whatever it was she was suggesting was all their idea in the first place.

  “So, what happened?” she pestered with a look I’d seen a thousand times, one that told me she wasn’t about to let it drop, so I told her what went down, first in the bar, then the bathroom. “I knew it. I could tell by that stupid look on your face,” Trinitee chided with a roll of her eyes. “So, where is she? Point her out to me.”

  I moved my attention around the dining room and adjacent bar one more time. “I don’t know. I couldn’t fi—”

  I stopped mid-sentence, my gaze frozen on the stunning copper-haired beauty as she moved through the bar, bestowing farewells to a long line of friends at a table in the center. Hugs were exchanged, as were disappointed looks and what appeared to be words of chastisement that made her apologize again and again. She blew final kisses as one of the women stood and locked arms with her, slowly walking her through the crowded bar, chatting non-stop and oblivious to the turmoil written all over Eden’s face.

  “There,” I directed Trinitee with a nod. “Not the chatty, dirty blonde. The one with the dark reddish-brown hair.”

  Trinitee surveyed the crowd, her eyes halting on the object of my fascination. She smiled, seemingly satisfied, and, with an oddly deep breath, shook her head.

  “Another redhead?” she snickered. “Christ, you’re so predictable, Sean. That’s like, what, five in the last two years? Not including Hay—”

  “Trin,” I warned, my tone dead serious.

  “Sorry,” she said, but kept rolling right along, nodding toward the woman from the restroom. “That one though…she’s a little…old, don’t you think?” She turned and peered at me, and while I kept my attention on the woman, I could feel Trinitiee’s eyes boring into the side of my face. “Oh my God, look at you,” she added before passing a hand in front of my face. “Helloooo? Earth to Sean?” She snapped her fingers.

  I chuckled and dropped my gaze, first to the table, then to her. “You’re just jealous. Admit it. You want all this to yourself,” I joked, presenting myself like a gameshow prize.

 
; “Ha!” she chirped with her head thrown back. “I’d rather have the dirty blonde.”

  I barked a loud, raucous laugh and clapped my hands as I turned to smile at Trinitee. But my attention was instead captured by the woman, who’d heard me and stopped dead in her tracks near the front entry. Her lips slightly parted, she stared at me while a bright flush crept from her chest to her hairline. My amusement faded as we locked eyes and the crowd seemed to quiet and fade away. With a slight nod, I offered her a knowing smile. I looked her up and down, my attention seizing on her face and those fiercely sharp, green eyes of hers.

  Trinitee tried, but she couldn’t break our connection. She was whispering something in my ear, but all I could hear were muted sounds, like adults in a Charlie Brown TV special. Undeterred, Trinitee rested her chin atop my shoulder and wrapped her arms around my neck. The redhead tore her gaze from mine and settled instead on Trinitee, and I could’ve sworn I saw a flash of something, a storm in her eyes, like jealously almost, aggravation, until her friend pulled her along, and, with one last intense glance at me, swept her through the front doors and out onto the street.

  With a satisfied laugh, Trinitee sat up straight and scooted away, placing more than a foot of personal space between us. “That was fun,” she said with a clap of her hands.

  I gave her a shove. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What? I’m just trying to make you appear more…desirable, get under her skin a little, rile up her possessive side. All women have one, you know,” she said then snatched the glossy black card from my hand. “What’s this?” She paused as she read over it. “Eden MacLaird, author of dark erotic romance. Hmm, mommy porn,” she added as she turned the card over and examined the book cover on the opposite side. “Jesus, ever since erotica came into fashion, every other book released has a naked dude on the cover, not to mention content that’s progressively titillating,” she said using air quotes. “That’s a euphemism for tawdry, by the way.” She snickered with a shake of her head. “And Joust?” she added as her thumb ran over the book title. “Is that some sort of phallic reference? Shit, if sexually frustrated housewives are so hard up for provocative literature, maybe they should try the classics, like Tropic of Cancer or Lolita. Geez, even The Perks of Being a Wallflower is better than this crap.”