A tall guy with a hooded mask stalks this way and doesn’t waste any time grinding his hips against Harley’s.
“Whoa, hot shot!” I gift him a firm shove off her person. My God, this place should be lined with panic buttons—what with all the loud music, the thick jungle of touchy-feely limbs we’re forced to wade through just to get to the bar—and how I pray they don’t card.
Those fake IDs we used to ram through the door have never been tested by an actual bartender. Sure, the club is twenty-one and up, but places like these can be fooled pretty easily. The bartender, however—God knows every bartender I’ve ever met could double as an FBI operative—they’re complete savants when it comes to spotting a fake. The last thing I need is getting tossed out on my illegal rear. I don’t know which I would loathe more—Harley for getting me into this debacle to begin with or the ripe humiliation of being stripped of my mask. But I digress. I really could use something lethally boozy right about now. I’m not a big drinker. In fact, I’m notoriously known to not handle my liquor, but something about this hovel screams get drunk fast and speed up the night.
“Watch where you’re going or you’ll lose a prized appendage,” I shout at the idiot determined to get to second base with Harley. “I’ll give you a hint which appendage—you don’t use it to pick your nose or kick your dog.” I can totally tell he’s the kind of asshole who would kick a puppy when he’s down. Something about that bright blue T-shirt with the words What’s Up? printed across the front gives a lot away about the man beneath the cloth. Just below the words there’s an arrow pointing to his crotch as if that’s supposed to be ironic, but, in fact, it’s about as ridiculous as he is. He is not allowed to be up in any capacity around my newfound best friend.
He lifts his mask just enough to expose those doltish features, and I can’t help but gasp.
“Tyson!” Harley screams and dives over him in a maneuver that encompasses both a hearty embrace and a one-sided sexual experience that somewhat mimics the motion an enthusiastic dolphin might make. “I knew you’d show!”
I suck in a sharp breath. “You knew? You planned this? No, no, no! This is a girls’ night—read, vaginas only. I don’t care about how he looks in a basketball jersey or in that stupid inappropriate T-shirt. You are not ditching me for the night in this den of depravity.”
But Harley doesn’t hear a word. She’s too busy giggling over his mouth, laughing in his ear while his hands snake all over her body.
She turns slightly my way. “We’re headed to the Panic Room!” she shrieks over the music as they take off down the red hall of shame.
“Oh hell.” I kick my heel over the floor.
The Panic Room is the designated area for all the touchy-feely things you’d want to do to some total stranger in a mask, only Harley won’t be doing anything with a total stranger. She’ll most likely be doing everything with that dimwit from Briggs. I’m not entirely sure why Tyson Swanson gets under my skin, but he’s been proficiently doing so ever since we met a few weeks back. Harley is a virgin, and I’d like for her hymen to still be intact by the time we leave this semen-infested sex club.
A part of me thinks she would have been safer with one of the roving strangers compared to Tickle-Me-Tyson, as he’s known around the sororities. It’s no secret that he’s a ladies’ man. He’s both a heavy flirt and a pretty big dick—not in any biologically complimentary way. As in a jerk, a first-class A-hole—someone you wouldn’t want one of your best friends bedding on a whim, and that’s exactly what I’m afraid will happen if I don’t bust a move and barrel into that Panic Room myself. But since I’m an astute listener, I distinctly remember that the rules explicitly state the Panic Room is a couples-only retreat. I’ll need a plus one to boot scoot my way into that horny madhouse. So I scan the area for a perverted prospect of my own.
There’s a tall lanky guy by the bar, drink in hand, scouring the crowd himself. He’ll do. Not only does he meet the desperate and lonely requirement—but I swear I could take him if I had to.
One of the first things Lex did when she found out I was at Briggs was enroll me in a self-defense class. I can twist an arm with the best of them among other far more gruesome things I can do to their groin.
Yes, it will be a rueful day for the man who thinks he can take advantage of me, and on a night like tonight when I’m more than a little pissy, I’m just dying to try out my ball-busting moves.
I head on over just as an equally tall blonde latches onto him, and they take off in a hurry. Strike one. That’s fine. I just as easily spot another hooded male slouched over a barstool sucking down a beer while bobbing his head to the music. His build is nice, and I must admit that hooded mask the males are all given to wear has my engine revving for reasons unknown, but is that—?
Oh, for shit’s sake. He’s wearing sweats. Sweats! What’s the matter, big boy? Mommy wasn’t around this morning to lay your clothes out? He looks as if he came straight from the gym. Who could take him seriously? It will be a no-brainer to shove him away once we crest that coital chamber. I’ll look for Harley in her hot pink disguise, and we’ll hightail it out of here as if the roof were on fire. And then, I’ll be sure to set her on fire with my rage. I can’t believe I let her talk me into this sweat suit-induced nightmare. I stalk my way over, and just as I’m about to tap him on the shoulder, he slumps over onto the bar and about ten different men in suits rush to assist him before hauling him to the door.
“Oh my God,” I hiss. I pray he’s not dead. I’d swear on my life those security guards were dragging him out of here like a bona fide corpse. It’s like I have the Midas touch, only nothing turns to gold—men die in my presence. Die.
At this rate, I’ll never lose my virginity. Having sex with me could prove lethal, and something deep inside of me suggests it will be. After my mother took off—an outright rejection that you don’t need to be Freud to read into—and my father bit the big one sitting at his desk at work—a small part of me started to believe that I’m people repellent. Sure, Lex didn’t leave, but she was too mean to even consider it, and I say that in the most loving way possible. Marlin was actually already gone at that point, married and divorced by the time my father died. I’ve always feared deep down inside that I was destined to be alone.
I take in a ragged breath as I look around this hall of horrors. The music only seems to grow louder and far more spastic, and my head begins to pound like an entire tribe of indigenous sex slaves was rioting to get to freedom. The body count in the room increases exponentially—of the living. My God, I will always have to quantify that now for the rest of my life.
A gaggle of girls bump up against me, causing me to strut back a few paces, and suddenly it looks as if I’ve joined their disorganized conga line as I gyrate right along with them. Well, I’m not.
I give the buxom blonde, whose fanny keeps pecking at my midsection, a firm shove, and I back into a body myself. I turn around, fully ready and willing to slam another torso to the wall if need be, but am met with piercing blue eyes and a smile twitching on a pair of dangerous lips. And, my God, is that a suit he’s donned? I suck in a quick breath, more than impressed with the selection at hand. I give his shoulder a quick tap, and he doesn’t keel over so that has to be a good sign. He seems to be impervious to my necrotic touch.
His eyes stray to his shoulder and he looks mildly confused by my bodily intro, but in my defense, it’s too damn loud in here for social niceties. Something tells me that small talk is neither wanted nor needed in this place. I tick my head toward the red hall of pain, and yet he doesn’t budge.
What’s this? The one and only true gentleman in a room full of walking dildos? It can’t be. It’s as if I’ve accidentally stumbled upon the equivalent of a unicorn out in the wild. But too bad for him and his conservative ways because I need to get my bestie back to Briggs before we both turn into impregnated pumpkins.
I lean in and nuzzle my body to his. I run my hand over his powder blue dress shirt
and can’t help but note how firm his chest feels. His eyes never leave mine, and there’s a hint of familiarity about him. That warm spiced cologne intoxicates me on a deeper level than I expected, and suddenly I want to drag him into the Panic Room for far more nefarious purposes than rescuing Harley and her questionable virtue. Maybe it’s high time I deal with my own.
His hands glide up my waist, warm and strong, and a tiny groan works its way up my throat. He inches in close, and I do the same as our lips share a barely-there brush against one another. And that, my friend, is the sexual cue my quivering thighs have been waiting for. I snatch his hand and sail us down the dark cardinal hall as the lights dim ever so slightly the deeper we get. A giant neon arch blinks in bright red, reading Panic Room, and just seeing the seizure of spastic light insights a twinge of chaos in my stomach.
What in the hell have I gotten myself into? Note to self: think twice before allowing Harley and her questionable social decisions lead me anywhere. Sure, she’s in here somewhere making out with Tyson the notorious two-timer, but I’m holding hands with a venerable stranger with my heart pounding against my chest just begging for one more kiss from those ultra-soft lips. The Panic Room is dark save for the faint glow of red lights that line the floorboards. All I can properly make out is people’s shoes, and I’m pretty sure that won’t do me a lick of good in a lineup.
My God, what kind of shoes did Harley have on? Was she wearing shoes at all? At this rate, I’m liable to end up whisking the wrong girl out of here, and my night will end up in a holding tank with attempted kidnapping charges.
We pass another neon portal that reads Pleasure and Pain with a rope dangling from the archway like a tantalizing threat.
The masked man I’m currently leashed to spins me around, and suddenly we’re slow dancing to fantastically loud and crappy music that is much more conducive to a mosh pit than our hip-hugging foray into erotica.
His lips expand into a devious smile as he maneuvers us deeper into the club. His mask, his body quickly becomes a shadow, and suddenly none of this feels real. It certainly feels like a fantasy, and every last part of my body is rooting for this fantasy to blossom into something dark and naughty—so I let it.
Our eyes remain latched over one another until the very last second before my lips fall to his and he moves his mouth over mine, steady and deliberate, a dream of a kiss that is diary entry worthy.
Confession: I may or may not still keep an active journal that lists the often mundane activities most of my days are comprised of. And tonight’s entry for certain will be one for the ages. Hell, this one entry alone will require that my journal be kept under lock and key until either Lex or I am in the grave, or it just might lead to a case of sororicide.
A groan comes from him, one that I can feel right through his chest, and a giggle brews in me as my arms wrap themselves around his sturdy, hard body. There’s something dreamy about this moment. This is far lustier, far more arousing than I imagined something deviant of this nature could ever be. At first, the notion of doing just this with a masked stranger was complete insanity, but after further evaluation, I completely understand the attraction.
A part of me says let’s get back to that Pleasure and Pain portal and make some good use of those ropes and whips they’ve most likely littered the place with. Oh, the perverted places we could go if only I was guaranteed a disease-free evening with Mr. Tall-Dark-Masked-and-Questionably-Handsome. And as odd as it sounds, I don’t really care how he looks beneath that mask. He’s drop-dead gorgeous in my book, sexy as hell, and the fact he has my pink parts quivering in record time is a testament to how comely he is. I can’t help but smile into our kiss. That word always gets me.
His lips try to part mine, and as much as I want to deep dive into his mouth and explore his tonsils, my better judgment wins out. I pull back a moment to get a better look at him, and I fall hard into those drugged blue eyes.
He wants this. He wants me.
I don’t think another human has ever quite looked at me like this before, and a part of me demands to oblige his darkest fantasies on every perverted level. And as I’m about to do just that, I spot a hot pink feathered head bopping to the music while her hands disappear to dark and twisted places south of that boy’s silly T-shirt.
“Oh, hell no.” I bolt over and yank Harley away from the roving pervert by way of her elbow. No sooner do I spin her around than I find that my masked man has been swallowed whole by darkness.
Crap. It’s probably for the best.
I haul Harley kicking and screaming out of the Panic Room, back down that garish red hall, and straight for the glaring exit sign where we turn in our masks before expelling ourselves into the hot, humid night.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Harley is still in full protest mode as she buttons up her jeans.
“Geez!” I shriek at the sight of her pink panties. “That’s exactly why I did it. You should not be exposing your cotton candy panties to anyone! Definitely not to that meathead with a one-track mind. I’ve heard rumors!”
“I’ve heard rumors, too! About how boring you can be.” She pouts all the way to my car.
“No, you haven’t,” I’m quick to protest. I happen to know firsthand the only rumors floating around about myself have to do with my curt and caustic personality, and I like it that way just fine.
“Okay, so I haven’t.”
We hop in, and I start the engine, throwing it in reverse as if we were peeling out after a bank heist gone wrong.
Harley pulls down her visor and checks her lips in the mirror—as she should. Tyson most likely has the ability to make them fall right off. I bet his superpowers involve incurable strains of STDs. Ten bucks says she’ll be blanketed in cold sores come morning.
“Did you at least manage to have some fun?” Her voice pitches as she says it.
“Yes. I mean, no. It was—I don’t know. Weird.” I look in my rearview mirror as the club grows small in the distance, and I wonder about that masked man. “I guess you can say it was a little more interesting than I thought it would be.”
“Good. We’ll go back next Friday. They say if you find someone you like—”
“I know. You come back the same day, same time the following week. I was in the briefing room right along with you.”
“So, we’re going back?”
Those heated kisses come back to me, igniting a fire deep inside my belly, and I swear on everything good that I can feel his lips over mine as sure as if he were standing here.
“We’re going back.”
What the hell.
This summer cannot get any worse.
It can only go up from here.
God forbid that I’m the one that ends up in the morgue next.
Hallowed Grounds is Whitney Briggs’ favorite coffee shop that happens to serve the best and the biggest red velvet waffles I have ever seen in my life. The shop itself is adorable inside with all the required WB regalia to qualify it as school spirit central. The air is thick with the lush scent of roasted beans, and the place is packed with students hunched over their laptops, sucking off the free Wi-Fi while sucking down their pricey lattes.
“Mmm,” Sunday moans as she indulges in another bite. I’ve watched as she heroically polished off her plate of red velvet wonders and half of mine. To say she’s indulging herself during this special time in her life would be an understatement. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what? Admiration? I wish I could be so fearless with my waistline.”
She makes a face. “I don’t have a waistline. And for your information, I didn’t have a say in it either. This one is sort of running the show.” She pats her belly openly. “So you can stop judging me.” She moans her way through another bite while grinning up at me like the cat who ate the red velvet canary.
“I aspire to be you.”
“Oh!” She dabs her lips with her napkin while her eyes widen as if she’s just had an epiphany. My God, I
hope that’s all she’s having. I have a sinking feeling I would make a terrible midwife. “Speaking of being me. I have something to give you—that is, if you’re interested.” She produces a clear plastic gallon freezer bag filled halfway with lipsticks in every shape and size.
“Ooh, I likey.” I’m quick to snatch the loot from her. “By the way, just for the record, I think your vlogs are ten times more entertaining now that you have a special guest joining you each week.” I glance to her burgeoning belly. “Far more so than it was when you ran solo. That gassy session? If I were you, I wouldn’t go near Mexican food for at least three days before going live.”
“I had the hiccups!”
“Please, you belched out each sentence like a professional frat boy. And that foot cramp that sent you hollering last week? Pure gold, I tell you. Phalangeal gold!”
Sunday takes a moment to openly glare at me. “Just wait until my live delivery. I plan on gnawing off the umbilical cord myself.”
“Ha-ha. You’re disgusting by the way.” I spin the bag laden with colorful treasures. “So, what gives? Let me guess. Seth doesn’t like anything coming between him and your lips?”
“Not quite. In fact, it doesn’t have anything to do with Seth. Now that I’m going to be a mom, I need to take better care of myself. I only want natural ingredients in my cosmetics and, believe you me, it’s been a challenge. Do you know how many different lipsticks contain aluminum in its many forms? There’s no way I want to go senile in my old age just because I was uninformed in my youth.”
“Gee, thanks for thinking of me. Not.” I drop the weighted bag onto the table with a bang. “So, what’s that hot pink gunk staining your lips? Let me guess. Pressed berries? By the way, I’m really digging this whole Mother Earth vibe you have going on.”
Her brows rise as she does her best to suppress a smile. “It’s this.” She whips out a cherry red lip crayon and twists it my way until the ingredients list is visible to me.
Hot Honey Kisses: 3:AM Kisses 17 Page 7
