by J. Lynn
“You should look into it,” he said.
I nodded, feeling kind of dumb. Like I should have known this.
“So you’re graduating then? In May?” I needed to hear him say he was leaving.
“Yeah.”
“And then you’re gone?”
“I’ve got an internship at Memorial Hospital through the summer. Working in the burn ward. I start med school in Boston in the fall.”
Boston wasn’t that far. I blasted the thought from my head. It didn’t matter where he went to med school.
“Can I get you anything else?”
I snapped my attention to the waitress. She wasn’t looking at me. Hunter held her undivided attention. She was in her twenties. Her eyes bright and alert despite working the night shift. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and cocked her head, a flirty grin curving her lips. And I knew he got this all the time. Girls with invitation all over their faces. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable sitting there in my jeans and plaid, button-snap shirt. I didn’t belong here.
“Yeah. We’re done,” I announced, pushing my plate back. Only a few scraps remained.
She blinked at me, and I realized my tone wasn’t the friendliest. A smile played on Hunter’s mouth. God help me if that didn’t just make his dimple deeper.
Hunter paid the bill and we left, stepping out into the cold night. We crossed the street and I turned toward my car. He walked beside me, his arm brushing my shoulder. I was almost to my car door when his voice rippled over me. “You want to come inside?”
I laughed lightly. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
The words were harsh, but I needed them to be. Not just for him, but for me, too. I needed to remember who he was and who I was. We weren’t two people out on a date. This wasn’t going anywhere. Unless I wanted to be another notch on his bedpost—a story for him to share with his buddies . . . how he took home a stripper and screwed her.
“Damn it, Brooke. You won’t give me your number. You won’t come inside. Maybe I just want to get to know you. Maybe I don’t want to say good-bye right now.”
Sighing, I turned to face him, my car door at my back. He stood close. Just a few inches separated us. The heat from his body radiated toward me, drawing me in.
Frustration welled up inside me. I shouldn’t have stopped. I shouldn’t have offered him a ride. This was hard. He was very tempting.
“Maybe I’m just not interested. Has that occurred to you?”
He blinked. Clearly that hadn’t occurred to him. He stared me down, and I held his stare, gazing into his brown eyes, trying to look serious and unaffected as he assessed me. And then I had to look at his mouth. Just a quick flick of my gaze. I wrenched my eyes back to his but he hadn’t missed it.
“Bullshit,” he snapped, his voice almost angry. But satisfied, too.
His hand shot out and curled around the back of my neck. The sensation of his warm fingers on my nape sent a shockwave through me.
He hauled me against him. His body pressed hard to mine, sending more sensation flooding through me. I was no petite thing, but he was so much bigger than me . . . taller and muscled. I could feel all of him—his hard pecs, a washboard belly.
Our noses almost touched as our breaths crashed and collided, foggy on the cold air. His fingers flexed on the back of my neck. His brown eyes glowed darkly, crawling over my face, my mouth. For just a few seconds. Like he was giving me a chance. A chance to stop and run. To stop this from happening. To stop us.
My heart hammered like a wild bird inside my chest. I’d been kissed before. I wasn’t even a virgin. An awkward, fumbling night last year with a guy I was dating took care of that.
But now, this moment . . . it felt new. It felt different. Like the first time.
I wasn’t going anywhere, and when his mouth touched mine there was nothing fumbling or awkward about it. His lips slanted over mine hotly, searing me. His fingers tightened, burrowing up into my hair, caressing my scalp.
His teeth gently tugged my bottom lip and something coiled tightly in my belly. He released my bottom lip and gave it a long, savoring lick. I sighed. He took advantage, slipping his tongue inside my mouth.
Then it was on. I fell back against my car, indifferent to the cold metal at my back. All I cared about was him. That hard, delicious body fused to mine. His lips, both hard and soft. His tongue inside my mouth, sweeping against my tongue, exploring and tasting and making me want to crawl inside him.
My fingers dug desperately into his shoulders. He slid one hand down my back, between my body and the car to cup my ass. And then my feet were off the ground.
I don’t know what happened first. Whether I jumped or he just lifted me up. My legs wrapped around his waist. Our mouths fused together. Everything was desperate and hungry and oh-my-God-this-is-better-than-anything-I-ever-had-before.
A car honked and I gasped, pulling away. Blinking, I looked around, dazed. With a growl, he dragged me back and we started all over again.
Against my car. In the cold. And I had never felt more on fire in my life.
It was a lot. Hard and fast. I felt like I was drowning.
I wedged a hand between us and broke our kiss. Panting, he gazed down at me, his eyes gleaming in the dark.
Without a word, I slid my legs down. Breathing raggedly, I reached for his pocket and pulled out his phone. With shaking fingers, I went to his contacts and added in my name and number, even knowing as I did I was an idiot for doing it. For even hoping.
I felt his stare on my face, his warm breath on my cheek. “There.” I handed back his phone.
His fingers wrapped around mine, clasping my hand in his until I looked up at him again. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I smiled and shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t hoping he would. Like I wasn’t hoping that this guy would maybe be part of my life beyond just this moment.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he repeated.
No. You won’t. I bit back the reply, dammed it up inside me. It was a dangerous thing . . . hoping for more. Believing you could have it.
My hand exerted a little more pressure on his chest, urging him to step back more. It wasn’t easy when I just wanted to curl my arms around his neck and dive for his mouth again.
He moved back.
I opened the car door and dropped down inside. Starting the engine to let it warm up, I looked up at him. “Good night, Hunter. It was nice meeting you.”
“It was nice meeting you, too.” There was a wealth of meaning in his words. It was nice watching you dance so horribly before a roomful of men. Nice talking with you. Eating pancakes with you. Kissing you.
Driving away, I forced myself not to look back in the rearview mirror to see if he was watching me leave. I didn’t want to know if he wasn’t standing there anymore. If he had already moved on.
On the drive home, I kept replaying our conversation. And his face . . . his beautiful, too perfect face. His hands, his mouth, his taste.
I let myself into the empty trailer. Mom and Chels were still at the Cave. I changed into comfy PJs and dropped down at my desk. I fired up my computer, pulling my long hair up into a messy knot as I waited for it to wake. It was four years old and took forever.
Finally ready, I started searching grants. In a little over an hour, I felt like I already had some promising leads.
My cell rang from across the room. I went to get it, assuming it was Chels checking in, seeing if I needed anything as she headed home. She probably thought I hadn’t eaten anything. Sometimes she grabbed a pizza for us to share. It depended how good her tips were.
It wasn’t my sister. Instead it was an unknown number.
I answered hesitantly, “Hello?”
“Hey.” The deep voice sent everything crashing awake and alive inside me. My blood quickened and my lips tingled like I could feel his kiss all over again. Like he was right here in front of me. “It’s tomorrow . . . I said I’d call.”
Want to
know what happened between Hunter and Pepper?
Read Foreplay
(Book #1 of the Ivy Chronicles)
by Sophie Jordan
Available now!
About the Author
SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Avon historical romances and young adult novels for Harper Teen. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with true-crime and reality TV shows. You can visit her at www.sophieojordan.net.
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Under the Seryn Moon
MELISSA LANDERS
Balzear Colony: 3017
LYRA DIDN’T KNOW which unnerved her more: the scents or the sounds.
From within the stone walls of her enemy’s formal dining hall, foreign chatter and boisterous laughter competed with the scrape of utensils, the clink of goblets, and the rhythmic percussion of celebratory war drums. Hounds wailed behind closed doors, eager for a discarded scrap of flesh from their masters—generals and commanders who lined the expansive wooden table congratulating one another on their recent victory. The clamor hung around Lyra’s head like a cloud of insects, pressing her temples in a headache.
She faced her supper. A tendril of malodorous steam wafted up from her stew, the metallic bowl teeming with graying chunks of meat and lumps of mash that had, perhaps, once been vegetables. Her stomach turned a somersault.
The scents unnerved her more. Definitely the scents.
She reached for her goblet and took a sip of melon wine, the only thing that made dinners bearable in her new “home.” Both sweet and tangy, the taste reminded her of shore-side summers at her family’s cottage, far from the lines of battle and the stretches of ruined landscape—of simpler times when her greatest dilemma had been which suitor to encourage to ensure the most favorable match.
She never imagined her father would promise her as spoils of war to a Seryn.
“A toast!” The viceroy lifted his goblet toward Lyra, his voice thick from too much wine. He spoke her native language when he shouted, “To my new daughter. May she bear me many grandchildren!”
All eyes in the dining hall shifted to her downturned face, causing it to blaze. Her hands grew clammy and she longed to climb beneath the table. But in her mind, she heard Mother’s voice chiding, You are a young lady of Bethel, descended from kings. Behave like one.
Summoning the wide, diplomatic smile she’d mastered early in her childhood, Lyra lifted her gaze and studied the regent who had claimed her as his daughter.
Like all men of his kind, the sides of his russet scalp were clean-shaven, highlighting a single coal-black braid that extended from the center of his forehead to the back of his skull. He wore the traditional Seryn tunic, cut in a low V to display the circular tattoo on his massive, battle-scarred chest.
How many of those gashes had her father inflicted over the years?
Several, to be sure.
Though Lyra had always remained sheltered inside the protective walls of her family’s compound to the north, war was the only constant she had known during her eighteen years on this desolate colony planet. While her people had battled the Seryn for dominance of the precious ore mines, she’d lost countrymen and friends, learning from an early age that death by the blade would eventually take everyone she loved.
When the oldest of her six brothers had died fighting at the mines, she’d cried to the gods for peace, and in their perverse way, they’d answered her prayer.
Her father’s army had lost the war.
Weeks ago, the Seryn had accepted surrender in an elaborate treaty ceremony that her entire family had been forced to attend. At first, she’d assumed it was meant as an act of humiliation, but she had quickly learned otherwise. To cement their truce, the two enemy families had agreed to join their bloodlines, forming a unified dynasty. All of a sudden, Lyra had found herself useful to her father—as his only daughter of breeding age.
He’d wasted no time in packing her trunks and shuttling her hundreds of miles to the sultry Southlands to handfast with Kai, the viceroy’s oldest son and heir. Father had barely allowed her enough time to say good-bye to her siblings. The youngest ones, especially two-year-old Elissa, the light of Lyra’s heart, would likely forget her before she returned home to visit.
Assuming she even could.
Lyra had done her duty for her people. She’d recited her vows to Kai with a smile on her face and sorrow in her soul. Even now, tears pressed her eyes, but she forced them back and brightened her grin.
“To my son!” the viceroy shouted, eliciting cheers and the stomping of boots. “May he have many sons of his own!”
Trying not to dwell on the topic of bearing him “many sons,” Lyra raised her cup to Kai while peering around the room for his crimson tunic. Odd that he wasn’t here. This feast was in their honor.
“And to victory!” a general from the other side of the table added, this time in his native tongue.
While the hall echoed his words and erupted in shouts, Lyra brought her goblet of melon wine to her lips. She drained the cup and extended it to the server for another, then drained that one as well. Perhaps the strong drink would help her sleep over the sounds of odd voices, barking dogs, and the deep breathing of the stranger who lay by her side each night.
She stood from her chair, her limbs weighed down by the heaviness of her Seryn nobility robes. Even the clothes on her body seemed alien. The silk panels were laced up her back in such intricate patterns that she required a ladies’ maid to undress. Lyra found the practice extravagant and wasteful.
Leaving the crowded dining room, she strode into the hallway and found her handmaid, a round-faced young woman with the traditional trio of Seryn braids extending down her back. The maid glanced at Lyra’s free-flowing waves and clucked disapprovingly. In the Northlands, women wore their hair loose, and though Lyra had dutifully conformed to her new station, she’d refused to plait her hair. It was her one act of rebellion—a silent protest against her fate.
“Going to bed early again?” the maid asked, clearly amused. “I don’t blame you. If I were handfasted to the viceroy’s heir, I’d do the same.” Fluttering her lashes, she pressed a palm to her breast and sighed. “His eyes are the color of pure hura spice.”
“Yes.” Lyra did nothing to dispel the woman’s assumptions. “They are stunning.”
What her maid didn’t know—what nobody knew—was that she hadn’t touched Kai since they’d joined hands and solemnized their union three days ago. Each evening after supper, she’d retired early and had feigned sleep, curling her body toward the wall in an unmistakable message, her knees pressed together as if to lock out Kai when he’d joined her.
Last night she had sensed him watching. She’d opened her eyes a crack and noticed the shadow of a hand on the wall extending toward her shoulder. But Kai had hesitated before pulling back, and when she’d awoken this morning, he was gone.
“When you’re ready to disrobe,” the maid said, “summon me from your chamber.” She gave a conspiratorial wink and resumed her duties.
Lyra’s palms dampened as she crossed to the opposite wing of the viceroy’s fortress and ascended the staircase to the second floor bedrooms. She couldn’t hide from Kai forever. He had been so patient, and she’d vowed before the gods to honor him with her body. But he was strange to her—his speech and his mannerisms unfamiliar. She felt flustered simply talking with him.
Then there was the matter of her inexperience . . .
Surrounded by diligent guards and maiden aunts, Lyra had never tasted a single kiss from any of her suitors. The act of love was as foreign to her as this new land. She ha
d witnessed the occasional mating of animals on her compound’s pasture lands, but she didn’t know if the act looked the same between ladies and lords.
What would Kai expect of her, and when?
The uncertainty quickened her footsteps in haste to enter their bedchamber ahead of him. When she reached the door, she flung herself inside, then clicked it shut.
“Lock that behind you, please,” called a familiar male voice from the darkness. “I’m in for the night.”
Gasping, Lyra clapped a hand over her chest and whirled toward the sound.
Kai lit the bedside lantern, illuminating his body in a flickering glow. “I’m sorry to startle you. Are you all right?”
She started to say yes, but at the sight of him, her voice died on her tongue.
Lyra could only stare as he reclined against a stack of cushions, one muscled arm curled lazily behind his head, his braid undone so the hair flowed in dark waves over one shoulder. His chest was bare, the circular tattoo of his family crest visible above his heart. Reflexively, Lyra fingered the sore spot above her left breast, where a freshly inked tattoo matched his.
She had never seen Kai undressed.
She felt a mingling of fear and something else she couldn’t quite place. Something warm. He was lean and battle-strong, with a dusting of fine, raven hair that trailed from his chest down to his flat belly before disappearing beneath the blankets.
She had to remind herself to breathe.
He patted a spot on the mattress beside him. “Come here. I have a surprise for you.”
A surprise? Was that subtext for something more? She glanced at his supine form but couldn’t tell if he wore anything under the covers.
Even in the dim lighting, the panic must have shown on her face. He sat up and pulled away the blanket, revealing bare feet and a pair of long legs concealed beneath his breeches. Kneeling on the mattress, he gestured at the opposite side table, where someone had placed a tray of food.
