by Shandi Boyes
I stiffen when Carey slips his hand under my dress to grasp the waistband of my panties. It isn’t haunted memories holding me captive. It is wondering what his reaction is going to be to my hideous undergarments. He doesn’t even bat an eyelid as he yanks them down my stomach.
Feeding off his eagerness, my hands shoot to the waistband of his trousers. I pop open the button of his pants and slide down the zipper as my panties slip down my quivering thighs. Passion scorches every inch of my skin when the coolness of the air-conditioning blows on the exposed heated region of my body.
The softness of bedding caresses my taut muscles when we fumble carelessly onto the bed. Normally, the weight of a man pinning me down would send my panic skyrocketing, but just like every moment I’ve spent with Carey thus far, it feels natural and relaxed.
Keeping his head buried in the crook of my neck, Carey drags his trousers down his thighs. I writhe beneath him, incredibly turned on when seductive portions of his V muscle come into view. My eyes go crazy, absorbing every inch of him. I swear there isn’t an ounce of fat on his entire body. . . well, except there. The wetness of my pussy grows when his impressive cock springs free from his trunks. He is hard, thick, and ready to go.
The hot pants of his breath hit my neckline when he mutters, “One night.” Although I could construe his statement as a question, the roughness of his tone doesn’t indicate that.
He waits for me to nod before he guides his impressive manhood toward my quivering entrance. When he sheathes me in one fluid thrust, I snap my eyes shut and throw my head back. With no guarantees of a re-run, I’m going to yield to the brilliance of my first sexual contact in over a year without a single moment being ruined by hesitation.
Chapter 9
Groaning, I kick the sweat-slicked sheets off my body and roll onto my side. The pleasurable tightness of my muscles sends a reminder to my blurry mind of the events that occurred in this bed last night. Although Carey continued with his reserved composure, last night was unlike anything I’d ever felt. Hours of touching, stroking. . . fucking. Usually, the mystery and intrigue a man holds ends up being nothing but a lie the instant we step into the bedroom. Carey defies that logic. If I thought the man was magnificent before, it is nothing compared to the awe I have for him now.
The thrilling ache of my muscles is worth waking up alone. I don’t need to open my eyes to know that Carey is gone. Even with the intoxicating mix of pheromones confusing my perception, a man with an aura as compelling as Carey’s can’t be concealed. Let alone the fact a man of his size isn’t something I’d ever miss. I can still feel the heaviness of him inside me.
You’d expect me to be annoyed at Carey’s vanishing act. I’m not. Actually, I’m somewhat pleased he snuck out in the darkness of the night. Normally, when my dates discover who my father is, they become what Wesley likes to call Stage One I Want To Meet Your Daddy Clingers. They are the guys who follow me around like a shadow, send inappropriate gifts to my work, and pretend I'm the girl they’ve been waiting for their entire life. Where, in reality, they only like who I’m associated with.
Fifty percent get the hint within a matter of days that I won’t introduce them to my dad until I’ve been dating them exclusively for six months. Since only a small minority of men in New York City are seeking a long-term relationship, they run for the hills the instant the dreaded C word leaves my mouth. The next forty percent take a little longer to grasp that their penis isn’t going to be a magic wand that will have them miraculously meeting my dad after two so-called “dates.” The chances of them jumping my firm six-month rule for a parental meet-and-greet are just as unlikely as them being invited into my bed before my prerequisite 90-day date rule.
The other ten percent of the men I’ve dated are the worst of the worst. They are the guys who have no interest in NASCAR racing whatsoever. Who in their right mind hates NASCAR racing? Bile forms in the back of my throat just entertaining the idea that NASCAR racing isn’t the sport of Gods. In no particular order, NASCAR, photography, my dad and Wesley are my entire world. . . and perhaps even a dark-eyed stranger with pulse-racing good looks and worldly eyes.
My eyes bulge, shell-shocked by my silent admission. Even reveling in the high only a night of earth-shattering orgasms can produce, I never thought I’d have those types of reckless thoughts again. Beyond Wesley, Ava is the only person I’ve allowed in my inner circle since my attack six years ago. When you go through a crisis like I did, you’re extremely wary of anyone new entering your life. You wonder what is behind their sudden interest in you, so you lose the joy you get from meeting and befriending a stranger. Maybe that is why last night was so intriguing? For the first time in a long time, I allowed a stranger in. Not just into my bedroom, but inside my heart as well.
There’s another reason I’m so astonished by my behavior last night. For the past three years, I haven’t participated in a one night stand, and for the past two and a half years, I’ve never came close to breaking my 90-day rule. Not once. Not even when a hot he-who-will-never-be-named movie star had me seriously reconsidering my determined morals. But one glance into Carey’s tormented eyes blew my entire plan, and I don’t even know his last name. Wesley is going to have a field day when I update him on my adventurous night.
Grumbling at the thought of that conversation, I throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed. The thumping of my skull from a measly two hours of sleep overtakes the pounding of my pussy as I slowly trudge toward the bathroom door. My sloth-like speed quickens to a snail’s pace when I hear the shower beckoning me to its heavenliness. I’m not eager to wash away the intoxicating scent of sex slicking my skin, but I'm eager to remove the heaviness of a long, tiring day—both mentally and physically.
My brows stitch when I flick on the bathroom light and it fails to illuminate the windowless room with artificial color. Acting like I don’t know the inner workings of a light switch, I continue flicking it on and off over and over again. My annoyance festers when my incessant switch-flicking does nothing but chip the polish on my index finger.
Cursing unresponsive lightbulbs under my breath, I pace to the entranceway table so I can call the hotel desk and advise them of the blown bulb. When I catch sight of the time on my cell phone, I cross my fingers that they will send someone straight to my room as my late night has stretched my time extremely thin.
Upon picking up the phone receiver, I notice the room keycard I placed in the electric mechanism by the door has been removed. I remain still, blinking and confused. It is only after racking my tired brain for numerous minutes does the reason behind my missing keycard trickle into my fried mind. Carey couldn’t gain access to the elevators without taking my card.
“Well, shit,” I curse under my breath.
I take another few moments I don’t have to consider a solution to my situation. When a brilliant idea formulates in my tired brain, I pace to the large double windows of my room and draw open the curtains. Bright late morning sun causes me to squint, but it isn’t bright enough to illuminate the bathroom to allow me to feel comfortable showering in there. Even giving myself a mental pep talk that I’m a grown woman who should be able to shower in a dim room doesn’t help matters.
Throwing my hands in the air at my skittishness, I pad to my suitcase and get dressed. A pair of fresh panties and a dash of perfume isn’t going to clear away the scent of sex on my skin, but when you're running on empty, you take any leverage you can get.
When the Uber app on my phone dings, advising my driver is waiting at the front of the hotel, I snag my dress and panties I wore last night off the bedroom floor, stuff them into my suitcase, then make a beeline for the door.
Like I could feel anymore daft this morning, it takes me numerous pushes on the elevator button for recognition to dawn that I can’t access the elevators without my room key. Gritting my teeth to hold in an annoyed squeal dying to break free, I throw open the emergency fire exit stairs and step into the stairwell. My heart f
alls from my chest when a loud siren shrills through my ears.
“I’m so sorry,” I strangle out through a lump in my throat when a maid comes frantically rushing out of the room next to the emergency exit like Armageddon was just announced. “I accidentally tripped the alarm.”
The middle-aged maid with rosy cheeks and ample breasts curses at me in Spanish.
“I’m sorry for frightening you,” I apologize again, except this time in Spanish. “I left my swipe card in my room.”
The embarrassment heating my cheeks doubles when the maid offers to open my door so I can retrieve my card.
“My keycard isn’t in my room,” I admit, my tone low and laced with embarrassment.
The maid eyes me curiously, her brows pulled together tightly, her lips pursed.
“A friend took it with him when he left my room this morning,” I disclose.
I hold my breath, fully anticipating for her to tsk or jeer at me. She does nothing but look at me with sympathy.
“Gracias,” I thank her when she swipes her employee card over the elevator security panel to summon the elevator car to my floor. I strive to keep my tone neutral, but the embarrassment dangling off my vocal cords impedes my efforts.
The maid runs her hand down my arm while saying, “Rejection doesn’t mean you aren’t good enough; it means the other person failed to notice what you have to offer.”
I try to put on a brave front, but her words have more impact on me than I care to admit. The year following my attack, I truly believed I’d never be good enough for anyone; that is why I was so promiscuous. Sexual contact meant nothing but a meaningless night with another consenting adult. Last night was the first time I felt a connection during a sexual act since that horrid night in the alleyway six years ago. I felt worthwhile and treasured, and for the first time in years, I truly thought I was enough. But the fact I woke up alone makes me wonder if I misread the entire evening. Perhaps it was nothing more than a meaningless night of fun?
The unease twisting in my stomach morphs into unchartered waters when the elevator doors ding open. Because the car is empty, it takes me under a second to spot my keycard squeezed between the two glass panels lining the back wall. Although my room key has no distinguishable marks associating it with my room number, just having my card left in such an unsecured environment swirls my stomach. What ifs run rife through my brain. What if my room number was scanned on the back of the card? What if the maid hadn’t been in the room beside the elevator banks to save me being trapped on the twenty-third floor? What if my card ended up in the hands of a person like the sick and twisted man who haunts my dreams every night?
Swallowing the bitter tasting bile creeping up my windpipe, I enter the elevator and snatch my room key from its conspicuous hiding place. I ignore the curious glance of the hotel clerk who served me last night as I stroll across the tiled lobby floor to dump my keycard into the advanced checkout box. I pretend I can’t feel the inquisitive glances of men drinking their hangover concoctions in the bar I offered to buy Carey a drink at last night, and I act like the numbness that cleared off my chest last night hasn’t returned stronger than ever when I curl into the back of my female Uber driver’s SUV and smile a greeting.
For the twenty-mile drive to my destination, I try to rationalize every irrational thought running through my blurry mind. All I end up achieving is thirty minutes of a flipping stomach and the loss of polish from two of my nails.
When the SUV pulls into the driveway of a modest but well-kept house, I sit in silence for several minutes, striving to build the courage to enter a residence I’ve heard about numerous times but never visited.
Any thoughts lingering in the back of my mind about fleeing become impossible when a cherry red Chevelle pulls in beside the SUV. The smile Hugo was wearing the entire eight hours of his wedding yesterday tugs higher when he spots me sitting in the back seat of the SUV.
Smiling, I return his friendly wave while every curse word I’ve ever heard silently seeps from my lips. Once I’ve extinguished any possibility of going to heaven, I secure a grip on my suitcase and slide out of the SUV, thanking the driver for her service on my way out.
A refreshing woodsy smell soothes the agitation swirling my stomach when Hugo curls out of his car and stands next to me.
“Sorry I’m late, I had. . . traffic issues,” I mumble, my tone as weak as my excuse.
Any anger boiling my blood simmers when Hugo’s hearty laugh sounds through my ears. “A New Yorker having traffic issues? Anyone would swear you just left Ravenshoe.”
My heart warms when Hugo wraps his thick arms around my torso and gives me a quick hug. Just like Carey last night, Hugo’s caress doesn’t cause me to flinch. He is one of only a handful of men who can touch me without making me inwardly cringe. Hugo is no doubt gorgeous with dark hair, ocean blue eyes and a body that makes grown women say ga-ga out loud, but it wasn’t his panty-melting good looks that initially attracted me to him. It was his laugh.
Don’t get me wrong, I'm in no way attracted to Hugo now. I’m talking way before I knew of his Ava fascination, and way before I realized he was going to end up being the big brother my father wished he’d given me years ago. Although Hugo and I haven’t seen much of each other the past six years, it doesn’t matter how much time passes, he will always be family to me.
“I’m glad you finally made it to one of the Marshall family brunches, Gem. My mom is going to shit a brick,” Hugo says before removing my suitcase from my grasp and leading us down the side of the house.
I smile at the glee in his tone before running my eyes over the Marshall residence. It is a modest house in a leafy, safe neighborhood of Rochdale. From the stories I’ve been told, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall purchased their home when they were pregnant with their first child, Chase. They raised their four children in this house. Just the vibe lingering in the air reveals that many fond memories were made here. . . and perhaps even some not-so-fond ones.
After storing my suitcase in a coat room at the side of a large eat-in kitchen, Hugo places his hand on the curve of my back and guides me through the residence. The warmth of his hand pacifies the nervous butterflies taking flight in my stomach.
“Where is Ava?” I query as we walk through an expansive but completely empty dining room. “Where are we eating brunch?” Confusion is evident in my tone.
Hugo smirks at my inquisitiveness. “Ava ran out of blueberries, so I went and got some more,” he replies, jingling a plastic bag into the air I didn’t even know he was holding until now. “And we always eat under the patio outside.”
My lips quirk. “Very retro.”
Hugo laughs. “More like convenient. Joel and my nieces leave so much food on the floor my mom would be chasing raccoons out of the house for weeks if we ate inside.”
A giggle bubbles up my chest, fully pushing out my desire to chase my Uber driver’s SUV rolling down the street.
When Hugo stops outside a pair of double screen doors, an energetic hum of chatter streams through my ears, overtaking the shrill of my pulse ringing in my eardrums.
“Are you ready?” Hugo asks, his tone kind. He knows I find meeting strangers a challenging task.
After licking my lips, I nod my head. The beat of my heart kicks up a notch when the delicious taste of Carey’s lips fills my senses. Even with my annoyance sitting on the edge of a steep cliff at him putting my safety at risk, I can’t stop the smile that sneaks onto my mouth. Last night was so magical, even frightened anger can’t take away from it.
Spotting my odd expression, Hugo angles his head to the side as one of his heavy brows cocks high into his hairline. “I might need to push you out of your comfort zone more often, Gem. You look remarkably calm considering the shit storm you’re about to be thrown into.”
I swallow, harshly.
Hugo laughs before curling his arm around my shoulders. “I’m just playing with you.”
My chance to reply is lost when a small gathering of H
ugo’s frat brothers I steered clear from last night smack their hands onto the table top and holler when Hugo and I merge onto the patio.
“No camera to hide behind today sweet cakes,” one of the blond men jests.
“It looks like my bland morning is about to become a raging all-nighter,” heckles another.
The playful jeering stops when Hugo glares at them with a tight smile. After issuing his warning solely using his eyes, Hugo guides us to the less rowdy section of the table. “Don’t let them scare you, Gem. They are as harmless as puppy dogs, even with their brains living in their cocks.”
A smile creeps across my face. If Hugo says I can trust them, I will trust them, because that’s how much faith I have in Hugo’s opinion.
As we pace down the long patio, my eyes scan the three dozen or more guests spread across the large makeshift table. My curiosity piques when I notice a man a few spots down talking to Ava. With his ocean blue eyes and strikingly handsome facial features, it isn’t hard for me to decipher that he must be Hugo’s big brother, Chase. They are a spitting image of each other. My assumptions are proven spot on when Hugo stops to introduce me to Chase. After accepting Chase’s handshake, I greet Ava with a kiss on the cheek and a little rub on her belly.
Names are thrown at me hard and fast when Hugo points to each member at the table to introduce them. I hope I don’t have to take a test after this, as I lost track of my own name once I’d been introduced to guest number eleven. Halfway through Hugo’s introductions, my breathing pattern quickens as the hairs on my arms prickle. There is a warm summer breeze blowing onto the patio, but my intuition is telling me it isn’t early summer temperatures causing my body’s prompts. Not wanting to be rude, I nod my head at Hugo’s introductions as I sneakily swing my eyes to my right. My breath catches in the back of my throat when my inquisitive scan locks in on a pair of dark and confused eyes gawking at me. Carey is standing at the very end of the table with a glass of water in his hand and a nasty scowl on his face. His throat works hard to swallow as his eyes rake over my frozen form.
