Twisted In You (a Twisted Romance Book 1)

by Rachel A. Marks

  That’s rich coming from him. I bark out a laugh in his face and someone beside him moves back. I turn and see it’s one of those blond women he brought—no, girls. His date looks like a skinny twelve-year-old. Pot, meet kettle.

  “Ah, who’s this, again?” I yell over the music. “Are we trying out the next generation?”

  “This is Freá,” Lance says through his teeth. “And she’s a model.”

  Of course she is.

  Fin walks up behind Lance, the other twelve-year-old in tow. Obviously I need to lose a hundred pounds and have fat injected into my non-pouty-face before I can compete at this level.

  I walk past Lance and right up to Fin, taking the drink he has in his hand. It’s that same brown fire on the rocks. “What is this stuff?” I ask after downing it in one swig again.

  “Jameson,” he says over my coughing, frowning at me. Apparently, you don’t touch an Irish man’s whisky.

  “I owe you one.” I hand him back the glass of ice and pat him on the shoulder. “Have fun with the pencil.” Then I make my way onto the dance floor again.

  THE REST OF THE NIGHT is a bit blurry. I’m not drunk, not really. I’m buzzed for sure, but not drunk . . . okay, so I’m not sure if I’ve ever been drunk, exactly. Well, at Lance’s party, that definitely qualified as over-the-cliff. I mean, I made out with my gay boss.

  I’m feeling a bit like that again: unhinged. I’m sitting at the table, taking a break from the excitement. That whiskey was strong stuff. And then there was the shot of rum. Or two shots . . . ? Usually, I’m so careful. I’ve never wanted to embarrass myself and have to barf in someone’s purse. Two drinks is my norm. I may be a bit off my quotient tonight (yet again). God, I’m probably becoming an alcoholic or something.

  The dancing is the perfect distraction. Jade and I aren’t letting our lack of dates stop us. She looseness up after her second pink drink and finds a blond guy who’s a bit goofy, but she seems to like him.

  My Hispanic twins make sure I never feel lonely. Either they don’t believe Lance about my age or they don’t care. It doesn’t matter because they’re good practice. I don’t know their names so I’ve been thinking of them all night as SexyOne and SexyTwo. SexyOne has a nice strong brow. And his shirt is super tight. SexyTwo is a little taller and he’s really good with his hands—he seems to know right where to put them without being too forward. They’ve both been happy to dance with me all night, and I may have almost let SexyTwo kiss me, which probably went too far. But he has really nice hair that reminds me of Diego, and it makes me think of—

  Fin plops down next to me at the table, interrupting my thoughts of The Sexies. “Hey.”

  I give him a quick smile and look back to the dance floor.

  He lifts his glass and swirls the ice around. “You seem to be having fun.”

  “It’s why I’m here,” I say. I look around for his date. “Where’s your pencil?”

  “She needed to go toss-up her Cosmo. Twelve dollars of perfectly good liquor down the drain.”

  I’m instantly at ease again. How does he do that? “You should’ve gotten her a virgin. She’d never have known.”

  “I don’t know, virgins are pretty easy to spot.” He winks at me and my insides go all warm like I’ve taken another swig of his drink.

  I get the sudden urge to lean over and kiss him to see what he does—I think it's becoming my new move—but he sets his glass down and stands before I can act.

  He holds his hand out to me. “May I have this dance?”

  I stare at his offering and his overly serious features and giggle.

  “Why, yes, Mr. Darcy,” I say, feigning a British accent, “I thought you’d never ask.” And then I rest my fingers in his, letting him lead us to the floor.

  He spins me and yanks me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “You know, Mr. Darcy was English,” he says into my ear, sending a jolt of tingles through me. “An Irish boy is several heads above that sort’a fella.”

  “My mistake,” I say, resting my cheek on his chest. I’m suddenly fully aware of how not sober I am. Because if I was sober I’d never be this okay with all the touching. I’d never relax enough to let Fin rest his hand at the small of my back like that, with his breath against my forehead. Not the guy I saw cavorting with my archenemy. Not the guy I’ll be seeing again after tonight, the guy I want more from. I’d be too guarded.

  I run my fingers along the line of his neck and curl them into his hair. It’s not as soft as Diego’s but it’s nice. His body goes tight at the touch, but I don’t care. I lean into him and show him I like our bodies pressed together, I like him against me. He relaxes a little but I know he’s not fully sinking into it like I want him to.

  Is this my warning that he’ll say no to what I need from him?

  We dance for two songs before his date comes over and steals him back, wrapping her over-long stick legs around him like a praying mantis. Barf. That vision is going to give me nightmares for a week.

  We don’t stay much longer after that. Lance is the DD, and he’s decided he wants to head back to our place so he can have a drink and collapse in our apartment, maybe watch some HBO on demand while he eats our food.

  The Pencils ask to get dropped off at another party, relieving us of their pouting faces, and it’s 2AM by the time we all stumble into the apartment. Lance pulls out the Jack and he and Fin settle in to play some totally random game of standing on chairs and yelling the names of state capitals. Jade turns on Netflix and then falls asleep on the couch ten minutes later.

  Willow and her date are twisted in a knot in the kitchen when I go in there to find a drink of water.

  I cringe as Willow’s date lifts her up and they press against the counters. “Uck, we fix food on those, people. Time to move the party into the Love Den.”

  They unhook their faces enough to see their way down the hall.

  I get my glass of water and then go settle in the green chair and watch the boys revert to being drunk teenagers. I can’t tell who’s winning the game, but Fin is way ahead of Lance in the drinks department, so each time he takes a shot I clench my teeth, wondering if he should stop.

  Eventually Lance can’t think of anymore state capitols and Fin keeps shrugging and saying, “Born of the Emerald Isle,” before taking another swig of whiskey. They’ve ditched the glasses and moved to chugging it straight from the bottle.

  “Well, I’m of the American and I still ain’t sure if Boise is in Boston or Baltimore.” And then he falls onto the couch and curls himself around Jade with a sigh. “She smells like Vanilla Coke.” He lifts her limp hand, resting it on his face, and takes in air through his nose. “Yummy.” Then he giggles like a moron.

  I smile and close my eyes for a second, trying to figure out how to get my ass out of this chair and into my room. I pull the band from my hair, letting it fall, and then stretch, feeling like a cat waking from a nap. I definitely need to get myself to bed.

  When I open my eyes they go straight to Fin.

  My heart stops for a second. His body is rigid, hands gripping the arms of the chair. His intense gaze hits me from across the room.

  I blink and look away, unsure what to focus on, wondering if I should close my eyes again, but I’m suddenly lost with his energy coming at me like that. And when I glance back for a second his eyes are still riveted on me.

  “What?” I whisper, not sure why I spoke, I just can’t handle the tension in the air.

  He licks his lips and shakes his head a little like he’s trying to clear it. “Nothing.”

  We sit for several seconds in silence and he’s burning a hole in the floor with his stare now.

  I pull myself up from the chair. “I’m off to bed.”

  He blinks at me and I give him a small wave, but he’s up and between me and my bedroom door before I even realize he made it out of his seat.

  I jerk back from his sudden appearance. He grabs my arm, not letting me get far.

  We both
look down at his hand on me, then back at each other.

  He moves closer and my breath stills.

  He leans in, his lips touching the corner of my mouth, a gentle brush. The sensation rolls over my skin, down to my toes, making me gasp. Then he takes my mouth with his.

  His tongue slides over mine, his breath coming quick now. And I go limp against him, unable to think, the effects of the alcohol, of a guy touching me just right, sends my mind reeling. It's stunning. Stunning how easy I get wrapped in it all. Wow, he is good.

  My legs tremble and heat spreads through me as he pulls me against his chest, touching a hand to my neck and my jaw, gently guiding me, tilting my head, while his other hand grips my waist like it did on the dance floor.

  And I can’t understand it, but it’s magic. It’s like a dance. Maybe it’s his touch, or maybe it’s the whiskey, but I feel like I could do anything right now; that I could make this guy give me anything. And it would be perfect.

  I definitely drank too much. But I’m sober enough to realize this is my chance. From the way he's holding me, I have no doubt in my mind that this would not go the way of Phoenix.

  “Fin,” I groan against his lips.

  He groans back and grips me tighter to him.

  “Take me into my room,” I breathe again.

  His hands explore under my shirt, tugging at the straps of my bra. After a second he stops trying to unclip it and slips his fingers down my side, kissing his way to my neck, whispering in my ear. “God, Gwen, you kill me.”

  My body goes cold, like a bucket of ice to the face. Gwen?

  I jerk back. “Excuse me?”

  He doesn’t let go, still holding me against him, as he tries to find my mouth again and gropes my chest with his hands. “Come on, water girl.”

  “Uhg.” I push him back. “Get off me.” I wiggle out of his grip.

  When I’m free he squints at me in question.

  “The name’s Verity, asshole.”

  He puts his hands over his face and groans, and says with obvious strain in his voice, “Ah, shite. I’m a bastard.” Then he’s sliding to the floor, leaning against the wall, shaking his head.

  I stare at him, deciding this has nothing to do with me. Gwen is obviously someone he really cared about. Cares? God, this is so warped. I’ve had enough crazy for one night. So much for progress.

  “Goodnight, Fin,” I say, then slip into my room, closing the door behind me.

  TEN

  There’s a parade of hammers in my head banging out the tune to Gilligan’s Island when I wake up. I open my eyes and my stomach roils.

  Ugh. This is why I shouldn’t drink so much. And it seems to be happening a bit too much lately.

  A noise comes from my left, a groan. I roll over and gape at . . . Fin?

  In my bed.

  Naked Fin in my bed.

  I sit up with a jolt, mind racing. My head screams at me to settle down, the hammers banging harder at my skull. I press my fingers into my temple, trying to quiet the thunder, and stare at the beautiful man-meat less than a foot from my side.

  He’s all skin and ink and muscle. His perfectly etched back is stretched out over my pink-flowered sheets, his arm hugging a heart-shaped pillow. I follow the line of his spine to the dimples at the base where a blanket ruins the view. My breath quickens.

  I reach out slowly, picking up the edge to peek.

  Black briefs.

  Relief and disappointment mingle in my chest.

  I’m in my underwear, too. Not totally naked. But that doesn’t mean anything, right? We could’ve put stuff back on after any playtime. I wrack my brain, trying to remember a moment to link to so this makes sense. I thought I closed myself in my room last night. Alone.

  This devil in my bed would beg to differ.

  Oh God, I may have had the most amazing sex ever with this guy and I don’t even remember! What a terrifying and disappointing thought . . .

  I burry my aching head in my hands and moan.

  Fin stirs at the sound and sudden panic wells up, making me lay back and close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. What am I? Five?

  Apparently, I am, because even when I feel him roll over to look at me, I keep my eyes closed. I know he’s staring, I can smell his post-whiskey breath coming at me. My pulse is racing a million beats a second and I’m sure it’s shaking the bed now.

  “Ah, shite,” I hear him hiss under his breath. He sighs and falls back onto the bed, obviously not happy.

  Perfect. I had sex with a guy and he's miserable about it. Sounds about right.

  I can’t pretend to be asleep anymore, so I open my eyes and look over at him. He’s got his hand on his forehead, mumbling to himself. His accent is too thick for me to comprehend what he’s saying but he doesn’t sound thrilled.

  I sigh and pull the blanket back, rolling out of bed, heading for my bathroom so I can force myself not to be emotional about this.

  He gets a hold of my wrist before I can slip away. “Hey.”

  I sit back down, looking at him with what I’m guessing is a pathetic smile.

  “You okay?” He runs his hand up my arm in a calming gesture.

  I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes. “Not exactly.”

  He sighs. “How bad an ass was I?”

  I frown at him. He’s accepting the blame on this?

  Actual concern fills his eyes when I don’t answer. “Did I do something wankery? I didn’t hurt you or anything, did I?”

  “No, Fin,” I say quickly, not liking how his unease is making me feel. “I’m just not used to . . .” I wave at the bed and him. “I don’t do this. It’s not me.” And this moment of regret is a huge reason why.

  He nods. “I know. And it’s all my fault.” He shakes his head, looking a little like he did last night after he called me Gwen. “I drink and this shite always happens and I’m sorry it was you, I really am.”

  Was he having sex with me thinking I was this Gwen person? Oh, god. What a nightmare. I think I’m going to throw up.

  “I’m sorry it was me, too,” I whisper, misery filling me.

  It’s quiet for a few seconds and then he asks, “What do you remember?”

  I sigh, trying to keep the surfacing tears held back. “Nothing after you kissed me and I left you sitting outside my bedroom door.”

  “Outside?”

  “Well, we were both a little upset after you groped me and called me Gwen.”

  His head pulls back and he gapes at me for a second. “I . . .”

  “We were kissing and it was getting . . . well, nice. But then you suddenly called me Gwen and Water Girl, and said something about being a bastard. You looked like you were going to cry. I’m fairly shocked to think we had sex after that, actually.” God, I really hope we didn’t have sex after that.

  He looks lost. Obviously, he doesn’t recall any of it either.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask.

  He seems to be trying to collect himself, sitting up straighter and running a hand through his hair. After more than a minute he shakes his head and says, “I was playing some game with your brother. I saw you sitting in the chair and I was watching you, noticing your hair seemed soft. I wanted to touch it.”

  He looks at me then and the intensity of his gaze makes my chest constrict.

  “You kissed me right after that,” I say.

  “When I woke up I thought I’d done a lot more than kiss you.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Not a good sign.”

  “No. It does not bode well for the event.”

  He shrugs. “Must not ‘ave happened, then.”

  I laugh softly. “Nice try.”

  “No, really.” He moves closer, his bare arm pressing against mine. “I’d remember you, Verity Landon. I’d make sure of it.” He leans in. His lips graze my temple with a gentle kiss. And my heart melts.

  We sit like that for several quiet seconds. I soak in his sweet words, his easy
energy, and a calm fills me.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I nod, knowing he’s talking about the Gwen thing.

  “I’ll explain. I owe you that. Soon.” He brushes at a loose strand of my hair and his fingers graze my shoulder. He pauses, making a small circle with the pad of his thumb, then he slides the touch down my arm, sending tingles spreading out over my skin. “You’re so soft.” His eyes meet mine. “Would you ever let me kiss you again, Verity?” His fingers slip back up my arm, over my shoulder, and find the dip near my clavicle.

  Then they start to move down the strap of my bra, torturously slow.

  “I’m not sure,” I whisper, my throat tight.

  His gaze stays locked on mine as his touch follows the bra’s lacy edge. “Should I go?”

  I shake my head, unable to answer with words.

  His fingers slide back up, over the top of my breast.

  I take in a shaky breath.

  He searches my face, his brow pinched like he’s in pain. “The things I was considering doing to you . . . someday I wish you’d let me show—”

  I lean forward, taking his lips with mine before he can finish. I feel him smile for a second before his arms wrap around me, holding me to him.

  He groans in satisfaction and quickly has me on my back, pressed into the bed. He kisses me for so long like that, his hands gripping my ribs, cradling my hips, until I find myself gasping. His lips make a trail to my neck, teeth scraping gently along the delicate skin, sending my body into a tail spin.

  “You taste like salty air,” he whispers, gripping me harder. “Gods, I’ve wanted to kiss you like this since the morning you tripped over me, painted like a forest nymph.”

  I realize this is my chance to tell him, to explain what I’m looking for, but I can’t convince myself to speak and break the spell. I don’t want this to stop—I must be going crazy. I barely know this guy. But it’s like every other male that’s touched me before this moment was fumbling in the dark and Fin just turned on the light. The way he’s playing over me, the pressure as he grips me, as if he knows every spot to press, every nerve to nibble, the way his mouth moves across my shoulder, kissing the soft curve of my nape . . .