Tight

by Alessandra Torre

  Silence. Awkward silence. I shifted in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I was thirty-two for God’s sake, not a fifteen-year-old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”

  He grinned, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors opened. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”

  I pressed the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He took my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raised my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”

  Our conversation was interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men stepped on. Not really men. What appeared to be twenty-year-old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I saw Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.

  “What floor?” I asked when the doors closed and their attention hadn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.

  Mistake. Their eyes moved as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbled, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurred, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who cast a quick look in Brett’s direction.

  “Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprised me, and I looked up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I wanted to reassure him, not that we were friendly enough that I would assume his protection. But it seemed—from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone—that he was ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys was not looking for.

  The doors slid open, and I squeezed through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors closed. We stood in the empty landing.

  “Are you okay?” His eyes were dark, face tight. I glanced down and saw his fists clenched.

  I laughed, pressed a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”

  He gripped my forearms, walked me three steps backward, until I was against the wall, and he was close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”

  Then he closed the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so there was almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reached my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound came from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he caught it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turned into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I was on my toes, and the weight of him pressed me against the wall.

  In a moment of pause I spoke, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I knew was that I wanted him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I placed a hand on his chest, and he immediately dragged his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he took his own ragged breath of air.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not used to ... restraint.” His hands released their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sank to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing ... wanting ... more. He’s not used to restraint? I wasn’t used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’d been years since I’d had a cock in my mouth, years since I’d felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I needed to step away from this man. I needed to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that ate my soul, his hands that burned like possessive fire across my skin. I couldn’t control myself in his presence, wouldn’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wide open.

  He took another step back, rubbed his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  I’m not. I blushed. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I pushed off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I wanted him so badly. What was I doing? My new slippers moved me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappeared inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stopped in front of my room, took a steadying breath, and turned to him. “This is it. Thank you.”

  His right hand was outstretched, fist closed. I stared at it in confusion before I realized what he was doing. I gave him an exasperated smile and held my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”

  He chewed on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stared at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence drew out, thickness in the air between us. God, I wanted to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fought the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.

  He finally spoke, breaking our eye contact as he looked away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”

  I felt ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I was a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He didn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his proximity to my body. I shouldered my purse open and dumped the chips, fishing out my room key, then looked down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”

  “Nah.” He leaned one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushed off the wall, held out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”

  “Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shook his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I was imagining it, and was in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we were one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.

  I inserted the key, pushed down the handle, and stepped in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicked, and I stared at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobbed in despair. Okay, this was fine. I made it safely to the room, was now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I was in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumped around and tried to find the place of reason where my decision to not invite him in was a good one. Surely it was the right move. I had maintained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s gasp-worthy looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger. This was not Quincy, Florida. I did not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I couldn’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably wouldn’t ever. I rose to my tiptoes and looked through the peephole.

  He was still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, he was gone. I looked as far as I could, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I wanted to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he was striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I didn’t. I dropped my heels by the door, kicked off the slippers, and took four steps, falling onto the closest bed.

  In college, I owned half a dorm, my roommate a South Floridian princess who chain-smoked Virginia Slims when not having angry, sc
ream-at-each-other sex with her boyfriend. The room was tiny—a 10x10 space divided down the middle by hot pink duct tape. We’d put the tape down on the first day, our parents beaming and shaking hands, each so proud of ‘their girl,’ the mix of cultures tropical and exciting in the feminine space.

  I now lived in a space the same size. I’d walked it off countless times, sometimes the scrape of chain accompanying my steps, other times unencumbered. It was twelve of my feet long, six of my feet wide. On the back side was a windowless concrete wall, painted a lifetime ago some shade of white that was now gray. On the front side, a line of metal pipes held in place by concrete. I’d tried to move them, jiggle them, scrape at their footers. They weren’t going anywhere.

  My cramped space held a toilet, shower, and bed. He often brought in a chair, but he took it with him when he left. I would tell you how long I’d been here, but I didn’t know.

  The next morning, I woke up thinking of Brett. The possessive grip of his fingers, the need in his mouth, the press of his body against me, the heat between our touch. The way my body had cried out and his had responded.

  Circumstance brought me back to Earth, reminding me, with the cruel pairing of sunlight rays, that he’d left. Had the opportunity to escort me in, get my number, or, at the very least, rock my world with one more kiss. But instead he’d run. Or rather, walked. With a gentleman’s goodbye and nothing more.

  I took a shower. Pathetic water pressure that alternated between hot and lukewarm. Squeezed out a mini bottle of shampoo with a British crest, yet made in Illinois. I dried off hard enough to realize that my back was sunburnt, the itch and scratch of the towel rough against my tender skin. Wrapping the white terrycloth around my body, I walked to the closet. Stared at my open suitcase, then at the clothes hanging. Nothing looked good enough.

  I was too old to feel that way, the adolescent, breathless high. Nervous anticipation at the idea that I might walk downstairs and bump into his gaze. The tingling feeling that I might have met my soul mate, kissed his mouth, gazed up into his face and felt his smile touch my skin. Was I one of hundreds? Just another girl, just a brief experience that he would think nothing of? Did I imagine the spark, the connection? My leg was jiggling, jumping up and down underneath the desk as I applied mascara with a hand that was too shaky. The resort was huge. We were leaving in twenty-eight hours. I’d probably never see him again. I should have gotten his number.

  “Shut the curtains, bitch.”

  I ignored the words, examined my blue sundress, and wondered if the deodorant marks skipping along the front would rub out.

  “Seriously. What time is it?”

  “Nine-twenty.” I tossed the dress down, gave up on looking put-together, and grabbed a pair of shorts and a tank top. That was about as fashion forward as my town got. It would have to be good enough.

  “Fuuuccccckk...” The word was muffled under ten pounds of hangover and one mascara-smeared pillow, but it was there. I had about five minutes before Tammy not-a-morning-person McGowan rolled her ass out of bed, and I didn’t plan to be in striking distance when that happened.

  “Coffee’s brewed. We’re supposed to be at the spa at ten. I’m gonna run downstairs and grab breakfast.”

  A grunt. Muffled curses. I grabbed my purse and room key, opened the door, and escaped.

  The hotel’s prices would make a nun curse like Tammy. I ordered a bottled water, apple, and blueberry muffin from the coffee stand in the lobby and still racked up an eighteen-dollar bill, fifteen percent gratuity automatically added. And for that additional three bucks I didn’t even get a smile. I scribbled my last name and room number, signed the line, and snagged my tray of food, elbowing open the door and stepping onto the balcony, picking a table by the railing and settling in.

  Wedge sandals kicked off, my chipped pink toes curled against the stone railing, brilliant blue water sparkled at me from behind one hundred acres of palm trees and resort pools. A pigeon missing the toes on his right foot landed on the railing three feet to my right and tilted his head at my feet as if he might give them a taste. I tossed him a piece of muffin, then kicked out my foot, leaning my head back once I was convinced that my still-blistered-from-last-night piggies were safe.

  Peeled the sticker from the apple. Crunched. Chewed. Swallowed. The sun was warm, even that early. And no humidity. God, I wished our section of Florida was like this. Heat without the moisture bath that made sweat bead on my upper lip. Here, I could bake for hours. High enough up for a breeze, the sun warming me with a gentle embrace, I took a swig of water and then screwed the lid back on. Loosened the muscles in my neck, slid down a little in my chair, and closed my eyes. Good ol’ alone time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then I would need to get my ass over to the spa for three hours of feminine chatter. Go Team McCrory.

  A breeze blew from behind, ruffling the light hair on my forearm. Men’s voices had appeared, talking too loud, the scrape of metal against pavers as they settled into the chairs behind me. The click of a lighter as one of them ruined a perfectly healthy set of lungs.

  I kept my eyes closed, taking a bite of muffin as my mind wandered, my eavesdropping gene lifting its head when a voice started that sounded familiar. I began to sit up but stopped, not sure if now, sans make-up with a face full of muffin crumbs, was how I wanted to reintroduce myself. I stayed in place, slouching a little further, more certain with each additional word, that one of the men was Brett. A smile played on the corner of my mouth.

  “What happened with that girl from last night?”

  “The blonde?”

  “Yeah. Looked like you were headed up to her room.”

  A pause. Soft cough. I almost fell off my chair in an attempt to hear his next words.

  “Nothing happened. She’s here with a bachelorette party. You know how I feel about that.”

  I didn’t pay attention to the other man’s response, my toes curling against the railing, body tightening in hurt and anger. Not his type. Maybe that was why he walked away so easily. And here I was, thinking the kiss had affected him as deeply as it had me. I dug my nails into my thighs, watching a curl of forgotten smoke float past, hearing the eventual screech of chair legs as the men behind me moved along.

  Fuck him. I didn’t need a one-night stand anyway. My dusty vagina was perfectly happy with the extensive network of cobwebs it’d spent years creating. Somewhere, in the empty recesses of my mind, my subconscious tore to pieces the ‘I love Brett’ poster and moved on to more official business.

  tight (tīt)

  (adj.) closely or densely packed together

  “the tight crowd”

  Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hung-over selves would be strapped in and flying back to Quincy. I hung an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaned my head back, weight on their shoulders, and bellowed the chorus of "Sweet Home Alabama." The club sang along, and my mouth broke into a grin too big to contain—the familiar tune never failed to raise my spirits. Never mind that, between the six of us, we’d set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It was the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we owned every syllable of the damn thing.

  The last chorus rang out, and I released the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass began, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.

  I slowed my hips, glanced at our table, saw Beth and Tammy there, the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I was pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tried to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yanked at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and moved to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon-lit exit sign. Air. I needed air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with t
he fact that none of the men in this club would be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seemed worthy of even a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too ... not who I was looking for.

  I banged through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I took two steps to the right and leaned against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wished I still smoked. I remembered the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I didn’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet were enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to forgetting last night.

  I sensed the presence before I saw it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffened, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it was with my gaze. Then he spoke, and I relaxed, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lie I’d told myself was exposed. I needed him. My body needed him. Wanted more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8th floor. I had made a mistake. I didn’t intend to make another.

  “Come here.” I tilted my head when I spoke.

  He stalked forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walked, his head level, stare direct, and ate me with his eyes as he moved without hesitation, not pausing until he was suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that had me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasped for breath when I could grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping, pulling me tighter. I loved it.

  “I need you,” he grunted, his free hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owned it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he felt every inch of it as if he was memorizing, worshipping, taking it in his mind as his own.