by Sara H Ney
Then, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I hear my sister loudly announce, “I am leaving! I thought I’d be able to handle this, but dear God, I cannot watch. Help! People, my retinas are burning!”
**Cecelia**
A few things are going through my head as Matthew’s hands cup my ass through the thin rayon shorts I’ve got on, hauling me firmly against the bulge in his jeans, and I can’t stop thinking:
1. His mouth and hands feel amazing.
2. His silky tongue feels even better.
3. Why did we wait so long for this moment?
4. I wish like hell we were alone.
Pressed against Matthew’s hard, muscular chest, it’s easy to get carried away, despite the room full of people - possibly because of the room full of people. I’ve never been into exhibitionism - or voyeurism for that matter - but make no mistake; I am getting a cheap thrill from being so thoroughly kissed in public.
The music from the speakers blasts into the bar, coupled with all the colliding voices in the room fighting to be heard, creating almost a white noise. The base beat adds to the vibrations already coursing through my loins, and I have to suppress another throaty moan. It wouldn’t be seemly to melt into a mushy puddle at Matthew’s feet in front of my actual “date,” whom I’ve utterly forgotten about.
There are so many people in this bar, Matthew and I are all but forcibly thrust together, the patrons around us forming a solid wall.
We kiss for a few more seconds before I pull my hands out from under his shirt, dizzy from the blood surging through places I didn’t know existed - or that were dormant for too long (I won’t mention where, but the place is downtown in my nether region and starts with a capitol letter V).
I reach out for him once more, craving more of his body heat, running my palms up his bare arms, lightly tracing the ripples of taunt biceps, before someone clears their throat and I snap out of my sexually intoxicated state.
And then - just like in every kissing scene, in every cliché romance novel - after I pull away from Matthew my fingers automatically reach up to touch my lips. They’re swollen and completely void of the Tahitian lip gloss I’d so carefully applied earlier.
It’s safe at this point to declare myself thoroughly and properly kissed.
Wiping my damp mouth with a forefinger as if I’m dabbing away crumbs from an indulgent, messy snack I just ate (which, in reality, I just did), I take a step back, as far as I can go without bumping into the person behind me, and gaze up at Matthew shyly from under onyx eyelashes. He eyes me expectantly - somewhat tenderly, even...
The look on his face surprises me; his eyes have softened around the edges, his normally sarcastic mouth relaxed. As we drink each other in from head to toe, a blush creeps up the tendons in his neck, resting on the planes of his cheekbones. It’s then I realize we’re both seeing each other in a completely different way...
Good different. Exciting different. Special different.
They say a single word can change a life; change everything - so isn’t it ironic then that in this case it’s a single stare doing the changing?
Make you fall - and fall hard - for someone?
Then another thought occurs to me as we stand there breathing heavily from our heated, public, make-out session: what do we do now?
Where do we go from here?
**Matthew**
There’s much to be said for travelling in large groups: after my make-out session with Cecelia, the guys pretty much save me from making a bigger ass of myself by dragging me out of Lone Ranger before I could drag Cecelia out. You know, like the uncivilized Cave-man she believes me to be.
It’s late - almost 2:00 a.m. - but I’m sober enough to send a text that isn’t going to sound like a sexually fueled booty call.
At least - I hope it won’t sound like one. I mean; what the hell do I know - didn’t I just tell you it’s two in the morning...?
Here’s hoping.
Me: You awake?
It takes a few minutes, but she finally responds.
Cecelia: Of course.
Me: Sorry I left so fast. I hope you didn’t take it personally
Cecelia: Take it personally? You were basically kidnapped by those heathen friends of yours. I’m surprised you were able get out of the head lock Kevin put you in. LOL. Impressive.
Me: Kevin in an idiot.
Cecelia: (shrug) He was just trying to help.
Me: By going all MMA on my ass? Um.... No.
Cecelia: Come on - the guys got moves. Jenna and the girls were impressed, even if you weren’t.
Me: I will admit - the look of horror on your face may have been worth having my head vice-gripped into Kevin’s stinky armpit...
Cecelia: Yeah. You’ve been impressing me since the beginning (patting mouth and yawning).
Me: You couldn’t wait to send me that first email back in September, could you?
Cecelia: Are you nuts? Molly basically forced me to send it. Besides, you didn’t even know who the email was from me.
Me: Of course I knew it was you, Goof ball.
Cecelia: Seriously???
Me: Are you kidding? No one forgets the girl who threatens to mace and kick their ass. Of course I knew it was you. I had just been messing with you. LOL. Remember when I ate your trail mix? You were so pissed.
Cecelia: Yes, I was. But in my defense you were acting like a savage. Digging through my stuff - so rude. LOL
Me: Can’t you just admit the feigned rage was just your futile attempt to resist me? You secretly WANTED me to eat your food. Why else would you have dumped it on to the couch?
Cecelia: Um, so I could have my hands free when I avenged your sister from the evil guy invading our apartment, that’s why!!!
Me: Okay, fine. But for the record I thought you were cute, even when you were trying to shove me out the door
Cecelia: Awwww. Really?
Me: HELL NO! I thought you were a raving lunatic lololol
Cecelia: blah blah blah (crosses arms, pouting)
Me: So.... I guess I’ll stop beating around the bush and just come out and say it....
Cecelia: ....?
Me: Would you like to go on a date? With me, specifically.
There is a pause in her reply, and I look at the date stamp - three minutes have passed since I sent the message. Crap.
I blew it.
Me: Um... So... What do you say?
Cecelia: I’m sorry, I might have just passed out from shock. What do I say? I say... It took you long enough to ask.
Me: Okay. So, just to clarify: is that a yes?
Cecelia: That’s a yes.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cecelia
“I’d rather go freaking blind than go on a blind date...” - Jenna
“I feel like the only thing we do these days is primp you to see my brother. I’m not sure how I feel about this whole thing, to be honest - I mean... I’m seriously questioning your judgment in men,” Molly remarks, standing behind me and watching me through the bathroom mirror, one hand holding a chunk of my long hair, the other wielding a purple ceramic curling iron.
“She can’t help who she falls in love with, Molly. Some things are just meant to be,” Abby firmly counters from the doorway, winking at me.
“Who says she’s in love with him?” Jenna, who is mixing brownie batter in the kitchen, hollers. Her curious face peeks into the bathroom moments later to ask, “Wait. You’re not in love with him, are you?”
The room quiets as everyone waits for my response, three wide-eyed reflections staring back at me expectantly. Molly’s eyes are filled with wonder, as if the possibility of my loving her brother hadn’t occurred to her before.
When I hesitate, she gives my hair a sharp tug, prodding me to speak. I gulp and avert my eyes, forcing out an unconvincing laugh. “Love him? Come on you guys, you know me better than that.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Jenna says with a shrug. “I fell in love with
Billy Rutley after only one date.”
Molly snorts. “Yeah. Then you broke up with him after three.”
“Whatever. My point is, just because she hasn’t known him forever doesn’t mean she can’t be in love with him.” She shoves her chocolate coated wooden mixing spoon at Abby. “Wanna lick?”
Abby rolls her eyes. “Get that thing out of my face.”
“That’s what she said,” Jenna sing-songs as she walks back to the kitchen, Abby following her, chastising the entire way.
“Those two, I swear,” I laugh, shaking my head a little.
“Don’t move your head,” Molly scolds, holding up a large lock of hair, spraying it, then wrapping it around the barrel of her large curling iron. As she waits for the curl to set, she looks at me hard in the mirror. “Well?”
Not wanting to meet her intense stare, I look down at my freshly painted nails, studying the pale, nude polish before whispering, “I don’t know. Maybe?”
Slowly, she unwraps the curl and holds it in place with a bobby pin so it can cool. Molly sets the curling iron on the counter and rests both hands on my shoulders, giving them a small shake. “Hey, look at me.”
I look up and meet her eyes.
“I’m glad.”
“You... are?”
“Hello! What do you think all my hard work has been for?” I scrunch my face and must look completely confused, because she begins laughing. “Cece. Think about it. Go back to the beginning... do you really think I couldn’t have gotten ahold of my very own brother when I didn’t have a phone? And who the heck sends emails these days? It was almost too easy. Let me see, what else... He knew where your first date with Neve was. He shows up at a Halloween party thrown by your friend. We’re all there when he calls in your bet and kisses you senseless.”
“But.... Why?”
“Why? Are you kidding me right now? Matthew is exactly what you need.”
“Exactly what I need? Please. What about what he needs? That guy - no offense - needs a caretaker.”
“See, that’s exactly what I meant: perfect for each other.”
“You are crazy.”
“Well I guess that’s one thing Matthew and I have in common. We’re both crazy about you.”
“Okay, now that’s just weird.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she laughs, tapping me on the head with a wide-tooth comb and staring at me thoughtfully. “Do you want your hair up or down?”
We both study my reflection, Molly tipping her head this-way-and-that as she contemplates how to style my long hair.
“I’m thinking... down?”
She nods her head in agreement. “Yeah, that will look good with the shirt we picked out.” She picks up the curling iron again. “Let’s get this done so Jenna can do your make-up. It sounds like those two are about to get in to another argument.”
“It’s a love-hate thing. They love to hate each other.”
Molly chuckles. “Pretty much. Kind of reminds me of Weston and Matthew, don’cha think?”
“Totally! I never thought of it like that...”
“They pretend they can’t stand each other, but I think they act more like brothers. Well. Except that one time they had a game in Indiana and Matthew ‘forgot’ to bring Weston home from the airport.” If her hands were free of my hair, she would be using air quotes around the word ‘forgot.’
I grin as she begins parting my hair into sections. “Hey, at least they can laugh about it now, right?”
“Um, yeah. No. They most definitely do not laugh about it. Well, I shouldn’t say that - Matthew does...”
“He would.”
“Yes. One could never accuse my brother of not having a sense of humor, as twisted as his is.”
“But... he’s so cute,” I sigh wistfully, letting out a rush of air. “And his body is so firm. I could rub his arms up and down all day.” Horrified, I look up and meet Molly’s surprised eyes in the mirror. “Holy shit. Did I say that out loud?”
“Whoa. That’s like - the first time you’ve ever admitted you think he’s hot!”
“Well it’s not like I’m going to talk about that stuff with you - it’s too weird. Going on and on about your brothers hot body? Um, no thanks.”
Molly lets out a loud laugh, then leans in to press her cheek to mine, speaking in a commiserating tone. “In that case. Let’s get you ready, because you know you’re going to be pressed up against it later.”
Like I needed a reminder?
**Matthew**
As the forward for a professional hockey team, I shouldn’t theoretically be nervous about this date; after all, I’ve been in much more stressful situations: performing in a packed arena of twenty thousand plus people. Being in the spotlight during the televised National Hockey League draft at twenty-one years old. I mean - I get my face bashed in on national television with hockey sticks on a weekly basis, for Christ’s sake.
And yet, here I am with goddamn butterflies in my stomach.
Damn inconvenient is what it is.
I wasn’t even this nervous when I got laid for the first time at the ripe old age of fifteen, and had no clue which parts of my anatomy went where. Granted, my slutty junior date at the time sure knew where to put my dick, but still...
I grab the keys off the table in my condo’s small foyer, flip the lights off, and before I know it, I’m pulling into Cecelia and Molly’s apartment complex. It’s now November, so the air is frigid and the trees are almost devoid of leaves. In the sky, the moon struggles to rise in the horizon, even though it’s not quite dark enough to stand out against the setting sun.
I saunter up the walkway, trying to find my swagger and feel like - with all the anticipation surrounding this date - I’m picking up a prom date.
The door whips open before I can even knock, and Weston stands in the doorway, cocky grin on his face. My sister peeks out from behind him.
“How did you know I was coming? There isn’t even a peephole.”
Weston’s narrow eyes rake me up and down, like I’m some shady teenager there to molest his precious teenage daughter. “Hey. How about you not worry how I knew you were coming - how about you just worry about yourself.”
I find this hilarious and smack him on the shoulder. “That’s funny. Is Cecelia ready yet?” I glance around the small apartment, no trace of her readiness lingering anywhere.
Molly purses her lips. “Brother, why don’t you have a seat on the couch while Weston cleans off his shotgun. Hardy har.”
They’re acting like protective parents.
It’s really kind of annoying. “Would you two knock it off?” I pull out a kitchen bar stool, but don’t sit on it.
“I know what boys like you want,” Molly grins suggestively. “And our Cece is a good girl - so no funny business. Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Um, yeah. That’s not gonna happen,” I laugh as Weston punches my upper bicep. “Ouch! What the hell was that for? I was kidding.”
Only I wasn’t; not really.
“Chill, I’m taking her to the Pee-Wee Hockey Expo and then for hot chocolate or something. There isn’t going to be a lot of opportunity for groping. Well, I mean - there’s always the locker room....”
Except, the sarcastic words I’m about to say falter in my throat when Cecelia choses that moment to come out of her bedroom, looking fresh faced and casual in a plain, tight, short sleeve gray tee shirt, dark skinny jeans and tall tan equestrian boots.
Smiling, she slips her arms into the red, tartan plaid button down flannel shirt she’s holding, quickly buttons the two buttons in the center, pulls on a tweed puffy vest, and stuffs a gray knit hat into the pocket.
I take her in from head to toe, drinking in every delectable ounce of her; to say she looks cute is a gross understatement.
“What? You told me to dress warm,” she jokes. “I wanna be prepared.”
Um, yeah - I have no intention of keeping my hands to myself: not after waiting for so long, and sur
e-as-shit not after that heated first kiss Cecelia and I shared at the Lone Ranger a few nights ago.
No way.
Weston catches me staring and punches my arm again, staring daggers at me.
I shrug.
Sorry dude; the hands-off thing is so not going to happen.
**Cecelia**
“So. Where are you taking me?” I ask my date, giving him a sideways glance. His eyes are intent on the road, so I’m able to freely linger (see also: ogle) on every sharp curve of his face every time an oncoming car passes, headlights illuminate the cab making my perusal easier. Every plane of Matthew’s strong, freshly shaved jaw is sharper in the dark... as is the small bump just at the bridge of his nose, and the scar near his temple.
His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, the thick tresses combed back but still somehow unkempt, black sunglasses propped on his head even though the sun has long since disappeared over the horizon.
I find both Matthew and our close bodily contact all mildly erotic, and clear my throat to hide the onslaught of discomfort. I glance around the cab of his Tahoe, and am surprised to find it has been detailed. The garbage is gone. No gym bag, no hockey equipment, no crusty dirt or gravel stuck to the floor mats.
“You didn’t go and get your car cleaned for little ‘ol me, did you?” I tease.
He glances over for a heartbeat, dimple softly denting his cheek. “Guilty as charged.”
“You seriously went and had your car detailed for our date?” I’m stupefied.
Matthew wrinkles his nose. “Um, yeah? I mean... didn’t it stink the last time you were in it?”
“Well, yeah, it was pretty rank if I recall, but at the time I thought it’d be rude to mention it.”
My date throws his head back against the headrest and lets out a loud burst of laughter. Of course, I can’t help but admire the thick, straining cords of his neck column, and the dark stubble of Five O’clock shadow disappearing into the collar of his button down shirt.
He catches me studying him, and arches an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. “So...you like the color blue, huh?” I ask, referring to the light blue of his shirt. To be honest, it’s barely blue and is embroidered with a delicate paisley pattern in the same hue. Modern cut with long sleeves, Matthew has the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his broad, muscular forearms.
