Box of 1Night Stands: 21 Sizzling Nights

by Anthology

  Despite the Italian and the soaring strength of his voice, he sounded nothing like the woman he romanced in song. His words were blunted, climbing one above the other in anger, worry, and need.

  “When the evening falls, and the daylight fades, he hears her calling within him. He wonders if he is sleeping and that thought pulls him away, but then she is there and it holds him completely, keeping him close though he is so far away.” Absorbed by the music, Shannon relaxed and her shoulder brushed his chest, lightly at first, but when she turned to continue translating the slender weight of her pressed against his side.

  “She is alone as she walks into the room, the shadows around her, but from another world, where no other can follow, she hears him call to her. She follows him in her dreams, where she can cross over, never feeling close to home when he is so far away. In her dreams, he is searching, forever lost, forever hoping, clinging to the driftwood of memories, memories that tie them together.” Her slender fingers curled into a fist and Brody studied the whitening knuckles. Letting go of his beer glass, he reached over and laid his hand over hers. Her soft, sharp inhalation pressed her closer to him. But he forced his fingers to relax, to drape over her hand as though a cloak, a human shield against the sadness ebbing in the song.

  Her breath escaped in a whispery hiss, but she neither pulled away nor stiffened further. As the man took up the song again, she might have even relaxed. Or maybe it was Brody’s imagination.

  “He knows he will be waking soon and she will not be there when he opens his eyes, and though he is leaving, he must try to go on believing that their time together in dreams is real. He doesn’t know the reason, but it is as close as he can come to home across that ocean of reason. He will hold fast to it and he will find his way to her again.” She went silent, the music rolling over the man’s last note and then the stage went black. The applause, when it came, cracked like multiple gunshots through the reverent silence.

  Shannon jerked and Brody wrapped his arm around her. “It’s okay,” he murmured and her shaky laugh relaxed the tension in her shoulders. Squeezing her once, he loosened his hold so she could shift away if she chose.

  As the lights came up and jugglers bounced onto the stage to lighten the gloom created by the singers, she dared a look at him. He met the nervous gaze with an easy smile. “You’re really quite good at that translating.”

  “Thank you. I did an exchange program in Florence when I was in high school.”

  “I’ve never made it to Italy. I’ll have to go now.”

  “I loved it. I always said I would go back, but I’ve never had the time or the money.” A flush stole over her face. “What is it about you? I just keep saying the first thing in my mind. I’m usually a lot more filtered than this.”

  “I like this. So don’t change. What did you love most about Italy?” He glanced up and caught the waitress’s eye. With a jerk of his chin, Brody nodded to the coffee cup and held up two fingers.

  “The art, the history, the feeling of walking down the same roads that the Medici’s traveled, where the riots happened, where some of the greatest artists came to study, and the greater artists built their magnificent monuments. It was home to Michelangelo, del Verrocchio and so many others. The Renaissance was born there. I didn’t think I would ever get tired of the city, and my host family was wonderful. They took me to see everything, willing to spend hours as I sketched, and studied.” The wild light in her eyes transformed her from simply lovely to absolutely stunning.

  “You’re an artist.”

  The blush rising in her cheeks added another facet of loveliness. “Guilty.”

  “What kind of art do you do?”

  Shannon hesitated as the waitress brought over two fresh cups of the cinnamon coffee. Brody slid her hand over to the cup and gave her a light squeeze before staging a strategic withdrawal. She was still sitting right next to him, her leg pressed against his, her shoulder leaning against his chest and his arm around her back where his fingers could just toy with the collar of her jacket.

  He could stand to let go of her hand.

  “I’m a sculptor and it sounds a lot more glamorous than it is.”

  “I don’t know.” He cocked his head and looked at her with a smile. “I think you’re pretty glamorous.”

  She paused, coffee cup halfway to her lips, and burst out laughing. It was the first real laugh he’d heard fall from her lips since he’d arrived at the club. It was rich, throaty, and filled with life. The laughter created sparks in her amber eyes, heating them as though a candle flickered just behind the irises. The sound reached inside of him and gathered his guts up in a fist, shaking him to the core.

  “I’ve been called a lot of things. But never glamorous.” She set down the coffee cup and twisted toward him. Her thigh slid along the seat until her knee tucked up. The casual contact sent a flood of heat into his stirring cock.

  “Do these look like glamorous hands to you?” Shannon held up her fingers. Slender and evenly shaped, they boasted little to no nail length. Her knuckles were scraped, every single one, and the skin was torn, red and fleshy along the edges. Frowning, he caught her offered wrists, turning her hands out so he could inspect the callused palms.

  “No. They look like strong, capable hands unafraid of getting dirty, doing hard work, or reaching out to grasp what they want.” They looked like the hands of any Marine after weeks in the desert—parched fingers, cracked and blistered from the heat, and cut and scraped from the work.

  Her eye twitched and Brody lifted her hands to his lips where he could lay a kiss to the tips of each hand. “A lot like the very smart, sexy woman in front of me.”

  “How do you do that?” Her eyes widened a little, but her smile dazzled.

  “Do what?” His brows rose in quiet challenge.

  “Turn a negative into such a positive. I can’t possibly be what you imagined for tonight.”

  “I work with what I have and when you spend your life with very little, you learn to appreciate every nuance of what is there as opposed to what might be. I had no illusions about tonight, so please stop picturing me as some brute who just wants to take you out to his car for a quickie in the back seat. I don’t have time for beggars or bullshit. I like you. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re sexy. You don’t eat a lot.” The corner of his mouth quirked up at her second burst of laughter.

  “I like you, too.” The words bounced with the weight of her smile. “I thought it was ridiculous to sign up for a one-night stand….”

  Brody lowered her hands, holding them lightly. He enjoyed the fact that she didn’t pull away. “Why did you sign up?”

  “I don’t want to be a downer.”

  “Honesty isn’t a downer. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But I would like to know.”

  He didn’t push, but he also didn’t pull his gaze away, not even for the crazy carnival characters laughing and dancing on the stage. The room faded behind her, a blurred background where the only sharply defined image was her sweetheart face creased by indecision.

  “I make men.” Her lips twisted as though she thought better of the statement, so Brody waited for it to play out. “I make sculptures of men. It’s what I specialize in. I love the male body, the shape, the contours, the strength, the rugged and the soft. I love every part of it. But ever since college, one teacher after another, one art critic after another, has said my work is too cold, too clinical and it lacks passion.” She nibbled on her lower lip.

  “So you want to capture the passion again?”

  “Yes. I don’t date. I don’t like men, I mean I like guys, a lot of them, but only as friends.” She sighed. “This keeps coming out wrong.”

  “You’re scared.” Brody tested a theory and raised his hand to stroke a finger down her cheek. She went completely still at the action, but she didn’t withdraw. Her pupils dilated, her lips parted, and her breathing grew shallow. “You’re really scared, and you’re not even sure totally what you’re
scared of. That makes it harder to put into words.”

  He paid attention to the sensitivity training he’d received. As an officer, it was his job to look after his men and to watch for the warning signs. Posttraumatic stress radiated off Shannon, whether she was aware of it or not and made worse because she didn’t remember her assault, just the guilt and shame of waking up after the fact.

  “It seems easier with you. Maybe you’re right, it’s because you’re a stranger, but you don’t even feel like a stranger now.”

  He liked that admission and continued to stroke her cheek gently. She relaxed. Brody was a patient guy and he could give her the time she needed. “I have an idea…it’s a little unconventional though.”

  “Oh?” Interest flared in her eyes.

  “I take it you have a studio?”

  “Yes. A loft space in a reclaimed warehouse.”

  “How far away is it?” He traced the line of her jaw, edging gently toward her ear and down again to her chin, the motion smooth and even.

  “Just a couple of blocks, actually. A huge section of this area used to be nothing but old industrial warehouses. But most are converted lofts, apartments, studios, and clubs.”

  He slowly nodded. “Would you be comfortable taking me there?”

  Her breath caught and her chin jerked up. “Why?”

  “You want to touch, to find the passion for the body again. I happen to have a body, and you can touch me at your leisure with no expectations, no demands, and all the control you could desire.”

  When she pulled back, he released her and let his hand rest on the back of the booth. Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. A wild battle waged inside of her and every emotion flickered across her expressive face. Brody ordered himself to still and gentled his expression. It was a crazy idea, but fear was an insidious enemy. It burrowed in, sinking hooks into the tender part of the soul, rending and tearing when it was tugged at. Soon it became easier to hold onto the fear than risk the wounds of breaking free.

  He understood it.

  He’d fought it every day in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia and more countries than he could name. He fought it when he got on a plane, when he stepped out of a Humvee and when he woke up in the morning. He never let the hooks sink in. She wanted to rip them out. It was why she’d signed up with the 1Night Stand service. She wanted to find passion with a stranger, face down her fears and drive them away.

  Brody was the right guy for the job. He’d face down every fear, no matter how bad it left him aching.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted.

  “But you want to try.” He heard her unspoken words.

  At her slow nod, he slipped his hand around the back of her neck in a light caress. Her pulse beat madly in her throat. “Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen. You want it to stop, you say stop. You want me to hush, say hush. You say it and I will do it, you have my word.”

  “Do you mind if we walk there? It’s not far and the crime rate’s really dropped in this area.”

  “Sweetheart, it would be my honor to walk you to your studio, and trust me, no one is going to bother you.”

  Chapter Four

  Shannon folded her arms across her chest as they stepped outside the club. The October air carried the promise of chill, but warmth from the day still drifted up from the cement. The smell of car exhaust mingled with scents of ivy, a hint of beer and from upwind, the rich, roasting aroma of beef from the steakhouse a block away. Brody spoke to the valet and came back with his keys. He wanted access to his car in case the club closed before he returned. He walked with such an easy, loping confidence. His posture never varied and his shoulders never slumped.

  He really was a beautiful man.

  And she was completely out of her mind. He lifted his brows at her.

  “Oh.” Another blush rushed to her cheeks. She’d forgotten he didn’t know which way, and she pointed east up the block. “It’s this way.”

  He hooked his thumbs into his jean pockets and cocked an elbow toward her. Uncrossing her arms, she slid her hand carefully into the nook created. He tugged her a fraction closer, sandwiching her hand into the warm of his body.

  “Are you for real?” When she’d signed up for the one-night stand, she’d read all the literature, forced herself through the online interviews and questionnaires with the idea that it would all be worth it, if she could just get back on that horse again, take control of her reactions, and her body.

  “Last time I checked. Want to pinch me and find out?”

  “No.” She shook her head, laughing at herself. “If I am imagining all of this, I don’t want to wake up.” The words sang with more truth than she could have believed. A surreptitious glance at her watch told her it had been less than two hours since she’d walked up to Brody in the club, since she translated that first song and been transported by the sweeping emotions in the words to this warm bubble that now included the Marine.

  Sitting in the booth, she’d forgotten how tall he was. He stood more than a head taller than her, the perfect height to rest her head on his shoulder. It helped that he shortened his stride to accommodate hers and once again she was grateful not to be teetering on high heels.

  “If you were imagining all this, what would you change?”

  “Hmm…I’d be taller, prettier and a heck of a lot more confident.” The words rolled off her tongue without a second thought, but they trembled with honesty. An honesty that was easier with Brody than any person she’d ever met. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. At the corner, he leaned away to hit the button and waited for the walk signal before answering. “I don’t not believe in it, but I can’t say I’ve really thought about it that much, either. Why?”

  She twisted to walk sideways, wanting to see his face, but her hand stayed firm in his arm. The casual contact was almost overwhelming in its intimacy. “Because I’ve known you for less than two hours and you’re easy to talk to. I never thought anyone in the military would be easy to talk to, so damn easy to look at, or that I would invite him back to my studio.”

  Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And you’ve known a lot of us ‘military’ types?”

  “A couple. Army mostly.”

  “Oh. Them. That explains it. You just needed to meet a Marine, ma’am.” The easy wink and gentle smile boosted her hear, and she skipped a half step and then they were at her building. Her legs locked, as though the cement reached up to grab her ankles.

  Indecision swept over her. What was she doing, inviting him back to her place? Had she invited him? Or had he invited himself? Raw terror clawed at the insides of her belly and scraped against her spine.

  What if she couldn’t go through with it? Was that fair to him? Wouldn’t that make her a tease of the worse kind?

  “You’re having a whole conversation inside that beautiful head.” Brody’s slow drawl tugged her gaze upward. He tilted his head, consideration and patience tangible in his gentle smile. “Be nice if you’d invite a guy to participate in his own defense.”

  “I’m crazy,” she blurted.

  “Okay.”

  “What?” Shannon blinked, turning until she faced him. He shifted his arm, her grip slid off the crook of his elbow, but he caught her hand in his. The chill of the air teased the warmth suffusing her hand, adding tingles to where his fingers caressed hers.

  “Okay, you’re crazy.”

  “How is that okay?”

  “Because crazy is in the eye of the beholder. I’ve jumped out of planes, driven right into enemy fire, and conducted building-by-building searches in hostile territory for insurgents where the natives would be just as happy to blow my head off. Top that.”

  Shannon’s mouth opened and then promptly closed. Her heart pumped a little drum cadence against her ribs. Laughter popped the bubbles of nervousness flooding through her. “Are you sure you want to come up to the studio?”

  “Only if you w
ant me there. Remember, this is all about you. You control what we do and you make the decisions. I am in your hands, ma’am.”

  Absolutely no artifice, teasing, or even hint of untruth flavored the words. The earnest declaration carried simple fait accompli. He meant it. Her confidence unraveled swifter than she could gather it together.

  Get it together, Shannon. This is what you wanted. To feel, to touch, to look, and to experience passion again. Passion is standing right there, staring at you with those fuck-me-hard brown eyes and love-me-longer lips.

  “All right.” Nothing like grabbing the bull by the horns. Or the Marine by the hand. She squeezed his fingers lightly. “We go upstairs, I can show you around the studio, and we take it slow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The verbal snap of his heels in his words emboldened her further.

  “But if I say no….”

  “No means no, ma’am.”

  She giggled. “Please don’t call me, ma’am.”

  His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Laughter burst through her nerves, and she shook with it as she plucked her keys from a pocket and let him into the building.

  ***

  They rode up the rickety basket elevator to the top floor, and Brody waited patiently while she disengaged the electronic security and relocked the door’s four slide bolts. Shannon leased the entire top floor of the converted warehouse, with statues and sculptures in various states of completion filling a full half. She’d been getting ready for another show and she’d already sold three of her marbles. Their owners loaned them back to her for the duration of the show. But the dispassion her critics pointed out was easy to see in the warm yellow light of the studio’s night system.

  Her heart started jogging as she watched him stroll through the studio space. His gaze seemed to absorb every inch of the vaulted ceilings, the floor to ceiling windows, the stone and wooden bracers that created an illusion of filler, and the statues themselves. Brody paused in front of one, a sandstone-colored marble of a man sitting with a laptop propped open on his lap. Modeled on Rodin’s, The Thinker, she’d added careful hints of modern technology from the computer to the iPhone sticking out of one pocket. The phone had taken her a week to get right.