Say Yes: Shawn: Say Yes Series Book Two

by Amelia Mae

  Not waiting for an answer, Jack rests his guitar on the stand and runs his hands through his hair.

  Maybe he’s right.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  He thinks. “I like that place we went for Nikki’s birthday,” he finally answers. “Come on, we’re leaving in thirty.”

  The Caspiar Club.

  I like that place too.

  The club isn’t exactly packed on a Wednesday, but there are still a fair amount of people here.

  “How about her?” Jack asks, pointing to a curvy redhead at the end of the bar.

  I sip my whiskey and shrug. She’s hot, but she’s not doing anything for me.

  Jack points our several more women. A pale girl with jet-black hair and goth make-up. A girl with curly hair and an olive complexion covered in tattoos. A blonde that we overhear speaking with a sexy British accent.

  None of them strike my interest.

  I scan the room for the waitresses, trying to figure out if Aya is working tonight.

  “You’re useless,” Jack tells me, “I gotta piss. Order another round, huh?”

  I nod and beckon for the bartender, a very gruff dude who introduced himself earlier as Dan.

  “You looking for someone?” Dan asks as he pours two more whiskeys.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re staring at the waitresses.”

  Way to be subtle, Shawn.

  “Is…um…Aya working tonight?” I ask.

  “Who’s asking? Are you Greg?” he asks, his gaze boring into me. Man, this guy is scary. “Cause if you’re Greg, I’m throwing you the fuck out.”

  “I’m Shawn,” I tell him, fishing my drivers’ license out of my wallet and showing it to him.

  Whoa. Who the fuck is Greg?

  “Sorry,” Dan mutters, “Aya’s just mentioned a guy named Greg in the past and I assume he’s some guy who doesn’t know when to back the fuck off.”

  “Well, I’m a friend,” I clarify. “Sort of.”

  “In that case, I guess I should tell you that Aya quit.”

  Oh…

  “Hold that thought.”

  Suddenly, the door opens and Aya appears. She’s not in a short, black dress like the other waitresses. She’s wearing tight jeans, high-heeled ankle boots, an artfully torn Blondie tee-shirt, and a leather jacket. Her hair, which she must have recently colored because it’s bluer than ever, is roped into a long ponytail.

  Now, she, strikes my interest.

  I try not to get off my barstool and walk over to her. I want her to come to me. But my feet are faster than my brain.

  “Hey isn’t that Cora’s friend?” I hear someone say in my ear.

  “Fucker! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I tell Jack, who has returned from the bathroom and grabs for his whiskey.

  I see Dan greet Aya warmly and hand her a white envelope. Must be her last paycheck.

  Finally, she sees me. I know she sees me because her face turns beat red and she looks around like she’s pretending she hasn’t seen me.

  God, this girl is not good at being subtle. I love it.

  I make my way over to Aya, who is staring at the twinkle lights behind the bar like they’re positively mesmerizing.

  “So that’s how we’re playing this?” I ask her, “Acting like we don’t know each other?”

  She shivers. “I was just getting my check.”

  “I figured.”

  “What brings you out tonight?” she asks, trying to keep the judgement out of her voice. But, really, why is anyone out at a club on a Wednesday?

  “Jack’s got this crazy idea that I needed to get out and meet a woman,” I answer honestly.

  She’s uncomfortable. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she starts. She points at a tall Black woman in a tight silver dress. “She’s hot.”

  She is. But I stay put.

  “Or her,” she says, pointing at a tan, brown-haired waitress, “Guy like you’s got you pick tonight.”

  “What do you mean a ‘guy like me?’”

  She rolls her eyes. “You need me to tell you that you’re hot again?”

  “You remember that?” I ask.

  “I remember everything.” She swallows hard, like she’s trying to build up her courage. “I have a proposition for you.”

  I’m surprised.

  “You could find a girl here and hook up with her…”

  “Or…” I goad.

  “Or,” she stammers out at the same time, “You could just say to hell with this club and take me home tonight.”

  I blink. Twice. That’s definitely what I wanted, but not what I expected her to say.

  “Face it, Shawn,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, “You practically made me… you know… at the dinner table that night and unless you’re the biggest dick on the planet, you don’t start something like that unless you plan to follow through.”

  I’m stunned by her sudden boldness.

  And so hard I’m in pain.

  “Say something,” she demands.

  I look around for Jack and find him entertaining a few girls at the bar. No doubt he’ll find his way to someone’s bed tonight. And he never brings girls to our place, so Aya and I won’t be interrupted.

  I shoot him a text.

  Shawn: Met someone. Taking her home.

  Jack: Finally, fucker.

  I take Aya’s hand and lead her towards the door.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  6

  Shawn

  “Fucking keys,” I grumble, trying to jimmy open my front door while the blood rushes from my brain straight to my cock. Finally I manage to open it and Aya pulls me inside.

  She yanks me by the tee shirt so I’m flush against her and snares my lips with hers. She’s tiny, but her body is powerful and her kiss is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

  She gives my tongue a little suck that drives me completely out of my mind. I slide my hand into her hair and cradle the back of her head with my palm so that she doesn’t hit the wall and I push her up against it.

  I scoop her up, supporting her with my other arm and she wraps her legs around my waist, grinding herself against my dick. She makes a noise that’s part gasp, part hungry moan, and the most beautiful fucking sound I’ve ever heard.

  I just kiss her.

  I keep her against the wall with my chest, pressing all my weight against her, and kiss her hard.

  She comes up for air, breathless, her lips swollen. “Sofa,” she orders.

  I carry her to the leather couch and drop down so that I’m seated and Aya is on top of me, straddling me, pressing down on my throbbing cock. She reaches down between our bodies and strokes me over my jeans. I moan, low in my throat.

  She does it again.

  And again.

  All while kissing me.

  I…

  “Stop,” I tell her, “I can’t, I’ll…”

  I’ll fucking come in my jeans.

  She understands and keeps her hands on my top half. She reaches for the hem of my tee shirt and I help her wrestle it off. She tosses it to the floor, places her fingertips on my shoulders and shifts back to check me out.

  Her breath hitches.

  I don’t take my eyes off of her fingertips as they travel down my torso, painfully slowly.

  For a moment, the panic that comes from growing up heavy hits me light a lightning bolt.

  What if she doesn’t like what she sees?

  Her fingers reach my abs and I groan as they tease their way over my stomach.

  “Fuck me,” she says with a needy sigh and buries her head in my neck, kissing and sucking right below my ear. “You’re so crazy hot, Shawn Kinney.”

  My neck rolls back and my eyes close.

  It’s heaven, having Aya in my lap, working me over.

  My hands drift to her sides and find their way under her shirt. She helps me tug it over her head and chucks it to the floor, revealing her charcoal gray lace bra.<
br />
  The tattoo…

  Aya’s got quite a few tattoos on her shoulders and torso and I’d love to take my time and appreciate all of them. But I’m most preoccupied with the one I can’t see yet.

  I bow my head, kissing the tops of her breasts and mouthing her nipples through the material. She pulls my head closer and runs her fingers through my hair as she lets out a throaty sound.

  I reach up and unclasp her bra. She lets the straps fall down her shoulders and strips it off.

  And there it is.

  The tiny dragon tattoo, right where she said it would be all those months ago. On her left outer breast.

  I run my knuckle over it.

  I lean in and get my mouth on it, like I’d been dying to do since the moment she taunted me with it’s existence. I kiss the tattoo, run my tongue over it, then move to suck on her nipple.

  That gets another beautiful noise out of her, so I keep going, scraping my teeth lightly over her flesh, before switching to the other breast.

  Her head rolls back. Her eyes close.

  She utters a string of nonsense words and rumbly noises.

  Fuck, I bet I can get her to come just doing this.

  Next time.

  Right now I don’t have the patience. I have to taste her.

  I unbutton her jeans, tear down the zipper and slide my hand into her panties. Her nails dig deep into my shoulders.

  Good. I’d consider scars from this girl badges of honor.

  “You’re so wet, Aya,” I whisper into her ear. “So fucking hot.”

  I slide my fingers up and down her seam, circling her opening. She collapses into my shoulder and moans so loud she sounds like she’s sobbing.

  “Harder,” she orders, “God, that feels good.”

  “I’m just getting started.”

  I plunge two fingers inside of her and she lets out a loud gasp.

  “Oh. Fuck, Shawn,” she cries.

  I grind the heel of my hand into her clit and her cries get even louder. We’re going to get noise complaints at this rate, but the neighbors can fuck themselves for all I care.

  I feel her pussy tighten around my fingers and she bears down on my hand. Her breath is strangled. She clenches. Her cries become straight-up screams.

  She comes hard, all over my hand, her body going limp on top of mine.

  “Jesus,” I whisper, stroking her hair, “That was the most amazing fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Shawn,” she pants, “We’re not done yet.”

  I almost snort laughing.

  No we’re not, sweetheart. Not by a long shot.

  She kisses me on the mouth, gently to start, but it’s only a matter of seconds before we’re going at it as hard and heavy as before.

  Suddenly the front door opens and Jack walks in.

  “Fuck,” he says, startled, “Sorry.”

  Aya shrieks and I clutch her tight to my chest, angling so that my back is to Jack and he can’t see the very topless girl in my lap.

  “What the hell, man?”

  “Sorry. I figured after a couple month of no action, you wouldn’t last this long,” he explains, crudely, “I’ll go.”

  “No,” Aya says, climbing out of my lap and fighting free of my grasp, “I was just going.” She gropes around for her tee shirt, tugging it on. Jack, gentleman that he it, averts his eyes while she dresses.

  “That was, um… fun, and… bye,” Aya eeks out before barreling through the door and closing it behind her.

  What the fuck was that about?

  “Sorry,” Jack repeats.

  I can’t get out the words to tell him off.

  “Should I go after her?” I ask.

  Jack shrugs, clueless.

  And Aya bolted out of here so fast, I don’t think I could chase after her before she called for a ride home. I lie back on the sofa so wound up I could kill the motherfucker as he heads into his bedroom.

  But, also, I don’t understand what just happened there. Why did she rush out of here so fast?

  I know Jack walking in is a pain in the ass, but it’s not that big a deal. He’d have left. We could have picked up where we left off.

  But, for some reason, it was a big deal to Aya.

  I know something bad happened with a guy in her past. She mentioned it at the party. And then the bartender at the club alluded to it too.

  And now, as horny as I am, I also want to punch someone.

  Fuck.

  I should get up. Start the shower. Take care this… situation.

  Instead, I slip my fingers into my mouth and suck the taste of Aya off my hand.

  She tastes sweet.

  I want more.

  7

  Aya

  After a night spent alternating between sexually frustrated and mortified for leaving Shawn so suddenly, I’ve barely slept. So when my phone rings at around seven thirty, I’m groggy, but I actually answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi honey,” my mom says, “How’ya doing?”

  “Oh shit, I forgot to call last night,” I lament, “I’m the worst daughter ever.”

  “Lizzie Borden was the worst daughter ever, Aya,” she says, matter-of-factly and I laugh. My mom’s always had a twisted sense of humor. As a kid, it embarrassed me. And, even now, people ask me if she’s “all there.” But she’s my mom and I love her, weirdness and all.

  “Still,” I say, “I should’ve called. How was Arizona?”

  “Dry. Hot,” she answers, “Billy’s the same. Pauline made a rib roast and it was nice. But holy hell, their kids were insufferable. Thank you for not turning out like that.”

  I laugh. “No problem.”

  “Dakota brought her fiancé to dinner and they did not stop holding hands for a damn second,” she says. I can practically see her scoffing. “It was like they were afraid of getting lost.”

  “Maybe they were,” I add.

  “And they kept calling each other ‘babe,’ like that super awkward dinner party that Jan and Micheal threw on that episode of The Office. Babe this and babe that. Ugh.”

  I laugh. My mom has always never had much interest in dating. Even when she was younger. And it dissipated completely after she adopted me. She’s always described herself as ‘comfortably single.’ She might even be asexual.

  “How was your night?” she asks.

  “It was nice,” I answer, “Cora’s engaged, so she and her fiancé had some friends over for dinner.”

  “That’s that fellow in that band, right?”

  “Yeah. Ian.”

  “I’ve seen some pictures on Facebook. Wowza.”

  I almost double over laughing. Only my mother would use the word wowza.

  “Yeah, well, there are four of them and they’re all crazy good-looking, so it was a pretty distracting evening,” I tell her.

  “Anyone you’ve got your eye on?” she asks.

  “No. No one.”

  She can always tell when I’m lying, but she doesn’t push it this time.

  “Just be careful, honey,” she warns.

  Minutes after we hang up, my dance studio calls and asks if I’m willing to sub last minute. I figure I need to blast some music and move. Get out of my head.

  It’s a conditioning class. An advanced one.

  Great.

  This is a class for running drills that strengthen the muscles dancers will use. So I’m not so much teaching tricks, but leading a high-intensity training session. The woman who normally teaches this class is a beast. These students expect a punishing workout and, today, I’m happy to give it to them.

  After climbing drills, pole pull-ups, and a cardio routine, ten sweaty dancers thank me and say goodbye.

  I spend a minute stretching and toweling myself off before the students for the next class come in. The class I usually teach, Pole Virgins, is for people new to dance, fitness, or have never touched a pole before.

  Zara, the studio owner, who had been manning the front desk, approaches me.<
br />
  “Whoa,” she says, “That sounded intense.”

  “They’re advanced,” I reply, “They can handle it.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she clarifies, “They were happy with the class. I’m just… are you okay, Aya?”

  Shit. If anything, I need to be able to keep it together at work.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I tell her.

  “Promise?”

  I nod. The beginner students for my normal class start to trickle in.

  “Go easy on the virgins, yeah?” Zara tells me.

  I chuckle, “I’ll be real gentle.”

  She winks and returns to the desk.

  Six students enter and spread their yoga mats on the floor for warm up. Two girls compare their newly purchased “stripper heels,” and gawk over the six-inch platform stilettos. Some students look confident and ready. Some look completely nervous.

  This class is no different.

  The two girls with the heels, Connie and Kaylee, are in Los Angeles on a bachelorette weekend. One woman, who I guessed was around forty, Adrianna, is actually fifty and looking to feel sexy for the first time ever. Two other girls, Britney and Sasha, are less willing to share their stories. They’re timid, so I don’t push them to talk. The last student, one of the rare men who come to pole studios, is a small guy with bleached hair named Johnny who recently came out to his friends and wants find some self-confidence.

  Perfect. This is what I live to do. Coaching people through their first dance classes. Guiding them through simple spins and movements. Helping them feel comfortable, not just on the pole, but in their own skin.

  I crank up the music. “Let’s do this.”

  Ninety minutes later, the class ends.

  “Great job everybody,” I cheer, applauding them as I bend over to unzip my eight-inch platform boots. “Hope to see you all next week. That was amazing.”

  The students thank me as they leave.

  Johnny lingers behind, waiting until the girls leave.

  “Miss Aya?” he asks, carefully.

  “It’s just Aya,” I tell him, “No need to be formal.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Or to apologize,” I assure him, “What’s up?”

  “Do you, um… do private lessons?” he asks.