Chapter 1 #3
While his touch is strangely soothing, it brands my skin. The width of his hand is so large, his fingertips press on the back of my neck. Essentially, he’s cuffing my throat and there is something tantalizing and thrilling about the position.
Would he pin me down? Hold me in place?
A rush of everything unfamiliar, and surprisingly pleasant, sweeps up my center, clogging said throat. My body thumps in a lower place. A place longing to be touched. To be spread open the way he forced that lime.
Swiftly, his hand slips from my throat and glides across my upper chest before lowering to my breast.
The shock sends a conflicting sensation through my body, and I step back, snapping the connection between us.
He quickly lifts his hand, palm outward. His brows lift, eyes wide. “Shit. Sorry. That was a bit fast.”
“You think?” Despite the sarcasm, my tone is breathy, a contradiction to the harsh reprimand and leaving me questioning myself. Am I truly offended?
Responsible Ruthie screams yes. Inappropriate. Unacceptable. But the wannabe Rebellious Ruthie buried deep inside me, taunts all my uptight morals and wants to break free from restraint.
“I shouldn’t have—” He points awkwardly toward my breasts with a thick finger and draws a big circle in the air with his fingertip. “That was crossing a line. One you clearly aren’t interested in stepping over.”
He sets his drink on the banquet table. In frustration, and perhaps a bit of shame, he rubs a hand over his short hair, averting his gaze and shaking his head.
“Fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself.
Following his lead, I set my drink down as well and cross my arms over my chest again.
“It’s okay.” Disappointment suddenly seems to have a hold of my throat, and I want his hands back on me. I want that thumb beneath my chin and those fingers on my nape. I want that big palm to actually squeeze my breast, where my nipples are now hard and aching for additional attention.
“I’m sorry.” He finally risks a glance at me. “I’m not known for making the best decisions.”
And touching me was a mistake.
Is there something deeper than disappointment? Something gut-punchingly lower than what I feel? Because I don’t want to be a slip-up for him.
“Apology accepted.” I risk reaching for his hand, curling my fingers around the thickness of his thumb. The one that split open a lime. I squeeze with the intention of quickly releasing him.
Only, he captures my fingers before I can pull away from him, pinning them against his heated palm. Glancing down at my trapped fingers, the sensation between us is no longer sparks and crackles but warmth and comfort. Understanding. Patience.
Could he remember me? It’s clear he doesn’t recognize me, but does he sense the connection? On some deeper level, does he feel a pull toward me like I feel toward him?
The thoughts feel otherworldly. Like the Universe is speaking but I can’t read the script.
He surprises me once more by leaning forward and placing the lightest kiss against my cheek, softly repeating his apology, “I’m sorry.”
How often have I heard those words in the past eighteen months and yet nothing has sounded as genuine as the phrase on his lips.
He doesn’t know me. He knows nothing about me, but his apology brings a prickle to my eyes. A burn of tears I fight to dismiss.
Swallowing against the thickness in my throat, the swell of disappointment before I have a right to be disappointed, I whisper again, “It’s okay.”
The reply is simple, innocent enough, and yet, somehow . . . permission.
He doesn’t have to recognize me. He doesn’t need to understand me on a deeper level. I just want more from him. Another moment.
Tipping up on my toes, I brush my lips over his. A whisper of a kiss. A breath of connection. The move is the most forward I’ve ever been, and I’m slow to pull back, desperate to link us together while accepting I’ve gone too far.
Still, heat radiates over my mouth. The brief exchange has once again turned into something electric.
I don’t know who moves first but suddenly, our lips are locked. His hand returns to my throat and I’m clutching the lapel of his jacket.
He tugs me closer to him. Or maybe I pull him to me.
Nothing matters other than the explosive connection of our mouths. The reunion of our lips, because in this exact moment, there is no doubt about who he is.
Bolan Adler.
Star college athlete. Man about campus.
My sixty-second kiss experiment partner.
The tingle of recognition has unraveled into fiery longing. One deeply rooted inside me. The connection moves from electric sparks to something firework-level. Something grand finale at Disneyland. Or the symbolism of a New Year’s celebration.
However, beneath the dizzying display is a little voice of reason, telling me not to venture any further. Exert caution, it warns, because this moment might come back to bite me in the ass later. But I don’t listen. I’m tired of listening to reason, when all I want to do is feel reckless.
I wrap an arm around his neck, still clutching the lapel of his jacket with my other hand, as if he’ll slip out of my grasp once again. In sixty seconds, he’ll be gone once more.
His hand presses on my lower back, plastering me to his chest. My breasts ache. Nipples peak. The softness of my bra is too much against them. The firmness of his chest sharpens the need within me.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth. “You taste familiar.”
The limes. It must be the lime he so aggressively bit, and the gin and tonic on our tongues, which swirl against one another, sweeping deeply inside each other’s mouth as if we can drink the other in.
“Want to taste you in other places.”
I pull back, shocked by the brazen admission while another rush of excitement floods my lower belly and sets the throbbing at my core to a rave-worthy beat.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I’m desperate for him to commit to his statement.
Willing to let his tongue slice me open like his thumb forced its way into that citrus fruit.
He must sense my desire, because he lifts me by my backside.
My skirt is too tight to spread my knees and wrap around him, but no matter, as I’m suddenly seated on the edge of the banquet table.
His thick fingertips fumble with the precious pearl buttons on my blouse and he watches where he struggles with the tiny closures. “Need to see more of you.”
“Yes,” I whisper. Please see me.
“So delicate, flower.” His rugged whisper is scratchy like the scruff on his jaw.
My blouse is unbuttoned to my waistband, and he slips his hand inside the material to cup my breast over my silky bra.
With his other hand, he tugs the bottom of my blouse free from my skirt.
He releases my breast, and I whimper at the loss of his touch.
Hastily, he finishes unbuttoning my shirt and returns to the cup of my bra, tugging down the covering, and palming the bare swell.
Desperate for him to give me more, I arch my back, closing my eyes at the pure pleasure racing over my skin.
“Oh no, flower, you keep those eyes open and focused on me. Here and now.”
This moment will not replace the memory of our first meeting. This time will mark me as a second encounter.
The thrill of the empty ballroom, in the quiet corner of the resort, intensifies the edge of excitement.
Kissing him again. Being intimately touched by him.
My whispers sound loud to me. My pleas and whimpers echo around the vacant space.
My pulse is skyrocketing, caught between concern someone will walk in, and a curious interest in voyeurism. The freedom is scintillating.
But my focus is wrapped up in this man as his lips move over mine, drawing me into him while his hand continues to work my breast, kneading, teasing, plucking my nipple.
Then his fingers are on the move again, tickling down my belly and hitching up my skirt before dipping beneath the bunched-up material.
When his thick fingertip swipes across my damp panties, I nearly leap off the table.
“Holy fuck, flower, your petals are so wet.” His cheeky comment has me narrowing my eyes.
“That’s the worst line ever,” I choke, drunk on him, dazed and mesmerized by where he’s touching me, how he’s touching me. With care and skill; firing a deep need to be closer.
He shoves aside the slip of underwear and parts those petals he’s mentioned. A thick finger enters me with ease, and I cry out. My hips buck upward as I fall back, catching myself on my hands. He plucks at a spot, sensitive and swollen, greedy and grateful for his touch.
He wants me. He wants me not. He wants me.
An orchestra of wings flutter within my lower belly, scattering imaginary petals in their rapid fluttering.
Lightning flashes beyond the glass. A rumble of thunder clangs, drowning out my cries of pleasure.
The anticipation builds, spiraling like the clouds rolling across the sky and the waves crashing down below.
I brace for the final flight, knowing this moment will be unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
With the rush of his second finger inside me and his thumb on my clit, I jettison upward. Outward. Like lightning crackling across the midnight-black curtain in violent pink and vivid blue.
The takeoff is instantaneous, coinciding with a burst of hard rain and another tumble of thunder.
The flight is long and sweet, a soaring, chasing, freeing moment, one I never want to descend from.
However, eventually, I coast back to earth, feeling light and spent as I fall against the tabletop where a very handsome stranger is pillared over me, holding himself upright on extended solid arms
“That was beautiful.” Pride laces his whispered praise before he removes my underwear and cups my ankles to place my heels on the edge of the table. With his face between my raised knees, he’s staring at me like I’m a feast he’s about to devour. Confirming my thoughts, he states, “Next course.”