Chapter 3 #2
Whoa. I think my brain just goes offline.
She's young, maybe in her mid-twenties. All five-foot-four in her running shoes. But the way she's looking at me now makes me feel awkwardly nervous. And a wee bit amused, mixed with a touch of fluster and hope.
I mean, I am used to women of all ages propositioning me, but with her…I feel like fifteen again, a sophomore being asked to the high school prom.
Get a hold of yourself, Cam. Put on your swagger.
I lean forward. "I was thinking maybe some proper appreciation for your savio—"
She surges up and kisses me.
Not a polite thank-you peck. Not a grateful brush of lips.
This is fire and hunger rolled into a kiss that threatens to buckle my knees.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me down to her level, and I respond on pure instinct.
My hands slide to her back, pulling her flush against me.
Her mouth is soft and warm against mine. She tastes like mint and something sweeter, something that makes me want to chase the flavor for a long time.
Her body pressed against mine is all curves and heat, and when she makes this small, needy sound against my lips, every drop of blood in my body heads south.
I've been kissed by a lot of women. Models, actresses, fans who snuck into my hotel room, teammates' sisters who thought sleeping with me would be a fun way to rebel. I thought I knew what a good kiss felt like.
I was wrong. Turns out I've been settling for grocery store cupcakes when this woman is serving up five-star chocolate soufflé.
This isn't just a kiss. It's a claiming. A seduction. A demand. A promise wrapped in eagerness and delivered with enough fire to burn down villages.
My hand cups her head without conscious thought, pulling her closer until there's no space left between us. She's perfect against me, like she was designed to fit in my arms. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and when she tugs just hard enough to sting, I groan into her mouth.
She responds by pressing even closer, and suddenly we're not kissing anymore—we're devouring each other. Her tongue against mine, her teeth catching my bottom lip, her hips grinding against me with a rhythm that's going to kill me if she keeps it up.
And she does keep it up. She rolls her hips against mine with a precision that suggests she knows exactly what she's doing to me, exactly how the friction is making me harder than I've ever been in my life.
I can feel every inch of her through our clothes—the soft swell of her breasts against my chest, the firm muscle of her thighs against mine, her core pressing against my erection with perfect, maddening pressure.
"This is…," she pants, but doesn't stop moving against me. "I know I'm crazy. But I need… I need—"
She doesn't finish the sentence, just keeps kissing me like she's drowning and I'm air. Her movements are unpracticed but enthusiastic, all desperate friction and breathy moans that drive me completely out of my mind.
My concussed brain is trying to process what's happening—stranger, alley, possible danger, this is insane—but instinct hijacks my brain. I back her against the brick wall, my hands everywhere, her legs wrapping around my waist as she grinds against me with increasing urgency.
"This… a good crazy or bad crazy?" I manage, my voice strained.
"I don't know," she admits. "But I want it."
That's all the permission I need. I back her against the brick wall, my mouth finding hers again, my hands mapping the curves she's been hiding under running clothes. She responds like she's starving, like she's been waiting her whole life for someone to touch her like this.
The part of my brain that's still functioning wonders if I should slow down, be a gentleman, take her somewhere private. But the rest of me is drowning in the scent of her skin and the sounds she's making and the way she fits against me like she was custom-designed for this moment.
She grinds against my erection again, deliberate and desperate, and I groan into her mouth. My concussed brain might be fuzzy on details, but my body knows exactly what it wants.
"Don't think," she whispers against my neck. "Please. Just don't think."
So I don't.
I change the angle of the kiss, and her gasp goes straight to my cock. I'm rock hard against her, and thinking? Not happening in this dark alley.
All that exists is her mouth on mine, her body pressed against me, and the way she's making these tiny sounds of pleasure that are making me throb and pulse.
I let myself get lost in the heat of her, in the way she responds to every touch like it's revelation. Her breathing gets more ragged, her movements more desperate, and I can feel her climbing toward a high that makes her quiver.
I want to take her right here against the brick wall. Want to strip away the running shorts and tank top that are the only things keeping me from worshipping every inch of her skin. Want to bury myself inside her until she's shaking and crying out, not caring who hears.
Then, without warning, she pushes her hands hard against my chest and jumps back.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Her lips are swollen from my kiss, her eyes wide with something that looks like wonder. Like she's just discovered fire.
Breathless, shocked at her own boldness.
"Thank you," she says but her voice is full of regrets. "For... for everything."
And then she runs.
"Wait," I call after her, but she keeps going. Literally running away, her sneakers slapping against pavement as she disappears into the night.
Leaving me standing in a dark alley, hard enough to dent the boards and completely stunned.
I lean against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath and make sense of what just happened.
My body is still humming with arousal, my lips still tingling from her kiss, and my brain—my poor, concussion-rattled brain—is trying to file this under "real memory" instead of "extremely vivid hallucination. "
I stare after her, trying to process the last five minutes. Did I just get the best kiss of my life from a complete stranger? Did she just disappear into the night like some kind of sexy runaway Cinderella?
I look down at the very obvious problem in my jeans and laugh—actually laugh out loud in an empty alley like the concussed idiot I apparently am.
"Well," I tell the brick wall, "that's one way to welcome a guy to town."
Just wish the welcoming committee stick around for a while.
I adjust myself as best I can and head back to where I left the convertible, my brain trying and failing to categorize what just happened.
The woman was in trouble. I helped. She thanked me with a kiss that rewrote my understanding of human biology. She ran away.
Simple enough, except nothing about it feels simple.
Great, listen to me. I sound like one of those shirtless-man-romance-paperbacks my teammate Marcus's wife won’t stop shoving in his gym bag. Fate, forbidden love, happily-ever-after.
Throw me into the penalty box if I start brooding.
The drive to Sugar Mill Lofts is a special kind of torture. Every bump in the road is a reminder of exactly how aroused I still am, and my brain keeps replaying the kiss on an endless loop—her taste, her sounds, the way she felt pressed against me.
Lily left the keys under a flower pot—small town trust that would give my city friends hives.
The lobby is empty, which is a blessing because I'm still sporting enough of an erection to embarrass myself and anyone unfortunate enough to encounter me. I take the stairs two at a time, my body humming with leftover adrenaline and arousal, and let myself into the unit Lily prepared for me.
It's perfect. Clean lines, exposed brick, furniture that looks expensive without trying too hard. The kind of space that says, "adult recovering from brain trauma" instead of "hockey player who collects speeding tickets and inappropriate text messages."
But I barely see it. All I can think about is her. The taste of her mouth. The sound she made when I pulled her against me. The way she felt in my arms, like she belonged there.
Did she tell me her name?
I drop my duffel bag and head straight for the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes with hands that are still unsteady. The shower is one of those walk-in deals with about six different spray settings, and I crank the water to just shy of scalding.
The cut over my eyebrow stings slightly—a reminder that I'm supposed to be taking it easy, not rescuing strangers and making out in alleys like some kind of romantic comedy hero.
Under the hot spray, I finally let myself process what happened.
She recognized me from Lily’s van. Which means she's local, or at least familiar enough with Cedar Falls to know about Sugar Jar delivery service. The way she kissed me—like she was starving for it, like she'd been thinking about it—suggests she likes me.
The thought makes me harder, which I didn't think was physically possible.
This small-town jogger just ruined me for every woman on the planet. My brain might be concussed, but my dick has perfect clarity—it's already planning the wedding.
I wrap my hand around my cock and immediately have to brace my other hand against the shower wall. I’m so hard it’s painful. Even my own touch feels like too much. But I need this. Need the release, need to work through the images flooding my brain.
The way she felt—soft curves and lean strength, passionate but somehow innocent at the same time. The way she moved against me, unpracticed but eager, like she was following instinct more than experience.
I start stroking, slow at first, trying to make it last. But every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Those blue eyes looking up at me like I was her salvation. Her lips parted, breath coming fast. The flush spreading down her neck.
"Damn," I mutter, picking up the pace.
I imagine what would have happened if she hadn't run.
Picture myself spinning her around, pressing her against the brick wall, sliding my hands under her shirt to find soft skin and perfect full breasts.
I can almost feel her nipples hardening under my palms, almost hear the sounds she'd make when I rolled them between my fingers.
My grip tightens, and I stroke faster.
I think about dropping to my knees in that alley, pulling down those running shorts, and burying my face between her thighs. About making her come with my mouth while she gripped my hair and begged for more. About the taste of her, the way she'd feel falling apart on my tongue.
The fantasy shifts. Now we're here, in this shower, water streaming over both of us while she wraps her legs around my waist. I'm inside her, finally, and she's perfect around me. Tight and wet and making those incredible sounds while I pound into her against the tile wall again and again.
I breathe hard, my hand moving frantically now.
I imagine spreading her thighs wide, running my tongue along her slit until she's begging for more. I'd make her come on my face first, then flip her over and take her from behind while she screams my name loud enough to scandalize the neighbors.
I'm close. So close I can taste it. But I want to savor this, want to hold onto the memory of her kiss, her touch, the way she looked at me like she needed my cock more than air.
I want her to ride me on this bathroom floor, her tits bouncing while she takes me deep, her pussy so tight and wet I can barely last thirty seconds. I'd fill her up until she's dripping with me, then do it all over again.
My orgasm hits like a freight train, and I come hard enough to see stars. My knees buckle, and I have to catch myself against the shower wall as I ride it out, her name on my lips even though I don't remember what it is.
When it's over, I lean against the tile and laugh at myself. Thirty-two years old and jerking off in the shower like a teenager. My neurologist would probably have thoughts about blood flow to the brain, but right now I don't give a damn about medical advice.
For the first time since I woke up in that hospital room, my head feels clear.
I finish washing and drag myself to bed, my body finally loose and relaxed. But as I'm drifting off, panic hits.
What if I don't remember her tomorrow?
What if the concussion fog rolls in and takes her with it? What if I wake up and she's just another gap in my memory, another piece of my life that got lost when my brain decided to scramble itself?
I grab my phone from the nightstand and open a new note.
Alley kiss. Dark hair, blue eyes. Knows who I am. Taste like mint and sweet. Said her name but can't remember what. Find her. Don't let the fog take this moment.
Dr. Martinez said write things down. Pretty sure this wasn’t what he meant.
I stare at the words for a long moment, then add:
She's in trouble. Someone looking for her. Keep her safe.
It's not enough. It can't capture the way she felt in my arms, the way her kiss rewrote an operating code in my chest. But it's what I have.
I set the phone aside and close my eyes, her face floating behind my eyelids. Tomorrow I'll find her. Tomorrow I'll make sure she's safe.
Tomorrow I'll remember.
I have to.