Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina - Страница 7

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“Why did you get me over here? Away from everyone?” he asks, smile slowly fading.

I look past him, over his shoulder into the club, where it’s only slightly lighter than where we’re standing.

When I don’t answer, he bends to catch my eyes. “Am I asking too many questions?”

“It always takes me a while to put words together,” I tell him. “It’s not you.”

“No, no. Lie to me,” he says, moving closer, his heart-stopping smile returning. “Let me pretend when we’re alone like this I render you speechless.”

And still, he waits for me to find the words I want to say in reply. But the truth is, even with a bowl full of words to choose from, I’m not sure it would make sense if I told him why I wanted him down here, away from the safety of my friends, who are always able to translate my expressions into sentences, or at the very least change the subject for me.

I’m not nervous or intimidated. I simply don’t know how to slip into the role I want to play: flirty, open, brave. What is it about another person’s chemistry that makes you feel more or less drawn to them? With Ansel, I feel like my heartbeat is chasing his. I want to leave my fingerprints all over his neck and his lips. I want to suck on his skin, to see if it’s as warm as it looks, and decide if I like what he was drinking by tasting it on his tongue. I want to have an entire conversation with him where I don’t second-guess or struggle with a single word, and then I want to take him back to the room with me and not use any words at all.

“Ask me again,” I say.

His brows pull together for a beat before he understands. “Why did you bring me down here?”

This time I don’t even think before I speak: “I want to have a different life tonight.”

His lips push out a little as he thinks and I can’t help but blink down to them. “With me, Cerise?”

I nod. “I know what that means, you know. It means ‘cherry.’ Pervert.”

His eyes shine with amusement. “It does.”

“And I’m sure you’ve guessed I’m not a virgin.”

He shakes his head. “Have you seen your mouth? I’ve never seen lips so full and red.”

Unconsciously, I pull my bottom lip into my mouth, sucking it.

His eyes grow heavy and he leans closer. “I like when you do that. I want a turn.”

My voice is nervous and shaking when I whisper, “They’re just lips.”

“They’re not just lips. And please,” he teases, and he’s so close I can smell his aftershave. It smells like fresh air, like green and sharp and soothing all at once, something I’ve never smelled on a man before. “You wear red lipstick so that men won’t notice your mouth? Surely you know what we dream about a mouth like that doing.”

I don’t close my eyes when he leans in and takes my bottom lip between both of his, but he does. His eyes fall closed, and every one of my senses picks up the gravelly sound he makes: I taste it, feel it, hear it, see the way he shivers against me.

He runs his tongue over my lip, sucks gently, and then pulls back. I realize it wasn’t really a kiss. It was more a taste. And obviously he agrees: “You don’t taste like cherry.”

“What do I taste like?”

He shrugs a little, thoughtfully purses his lips. “I’m unable to think of a good word. Sweet. Like a woman and a girl still, too.”

His hand is still planted near my head, but the other toys with the hem of my cardigan. I realize that if I want to live a different life I have to do it. I can’t tiptoe along the edge of the cliff. I have to jump. I have to figure out what kind of girl would do what I want to do with him, and pretend I’m her. She’s the one onstage. Mia watches from the audience.

I pull his fingers down to the bottom of my dress, and then under.

He’s no longer looking at my mouth; we’re looking directly into each other’s eyes when I drag his fingers up the inside of my thigh. It feels so secluded here—darker and still—but around the corner the bar echoes with drunken voices, a bass-heavy pop song. We’re hidden but anyone could find us if they wanted to. Without any more urging from me, he slips a knuckle beneath the fabric of my underwear. My eyes roll closed and my head falls back against the wall behind me as he gently slides it back and forth over my most sensitive flesh.

I don’t know what I’ve done, or why, and I’m suddenly consumed with warring reactions. I want him to touch me—God I want him to touch me—but I’m mortified, too. I’ve been with two other guys since Luke, but there was always more lead-up: kissing, and the usual progression of top-to-bottom groping. Having Ansel near me has reduced me to a puddle of want.

“I’m not sure who is more surprised you just did that,” he says before kissing my neck. “You or I.”

He pulls his finger away but almost immediately returns at a better angle, this time sliding his entire hand down the front of my underwear. My breath catches as he strokes me gently with two fingers. He’s careful, but confident.

“Toutes les choses que j’ai envie de te faire . . .”

I swallow back a moan, whispering, “What did you say?”

“Just thinking of all the things I want to do to you.” He kisses my jaw. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I say, and then panic chokes me. “Yes.” He freezes and I immediately miss the rhythm of his broad fingertips. “No. Don’t stop.”

With a raspy laugh, he bends to kiss my neck, and my eyes roll closed as he starts to move again.

IT TAKES FOREVER for me to open my eyes; my head is pounding. My whole body hurts. I press my hands firmly to my temples, palms flat as if, by doing so, I can hold my head together. It must be in pieces. It’s the only thing that could explain the pain.

The room is dark, but I know somehow that behind the heavy hotel curtains the Nevada summer sun is blinding.

Even if I slept for a week, I think I’d need two more.

The night comes back to me in tiny, chaotic bursts. Drinking. Ansel. Pulling him down the hall and feeling his tongue on mine. And then, talking. So much talking. Flashes of naked skin, movement, and the loose-limbed aftereffects of a night of orgasms, one after another.

I wince, nausea sweeping through me.

Moving is torture. I feel bruised and exhausted, and it’s distracting enough for me to not initially realize that I’m completely naked. And alone. I have delicate points of pain on my ribs, my neck, my upper arms. When I manage to sit up, I see that most of the bedding is on the floor, but I’m on the bare mattress, as if I’ve been plucked from the chaos and intentionally laid here.

Near my bare hip is a piece of paper, folded carefully in half. The handwriting is neat, and somehow easily recognizable as foreign. My hand shakes as I quickly read the note.

Mia,

I tried to wake you, but after failing decided to let you sleep. I think we only got about two hours at any rate. I’m going to shower and then will be downstairs having breakfast in the restaurant across from the elevator. Please find me.

Ansel

I start shaking and can’t stop. It’s not just the raging hangover or the realization that I spent a night with a stranger and can’t remember a lot of it. It’s not just the state of the room: a lamp is broken, the mirror is smudged with hundreds of handprints, the floor is littered with clothing and pillows and—thank God—condom wrappers. It isn’t the mortification over the dark stain from a soda bottle on the rug across the room. It’s not the delicate bruises I see on my ribs or the persistent ache between my legs.

I’m shaking because of the slim gold band on my left ring finger.

I’M SHAKING BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN THAT I HAVE A RING THAT LOOKS LIKE A WEDDING RING AND WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER WHAT WE DID? The only thing I remember after pulling Ansel down the hall last night is more alcohol—a lot more—and flirting.

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