In the Bad Boy's Bed (2 page)

A strange sensation gripped my body every time I saw or even thought about him .

. . the same sensation overtook me now. Through the silky material of my ruined dress, my nipples puckered tightly as if being sucked by a loving mouth. I fought an aching need to press my thighs tightly against each other to relieve the tingling that had begun between them. My heart beat at twice its normal pace, making me so breathless I wasn't sure I could utter a coherent sentence to save my life.

I was in a dark, secluded place, alone with a guy I had lusted over from afar—since he showed up sophomore year—but had never met and didn't know. The fear I felt earlier transformed into bubbling exhilaration. It took all my strength to not groan with pleasure and jump up and down and clap my hands at the happy turn of events. Thankfully, the semi-darkness must be hiding whatever telling expressions were playing out across my face and in my body.

Finally able to take a breath, I breathed him in. He smelled fresh, like the air after a rainstorm, a perfect counterpoint to the scents of the river, damp earth, and blossoming trees. The intoxicating aroma fogged my brain.

The sensuality surrounding us—our eyes locked together, his scent, his nearness, my journal-vow to have sex with him at my first opportunity—was doing its part to make me forget what I knew about proper behavior. I had to break the spell.

"Actually, my worst nightmare is showing up to school naked. Do you always spend your Saturday nights hiding in the bushes, spying on people?" I heard the slight shakiness in my voice as I spoke the words. Nerves. With a dash of fear.

The hazy moonlight hid details, but I clearly saw his eyes look me up and down.

"What you call nightmare is called dream-come-true for more than half the people in school. And do you always spend your Saturday nights walking along the river, alone, barefoot, in a torn dress, and cussing like Chris Rock?"

"You have your hobbies; I have mine."

A low chuckle was his only response, but it eased my tension.

"What are you really doing here?" I asked, lifting my arms to "fix" my hair. The flirty move serves two purposes: it juts out the breasts and knocks the conversation off balance, giving the user the upper hand. But if his eyes ever left my face to check out the rest of me, it was so quick I didn't see it.
Maybe it doesn't work on him
, I thought with a little pout and dropped my arms to my sides.

But then he moved slowly toward me, stopping with only inches between our bodies. Maybe it worked after all, I thought as breath caught in my lungs. Was he going to kiss me? Should I allow it? Rebuff him? I kept my eyes on his, not wanting to make a move until he did.

"Give me your hand."

My heart jumped into my throat at his request. "Why?" I asked, the word struggling to get out.

"So I can show you what I'm doing here."

I hesitated, feeling every prick of the sliver of fear I thought had vanished.
You don't
know this guy
, my mind warned.
But I'd really like to
, my heart cooed, sending a warm rush of desire through my veins and pushing my hand into his.

Holding my hand with tender firmness, he led me through a low opening in the undergrowth.

Beyond it was a grassy spot large enough to accommodate a spread blanket and, parked nearby, Nick's motorcycle. Lush tree branches, flowering bushes, tangling vines, and other growth acted like walls to screen the view from all sides, except for a low, narrow mouth facing the river.

"So you are hiding," I teased.

Nick motioned to the blanket so I sat down, expecting he'd do the same. Instead he walked to the beast and climbed aboard.

"More like getting away," he said, running his hands along the smooth, cool handlebars. My mind worked overtime, wondering how it might feel to have his hands touching my curves in the same, slow way.

"Hiding . . . getting away . . . great place to do either." Desire pounded thick and hot in my veins, and I wondered whether he heard it in my voice.

"OK, I showed you mine. Now show me yours."

Confusion brought my brows together and made him laugh.

"What are you doing out here, all alone," he clarified, "other than perfecting your cussing skills?"

His eyes searched mine while he spoke, as if looking for answers. Struck by the force of his gaze, I looked away. I raised my arms and began removing the dozens of bobby pins holding my nest of hair. This time, I know his eyes went to my breasts; I saw them. I smiled.

"Oh, you don't want to hear about my problems." My voice was a sweet as a peach.

"What did Sean do this time?"

My stomach flipped and I suddenly felt cold, like I'd just stepped into a walk-in freezer. How did he know? Was my relationship with Sean a running topic of conversation for all the cliques in school? My hands left my hair and dropped into my lap.

"Don't look so shocked. Everybody knows he keeps screwing up and you keep taking him back. What I'm wondering is why. That's the story I'd like to hear."

Holed up in this intimate cave-like paradise with my dream-come-true, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about Sean or problems.

"I'd rather talk about something interesting . . . like you." I leaned back on my palms, stretching my bare legs out in front of me, then slowly bent one at the knee, drawing it up so that my foot was even with the other knee. His eyes dropped to my legs.

The rush of it made me bold. The next time he looked at me, I stared into his eyes, a smile in mine, willing him to come to me.

As if unable to resist my silent summons, he swung his leg over the seat and came over. He looked down at me for what seemed like ages, almost seeming like he was fighting wanting to join me. But then he lowered himself to the blanket beside me and graced me with one of his sexy smiles.

He lifted his hands to my hair and removed a few of the pins I'd missed. "What do you want to know?"

His gentle touch, his closeness, his smile, his smell, his voice sent me on pleasure overload. I melted like a chocolate kiss in the microwave. A purr started in my heart and headed toward my throat.

"Hmm . . . ." The purr stuck in my throat and I swallowed hard to make room for words. "How about I ask you ten questions—any questions I want. You can either answer or pass. But you can only pass twice."

He stretched out on the blanket beside me, propping himself up on his elbow, his head in his hand. "Then I get to ask you ten questions?"

"Right." Seeing his long, hard body laid out before me made me want to play another game, but Ten Questions was certainly safer. "OK, let's start with something easy, like . . . what's your favorite food."

"Steak. Medium rare. You?"

"Is that your question for me? I mean, you don't have to ask the same one I do."

"Yes, that's my question. Are you passing?"

"No."

He grinned. "Then answer the question."

"OK, don't get bossy." I smiled at him to show I was teasing. "You and I have something in common. My favorite food is filet mignon, but I like mine well done with a merlot reduction and sprinkled with English stilton – slivers not crumbles. My turn. Do you carry a switchblade?"

"Why? Do you need one?"

"No, I don't need one. I was just curious."

"Do I look like a guy who'd carry a switchblade?"

I shrugged. "That wasn't my question. My question was—"

"Yes."

I about choked on my tongue. He carried a switchblade. With that the darkness became darker. Our spot became more secluded. He became more dangerous. My body tingled all over, from fear, from excitement, from the way he looked at me when he admitted to carrying a switchblade. How his face seemed to go hard.

"Why?" I asked, my voice low, almost a whisper.

He sat up, faced me. "It's not your turn."

"Can I see it?" Yeah, strange guy I don't know. I'm not in enough danger, so why don't you take out a deadly weapon, too? That way I'll really be in trouble.

He moved to his knees, reached his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a shiny object of about five inches long. He held it in his hand and the blade sliced out the front of the small, coffin-shaped handle. I jumped at the sound of the muted click. God, why did I invite this into our bubble?

"Can I hold it?"

He pushed a button and the knife retreated into its box. He moved to sit beside me, put the knife in my hand.

The weight of the weapon in my hand sent an icy wind through me. I looked at Nick, found his eyes sparkling with laughter as he watched my curiosity play out. I took a breath. "Which button do I push to open it?"

He helped me hold the knife correctly and showed me what I'd asked. Again the knife shot out, moonlight dancing on the steel point and edges. I turned it in my hand, letting the light play across the blade. It was a work of art.

I looked at him again, stared into his eyes. Our heads were bent together and I felt his breath on my cheek. It smelled like peppermint. "Have you used it?"

"You mean, have I stabbed anybody?"

I nodded, holding onto his gaze for dear life. He reached his hand down to mine, lifted the knife from my hand, and retracted the knife.

"Pass." He stood on his knees again and shoved the knife back into his pocket.

The air changed once the knife was sheathed and Nick had shifted away from me slightly. It was as if we had spiraled away somewhere to another plane, but were back. I could again hear the water lapping the shore, sounds of various night creatures surrounding us, a car engine coming toward us, and the flash of headlights. Then, a door opened.

"Next question," Nick said.

"Shh!" I whispered.

Shuffling footsteps crunched on branches several feet from us. Someone had gotten out of the vehicle and was coming toward us.

"Annnn-ge-laaa! Where are you?"

Nick started to stand, but I pulled him back down beside me and held him tight.

Staring into his eyes, I shook my head.

"Annngelaaa . . . C'mon, get back in the car. I'm sorry I hit you. I won't do it again. I promise."

Nick looked down at me the same time I looked up at him. The moonlight showed narrowed eyes, mouth a tight line on his face, muscles of his body tensed.

"He hit you?" His whispered tone screamed anger.

I didn't answer, just increased the hold my fingers had on the front of his T-shirt and tucked my head into his chest. Right now, where his body met mine was the safest spot on the Earth.

"Son-of-a-bitch." Nick's low curse rumbled through my body. He moved to disentangle from my arms and get up.

I tackled him to the ground and held him down with my body.

"No, Nick," I pleaded in his ear, our cheeks pressed tightly together. "Please. Please, just stay with me."

Rustling noises, not twenty feet away, met our ears, and I held my breath.

"Babe, I had a coffee, so I'm sober now. C'mon, it's late. I gotta get you home. Your parents are going to be pissed."

Sean wasn't a patient person, especially when he'd been drinking, so it wasn't long before he became irritated at the effort of having to search for me.

"Dammit, bitch! You can just fucking walk home, then!" His eruption filled the night, and its malice flowed down on me like hot ash.

Seconds later, his door slammed shut. The car spun out in the dirt, then peeled out when it hit asphalt, heading the opposite direction from where Nick and I lay together on the blanket.

The crisis past, the here and now drifted back into focus. I inhaled a gulp of silent, sweet air and noticed pleasant sensations shoveling out the fear and settling into its place.

The sexy clean scent of Nick in my nostrils. His hard body beneath mine. The comforting weight of his arms around me.

I raised my head from his chest, and our eyes met. He rolled us over so that he was on top of me.

"Where did he hit you?" He still whispered, though there was no reason to.

"My cheek," I answered in the same tone.

He lowered his head and gently rubbed his lips against my cheek then kissed all along my jaw and near my ear. Tingles of pleasure danced up and down my skin.

"Better?"

"It was the other side," I said, breathless.

He smiled, and gave the other side of my face the same sweet attention.

"How about now?"

I cupped his face in my palm and rubbed his cheek with my thumb. "Better. But he also got my mouth."

Nick moved closer then paused over me. I couldn't wait any longer. I reached up and pressed my lips to his. The pain of my cut lip all but vanished.

The kiss provided the right blend of spices to unleash our hunger, and I didn't want to stop until that hunger was satisfied. I kissed him again, making it last longer. The tip of his tongue teased inside my lips before delving in deeper to stroke my tongue. They danced and twirled, encouraging the rest of our bodies to join in the rhythm.

His hand slid over my breast. He explored it cautiously, as if he expected to encounter a yield sign or stop sign. But I wouldn't be giving him one tonight. There wasn't a part of me that didn't want the touch of his fingers, his palms, his mouth.

"Put your hands on me Nick. Touch me everywhere."

He groaned and sat up.

I sat up too, confused by his reaction. Embarrassed by his refusal.

"It's OK if you don't want to. I just thought—" I couldn't finish. My tongue was thick in my mouth, making it impossible to speak. "Sorry," I said and started to stand up.

He held my hands to stop me. "Angel, I do want to. But you need to be sure that you do. Because, if we keep going . . . if I touch you . . . there won't be any stopping."

Holding his gaze, I placed his hand on my breast, keeping it there with my hand.

"Let's keep going."

The pleasure of his touch shot through me like his switchblade shot through the thick air, and I closed my eyes at the overwhelming and dizzying need spinning in my head.

He put his fingers to work on the row of tiny silk buttons down the front of my dress. Unfortunately, they didn't lead anywhere; after the first three, they were just for show.