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Then I kiss her. It’s sweet and soft and so gentle that all the blood in my body doesn’t know where to go.
Then it hurts.
“Ow,” I say, pulling back slightly and rubbing my fingers over my mouth. What the hell?
“Sorry!” she whispers harshly, flushed from either embarrassment or arousal, and she quickly removes her fangs from her mouth, tossing them over her shoulder. “I forgot they were in there.”
“Good thing we didn’t start off with a blow job,” I joke.
“No,” she says deviously, and her hand goes on top of my erection. My eyes go wide. “That was going to come second.”
“Was?” I repeat, feeling myself get harder under her touch. I can’t even stand it.
She bites her lip coquettishly and once again I am wondering how the fuck I got so lucky. Must have been the eyeliner and dick comments.
I grab her face in my hands and kiss her, not gentle this time, not slow. It is fast and feverish and her mouth is even sweeter than the rest of her. She’s a good kisser, but then again so am I, and I sink into this dizzy well of lust that I’m not sure how to get out of. So I don’t even try.
We make out like that forever, my tongue exploring her mouth, fucking it hard and soft all at once, followed by my lips on her neck and her hand stroking my shaft. I think the last time I had a hand job over my clothes was in high school, but now there’s something so fucking erotic about it that I have a hard time not coming. Maybe it’s the fact that there are five other people in the room, although they’re all concentrating on playing “Helter Skelter.” Still, voyeurism is a total turn-on.
I quickly remember that I had put a condom in my satchel because I figured that pretending to be a ripped, violent warrior might just be walking lady porn. I pull back, both of us breathing hard. “Want to find a room?” I say to her, my eyes glued to her wet, open mouth. Oh god, did I need those lips to finish me off.
She nods and gets up. I do the same, tucking myself up into the waistband of my briefs and making sure I’m not about to poke anyone’s eye out. I take her hand and we leave the room and start exploring the hallway, though I have to press her up against the wall at least once and drive my tongue into her mouth and myself into her hip. I put my hand up her shirt and feel her soft skin through her thin, lacy bra, her nipples intoxicatingly hard. I want nothing more than to pinch them between my teeth and roll my tongue ring over them.
When I’m able to pry myself off of her again, we find a door that’s locked. I’m not one to try and bust doors open, not even for the sake of hot monkey sex, so I take out my credit card and slide it up between the door and the frame. I breathe out a sigh of relief as it clicks open and we stumble into a small billiards room that has been stuffed to the walls with furniture and breakables, all put away for the party.
I close the door behind us and lock it.
Chapter Two
GEMMA
I love his accent.
It sounds softer than the stereotypical Canadian one, but it’s still foreign to my ears. Though Josh could speak with a Klingon accent and he’d still be every woman’s fantasy because he’s dressed as a big, beefy warrior. Who knew guys with eyeliner could be such a turn-on?
While he locks the door behind us, I lean back against the pool table and stealthily admire him. This billiards room turned storage facility is the most light I’ve seen him in all night and I take advantage. He’s tall, probably six foot two, which is perfect because I’m fairly tall for a girl. He’s nowhere near as thick and muscly as the meatheads I work with at the gym, but his body is toned and sculpted. It looks good—real good. If he’s anything like most people in this city, he’s earned it swimming, stand-up paddle boarding, mountain biking, whatever. But he’s definitely earned it.
And under all the bronzer and the eyeliner and the tribal facial hair, I can tell he’s absolutely gorgeous. Full lips that bear the mark of a lip piercing he’s taken out, soulful blue eyes the color of pale winter skies, and strong cheekbones that have a Nordic or Eastern European quality to them. He manages to look both manly and pretty in his getup—not an easy feat. His tattoos help. They’re mainly black and white but wonderfully artistic and intricate, covering his arms and shoulders. I wonder where else they are.
I wonder if I’m brave enough to ask.
I’m not normally this forward with men I’ve just met, but Josh is pretty forward himself. He has this ease and sexual confidence that I rarely see in guys my age, like he knows more than he leads on, and I’m falling for it hook, line, and sinker. He’s a bit sexually aggressive, too, but in the way that I feel comfortable with. There’s an air of respect coming off him, and I know that if I were to decide I don’t want to do this, he’d totally understand.
But of course, I do want to do this. I wanted to the moment I set eyes on him. His lopsided smile, touched with a bit of arrogance, his eyes that were cheeky and playful—it all drew me in like a lion to the kill. I wanted to play with him. I wanted to have fun.
I need to have fun. What a way to say goodbye to North America.
“Do you play pool?” he asks, gesturing to the table.
I shake my head and as he walks over to me it’s impossible to ignore the butterflies that are swirling in my stomach. It feels like they’re escaping, fluttering along my arms, making my nerves dance. I can’t help but smirk to myself. After all this time traveling, it’s my last day that finally makes me feel the most alive.
