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“It’s … not,” I gasp after a second, using every last ounce of sanity I have. It’s harder than it should be, but I’m blaming that on his proximity.
On the heat he’s radiating.
On the fact that his lips are—right
now—skimming over the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I shudder before I can stop myself.
“Huh.” His lips form a smile against my skin, his breath hot against the nape of my neck. “Maybe I should try something else, then.”
And he does. Oh God, he does. One, two, three open-mouthed kisses going in a vertical line up my neck, from my collar to my hairline.
His tongue licks out a little on the third one and my brain fogs over. I mean, literally fogs over. I’ve always wondered what that expression means and now I know. Everything around me is hazy, muddled, and my body is melting into his.
This is crazy, right? I have to be imagining it because this doesn’t happen. Not in real life. Not to girls like me.
I mean, no guy has ever come close to touching me like this before—and I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do here. It’s embarrassing, really, how inexperienced I am for my age.
I’m nineteen, but I’ve spent most of the last ten years in and out of the hospital as I battled cancer. Rhabdomyosarcoma, to be exact. Which means, except for a couple very awkward kisses that came after very awkward dates—set up by my family because they felt sorry for me—I have zero experience with guys. And I certainly have no experience with guys like Ash.
Part of me wants to go for it. It’s the same part that promised myself after this last round of chemo, after the doctor told me I was finally—finally—in remission, that I was going to live my life to the fullest. To experience everything I’ve missed in the last ten years. And it’s not like I don’t want to know what sex feels like. I do. I really, really do.
But when I decided to make up for lost time, it had never occurred to me that one of the experiences I’d missed was a nice-to-meet-you fuck in what looks like some kind of storage room. With a really hot professional snowboarder who obviously doesn’t suffer from the same confidence problems I do. And who I am supposed to be asking for help.
The thought of my job, of why I came here, is enough to pull me back from the brink. I step away from Ash and turn toward him, clearing my throat. Try not to swallow my own tongue as I struggle to find words—any words—to get this meeting back on the right path.
“What—” My voice cracks straight down the middle, so I take a deep breath and start again. “What’s going on here?”
Ash steps forward, rests his hands on my waist this time. “You said you wanted to talk.” He lowers his head, like he’s going to kiss me and I know—I know—if his lips come into contact with mine I’m going to forget my own name let alone everything I’m supposed to do.
I slam my hands against his chest, push him firmly away. “Yes, talk. Talk. Not screw.”
“Huh.” His face is close enough that I can make out the confused expression he’s wearing. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I mean did you really think I meant …” I let the ending dangle there, too embarrassed to say it again.
He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I thought it was a euphemism. I mean, it usually is when a girl comes looking for me.”
It usually—who is this guy? “Seriously? I mean, you really fuck girls you just met in the storage closet behind where you rent out life jackets to five-year-olds?”
He reaches over, flips on a light. For long seconds, we stare at each other, blinking, as we try to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. Finally, he shrugs. Grins this little, shit-eating, self-deprecating curve of his lips that makes my stomach flutter all over again. “I mean, not always in the storage closet. There are a lot of other places to do it. There’s the coat room, the changing room, the bathroom—”
“I get it!” I slam a palm over his mouth to shut him up, and shut out the images his words are evoking. Jesus. I thought dealing with the dying kids was going to be the hard part of this job. Who knew it was the oversexed athletes I was going to have to watch out for?
He licks over the center of my palm and I jump, yank my hand away. “Eeew! Gross!” And it is—it really is. But it’s also kind of, maybe, sort of just a little bit … hot?
Oh my God! It’s like I’ve been invaded by some oversexed alien or something. One with no social skills.
Just the thought makes me cringe. I very deliberately wipe my hand on my jeans as I berate myself for being a total moron. I need to get my head out of my ass and into the game or I’m going to walk away from this meeting with nothing more than a hickey to show for it. And if it was only me involved, that might be fine. But it isn’t. This is Timmy’s thing. He’s counting on me and I’m not going to let the combination of my suddenly out-of-control hormones and a guy who will fuck anything—obviously—ruin this for him.
“You’re really cute when you’re freaked out, you know that?” Ash bops me on the nose.
I roll my eyes. “And you’re really cheesy when you want to get laid. Sue me.”
“I’d rather fuck you.”
“Yeah, I got that impression. Believe me, I’m not taking it personally.” He reaches for me and I take a big step back, determined not to let him get his hands on me again. I’d actually like my brain to function as more than a flotation device, thank you very much. “Can we talk now or are you going to try to shove your tongue down my throat?”
