MELONY
A blow job on a welcome mat. Who knew that was going to be my undoing?
I was so convinced Hollis was all talk. I mean, how could I not? Ever since I’ve known him he’s been full of bullshit, constantly spouting off random crap. Did I really think he had some good gossip? No, I didn’t. I would have bet a date with him on it. Thankfully he only asked to hold hands, which seemed innocent.
That was what I thought until we said our goodbyes and Hollis led me out to his car. For some reason, the tension between us has grown to exponential lengths. And I’m not talking about awkward tension; I’m talking about sexual tension.
That one little victory on his end has changed everything. I notice all his perusals now, the way he licks his lips when he stares at mine. The way he intently watches me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way his breath hitches whenever I draw near him. I see all the signs. He’s not all talk. He actually likes me.
And that fact terrifies me more than anything.
So giving in and letting him hold my hand for the drive home scares me. Will he want it to lead to something else? Will I?
I can’t even handle that thought right now. I don’t want anything with him. He talks a great talk of future promises and the kind of people we could be. You know, the kind that are madly in love and can’t get enough of each other.
The only problem with that is I don’t know what love is. I don’t plan on trying to figure it out, and I have no intention of ever being in a relationship with a man.
“Are you okay?” Hollis asks as he opens the door for me. “You seem a little tense.”
“I’m fine,” I answer curtly. I settle in his Prius as he shuts the door on me. I buckle up and stare straight ahead. I can’t look at him. I’ve exchanged too many glances with him tonight. My mind is on overload, and I don’t trust myself. Who knows what I might do?
For some reason, he cautiously gets in the car, as if he might startle me, puts his seat belt on and starts the car but doesn’t start driving. From the corner of my eye, I see him glance in my direction, trying to gauge my mood.
With a deep sigh, he puts the car in drive, looks to the side for oncoming traffic and pulls into the road . . . without holding my hand.
Anxiety flushes over me.
Not that I really wanted to hold his hand, but why isn’t he holding it? He said he was going to. He told me multiple times throughout the night when Reese and Paisley were consumed with each other that he couldn’t wait to match our palms together, to slowly rub his thumb over my knuckles, to have the privilege to walk me to my door. Yeah, he said privilege. What man says that?
A liar!
Because right now, when he’s supposed to cash in on his promises, he doesn’t. This is why I don’t get serious with men because they can’t even follow through on even the simplest things.
Melony, I can’t wait to see you, sweetie.
Melony, your birthday present is in the mail.
Melony, I’m going to fly you out to Florida to spend the summer with me.
All lies. My father, the king of over-promising and under-delivering. Why did I expect anything else from Hollis?
The silence in the car is eerie, uncomfortable, awkward as all hell. What was supposed to be a fun night with friends has turned into a melodramatic disaster with a man I never even wanted to get “involved” with in the first place. If that’s what you want to call our minimal interaction.
We come to a stoplight. The car lightly hums beneath us and once again, I can see Hollis checking on me, assessing me. Assess all you want, fucker. You’re a liar and this will be the last interaction we have.
“Melony,” he breaks the silence, startling me slightly. His voice is serious, trying to pull my attention but I refuse to give it to him. “Look at me.”
No.
I can’t.
“Melony, fucking look at me.” The timber of his voice rumbles through me. “Do not make me ask again.” Why does his demand slightly turn me on? Is it because it’s the first time I’ve seen a bit of an alpha man in Hollis? He’s supposed to be Mr. Romantic, a bit of a girly boy. Where did this side come from?
Curious I turn to look at him and I’m greeted with a smoldering, angry Hollis. His brows are cinched together, his blue eyes a darker, fiercer shade, and his chiseled jaw with the perfect amount of scruff is set tight, pulsing right below his ears.
“Yes?” I ask, holding back my gulp.
“What’s wrong?”
Well, besides the fact that you’re a liar?
I hold my tongue and notice the change of color in the light. Nodding toward the intersection, I say, “Go, it’s green.”
His jaw ticks as he says, “Fuck that,” and pulls the car off to the side, parking along the curb. He turns in his seat, his built frame taking up all the space in the front seat of the car.
Shit, he’s intimidating when he looks like this. It’s intimidating but it’s also turning me on. What is wrong with me?
“Tell me what’s wrong, or else we’re going to sit here all night, which I don’t mind. It’s not that far of a drive from my pool. I can easily sleep here and get ready for practice quickly.”
Knowing he’s telling the truth, I haven’t really seen him budge on anything, I give in. “You lied to me. I don’t like liars and I don’t put up with them.”
The strong set of his jaw and the furrow in his brow relaxes as he takes in my words. Quickly his anger turns into confusion and concern. “When did I lie to you?”
God, the next words coming out of my mouth are going to sound so childish. Which probably is the truth, but it matters to me. Keeping promises matter to me.
“You said you were going to hold my hand on the way home.”
His concern morphs into a cocky grin, and I instantly hate that I even said anything.
His voice turns into liquid velvet as he says, “I’m sorry, baby. I wasn’t sure you actually wanted to hold my hand given the cold-bitch vibe you were shooting my way. I wanted to respect your wishes.”
“Whatever.” I fold my arms over my chest and look out the passenger side window. “Just take me home.”
“No way in hell until you wander that little hand over here.”
I look to the side to see Hollis holding out his hand, palm up, waiting for me to join him in an awkward connection.
“I’m over it, just drive.”
“Nuh-uh, lactose lips.”
His stupid names crack me every time. “Lactose lips?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Fuck, I don’t know. Not my best. Just hold my hand.”
Giving in, I link my hand with his, our palms touching, our fingers wrapping around to the back of our hands, his fingers reaching farther. Briefly, he looks up at me and smiles, a gut-twisting, ovary-clenching, heart-pounding smile. The kind of smile that says I just handed the world over to him.
“Now that wasn’t too hard, was it?”
“You ask me?” I counter.
With the most genuine look on his face, he says, “Like a fucking dream, baby.”
And then, as if he didn’t just rock my whole world those five little words, he pulls out onto the street and drives us back to the complex, our hands never parting.
We stay in silence as we drive. I look out the window, enjoying the palm trees that wobble up to the sky, looking like they were plucked out of a Dr. Seuss book, all the while trying to ignore the heat that’s starting to build in the pit of my stomach.
This was such a bad idea. Such a bad, bad idea. God, Mel, what were you thinking?
To me, hand holding is so much more intimate than making out. Don’t agree with me? Think about it. You could be at a bar, plastered to the wall, one shot away from taking your clothes off and offering up your nipples as garnishes to the bartender, and all of a sudden, have an urge to run your hands sloppily through the hair of the guy next to you, only to follow it up with some very unattractive tongue-on-tongue action. You’ve seen those chicks, the ones with their thongs hanging out the back of their pants because they’re constantly giving themselves wedgies. Drunk make-out sessions are a twenties mistake. But have you ever heard of drunk holding hands? Not really. You don’t go to a bar, get wasted, and hold hands with another person. Holding hands is meant for someone you’re intimate with, someone you have a connection with.
What does that say to me? Am I “drunk” holding hands with Hollis? Or do I actually have some kind of intimate connection with him? Crap, is that what all his texts and phone calls have been, ways to be intimate?
Could it be?
No.
No. He’s too cocky, too arrogant when he talks, always joking about my boob somehow falling in his mouth. That’s not imitate. That’s just . . . perverted.
Yes, Hollis is a pervert who wants to hold hands.
Great! I’m holding hands with a pervert. Christ, might as well be drunk, making out with my thong hanging out the back of my shorts.
Before I can torture myself even more with my inner diatribe, we park in the apartment complex, closer to the condos rather than my apartment. How convenient for Hollis.
He releases my hand briefly, grabs his keys, and walks around the front of his car. Like the gentleman he is, he opens the door for me and once again holds out his hand.
A deal is a deal—at least that’s what I tell myself. Once again, I take his hand in mine and allow him to help me out of the car.
He locks up then leads me toward the apartments. We zigzag through cars in the parking lot, never breaking our connection while the sounds of crickets fill the cooling night air.
“You can actually see the faint sign of stars up above,” Hollis points out, using his other hand to show me while leaning in close. God, why does he have to smell like walking sex? It’s making me feel dizzy, almost drunk. I blame the stupid pheromone crap they put in cologne now. “It’s rare I see them anymore with the city lights.”
“And the smog,” I add.
“Smog is a killer of the sky, blocks out all the pretty. Puts a damper on gazing at times.” God, he really is a romantic. I don’t even think he’s trying right now. I think that’s just regular stuff he says.
“Do you stargaze a lot?”
“Holly and I used to,” he says absentmindedly. Holly? Uh, old girlfriend? What an odd thing to bring up when you’re holding someone else’s hand. “Holly’s my sister,” he clarifies, causing my cheeks to redden from embarrassment. Hopefully he didn’t catch the stiffness in my arm when he said another woman’s name. Then again, why else would he clarify? Crap!
“Oh?” It’s all I’ve got. I don’t know what else to say.
Pulling me into his side, he takes our linked hands and brings his arm around my shoulder so my hand that is linked with his rests across my chest. It’s slightly awkward for me, kind of looks like I’m saying the pledge of allegiance. Despite being a little awkward, his warm body pressed into my side is actually comfortable. This is so not good.
Leaning into my ear, he says, “Yes, Holly, my sister . . .”
“Got it.”
He chuckles. The sound shoots through my body giving me goosebumps all across my skin.
“We used to look up at the stars from our trampoline. We lived out in the country, and when I say country, I just mean away from the bright lights. We would share a two-liter bottle of orange soda, eat Cheetos Puffs and hope that when we woke up the next day, we would have orange skin.”
“What?” I can’t help but laugh.
“Holly once heard that if you eat too many carrots, your skin would turn orange. We thought since the orange in carrots was organic, maybe if we ate processed orange things we would turn orange quicker.”
“And did you?” It’s kind of adorable thinking of a young Hollis trying to turn into an Oompa Loompa.
“No, we were never lucky enough.”
“Darn.” I chuckle. “Could have been amazing.”
“It really could have been. What a story that would have been to tell. My best friend growing up always wanted glasses, so he would cross his eyes every day until one day, he actually hurt the muscles in his eyes and had to get glasses. My orange story could have been like that. I failed at life.”
“Yes, you failed tremendously. Not being able to turn yourself orange, if only you’d used self-tanner, then your story would have been complete.”
“Damn.” He laughs. “This is why I need you in my life, baby, so you can direct me down the right paths.”
“Yes, the self-tanner, Oompa Loompa, tragically tanned Trump path.”
“I would have heeded your guidance.”
“Good to know.” I scan my apartment building and say, “This is my building. I have it from here.”
“No way.” He doesn’t let go. “I said to your door. I’m a man of my word.”
“Are you really? Didn’t seem like that at first,” I tease.
“Yeah, because I thought if I came close to touching you, you were going to gnaw my dick off and not in a good way. You had ravenous fangs sticking out of your mouth.”
“I did not,” I defend with humor.
“Sure did, bubble-yum butt. It was nice you put them away for the night. Give those dogs a rest, as it can’t be easy flashing your venom every hour of the day.”
“They only come out for you.”
“Ooo, kinky. I like it.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I ignore him and lead him up to the second floor. I stop in front of apartment 2D and turn to face him, my hand still in his. “This is it. You can let go now.”
“Two-D huh?”
“Please don’t make a joke about you wishing it was three-D.”
He cringes. “Is four-D off limits?”
“All jokes about my apartment number are off limits.”
He huffs. “You can be such a snore sometimes, sweets.”
“A snore?” I asked a little shocked, causing him to tilt his head back and laugh. For a brief second, I watch his throat move up and down. God, I would seriously love to have just one night with this man. Just one single night where I could explore his body, fuck him in every position conceivable, and then call it a day. If anything to just get him out of my thoughts. This phone call-texting foreplay is starting to drive me nuts.
“Man, I love fucking around with you.” He grabs my hips and steps closer. Okay, we didn’t talk about this position. “Just so you know, if you were a snore, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you.”
“Damn, kind of wish I was a snore now.”
With a side smile that will knock your panties right off, he says, “No, you wouldn’t.” Before I can respond, he pulls me into a hug and intimately presses the side of his cheek against my head, holding me strong. Somehow my arms wrap around his waist, I have no clue how they got there, but they are encasing him, loving the way his strong, muscular body feels under them.
Whispering into my ear, he says, “Remember this night, because this is the last at-the-door hug you’re getting from me. Next time I walk you home, your back will be against your door and my lips will be caressing yours. And after that, my tongue will be in your mouth, my hands dancing across your hips, moving up your stomach, teasing you but never really touching. And after that, I will be fucking you in your apartment, my tongue lapping up the arousal that will be dripping from that sweet, little pussy of yours.”
Oh. Fuck.
My clit is throbbing just from his words. It’s been so long. I love sex, but it’s been far too long since I’ve had it, since I’ve come so hard I black out. Just from Hollis speaking into my ear I can feel my panties getting wet as I develop a burning need in the pit of my stomach.
I want him.
Not for a relationship, not as someone to protect me or to take care of me, but as someone who can fulfill my sexual needs. Oh God, I want him too damn bad.
His smell, the way he’s touching me, the smooth, sultry tone of his voice, they are all attacking my senses, turning me into a puddle of need. If he doesn’t leave soon, I will start undressing myself in the hallway.
Time to say goodnight.
Clearing my throat, I press my hands into his stomach . . .
Oh, bad mistake. Such a horrible mistake.
Abs. So many of them. I know about his abs, everyone on this earth knows about them. They are perfectly defined into little nuggets and I’m touching them. My hands are actually wandering around his stomach, feeling them through his shirt.
Stop it!
Stop molesting the man, Melony.
“Feel something you like?” he asks, looking down at me.
Crap.
Tearing myself away in record pace, I step up to my door, accidently bumping my shoulder. In my daze, I reach for the handle and try to open it, forgetting completely about having to unlock the damn thing.
“Uh nope, nothing at all. Got to go now. Thanks for the lift.” I salute him. Christ . . . I saluted him. Fish out my keys, turn my back to him, and unlock the door.
Just as I’m about to shut the door without looking behind me, he calls out, “Melony.”
Shutting my eyes from the torture I’ve already been put through, I peek around the door to look at him. He’s smiling brightly, totally pleased with himself.
“Anytime you want to explore my abs, just let me know. I would be more than happy to give you an all-access pass.” He tops everything off with a wink.
“Ugh, cocky bastard.” I slam the door shut on his laughter.
Leaning my head against the door, I exhale finally. Why did I have to go and feel his stomach up? Don’t I have any shred of self-respect? Would any woman on the planet pass up a chance to feel Hollis Knightly’s abs? Hell to the no.
My phone chimes in my purse. Having an inkling who it is, I take a look.
Hollis: Goodnight, baby. Can’t wait to have my lips on yours next time. I’ve been waiting too fucking long for that moment, but what’s another day when I know I will get to have them for eternity?
I can’t handle him. I don’t text back. Instead I go to my bedroom, pull out my vibrator and strip down. It’s going to be a long night if I don’t take care of my turned-on state, especially after envisioning his lips pressed against mine, only for them to fall down between my legs.
And then I hear the words he said at my door.
Next time I walk you home, your back will be against your door and my lips will be caressing yours. And after that, my tongue will be in your mouth, my hands dancing across your hips, moving up your stomach, teasing you but never really touching. And after that, I will be fucking you in your apartment, my tongue lapping up the arousal that will be dripping from that sweet, little pussy of yours.
Shit.
There is no doubt in my mind he would be amazing at going down. Yup, pretty sure the man is a giver. Fuck. Me.