“She seems sweet.” Wyatt steps into my line of vision, his easy grin softening just a bit. “You’re beautiful.” His fingers gently brush the hair from my shoulders. His eyes lay over mine like a fire. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Marley.”
A bashful smile comes and goes as my cheeks heat ten shades. Wyatt has the power to touch me to the marrow with a few simple words. “Same to you.” I turn my face towards his fully, and any ill will I felt toward my sister melts like cotton candy in the rain. “Did you come to see your brother tonight?” I nod to the stage. A part of me doesn’t want that to be the answer.
“Nope.” He pulls a single red rose from behind his back, and I die a little at the sight of the tight, red bud. “I came to see you.”
My mouth drops open, and a series of tingles vibrate over me all at once.
“I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.” I can hardly catch my breath. My heart pulsates with a violent tremor as if this simple act were the most thoughtful proclamation. I used to sneer at guys who plied their girlfriends with flowers, and, now, here I have a single beautiful rose staring me in the face, and it feels like the most precious act of thoughtfulness in the world. All those poor, pitiful stems from Will were nothing more than rhetoric. And, from Wyatt, it feels ten times more special.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispers. “Dance with me.”
Wyatt leads me deep into the sea of bodies with laughter caught in my throat all the way there. I feel giddy and high and a little unstable now that he’s around.
We wrap our arms around one another as if it were something we’ve spent the last decade doing.
“I think we should discuss logistics,” he whispers warm in my ear, and the entire left side of my body catches fire.
“Logistics?” I’m intrigued. Seriously, we have to be the only couple in the history of the planet that has charted out their first time with strategic mapping and the quasi involvement of a legal team—or a legal document at the least. Wait, did I say couple?
“Next Saturday night we have an official date.” His warm, deep voice trembles through my bones and elicits a riot of elation buzzing up and down my spine.
“Do we now?” My toes curl because next Saturday night is the exact date we chose to consummate our contract. “Your place or mine?” Annie is gone every weekend, so technically my room at Prescott Hall will be free.
“Most definitely mine,” he rumbles low and animalistic. “I’ll provide the bedposts—you can bring the handcuffs.”
“Easy, big boy. I don’t think we’ve graduated to handcuffs just yet.” I press my lips tight to keep the insane smile off my face. A thousand erotic thoughts run through my mind. I have one week to get spray tanned just a shade below Oompa Loompa, polish my claws, and do a little bush whacking. “Am I spending the night? The devil is in the dirty details.”
He frowns a moment. “You look more like an angel to me. And, as for spending the night—only if you want. I’m not into taking hostages. But, just so you know, I cook up a mean Sunday brunch. I’d hate for you to miss it.”
“That depends. Can I eat it off your abs?”
“There’s no other way to serve it.”
“I guess I’d better stay then—you know, to verify your culinary skills.” I twist my lips a moment. “Will there be whips night one?”
He thunders out a laugh. “Are whips a precursor to handcuffs? If so, all options are on the table.”
A familiar cackle pierces over the music, and I turn in that annoying direction.
“Oh, God,” I hack out the words as if choking on a chicken bone. There she is in all her seven-foot big-haired glory.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cat Alice.” Her name comes out in a hiss. “She’s…” the words refuse to formulate. Clearly my tongue wants no part in this. Her arm is draped over Will’s shoulder as they buddy up in a booth together. He’s whispering something in her ear, and all I see is red. For so long I felt that Will and I were sacred. We were as good as married, sleeping together, giving away our intimacies to one another like a prayer before bedtime. And now here he is with my so-called relation, his lips moving over the side of her face like a cockroach. This is the worst betrayal. Cat Alice is family. We grew up together. We told each other secrets in the dark during long weekend sleepovers. She was the only person I told when Will and I were first together. And when Will and I started to argue last summer, she was the first person who told me she was sorry to see things go south.
Cat Alice jerks her head my way, her eyes expanding like headlights.
They are so watching us!
I twist into Wyatt and peer around his bicep to confirm the theory.
Oh, God. It’s true.
The two of them crane their necks for a better look as I bury my face in Wyatt’s dress shirt. The irony. Ha!
“What’s going on?” He tries to pull back, but I’ve adhered myself to his chest like Velcro. “Did you catch your earring on my shirt?”
“No, actually”—I take a tempered breath—“I lost my virginity to the moron in the booth behind you. And the girl who’s face he’s gnawing on is my almost cousin, Cat Alice.” I spin him around so he can get a good look at the heresy.
“Ah, yes. Will and Cat.” He leans in and whispers, “They’re staring. They look riveted, by the way.”
“I hope Will is deeply regretting his wandering penis.”
“He looks as if he’s ready to chop it off and hand it over as an apology. Would that be sufficient?” Wyatt seems mildly entertained by the situation.
“Not if he had a thousand penises to chop off. But a little self mutilation is always a good start.”
“You should forgive him.”
I pull back and examine this hulking man that my arms can’t fully wrap themselves around. He’s so gorgeous that at all times ten different women have him under their surveillance. “Bless your penile-acquitting heart. No thanks. And for the record, he hasn’t asked for my forgiveness.”
“That’s irrelevant.” His eyes squint into mine. “You should forgive him so you can move on.” A sad smile comes and goes. “And then maybe you won’t feel the need to subject yourself to a stranger.”
“Newsflash, you hardly qualify as a stranger anymore. And”—I touch my finger to his plush lips to silence him—“while I appreciate the armchair psychiatry, I still believe every hurt woman is due a little bitterness in the end.”
He playfully bites down on my finger. “It’s not healthy.”
“But it’s most satisfying.”
“You know what feels better?” His brows draw a line low on his forehead framing those pine-forest eyes in like a hedge. “Revenge. Let him see you happy.” He firms his grip over me. “Really, really happy.”
“You make me happy.” It feels vulnerable saying something so benign to Wyatt. It’s probably as close to a declaration of love as I’ll ever get, so in that respect it felt intimate. “You know what? You’re right.” I lower his hands over my hips, then lower still before slipping them right over the curve of my ass. “I think tonight is a great night to dole out a nice cold helping of revenge. How about a kiss?” I tilt my head just this side of pleading. I’m not above begging, and God knows there’s an entire litany of sexual favors I’ll be begging for next Saturday night. I’m sure please and thank you will be two phrases I’ll become quite familiar with.
Wyatt smolders into me, a slight smile curves up one side. “What happened to fireworks?”
“We’ll keep it chaste. No tongue.” I hold up two fingers as if proving a point. “Closed mouthed kisses can look pretty darn hot from afar.” And feel that way up close but I don’t bother bringing up the obvious.
Wyatt pulls back just enough with his lids hanging heavy, his easy come and go dimples digging in as if to further seduce me. Wyatt James doesn’t even have to brush his hair to seduce me another inch. I’m already sold, counting the hours, the passion-ripe seconds, until we explode like a series of landmin
es taking out entire continents with our savage lust next Saturday night.
“Closed mouth,” he admonishes as he edges his way to my lips, his lids shutting ever so slowly.
Damn, he’s hotter than a grease fire when he tells me what to do—even if it was my idea. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin like a furnace as my adrenaline skyrockets. My heart rate picks up. I’m panting as if I’ve just sprinted to Prescott and back.
“So this is happening?” I ask, stupidly as he comes in so close, and I swear he whispers yes.
Our lips glide over one another, soft at first. What with all the swaying and his hands still firmly, might I add obediently, glued to my bottom, I’m afraid our lips will keep drifting away, so I secure my hand to the back of his neck.
Wyatt seals his mouth to mine in one quick intoxicating move. A hard groan expels from my throat as I melt over him. His mouth steadies onto mine, soft then hard, in a pulsating rhythm. I writhe my head, moaning into him nonstop, but it’s not for show. Who knew closed mouth kissing could be so damn erotic? This is most definitely headlining my next article. It’s horrifically tantric in nature, and, as much as I profess to hate anything that gets in the way of the finish line, this most certainly makes the journey that much more memorable.
Wyatt stops moving and expends his full concentration on this one, immovable lip-lock. We moan and move over one another’s mouths with a building lust that has the power to fuel ten thousand rocket ships. We could fly to Jupiter and back on the pent up energy exerted in this one beautiful kiss. Lust. Wyatt and I have it in acres. Can you have lust without love? Of course, you can. Wyatt and I are living, breathing, sexually starving proof.
Aren’t we?
* * *
Come Tuesday I’m a bit zippy, swinging my ponytail like a thirteen-year-old, walking with a spring in my step on my way to class. It’s officially countdown-to-Wyatt week, and Aunt Flo isn’t even on the horizon, so my body is all clear to go.
Annie still thinks I’m certifiable and, yet, helped me thumb through my bin of underused lingerie this morning. I’m sort of a Pretty Panty hoarder if you know what I mean. I find them unrepentantly impractical for everyday use, but, nonetheless, I can’t walk by a good two for one steal. Plus I have the Victoria’s Secret Annual sale marked off on my calendar as a to-do item—not to mention the half-year, semi-annual and seasonal clearance. Can a girl ever have too many baby-dolls? I think not. Besides, something tells me Professor James will very much appreciate the breadth and variety of my vast collection of unmentionables.
It’s funny because when I was with Will, I never wore lingerie. He was more of a pull-down-your-sweats-just-enough—go-ahead-and-leave-your-top-on kind of guy. I told him once that it felt nice when our skin touched, and he just scoffed at the idea. I’ll be curious as to how many articles of clothing Wyatt deems necessary to remove. I’m hoping all. In fact, I might even make it a requirement. Rules are rules.
I step into the lecture hall and make a beeline toward Baya, but Professor Nicholson cuts me off at the pass.
“How’s your little project coming along?” She crimps her lips while taking me in from head to foot. Her arms are crossed tight, and she looks a touch more anxious than usual. She’s dressed just a tad more exciting than a nun. I’d cut back on the mock turtlenecks if I were her. It depletes the air of authority and makes it look as if she’s on her way to a ski weekend. There are innumerous ways to look Professor Chic without having to sacrifice fashion.
“It’s coming along great! Baya and I have already purchased a ton of inventory, and just this last weekend we loaded our first few pieces on eBay.”
“Mmm.” She grazes me with another disproving glance from top to bottom.
“Oh, I made this.” I tug at my skirt—a patchwork made exclusively of velvet and imported Italian lace. “It all came from Goodwill for a grand total of five bucks. I chopped and sewed until my fingers bled. I could easily list a piece like this for ninety dollars.”
“Nice spread, but you’ll need to think bigger.” Her gaze dips to my cleavage, and she openly smirks.
“Oh, um”—my fingers fumble to my neckline—“I actually have an appointment this week to check out options for expanded labor.” It’s true. Wyatt said he found a few facilities where they might be interested in picking up a contract with Baya and me.
“I’m sure you’ll use your youth and charm to seduce them into getting your way. Girls like you always do.” She offers a conciliatory pat.
Will walks in and blows me a kiss before I can react to her odd statement. A look of disgust rides over my features as he struts on by. He’s wearing his basketball jersey, flaunting it from under his jacket. I distinctly remember him telling me how girls couldn’t keep their hands off of him when he wore a jersey.
Looking back it’s as if every move he made was just another stepping stool toward getting himself laid. Ironically not by me.
“What’s the face for?” Professor Nicholson swivels her head in his direction.
“That’s my ex.” I shudder when I say it. “Anyway. I’m just thankful this class is big enough for the two of us.”
Her penciled in brows rise above her glasses. “Life in the corporate world is all about working with difficult people. I’m afraid Mr. Richie’s partner just dropped the class, and he’s in need of a new team.” She takes a full step back, looking toward Will. “Mr. Richie?”
“No, no!” I hiss in a panic. I can see the abomination coming from a mile away. Clarification: three feet.
“You’ll be joining Marley and Baya on their class project. Since their business is already underway, I’m afraid you’ll need to abandon your web application service for the time being.” She looks back at me with a bleak smile. “Although—it might have been more lucrative than recycled chic.” There’s a resolute boredom in her eyes as she examines me once again, followed by a budding look of nausea as if my looks alone have left a bad taste in her mouth.
Will smears a greasy smile to his face.
“Look—I don’t think I can do this.” Let me put this another way, I CANNOT FUCKING DO THIS! Only I don’t actually say that last part in fear of putting my pristine GPA in jeopardy.
“Oh, come now. Doing it is your favorite thing.” She gives a little smirk, and a breath gets caught in my throat. “You’re wearing your own creation for goodness sakes. This will be a thrill for you. Think of it this way, you’ll get to dominate a man for change.” She leans in with something just this side of hatred percolating in her. “Maybe you can draw up a legal form to disclose the details in which you’d like to do so.” She walks away giving me the side eye.
What the hell?
My feet carry me numbly toward Baya who already has an array of sketches set out on the table.
“Sorry,” she mouths, glancing briefly to my left as Will makes his way over—with glee, I’m sure.
“Not half as sorry as I am. Say, you think she’s pretty nice, right?” I twitch my head toward the professor.
“She’s totally cool.” Baya shrugs at the professor’s obvious misstep.
“I thought so too, but she was so different just now. She was kind of cold. It’s like all of a sudden she doesn’t have a soul.”
“Who doesn’t have a soul?” Will whispers hot in my ear and sends an entire swarm of imaginary worms crawling up my back.
“You, for one. Why can’t you find another party to crash? Where’s your doe-eyed trollop? She drop the class because she can’t stand your bad breath?” True as God, I might drop dead from the lethal gasses he just emitted.
“You’re a real comedian.” He takes off his jacket, and the familiar cologne threatens to smother me to death. Funny how just months ago I thought Will was special—my someone special—and here he turned out to be just your garden-variety asshole. It goes to show what a warped lens “love” can add to the equation. Simply remove cupid’s stupid arrow, and ta-da! you have a remarkably lucid relationship forged on the grounds
of consensual and, oddly, legally documented sex.
I glance at Professor Nicholson when the words legal document pop into my brain. Funny she used those very words. Does she know? She couldn’t.
Baya’s lids roll up like shutters. “I just had a brilliant idea!”
“Yeah, so did I.” Will flicks his finger over one of Baya’s sketches. “You let me develop an interactive app that sells this crap globally, and we can shut down this class and split the take.”
“What’s your brilliant idea?” I’m far more interested in what Baya has to say rather than taking in any more toxic emissions spewing from Will’s mouth.
“You may be closer to your Baker’s dozen than you think.” She nods towards Will as if he meant something.
“Baker’s dozen?” I’m half amused. Was I supposed to pick up bagels this morning? Then it hits me. “Oh, that!” I slit a quick glance to William Abercrombie Richie. I guess I did screw him, so technically he qualifies. He could provide some input as far as my graph charts go—of the negative variety. Plus, then, when I sleep with a real man—which I will this Saturday (I’m looking at you, Wyatt James) it will bring up the boys’ average as a whole. Who am I kidding? If that bulge Professor James has been pressing against me on the dance floor is any indication, Wyatt is going to destroy the curve before it really ever takes off.
“Yes, Baya.” I say it mechanically because, for one, we’re speaking in code in front of my idiot ex and I secretly love it. “I think”—I nod my head violently toward said idiot—“would make a grand inclusion to the baker’s dozen.”
“Bake this”—Will pulls out his phone—“I’m about to make both your mouths water when I show you what I have in store for Tits and Twats.”
“Rags to Riches,” Baya corrects.
I can’t even.
“Whatever.” Will proceeds to regale us with talk of coding and the binary number system and something called Cobalt—blah, blah, blah.