Текст книги "After Tonight "

Автор книги: Annie Kelly

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Taking the plunge into writing romance was almost as natural as breathing. That being said, I never could have done it without many, many people.

First, to the readers and bloggers and lovers of books—I owe you all big hugs and baked goods. You are the best people to have in my corner.

Suzie Townsend. Agent. Czar of Reading. General Badass. I’m more than indebted. You’re the biggest reason I get to keep living this crazy writing life.

My editor, Christina Brower, and everyone at InterMix. Finding people who loved Cyn and Smith the way I do was more than just gratifying, it was humbling.

My writing community, including but not limited to The Lucky 13s, the Binder of YA Writers, and the Pub Hub blog. To Dahlia Adler—man, you’re a rock star and a wonderful friend. Thank you for your support—you really help keep me sane.

My family, especially my parents—thank you for understanding why I get quiet and why I leave the room so much. Sometimes the characters are just too loud to ignore.

My girls—Katie and Carly—who were almost as excited about my writing in this genre as I was. I love them for their support and even more for their everlasting acceptance. They stand behind me in an unfailing way and they’ve taught me what true friendship really is.

My son, Max, whose life is best thing I’ve ever been a part of. Getting to say I’m your mommy is far, far cooler than getting to say anything else.

And, in all ways, this book is for Josh. Our love story makes it possible for me to write about the love stories of others. All of me loves all of you.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Annie Kelly’s scorching hot Flirting with Trouble series.

UNTIL TOMORROW

Available from InterMix March 2016

Six months ago

The music is louder. The lights are brighter. My whole world is spinning and that’s exactly how I like it. I’ve been waiting for Friday night all week, but it feels like it’s been a month. Maybe longer. I’ve had graduate school exams for the last three days straight and I’m basically tutoring full-time now. I’m beyond exhausted, but the bump of coke I did in the car has made everything seem a little more possible. And all I want to do is dance.

The faces around me are a bit blurry, but I can tell that my dance partner is at least somewhat hot. Hot enough to take home for a night, anyway. Not quite hot enough to tell my real name to.

I grind up against his thigh and he puts a hand on each of my hips, flexing his fingers in a way that pinches deliciously. God, I’ve missed this. All I want is this—a night of complete and utter intoxication, where I can feel the rush of the night and the slight bite of pain. I can forget about school, about tests, about student teaching. I can forget my every-present anxiety and the panic in favor of feeling anything but anxious. I think they call this feeling “free.”

“God, you’re fucking sexy,” the guy I don’t know murmurs into my ear.

The music is loud but his face is so close to mine that I can hear him clearly—as clearly as I can smell the liquor on his breath mingling with a dose of Axe body spray. At any other time, it would be noxious and overbearing. Right now, it’s just right.

Everything here is just right. And I don’t have to think about tomorrow.

Over my dance partner’s shoulder, I glance up at the band. I don’t know if I’ve seen them here before, but they’re good. The lead singer, a muscular black guy with a shaved head and quarter-sized plugs in each ear, is clearly closer to professional than amateur. He’s got a wailing voice that’s both raspy and melodic, so much so that he practically drowns out the other instruments.

Well, all except the drums—or, at least, the drummer.

I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the drummer’s face. He’s beautiful—his brown eyes are wide and flash with energy as he holds the backbeat, then breaks into a cymbal-heavy solo. I lock my gaze on him and flip around, tucking my ass up against my new friend and grinding back against his already hard cock. His grip on my hips tightens and I relish that bruise-worthy pressure. All I can see is the drummer. All I can feel is my arousal.

And we dance. Or, at the very least, move against each other like there’s no such thing as clothes or propriety. The first song fades into the next and the next. I don’t know if the drummer sees me—in fact, I’m sure he doesn’t, not with the bright spotlights blinding his vision. But fuck if I care. In my mind, he’s behind me, pressing against me and sliding his hands over my skin. I feel fingertips scale my arm from wrist to shoulder, then tuck inside the strap of my tank top and bra. The fingers move down over the slope of my breast until they meet my nipple and I gasp when he pinches.

The pain always makes it ten times hotter.

The drummer is going wild now, his body bent practically parallel to the kit. His arms and torso are cut and tan, glistening with sweat from his exertion.

I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so bad in my life.

“I gotta get you home, baby,” the guy behind me whispers. “I can’t wait to peel you outta these fucking clothes and get my hands all over your body.”

I swallow, still watching the drummer play his set. God, there are more tattoos on his arms than unmarked skin. I lick my lips, then glance back at the man behind me. My vision is starting to clear. He’s not unattractive or unappealing—he just isn’t the drummer. And that’s the only person I can imagine screwing tonight.

“Let me run to the ladies room first,” I say into his ear, then give him a winning smile before sashaying off the dance floor.

I know what I need to get me back in the mood—or at least, to allow me to find enough of it to transfer my desire to the man I’ve been humping on the dance floor rather than the one I’ve been watching all night. I teeter a bit on my lace-up boots and run a hand over the back of my neck. I’m sweating and I’m not exactly sure why. I need something to balance out the lust in my system, not to mention the martinis from earlier. Just one more bump—maybe a line? I’ll be good to go. I’ll be ready for anything. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up tomorrow with a clean slate and an empty memory—just like last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

I turn the corner and slam right into two people who clearly couldn’t wait for home or a bed or even the backseat of a car. The girl is straddling the guy and he’s hoisting her up around his waist, both hands grasping her ass beneath a tight black skirt. I blink and start to mutter an apology when I realize who exactly I just ran into.

“Dude, Lennon. What the fuck?” I narrow my eyes at my brother, who pulls his mouth away from the woman’s neck long enough to smirk at me.

“Sup, sis. How goes it?”

I cock a brow at him. “Couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a storage closet?”

The girl giggles and Lennon shrugs. “Why bother?”

I shake my head, then motion to the restrooms at the other side of the bar. “I’m gonna hit the ladies and get outta here. You can get a ride?”

Lennon’s blue eyes dart at his lady friend, then back at me.

“Yeah. I can guaran-fucking-tee there’ll be some riding.”

My lip curls involuntarily. “Gross. Well, make good choices.”

I brush past them and hurry closer to the bathroom. My high is wearing off too quickly and my good humor is fading fast. There’s nothing like being sober to remind me that my older brother is a womanizing fuck-up who still lives at home with our parents and who asked me for a ride to the bar tonight. Again.

Once I’m inside a stall, though? Yeah, it’s easier to forget.

I dip my nail into the tiny brown vial I had stashed in my jacket pocket and take the bump like a champ. I breathe deep and wait for the shimmer of a delicious high as it travels through my body.

It takes less than five minutes. In the meantime, I focus on the sounds from outside. The band has stopped playing, replaced this time by the pumping bass of a DJ’s set. There’s a loud crash and some yelling, but I’m too far gone to even consider what the commotion could be. When the coke hits my system, it hits hard—like a freight train of pleasure. It’s better than sex—at least, any sex I’ve had lately.

After a few more minutes—Two? Four? Twenty-four?—I manage to get back to my feet and stumble out of the stall. I glance up at the mirror. The streak of deep blue in my hair always surprises me when I see it—I added it to my spiky pixie cut last week, but I’ve gotten used to the jet black I’ve been dying it for years. Below the hair, my eyes look glassy, their pale grey framed by slightly smeared navy liner. Everything about me feels a little less than perfect lately.

Fuck if I care.

I readjust my tight black tank top and smooth a hand over my bared midriff. My belly ring winks at me in the mirror. I wink back, then giggle as I move toward the door.

I’m still laughing when I exit the bathroom—and slam right into a very strong, very muscular body to my right.

“Fuck—sorry. Apparently I’m just going to run into shit all over the place tonight.”

I glance up and then freeze.

It’s the drummer.

He’s even hotter up close. Like, literally and figuratively—he’s sweating enough that his grey t-shirt appears almost black. In this dim light, his eyes are about the same color. I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry.

The drummer, though, seems like he couldn’t be less interested in me right now. He’s huffing and puffing and rubbing his right fist with left hand. When I look a little closer, I can see his knuckles are bleeding.

“Hey, are you okay?”

I begin to reach out to touch him, but he shakes his head, then stalks past me into the men’s room.

For an irrational second, I consider following him. Consider walking into the men’s room and standing before him, giving him a look that he just knows means “take me now.” He’ll push me up against the porcelain sink and yank down my pants. He’ll realize I’m not wearing panties and it will thrill him. Then, he’ll enter me from behind with a force that’s beyond nature. He’ll grab my hair and make me look at myself in the mirror as he fucks me again and again and again . . .

I fall back against the wall behind me and swallow hard. If this coke is gonna give me visions of sweaty sex with strange drummers, maybe I should start using it more often. I consider my current options.

I could go find the guy I was dancing with and get him to take me home.

I could go drag my brother away from his blow-up doll and force him to come home before he gets himself in trouble.

Or I could head straight for the men’s room and never look back.

But then, the drummer comes barreling back out of the bathroom and stops a few feet from me. This time, he has a towel wrapped around his injured hand, but he’s wearing a different kind of fierceness as he looks right into my face.

“Hey—you know Lennon Tucker, right?”

I lick my lips, then nod. “He’s—uh—my brother. He—he’s around here somewhere. Last time I saw him, he had his tongue down some blonde chick’s throat . . .”

I trail off as the drummer’s eyes scan me from head to toe, and this time the fierceness in his face has changed. Evolved. It’s more like lust and I can smell it from a mile away.

“Lennon’s your brother?”

I nod again, sort of stupidly, watching as the drummer stalks a little closer. His eyes are almost glassy in their focus, like he’s seeing all of me and right through me, all at the same time.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asks then, his voice raspy and thick.

I bite my bottom lip and his eyes flash with heat.

“Carson,” I say slowly, savoring the approval that crosses his face. He leans in even further until we’re practically nose-to-nose.

“So, tell me something, Carson.”

“Sure.”

“What would you say if I said I wanted to fuck you?” he asks.

I blink at him.

“Um, what?”

“I said,” he says, his words even and measured, “that I want to fuck you. And I want to know if you’d like to fuck me.”

Wow. Direct. I like that. Especially when I can’t seem to find any words. I open my mouth, then close it. Instead, I lick my lips again.

He takes that to mean yes.

The drummer’s lips come crashing down onto mine. He is anything but gentle. He’s as brutal and as fierce as his expression, as his music. He maneuvers my mouth open with his, then plunges his tongue inside. I’m pinned up against the wall with his body. My back bows and I press my breasts into his chest, feeling my nipples pebble against the pressure of him.

“You know what I’d like to do with you, Carson?” He murmurs against my mouth.

I can only whimper as he dives back in, licking my lips and tongue like a treat he’s been hungering for years. He grabs my ass hard, squeezing a handful of my flesh for good measure, then lets that same hand coast up my body to the nape of my neck. And there he anchors his fingers in my hair and tugs it. Hard. My head tips back involuntarily and I groan with the pleasure of it.

I’ve never had it like this—this rough. This passionate. It’s the opposite of drunken fumbling. It’s the opposite of my average Friday night.

“I’d like to take you home with me,” he’s saying now in my ear, his tongue and teeth coasting over my lobe. “I’d like to bend you over my kitchen table and fuck you nice and hard and deep. Would you like that, baby?”

I don’t know if it’s the drugs or the dirty talk, but I’m legitimately losing feeling in my lower half. At least until I feel his free hand move from my waist to hover just above the fly of my jeans.

“Then I’d take you to the bed and tie you down tight. I’d get my mouth all over your tits and your skin and your sweet, sweet pussy. I’d lick you until you went crazy. I’d eat you from the inside out.”

The moan that comes from my mouth is far more animal than human. I feel myself pressing my body, my belly and my core, up toward his hovering hand. He chuckles a bit, then lets it fall right between my legs. Right where I want it.

“Please,” I whimper.

“Oh, I like hearing you beg,” he growls in my ear, then coasts his tongue down my neck to my collarbone. I’ve got my hands in his hair now and I’m surfing the wave of my high like it’s some kind of sporting event. This beautiful man who plays the drums like a god is now playing my body in precisely the same way. I don’t protest when he lifts his hand, only to plunge it down under my jeans. When his fingers hit my wetness, I’m done for and I know it. I’m keening and he’s got one finger inside me while another strokes my clit with a maddening rhythm.

The drummer lets me ride out a swell before pulling his hand out of my pants. He’s got a wicked glint in his eye and I watch as he puts his fingers in his mouth and sucks.

“Sugary sweet, baby. I shoulda known.”

I reach for his shoulders—maybe for balance, maybe to make him stay and he’s got his hands at my waist when a guy with dark hair comes barreling into the corridor. He stops short when he sees us, looking from the drummer to me and back again.

“Yo, dude, we gotta get outta here. Zeb’s gonna get behind the wheel and someone’s gotta stop that shit.”

The drummer glances at me, then curses softly.

“Fucking lead singers—they’re always the biggest drama queens.”

The guy guffaws. “Dude, you should talk—you fucking laid that guy out back there. Zeb just finished him off, then finished off a bottle of Jaeger. The least you can do is drive him home.”

I rock back on my heels and let go of the drummer’s body, immediately missing the sensation under my hands.

“Go take care of your friend,” I say. He gives a curt nod, then leans forward to claim my mouth again in a brutal kiss.

“You’re a firecracker, Carson,” he whispers against my mouth. “Don’t think I’ll forget the way you taste.”

And then he’s gone.

I practically collapse against the wall behind me, blinking. It feels almost like a dream, save the fact that my pants are unbuttoned and my body’s strung so tight, I could come again at any moment. Slowly, I turn around and head back to the dance floor. This time, the music isn’t half as good, but I start swaying to it anyway.

I think of the drummer again—the intensity he exhibited playing his set, the heat emanating from his body when he kissed me, the lightning in his eyes as he stroked me, and the desire that’s roaring through me like a freight train now. I wonder if I’ll remember any of this tomorrow.

For the first time in a long time, I actually hope I do.

Annie Kelly is the pen name for writer Kelly Fiore. After graduating from Salisbury University with a BA in English, Kelly went on to get her MFA in poetry from West Virginia University. When she’s not writing romance, Kelly loves cooking, rocking out to ’80s hair metal, and spending time with her son.

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