The Firefly Effect (3 page)

Do I turn around and leave and come back later? Do I go outside and ring the doorbell of my own house, introduce myself, pretend that I've just now arrived?

Or do I listen to the little devil on my shoulder and take a chance?

There's really no question. After all, this is way too good an opportunity to pass up. What’s the good of catching Felony Melanie in a compromising situation if I can’t use it to pick on her a little?

This may earn me a black eye but it’s worth the risk.

Quietly, very carefully, I take a step forward and lower myself beside her.

~ Chapter Three ~

I was having the loveliest dream.

And I think maybe I still am, because even before my drowsy eyelids flutter open, I know that he’s here. The faceless man from my dreams. I can feel the heavy scratch of denim as his jeans press against my hip, and there’s a slight shift as he scoots his way closer. I release a sigh of disappointment, knowing that when I open my eyes the illusion will vanish.

Because that’s the way dreams are. Just when things are getting good, you either wake up or the entire scene suddenly changes without warning. One minute you’re in the throes of passion with Thor, the next you’re stuck in quicksand in the middle of a creepy parking lot while a sock monkey driving a Zamboni tries to run you down.

Makes you wonder whether your brain’s even wired up right if that’s the kind of random shit your subconscious comes up with.

Reluctantly, I blink several times, and there he is.

No longer faceless.

Perched on the edge of the sofa beside me, strange but somehow familiar, the striking man with the flowing hair looks down at me with an almost amused expression. My first thought is that he resembles a rock star from a music video. I’ve never seen a man with hair like that, except on TV. It’s long and sleek and brown, the color of shiny burnished wood, and gives him an aura of raw sensuality and general badassery.

Wow, if I came up with this one all on my own then I have to give my imagination a round of applause. Put in the simplest of terms, he’s
hot
. An attractively sculpted face with a faint shadow of scruff, bottomless dark eyes, a slender body that’s just buff enough to flaunt his masculinity without being pretentious. The tiniest little scar above one eyebrow is the only visible imperfection, and even that trivial flaw I find endearing somehow. If I touch it, will he disappear?

I watch him expectantly, waiting for him to speak or fade away into the shadows. But he doesn’t do either. Instead he rakes his eyes down the length of my body, then leisurely draws them back up to my face. His only reaction is the nearly imperceptible curve of one corner of his mouth.

Still, he says nothing.

I sense that I haven’t been asleep for long, barely long enough to dream, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from the intruder to check the maritime clock on the wall.

Trapped in the nebulous twilight between sleeping and waking, it doesn’t even occur to me to panic. Or maybe it’s the wine. I don’t know, I’m still trying to process what’s happening. Am I really awake? Or is this just the most vivid dream I’ve ever experienced? And didn’t I lock the front door? I thought I did. What the fuck
is
this? Men don’t just wander into random houses so they can sit and watch women sleep. Do they?

Then I remember my state of undress. Oh, shit – no wonder he’s looking at me that way. Like he wants to devour me alive.

And at the exact same time, I also realize that I’m definitely not dreaming. Because it just struck me where I’ve seen this guy before. The photo on the dresser of the bedroom I’ve been occupying. He isn’t a burglar or some weirdo off the street or even a figment of my sleepy imagination. He’s Leah’s brother, what’s-his-name. Butthead.

I have to say, somehow this was not at all what I expected from someone with a nickname like that.

This explains it, though. Why he looks familiar. But what’s he doing here?

And why doesn’t he
say
something?

I can feel his eyes on me, holding me motionless in their inky depths. My traitorous nipples pucker and stiffen in response to his fixed appraisal. I press my thighs tightly together, knowing the rest of my body will be just as anxious to betray me. I should say something, confirm his identity, ask him why he’s here,
something
, but I seem to have been struck dumb. Or maybe I don’t want him to say anything. Oddly, I have to admit that I am reluctant to have this strange spell broken.

From the soft glow of the television, Amy Lee sings to us of paper flowers.

So far his hands have been out of my line of vision, but now one reaches up to casually undo the first button of a shirt that’s the same charcoal color as his eyes. The situation is becoming very real, very fast, and he doesn’t miss the sharp intake of my breath.

He pauses and tilts his head slightly, waiting for me to protest. When I don’t, he calmly continues, his long fingers moving in a way that’s surprisingly fluid. Who knew fingers could be sexy? I watch them, fascinated, until all the buttons are undone and the shirt slips quietly to the floor.

He stands.

Feral heat surges through me and I bite my lower lip. Beneath his faded jeans, I can already see the bulging outline of his erection. Am I really about to do this? It’s like I’m playing a part in a movie, only I haven’t been given the script. I’ve never been a reckless person – if anything, I’ve become way too reserved – but here I am, about to have sex with a total stranger.

And I want this.

Oh sweet Jesus, how I want this.

Consequences be damned.

He kicks off his shoes and slides the jeans down his legs, taking his black jockeys with them, and my breath quickens as the most intimate part of him springs free.
Jackpot
is the first thing that runs through my mind, the second being that it's weird how comfortable I feel with this person I've never met before. I don't even know him, yet I trust him. I'm not afraid. It's as if I've been waiting for him forever.

Again, that could very well be attributed to the wine. I've always been a lightweight.

Hesitating, he reaches back down for his jeans and digs a leather wallet out of the back pocket, fumbling through it for a condom. That's a relief – now I don't have to think of a tactful way to bring up the subject of protection. Leaning over me, he tucks it under the couch pillow beneath my head. His eyes meet mine as he does, and a whisper of a smile touches his lips. He's so close I catch a whiff of the subtle, woodsy scent of his cologne. I want to breathe this man instead of air, he smells so good.

I wrap my arms around him, touching him at last, sliding my fingers through the silken strands that are as soft as they look. Then he's on top of me, and a tongue that tastes faintly of wintergreen is gently exploring my mouth while I grind shamelessly against him. His body is hard but smooth, all muscles and tendons and virile masculinity. I haven’t felt the touch of a man in so long. My God, I didn’t realize until now how much I needed it.

I don’t think of later. Later may never exist. Right now is all that’s real, all that matters, and right now I am drowning in an ecstasy that’s far too intense to deny.

He slowly trails kisses down my collarbone to my breasts, paying gentle homage to first one and then the other, his mouth warm and wet and skillful. I arch my back against the sensation, trying but failing to suppress a moan. I've never been so turned on in my life, never been overpowered by such pure, unadulterated lust. The impulsiveness of what I’m doing feeds my passion, spreading it until I’m burning and aching with a wild desperation.

I shiver as he flicks his tongue across one of my nipples playfully, but if he could read my mind he would know that I don't want tender kisses. I don't want soft caresses. I don't even want foreplay. I want this beautiful living dream buried deep inside me, pounding me hard until I scream his name to the night.

Only his name is something I still don’t know.

~ Chapter Four ~

I seriously should’ve picked up a lottery ticket today.

I’ve never, and I mean
never
, been this lucky before in my life.

The question is, does she recognize me? I can’t imagine her being this receptive if that was the case. Melanie Lane has always hated me with a passion. I was never exactly fond of her either, though to be honest in my case it was secretly something of a love/hate conflict. I’d never given a flying fuck what anyone else thought of me, but with her it was different. I don’t know why, but her scathing insults cut me. The words stuck to me, festering in my memory long after they were spit in my direction.

Not that I was ever nice to her. In fact, sometimes I was downright mean. But then, she never gave me one single reason to play nice. She acted as if I was something to be scraped off the bottom of her shoe. Inconsequential. Stupid. Twenty thousand leagues beneath her.

And yet I was constantly drawn back to this girl. I couldn’t leave her alone.

Inevitably, she despised me for it.

So why, when she opened her sleepy hazel eyes, did she look at me that way? Practically undressing me with her eyes. She acted as if she was not only expecting me, but glad to see me. How does that make sense? I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here, not even Leah.

I’m not sure what to make of this. Her reaction was the last thing I would have expected. I thought for sure she’d freak out when she saw me. And when I started taking my clothes off? I was waiting for her to slap me. Toss me out on my ass. Threaten to call the cops. Or at the very least, ask me what the fuck I thought I was doing.

Apparently, however, little Felony Melanie has grown into one wild and unpredictable woman.

My God, but she’s beautiful. Even prettier than I remember. So soft and curvy and irresistibly sexy.

When I kiss her she responds enthusiastically, adding more fuel to my ardor. I've fantasized about this so many times. She never knew, of course. I’d have twisted my own balls off before admitting that shit to anyone. I hated that I wanted her. Sometimes, I even hated her.

But the past is the past, and right now she tastes so good I could lick her all over. Which, come to think of it, isn't the worst idea I've ever had. I love the way she smells, kind of an exotic blend of Hawaiian Tropic, vanilla and salty beach air.

She moans softly, thrusting her hips in an effort to grind that smooth little pussy against my cock and it’s all I can do to keep from blasting my load all over her. Holy
shit
...what's gotten into this girl? She's on fire. I have no idea what's up with that, but I do know I won’t last long at this rate.

Trying to distract myself, I lift my head to kiss her again and notice that her lips taste faintly of alcohol. Yeah, there’s the empty wine glass right there on the coffee table. How many has she had? Fuck it all, I shouldn’t be doing this. Not if she’s been drinking.

Naturally I ignore my killjoy of a conscience and instead focus my attention on her gorgeous tits. So round and soft and creamy...just the way I always envisioned them. I used to try and sneak covert looks down her shirt whenever I got the chance, but I never had much luck. And now...