Handling Cynthia: A Second Chances Novella (3 page)

"Did I hear my name?" Rick leaned toward her, bumping her shoulder. Trent wanted to punch him in the chest.

"Trent reminded me about the fearsome foursome. I suggested we finally go through with it. You guys could join me in my suite."

Rick looked at him, then back to Cyn. "Straight guys aren't into foursomes that include other guys. In the throes of passion, their parts might accidentally bump up against each other, and they'd have to scrub themselves down with bleach."

"You've thought this through," Trent said.

Rick grabbed Jordan's shoulder. "If we did the fearsome foursome thing—who would you want to hook up with, me or Trent?"

Jordan raised his brows. "Poor Ricky, don't be embarrassed. You don't have to involve Cyn and Trent. You can suck my dick any time you want."

Trent almost did a spit-take, which would have been a terrible waste of scotch. Cyn laughed and grabbed his forearm to steady herself. Her hand traveled upward, stopping at his tricep. Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her against his hip, filling his lungs with her orange-cinnamon scent. She didn't pull away.

Cyn sat on a chair at Chestnut Grove Lanes, a plastic-wrapped package of white socks in one hand and a pair of rented bowling shoes in the other. The fluorescents overhead were a harsh contrast to the muted incandescent light of the hotel. With the canned music playing (was that a polka?), she actually missed the DJ back at the hotel and his repertoire of five-year-old pop.

She slid off her stilettos. "Tell me again why we're doing this?"

"Grudge match." Rick picked up a bowling ball and judged it for weight.

"You say that like it's an explanation."

"The last time we bowled," Bernadette said, "Rick kicked my ass. Now it's payback."

"Are we still fifteen?" Cyn wriggled her feet into the socks, and picked up the bowling shoes again.
Gross
. They were like the old fashioned saddle-style cheerleading shoes she'd had to wear, only uglier and smellier. They'd look ridiculous with her little black dress.

"What is your problem?" Rick asked, in answer to her sardonic comment. His eyes twinkled and a faint smile crossed his lips.

Jordan sat beside her. "Bowling is so provincial."

"Exactly," Cyn said. "I didn't want to say it, but yes."

Jordan put his arm around her. "We prefer polo."

"On Sunday afternoon, while sipping champagne from Baccarat crystal glasses."

"How about beer in a plastic cup?" Trent offered.

"No thank you." She turned to Jordan. "Is it wrong that I like nice things?"

"It's never wrong to be who you are."

"Aw, you're sweet. I would totally make out with you right now if you were straight." In the corner of her eye, Trent smoothed his tie and fingered the end.

She was getting to him. Unless she was reading the signals wrong, Trent was still attracted to her. Time to up the stakes.

She rose and checked out the bowling balls, selecting a black one marbled with purple. "Someone remind me how to play this game."

"You roll the ball down the lane and knock over the pins."

"Thanks, Ricky, that's extraordinarily helpful."

She took Trent's hand and led him to the end of the lane. "Show me. I always throw the ball wrong."

"Okay, give me the ball—"

"No, I mean…" Facing the pins, she stood in front of him and maneuvered his left arm around her waist. "Use your right hand to guide mine."

"Um, yeah. Okay." With his chest to her back, he held on to her right wrist. Her body clenched with desire, and she fought to suppress a shudder. His breath tickled her neck.

"First, you don't throw it. You roll it. In fact, you don't even do that. You swing your arm toward the center mark and release the ball." He guided her arm back and then forward. "Swing and release. Got it?"

"Mm-hmm." She leaned back against him and said in his ear, "Swing and release." His sharp intake of breath accompanied a rising bulge in his pants.

Oh yeah, he still wants me.

It wasn't fair to torture him, to make him hard in public. She cantered her hips away. With his hand still on hers, she aimed the ball and let it roll from her grip.

The ball rumbled over the polished hardwood. With a hollow crack, the pins fell. A seven-ten split.

"Ooh, that's a shame," Rick said.

She turned, Trent's arms falling away, and looked hard into Rick's eyes. "Why is that a shame? I knocked down eight pins."

"Because you won't be able to get the spare."

"I wasn't going to get the spare anyway. I suck at this game." She set her hands on her hips. "And yet you dragged me here—when I could be in a ballroom with hotel quality hors d'oeuvres instead of nacho chips and cheese sauce."

Rick scowled. He walked up and pulled her close. It still felt natural, being cradled in his arms, looking up at those soft brown eyes, the curve of his lips.

The hint of a baby face he'd had when she met him sophomore year was gone now, replaced by high cheekbones and a strong chin. He was taller, his shoulders broader. All man.

"You never complained like this when we were dating," he flirted.

"We're not dating anymore."

He ground his pelvis against hers. "You know you still want it."

The rhythm of his body sent a flush through her, a conditioned response, more habit than desire. Unlike Trent, Rick wasn't hard.

With a giggle, she pulled away. "You're an asshole." She looked into his smiling face, and a longing squeezed her chest. Rick had always made her laugh. Beneath his brash posturing, he was one of the sweetest guys she'd ever known. "I've missed you."

His teasing eyes softened, glistening in the bright light. "You too."

"Enough of the love fest," Bernie called from the next lane over. "Someone fucking bowl."

***

Trent eyed Cyn, unsure what to make of her. When she had pressed her ass against his dick that way—she had to know what she was doing. She
had
to feel him getting hard. But it seemed like she was flirting with Rick and Jordan too, so he shouldn't make anything of it, right?

Cyn was no tease. Jordan was safe, and Rick—well, she wasn't taking any shit from him, when she'd always been docile as his girlfriend. He liked this side of her, spunky and self-confident.

It would make it that much sweeter to see her on her knees.

Damn it, where had that thought come from? Now he couldn't get rid of the image: her kneeling, blindfolded, arms bound behind her, his cock sliding between her lips. He could hear her sweet moans as he pushed into her throat, as if they were real.

Now he was sporting wood in earnest. He looked over at Bernie, scolding Max for dripping the unnaturally orange nacho cheese onto the tabletop. Wow, that cooled him down. Bernie was beautiful—and let's face it, a great lay—but the aggressiveness in her that he'd disliked in high school had grown with time. She bossed Max around, and he  took it. Why? A guy with that kind of money could have any woman he wanted.

"You're up," Rick called to him.

He picked up the borrowed ball from the console. It felt off in his hands, as if the weight wasn't balanced. Probably his imagination, since he was used to his own ball. He threw a strike, followed quickly by another. He nodded and pumped his fist.

He turned to see Cyn's mouth hanging open. "When did you get that good?"

"I've always been that good, sweetheart. You never gave me a chance."

Jordan laughed, a happy, easy, comfortable sound, like they were kids again.

Cyn strolled up to Trent, the bowling shoes looking ridiculous on her feet but the rest of her body perfection. Narrow waist and gentle curves of hips. She stood in front of him, so close that the points of her nipples nearly touched his chest. "I'm back now," she said in his ear. "Time for second chances."

He swallowed. It felt like she was flirting, her body near enough to grab and hold. But not here—Rick would be on top of him if he manhandled Cyn.

And that's exactly what he wanted to do. To be rough with her while she moaned with pleasure. But what if he'd read her wrong? He couldn't assume she was a submissive based on one kiss five years ago.

And if she was, what then? It was all he could do to contain his lust, even here. How would he maintain control if he got her alone? She brought out something primal in him. A Dom's first responsibility was the safety of his sub, but he wasn't sure he could keep her safe from his own dark desires.

If he hurt her…the cheap beer in his stomach swirled with the acid until he thought he might puke. At the same time, his need for her drained the blood from his brain and sent it surging to all the wrong places, leaving him dizzy. He wanted to strip her bare, tie her up, spill his cum down her throat. She'd be beautiful with ropes pressed into her ivory skin.

He pushed the fantasy from his mind.
Never gonna happen.
Hell, he'd be lucky to see her again after this weekend. Five years it had taken her to come back. This wasn't her hometown, and she'd never felt comfortable here. Her folks lived in Connecticut now.

He clenched his jaw against the voice in his head, the one telling him not to blow this chance.
She could be yours.
But did he dare risk it?

He was letting his desire get in the way of his judgment, like he had when they were teenagers. That night at the party, when he had kissed her…it had been a stupid thing to do. She was coming off a breakup. No wonder she ran away. It was too much. And now, after five years, he was having these crazy fantasies about her, and acting like maybe she'd go along. Even if she was a submissive—they barely knew each other anymore. She probably wouldn't trust him enough to give herself to him that way.

And if she
wasn't
a submissive, she'd think he was a monster. Like Emily had. After two years together, he had trusted her with his darkest secret, and she'd rejected him.

Rick brushed by and bowled two quick frames, getting the spare. Cyn was up again. She shook her ass as she walked past.

I will lose my fucking mind if I don't get out of here.

Cyn bowled two intentional gutter balls, apparently with the goal of pissing Rick off—at which she succeeded, if the volume of his swearing was any indication. She sat beside Trent and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

"It's weird," he said, "like a time warp. Being a teenager sucked. I didn't need a reminder of that. You're the only reason I came to this stupid reunion."

"You're the only reason I came, too."

His spine lengthened, and a thrill rose from his stomach to his heart. "Cyn." He breathed her name as if it were a talisman.

She took his hand and squeezed it, a smile spreading over her face.

"You're up, Trent." Jordan's voice broke the spell. Trent stood and bowled the next two frames. By the time he was done, Cyn was talking with Rick again, his arm around her shoulders.

***

Cyn got up to bowl the final frame, swaying her hips for Trent's benefit as she walked. She was past caring whether she knocked any pins down, so when she bowled a score of three between the two frames, she was happy. It was time to go.

She made a pit stop in the ladies’ room. As she stepped back into the hallway, Max was coming out of the men's room, and she had to stop short to keep from running into him. "Oops." She giggled, a high-pitched nervous sound.

Max smiled and grabbed her arm. "It's okay. Have I mentioned how great that dress looks on you?"

"Thanks. I feel better now that I'm out of those dumb bowling shoes."

"Don't be self-conscious. You're a beautiful person, Cyn. I think you and Jordan are the only ones who didn't make fun of me in high school."

"There was nothing to make fun of. You were a late bloomer, that's all. But boy, did you bloom. That spread in GQ was…impressive."

He beamed, a faint blush on his cheeks. He looked so different now, but that open expression was the same ingenuous one he wore all through high school—like a kid with no pretensions, as if he were the source of the joke and not the butt of it.

"I've got a personal trainer," he said, modest as always. "Otherwise, I'd never make time to work out. You know how it is. When you're creative, you want to spend all your time doing that."

"When I'm writing, I lose track of time. I have every intention of working out, but I look at the clock and it's two in the morning. Fortunately, I forget to eat, too."

He chuckled. "I read your debut. It's awesome."

Her ears grew hot. "Um, thanks, I'm glad you liked it." Her voice came out thin and soft, like dandelion down floating on the breeze.

"It seemed authentic. The BDSM, I mean. You must have done a lot of research."

"Yeah, I did, I…"

He laid his hand on hers. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I'm in the lifestyle."

She let out a breath. "I kind of figured. Are you and Bernie together?"

"Not yet, but I'm hoping to change that." He squeezed her hand. "How about you? Are you involved with anyone?"

"I've been afraid to experiment, you know? I'm not looking for someone to play with. I want a relationship. If I go to a club, what will I have to choose from? Established Doms who've been through tons of subs, or newbies who might think BDSM is a synonym for abuse."

He took out a business card and handed it to her. "I can introduce you to some people, if you like. Or if you ever want to talk, get some advice."

"Max, I can't bother you. You've got a business to run."

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. "I'm not too busy for you."

Tension drained from her shoulders. "Thank you. I've never been able to talk with anyone about this, except online."

"Go to a munch. People in the lifestyle accept you for who you are. You don't have to be embarrassed. This is our normal."

Normal
. She let that word embrace her like a warm bath. She hadn't felt normal for a long time—maybe ever. High school had been a confusing mess, trying to do the right thing, never knowing how people would react to her. People wanted to get to know her because her family had money. But she'd had hardly any friends, people she could confide in. The only person she could be truly honest with was Jordan. The girls were jealous of her, and the guys wanted to fuck her. Jordan just wanted to be her friend.