SHIVER: 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror (64 page)

I was surprised to find that his teeth were clenched, his eyes flashing; however, despite the fact that he’d just reprimanded me for how I was looking at him, Beau was giving me an extremely hot look. Regardless of his words and the fact that he’d been the one to end our frantic grope-fest, he appeared torn. He appeared to be struggling.

He appeared to want me very, very badly.

I stared at him mystified as this realization paired with the reality of the last twenty minutes caught up with the here and now. He was watching me as I was watching him. My stare was undoubtedly one of inviting and anxious expectation; whereas his glare oscillated between blatant desire peppered heavily with longing and then fierce frustration.

I waited silently, witnessed his resolve waver, his eyes lose focus as they moved beseechingly between mine. He was still breathing hard.

He took a step forward as though he were pulled, stumbling in a daze, had no choice; words tumbled from his lips in a rush, “Jessica, I’m not who you think I am and—fuck me—but I want you, I’ve always wanted you, and I can’t do this without you knowing—”

“Duane, you dummy. Are you back here?” A man called from my left, and I heard the telltale sound of boots on steps.

My eyes bulged. My jaw dropped. My breath caught in my throat. And my head whipped to the side and toward the newcomer.

It wasn’t that I feared getting caught in a heated moment, not at all. The cause of my intense shock was the sound of the approaching voice.

It was Beau’s voice.

The steps slowed, then stopped, Beau once more calling out to us, “Should I… uh, do you need some privacy?”

My body jolted as understanding punched me in the stomach. I turned my attention back to the man of my dreams.

Except he wasn’t.

My companion was most definitely
not
Beau Winston—hero, world’s sexiest, nicest guy. No, no, no. This man was not Beau. This man was Duane. And this man had just done fantastic things to my nipples.

As soon as our eyes tangled, Duane winced—almost like I’d sucker punched him—and he turned away. I watched his chest rise and fall with an expansive breath just before he reached for his shirt and pulled it on.

He cleared his throat then called out, “Yeah, a little privacy would be nice.”

“Who’s back there with you? Is it Tina?” Beau’s deep, velvety chuckle met my ears, and my stomach twisted painfully.

I felt like I was going to be sick. My eyes drifted shut, the back of my head hitting the wall behind me. My chest seized. I was so stupid. I wished for a black hole to open up under my feet and swallow me, send me to the other side of the universe.

“None of your business, asshole. Go away,” Duane answered his twin; his voice sounded thick, gravely, and I felt his eyes on me though mine remained firmly closed.

“Alright, alright. Fine. Tell Tina I say hi, but we’re leaving for Bandit Lake in twenty minutes.” Beau's response was paired with the sound of boots descending the stairs.

The first notes of a new song played between my ears; Radiohead’s
Creep.
Ice entered my veins even as a mortified flush spread up my neck, over my cheeks to the top of my head. Gritting my teeth, I opened my eyes and glared at Duane Winston.

If he thought I’d been giving him hot looks before, then my look now was the polar opposite. It was the equivalent of midnight at the arctic pole during the winter solstice.

His hands were on his hips, and I watched him slowly nibble on his bottom lip, like he was tasting it, like he was tasting me. His eyes were on the floor of the stage, his breath beginning to even, though not yet completely normalized.

I’d never wanted to stab and/or maim someone so much in all my life, therefore I was not surprised when I said the words I was thinking.

“You are such a bastard.”

His eyes lifted then, glittering sapphires that held just a whisper of bitter amusement buried under another hot look.

“Now she speaks,” he said flatly.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Now you speak.” He raged, accused, sounding so different to my ears. Instead of the friendly and adorable Beau, I heard Duane. Sarcastic, sullen, snappish Duane. “This whole time, since I walked over to you and Claire, you haven’t said a single word. Not when I take you away from your friend, not when I pull you through the cafeteria, not when I bring you here, not when I’ve got my hand in your panties and your tits in my mouth. But now, miraculously you find your voice.”

God, how I loathed him.

“You are
such
a
bastard
!” I repeated, louder and a little more violently this time as I pointedly tried to ignore the confusing, swirling, humming desire that still twisted in my belly. I used the lingering passion to fuel my anger.

“Nice to see you again, Jess. I admit, you’ve filled out very nicely,” his eyes blazed a path from my strappy sandals to my breasts, “but you’re just as bratty as ever.”

I charged forward and pushed against his chest. “You lying asshat! I thought you were Beau!”

Before I could claw his eyes out, Duane caught my wrists and walked me backward, against the wall, holding my arms hostage over my head; his body trapped me, keeping me in place. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he deftly sidestepped and pressed his legs against mine to keep them immobile.

“Ah, there now, Princess, we’ll have none of that.”

This unfortunate position meant that his impressive erection was digging into my abdomen and my breasts were flattened against his chest. Again, confusing, swirling, humming desire ignited, and I clenched my jaw to keep from rubbing my torso along his. Our eyes locked. His look was still hot but now tempered with something else, something that felt like contempt flavored with bitterness.

“I hope you wander into a hornets’ nest and die of an acetylcholine overdose,” I spat.

“You say the prettiest things.”

“Let me go!”

“Not until you calm down.” These words arrived sounding exceedingly reasonable.

“Calm down? Calm down!?” I bellowed because I’d never been so angry in my entire life. I didn’t know how I was going to calm down. I might never calm down. I might spend the rest of my life as the five foot six, blonde, female version of the Incredible Hulk. I wanted to smash everything, starting with Duane Winston.

“Yes. Calm down.”

“I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN!” I shouted in his face.

“THEN WE’LL STAND HERE FOREVER!” he shouted in my face.

I glared at him. He glared back. A storm of feelings whirled around and between us. I despised him, yet some nonsensical—obviously mentally-ill—part of myself desperately wanted him to kiss me again. Kiss me and touch me and pull my hair and bite the softest parts of my body. I wanted his hungry mouth and greedy fingers.

I wanted him.

His eyes flared as he watched me, moved between mine then darted to my lips. I wondered if he could read my thoughts, I wondered if I was still throwing him inadvertent hot looks, I wondered at the unfairness of his eyes. He had such pretty eyes, blue and glittering, mesmerizing… it was a shame they belonged to Satan.

“I hate you,” I spat, feeling confused, defensive, and therefore spiteful.

Duane’s fingers loosened just a smidge where he held me, and his thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. I shivered, and I hated myself for the involuntary response.

He cocked an eyebrow and whispered gently, softly, “I hate you too, Jess. I hate you so very, very much…”

Inexplicably my breathing quickened. Further muddling matters, Duane’s pretty eyes were fastened on my mouth, and his mouth was lowering—inch by excruciating inch—closer to mine. As though pulled, as though our lips were still magnetized, I lifted my chin.

Then, like before, he pulled away. Again I felt the loss of his heat first, but this time I felt like he’d also thrown me off a cliff; I was free falling into nothing, with no one to catch me. As well, his eyes—instead of unfocused with desire—were mocking and hard.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his lips twisted to the side in a derisive sneer. “Did you forget? I’m not Beau.”

I drew myself up, straightened my spine, braced my feet apart, and shot him daggers as I said, “Obviously you’re not Beau. He doesn’t have to lie about who he is in order for me to like him.”

Duane’s flinch was subtle; if I’d blinked, I would have missed it. The muscle at his temple jumped, and his eyes flashed blue fire. He looked like he was going to toss me another insult, so I bent and retrieved my beard, staff, and hat. My cape swirled around my shoulders. I was intent on getting as far away from him as possible, as soon as possible.

“You know what, never mind. Just…just go away, and leave me alone.” I turned, tucking my hat under my arm, and managed three paces toward the curtain before Duane’s hand caught me by the wrist.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I tried to shake him off, but his grip tightened. “I’m leaving.”

“Not that way, you’re not.”

I huffed, still not looking at him. “Why not?”

Without answering me, Duane turned me around then slipped his hand in mine. I promptly planted my feet in place and pulled out my palm out of his grip.

He turned suddenly and charged me, cursing under his breath before spearing me with a menacing glower and barely-restrained fury. “Listen, Princess, my brothers are probably all waiting for me out there. If we leave the way we came in, they’re all going to see us. Together. And that includes Beau. Now do you understand?”

I frowned at him, absorbing his harshly-spoken statement. At length I nodded once, reluctantly realizing that I would have to accept his help in order to avoid an epic walk of shame. “So…how do I get out of here?”

“Follow me.” He moved like he was going to touch my hand again, but I pulled it out of his reach and took a step back. His eyes shot near-incinerating flames at my retreat.

“You don’t need to hold my hand in order for me to follow you.” I crossed my arms over my chest, closed my cape around me, and lifted my chin. “Lead the way…
Duane.
”

His eyes moved between mine, dimming, growing remote and guarded. Inexplicably, my stomach flipped, and I felt oddly remorseful.

After a protracted moment, Duane swallowed, his voice thick and gravelly when he finally said, “Sure thing, Princess.” Then he turned away from me toward some unseen exit, his stride unhurried, languid and confident, and still sexy as hell.

I hesitated for a single second, then followed hesitantly. I couldn’t help but admire his backside, the width of his strong shoulders, how is waist tapered at his hips, how he walked, the curve of his bottom.

I kept thinking about his heavenly kisses, his divine, rough hands on my body, his hot mouth on my skin. I pushed those thoughts away, but they were replaced with the memory of how great he’d felt in my hands—long and smooth and hard and thick—and how close I’d come to having him inside me. I bit my lip to stifle a pitiful groan, feeling out of breath and dizzy from the mere possibility.

Despite how I loathed him, I knew now that riding him would not be like anything I’d ever experienced. He was no Shetland pony. He was a stallion.

And, worst of all, I would have to live my life trying to suppress the memory of Duane Winston doing fantastic things to my nipples.

Cletus Winston took
a step back from my truck and scratched his neck. He looked at me where I hovered anxiously by my open driver’s side door and said, “Catastrophic engine failure.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“Catastrophic engine failure. You have it.”

Feeling abruptly winded, I croaked, “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not good. It’s bad,” he said simply.

I shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Now ten o’clock and bitterly cold outside, I was still dressed as sexy Gandalf. I was sure my nipples were hard as frozen peas and gave my chest a lovely headlight effect. To Cletus’s credit, he didn’t appear to be interested in my nipples.

“What can I do?” I asked, grimacing at the small, desperate quality of my voice. The evening’s events were catching up with me.

After Duane had led me outside from a hidden exit behind the stage, I took off without looking back and re-entered the community center from the front door. Immediately, my brother and father saw me and proceeded to throw disapproving glares at my skimpy costume.

I welcomed the distraction because every part of me missed the feeling of Duane’s hands and mouth. All evening I shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. I tried my best to ignore it.

I’d effectively put off Claire’s pointed questions. I’d excelled at chit chat with my students' parents—despite my ironic costume choice—and I’d successfully avoided seeing both Duane and Beau. Granted, based on what Beau had said about leaving for Bandit Lake, they were probably long gone from the community center well before I tried to leave. Duane was probably off with that girl Beau had mentioned—Trixie or Tami or Bambi or whatever her dumb name was.