Tell Me a Story (The Story Series Book 1) (2 page)

T
he corners
of his mouth lifted and the little half-circle lines near them deepened. He looked away, staring at the man on stage. We stood close for a while, listening—or pretending to listen, in my case, because I could only hear my fast-beating heart—and when the reading was over, Sarah jumped back on stage.

“Time for Story Brothel!” she called out, gleeful. I swore she sometimes thought she was a circus emcee or a carnival barker, not a soon-to-be librarian.

“Let’s find our cabana,” I purred, finishing my drink and setting it on the bar. He’d finished his, too.

He gestured with his palm. “You first.”

With a purposeful sway in my back and a slight shake of my hips, I led him into the lounge and the courtyard. The humid winter Florida air outdoors was like a welcome, warm blanket, soothing to my skin after the harsh air conditioning inside. I located the exact cabana that I wanted. It was next to a giant potted palm tree, with gauzy red curtains draped over a white, square mattress covered in white pillows. The music was softer outdoors, but the beat had changed to a quick rap-Bhangra-Indian mix, mirroring my hyper-sexual mood.

“This okay with you?” I asked, as if it were completely normal to ask a stranger to lounge around on a bed and listen to erotica. My voice was a half-octave higher than usual. This was uncharted territory, reading my smut aloud.

He nodded and smiled, then stepped ahead of me to part the curtain. Trying to be a lady and not hurl myself inside, I sat on the edge and daintily rested my purse near a pillow. I went to slip off my shoes, but he surprised me by kneeling at my feet, then slowly taking them off by putting one firm hand on my calf and another on my heel. An electric current shot up my spine as he grinned, but didn’t look me in the eyes.

Well. A bead of perspiration snaked in between my breasts. My legs were scorching, as if I’d sat too close to a campfire.

“Thanks,” I whispered as he stood. I looked up at him, aware that I was in a submissive pose. If he were to unzip his pants, I wouldn’t have to move far to blow him. He stepped back, just in time to keep me from giggling out of sheer nervousness. This had gone from casual flirtation to scorching tension within minutes. How was I going to make it through reading to him on the lounge bed without flinging myself atop him?

I reminded myself to have some modicum of control while I tucked my feet under my legs, swiveling around so I could scoot back to give him room. I didn’t lie back on the pillows, but instead tucked my bare legs underneath me, as if I were a girl on a picnic in the 1950s.

Be cool. Be calm. Breathe.

He paused, then let the curtain fall. For a moment, I thought he had turned and walked away. Through the near-transparent curtain, I watched him take off his suit jacket and drape it precisely over a nearby chair. When he loosened his tie the rest of the way, stripping it out of his collar and laying that, too, evenly over the chair, I sucked in a sharp breath. I wanted him to keep going.

Instead, he did exactly as I had: sat on the edge and slipped off his shoes, then moved into the cabana. Easing himself slowly onto his back, he rested one ankle over the other, stretched his arms overhead into a diamond, and slid his fingers under the back of his head. His movements felt intimate and familiar, which threw me a little. Almost as if we had done this before. As if it were normal, when it was anything but.

His body looked even bigger and firmer and more delicious stretched out before me, and I imagined straddling him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his belt, leaning to kiss him as he slid his hands up my skirt and squeezed my ass…

“I’m ready,” he said.

“Me too.” I grinned as I pawed around in my bag for my e-reader. I caught a whiff of his scent and paused to savor it again.

“Do you write on your tablet?” he asked when I pushed a button to make the screen flicker.

“No, I write on my computer, then back up everything in the cloud.” I arranged my skirt so that my knees peeked out from under the cotton of my dress and considered whether I should stretch out next to him. Jesus! What was I thinking? I just met this guy. I was normally a flirt, but this was bold even for me. I inhaled deeply and caught his addictive scent again.

“So this story is called
Consume Me
.”

“Wait,” he said, rolling up and resting on the elbow closest to me. His chest was inches from my legs, and I longed to reach out and run my fingertips through his short, silver-accented hair.

He took a phone out of his pocket and put it between us. Then he reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Resting again on his back, he extracted a twenty.

“Ten minutes. Half for charity and half for you,” he said, putting the money between us. I picked it up.

“Thank you. I guess this is kind of like a literary lap dance.” I stuffed the cash in my bag and saw him raise an eyebrow and grin. He looked down at his phone.

“I’m setting the stopwatch. Ten minutes.”

“You’re very precise,” I said.

He glanced up. “It’s one of my strengths. And one of my weaknesses.”

As he settled back, I started to read.

“Speak a little louder,” Caleb interrupted. I complied.

The first few pages of my story weren’t too spicy. It was the setup for the story, about a woman who loved rough sex but was unable to find any man who wanted to act out those kinds of fantasies. My character, Arianna, wasn’t into BDSM or rape scenarios, exactly; she wanted to be manhandled, thrown around, maybe roughed up a bit. It was complicated, and truth be told, I was still playing around with a first draft and wasn’t sure if I’d characterized her correctly or if I was too quick to introduce her to Trent, the hero of the story.

Trent’s philosophy was simple: When he touched a woman, he wasn’t shy or hesitant. He touched women liked he owned them, which meant they always wanted more.

It was heartening to see Caleb laugh in the right places and smile lustily in others. Maybe my story wasn’t as bad as I feared. Every few paragraphs, I’d glance up. Most times, he’d be looking straight to the ceiling of the cabana, almost as if he could see my story unfold on some invisible screen. Other times, he shifted his head toward me, staring with that hungry look.

I loved the hungry look. He undid his cufflinks, taking time to put the sterling silver knot links into his pocket and then slowly rolling up his sleeves to reveal a pair of very muscular forearms. I lost my place and had to start the paragraph over.

Why did all of the men in Arianna’s life have to be so polite? Why did they all treat her like she was a fragile piece of porcelain? She wanted a man to be a man—in bed, mostly. She wanted him to be on top and growl and pin her down. Take her in whatever way he wanted, without asking what she needed because he’d already know. She also wanted a man who took charge out of bed, too. Not too much so he’d dictate her career or her everyday life—she didn’t want that at all. But she craved a man who would hold doors open for her, who would be adventurous and make surprise plans, who would make dinner reservations and not have the same old boring conversations.

Where do you want to eat?

I dunno. Where do you want to eat? Anywhere’s fine with me.

Fuck, she’d had enough of that. Where were the real men who made decisions?

That made Caleb guffaw hard. At that moment, his phone chirped and he tapped it into silence.

“Your time is up, sir,” I said, grinning.

“I liked that a lot. You’ve got a great writing style. Very conversational. I’m actually quite impressed.”

“Were you expecting dreck?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe something more like
Penthouse Forum
? You’re good, though. That was sensual without the sex. Your voice is also perfect for reading aloud. You have a beautiful voice.”

My face was warm from the compliment, and I leaned toward him, hoping to catch his scent again. “Thank you. I didn’t get to the really erotic part, though. What do you normally read?”

“Non-fiction, some history. I like literary fiction, too.”

“Wow. Usually, the guys I meet at these events like one of two things: sci-fi or war stories.”

“I was a creative writing major at the University of Florida.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You were? I was, too.”

“I’m guessing we were a few years apart.” He mentioned his graduation year.

I did the math in my head. As I thought, he was probably seven or eight years older than me. “Do you write?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. Haven’t in years. After graduation, I went to work for my family’s company. I tried writing at night, but after long days in the office, I couldn’t handle both.”

“What do you do?” Normally I hated that question because it seemed so fake. But he’d brought it up, and I wanted to know more about him. And my ears wanted to feast on his voice. It was an addictive baritone buzz, quick in its cadence yet precise when he pronounced individual words.

“Well, I’m now in charge of the Florida state bird. You know, construction cranes?”

“Ah, you’re a builder? Of what?”

He shrugged and undid the second button of his shirt, the one just below the neck. Probably just to make himself more comfortable, but his movement was slow and sensual and I stared, unblinking.

“Condos, commercial jobs, government buildings. We’ve got projects all over, big and small. I recently returned from Brazil because we’re doing a luxury high rise in Sao Paulo. That’s my main project these days.”

So he was as loaded as he looked. I didn’t normally go for rich guys, despite my love of well-dressed men in suits. I merely enjoyed the aesthetic. Somehow, the detail of Caleb’s wealth was the only turn-off so far this evening. Maybe it had something to do with growing up in a central Florida trailer park, but money didn’t impress me. It did intimidate me, though. A lot.

“Nice,” I said, unable to think of anything else to say.

His hand rested on his phone, and I watched, fascinated, as his index finger slowly stroked its glass screen in a circular motion.

“Emma, I want to hear more of your story.”

The way he quietly spoke my name sent a little ripple of pleasure through me. Still, I didn’t want to get into my background. “Um, I’m from a county just west of here—”

He laughed and interrupted. “No, I meant your fiction. But I’d like to hear about you, too. I actually can’t decide which I’d like to hear more: your fictional story or your real one.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled. This was the very definition of backing myself into a corner. I didn’t particularly want to talk about myself because I didn’t like to share details of my life or my past. And I’d ended my reading before a really steamy scene. Now that he’d told me what he did for a living, a pang of self-consciousness shot through me as I tried to decide what to say. I fidgeted with the corner of my tablet cover, where the fake black leather had split at the edge.

“Please?” The way he said it made something inside of me melt. I fought the urge to reach out and touch his face, to trace his lips and part them so I could feel his tongue on my fingertip.

My bravery returned.

“It’ll cost you,” I said with a grin. Flirting was more familiar territory. He extracted his wallet again and this time took out a hundred dollar bill. He placed it on the bed, and I wondered if I could sit in this cabana for fifty minutes without touching him. Or kissing him.

“Read.”

“
H
arder
. You can do it harder. I know you can. Fuck me harder, Trent.”

“Is this what you want?” he asked, clamping a big hand around the side of her neck while driving his cock inside of her. She gasped from the fullness of his diamond-hard erection and from the roughness of his callused hands against her sensitive skin.

“Yes. This exactly what I want. Keep fucking me this way and I’ll be a happy girl.”

“And I want to make my girl happy. Because that’s what you are, Arianna, my good girl. My good girl who likes to be fucked nice and dirty. Your pussy is mine, baby.”

“So dirty. I didn’t know I was so dirty,” she breathed.

“It took me to show you how dirty you are.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” She panted and grinned into his neck. He fucked her, hard, making every inch of her skin tingle. But she wanted more. Wanted it rough.

“Slap me,” she whispered. “Just a little.”

He slowed his thrusts and swallowed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Not hard, but slap me once, softly, while you fuck me.”

He sucked in a breath, and somehow his cock grew even harder inside of her. With a growl, he cuffed her gently in the face, and she gasped, nearing the precipice of an orgasm.

As I read in a steady voice, Caleb alternated from looking toward the sky to looking at me. At one point, when I was reading a particularly explicit passage, Caleb bit his lip and stared at me.

Was he horrified? Turned on? I sneaked a little glance to see if he had an erection beneath his charcoal-gray suit pants. Dear God, he did have an erection. A huge one.

This made me grin a little, but I didn’t stop reading. He must have willpower of steel to be able to lie there for long minutes with a hard-on and not make a move to touch me. He didn’t even extend a lone fingertip to my legs, which were inches from his body. It was actually kind of frustrating, and I squirmed a millimeter closer to him.

Arianna wanted not just a bad man, but also one who would indulge her fantasies. Someone who would throw her against a wall, on the bed, wherever he wanted. Someone who would pull her hair, spank her ass, and then soothe her with soft kisses when it was all over. Someone who would make the sheets slip violently off the bed at night and who could talk about intelligent things over breakfast.

Someone like Trent.

I paused from reading to catch my breath. I was fully perspiring now, between the warm Florida air and my excitement. Already, my inner thighs were slippery with sweat and my own juices. I didn’t know I’d get so excited by reading out loud. Or maybe I was turned on by reading to Caleb.

“What do you think so far?” I asked, setting my tablet on my lap and trying to look serious. It was difficult keeping a straight face after reading all that.

“Well, it’s interesting, at least for me, because it’s from a woman’s point of view. I wouldn’t expect a woman to have these…uh, desires. And yet, a guy wouldn’t write about sex this tenderly. It’s intimate. Well, this part is. You write good sex. Sexy sex.”

“Thank you.” My mouth was parched, and I wondered if I should pause our reading and run to the bar for some ice water. I didn’t really want to leave his side; that was the thing. I was enjoying this too much.

“But one point, Emma. Maybe you should have a little bit more showing and less telling in chapter two, when she’s about to blow him in the car.”

I smirked and shot him a skeptical glance. Then I tapped on my screen, flicking back several pages. “Are you serious? I tried to show her emotions there.”

Caleb sat up, folding himself into a cross-legged position. He extended his hand toward my tablet. “May I?”

I handed him the device, and he swiped, then looked up. He held out the tablet so I could see the screen and pointed to a line. “Here. I think you need to describe the tactile—the feeling of his cock in her hand—not only what’s in her mind. I get the whole concept of deep POV and everything, but we need to feel what she’s feeling. Does the reader really care about how she feels like she’s different and wild because she’s sucking cock in an SUV? No. They want to live vicariously and that’s written through the five senses.”

“Hmm.” I bit my lip as I pondered this. He might have a point. I looked up to see the cabana curtains rippling in the warm breeze and fought the urge to respond with a snarky comment. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

He chuckled, and that’s when it hit me that I was talking to an intriguing man that I’d just met about sucking cock. I laughed, hard, throwing back my head.

“What? I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s really excellent, please don’t think I’m criticizing you. You’re a wonderful writer. I slipped into critique-group mode there for a minute. I guess I miss being around creative people. I enjoy the banter and discussion.”

His grin was so adorable that I contemplated leaning forward on all fours and kissing him. I paused, shifting so that I was sitting on my heels, and he rested my tablet on the lounge bed. I looked around to see if anyone was walking by our cabana, and they weren’t. The only sounds I could hear were the muffled voices of people reading their stories.

I glanced at Caleb and he was wearing that foxy, knowing smile.

“What?” I asked. “Why are you—”

“Staring at you?”

I nodded.

“You’re striking. That long, curly black hair. Your skin. It looks like you’ve never been in the sun, you’re so fair. And those eyes. Dark. Almost black.”

I nodded.
He noticed.

“Can I ask you a personal question about your writing?”

I looked at him and tilted my head.

“Is your story autobiographical or a fantasy?” The look on his face was curious, not seductive. Which both impressed and disappointed me.

“Not autobiographical.” I shrugged. “A fantasy? Maybe. Don’t writers all fantasize about the things they put on the page?”

“You know what I think?” That’s when he reached out to sweep away a curl that had fallen in my face. My heart pounded against my ribs.

“I think a fantasy is…” His voice trailed off.

“A fantasy is what?”

He smiled. “Well, maybe I’m feeling poetic tonight, but…I think a fantasy is what the heart whispers to silence a busy mind.”

“That’s…beautiful. Wow.”

“No, you’re beautiful. That’s really why I can’t stop staring.” His voice was low and growly, and parts of me liquefied.

He then huffed out a little laugh. Thankfully, he didn’t take his finger out of my curl. “Damn. I can’t believe I just said all that. I think I just had a flashback to my emo-creative-writing days. Please excuse me.”

“You’re excused,” I whispered. His words made my toes curl in a delicious way. He was also a little self-deprecating, which I appreciated because it balanced the undercurrent of his arrogance.

“But there’s something about you, Emma. And it goes beyond you reading to me about sex. I think.”

“You think, but you’re not sure?” I laughed, and he did, too, breaking the tension that had built up. “Well, I’m really not a woman who reads erotica to strange men. I usually read tamer stuff.”

“So you’re saying I’m special?” He released my hair. Dammit.

I paused, thinking of his question. “You seem smart and curious and interesting. Trust me, those qualities aren’t easy to find in men.”

“They’re not easy to find in women, either.” He let out an easy laugh. Okay, he was starting to be too good to be true. But whatever. I hadn’t been with anyone in almost a year and Caleb was too enticing. And too close to my body in this semi-private, gauze-draped, red-hued cabana. I briefly tried to remind myself that he wasn’t truly my type, that he probably usually dated women who organized charity balls and shopped at Saks. If he was even really single in the first place.

But my doubts flew from my mind when I caught his scent again. I leaned toward him, feeling my legs slip against one another and my lips tingle with the anticipation of a kiss. The little smile faded, and he again reached out and tangled all of his fingers in my hair, tugging me ever so slightly toward him.

“I’ve never kissed a woman in a cabana before.” His eyes were half-lidded and obviously sensual.

“I’ve never kissed a man at Story Brothel before.”

“Can I be your first?” he murmured.

“With pleasure.”

He licked his bottom lip and pulled me closer. His sweet and musky scent combined with the whiskey was intoxicating. Our lips were inches apart, and I could feel the whisper of his hot breath on my skin.

Then a shriek came from the direction of the bar.

“Caleb! Caleb!”

He shut his eyes. “Shit. That’s Laura.”

“Laura?” I plopped back on my heels, shock surging through me.
What the hell?

“My sister.”

“Oh,” I exhaled. “What’s wrong with her?”

He ran a hand over his short hair. “Well, from her tone, I can tell she’s panicking.”

“She’s what? Why?”

“She has a severe anxiety disorder, and sometimes when she drinks, she has an attack. This has been going on for years.”

My jaw dropped as the woman’s breathy, panicked voice grew closer.

Biting his lip, his expression faded from sad to sorry. “I’ve got to take her home. I apologize.”

He scrambled out of the cabana, and I followed on all fours, parting the curtain and peering out.

As he slid his feet into his shoes, the tall blonde woman ran up, sobbing. Several people poked their heads out of their cabanas to watch.

“Sis. Hey. It’s okay. Let’s get you home.” He squeezed her shoulders, then rubbed her upper arms. “Give me thirty seconds, okay? Okay?”

She nodded and stammered something about how she was having a heart attack and that she needed to get to a hospital. In a gentle voice, he reminded her to breathe. When he’d first said his sister was having a panic attack, I’d been skeptical. But seeing this woman’s obvious terror up close was disturbing. What had happened between her and Sarah? I climbed out of the cabana and stood next to her.

“Hey,” I said in my softest voice. “You’ll be okay.”

Just then, Sarah rushed over. “Want me to call an ambulance?”

Caleb shook his head. I turned to him as he shrugged on his jacket. “Why don’t I go with you to help?”

He paused and looked down. He seemed even taller now because I wasn’t wearing shoes. His anguished eyes bored deep into mine. “Thank you, Emma, but no.”

He ran the backs of his fingers down my cheek, which sent heat coursing through my veins. Before I could say anything else, he turned and put his arm around his crying sister and they quickly walked away, followed by Sarah.

I tunneled back into the cabana, not wanting to face the stares of the others. Flinging myself on the bed, I lay on my back, shaking, feeling more turned on than I had in years and wondering what the hell had just happened. I inhaled deep, taking in Caleb’s vanilla-oak scent that lingered on the pillows and in the humid air.