Unwrapped (8 page)
Chapter Six
All night long, I leak tears down my face, and parts of my soul onto a canvas. The painting of Eric. He’s not mine to hold inside my heart, not when I lied to him. Not when I’ve been planning revenge on our exes. So I’m releasing this, the past few days of respite, of comfort, of a cool balm to my burned heart. Maybe then I can let him go too.
Letting go of the good is harder than letting go of the bad, but the past few hours I’ve done both.
As penance, I’m doing my favourite thing—painting—in the wedding dress I hate. Breathing is difficult, movement is hard with the uncomfortable boning of the corset poking into my ribs and sides. There are two hooks that dig into the flesh of my back above the zipper from hell. I broke a nail trying to get it on, but I’m wearing it as symbolism of how revenge makes you suffer—even when something beautiful is in front of you.
I’m only hurting myself more in this stupid scheme, and I was too stupid to realize it until Eric was long gone. He didn’t answer my calls, but I didn’t expect him to. I didn’t bother leaving a message—he deserves to hear the truth from me directly—and only when he decides to give me his time to listen.
If he ever decides I’m worth his time. I wouldn’t blame him if I never saw him again.
I’ve washed the oils from my hands, and stand in front of the still-wet canvas. As best I could, I’ve tried to paint my view of the club that night we met. But I’ve added him as I see him now. Vibrant. Beautiful. Strong. What would life be like if we’d met each other first? If there were no Courtney, no Bobby, no wedding, no video, no revenge. Just Eric and me.
But we’ll have no happy ending—not even the chance of a happy beginning because I let betrayal turn me into someone I’m not.
And betraying who you really are at the core of yourself is the worst betrayal of all.
Now there’s nothing but me and a painting. And a really fucking uncomfortable dress. I reach back, but with the lack of sleep and painting all night, I’ve grown stiff and have swelled up the tiniest bit. I can’t reach the hooks above the zipper. Which is also stuck.
Mild panic rears its head, though there isn’t room for that in the dress either.
“Hazel?”
I spin around and would gasp if the dress would allow it. “Eric? How the hell did you get in here?”
“The door was open. I came to... what the hell are you wearing?” His gaze sweeps from my toes to my head.
“My wedding dress.”
“It’s... You look...”
“Radiant?” I wheeze.
“Ridiculous. Can you even breathe in that thing?”
“No, Bobby picked it out. Help me; I’m afraid I’m going to die in this dress!” I spin around and he undoes the zipper. My boobs are freed with the force of one of those cans of Pillsbury crescent roll dough. “Christ, deep breaths are good.”
“Yeah, they are.”
His strained voice draws my gaze to his eyes, which are focused on the top of the corset, now hanging precariously low. I hastily cover myself with my arms.
“What are you doing here?”
He shakes his head. “I came to stop you from making a huge mistake.”
“Eric, I—”
“No! Hear me out.” He runs his hands down his thighs, and I notice he’s wearing the same clothes he wore last night when he came here. “The past few days have been intense. I’ve never just talked to someone the way I’ve talked to you. There’s been no trying to impress you, or mindless chat. Maybe it’s the situation, but I feel like we connected.”
Does he feel the same? “We were already friends.”
“It’s more than that. Tell me you feel it too!”
“I painted something last night.” I step out of his way and gesture at the canvas. Disappointment flares in his eyes—I think he thinks I’m avoiding the subject of him and me. Then he looks at the canvas. And I can tell he knows what it is because his eyes fill with the way I felt with that painting inside me.
“Hazel,” he breathes.
I bite my lip. “Do you like it?”
He turns back and levels me with his expression. “Is this how you see me?”
I nod, unable to speak. He walks closer, slowly, too slowly, the moment thick between us. Recognition swollen to the point of tangibility; he sees me, and knows what’s in my heart.
And I know I’m in his.
His lips land on mine, his hands brush my back at the same time, and we press against each other, tongues meeting, exploring the new taste of something stronger than friendship, deeper than lust. His hands free me from the deathtrap dress that never suited me, and I pull his shirt off, eager to feel his skin on mine. Broad daylight. No hiding, or cringing, when all is uncovered.
When you’ve already bared your soul, sharing your body is nothing in comparison.
Nothing but pleasure.
The sheets whisper against our bodies when we slide between them together.
We both bear the evidence of our passions on our hands, his in the scars from sharp tools and hot machines, mine with the stains beneath my fingernails. I don’t know what turns me on more: my hands on his skin, or his hands on mine.
I drink in his touch for hours, taste every inch of him until the deep, slow sensuality turns inward, and hungry. He nibbles a trail down my jaw and throat, past my chest to take a nipple in his mouth and suck deeply. A hot stab of pleasure twists deep inside me, and I take his hard length in my hands and stroke up and down, rotating my hands, adjusting to the tempo of his increasing breaths.
He returns the favour, and soon I’m slick with wanting, and twisting my hips, crying out as his fingers plunge inside and work me from within. He nips the cries of pleasure from my lips and adjusts himself, covering my body with his. All I want is him buried inside me, filling me, but he pauses to stroke my face with his fingertips, and my heart sings.
“Eric.”
He smiles, and I forget what I was going to say. But it doesn’t matter. And when I smile back and kiss him with all I’ve got, he rolls his hips and presses into me. We both cry out at the sensation of joining together for the first time. I wrap my arms around him, and he slides his arms under my back, and locked as closely as we can hold each other, we begin moving, thrusting, arching against each other.
Soon all that’s left are our thundering pulses housing our full hearts, bodies becoming vehicles for our pleasure, but our eyes are locked on each other and we’re not ourselves. We’re something more. I come a moment before he does, and we cling even harder to each other, neither wanting to let go.
When I gather myself, untangling my thoughts from him, I sigh. “That was amazing.”
He kisses my lips, my cheek, my forehead. The tip of my nose, which I wrinkle. His gaze burns into mine, but his voice is playful. “Do you think we could do this every day for, like, ever?”
I wrap my legs around him, and smile as the words come to me.
“I do.”
THE END
Three to Tango
by Melanie Harlow
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Secretly I’m a smut fiend, but only when it comes to books. Until last night, the only outwardly kinky thing about me was my hair on a rainy day. I’m a kindergarten teacher, for heaven’s sake. I wear fuzzy slippers and granny panties. Ballet flats and sweater sets. I didn’t even have sex until I was twenty-one, and then it was a lights-out, missionary-position, TV-blaring-to-cover-the-squeaky-dorm-room-bed kind of experience. (I still remember the rerun of How I Met Your Mother that was on, and let’s just say that Marshall’s description of the perfect burger was way more orgasmic than losing my virginity.)
Eventually I learned how to get myself off (in the total privacy of my shower, of course) and figured out what all the throbbing and moaning in my books was about, and I did manage to have two lovely little orgasms with Guy #2 last summer, but it took a lot of work. And time. So much time that I kept apologizing to the guy, and I couldn’t relax. I mean, he stuck with it and all, but compared to the fast-building, toe-curling, earth-shattering, mind-blowing romps on my Kindle, my sex life was totally vanilla.
And then I took a tango lesson.
***
My phone vibrated in my lap and I surreptitiously looked down to check it. I was in the school library, where I was supposed to be paying attention to a presentation on Survival Strategies for First Year Teachers. The text was from my housemate, Lucy.
Still on for tomorrow?
Tomorrow was Saturday and my twenty-third birthday, and I’d promised Lucy I’d spend the afternoon shopping with her. She wanted me to buy a sexy outfit—actually, her words were “a slutty outfit”—for tomorrow night, when we were meeting up with friends for cocktails. Lucy was on a never-ending mission to spice up my vanilla sex life.
Yes. Time?
I just got called to do makeup on a shoot in the morning. Want to come with? Shop after?
After glancing toward the front of the library, where the principal was droning on about the importance of organized lesson plans (Really? I can’t just wing it with twenty-seven five-year olds each day?), I texted back.
Sure. What is it?
Car commercial. Shooting in a Greektown parking garage. I heard there are sexy dancers!
Awesome. Maybe it’s Magic Mike.
Ha. They are probably girls! But it IS your birthday. Want to go to the strip club?
LOL No.
Come on, you need a lap dance. You won’t get pregnant.
Hiding a smile, I tucked my phone back into my purse. I once made the mistake of telling Lucy that for years I believed you could get pregnant from sitting on a boy’s lap, just like Sister Mary Agatha said in grade school. I no longer believed that, of course, but I could not imagine how embarrassing it would be to have a nearly naked man dance right in front of me. Where were you supposed to look, for heaven’s sake? At his face? At his chest? At his
divine rod
? His
love shaft
? His
turgid manhood
?
Yes, I read too many romance novels.
But it works, you know? A girl like me can live vicariously through the sexy, confident characters in books. Caroline Peach, kindergarten teacher, would be totally tongue-tied around billionaire alpha males, but one click transforms her into Eva Trammell or Kate Brooks or Alayna Withers. Sex goddesses who know what they want and how to ask for it. Who know what men want and how to offer it.
But besides the fact that I am just plain shy, I really don’t meet many prospective #3’s. Everyone at work is either female or married or troll-like, and by the time weekends come around, I’m usually so exhausted that nothing beats the sound of a night in with a bottle of red wine and some Kindle smut. The guys are gorgeous, I don’t have to talk to them, and the orgasms are a sure thing.
If the book is really good, maybe I take a shower.
***
Lucy had to be at the shoot early the next morning, so we decided I’d meet her on location. At nine AM, my phone dinged with a text. I was awake but being lazy, lounging in my bed and sniffing my sheets. We had this awesome new laundry detergent that smelled like lavender, and I couldn’t get enough of it. Reaching over to my nightstand, I picked up my glasses and stuck them on my face before checking the text.
Are you up yet??? OMG you have to get down here. One of the dancers is a guy and he’s really fucking hot. Come stalk him with me.
Need to shower and dress. There in an hour.
She texted me back with directions, instructions to wear something sexy, and about a hundred little happy faces with their tongues sticking out, and I laughed before dragging myself from my lavender-scented cocoon.
It actually took me more than an hour, since I’m a total creature of habit and changing my routine makes me antsy. Every morning I do twenty minutes of yoga, eat a bowl of Special K with strawberries and drink a cup of coffee before getting in the shower. Plus, as you might imagine, a kindergarten teacher’s wardrobe doesn’t have too many sexy items. For twenty minutes I stood in my walk-in closet, scowling at trousers and cardigans in soft colors. But to appease Lucy, I traded my usual professional-yet-child-friendly ensemble for skinny jeans, nude heels, and a flowy green top with a belted waist and a keyhole opening at the top.
It took me another twenty minutes to blow out my hair, which is thick and long and sandy brown. Most days I just let it dry naturally and snap an elastic around the waves, but I knew Lucy would frown upon my showing up with a ponytail. After brushing my teeth, I swiped some mascara on my lashes, which I think are my best feature, and some gloss on my lips. Then I stuck the tube into my purse along with my cell phone, and headed out into the crisp November chill. My body was crying out for more coffee, but since I was late already, I didn’t stop. When I arrived at the location, I gave my name at the door, and found Lucy in the makeup trailer.
“Caroline!” She threw her arms around me. “Happy Birthday!”
I laughed and hugged her back—her flowing dark hair smelled like Aveda products. “Thanks. So how’d I do? Am I sexy?”
She let me go and held me at arm’s length. Her brown eyes traveled down my body and back up. “You’ll do. But let me touch up your makeup.” She gestured toward her empty chair. “Sit.”
Happy to comply, I shed my coat and parked myself at her station. I loved when Lucy did my makeup. She had tricks that made my green eyes pop and my lips plump up, and she knew how to disguise all my flaws. “Do the thing that hides my freckles and the ball on the end of my nose.”
“Shut the fuck up. You do not have a ball on the end of your nose.” She went to work on my eyes, swiping shadow along my lids.
“Just do it. So where’s the hot dancer?”
“About to dance, I think. I just touched him up. I’ve never been so tempted to drop a brush into someone’s lap just so I could grab it and cop a feel.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t.” Unlike me, Lucy was
never
shy around a gorgeous guy.
“Well, his partner was in here too, and I think they’re together. Not sure.”
“Partner? What kind of dancer is he? Ballroom or something?”
“Tango. How fucking sexy is that?” She finished up and tossed her brush kit onto the counter. “Come on, let’s go watch.”
