Sugar Kisses, Page 2
Addison Moore
“Oh my, God,” I whisper totally caught off guard by the coital brand of affection taking place on the makeshift stage. “That’s her?” It can’t be. What would LeAnn Cleo want with a loser like Aiden? Then again, I wanted him—badly at one point. But I was a beaten dog, and, by and large, beaten dogs will stray to anyone who gives them the proper amount of affection.
“Yes! That’s LeAnn Cleo!” Baya explodes like a piñata bursting into tiny bits of happiness that I’m sure Bryson will chase around trying to lick up with his tongue.
“Oh, no,” Laney moans, collapsing her arms around my shoulders once she spots the cheater fawning over the has-been country crooner.
“Crap.” It comes from me as more of a statement than an expletive, although I’m sure in about five minutes, I’ll rectify that.
“No, really. It is her.” Baya goes on. “Look at all that long, blonde hair and those giant blue eyes, she’s like an Anime character come to life, right? She’s a real scene stealer, so I can totally see how the two of you are blown away right now.”
“She’s a boyfriend stealer.” It grits through my teeth. “And I’m guessing the only person being blown away is Aiden’s dick from her collagen-injected lips.”
“That’s Aiden?” Baya tones it down a few notches now that she sees the shit parade for what it really is.
“Yes.” Laney sighs exasperated. “And, for the record, Rox, he’s as much to blame as she is, if not more.”
“Give me a minute to wallow in my hatred for the skank. I need to refine it into a perfect brew of revenge before I move onto to the asshole in question.”
“Look, maybe we should go.” Laney tries to pull me to the door, but I prove immovable.
“Maybe we should stay.” I snatch my arm back. “If you want, I can make this a night to remember.” More like a night to dismember, but I keep the felony in the making to myself for now.
“What’s up ladies?” Bryson comes over and wraps his arms around Baya before peppering the side of her face with kisses. My stomach turns at the sight, mostly because I want that—well, not from Bryson, but from someone who would worship me the way he worships Baya. At the root of all my emotional issues is the major freeze out of affection I grew up with, and that only made me crave it that much more. Ironically, it seems to be the one thing I can never truly have.
Ryder swoops into our tiny circle and replicates the molestation with Laney, and, suddenly, I want to vomit on everybody’s shoes because it sucks to be me.
“You don’t need a man to define you, Roxy.” Laney drills into me with that I-know-exactly-what-you’re-thinking look. And she always does.
“Damn straight.” I glare at Aiden when I say it, and, to my horror, we make eye contact. He shrinks a little like he’s afraid for his balls—and wisely so.
The band starts up, and LeAnn bellows into the microphone, slow and painful as if someone is sawing off her toes with a butter knife, and, suddenly, I see a whole felonious to-do list manifesting in my mind.
“God, he’s coming this way!” Laney presses into me as if she were physically ready to remove me from the premises.
Baya waves her hands in the air in front of me as if trying to snap me out of a trance. “Show him you don’t need him by getting the hell the out of here. There’s nothing he has to say that you need to hear.”
That’s for sure, but a little part of me wouldn’t mind some groveling from him, perhaps he can offer to sever his dick as a means of restitution? Not that it would be enough. He didn’t have much there to begin with.
A quasi-familiar face pops up beside Bryson and flashes a million-watt smile at us.
“What’s going on?” The tall, dark, and handsome, buffed out, green-eyed sex God rumbles the words out. “Hey.” He holds out a hand, and his dimples dig in deep as he grins at me. “It’s about time I get to see my new roommate.” The red neon from the Black Bear sign catches his skin and lights up the left side of his face like a warning. His full lips demand my attention, and, for a moment, the rest of the room disappears, taking all the noise and dizzying hormones along with it—it’s only Cole and me standing in a vacuum. It feels safe this way, comfortable.
“Not now, Cole.” Baya is quick to rebuke his efforts at trying to reacquaint himself with me. We met once, briefly, in this exact same spot about a month ago and haven’t laid eyes on one another since.
Aiden weaves through the crowd, cutting both Cole and Bryson a dirty look. He never could stand the thought of me talking to other guys, never mind the fact he took it upon himself to screw other girls. Our relationship was no two-way street.
Cole extends his hand further, waiting for some friendly shake or half-hearted high five to take place. “You mind if I buy you a drink? Maybe we can head out and get some coffee—get to know each other a little bit.”
Aiden shoots me a death stare that says you’d better not entertain another penis in my place. His dark features squint with dissatisfaction. Those pale blue eyes of his narrow into judgmental lanterns of hatred.
“Shut up and kiss me.” I pull Cole in by the back of the neck, slamming my lips to his, and I go for it. I swallow him whole, swirl my tongue around his mouth as if I were taking up residence, then something in me loosens, and I surrender as he digs his fingers into my waist, his tongue roaming freely in my mouth, slow and deliberate. A soft moan gets locked in my throat as I wrap my arms around his neck and press my body up against the wall of granite that is his chest. It’s as if I had found a wormhole in this desperate universe I’m wallowing in, and now I’m transported to some fantastical place I’ve only heard about, and, ironically enough, the portal was right here through Cole’s mouth.
I’ve only kissed one other boy, and that was Aiden. Clearly this is no boy—Cole Brighton is all man.
An expletive-riddled tirade explodes behind me as Aiden shouts an entire choir of obscenities, I believe I heard the phrase get the fuck off my girlfriend, and my chest bucks with a laugh.
Damn it all to hell. Nothing tastes better than revenge—and the flavor of the night just so happens to be Whitney Briggs’ own manwhore, Cole Brighton.
Cole
Holy shit.
I dig my fingers into her hips and pull her in tight until I’m crushing her with both my body and mouth. I want to devour her, swallow her down right here in front of every damn person in the bar including the asshole going off like an atom bomb over my shoulder.
As soon as Roxy walked in the place I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Who could with that dark hair down to her waist, the I’ll-cut-you-if-you-look-at-me-twice attitude. She’s the exact opposite of what I’m used to, and I’d be lying if she didn’t just put my dick on notice.
The uproar continues from behind. A hand plucks me back almost landing me on the floor. I turn to find some idiot in a skintight sweater, his perfect slicked back hair, a signet ring on his finger fixing to imprint itself in my jaw, and I duck.
“Whoa, cowboy.” Holt pops up and locks his arms around the douchebag’s shoulders. “You’re messing with the wrong person. I suggest you leave before we take turns beating the shit out you for fun.”
“You can’t kick me out. That’s my girlfriend up there.” He nods to the singer who’s screeching away, oblivious to the fact her boyfriend is getting in a scuffle over another girl.
“Which is it?” I knock him in the chest. “Is Roxy your girlfriend or the wannabe rock star who can’t hit a high note?”
“Shut the hell up!” He struggles to charge me, but Holt still has him on lockdown.
“That’s it, you’re gone.” Holt twists the little shit toward the exit.
“No, let him stay.” Roxy hisses in his face. “I wouldn’t want him to miss a moment of his precious girlfriend and her craptastic career as a glorified belly dancer. I’m out of here.” She charges for the door, and I bolt after her.
“Hey”—I try to block her with my body, but she maneuvers around me—“you don’t have to leave.”
“Seriously”—I pull her back by the elbow—“let’s get back in there. I swear, I’ll deck him if he gets within ten feet of you.”
“You get back in there.” She snatches her arm from me. “I’m done. And don’t think I’m signing up to be your fuck buddy just because we kissed. I’m sick of guys like you who treat girls like dirt.”
Dirt? I mouth the word, stymied by her point-blank analysis.
“Go find yourself a whore for the night,” she screams. “I wouldn’t want your sheets to get cold.” She takes off for the parking lot, and Baya bolts after her.
“I’m coming with you!” my sister shouts. “You don’t have a car, remember?”
I shake my head. Roxy’s so blind with rage she can’t see straight. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t set fire to my sheets. Not that I wouldn’t mind burning up the mattress with her. Roxy’s a little firecracker. I’m sure she’s capable of teaching my dick a lesson or two in bed.
I flex a dull smile. Something tells me the last thing Roxy wants to do is teach me or my dick a lesson. Nope, she’s all piss and vinegar and both me and my man parts had better steer clear before we get burned.
But she’s unsettled something inside me that I haven’t felt before, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I don’t treat girls like dirt.
Do I?
The Black Bear is still pumping and jumping by the time I make my way inside. I belly up to the bar just as Holt slides me a cold one.
“You all right?” He gives me that menacing look that suggests he’s ready and willing to kick some ass in the event I’m not.
“Yeah, man. It’s good. She took off.” I nod my beer toward him before knocking it back.
A hard slap lands over my shoulder as Bryson crops up next to me. Bryson and Holt are fraternal twins, same face, or at least as close as you can get without being identical. After a few beers, they tend to morph into one person.
“That was some kiss.” He glares at me like I did something wrong.
“She came at me, dude. I did what any red-blooded American boy would do. I kissed her back.”
“Yeah, well, her brother wants me to knock your teeth in if it happens again.” He glances over his shoulder into the tight knit circle of bodies rocking out to LeAnn. “I’m not kidding. He was ready to follow Rox home and clear her shit out of your place. Keep your paws off, dude. She’s a no-fly zone.”
I lean my elbows onto the bar. “I don’t know. She’s got it going on. I can’t say I’d fight her if she came at me in the middle of the night.”
Bryson knocks his beer into mine. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
I twist in my seat and take in the crowd. Nothing but a sea of coeds I’ve already bagged on a loop.
Crap. I have to admit it was fun at first—girls lining up outside my bedroom to take a spin on my lap, and, God knows, I didn’t fight it. Before long, it was two on one, and I didn’t mind that one bit either—until it got a little old—not that I’ve been turning down any opportunities. But somehow, someway, I’ve become this thing, this insatiable creature that needs sexual gratification before and after classes.
One of the last things my dad said to me was that I shouldn’t saddle myself down too young, that I should shop around and when “the one” came along, I would know it, and everything would fall into place. It was the last conversation we had before he went out on that fated bike ride where a drunk driver came and knocked him into kingdom come.
A pair of cold fingers give the back of my neck a squeeze.
“Boo!” An annoyingly high-pitched voice, that could only be one person, giggles into my ear.
It’s Angel I-don’t-know-her-last-name-don’t-want-to.
I tweak my brows at Bryson as a cry for help before turning around.
“What’s up?”
She spins into me, lashing me with her whip-straight hair. Her bony arms find a home around my waist. “So, you wanna dance?”
I glance over at Bryson just as he heads into the crowd. Holt is already at the other end of the bar. Great.
“I’m not really the dancing type, sweetie.” I gently pluck her hands off my waist and look out in the sea of skirts to find my next victim.
“You sure knew what you were doing under the sheets.” She gives my balls a tweak, and I jump in my seat.
“Whoa, watch the boys would you?” I carefully extract her hand from my crotch. Not my usual MO with a girl.
Her eyes squint to nothing as she strings out a giggle. “You really were great. I mean, not that I have anything to compare you with seeing that it was my first time.” She saws out a laugh like the braying of a horse.
“Excuse me?” I couldn’t have heard her right. I have a strict no-virgins policy. I’m more interested in playing with the pros than I am in training a rookie. “You’re kidding, right?”
She takes an uninvited sip from my beer and makes a face. “Skunk juice!” She shoves it back in my chest, and I gingerly place it on the bar. “So what should we do tonight?’ She hops into my lap when she says it.
“You still haven’t answered my question. About that virgin thing, you’re just shitting me, right?”
“No.” Her eyes round out like a pair of silver moons. “I mean”—she screeches out a laugh that makes my ears wish they could bleed just to alleviate the pressure—“I was.” She does her best impression of a bobble head doll. “But you took care of that tiny little detail.” Her finger finds a home in my gut, and I kindly remove it. “Anyway, if you don’t want to dance, maybe we should leave. We could catch a movie at your place—or think of something a little more exciting to do.” Her tongue does a revolution over her lips as she tickles my nose with her finger.
Crap. A virgin? This is definitely new territory for me. I didn’t even sleep with a virgin when I ran the bases for the very first time.
“Look”—I hop off my seat and hold my hands out like the cherry-popping criminal I apparently am—“I swear I didn’t know it was your first time. I would have bought you flowers first.” Probably not, as evidenced by the fact I’m eyeing the exit. A movie at my place sounds pretty good right about now—alone.
“Aw.” She pulls me in by the collar. “You’re a perfect gentleman, aren’t you?” Her eyes squint down to nothing. She nibbles on her bottom lip like a bunny, and as much as I’m not into virgins, I’m not into animals, and that’s exactly what this not-so-angelic being is shaping up to be.
“Actually, I think I need to get going. I have a roommate that just moved in, and I’d like to get to know her a little better.”
“I’d love to see a few more of your moves. Why don’t we go back to your place, and you can get to know me a little better?” She pulls me out the door, and before I know it, she’s riding shotgun in my truck.
What the hell, it’s just for tonight.
What’s it going to hurt?
About midnight I wander out to the kitchen to grab a cold one and run into Roxy. Her hair is messy, cascading down her back like a dark shadow and her mascara is gently smeared. She’s got on a tight tank top, and her tits are perfectly outlined like twin melons begging to be set free. I’d like to set them free. Hell, I’d like to take a bite and see just how sweet that fruit really is.
My stomach spears with heat. Damn, she’s hot. And that kiss we shared has been ricocheting like a boomerang in my mind for the last few hours. In fact, I couldn’t quite function to capacity with what’s-her-face, and we spent about twenty minutes locked at the lips before she finally passed out. Not that I mind. It wasn’t her kiss that kept my heart pumping. It was Roxy’s.
She grunts as she strides past me, and I step over and block the path to her room.
“Anything I should know about you?”
She winces as if I had crossed the line in the proverbial sand. “You want to know something about me?”<
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“Yeah, like, what’s your routine?”
“Let’s see.” She folds her arms across her chest, her face filled with attitude. “As soon as I get home, I like to unhook my bra.”
Nice.
Her eyes narrow in on mine. “Except on weekends when I just plain don’t wear one.”
This just gets better.
She smirks. “Relax, frat boy, I’m not showing off my nipple piercings just yet.”
“Nipple piercings?” This is a must see. “And, by the way”—I touch my finger just under her chin, and her eyes widen like she might bite my balls off—“I’m as much a frat boy as you are a sorority girl. Got that, sweet tits?”
She sucks in breath. “Call me that again, and I’ll arrange for a nice, slow death.”
I pump a dull smile. “Good night, sweet tits.” I head to my room before all hell breaks loose.
And something tells me it already has.
2
Sugar Coated Truth
Roxy
A spear of defused sunlight lies over my eyes like a blade, annoying the living hell out of me, so I turn and burrow my head in the pillow. My phone buzzes softly from somewhere on my bed, and I slap around until I locate the damn thing. It’s Camilla Gorilla Grant, some girl from my old dorm who believes women who shave are simply bending backward to please the opposite gender—that it’s our God-given right to be as hairy as nature intended. Nevertheless, she’s met the mountain man of her dreams because, apparently, my mother was right when she said every pot has a lid, except for me, of course. I had one of those stupid glass lids that shattered a few weeks back right along with my heart.
“Hello?” I bark at her for interrupting my marathon-sleeping spree.
“Well hello to you, too.” She giggles because apparently college girls are required to laugh after every sentence that utters from their lips. I didn’t get the memo. “Hey, like, you’re not just getting up right now, are you? It’s like eleven-thirty.” Also, in order to qualify as a Whitney Briggs coed, you’re required to pepper your conversation with the word like—like aggressively. And there’s that whole Ugg boot requirement, but I’ve been known to live in mine, so I’ll keep that one out of the equation for now.
