Stranded, Page 2

  This is when the anxiety and worry began to creep over me. Worry about a future that was suddenly too unsure for my liking set into my gut, fear that I was in a rut and wouldn’t ever be able to get out of it ate away at me, and suddenly, a life I was comfortable and content with felt suffocating and wrong.

  I knew I had to get away. I knew I had to shake things up. But now I worry my rash decision is just going to lead to more anxiety and trouble.

  Swallowing down the glass of water in two large gulps, I sigh as the cool beverage soothes my throat, as well as distracts me from some of the worries banging around in my mind. Having a freak-out in a strange town when I have too many important things needing to be done is not wise.

  I need to calm down, relax, get some directions from one of these nice people around here, and wait until I’m behind closed doors before I break down.

  I can do that.

  I open my mouth, ready to call back over the bartender who is down on the opposite end of the busy bar, figuring he might be the best person to ask for directions, when a figure slides onto the open seat next to me. I didn’t even notice the person who was sitting there before vacating it.

  For some reason, this new person arriving gains my attention, and it isn’t hard to figure out why when I turn to face them and find myself eye-to-eye with Mr. Ruggedly Handsome himself.

  “You’re not from around here,” he states, or maybe it’s supposed to be a question? Not that I understand the words so much as become entranced by the way his gravelly voice travels over my skin and apparently straight down to my dick.

  His words almost seem like we’ve already spoken to each other, not like he’s starting a conversation. I would look behind me to see if he’s actually speaking to someone else, except there is no mistaking his ocean blue eyes staring straight at me. His gaze is intense, all-encompassing, and most definitely paralyzing.

  No one has ever made me speechless before. I didn’t think it was possible.

  “Hello?” he says with a frown on his face. “Are you with me?”

  I shake my head, wondering what the hell I’m playing at. I have the perfect opportunity to chat up this handsome man and I’m wasting it by looking like I don’t even understand English?

  “I’m just passing through,” I finally answer, glad that at least my voice hasn’t reverted back to my teenage years just to keep my humiliation going.

  Self-consciously, I run my fingers through my hair, wishing for the umpteenth time that I didn’t have to look so shitty right now. Yet, this man follows my movement, the interest in his eyes hard to miss.

  Could this guy seriously be attracted to me? I know I’m not bad-looking, but right now, I need a shower to wash away this shit day, a good night’s sleep to get the dark circles out from under my eyes, and to be wearing something that hasn’t been stuck to my body after hours in a hot car, given my air-conditioner is also on the fritz, and then even more hours stranded in the middle of nowhere waiting for a tow.

  “Good,” he grunts, his serious expression shifting into something more mischievous with the curl of his lips. “You want to head back to mine?”

  My mouth drops open at his forwardness, and then a quiver runs over my body when he stares directly at my open mouth, desire flickering in his eyes.

  “Well … I mean I only just … I was going to …” I nod at the bar, not sure how to take this man. I must be dreaming, right? None of this can be real.

  “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

  My heart speeds up as he gives me a polite yet bland smile, his eyes already shifting to scan the bar.

  I’ve never been hit on so quickly or dropped so easily.

  Is this what it feels like to be knocked over by a Mack truck?

  “Wait!” I call out when he makes to turn around. His lips are quirked in a knowing, cocky smile when he faces me again. I decide I both hate and love that smile. “Do you want to get a drink with me?”

  “No.” His quick dismissal slashes through my confidence, and I know my face falls in an obvious show of disappointment. “I want to fuck you, not drink with you. If you’re interested in the former, then follow me. If not, then have a nice stay here in Midsummer.” He lightly shoves away from the bar and makes his way back through the crowd.

  Everyone here appears to know him, and while I can’t hear what they’re saying to him, everyone seems to greet him with genuine smiles on their faces and an ease that speaks to their trust in him.

  I’ve had my share of bar pickups and one-night stands, and everyone knows the risks you take doing that. Not only do you risk choosing a dud, which I don’t at all think will be the case here, but you might find yourself with someone who is dangerous. Sometimes, though, you have to go with your instincts, and my instincts are telling me two things. One is that Mr. Ruggedly Handsome is not dangerous; and two, I will regret not going home with him.

  Besides, didn’t Sasha just tell me to pick someone up so I don’t have to worry about a hotel room for the night? All my stuff is back in the trunk of my car, which is parked outside the auto shop a few blocks away. If I go home with Mr. Ruggedly Handsome, I don’t need clothes, and I bet I can talk him around into using his shower.

  Worried when he steps out the front and I lose sight of him, I rush after him, hoping I don’t look too eager, and find him standing over by his car, which I now notice looks old, as in definitely from the seventies. Is it even going to start?

  When I get closer to the vehicle, however, I notice the red paint is shiny and clean, the inside is also tidy, and it sort of looks damn cool with this hot man leaning against it. I’ve never cared much about cars, hence how I ended up with my lemon of a car, but this is one I could get behind. Or perhaps have myself between it and this hot piece of man.

  His lips quirk into that knowing, smug smile when he sees me exiting the bar. Then he crosses his arms over his wide chest when I stall feet from him. I practically drool at the way his arms flex and show off the muscle definition there. Damn, I’m a sucker for arms.

  I take them in for a moment longer before I leave their beauty to look into the lustful eyes of the man they belong to.

  “Took you long enough,” he grumbles, although the effect is sort of ruined by the obvious heat in his gaze.

  “I have rules when I go home with men,” I state, somewhat talking out of my ass.

  While I do have rules nowadays in terms of safety and mutual respect, I’m certain this man is all about breaking rules, and I most definitely want this night of debauchery that his gaze is promising.

  When he just waits expectantly for me to continue, I begin to lose my confidence. I’m not going to screw this up, am I?

  “Are you going to tell me these rules, or are you expecting me to guess?” he finally growls, not seeming impressed.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I blurt out, “One rule, actually. And it’s to ensure that I don’t waste my time. If you can’t kiss me the way I like, then you certainly can’t fuck me the way I want. So, as a rule, I never go home with men unless—”

  He cuts me off by doing exactly what I want him to.

  He grabs my shirt, pulls me forward until I’m flat against him, shifts me so we’re standing in opposite places, and then leans me against his car door, his body following until he’s pressed up against me, every hard inch of him. And, while my body is in an overload of sensations, it’s my mouth that is being expertly owned.

  He doesn’t wait for me to open my mouth to him. He just pushes his tongue between my lips so he can do as he pleases, taking me along for the hot, sensual ride.

  His stubble deliciously scratches my face, his hard body pins me in place, and his hands work their way through my hair so I can’t move away even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, because that would require thought, and my brain switched offline the second his lips touched mine.

  His taste is a mixture of mint and cinnamon, which apparently, is a combination that I can seriously get behind. I can
smell a hint of smoke, suggesting maybe this man does, but it’s small enough that it doesn’t bother me. In fact, right now, I’m not sure if anything could bother me, given he’s dominating my mouth and hitting every hot button in my body.

  Have I ever been kissed so thoroughly and hotly before? I thought I had, but now I realize that I knew nothing. This man is an expert.

  I moan into his mouth, my own hands unconsciously roaming over his too-clothed body, searching for an opening but tricked when I scoot my hands under his T-shirt, only to find he has an undershirt tucked into his jeans.

  Who the hell wears an undershirt in this weather?

  I attempt to pull it out, desperate to feel his skin under my fingertips, but with limited brain function, given he’s giving me the best kiss of my life, I barely notice how lightheaded I am, let alone how to manage untucking a shirt.

  As if he can sense how close my legs are to giving way, he pulls his lips away and leans his forehead against mine, both of us gasping for breath. He moves to rest his hands on either side of me on his car, and I take some fortifying breaths to not only get some oxygen back into my lungs but also to kick my brain back into action. This seems like a solid plan until he shifts his head and nips and sucks down my jaw. Then he licks at the curve of my neck and shoulder where my shirt has shifted before he bites down.

  “Shit,” I gasp, my hips jolting outward, searching for friction.

  Is it possible to orgasm just from one out of this world kiss?

  Because I’m so fucking close that I should be embarrassed.

  “That work for you?” he asks, unfairly not seeming at all as affected, like I am.

  “Yes,” I breathe out.

  Other than a smirk at my clearly addled brain, he steps back then begins to look impatiently at me.

  “What?”

  “I need to get into my car if I’m taking you home with me, and for that matter, you need to get in, as well.”

  Feeling like an idiot, and for once not with the upper hand, I decide I need to shift things so I’m not the only one suffering here.

  In most of my sexual encounters, I’ve been the one initiating and most definitely in control. This isn’t something I necessary like, but it’s better than giving that control up only to be disappointed. Instinctively, I know I won’t be disappointed with this man, but that doesn’t mean the control and upper hand is easy to lose.

  So, I step forward, forcing him to step back and give me space. Then, instead of moving around his car to the passenger side like a normal human being, I open his driver door. Understandably, he appears to think I might be opening it for him, but I turn and move in before he can get around me, crawling up on his seat and making my way over it with an extra wiggle of my ass over to the passenger side where I straighten up.

  Chapter Two

  His audible inhalation is all I hear that clues me in that he liked what he saw, but when he drops himself down into his seat and slams the door shut, he doesn’t so much as look at me as we drive the few blocks out of the small commercial area and into a more residential one. However, sexual tension crackles through the air between us.

  Have I ever felt so turned on before? Has there ever been so much built-up anticipation? Because this feels next level compared to whatever I’ve felt in the past. Is it because of the incredible kiss and the undeniable promise of fantastic sex, or is it because this feels wild and spontaneous?

  Nerves hit me, as well as self-doubt. I’m not making a mistake, am I?

  Afraid I’m about to talk myself out of what is about to happen, I make more effort to actually glance around at our surroundings, surprised at how vast this area is and the amount of houses we’re passing.

  “What is this place? What keeps people here?” I wonder, not meaning to voice the question out loud since it isn’t at all sexy. The man has done a superb job of getting me hot. No need for me to douse us in boring small talk.

  Apparently unperturbed with my question, Handsome, which is the name I am giving him until I know differently, shifts into talking as though reciting words he has said a million times before.

  “We mostly get tourists looking to see the sights of famous movie sets or people just passing through. The ones who live here either work on those film sets, in town, or the farms surrounding us.”

  Shivering again at how much his deep, gravelly voice affects me, I think past my aching dick and try to follow what he’s saying.

  “Movie sets?”

  “Midsummer is famous for housing some of the biggest movie productions in the country.” He speaks as though he’s spouting some sort of promotional recording. I guess he must have had to say this stuff a lot. “Angus Thom set up a home here, so he almost exclusively films his movies in or around this area.”

  “Wow, I had no idea,” I gasp, wondering if this sleepy, boring town might have a little more spice than I expected.

  I’ve heard of Angus Thom. In fact, I’m not sure there is anyone who hasn’t heard of him or enjoyed watching movies in the last twenty years. His story and the movies he makes are legendary.

  He started out as a self-funded indie director, working as many as three jobs to keep his sets afloat. Then, at twenty-three, he won his first Oscar for a short film that he directed. The big studios took notice after that. Since then, he has made more than a dozen award-winning movies and is a front runner in special effects. His movies are huge blockbusters, and I’ll be the first to admit that I might have fangirled over his last movie, Thunderbolts, which starred the delicious and drool-worthy Henry Prince.

  I mean, can you even get a better name than Henry Prince?

  And it gets better since, just two years ago, Henry came out as bisexual.

  He’s almost as hot as … well, Handsome here.

  Could this man next to me be a movie star?

  I scrutinize him a little more, trying to see if I recognize him. But I don’t. Maybe he works behind the scenes? If that’s true, it would absolutely be a travesty, because Handsome has movie star looks better than anyone I’ve seen on film.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, figuring I can kill two birds with one stone and find out if his name rings any bells while also being able to refer to him with a proper name rather than just the moniker of Handsome.

  “Not necessary information for a fuck.” He practically growls these words, not seeming annoyed, but definitely on edge.

  “Really? You’re not going to even tell me your first name?” I bite back on asking why telling me about Midsummer isn’t also considered unnecessary information. If the guy doesn’t like small talk, then we don’t have to engage in it.

  He turns to look at me, his gaze just as intense as before. His eyes actually travel over my chest and down to my crotch, which sends a rush of blood that way and my half-mast dick jumps up to say hello. I instinctively adjust my pants, wondering if we might not even make it back to this guy’s house before we start in on the action.

  “Do you need my name to ride my dick?”

  “Well, no,” I concede, my voice little more than a breathless moan. “But it might be nice to know what name I’m supposed to yell out when I come.”

  His lips twitch, but he doesn’t commit to a smile. He shifts his gaze back to the road, turning onto a new street that’s just as quiet as the rest of the roads that we’ve been down. While some houses have their front lights on, or lights shining through front windows, there is not a soul in sight. I haven’t seen a single person since we drove away from the bar.

  “I don’t care what you yell out.”

  “Not even if I yell out—”

  “You can scream whatever the fuck you want. I get off. You get off. That’s all I care about.”

  Well, I can’t exactly argue with that.

  We ride the last few minutes in silence before he pulls into a driveway of a quiet, two-story house, pulling up next to another vehicle that is shrouded in shadows, but I see enough to notice this one looks much newer than the one he i
s driving.

  Moving my eyes back to the quiet house, I consider how this home looks basically the same as every other one on the street. However, it looks nothing like the houses where I lived in Chicago. This actually has a decent-sized front yard, with a swing set up between two large trees, and a porch with steps leading onto it. The house isn’t new, but it also looks loved and well looked after. In fact, all the houses on this street, which are lit from the rustic street lamps, show the same thing. There are even kids’ bikes left out front, as though the owners aren’t concerned they’ll be stolen. I wonder if people here even lock their front doors.

  “Your passenger side door works, you know, in case you didn’t realize.”

  I shift my attention off the street and back over to the man beside me, a grin touching my lips. “That your way of saying you don’t want me crawling over your lap to get out?”

  His gaze is heated as he looks me over, and I get the strong feeling that he actually is very interested in that.

  Alas, he simply moves himself out of his seat and slams the door shut.

  I also move out of the car and hurry to follow him up the three steps to make it onto the porch. I didn’t notice it before, but it even has a swinging bench off to one side. I immediately imagine drinking iced tea on here at night, watching the sun set in the distance. I would do that every summer night if I lived here.

  Back home, I lived in an apartment, and it was noisy, the air tinged with a polluted weed smell, and not at all relaxing. Here, you could truly let your problems melt away as you sit back and unwind.

  I shake away the stab of jealousy that this man has this while I only have a broken down car and no home to speak of. I would have never thought I would want a quiet life, but I think it could be something I could come to love.

  This is what my adventure is about—discovering myself and taking chances. Shaking things up.