A breeze blows from behind, ruffling the light hair on my forearm. Men’s voices. Talking too loud, the scrape of metal against pavers as they settle into the chairs behind me. The click of a lighter as one of them ruins a perfectly healthy set of lungs.

I keep my eyes closed, taking a bite of muffin as my mind wanders, my eavesdropping gene lifting its head when a voice starts that sounds familiar. I start to sit up but stop, not sure if now, makeup free with a face full of muffin crumbles, is how I want to reintroduce myself. I stay in place, slouching a little further, more sure with each additional word, that one of the men is Brett. A smile plays on the corner of my mouth.

“What happened with that girl from last night?”

“The blonde?”

“Yeah. Looked like you were headed up to her room.”

A pause. Soft cough. I almost fall off my chair in an attempt to hear his next words.

“Nothing happened. She’s here with a bachelorette party, and isn’t the type I’m looking for.”

I don’t pay attention to the other man’s response, my toes curling against the railing, body tightening in hurt and anger. Not his type. Maybe that was why he walked away so easily. And here I am, thinking my kiss had affected him as deeply as it had me. I dig my nails into my thighs, watching a curl of forgotten smoke float past, hearing the screech of chair legs as the men behind me move along.

Fuck him. I don’t need a one-night stand anyway. My dusty vagina is perfectly happy with the extensive network of cobwebs it’s spent years creating. Somewhere, in the empty recesses of my mind, my subconscious tears to pieces the ‘I love Brett’ picture and moves on to more official business.

Chapter 4

Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hung over selves will be strapped in and flying back to ATL. I hang an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaning my head back, weight on their shoulders, and bellow the chorus of Sweet Home Alabama, the club singing along, my mouth breaking into a grin too big too contain, the familiar tune never failing to raise my spirits. Never mind that, between the six of us, we’ve set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It is the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we own every syllable of the damn thing.

The last chorus rings out, and I release the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass begins, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.

I slow my hips, glance at our table, seeing Beth and Tammy there, the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I am pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tries to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yank at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and move to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon lit exit sign. Air. I need air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with the fact that none of the men in this club will be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seem worthy of a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too … not who I am looking for.

I bang through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I take two steps to the right and lean against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wish I still smoke. I remember the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I don’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet are enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to I-Can’t-Even-Remember-His-Name-Ville.

I sense the presence before I see it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffen, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it is with my gaze. Then he speaks, and I relax, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lie I’ve told myself is exposed. I need him. My body needs him. Wants more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8th floor. I had made a mistake. I don’t intend to make another.

“Come here.”

He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping, pulling me tighter. I love it.

“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping, taking it in his mind as his own.

“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.

The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing. His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as he sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.

Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.

Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most. My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head. Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.

Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.

He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there, the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, and I just about lift off the ground in my need for more.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp.

“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands. I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”

He lifts his mouth off of my neck, returning to my mouth, his kisses softening as his fingers take their time, probing, fluttering over my clit, sliding a firm index down the line of my sex, making their way to my ass for a hard press, before returning and starting the insanity again. I am shaking, wanting, dying for another touch of his skin, wanting the silk tease of my panties gone, wanting the raw feel of skin on skin. Even with that need, I am not prepared when it happens, my mouth freezing against his kiss, brain function gone, motor skills impaired, every intelligent thought I ever had fleeing my body as his thumb presses against my clit and two of his fingers push inside my body.

Holy Jesus Hell.

He groans, his forehead on my own, pushing my head back against the wall. “Fuck, I wish you were open before me on a bed right now so I could see this.” The words tear from him, and the blurred vision of my senses sees the couple glance our way, a whispered discussion beginning, then ending; the club door opens.

“If we were on a bed right now, your cock would be out.” It is a difficult sentence to formulate, my hips thrusting, trying to help the push and withdrawal of his fingers, my eyes closing despite my best attempts to keep them open.

“Is that so?”

I can hear his need despite the cocky drawl of his question. I have my leg wrapped around him, can feel a tremor in his legs, can feel the stiff ridge of his cock that is anything but unaffected.

“I’m—” The word ‘close’ never makes it off my lips. It can’t, never has a chance at life, my orgasm eating it for dessert with a ravenous need that takes hold of everything else in its path. I tighten around his fingers, my body shuddering as delirium moves in needy waves, radiating from the center of my universe, which lies in the slick breath between his fingers and my everything. I don’t catch the first of his words; they disappear in my full body experience. But then later, I hear them as I fall back down to Earth, the vowels stretching out my grip on insanity, taking me to an additional plane I have never reached before.