Under My Skin Read online




  Contents

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Under My Skin

  By Delia Foster

  Copyright © 2015 by Delia Foster

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  Cover design by Delia Foster

  Cover photo by http://www.shutterstock.com

  Dedication & Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  This book is for YOU. It is because of you that it exists in the first place. I never intended to write a story about Liz. She appeared in Beyond Bliss as Sophie’s best friend. In Beyond Bliss, she was the quintessential strong girlfriend—the friend you call during a break-up when you need an accomplice to toilet paper your ex’s house, the friend you call when you need a wing girl at the bar…

  I never expected Liz to resonate with so many of you.

  When requests started pouring in for her story, it took me a while to warm up to the idea. Once I did, I decided to bang out a quick, short novella and move onto my next project.

  And what happened?

  As in Beyond Bliss, Liz had a mind of her own. My novella turned into the longest body of work I’ve written to date because Liz and Mark needed to have their story told. I outlined, I plotted, and every single point of their story that I’d planned flew out the window the moment my fingers touched my keyboard. It was also a challenge because I was forced to step out of my writing comfort zone. My previous two books were written in third person, and while that was my initial inclination, I decided this story was better told from the alternating first person, present tense POV.

  These two did not make it easy on me, and there were so many times I threw my hands up in the air, but they kept drawing me back into their story.

  Their story was so much fun to tell, and I hope you love them as much as I do.

  Xoxo,

  DF

  PS. This story takes place years ago, before Beyond Bliss, in 2007.

  Liz

  “Jesus H. Christ, Sophie! Do yourself a favor and check out the ass on the guy that just walked by.”

  My eyes fixate on the delectable male backside encased in tight denim. It’s firm, muscular, has just the right amount of curve, and belongs to a tall frame with broad shoulders. Whomever it belongs to is built and lean.

  I normally don’t have preferences where male body parts are concerned, but at this very moment, I find myself willing to give up my right pinky to be where those Levi’s are. I’m probably making cow eyes as Perfect Ass continues his steady stride down the aisle, but I’m beyond caring. I ogle that ass in all its glory like it’s a mirage about to disappear until a sharp elbow connects with my side.

  My teeth sink hard into my lip to keep me from yelping. I turn hard eyes on my best friend. “What the hell was that for?” I hiss.

  “Liz, in case you haven’t noticed, we happen to be sitting in church.”

  “You’re such a prude,” I grumble, but I’m distracted once more as my eyes wander back over to the pew where Perfect Ass stops. “Liz!”

  I shrug. “I’m just admiring one of God’s creations.” I can’t tear my eyes away as he bends down and gives old Bertha Daniels a kiss on her papery cheek. When he sits next to her, my eyes lose sight of his wondrous globes, and I feel the corners of my mouth tug downward into a frown.

  “Damn.”

  “You’re going to burn in hell, you know that?” Sophie whispers furiously at my side.

  I turn to face her and wink. “I’m well aware, dollface. I also happen to know I’m going to have fun going down in flames, so I don’t mind too much.”

  She groans at my flip answer before turning back to face the choir.

  I want to laugh, but I stay quiet.

  Sophie Harlow and I have been best friends since the days before either one of us met Aunt Flo. She is my complete opposite in almost every way possible, and this suits me just fine because people like me annoy the hell out of me.

  She is the yin to my yang.

  The jelly to my crunchy peanut butter.

  Sophie is serene, kind, and caring. If she doesn’t have anything nice to say, she keeps quiet. She’s the kind of girl that mothers want their sons to bring home.

  She’s the proverbial girl next door.

  With my dark brown hair, blue eyes, and petite frame, I look like the girl next door.

  But that illusion is quickly ripped apart the second I open my mouth.

  When I was younger, there was a section on my report cards for “Behavior”. After I brought the first one home, I tried explaining to my parents that the “U” didn’t represent unacceptable. I’d drawn two tiny slashes on top of each vertical line. When I explained that my teacher had drawn a horseshoe to represent what great luck I had in behavior, my dad told me I was also going to get an “A” in fiction, and he grounded me from the television for a week.

  I’m now too old for grounding, but both of my parents won’t hesitate to give me an earful if the occasion warrants.

  And those earfuls are lengthy.

  I'm thankful that they sit in the pew in front of us, and I’m out of earshot. Although, if Mom turns around right now, she’ll be greeted by bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and she’ll know.

  My mom is one of those moms that just always knows.

  I rein in my lust and focus my gaze on the choir, but my thoughts are still with Perfect Ass and his perfect body.

  Name it, I’ve dated it.

  Ripped and fit.

  Pudgy and stocky.

  I consider myself a woman inspired by intellect. Wicked, funny banter revs me up more than a calendar-worthy body does, so I’m perplexed at my body’s intense physical reaction to the mere back of a body.

  His face is probably imperfect.

  He could also bat for the other team.

  Or maybe he’s got a beautiful face and he’s heterosexual, but he lacks wit.

  And if he doesn’t fit in any of the above, the fact that he’s sitting in a church next to Bertha Daniels, who’s got to be older than the telegraph, means that he’s a good boy.

  Good equals boring, and with the exception of Black’s Law, I don’t do boring. I look away again, but my eyes are drawn back to the back of Perfect Ass’
s head. His large frame looks overwhelmingly huge next to Bertha’s tiny, hunched shoulders. I study every visible detail from the confident wide set of his broad shoulders to the length of his dark brown hair. It’s too long to be military, but too short to be civilian.

  Even as he sits in a pew thirty feet ahead of me, his body and demeanor exude raw masculine sensuality.

  Hot.

  My mind is so caught up in images of me crawling all over his large muscular, faceless frame, I don't even notice when service is over. Normally, I hightail my ass out of there before Father Donahue utters his last word, but tonight I stall. As the crowd dwindles down, Sophie’s looks become more knowing. Usually, I drag her out with me for quality girl time, but instead of fleeing the church, I slowly saunter over to the foyer.

  The prize is in sight.

  I see him from twenty feet away, and like a pothead reaching for a joint, my body moves on autopilot.

  Sophie isn't victim to the hypnotic effects of Perfect Ass. This means she's no longer walking in lock step with me, so by the time I reach them, she's already engaged in conversation with her mother, my parents, and Bertha Daniels.

  Yuck. Bertha. Ugh.

  But I don’t dwell on Bertha’s presence too much because standing across from her, facing me, is the most magnificent ass since Michelangelo’s David.

  Holy cow.

  Dear God, please don't let him be a butter-face.

  I inch closer until I’m standing directly behind him. I’m close enough to inhale his clean, male scent, but my shameless fan-girl olfactory activities are put on hold when Bertha notices me. The instant her eyes land on me, her gaze turns frosty and her broad smile falters.

  The old bat still hasn't forgiven me for…well hell, I can’t remember what it is she’s most offended by…

  Jeez, some people can hold a grudge.

  “Elizabeth,” she acknowledges curtly.

  See, now this is the problem I have with church. Not necessarily the act of going to church, but the other people who sit and pray with you and conveniently forget about the concept of forgiveness and treating thy neighbor as they would wish to be treated themselves.

  “Bartha,” I greet her warmly.

  She hates when I do that. When she was my homeroom teacher freshman year, I had the miraculous luck of drawing her name for the Secret Santa exchange.

  I got her the first full season of the Simpsons.

  Her papery, lined cheeks burst with color at my deliberate mispronunciation.

  Who needs Cover Girl when I’m around?

  I smile, but I quickly lose train of all sane thought the instant Perfect Ass turns on his heel to look straight at me.

  He has an equally perfect face.

  Holy shit.

  I am standing next to my parents, my brothers, and my best friend in a holy place of worship, and I can literally feel the moisture seep from between my thighs into the crotch of my panties as his eyes pierce into mine.

  For once in my life, I'm stunned stupid. It might be because the pure lust running through my veins feels electric. Or maybe it's because I’m simply trying to soak in every beautiful feature all at once because I don’t know where to start. I definitely don’t know the answer.

  All I know is his eyes are the same color as my dad’s favorite whiskey, they look amused, and they’re focused on me.

  His nose looks like it might have been broken a time or two, and his lips are slightly more full than they should be. They’re slightly turned up at one corner of his mouth.

  I wish we weren’t in church so I could wipe the smirk off his pretty face.

  I want to bite those lips, suck on them, and feel them all over every inch of my body.

  His hair is dark and shorn closely against his head, further reinforcing my hunch that he is or was in the military. My mind is flooded with images of him in navy whites.

  Or maybe marine blues…

  Regardless of the uniform color, every scenario ends with me stripping it off his huge frame until he’s in his birthday suit.

  I'm so lost in my sexual fantasy, that when he extends his hand to take mine, I freeze for a few seconds.

  Sophie nudges me, and I realize that someone is speaking to me.

  Belatedly, I offer my hand in return. I'm conscious of his lips moving and sound coming out of his mouth, but all I hear is dull white noise.

  Seconds later, it fades, and I can faintly hear Bertha speaking.

  “Liz, you should remember Mark, my grandson. He’s just come to Sheffield, and he’s joining the police department, so he’ll be working with your father. I was just introducing him to our lovely young Sophie here,” she says.

  My mouth drops open, and even though I must be gaping like a fish, I can’t help it. The perfect ass belongs to Mark freaking Daniels, my childhood summertime nemesis?

  Alarms, red flags, and nuclear bombs all explode in my brain as her words sink in. The last time I saw Mark Daniels, he was the same height as he is now, but he weighed around seventy-five pounds less and wore awful, thick glasses that earned him the nickname Harry Potter.

  My hand is still in his, and my short-circuited brain regains function as it dawns on me that I haven’t said a word. I'm making an epic fool of myself in front of my friends, family, and God.

  Not to mention Bertha, and I wouldn't give her the pleasure if it earned me a spot at the pearly gates.

  I can be described as a lot of things but speechless and epic fool aren’t among them. My inner voice simultaneously scolds my hormones and commands my tongue to speak, but he beats me to the punch.

  “Lizzie Connor? The same Lizzie Connor who stuffed her bathing suit?”

  And just like that, my shock disappears in the face of instant outrage. If looks could kill right now, he’d be in front of the first pew, lying in a coffin. Not only do I forget how hot he is, I lose all sense of time, place, and decorum as words start to fly out of my mouth

  “Well, if you were going to insist on wearing speedos to the pool instead of trunks, you should have taken a page out of my book and stuffed your nonexistent package. First impressions, lasting impressions, and all that,” I shoot back.

  Someone chokes behind me. From the corner of my eye, I see Bertie’s face flame, and she starts to dig around in her huge purse, probably for smelling salts. Sophie, my brothers, and my parents all have various degrees of chagrin written on their faces.

  What.

  Ever.

  The grin that spreads across his handsome face is slow and diabolical. To anyone looking at us from the outside, it probably appears as if he’s just smiling at me.

  But I see the heat and challenge in his eyes, meant just for yours truly.

  I lift my chin in silent acceptance.

  When he replies next, his voice washes over me. It’s deep and husky, and my cursed hormones could listen to him talk all day. “It’s good thing for growth spurts, don’t you agree Lizzie?” I’m watching him like a hawk, so even though the moment where his eyes dip to my breasts is infinitesimal, I still catch it.

  The heat between my thighs starts to ache in a way that’s both pleasurable and uncomfortable.

  Shit.

  My mind runs through the lengthy list of encounters we’ve had beginning when I was five and he was eight. I was thirteen the last time I saw him in the flesh, and he’d been a gawky, pimply-faced beanpole. Would I have done anything differently if I’d known he would turn out to look like one of the models in my Chippendales calendar?

  And a better question for the Big Guy up above — why the hell does Mark Daniels look like Mr. February?

  Oh well, no point in crying over spilled milk.

  I blink innocently and smile. “It would be an even better thing if intelligence went through growth spurts too, don’t you agree?”

  He tips his head in my direction, acknowledging my point. I’m right there, right on the cusp of satisfaction when he draws a bit closer to me. He leans in like he’s about to share a secr
et, and I stop breathing.

  Did I just lose my breath because he's so close, or is it his clean male scent?

  Could it be both?

  Who cares?! My hormones shout. My panties are now wetter, my knees feel weaker, and I silently thank God for padded bras because my nipples are hard to the point where even I would feel ashamed to have them on display.

  He leans in just enough to where his soft lips barely brush my ear, and then he adds, “Personalities, too, I’m sure you would agree.”

  Up until this point, my hands have been stoically clenching and unclenching into fists at my sides.

  They say that idle hands are the devil’s hands.

  Always one to challenge the status quo, I disprove that saying the instant my open palm cracks against his handsome, smirking face.

  Liz

  It takes me one week to break.

  As much as I’m disgusted with my lack of willpower, I’m equally impressed I managed to last at all because I still can’t get his face out of my head. Even if he didn’t have a perfect ass, the minute I’d seen his warm eyes, easy smile, and the strong, sharp planes of his face, I was done for.

  This is just proof that God is paying me back for my hellion ways.

  Otherwise, why would I meet a mortal childhood enemy, develop an attraction to said enemy, and inflict violence on him in church?

  He is definitely trying to send me messages of His displeasure.

  And I’m sure I’m not going to get in His good graces anytime soon because I'm about to give into temptation. I feel like I’m four again, and Mom is telling me not to touch the pretty, dancing flame on the candle because it’s going to burn my finger.

  The lines on the fingerprint of my left index finger are still interrupted by a tiny, smooth circle from the burn to this day.

  This is a bad idea because I’m not thinking clearly. As a self-admitted nutcase, I know that making decisions with a foggy brain is bound to have disastrous results. The minute I push my way through the double doors of the station, I’m struck with the urge to turn tail and run.