Under My Skin Read online

  And despite Grams’ warnings and the fact that this is definitely not the ideal time or place, I know I’m screwed.

  It doesn’t take long for the guys to notice that I’ve stopped participating in the conversation and my attention is elsewhere.

  “No, no, no buddy. That is one part of Connecticut you do not want to explore. Do you know who she is?” Brock, one of the guys who’d befriended me almost immediately when I joined the force, sounds appalled.

  “I know,” I say curtly, my eyes still fixed on her body.

  A couple of the guys start hooting, but Brock is still disbelieving. “You know she’s Chief Connor’s baby girl? Drew’s sister?”

  Now the turd she’s talking to starts to stroke his index finger up and down her cheek. “I told you I fucking know. Where’s Drew, anyway?” I snarl. He should be watching out for his sister, not letting strange guys feel her up. The unfamiliar feeling of jealousy is so thick, I can barely pay attention to Brock. The thought of another man’s hands on what’s mine makes me see red.

  I want to push everyone out of the way, I want to stride over and pummel the other guy’s face into the stone cold ground but I know better. I’m staring at her hard, almost like I’m willing her to look my way. Right then, her friend Sophie walks over and taps her on the shoulder to hand her a drink.

  She turns her head around halfway while my eyes are still boring into her and when she sees me, her mouth falls open and she freezes.

  The way she looks at me feels like her eyes belong to no one else but me.

  But our connection is broken when her brother returns to the group holding a pitcher of beer. He sets it on the high-top table and looks around the group. “What’s going on?”

  No one says anything, but he follows the direction of my stare. “What’s Lizzie doing here?” he mutters.

  “Do you see how that guy’s coming at her?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, but she can handle herself. Lizzie’s a big girl,” he shrugs.

  I look at him incredulously but then he sharpens his gaze. “Wait a second, are you interested in her?”

  Ah hell. Well, this is awkward.

  But then he says something completely unexpected. Instead of warning me off his sister, he warns me of her. “Dude, you sure you want to take that on? I love my sister to death, but she’s scary as fuck. Mentally, she’s the great white shark in our ecosystem, and the rest of us are just guppies.”

  I glower at him.

  He holds up his hands. “Look, all I’m saying is be careful. Yes, Lizzie’s pretty and she’s smart and she’s funny, but she’s also very capable and in ways that would make her a good torturer for secret branches of the government no one is supposed to know about. That shmuck she’s dancing with? She can chew him up and spit him out—not for breakfast, but for her pre-workout snack. Just be careful, that’s all.”

  There’s so much I want to say to Drew right now, but I can’t.

  Little does he know everything he’s just told me only makes me want her more.

  Liz

  Dunbar’s is one of the bigger bars in town, but right now it feels like the size of a child’s shoebox.

  “Oh my Lord,” Clarabelle breathes next to me. “Liz, that hunk is staring at you like you’re on the dessert tray at Ruth Chris. And he’s with your brother too, does he know him?”

  I want to roll my eyes at Queen Obvious and her poor sense of similes, but I’m too focused on Mark’s eyes shooting bullets into me from across the bar.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  I completely forget about the guy chatting me up—Trevor—I think is his name, and return Mark’s death glare.

  This is my turf, but apparently my vagina thinks it’s his turf because the harder his whiskey eyes burn into me, the more worried I get that I’m going to dissolve in a mess of unresolved sexual frustration.

  After Sophie’s finger pokes my side, I find my voice. Poor Trevor looks confused at the sudden change in subject, and I might be a lot of things, but rude to perfectly nice strangers is not one of them.

  “He looks like another meathead,” I say. “Not interested.”

  Even if the words aren’t true, maybe if I say them often enough, they’ll become so. And…

  He looks like anything but a meathead. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a white V-neck. He looks like a delectable confection of XY chromosomes.

  I wish I was Princess Peach in Mario Brothers so I could float over to him, wrap my legs around those lean hips, and plant my mouth on his.

  “So you won’t mind if I cash in on some of that?”

  I frown. Who the hell says “cash in on some of that these days”, but what can I say?

  That our lips were doing the dirty and then some last night?

  That I’ll rip every strand of her hair out by her roots if she so much as touches him?

  This sharp envy is startling and unwelcome, but b/sefore I can stop myself, words escape my mouth. “Go for it. Cash away.”

  Travis—Trevor? looks pleased while Sophie stares at me dubiously.

  Clarabelle makes it a few feet in his direction before she turns her head and throws a triumphant look in our direction. I have to admit, even though she is one of the most annoying girls I’ve had the displeasure of knowing, she’s pretty. My unease grows as she continues to saunter over to my—Mark. She’s wearing black leggings and a flowy turquoise top that only covers one shoulder. I can’t help but notice how the color of her shirt is great contrast against her dark red hair, and I wonder if Mark will notice it too.

  His eyes are still on mine, but the minute Clarabelle gets right in front of him and his crew, his gaze flickers away. I draw in a sharp breath, but the guy next to me doesn’t seem to notice. Sophie does though, and she places her hand on my shoulder in a comforting manner.

  I watch intently as she talks to him. Despite her good looks, if the guy has half a brain, the moment Clarabelle opens her mouth, it’s usually game over. When the corners of his mouth turn up at whatever it is she’s saying, I scowl. My heart clenches, but the sight before me is like a train wreck—I know I should stop looking but I can’t.

  He says something to her and she laughs. She tilts her head to the side in a coquettish move that makes her curls bounce to the other side like she’s in a shampoo commercial. It’s a move she learned from Yours Truly, and I immediately regret showing it to her at a sleepover when we were sixteen.

  I’m stronger than this. I command my brain to do something, anything, and before I or Travis/Trevor knows it, I’m pulling his hand towards the back wall of Dunbar’s where a few other couples are dancing.

  It’s the designated unofficial dance floor. People don’t come here to dance, but drunk people always want to dance to music, especially a classic like what’s playing right now—Bryan Adams’s Pour Some Sugar On Me.

  Even though I turn my back to Mark, I feel his eyes on me as we walk towards the back.

  What a jerk. He’s chatting up poor Clarabelle and checking out other girls. Shameless womanizer.

  I come up with as many silent insults as I can while I push Travis/Trevor up against the wall and proceed to pour my sugar all over him. My dance partner looks thrilled, but I find the blissful look on his preppy face irksome, and I turn around so that my back is to his front. I step forward a bit just so my ass isn’t up against his person.

  Uh oh.

  Clarabelle looks delighted as she pulls Mark over and wedges into the space—right next to where we’re dancing.

  What. The. Fuck.

  “Look,” she mouths at me, like we’re bosom buddies or something. I put my hands on both hips so that I can’t smack her, and instead I shake my ass to the music.

  I know Suzanne Somers’s Buns of Steel is way outdated, but I’ve done it since I was fifteen years old, and the results are magnificent. My muscle control allows me to move seductively without any jiggle.

  I should be happy, but I’m not because I know who I’m dancing f
or.

  I’m dancing for Mark.

  There’s enough space between my dancing partner’s front and my rear for the Holy Ghost, but then Travis/Trevor gets the idea that it’s smart to close the gap. He puts his hands over mine and pulls me back into him. Mark and I are busy exchanging glares, but I still manage to shake my head, shout “no”, and pull away so that Trevor/Travis and I are back in our original position.

  But maybe he doesn’t hear me because he pulls me even tighter against him.

  And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  A firm hand wraps around my bicep—unyielding but gentle. I’m unceremoniously yanked behind a human wall while the sound of Clarabelle’s shriek assaults my eardrums. The human wall pushes against Travis/Trevor and shouts at him.

  “You didn’t see her push your hands away? You couldn’t feel it? You didn’t hear her say no?” Mark shouts, cornering him into the wall.

  He’s already menacing at least half a foot taller than Travis/Trevor, but his anger makes him something else. If his muscles start to bulge out of his shirt and his skin turns green, I wouldn’t be surprised. Any and all signs of bravado flee from Travis/Trevor’s face. Mark looks at him in disgust, and then before I know it, his hand moves from my bicep to my wrist, and I’m being dragged from our dance spot into the dark hallway that separates the men’s room from the ladies’. There’s another door, one I’ve never noticed before even though I’ve been here a million times. He turns the knob, and we’re inside mere seconds later. It’s pitch black inside the room until he pulls on the short white cord connected to the lightbulb. It’s still dim inside but it’s the perfect light to highlight the five-o-clock shadow on his face, his sharp cheekbones and the rugged jaw that have all dominated my wet dreams for the past month. His eyes bore into mine, and my lungs feel short of oxygen.

  His hand circles lightly around my throat so that there isn’t any pressure, but I’m still somewhat locked in place. “Did you enjoy that?” he asks softly, dangerously, his eyes burning like blue coal.

  “What?” I ask defiantly. Of course I know exactly what he’s talking about but seriously?

  He’s questioning me after Clarabelle? I’m tempted to spit in his face, but he looks so handsome standing there breathing fire at me, all I can think of is kissing him.

  So I do.

  When my lips meet his, it doesn’t feel like coming home.

  It feels like I just won an all-expenses paid trip to paradise complete with meals at five star Michelin restaurants. Even though I start the kiss, he quickly takes over. I happily hand over control because my brain has turned to mush, and my knees feel weak.

  His lips cover mine, shaping and molding my mouth while he tangles his tongue against mine. Both of his strong hands cup my face until one of them wanders into my hair. His fingers knead and massage my scalp while he drinks from my mouth like it belongs to him.

  My hands are busy too, feeling up those amazing pectorals and mouthwatering broad shoulders. I sigh in pleasure. It occurs to me in my addled state that the benefits of Mark far outweigh my Bullet, and we’ve barely done anything other than kiss and grope one another.

  I’m not quite sure how I end up sandwiched between him and the wall with my legs wrapped around his waist, but I don’t mind it. In fact, I love it because I can feel everything.

  It’s amazing.

  He rocks his pelvis into me, and I whimper at the friction against my ache.

  “Go out with me tomorrow,” he says, breathing the words from his lips onto mine.

  “No, absolutely not.” He nips my bottom lip just as he lightly squeezes my breast. I can’t help it. I whimper.

  “Come out with me tomorrow, and I’ll let you come.” Whatever sanity I possess abandons me. I still don’t answer, but I arch my body into his, silently asking for more.

  He pulls away.

  “You can’t come until tomorrow.”

  I stare at him dazedly until what he’s done sinks in, and my anger mounts. “You don’t own my vagina or my orgasms. Screw you asshole!”

  His mouth curves up in a sexy smirk. “We can do that too, after you’ve built your trust in me. I’ve always wanted to try that.”

  My cheeks flame. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” I’m tripping over my words, a rarity for me, and I don’t like it.

  My tongue is still hopelessly tied when he murmurs softly, “Oh, I definitely meant it.”

  And it’s definitely time for me to get out of the utility closet.

  I’m uncomfortably aroused, but I can’t let him have the last word. I pull back so that our bodies are no longer touching, squelching the disappointment I feel when he doesn’t resist. “The only time you’ll ever see me come is when you close your eyes and fall asleep,” I say sweetly, my hand on the door handle.

  Flames lick against my sensitized nerve endings when he reaches over and places his hand over mine, preventing me from opening the door. “Trust me Princess, been there, done that. I promise you the real thing will be better.”

  A low scream builds in my throat, but it dawns on me that the more I push back, the more he’ll engage. Another thought occurs to me, and I brighten.

  His eyes narrow. “Oh no Princess, you’re not making yourself come tonight either. Your next orgasm belongs to me. I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”

  My eyes grow so big, it feels like they’re overtaking my face. I pull the door handle again and mutter something, I think a denial mixed in with a few choice expletives but every cell in my body is wound so tight I’m barely aware of what I’m saying.

  My fight response is gone, and flight is in full mode.

  Husky laughter trails after me, and my legs can’t carry me fast enough through the hallway to the safety of my friends, loud music, and a public crowd.

  Fucking guy.

  ***

  By the next morning, it’s buzzing around town that I’m dating Mark Daniels.

  I haven’t actually agreed to this, but the loudmouths who saw us disappear into the utility closet have taken it upon themselves to share this bit of news across the entire town. I know this because my mother called me this morning after Bertha showed up at our front door demanding to know if Mom knew that her harlot daughter was trying to lure her innocent grandson into fornication and all sorts of other sins.

  I assure my mother that I inherited far more common sense from her than to do that (to which she snorts indelicately). After I end our phone call, I hop into the shower. In the midst of my mango scented shampoo, I decide to ignore everyone—including Mark.

  Fully soaped and lathered, it’s impossible not to let my hand wander between my legs but I hear his words from the night before, loud and clear.

  Your next orgasm belongs to me.

  Anger and arousal course through me for what feels like the millionth time. Last night after I got home, I pulled out my trusty Bullet, got gussied up in my prettiest baby doll nightie, and closed my eyes.

  But for some reason, there was an inverse connection between the commands from my brain and the direction of my usual hand and I found myself unable to do the deed. I even tried to use my other hand, but no success there either.

  My performance anxiety is his fault.

  His words are like some sort of dark magic, overriding my own wants and desires—no, turning his wants and desires into mine.

  Even now in the shower, although my hands are close to the bullseye, I still can’t bring myself to get down to business. Disgusted with myself, I rinse off and hop out. Before I grab my towel, my glistening body in the mirror catches my attention.

  I have a good body, and for the most part, I’m happy with myself. Flat tummy, Buns of Steel inspired rear, and plump, decently sized breasts. My self-confidence has never once wavered with the exception of last night, with Clarabelle of all people.

  But then I’d forgotten all about her when he had me pressed up against the wall in the utility closet, driving me to the brink of insanity. I sta
re hard in the mirror, thinking of what it would look like to see his hands on my body. I already know what it feels like, but the mere thought of seeing his callused hands travel over my body, cupping, caressing, pinching, worshipping as he makes me insane with pleasure is almost enough to bring me to the edge.

  I’m convinced that the reality of my fantasy would surely lead to my untimely demise. I can see my autopsy report now. Twenty-three year old female, cause of death: orgasm.

  Okay, this needs to stop. Ever since I’ve met him, I’ve been thinking about sex more than the average teenage boy, and ever since last night, I’ve been thinking about it more than a teenage boy with a not so average obsession with it.

  I tear my eyes away from my reflection and briskly towel off. I decide I’m spending the entire day inside with my favorite movies and junk foods. Screw everyone else.

  Once I’m in my room, I change into my favorite pair of pajamas—drawstring cotton pants and a button up, collared shirt. They’re white with life size cherries printed all over.

  Sophie gave them to me on my last birthday.

  Oh, the irony.

  Mark

  At six-fifty-five p.m, I’m standing outside her door, waiting.

  One minute later, her friend Sophie walks through the front door and gently pulls it behind her until it clicks.

  She looks at me expectantly.

  I shift over the bag containing the flowers and cannoli from Liz’s favorite bakery to the hand holding a bag of dishes from her favorite Italian place and reach into my pocket with my free hand. When I spoke to her last night at the bar and asked for her help, I’d told her she could call in a favor from me anytime.

  She seems like such a goody two-shoes, the complete opposite of her best friend, I hadn’t expected her to request two PBA cards.

  I hold them out to her, and she takes them and turns them over, inspecting them carefully before she puts them in her purse.