Floored Page 5

  But I was me. And I just didn’t do those things.

  Why do you care what he thinks anyway? I asked myself as I dried off. He was hot as hell, and maybe he was slightly less annoying as an adult than he had been as a kid, and perhaps he was easy to talk to and knew how to work a drill, but he was still a cocky smart-ass with a big mouth. After throwing on a pair of white yoga pants and an old gray sweatshirt with the neck cut out, I combed through my wet hair and went back downstairs, determined not to let him get to me one way or another.

  As I entered the kitchen, Charlie was backing off the stepladder. “OK. I think you’re good here.” The yellow-and-white chevron patterned shades on all three windows were pulled down. As irritated as I was with him, I had to admit he’d done a beautiful job. With all the windows covered, the kitchen immediately felt warmer. More snug. More intimate, especially with a storm going on.

  “I love it. Thank you.” Beaming, I turned in a slow circle and admired the room. “I really appreciate this, Charlie. I owe you one.”

  “One what?” He wrapped up the cord and set the drill in its case before pulling on his sweater. When he lifted it over his head, his t-shirt rose, giving me a flash of skin—oh dear. Oh dear. Six-pack abs with a little trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

  My heart beat a little quicker. “What did you have in mind?” Holy shit. Had I just said that?

  “Hmm.” He tugged his sweater into place and paused. “A blow job?”

  Come on over here and drop your drawers, Officer.

  So much for not letting him get to me.

  But no…I couldn’t. “I was thinking more along the lines of a beer, actually.”

  “Oh, that kind of one. Sure, I’ll take a beer.”

  From the fridge, I took two beers, opened them, and tossed the caps in the trash. “Here you go,” I said, handing one to him. “Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte.” He knocked his bottle against mine, and we both took a sip. “You like beer?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You just seem like more of a fruity Cosmo kind of girl.”

  “Well, I’m not.” I tipped back my bottle of Uncle Steve’s Irish Stout once more, experiencing a small moment of triumph at the impressed look on his face.

  “Good to know.” He took a long pull from the bottle, his eyes on me.

  I hopped up on the island, bare feet dangling. “So.”

  “So.”Charlie leaned back against the counter across from me. “We have beer in common.”

  We smiled at each other, and some of my earlier irritation with him eased. “I guess we do.”

  Two beers apiece later, it was clear that it might be the only thing we had in common. Charlie and I had completely opposite opinions about everything from the Second Amendment to Quentin Tarantino to orange juice.

  “No. No pulp,” I insisted.

  “What are you talking about?” Charlie looked outraged. “Fresh squeezed is the best.”

  “No. You shouldn’t have to chew your juice.” I shuddered. “Pulp is disgusting.”

  Charlie dropped his head back and laughed. “OK. So you don’t like Pulp Fiction or pulp OJ.”

  “Exactly.” I sipped my second beer. “And you do.”

  “I do.”

  “But you don’t like martinis or monogamy.”

  “Monogamy?” He made a vaguely horrified face. “No.”

  I sighed. “Well, that’s it, then. We can’t be friends.”

  “Nope. I guess we can’t.” He caught my eyes and held them for a few seconds before draining the last of his second bottle. “So tell me,” he said, setting the empty on the counter next to the first. “Is there really a Tad Pitt?”

  I giggled, which I’m prone to do after two Irish stouts. “I don’t know. I suppose there could be.”

  “But not that you’re dating.”

  I pressed my lips together and ‘fessed up. “No. Not that I’m dating.”

  There was a pause then, during which the air between us took on a crackling new charge. Because of the storm, the lights in my kitchen were burning low.

  Either that or Charlie and I were sucking up all the electricity in the room.

  “I made him up,” I said, eyes on my lap, “so that I wouldn’t seem so pathetic.”

  “Erin. You’re not pathetic. You’re…”

  I looked up, waiting for him to go on, but he couldn’t seem to come up with a word. “What? What am I?”

  Just then the power went out entirely, and I sucked in my breath.

  When it came on a second later, Charlie was looking at me very intently, his arms crossed. “You’re perfect. Just like you always were.”

  He thinks I’m perfect and boring. I made a face and tipped back the rest of my beer, setting the bottle beside me. “Stop it. I’m not perfect. I’m not what you think.”

  Charlie tilted his head. “No?”

  I licked my lips. “You think I’m a joke. The Teacher’s Pet. The Homecoming Queen. The Goody Two Shoes who likes everything just so, everything neat and clean. Well, I don’t, you know. Like everything clean.”

  Charlie said nothing at first. But his stillness told me he was intrigued. A lovely little ache blossomed between my legs.

  “You like some things dirty. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, butterflies rioting in my belly.

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  “Try me.”

  Slowly, he came off the counter. Bracing my hands behind my hips, I opened my knees, and he stepped between them, sliding his hands up the tops of my thighs. He was so tall, I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Up close his chest was even more imposing, and his shoulders seemed to dwarf mine. Gooseflesh rippled down my arms, and my breaths came fast.

  By contrast, Charlie seemed completely in control. His breathing was slow and measured, his hands moving over my hips and beneath my sweatshirt. His eyes stayed locked on mine as his palms slid up the sides of my ribcage and back down, spanning my waist. “Such a tiny little thing.”

  “Scared you’ll break me?”

  “Yes.” In the near dark, his blue eyes looked black.

  “Do it.”

  In less than a second, Charlie pulled off three moves that had me gasping for air—he yanked me to my feet, turned me around, and kicked my heels apart so my legs were spread and I was bent over the island, arms pinned behind my back. His legs pressed the backs of my thighs, and his hips pushed against my ass.

  He was hard.

  The power went out completely.

  Oh my fucking God.

  Panting, I lay my cheek on the cool marble, unsure of what to do next. Between my ears, the message was this is scary. Between my legs, it was this is hot.

  “No, don’t give up. Fight me. Come on. Struggle.” His voice was different now—deeper, quieter even, yet more intimidating.

  Adrenaline coursed through my body, my heart pounding with fear, with arousal, with shock. I tried moving my arms—he pulled them tighter, clamped my wrists harder. I tried moving my legs—he pinned my hips against the marble, his erection pushing firmly into my flesh. I flexed my fingers—he laughed softly.

  “That’s it. Try everything. Scream if you like.”

  I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to. It felt like the darkness had weight, like it was bearing down on my back with a force stronger than gravity. Breathing required all the lung strength I had, and I wasn’t even sure I could keep that up.

  “Tell me I’m hurting you.”

  He was hurting me.

  But I liked it.

  He yanked my arms mercilessly behind me. “Tell me.”

  “You’re hurting me,” I said weakly.

  “Tell me to stop.”

  “Stop.” Don’t stop.

  “Tell me you don’t want this from me.”

  “I don’t—want this—from you.” Each word was its own struggle. I meant the words, and yet I didn’t. I wanted him, b
ut knew I shouldn’t. And was this only a game? Was he just testing me? Or, worse, was he back there laughing at me in the dark? I had no way to tell.

  “Good girl. You don’t want this from me, sweet thing.” He backed off slightly and somehow imprisoned both my wrists with one of his hands. The other one snaked around to my belly.

  And down the front of my pants.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  “You don’t want my hands on your pussy.”

  Confession: I almost came right there.

  His fingers slipped between my legs.

  “You don’t want my tongue on your clit.”

  He dipped a fingertip inside me, then slowly rubbed silky wetness over the hot little button, which tingled and swelled at his touch.

  “You don’t want my cock inside you.” His fingers slid down to my center and plunged slowly inside, leaving me breathless.

  He pulled them out and pushed them in again, even deeper this time. Flattening the heel of his hand against my pussy, he rubbed my clit as his fingertips awakened parts of me I never even knew existed. Parts that hummed and ached and tightened like a vise.

  “You don’t want me to make you come. Don’t let me.”

  Oh fuck, was he serious? Was this part of the game? I had no idea what to do—it wasn’t like I could move away or stop him from touching me. He had me immobilized, his hands controlling every part of me except my mind, and Christ, he had that pretty well dominated too. I’d never felt so powerless over my own sexual responses. And if he didn’t want me to come, why was he touching me this way, making me squirm and writhe and tremble beneath him?

  “Tell me not to make you come.”

  “Don’t make me come.” My voice was high-pitched and laced with frustration.

  “Louder,” he demanded, rubbing me harder, fucking me deeper with his fingers, pushing his hard cock into my ass.

  “Don’t make me come!” I cried, even as my legs began to go numb with pleasure and the tension at my core coiled tighter and tighter before exploding in a series of rhythmic contractions that had me clenching around his fingers so hard I thought I might break them.

  Before I could feel my feet on the floor again, the power flicked on.

  “Oh!” The sudden blast of light shocked me. I’d forgotten every light was on. Charlie pulled his hand from my pants and released his hold, stepping back as if we’d been caught doing something naughty in the closet at school.

  For a moment I stayed where I was, cheek on the marble, frozen.

  What the hell had just happened?

  Slowly I pushed myself up and turned around, breathing hard through my mouth.

  Charlie was back against the counter again, looking, for the first time, a little unsure of himself.

  “Well.” I sucked my lips between my teeth. “That was…unexpected.”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  But now it was awkward. So awkward. What should I do? Thank him? Offer to return the favor? Ask if he was still in the mood? I looked at his crotch, and the outline of his erection strained impressively through his jeans.

  Oh dear, he saw me. He saw me looking at his dick. Now what?

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I should go.”

  “No! I mean, don’t go yet. Um, are you…” I swallowed. “Horny? I mean, hungry?” I squeezed my eyes shut for a second. Dammit, focus!

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes, I could make you a sandwich or something.” For a moment, I had this insane little fantasy of Charlie and I eating sandwiches, then cuddling up on my couch to watch a movie.

  Then maybe he’d tell me not to let him fuck me.

  And I would not let him fuck me. I would not let him fuck me so hard…

  “No, that’s OK. I should get going.”

  “Oh.” I was disappointed, and yet also relieved. This was ridiculous—Charlie Dwyer was not boyfriend material. I didn’t even like him.

  Much.

  Spying his keys on the counter near the door, he walked over and scooped them up with the same hand that had been down my pants not five minutes ago. Holy crap. Had that really happened? It didn’t seem real now.

  Charlie saw me staring at his fingers. “Listen, Erin…I’m sorry about—what just happened.”

  I blinked at him. He was apologizing for getting me off? Oh God, now this was even more awkward.

  “I got a little out of control, a little demanding. Sometimes I—sometimes that happens when I’m…really turned on.”

  “You were really turned on?”

  The slow, sexy smile overtook his mouth. If my panties hadn’t already melted, they’d be melting now. “Yes. Believe it or not, you really turned me on.”

  I crossed my arms. Only Charlie could take me from aroused to annoyed in five seconds flat. “What does that mean, ‘Believe it or not’? Why wouldn’t I turn you on? Because I’m too sweet to be sexy?”

  He laughed. He laughed at me. “Red, you’re not that sweet.” While I fumed, he opened the door and walked halfway through it before turning around again. “Thanks for the beer. Don’t forget to lock your door in case I change my mind about…that sandwich.”

  I bared my teeth. “Get the hell out, Charlie Dwyer. And don’t come back.”

  Laughing, he ducked all the way out the door and disappeared into the driving rain.

  In a daze, I sank into a chair at the island, staring at the spot where he’d been so rough with me, treating me like a little doll at his whim. What would have happened if the power hadn’t come back on? I shivered. Would he have fucked me right there on the counter? On the floor? Would we have made it to my bedroom?

  He’d apologized for getting demanding, out of control. But actually, I was the one without control. He’d had it all. And yet, he’d given me exactly what I secretly wanted. How had he known what I wanted?

  Fucking Charlie Dwyer had the spark.

  How infuriating.

  I didn’t see or hear from Charlie for almost a month. Was I disappointed? Maybe. But it wasn’t like I didn’t have his number. He’d left it for me on his card, which I’d stuck in my nightstand drawer in case I heard anything go bump in the night. But nothing (and nobody) was bumping in the night at my house, and I couldn’t really think of another reason to contact him, at least not one that preserved my dignity.

  He’d given me the most intense orgasm of my entire life with one hand and a dirty mouth. The more I thought about that episode—Confession: I thought about it A LOT—the more insane it seemed. One minute we were arguing about pulp over a couple of beers, the next minute he had me bent over the kitchen counter, gasping in pain and pleasure, following his every command. It was frightening. It was fascinating. It was phenomenal.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to call him.

  For one thing, I was too busy giving the studio a makeover. Mia and Coco helped me paint the studio lobby and both of the dance rooms; Lucas bolted the barres to the walls more securely and reconfigured the lobby to add more seating, and Nick brought in a builder friend who helped him repair the leak in the ceiling. To thank them, I spent two weekends painting bedrooms at Nick and Coco’s new house, and filled in as hostess at Lucas’s bar, The Green Hour, when he was short-staffed a few times and Mia wasn’t feeling well. With the physical improvements at the studio underway, I felt much more confident dealing with difficult parents. I felt like they could see I was serious about keeping my promises and running the business better. I also stopped taking their calls on my cell phone. My stress level decreased a ton.

  Another reason I didn’t call Charlie was that I didn’t see the point in pursuing something with him when there was no long-term potential. At my house that night, he made it clear he preferred his “relationships” with women to be like the action films he enjoyed—intense, thrilling, and finished in about three hours. I wasn’t necessarily looking for an engagement ring, but casual sex with a playboy wasn’t my thing, either, so I kept my distance.

  And so did he.

  Unti
l the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when he showed up at my social dance class.

  With a date.

  I saw her first—a tall, willowy blonde with narrow hips, big breasts, and long legs. She didn’t look familiar, so I walked over to introduce myself, and stumbled over my own feet when I saw who she was with.

  “Whoa.” Charlie grabbed my arm so I didn’t go down completely. “And you’re the teacher? I want my twenty bucks back.”

  “Charlie. What a surprise.” I recovered, but my nerves still jittered as if I couldn’t get my balance. He was dressed in gray pants and a fitted black button down that showed off his lean muscularity, but it was his hands I couldn’t stop looking at. And his mouth. I kept replaying those few seconds when he’d pulled, turned, kicked, bent me over, and pinned me before I even realized what was happening. I kept hearing that low, calm voice as it told me what to say. I kept feeling those strong fingers slide between my legs.

  Confession: I have no idea what dance steps I taught that night. Not a clue.

  Here’s what I do remember:

  Her name was Krista. “With a K.”

  She was a terrible dancer.

  Charlie wasn’t lying about his rhythm.

  I know this because Krista with a K raised her hand at one point and asked for help. Willing my knees not to wobble, I walked over to them.

  “He’s doing it wrong,” she complained, her glossy nude lips in a pout.

  “I don’t think so.” Charlie turned her beneath his arm correctly. “I think you’re trying to go the wrong way.”

  “Let me watch,” I said, smiling at Krista. She’d been giving me the stink eye all night, probably because when Charlie introduced us, he’d called her his friend, but he referred to me as the sweet little thing who broke his heart when we were kids. A ridiculous lie, which I’d quickly cleared up, but I could tell she viewed me as her competition.

  They executed the move again, and sure enough, Krista tried to turn the wrong way, and furthermore, she did it on the wrong beat and didn’t wait for him to lead it.

  “OK. Well, first, you have to let him lead you—no turning on your own. Remember, on the actual dance floor, you’d have no idea what was coming. So the woman has to just keep the basic pattern with her feet and follow his lead. If he’s doing it right, you should feel that gentle pressure.”