Switch Me On. Jule Mcbride
at least as interesting as a vibrator, right?
Tonight, she wasn’t going to unwrap the package. She’d enjoy the pretty paper, bow, and greeting card, but she wasn’t sticking around to watch another late-night rerun of her floundering love life, season umpteen. Lifting his wrist to show him his watch, she decided to tell him his time was up, and make some joke about his ten-minute track record—they’d been dancing way more than ten minutes—but when her finger grazed his wrist, she felt his pulse leap. Heat flared like fire on a match. She guessed all the sweaty dances had worked their mojo. The heady elixir of man-sweat had taken his scotch, testosterone and mint cocktail to a whole new level, too. Give me the garnish! Kick it up a notch!
She was reminded of old advertisements she’d spent hours studying—the Marlboro Man, Old Spice and Irish Spring. He was all of them rolled into one. His hand turned deftly in hers, and as his wrist moved, she figured he had to be double jointed or something, then her mind went blank, the whole bar fuzzy at the edges. His strong hand was in hers, palm to palm, and she simply felt lost. When he twined their fingers, it seemed more intimate, somehow, than if he’d just ripped off all her clothes. The Big Lie talking. She’d been here a million times before.
Old Smashing Pumpkins was playing, making her think she’d better start worrying about pumpkins turning into carriages. Dropping his hand, she danced away, but he seemed confident she’d boomerang back. Just like whatever was passing between them, the beat was raw and thumping, and when he found her, they were dancing in earnest. Jumping. Shaking. Vibrating. Getting down and dirty with some bumps and grinds. She lost him, he found her again, and by then she realized there was no escape.
“Awesome!” she conceded.
“You’ve got the sexiest voice I have ever heard,” he yelled.
El dudes always mentioned her pipes. “I know.”
All he was really saying was that he wanted to get laid. After a few more songs, she finally took pity because he kept fishing for the personals, and she yelled that she and Paulie, the owner of Boondocks, had hung out together in the tenth grade, long before his Unwelcome Incident with Sally. Back then, Ari’s dream had been to work in radio, and since Paulie now kept a DJ setup for ladies’ nights, he insisted she spin songs when she came in.
“You know everybody here.”
“You’re the only guy I haven’t slept with. Small town, you know.”
“So you’re not The Girl. You’re The Girl With a History.”
“Okay. Maybe not everybody,” she conceded.
“Definitely not everybody.”
“How would you know?”
“You haven’t slept with me.”
She’d never been so glad to hear heavy metal. For Ari, it conjured images of old men in leather pants eating bats on stage before they destroyed their own guitars, but this guy could dance to anything. What a workout! She was suddenly glad Paulie didn’t allow anything touchy-feely on his jukebox because this guy might suddenly announce he could freaking waltz.
He was reaching for his tie now, too. A bad sign. It should have meant something red with exclamation points like Wrong Way! Or Stop! Instead, it was just turning yellow and flashing, saying Trouble Up Ahead. And who didn’t know that already? “You are formal for Paulie’s,” she yelled as those maddening, fluid hands tugged off the tie in a seamless gesture, looped it around her neck and used the ends to pull her to him.
Suddenly, she wished they’d met in work mode when she looked more respectable. Then she kicked herself for wanting to impress him. That was this guy’s appeal, right? He seemed too at ease with himself and living for the moment.
“I don’t usually party like this,” she suddenly screamed, but the words were lost. “I’m trying to be good!” There it was again, her approval seeking. It meant something deep inside her, something over which she had no control, was responding to this guy, and she wanted him to...like her.
“You aren’t going to be good in that outfit, sweetheart.”
Sweat beaded and slid down her cleavage, and when he used an end of the tie to dab at it, she wound up yelling more nonsense about the holidays, her nutso family, the new place in Raleigh and her workload, and of course, next month’s Unwelcome Incident. The Final Incident.
Frowning, he yelled, “You like your work?”
“Love it!”
He looked a little appalled, which was strange. Most men saw dollar signs when she said she liked work, but he only waved a hand as if to say, to each his own. The tie he was using to clean up her neck was pure silk, and suddenly she gasped. The fingers tracing her neck, skin on skin, felt even more silken than the tie.
Bending, he yelled, “I don’t know if I’m staying here.”
Relief flooded her. He wanted her to know he wasn’t up for LTR. Good. But why was he here? Because Ari hadn’t had time to get her hair done, she hadn’t talked to Mrs. Eli who owned the salon, and who would have filled her in on the town’s latest gossip.
“In town for the night?” She couldn’t hear the response, and by the end of the next song, he’d danced her into the darkest, most isolated corner, between the bar and jukebox. The next conversation started with a super long leg pushing between hers, guiding them apart, bringing a sweeping sensation of warmth. Glancing around, she leaned against the jukebox. No one was watching. He was whispering something, but she didn’t know what, just something every bit as dark as it was promising. And it was only a promise. The Big Lie. Already, she was imagining the morning after when she would admit he wasn’t going to be The One. Already, she was telling herself it was the twenty-first century and nobody was looking for The One.
Teeth caught her earlobe in a bite that was a little painful, yes, but oh so pleasurable. A playful tug, then a quick, hot, flicker all the way down her neck, turning into teasing kisses just inside the collar of her blouse. Suddenly, her nipples tightened, aching as her blood raced, and she was imagining kisses in places more intimate. Her breasts, yes. But mostly right where the hard ridge of thigh was creating such steady pressure. Her chest rose, her breasts swelling, as if for his touch, and she gasped as he responded, his arms tightening, wrapping around her chest, stealing her breath. Shuddering, she had no doubt he could unbutton complicated garments with his teeth, and in her mind, she was imagining him doing it. Her blouse was falling to the floor, her bra opening, those hands stroking...
Then he kissed her on the lips. The firm hard pressure felt heavenly. It was just the kind of kiss she craved. The kind that said, I’m the boss, I’m the man, and I’m going to make you come whether you want to or not. He was all tongue now. All creamy, hot, wet flutters pushing her toward the edge of a cliff, making her teeter on a precipice. She fought not to respond, but she had to, just a little, to relieve herself on that blessed ridge of thigh. It was just one stupid kiss not some vista over a canyon! Not some precipice! She was just imagining the stupid, freaking canyon! It was The Big Lie again! She didn’t even know him!
The ministrations of his tongue inside her mouth were pushing her into a smoky space, where everything was like the music, thumping and pulsing. She was tumbling into nothingness, until suddenly, everything came to a halt, and she thought, Don’t stop! Not now!
He left her hanging, wanting it so bad...until she was wondering what else he could do if he could make her feel this way with only one kiss. With a next liquid dart of his tongue came the explosion of butterflies in her belly, and the jitters shook her until she was achy all over, the pang at the apex of her thighs clamoring. Feeling strangely helpless, she curled her hands around his shoulders and squeezed, then she moved her hips again, gasping at the sweet friction.
She knew he could feel the burst of liquid heat through his slacks, her tights and panties the only other barrier. Nobody was spying on this dark, back corner, but it wasn’t the right place to melt onto the warmth of some stranger’s thigh, or to be swept into his embrace.
Some jerk turned