Free Bar Crawl by Andrea Randall Page A

moan. Not completely from her, and not totally from me. It was just the release of the moment between us, fleeing into the atmosphere around us in relief as we took our time with each other. No crowds. No sidewalks. And, for the first time in my life, my second thought wasn’t to take off her clothes.

Frankie
    H e kept one hand on the back of my neck and the other gripped the edge of the counter, as mine did. My loose hand made its way to the top of one of his shoulders, and I wasn’t surprised at all to feel the muscles flex beneath my fingers, rock hard and pulsing beneath his shirt. I quickly scanned my memory—surely I’d seen him with his shirt off and would remember how these muscles looked sans cotton. But nothing came up. In all the times I’d seen him, and with all the alcohol consumed and the bar environments, I’d never seen him without his shirt.
    My hand resting on the counter wanted in on the action, moving almost by its own will to his waist—well, what there was to speak of. The lines of his face and shoulders were dangerously sharp and straight, and that didn’t stop at his pecs. His waist was hard and straight like a doorframe, hinging expertly into his narrow hips.
    As soon as my hand connected with his waist, his hand moved to mine. I’m not a petite person, but his hands still covered large sections of my skin. Their scale against my curvy body made me shift my hips, pressing them closer to his body. I felt his deep inhale as his chest expanded, pressing me back what felt like several inches. Despite what I’d seen of him in the bars—and sometimes on the sidewalks or in cars—he didn’t seem anxious to do anything other than stand in my kitchen and kiss me. And I was perfectly fine with that.
    Until I wasn’t.
    Before I could steer the gears of my brain in a different direction, they worked in their tried and true pattern. What if, while kissing me, he realized that he didn’t want to go further because I wasn’t a good kisser, or he realized he didn’t find me attractive? Sure, we had kissed before—just today—but it wasn’t anything like the kiss here in my kitchen. What if I wasn’t all that he’d cracked me up to be in his head, and he was just trying to be polite and finish out the kiss?
    I tried to shake those thoughts from my head. CJ, while obviously promiscuous, hadn’t really ever associated himself with anyone I would consider to be ugly. Though most people aren’t ugly. I refused to let my ancient insecurity take over what was the hottest kiss of my life. Regaining control over my thoughts, I bunched the bottom of his shirt in my right hand and pulled him closer. We were flush against each other, and I could feel that he absolutely didn’t think I was anything but attractive.
    He wanted me.
    I wanted him.
    But not tonight. Not like this. I couldn’t be another notch in his bedpost. His very, very hole-riddled bedpost. Still, I couldn’t stop kissing him. Months of our subliminal cat and mouse game was at a head, and though we were kissing—our tongues barely leaving each other’s mouths—we were still circling each other. Predator and prey. And, for the first time since I’d laid eyes—and judgment—on him, I wasn’t sure which one of us was which.
    The rush I’d felt when he’d first hit on me was swirling deep inside the “told you so” part of my brain as I let out a small moan into his mouth. I’d craved him immediately—which, I assume, plays heavily into his continued success with most women. There was just enough about his exterior to keep me away until this afternoon, but once I got a good look at his brain, I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop the suggestive movements and flirty words.
    I couldn’t stop.
    I wanted to crawl inside his brain and open all the cabinets and drawers and find all the dark places he kept hidden from everyone else. Except for me. I felt like I now owned a certain part of him, in a way. Not a psycho possessive