Free To Catch a Falling Star by L. Duarte Page B

job interview. Since I never use the suit, I offered to give to her. She tried buying one, but Goodwill was too expensive and Salvation Army didn’t have her size,” Mel explains.
    “Check your room, it should be in there.”
    I watch as Mel grabs a cup of coffee and strides across the kitchen, heading down a hall.
    Mr. McGee and the preacher join the group in the living room. They engage in a serious discussion on the upcoming elections. When no one is noticing me, I pad my way to Mel’s room. I haven’t talked to her since Friday, when we had dinner. Without our counseling sessions, I don’t know when I’ll get to see her. I dread the thought. I really do.
    I stride along the narrow hall. The last door is open. Enthralled, I hear her pleasant voice singing a song by Elvis Presley.
    I silently enter the room. She is reaching for a box on the top of her closet. My dick stirs at the sight of her gorgeous ass, perking my way. Fuck, she is hot.
    She must sense my presence, because she gives up on retrieving the box, turns and, to my disappointment, she stops singing.
    “Please, carry on. You have a magical voice,” I say lowly.
    “No frigging way I’ll sing in front of a twenty-two time Grammy winner,” she says with a shy smile.
    “Twenty-two, huh. I wonder why I only have nineteen on my shelf. I must have lost a few.”
    “Oh, one of the years, you didn’t show up to the awards. But don’t they send you the trophy anyway?” she asks, intrigued.
    “Maybe.” I shrug. “It’s not all that important.”
    “You’re kidding, right? That’s the award for when you are it .”
    “I guess.”
    I see the suit on her bed still in the dry cleaner’s plastic wrap. Mel turns, stands on her tiptoes, and reaches for the box. She is unsuccessful as the tips of her fingers glide across the box. I smile and approach her from behind, easily grabbing the box.
    Mel spins and faces me. She’s so close I can smell the heady flagrance of her shampoo.
    “What shampoo do you use?” I ask. My fingers lightly stroke the honey curls.
    “Chamomile,” she says and steps back.
    “It’s so delicate and deliciously intoxicating.” I take a step forward, closing the gap between us, and trapping her against the closet. I lean in, close my eyes, bury my nose in her hair, and inhale deeply. I’ve been dying to do this since the first day I caught a whiff of her scent. When I surface, I’m on a new high. I suspect this is the most addictive thing I’ve ever used. One snort and I’m hooked for life.
    “Tarry, I, um…” She looks at me, and her eyes seem frightened. But, they’re blazing too.
    “So fucking beautiful.” I moan and inhale the scent of her hair again. Her eyes are fixed on mine. She is as still as the ancient Greek statue of Aphrodite of Milos. Our bodies are so close that ripples of warmth, lust, and tension billow from her to me. God, my fingers tingle with a need to touch her skin. Unlike what I usually do, I restrain myself. I know if I touch her, I’ll succumb to the desperate desire to taste her lips.
    But then, a soft moan escapes her lips. It undoes me. I know the door is open but, hell, I have to have a fix of her.
    I drop the box on the bed. My hands cup her face. I sense her body trembling slightly, like a captured little bird. Gently, I slide my thumb across her lips, tracing their soft and voluptuous curves. She parts her mouth. I approach slowly, my lips barely touching hers. I breathe in her breath. It is sweet and minty. I swallow hard. I have never craved something as badly as I crave her lips. I want to savor them and make it last.
    I slide one hand to the nape of her head, tangling my fingers in her hair, and I draw her to me. My lips glide lightly against hers. Then, unable to control myself, I devour her lips. Liquid fire sears through my veins. My tongue savagely strokes hers. I want to consume her. I’m lost, falling hard and fast. A shudder runs through my body, and I realize I’m the