Adrian Lessons (11 page)

The guard hesitates for a millisecond, then reaches over and unlocks the door.

“You’re rich,” I say to Adrian as we step inside. It’s a fact, not a question. “Are you one of those moody billionaires who secretly wants to tie me up and whip me or whatever?”

His hand brushes the back of my neck. “Are you one of those mousy secretaries who secretly wants to be tied up and whipped?”

A shiver runs through me. “I’m definitely not mousy.”

“Then I’ll just have to find out what else it is that you secretly want me to do.” His tone is dark and eight different kinds of sexy. I’m starting to think I would let Adrian make love to me on a lawnmower in a blizzard.

It’s just one night, right?

He leads me out into the stadium. I gasp. In Boston, it’s hard to find a wide-open enough space to get a good look at the night sky, but Fenway Park is set up like a stage for the stars. Even through the light pollution and the haze, they’re brilliant. I look around slowly—the moonlight is enough illumination to see the thousands of stadium seats, the baseball field stretching out like a huge emerald jewel set into the earth. It’s like the ghost of all the screaming energy that’s here during the day has invaded this place at night, too, making it hum.

“Gorgeous,” I mutter.

“I agree,” he says, looking directly at me.

Any second now, he’s going to lean over and…I try to relax my muscles. I can do this. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a woman, damn it!

“Now’s your chance,” he says.

He…wants me to make the move? Well, I can do that. Probably. Sweat erupts all over my face and my stupid mouth blurts out, “I’m a virgin.”

It’s hard being this sexy all the time.

Shock crosses his face, and he opens his mouth, but I cut him off. Apparently divulging my deepest secrets at random times is what I do around the Sex King. Soon he’ll know that I peed on fellow little leaguer Todd Baker’s mouth guard when I was twelve years old because he called me a ho. “I know. I know! I had a boyfriend for three years, right? So why the heck am I a virgin, right?”

I give a casual, charming laugh. What actually comes out is the maniacal witch’s chuckle from
The Wizard of Oz.
Go figure.

“Cleo—” he starts.

“You have to understand why I stayed with him. I loved him. I loved him hard, Adrian. He was the first person I ever met who understood that I was a real human being, not just the ditzy girl who liked to make people laugh. I figured I could make it work—I wanted to make it work—despite the fact that…”

I swallow.

“He never wanted to have sex. Eric, I mean. At first I figured he was just the waiting type, and he would want to eventually, but…nope. I mean, lots of people have celibate relationships! I researched it! We did some other stuff, but he never really seemed into that either, and eventually I just…”

The last part is too depressing to say aloud, so I mostly mouth it.

“What?” he asks.

“Eventually I just drghhghhh.”

“I can’t understand you.”

“Eventually I just decided I wasn’t pretty enough for a guy to want to have sex with me, so I stopped trying,” I shout. Fenway Park offers a helpful echo. My face burns, and I stare at the ground. Fenway Park is a good enough place to bury myself alive as any. Maybe Adrian has a shovel in his car.

“First of all,” his low voice comes, “I wasn’t going to suggest we have sex.”

I nod and smile and contemplate removing all the skin from my body with a potato peeler.

“Second of all,” he says, stepping closer, “I don’t know why your ex didn’t want to have sex with you, Cleo, but there’s no way it was because of how you look. That’s just flat out impossible. You are mind-blowingly beautiful.”

There’s something pleading and soft in his eyes. It’s too tender and I can’t handle it. I clear my throat. “So, if you didn’t bring me in here to bang me silly, why, exactly?”

He smiles a smile that I’m pretty sure is the eighth deadly sin. “To go streaking at Fenway Park.”

“Ha, ha,” I say. “Ha. Wait. You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

Any tiny flame of sexual confidence that I’d been cultivating, blowing on frantically like a starving hiker in the forest trying to start a fire, poofs into nothingness. “You remembered me saying that? That’s I never planned on achieving. Like becoming an astronaut. Or sleeping with James Franco.”

He shrugs. “I’m hotter than James Franco.”

I hold up a hand, ready to lay into him—nobody puts down J.F in front of me—before slowly lowering it. He’s right. Dear lord.

“SLEEP WITH HIM,” screams my uterus politely.

“What’s the point of having a dream if you won’t achieve it?” Adrian sweeps his hand toward the empty stadium and the sky. “Nobody’s here to see you but the stars.”

“And you,” I add.

“If you want me to, I’ll look away.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes. “What other chance are you gonna have to go streaking at Fenway Park?”

He’s right. Adrenaline itches its way up my arms. He paid for this privilege, with what I’m increasingly believing was a
lot
of money, and it’d be a crime to waste it.

And there’s something about Adrian that makes me want to experience things. To be fully young. To let go.

“All right,” I announce, my heart pounding. “I’ll do it. But you have to go up in the stands. Far enough away where I know you won’t be seeing all the details.”

I expect him to protest, but he just nods. “Seeing you naked from any distance is more than enough.”

He turns and starts climbing the stadium stairs. When he’s high enough that all six feet of him appears small, I cup my hands around my mouth. “That’s far enough!”

“I’ll stay right here,” he yells back. Sound carries well here.

I turn and look out across the expanse of field, taking a deep breath. Then I slide my skirt down over my thighs. And pull my shirt over my head.

And just like that, I’m standing in Fenway Park in nothing but my panties and bra, with Adrian King less than a hundred meters away.

I close my eyes and try not to remember how Eric used to look at me when I was like this, with total disinterest and a fake smile. And then I unhook my bra and step out of my panties.

There’s something about being nude in the open air that’s like jumping into cold water. For a second, all your muscles seize up and it’s awful, but then the tension bleeds out as you get used to the new temperature and suddenly it feels wonderful. The breeze caresses my bare stomach, my breasts, my thighs.

I look back at Adrian. I must be as small to him as he is to me, but he can definitely tell that I’m naked. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like his body is rigid. I bite my lip. Then I spot him raise his hands to his mouth.

“What’s that in the field, folks? It’s—it’s a girl! A naked girl has run onto the field in the middle of the game! And, folks, she appears to be the most beautiful girl in the world!”

I laugh. I swallow. And then I run. Adrian’s voice, in the fakey radio announcer tone, follows me.

“Folks, this is truly incredible. Normally security catches streakers quickly, but all the guards are standing still, totally shocked by how gorgeous this girl is! A hush has fallen over the stadium! Nobody dares to breathe! Is she a collective hallucination? Some sort of mythical creature?”

He’s really laying it on thick, but I feel like a mythical creature as I race across the empty Fenway Park, my bare feet slamming into the turf. I feel drugged, alive and totally free. Wind rushes over my body as I pant, my muscles stretching and aching.

“No, she’s a real girl, folks—Cleo Reynolds, as real as it gets, as perfect as it gets. This announcer is lucky as hell that he’s here today, because never in his life did he imagine anything so beautiful.”

It may just be the effort from running, but I swear my heart skips a beat at his words. Some new feeling surges over me. I put my head down and sprint to get rid of it, but it follows me. It’s there even when I stumble to a halt at the other side of the field, daggers lancing my side, utterly out of breath and utterly exhilarated.

“Can you bring me my clothes?” I yell across the field with the last of the oxygen in my lungs. “I don’t think I can run back.”

A thrill runs through me at my own daring as Adrian heads down to the field. He appears to be taking the steps three at a time.

When I finally hear his footsteps near me, I’m lying on my back, staring at the stars. My heart is about to drill its way out of my chest, but I pretend I’m calm. His footsteps slow. I steel myself and get up, turning to face him.

“Wow,” he says softly.

I meet his eyes. My own naked (literally) desire is reflected there. His expression both terrifies and excites me—it’s a dark, savage need that somehow has found harmony with a gentle, awed tenderness.

“I need to touch you,” he says. “I’ve never needed anything more in my life.”

“I need to be touched,” is my response.

He lets out a harsh groan and suddenly I’m in his arms. He’s pulling me against his chest, his strength knocking the breath from me, or maybe it’s just his presence that does that. I can feel him shaking with restraint. Like a arrow notched taut in a bow, kept suspended. I hear the torn edges of his breath and I want him to let go. I want to be pierced.

“I want you more than I ever thought was possible,” he growls in my ear. “But I’m not going to take you. Not tonight. I’m saving that for the exact moment when I know it’ll blow your mind the most. And I can do that, because tonight isn’t the last night I’ll spend with you, Cleo. Not by a long shot.”

Before the disappointment can settle into me, he brings me down toward the ground, supporting me with his hand in the small of my back as he lays me down. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t touch you.” He runs his fingers over my stomach. “And touch you.” His hand moves up, to the side of my breast. “And touch you.” His finger makes small, expert circles over my rock-hard nipple, sending long, slow shockwaves of pleasure through my body.

“Jesus, Adrian,” I shudder. “Are you sure you don’t want to…?”

He sits back, taking me in—flat on my back, shining from sweat, nipples standing at attention, a soaking wetness between my thighs. The muscles in his neck rope and he closes his eyes briefly.

“I promise,” he murmurs, leaning forward and trailing kisses down my neck, “that the moment I do take you will be something you remember for the rest of your life.”

His lips are warm and soft and pure, molten pleasure. He bites gently at my neck, at my chest, at each breast. Every touch draws a moan out of me. He selects specific places on my body to kiss—the ridge of my collarbone, the hollow just underneath my breasts. When his lips press into the flat of my stomach below my belly button, a surge of warmth floods the space between my thighs and I nearly come.

“What the fuck,” I pant. “How is that possible? I almost just…”

“It’s like acupuncture,” he murmurs, giving me a moment to catch my breath. “There are particular places on the human body that beg to be touched. That bring so much pleasure.”

I want to make some quip, but I’m so turned on I can barely breathe. My fingers inch toward my clit, but he takes my hand and pins it to the ground. “Not yet.” His eyes are full of amusement. “You don’t get to come yet.”

“Why?” I whimper.

“I have a theory.” His fingers trace my inner thighs. “That the more times you come to the edge…” His tongue brushes the skin of my stomach. “Without being satisfied…” He brings his finger down to the dripping part of me and moves it lightly up to my clit, sliding over the surface of the sensitive skin with the barest of touches. “The better the end result will be.”

I arch my back—that simple touch made my eyes roll into the back of my head—but he takes his hand away just before the orgasm comes.

Then he straightens, smiles, and drops my clothes next to me.

“Come on,” he says. “The night isn’t over.”

~10~

ADRIAN

There’s something you need to understand before you read any further.

And that’s what it’s like to be a horny man.

Specifically, what it’s like to be a horny man who has just kissed the most beautiful girl in the world all over her body, listened to her moan for him, felt how wet she was for him, and then not even unzipped his pants.

Try imagining you’re alone in a hot, dry desert. You haven’t had a drop to drink in days. You haven’t
seen
a single fleck of moisture since you came here—just miles and miles of blazing sand. You’re about to literally die of thirst. Every part of you is shriveled and wasted. And then you come upon a clean, crystal-clear, spring-fed lake.

And you decide not to drink.

Yeah, I’m pretty damn proud of my own willpower right now.

I might die, but at least I have my willpower.

“Where to now?” Cleo asks, her clothes tragically on, bouncing slightly in my passenger seat. It’s past midnight and she suddenly has the energy of a baby tiger.

“A club. I think we both need to burn off some energy.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m so hard I’m about to tear through my pants. And possibly the roof of the car.

“Yes! Dancing. You may not know this about me, but I am the
best
worst dancer in the world. My dancing has been classified as a weapon of mass destruction by the U.N.” She rolls down the window and lets the city wind whip her hair.

“Well, you are the bomb,” I remark.

“That was pretty corny.”

“I try.”

I drive us to Sub Zero, one of the best clubs in Boston. There’s a line, girls in stripper heels and red-eyed college boys. I park and unlock Cleo’s door.

“Actually, I’m not really dressed for this…” she starts.

“You’re right. You should probably get undressed again,” I say seriously, and she laughs. “Also, your clothes are fine. I know the bouncer. Don’t worry.”

I don’t actually know the bouncer, but three twenties and suddenly “We’re at capacity” changes to “Right this way, sir.” He unhooks the rope, and Cleo and I slip through.