For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (37 page)

Lynda Chance

T
yler Copeland was
bored as fuck. It was possible he didn’t appear bored for the simple reason that he sat in a secluded booth between two women who were both vying for his attention—and there was no question, both of them were young and extremely beautiful. Unfortunately, their beauty couldn’t make up for the lack of an attribute that was essential to maintaining his attention. And to put it bluntly, the attribute they lacked was intelligence.

When had he become so damn picky about a simple fuck? Truthfully, he should just stand up and leave. The club usually held more appeal than it did on this night—right now getting on his bike and feeling it vibrate between his thighs was way more tempting than screwing either of the chicks who were practically begging for it.

Neither of the women had grated on his nerves in the past. In fact, he’d fucked each of them more than once. Granted, no more than the two times he allowed himself with any one individual woman—and there was a reason for his unwavering rule. Shit became too tricky after more than a two-fuck fling. In his experience, if you screwed a woman more than twice, her personality immediately shifted. Seriously, you could make bank on that fact. After the third fuck,
every
woman wanted to sink her claws into you.
Permanently.

And that wasn’t going to happen to him. No fucking way. At twenty-six, marriage wasn’t something that was even remotely on his itinerary, not now and not in the future. He needed a good fuck as much as the next guy, in fact, his libido demanded his attention too much of the damn time—which was the reason he was trolling for pussy right now.

But neither of the women trying to nail him down for the night was going to cut it for him—he knew that definitively. He not only didn’t feel any chemistry for either of them, but frankly, their lack of intelligence bored him to tears. He needed to extricate himself from the position he was in, but so far, he’d seen no one walk through the double doors of the nightclub who held even the smallest possibility of relieving the ache in his groin, so what was the point of standing and walking away?

He continued to mostly ignore the women beside him as he slowly consumed his second beer of the evening. He looked around, easily recognizing most of the women who were in the bar tonight. He was an analytical guy, and he knew without a doubt that he could slot each of the women into one of three categories as he watched them sitting at tables, dancing, or moving around the room with a speculative gleam in their eyes.

The first category was a small set of women who were there on a date, but it was easy to see they were taken and not interested in anyone else. They’d already been with a man when they arrived, and it was more than obvious they intended the situation to stay on an even keel. Probably, these women were finally getting to have a night out with their pussy-whipped husbands after finally finding a babysitter they could trust.
Jesus, when had he become so cynical?

The second category he pegged as the proverbial
girlfriend
. They were
with
the women who were looking for a man, but weren’t looking for one themselves for whatever reason. They were the support system, the female equivalent of a wingman, but more often than not, he’d found them to be nothing but a bona fide,
you-aren’t-fucking-my-girl,
cock-blocker. He’d learned the hard way to stay away from them and their girlfriends.

The third category of women was what he was interested in. They were looking for a man, but there were so many different levels of
looking
that he’d developed a kind of subset to this particular category. Some of them would let you fuck them in the parking lot. That could work for him in a bind, but for the most part, he’d given up that particularly tasteless form of relief years ago.

His gaze continued to glance across the room as he catalogued the women who were present tonight. There was the newly divorced woman who wasn’t going to waste another second of her life without finding the
right
one. She was the type who wanted a new marriage and she wanted it
pronto
.

It was the same for the single women approaching thirty. It was time—they were ready—and they were getting so desperate they thought they might find the perfect man in a scene like this. If you weren’t careful, these women tried to tie you down within forty-eight hours—
not
in his plans at all.

He continued to examine the room as his gaze leisurely came back to the entrance. Abruptly, he felt as if a fist had lodged itself in his solar plexus—he noticed the girl right off the bat. She stood just inside the doorway with a touch of petulance on her expression that intrigued him. She seemed both pissed and determined, so he quickly added a new subset to this category of women and fitted her into it immediately. Here was the woman who’d been cheated on—this girl was the
epitome
of the woman who’d been fucked over—he could tell that entirely just by the way she held herself.

What the hell kind of idiot would fuck her over?

As he attempted to control the heat coursing through his veins just from the delicate line of her profile, he realized that he knew her. He didn’t ‘know her’, know her, but he’d seen her around off and on during the years—and he’d been more than interested. They hadn’t gone to the same high school and he’d been a few years older than she was, so their encounters had been few and far between. A vague memory hit him and made him grimace as a hot lick of guilt settled in his gut.

He’d been eighteen or nineteen the first time he’d come across her, although he couldn’t remember where, but he damn sure remembered being mesmerized by the sway of her hips as she’d walked down the sidewalk. That had been the first time he remembered seeing her, and he’d known he was going to make a move; he definitely remembered wanting to fuck her from the very first look. Looking back on it now, he admitted that the cockiness of his youth had been exacerbated by the purchase of his first Harley—he’d been on cloud nine that entire month. He hadn’t even tried to stop himself as he’d pulled to the curb at her side and promptly shot off his mouth—something about wanting to fuck her and taking her for the ride of her life. It wasn’t until she’d turned to face him and he’d seen the shock and hurt in her eyes that he’d realized how damn young she was. But it had been too late, the damage had already been done.

It had been the arrogance of youth—life was a learning experience and he’d damn sure learned a lot in the intervening years. He’d learned you had to slow down and think before you opened your mouth and took a pop shot at somebody just for the hell of it.

As he continued to watch her, he tried to analyze her thought process from what her body language was telling him.
She didn’t really want to be here, but damn, she’d been the perfect girlfriend for how many fucking years and the douchebag had continued to cheat on her anyway?
Yeah, the girl who’d just walked in was
that
easy to read. She’d finally dumped the asshole for good and now she was here to find a
revenge fuck
.

As he watched her detailing the room, there were things about her that he couldn’t possibly miss. For one, she was as pretty as she’d always been. And shit—it was almost like the more he watched her the more he could read her mind.
She wanted her pick. She didn’t do this often—or at all—and by God, she should get to have her choice—that would be the perfect revenge.

Yeah, that was it entirely. The girl had been cheated on and now she was going to get her due.

Could he work with that? Oh, yeah, he could. He’d love to help her get the revenge she needed—if she gave him half a chance.

He continued to watch her as she moved toward the bar and placed her order. While she stood back and waited for her drink, it was obvious she wasn’t going to be here for long. He could see dudes already watching her. But he wasn’t worried. She was going to make her choice and then leave with
him
—he would make that happen.

She looked around the room, dismissing one man after the next, until she seemed to stall on one particular guy who stood holding a beer bottle while leaning against the bar. A slither of irritation slid down Tyler’s spine as he took a quick glance at the guy who was watching her as well. The dude was good looking—you know, what
women
would find to be good looking. His girl—yeah, he’d already decided she would be his for a while—anyway, she looked somewhat intrigued, but then,
thank fuck,
her gaze broke from the fucker’s and continued to make its way around the room.

He waited, anticipation wrapping around his throat—he could almost feel her inner feminine muscles clenching around him already. And about fucking time, too.

And then those glorious, orgasm-inducing eyes landed on him and Tyler felt the instantaneous tightening of his balls. Their glances held, and in her eyes, he read a thousand things at once.
He
was the one—
the one she wanted
. She recognized him and son-of-a-bitch, she wanted him, too. Satisfaction coursed down his spine, because he’d known that for once, his looks might not be enough to get him what he wanted. Not from this girl—not if she was holding a grudge against him for the distressed feminine tears that his teenage cockiness had wrought.

Unable to control the need, he slowly surveyed
all
of her. She was in a dress, a short dress that emphasized the length of her legs and the curves of her waist. He could lift that dress and tear off her underwear in two seconds flat if need be, although he seriously doubted she’d be wearing any panties—not with her agenda tonight.

He felt another hit of anticipation—more anticipation than he’d felt in a long, long time. His cock swelled, his fingers started itching to touch her and as he raised his eyes back to hers, an unmitigated stroke of pure heat damn near immobilized him.

Yeah, baby,
she was the perfect fuck personified
. He’d always known it, but now she was grown up some. She was just hesitant enough to make his hunting instincts go on high alert, but she looked pissed enough to go through with this—and he was just the guy to let her take advantage of him. In fact, as he studied her high, exotic cheekbones and the tempting curve of her mouth, he thought maybe he’d
more
than let her take advantage of him—maybe he’d let her blow him. His fingers tightened around his beer bottle at the fantasy in his mind. Her hair looked long enough to fist his hands into the silky strands as he pushed her down to his cock.

Was she good at giving head? Abruptly, he knew her experience or lack of it wouldn’t matter in the least. Just the vision of her mouth closing around him was making him swell against his jeans so forcefully that beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow.

As her gaze slid away from his and she seemed to study the width of his shoulders, he knew, unequivocally, that he’d enjoy letting her use him for whatever score she needed to settle—shit, he was ballsing for her, even now.

Just as the thought formed in his head that it was time—that he needed to rise to his feet to claim her for the evening, two things happened simultaneously. Her eyes came back to his causing another rush of searing need to land in his gut—and the bimbo seated at his left must have noticed his interest in the girl because she placed her fucking hand on his face, trying to get his attention.

He resisted; his eyes stayed tangled with the girl’s across the room but he saw in a heartbeat that her interest was waning—
waning, hell
. She was suddenly appraising the women on either side of him with a decidedly disgusted expression before her eyes snapped back to his with a look of contempt she didn’t try to hide. In the next second, she turned away from him and began walking with purpose toward the fucker leaning against the bar.
Goddammit to hell!
A roar of fury tried to leave his chest but he managed to cut it off as he brushed the bimbo’s hand away and stood to his feet.

He had better things to do than waste the night humoring two women he cared nothing about.

He had prey to catch.

*     *     *

Seriously, wouldn’t it
have been easier to slash Mark’s tires?
Whitney blew out a disgusted breath as she turned away from the dark phantom of her past and began to walk toward the ladies’ room, because she needed a moment to get a grip on the situation. For whatever reason, it didn’t surprise her in the least that Tyler Copeland was here tonight—yes, she’d made it her business years ago to find out his name—and this place seemed exactly like the kind of place where he’d show up.

Putting one foot in front of the next and trying to forget the hard lines of the masculine face that was still making her heart beat faster, she walked toward the back of the darkened club. Son-of-a-bitch—the guy was
still
perfect.

Literally
—the dude was panty-wetting, climax-producing, can’t-wait-to-find-out-what-you-taste-like—
perfect
. He always had been. And he would have been perfect for what was on her agenda tonight.

But, no matter how determined she was to let loose her inner slut, she couldn’t, or at least, not with
him
. He looked good enough to eat, positively, and even now, her palms were feeling a little sweaty as her heart rate stayed at an elevated level.

How could it not? The guy had ‘come fuck me’ eyes—and shit—she wanted him to be the one. In fact, she’d
always
wanted him to be the one, that was the reason she’d made damn sure she knew his name, even though she was sure he’d never known hers.

When she’d been young and completely untouched, she’d dreamt of him kissing her, even though he’d been too old and too tough looking, not to mention she’d never spoken to him. A few years later, he’d finally noticed her
and
spoken to her, but he’d scared her shitless in the process. It didn’t matter though, she’d still fantasized about him, had still dreamt of him being the one.