James Games (2 page)

There’s absolutely no way I’ll have any more fun at this concert until I drive him away. He is a fun vampire.

I wedge myself between him and the stage, the smoky backdrop of lights and sweat-plastered heads disappearing as I look straight into his eyes. I dance big, my hips slicing and arms jagged. The message is clear.
I’m here. You’re not invited.

But he doesn’t back away. He takes one step forward, then another, until I’m pinned between him and the stage, my back pressing into the wooden rim. The only girl at the concert not facing the band. Instead, I’m facing him. His message is clear:
I’m bigger than you.

I hate it when people insinuate that they’re stronger than me because of my size. He’s about to get enrolled in Why That’s Not True 101. I boldly press my body against his, demanding his space, shaking my hips and not giving an inch. He doesn’t move back, but he does move, curving his body in response until I’m wedged up tight against what I’m now realizing is a splendid set of abs, barely concealed under a fitted-but-not-too-fitted black T-shirt.

And suddenly, we’re dancing together.

Our bodies mold naturally, like we we’re two sides of the same puzzle piece that happened to go to the same concert. I’m actually shocked at how perfectly my hips notch into this stranger’s. The minute I slip out of battle-mode to appreciate it, a warmth floods my abdomen. We’re pressed together, every inch of him up against my non-existent shorts and bare stomach, his narrow hips fighting mine for the same space.      

Shit. This is hot.

Really,
really
hot.

He rocks against me, and there’s something new in his storm eyes. Something harsh and demanding. Is he expecting me to turn around and grind my ass on him like a drunk chick at a club? Screw that. This fight isn’t over. It just got better.

I stay facing him and raise my arms, hooking my hands in my hair and lifting it so it tumbles over the back of my neck, keeping my eyes locked on him. I let my body unhinge at the waist and take full advantage of my flat, bared stomach, swaying with every abdominal muscle I have and letting my hips follow. I don’t let him pull me to him, or push himself against me. I come to him, rocking my hips against his and sliding my chest and stomach against him until he’s forced to stumble back an inch.

Hah.
Your move.

His eyes narrow and he reaches out, grabbing my hips. The sudden jolt of his grip turns me on like crazy
.
His fingers dig into my hipbones, my shorts so tiny that his pinkie brushes my thigh while his thumb is at my tanned waist. We haven’t broken our stare-off, and the buildup is intense—my eyes are beginning to water, and the strain between our pupils is setting off crazy little electrical explosions along my spine. I don’t know when this fun concert turned into a sexy life-or-death lockdown battle with this stranger, but I’m so caught up in the moment, I don’t even care.

He’s won this round by putting his hands on me first, taking control, angling his hips into mine. There’s only one thing for me to do to reclaim the lead.

I stand on tiptoes, reach up, grab a fistful of his sexily tousled dark blonde hair, pull his head down, and kiss him savagely.

He tastes like spicy, expensive rum and warmth, like fire and skin, like wind and rain. His hands are still on my hips and he draws my body against his, until there’s no longer any fear of us not fitting together in this space in front of the stage. I keep my hands buried in his hair, pressing the back of his head so he’s forced to kiss me violently hard, just the way I want it,
yes yes
, because what’s the point of kissing if you don’t feel it in the soles of your feet, what’s the point of kissing unless it feels like swimming against the rapids with a waterfall at your back?

And then I realize he’s not kissing me hard because I’m making him. He’s kissing me hard because he wants to.

His lower lip hooks underneath mine and he draws it between his teeth, biting down on my soft flesh until I taste blood. I retaliate by grabbing the back of his neck and sinking my fingernails into his skin until he winces. Our tongues fight for dominance, exploring hungrily, conquering the other one’s mouth. I twine one leg around his, bringing us closer together than I thought possible, spreading my legs so I can feel if he’s hard—

He is. Oh, he is. Every inch of him, of that shape, is firm and demanding against my thigh.

And there’s a lot of those inches.

The battle is plateauing. We’re on equal footing now, both of us kissing with matched passion, both of us grinding our hips together with the same eagerness. His hands slide over my waist, gripping my smooth, toned skin. One hand I keep buried in his gorgeous hair and the other I slide from the back of his throat to the front, digging my fingernails in the hook of his collarbone, squeezing briefly so that when I let go, he has to gasp for air into my mouth.

I no longer care about having my spot at the front of a concert for a band whose name I don’t know.

I only care about screwing the brains out of this guy whose name I don’t know.

We’re still on equal footing, but fuck equal footing. Just because I no longer care about my space in front of the stage doesn’t mean this isn’t still a battle I intend to win. I break away, grab his hand, and yank him away from the front stage, carving a path through the mob of people to prove that I can as much as anything else. But apparently, it’s not fast enough for the stranger, because he bends down and scoops me up, carrying me as he plows an admittedly much faster trail through the crowd.

I refuse to be carried like a little girl in over her head. I’m in the deep end, but I’m swimming strong. I twist around in his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, let him support my ass, and return to making out with him furiously, keeping my hands at the base of his throat to remind him no matter how tall he is, how lithely muscled, I know where his weak spots are.

I’m curious to see if this slows him down, but it doesn’t. He continues cutting through the crowd like I’m not glued to him like the world’s most sexed up koala. I pull back slightly, our lips still grazing, and see that he’s staring straight at me, his eyes alive behind the mask. I’m tempted to peel the mask off, but I don’t. It represents all the things about him I don’t know. It’s sexy. He’s my masked stranger.

We’re near the edge of the crowd, and he gives my ass a squeeze. It makes me purr like a cat, but I still can’t let him think he’s winning. So I go full vampire and bite his neck, sucking the patch of sweet skin just below his jawbone and near his ear, leaving my mark. A mark that’ll last for days. I continue down, painting bruises over his skin so the next girl he screws will see them and wonder who put them there.

Is he going to go for the street, to catch a cab? But he turns before the exit, carrying me along the wall. The bathroom? God, I hope he’s classier than the bathroom. But he passes by the long line. He’s looking for something, and I see it at the same time he does: an unmarked door.

He tries the handle with his free hand. Locked. I expect that to be the end of it, but instead he lifts me slightly higher and
kicks the door down.

Okay, the lock is rusted and the door doesn’t fall, it just pops open, but there’s a kick involved and suddenly the air is ten degrees hotter.

I meet his mouth with mine again as he brings me inside, kicking the door shut again behind him. The only light comes from a dull bulb hanging from the ceiling. There are coats everywhere—California coats, light gauzy ones, folded on the floor where the rack by the wall has run out of hangers. There’s another door leading into presumably a different room. This must be a spare closet where they stuff the extra jackets when the coat check runs out of room.

And then I forget everything about the room except the wall and the fact that my back is up against it, the plaster crumbling over my bare shoulders as the masked stranger covers every inch of exposed skin with kisses until I wish I’d come to this concert naked. Thrill is in my blood: I’m sexy, I’m young, I’m hooking up with a random gorgeous guy in a coat closet at a concert,
fuck yes.

I shove him back and hop lightly to the ground. These shorts are tiny, but not tiny enough. Nonexistent would be better. I step out of them, twirl them around my finger, and toss them on a nearby jean jacket, thrusting my hips to the side so he gets a full eyeful of my pink lacy panties. My eyes flash. I’m daring him.
Come and get me.

He does, lifting me off the ground again, kissing me so ferociously that my head spins. I run my hands over his back and feel him: the taut muscles shifting over his broad shoulder blades, the dip and curve where his back condenses to a narrow waist, up again to touch the hard, well-defined muscles of his arms.

I don’t want to wait. I want my spontaneous concert sex and I want it now. I pop the button on his jeans and unzip them, and he does the rest. I’m too busy doing things to his lips that will make them remember me every time he kisses someone else to look down, but I feel him spring free, harder than ever, and I hear the crinkle of a condom.

I open my mouth, about to say something dirty, but something stops me. I don’t want to break our code of silence. I don’t want to ruin the strange, voiceless energy between us, wrapping us up, turning this whole moment into something ethereal. He hasn’t said a word yet either, and I’m starting to wonder if he even has a voice. He seems not to need one. So far, we’ve been communicating just fine.

This is it. The culmination of our battle. He needs to prove to me that he’s been worth all this. I draw my head back, letting my eyes drip down him with disdain and doubt, a challenge that hides the burning need between my thighs.
Prove that you can handle me.

Normally I’m all about the foreplay, but that invisible force between us makes me so desperately horny that I need him inside me
right now,
and I don’t waste any time in making sure he knows it.

He slides inside me with a groan.
Fuck.
A thousand little starbursts fizzle along my skin. I’m slick and ready, and he glides along my nerve endings, pushing forward until I’m utterly filled and utterly stimulated. He’s still holding me up. My thighs are wrapped around his waist and I dig my fingernails into his back, letting him know that he better satisfy me.

He thrusts, slamming my back into the wall, more white plaster raining down on my head. His cock presses all the right buttons and a sea of fire spreads across my abdomen as he thrusts again and again, angling just right. I open my mouth and scream at the top of my lungs, a yell of triumph, because it’s too loud for anyone to hear me anyway, and what’s the point of sex if it doesn’t make you scream?

He pounds into me and I’m coming already, incredible, faster than I ever have before and better than I ever have before, my muscles contracting and expanding all around as he comes at the same time. My vision goes white with it and I scream again as he pours all he has into one last thrust.

The wall behind us gives way. Suddenly I’m tangled in broken plaster and white powder, a wooden beam propping me up, my masked stranger pantsless and sideways across my legs. He blinks in shock and it’s startlingly cute, like a wolf doing something puppylike. He probably wasn’t expecting to fuck a girl through a wall tonight. Or was he? I start laughing, high off the after-effects of my orgasm.
I
wasn’t expecting to be fucked through a wall tonight.

And we still haven’t said a word to each other.

He stands up, brushes himself off, and takes my hand, pulling me out of the Fiona-sized hole in the wall. I cough, plaster dust in my lungs, and grin at him, expecting him to return the smile. It takes him a good few seconds, but there it is: a sexy quirk of those luscious lips that makes me want to jump him all over again. “That was incredible,” I declare. “Best sex I’ve had since coming to California. What’s your name?”

Instead of replying, he bends and passes me my shorts. Maybe he really is mute.

My panties are crumpled on the ground and covered with wall dust, so I tug on my shorts sans underwear. Let the building staff find my undergarments next to the hole and draw their own conclusions.

He pulls up his jeans. Now that I’m not overwhelmed with lust, I’m overwhelmed with the kind of curiosity I don’t usually feel about my hookups. There’s just something about him. And it’s hidden beneath that mask.

Moving as if magnetized, my fingers drift to the edge of his mask. He’s motionless, his eyes never leaving my face. “Who are you?” I murmur, brushing its hard edge.

But before I can lift it from his skin, he takes a step back. He holds my gaze for one last long moment before opening the door, slipping out into the crowd.

“Hang on!” I shout, but I trip over a dust-covered coat, and by the time I leave the little room and embed myself in the crowd again, searching through the darkness and smoke, there’s no sight of a tall tousle-haired man in a black mask.

~3~

“And that,” I announce, drawing a neat slash through the four marker lines on the whiteboard, “makes five.”

Iris, seated on her bed with her long pale legs kicking slightly—which is ecstatic energy for her—raises one cool eyebrow. “The first one didn’t count.”

“We sixty-nine’d!” I yell at her. After a night of getting drunk at a fray party, mostly out of annoyance for losing Mask Boy at the concert, and then getting drunk at a different party out of annoyance that I dealt with my annoyance by getting drunk at a frat party, I feel surprisingly energetic. Even the walk of shame home, past the other freshman housing building where early-riser nerds were surely goggling at me out their windows with equal parts disdain and envy, didn’t put a damper on my mood.

“Did he stick his dick in your vag?” asks Iris with her trademark disinterest. She could be announcing the discovery of aliens made entirely out of boobs on national television and the country would still fall asleep.