Secret Shared: A S.E.C.R.E.T. Novel (10 page)

Of course Mark Drury was late. Of course he knew the cute waitress, the hot girl eating alone, the androgynous sous chef who he stopped to high-five, and the curvy bartender from whom he ordered a pitcher of beer before taking a seat opposite me at the last empty table. Schiro’s was popular with locals, the musicians and restaurant folks who ate at odd hours. It was almost 5 p.m., lunchtime for this crowd. The place was a study in plaid and piercings, and with a B & B upstairs it also had its share of international visitors. It was like a waiting room for heaven’s misfits. I suddenly felt old.

“Hi,” he said, grinning, pouring himself a glass of draft, then one for me.

I almost hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d shaved, showing off his great face to full effect.

“Hi.”

“I assume you like beer.”

“Live for it.”

He looked sleepy, his hair flattened and his green T-shirt—which set off his light blue eyes—was inside out. I had had butterflies in my stomach before he arrived, but curiously they began to calm down as soon as he sat.
He’s just a guy. With needs. Like you.
He snatched a menu from the table stand and studied it, stealing a glance at me every few seconds.

“Let’s get some burgers. They’re great here.”

“I haven’t been here in ages,” I said. “My ex and I used to come here for brunch when we first moved to New Orleans.”

Why did I mention Scott?

“Your ex, huh?” He snapped the menu shut. “Would that be ex-husband or ex-boyfriend?”

“Husband. But he passed away a while ago.”

“You’re not messing with me now, right? Because I really
was
only kidding about my mom.”

“No, I’m not kidding,” I said.

He pried no further about that.

“How have you thusly fared in our Crescent City?”

“You mean, dating-wise?” I followed that question with a big gulp of beer.

“Yeah.”

“Um. Hit and miss. You?” I asked, wiping my mouth.

“It’s hard to meet someone who likes musicians’ hours, you know?”

“And what about this? Is this a date?”

“You can call it whatever you want as long as you’re naked by the end of it.”

So bold! I tried not to register my shock. He was even bolder than my fantasy men, who all had helped me ease into things. But this was real life, as Matilda said. It was a lot riskier and messier and trickier than fantasy. In S.E.C.R.E.T., I couldn’t be rejected, I couldn’t screw up. In life those negative results were possibles, maybe even probables. But I still had S.E.C.R.E.T.’s support, and Matilda’s guidance while navigating this new terrain.

Now here was
someone
.

He was cute, funny and bratty. And what I had in mind was exactly what he had in mind
. You can do this, Cassie.

I refilled my beer glass.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he said.

I choked on my beer.

“You’re almost ten years younger than me! That’s disgusting.”

“To
you
maybe.”

The waitress came by. He ordered burgers for both of us.

“What if I was a vegetarian?”

“I didn’t expect you to be perfect.”

I used that moment to change the subject. I needed to catch my breath.

“So you’re a musician …”

He shrugged, playing coy at first. Then he started chatting about his band, the Careless Ones. There were four of them in the group; they’d all grown up together in Metarie. And though they started as a Dixieland punk band, whatever that was, they were veering more into blues and country.

“But half of us want to go in one direction,” he continued. “The other half in the opposite. And I’m the lead singer. Some days I feel like I’m in the middle of a custody battle for the soul of the band …”

He held his draft glass by the rim instead of its waist. His hair was damp and he smelled like apples. And his hands. Did I mention his hands? His fingers were lean, his forearms sinewy from holding guitars or microphones or signing autographs. Then he continued talking—about himself, his music, his band, his dreams, his aspirations, his
influences, his inspirations. And I was spellbound. Not by his story, but by his total self-involvement. Rather than making me feel agitated, his youthful self-obsession suddenly, completely relaxed me. Maybe he was looking for my approval, but I wasn’t looking for his. I just wanted two things from him. His mouth on my mouth. His hands on my body. I just wanted with him what I’d had with my fantasy men: sex, no strings attached.

Our burgers arrived and he popped a fry in his remarkable mouth. I took a bite of my burger. Then another one. I thought the silence was a cue for him to ask about me, but he started talking again.

“I mean I didn’t, like,
study
music. For me it’s all about the effect on the audience. That’s the only way you measure music, by—”

“Stop talking.”

“—the way it feels when it rushes over the—”

“Stop talking.”

“—crowd.”

This time he heard me.

It was my turn to talk.

“It’s sweet how passionate you are about music, Mark. But if you want me to come upstairs with you, you’ve got to promise you’re going to use that beautiful mouth of yours for something other than talking.”

I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. He dipped a fry in ketchup and took a bite. Then he signaled for the bill.

Up I went, landing on the laminate counter between a tiny fridge and a tinier stove, his lean torso wedged between my thighs. Off came my T-shirt. Then he grabbed my sneakers by the heels, pulling them off too, one then the other, tossing them over his shoulders. My jeans came off next, leaving me in a black lace bra and thong. It wasn’t planned. These were lucky picks.

“Fuck you’re hot,” he whispered, liberating one of my nipples, which instantly hardened in his cool mouth.

“I told you, no talking.” I leaned back into the metal upper cabinets. This was how I’d do it, how I’d get over Will, how I’d shove images of him and Tracina out of my head. I’d make new memories, with new men to think about when I needed relief or release. Starting with this one.

Over his shoulder I took in the dim, masculine room, a British flag for curtains, a small fat-backed TV perched on a hope chest across from a high double bed with drawers beneath. It was tidy, but it had a second-hand, temporary feel. No one would be here long, least of all a girl.

While he took my other nipple in his mouth, going slowly back and forth, slicking it down, I worked my fingers through his hair, and gathered up his T-shirt in my fists. Off it came, his smooth skin surprisingly free of tattoos. Both of his hands now clutched my thighs, spreading them a little wider. His palms felt hot against my gusset, which grew damp from the way his knuckle teased along my groove.

“
Ohh
, you’re wet,” he crooned, biting my bottom lip as a finger eased aside the elastic. Inflamed, he kissed me back into the cupboards, his finger now frantic, freeing more of my moisture.

My hands were now ripping the buttons of his jeans, pulling one, two, three of them open, digging down the front of his pants.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” I muttered, folding my hand firmly around his erection, pulsing in my hand.

“For me?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it, but it felt so good.
He
felt so good. I stroked him, making him harder still.

“Holy fuck,” he moaned, lifting me off the counter, easily carrying me into the living area and dropping me backwards onto the bed with a bounce. His erection was apparent over his splayed jeans. My hands had measured correctly; he
was
definitely blessed, like the cliché of a rock star, and by the look on his pleased face he knew it. As he yanked his jeans all the way down, I lay there in my bra and underwear, feeling so sexy, so dirty, so right. I watched him stumble out of his boxer shorts.

“Oh my,” he said, standing next to me on his bed, talking like a British TV detective. “What have we here? I think we have evidence of a very horny girl in my bed. Let’s see what’s under this bra and these panties, shall we?”

He slid a hand under my back to undo my bra, removing it and discarding it over his shoulder. It landed on a guitar in the corner, looking like a still life that might be called
Sex with a Musician
. Then I arched as his hand slid down the
front of my panties, my hips bucking slightly to keep his fingers out of reach, to make him work to find me, enjoying the tease. Impatient, he grabbed the waistband and pulled them all the way down, leaving them roped around an ankle.

“That’s better.”

He moved to the foot of the bed and lifted one of my bare feet to his mouth. That mouth—his singing mouth, his humming and moaning mouth. His lips tickled my smaller toes, before completely enveloping my big toe, sending sweet agony snaking up my legs. Then he reached into a nearby end table and opened the top drawer, taking out a condom and rolling it on.

“Spread your legs, Cassie,” he said.

“Say please,” I teased, stretching my arms over my head and closing my knees. I froze the scene in my head.
Click.
A year ago, this would have been unthinkable. Something that only happened to other women. Yet here I was, a pleasure seeker, a pleasure giver, a pleasure taker.

He slipped his hands between my thighs, slowly opening them, and I lay there splayed and glistening, turned on by the determined look on his face. Either three months without sex had tightened me or his size was exceptional, because despite my soaking wetness, his first thrust split me with the most perfect kind of pain imaginable. My thighs clutched around his lean hips. My hand grabbed his tense forearm.
Oh jeez.
I gasped as he thrust again, this time harder.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, sweetly.

“Yes, but it’s good, it’s
so
good.”

“It
is
good,” he murmured, savoring the slow, deep thrusts, which began to quicken as he felt me clench around him, taking the whole of him in, finally.

“Oh yeah, you’re so fucking
tight
.”

I watched him sink into me, faster and fiercer.
Yes. I can come like this!
I thought, lifting my knees higher, feeling him reach the very end of me.

Then he slowed to a stop.
No!
And pulled himself out, leaving me hungry, gasping. I almost screamed,
Don’t stop!
—until I realized he had no intention of stopping anything. I felt his tongue swimming in my belly button, releasing another rush of wetness below. He opened me wider still, pressing my knees up and apart, holding me down, his face exploring me, kissing my thighs, the inner groves, nibbling greedily along my folds until he found my tiny, tight clitoris—fully engorged now—nosing it, lapping at it. He surrounded it fully with his mouth, sucking my lips and swirling his tongue around my tender, throbbing clit, making me utterly delirious.

“
Ohh
yeah,” I sighed.
This is for you. Let him.
My hand clutched a fistful of his hair, while he cupped my butt, his thumb pressing into me, his tongue carving mad circles, pulling everything into focus.

“You like that?” he murmured between flickering tongue strokes. “Yeah?”

I couldn’t help it.
I couldn’t.
I gave way to an orgasm so intense I screamed into the ceiling as his fingers thrust and his tongue continued to circle and flutter through my cries.
Oh god oh god oh god, I’m coming, yes!
I had one hand on his headboard, the other clenching his hair, and I was bucking and gasping as it shot straight through my middle and out all four limbs. My eyes squeezed shut to hold on to the intensity of it all before it finally, cruelly subsided.

He inched his way up my weakened body, kissing my stomach, rubbing his wet lips across my nipples, then pushing himself back into me; he was so hard, so fucking
hard
. I had barely caught my breath when our bodies came crashing together, my hands clutching his hips, my knees bracketing him tight, the friction making me dizzy. My pleasure mounted again.
What the hell?
And then like lightning I came
again
, throwing my head back.
“Oh my god … Will! Yes! Oh, Will, oh …”
I cried out, just as he came, saying
my
name, groaning into
my
hair, grinding into
my
body …

Fuck.

I covered my mouth and shut my eyes, both at the intensity of the pleasure and at my stupid,
stupid
gaffe. When he gently pulled out and rolled off me, I hoped,
prayed
he hadn’t quite heard what I had said. I mean, we were both so loud, and it was all so intense and so,
so
good …
Why did I have to fuck it up?

“So … yeah. Will. That’s your ex?” he asked the ceiling, while tugging off the condom.

Damn.

He looked at me and I nodded.

“Why aren’t you with him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

“I’m sorry. That was … an accident. And not worth discussing.”

“If you say so.” He sounded sincere.

Whew.

“But you know what
is
worth discussing?” I said, rolling onto my elbow to face him. I tried to offer a coy grin, something to signal a change not just in subject, but in mood. “Your captain’s bed.”