Handling Cynthia: A Second Chances Novella Page 2

  But if he'd made a play for Cyn while she was with Rick, he'd have lost Rick's friendship forever. He'd never make an asshole move like that. Even kissing her right after they broke up was questionable—for all the good it had done him. She'd had one foot out of Pennsylvania and wasn't looking back. No, things had played out the way they were supposed to. Cyn wasn't his, and he'd have to accept that.

  He stole a glance at her, and dark, hungry eyes met his. His resolve melted. If she made a move, he was done for.

  ***

  Anticipation and want gnawed at Cyn's stomach. Trent's animal gaze pierced her. He looked utterly civilized in his tailored suit and starched shirt, his dark hair smooth and neat. But she sensed the pheromones emanating from him, the raw scent of desire, his lean, toned muscles ready to spring with the right encouragement.

  Her breath caught at the sight of Bernadette Holt weaving through the crowd. A chill rushed through her. Bernie had been pretty enough in high school, but now she was gorgeous—long legs, shiny auburn hair, and a red halter dress advertising her assets.

  Prickles of pain jabbed her heart as a memory floated in her mind: Trent and Bernie kissing in the back seat of Rick's car on a trip to Hershey Park the summer between junior and senior year; the queasy feeling in her stomach, which she hadn't yet recognized as jealousy.

  The nausea came rushing back when Bernie laid her hand on Trent's arm. Hell, no. Bernie wasn't getting Trent tonight. She'd had her taste. It was Cyn's turn.

  Whirlwind that she was, Bernie took over the conversation, trying to set up Jordan with a classmate she thought was gay. At her side was Max Martinov, the class geek who'd made a fortune with a tech company he'd founded in college. He'd had a huge crush on Bernie in high school, which she'd never returned but used to her advantage. She'd treated him like her personal slave—a role he seemed happy to continue playing, fetching her a drink to soothe her stern look.

  Holy shit. Cyn stared at them, the realization dawning. She's a Domme. And Max…

  Cyn shook her head. What her classmates did in private was none of her business, and she didn't want to know.

  She clutched Trent's arm possessively, staking her claim. Bernie could have the tall, blond, and handsome billionaire who served at her pleasure. Trent belonged to Cyn.

  His gaze swept over her as a smile touched his lips. Her stomach hollowed out. She ached to kiss those lips, draw him into her mouth. Not here, though, in front of Rick. She would keep it friendly, despite the throbbing pulse of desire.

  She let go of Trent's arm but stayed close, the crush of the crowd an excuse to stand with her hips and shoulders pressed to his side. His hand idled in the middle of her back. It felt so good, that quiet gesture of possession. Yes, make me yours. I want to be yours.

  When Bernadette strolled off to greet some newcomers, Max trailing behind, Cyn said in Trent's ear, "Bernie looks gorgeous, doesn't she?"

  "Not half as good as you."

  His words melted her insides like sunlight on ice. Her world narrowed until Trent was all she could see.

  ***

  Cyn gazed up at him, looking vulnerable and a little lost despite the determined set of her jaw. He'd seen that look a hundred times before, her open heart steeling itself against the pain. He wanted to encompass her in his arms and drive away whatever fears haunted her.

  I can take care of you, Cyn. Let me love you. The silent plea echoed in his mind as his eyes drank in the curves of her heart-shaped face. The rational part of his brain yelled at him to chill, but the rest of him was gone, falling into the hot atmosphere of Venus.

  She met his gaze, then shivered.

  "Cold?" he asked.

  "No, but I need food, or that wine will go straight to my head." She grabbed his hand and led him to the appetizer table. Her hand was tiny and soft, almost like a child's, and the sensation of her fingers on his skin wrapped his heart in a choke-hold.

  Just for tonight, he told himself, for old times' sake. He'd enjoy this last remnant of friendship without giving anything away. After this weekend, he'd keep his distance. It wouldn't be hard with her living three states away.

  He scanned the table and his mouth watered, though whether from desire for Cyn or for food he couldn't say. The mingled scents of kielbasa, Swedish meatballs, and honey barbecued chicken wings made his stomach growl.

  He went for the meat while she loaded up on fruit and crudités. She had always been careful about her weight, but he would have to get some protein into her. That plate of roughage was mostly water—it wouldn't keep the alcohol from heading straight to her bloodstream. The last thing he wanted was someone taking advantage of her.

  Plates loaded up, they wandered back to their friends. Cyn stood next to Rick at a table, Trent at her other side. He speared a meatball and held it up to her mouth. "One bite won't hurt you."

  She hesitated a moment before biting the meatball in half. He ate the other half, smiling at her. There was something decadent about feeding her, providing for her that way.

  "Tell me about your books."

  She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't like them. College romance—very sexy and angsty."

  "Based on your experience?"

  "The angst part, maybe." She patted her lips with a napkin. They were red and kissable. Her gaze fell to her plate. "Truth is, I didn't date much in college. Hookups weren't my thing, and I didn't meet the right guy."

  His heart somersaulted. He'd expected Cyn to get plenty of offers. It was stupid, but he was glad she hadn't been involved with many guys.

  "I thought I met the right girl," he said, "but I was wrong."

  "Emily?"

  "We were together two years. In the end, we weren't compatible." I wanted to tie her up, and she wasn't into that.

  "Sorry it didn't work out."

  "I'm not." He bit his lip. The words had flown from his mouth the instant he thought them. How could he explain? If it had worked out with Emily, he wouldn't have this chance with Cyn. But what made him think he had a chance now? He'd never seen anyone more beautiful, not even on TV. Sure, she was being nice to him, but she'd been nice before. It didn't mean anything.

  Get a grip, loser.

  "Tell me about your thesis," she said.

  He bit his cheeks. "You don't want to hear about that."

  "I do!"

  "You asked for it. Biologic alternatives to petrochemicals. Plastics made from plants."

  "Sounds interesting. Fossil fuels won't last forever."

  He couldn't tell if she really cared or was being polite.

  "That's the idea," he said. "And plant-based products are potentially biodegradable. The challenge is, if we divert too much farmland away from the food supply, we could end up with a global food shortage. I'm exploring oceanic sources."

  "You mean like algae?"

  "One possibility." He smiled. Maybe she really was interested. "The fish oil pills people take? The oil originates with the plants."

  "Sounds like ground-breaking work."

  "That's me, saving the world."

  She touched his hand, and a tingle jetted up his spine. "Don't put yourself down because you're smart. Smart is sexy."

  "Not as sexy as Max's eight hundred million."

  "What, you're jealous? You were hoping to hook up with Bernie again?"

  "Bernie? No." He shook his head to emphasize the point. "She and I haven't been a thing since…well, we were never a thing. All we had in common were hormones and proximity."

  "I'm sure she'd love to hear you say that."

  "Ask her. She was never in love with me, any more than I was with her."

  The corners of her mouth turned down. "That's sad."

  "I didn't think so at the time. I was getting laid on a regular basis. At eighteen, that's what mattered most."

  His feeble attempt at a joke fell flat. She nodded, eyes distant. He wasn't even sure she'd heard him above the music. Which was good because, now that he thought of it, it didn't do much for his prospects w
ith Cyn to dis his ex. Or to talk about how much sex they'd had. Not like Cyn didn't know, but reminding her about his past with Bernie wouldn't help the situation.

  He chewed the insides of his cheeks, reminding himself to stop thinking like Cyn was a possibility for him. He was barely holding onto control now. His dick was at war with his brain, and his dick was winning. He wouldn't turn her down, but if Cyn wanted him, she'd have to make a move. He was done chasing the girl who had always held herself just out of reach.

  What would he do if he got her alone, and those dark urges surfaced?

  Maybe she'd play along.

  He pushed away the notion. He couldn't take it if she looked at him the way Emily had when he'd suggested tying her to the bed. Like he was some kind of freak.

  "I wish we'd been smarter then." Cyn's voice broke through his meditation. It was soft and wistful, like a song in minor key. "Girls are obsessed with love, and boys with sex. In high school, kids aren't ready for either."

  His chest tightened. "Are you sorry? About you and Rick?"

  Her gentle laugh reached his ears despite the rumbling bass of the dance music. "I'm glad my first time wasn't with some loser who never called me again. That's what happened to my roommate freshman year." She shook her head. "Girls are so dumb."

  "No. Guys are jerks."

  She smiled. "Maybe a little of both?"

  In the dim light of the hotel ballroom, he clutched her hand. When Cyn had moved to town sophomore year, the kids had seen her as an outsider, and that never completely went away. "High school wasn't a great time for you, I guess."

  "It wasn't all bad." She grinned. "The best thing about dating Rick was getting you and Jordan as part of the package."

  "The fearsome foursome."

  "I can't believe I ever went along with calling us that! I was so naïve—I didn't have a clue about the double entendre."

  "Jordy was the only one who did, at first."

  "I guess he figured a ménage a quatre would be one way he could get with Rick," Cyn said with a smile.

  "Did I hear my name?" Rick leaned toward her, bumping her shoulder. Trent wanted to punch him in the chest.

  "Trent reminded me about the fearsome foursome. I suggested we finally go through with it. You guys could join me in my suite."

  Rick looked at him, then back to Cyn. "Straight guys aren't into foursomes that include other guys. In the throes of passion, their parts might accidentally bump up against each other, and they'd have to scrub themselves down with bleach."

  "You've thought this through," Trent said.

  Rick grabbed Jordan's shoulder. "If we did the fearsome foursome thing—who would you want to hook up with, me or Trent?"

  Jordan raised his brows. "Poor Ricky, don't be embarrassed. You don't have to involve Cyn and Trent. You can suck my dick any time you want."

  Trent almost did a spit-take, which would have been a terrible waste of scotch. Cyn laughed and grabbed his forearm to steady herself. Her hand traveled upward, stopping at his tricep. Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her against his hip, filling his lungs with her orange-cinnamon scent. She didn't pull away.

  Chapter 2

  Cyn sat on a chair at Chestnut Grove Lanes, a plastic-wrapped package of white socks in one hand and a pair of rented bowling shoes in the other. The fluorescents overhead were a harsh contrast to the muted incandescent light of the hotel. With the canned music playing (was that a polka?), she actually missed the DJ back at the hotel and his repertoire of five-year-old pop.

  She slid off her stilettos. "Tell me again why we're doing this?"

  "Grudge match." Rick picked up a bowling ball and judged it for weight.

  "You say that like it's an explanation."

  "The last time we bowled," Bernadette said, "Rick kicked my ass. Now it's payback."

  "Are we still fifteen?" Cyn wriggled her feet into the socks, and picked up the bowling shoes again. Gross. They were like the old fashioned saddle-style cheerleading shoes she'd had to wear, only uglier and smellier. They'd look ridiculous with her little black dress.

  "What is your problem?" Rick asked, in answer to her sardonic comment. His eyes twinkled and a faint smile crossed his lips.

  Jordan sat beside her. "Bowling is so provincial."

  "Exactly," Cyn said. "I didn't want to say it, but yes."

  Jordan put his arm around her. "We prefer polo."

  "On Sunday afternoon, while sipping champagne from Baccarat crystal glasses."

  "How about beer in a plastic cup?" Trent offered.

  "No thank you." She turned to Jordan. "Is it wrong that I like nice things?"

  "It's never wrong to be who you are."

  "Aw, you're sweet. I would totally make out with you right now if you were straight." In the corner of her eye, Trent smoothed his tie and fingered the end.

  She was getting to him. Unless she was reading the signals wrong, Trent was still attracted to her. Time to up the stakes.

  She rose and checked out the bowling balls, selecting a black one marbled with purple. "Someone remind me how to play this game."

  "You roll the ball down the lane and knock over the pins."

  "Thanks, Ricky, that's extraordinarily helpful."

  She took Trent's hand and led him to the end of the lane. "Show me. I always throw the ball wrong."

  "Okay, give me the ball—"

  "No, I mean…" Facing the pins, she stood in front of him and maneuvered his left arm around her waist. "Use your right hand to guide mine."

  "Um, yeah. Okay." With his chest to her back, he held on to her right wrist. Her body clenched with desire, and she fought to suppress a shudder. His breath tickled her neck.

  "First, you don't throw it. You roll it. In fact, you don't even do that. You swing your arm toward the center mark and release the ball." He guided her arm back and then forward. "Swing and release. Got it?"

  "Mm-hmm." She leaned back against him and said in his ear, "Swing and release." His sharp intake of breath accompanied a rising bulge in his pants.

  Oh yeah, he still wants me.

  It wasn't fair to torture him, to make him hard in public. She cantered her hips away. With his hand still on hers, she aimed the ball and let it roll from her grip.

  The ball rumbled over the polished hardwood. With a hollow crack, the pins fell. A seven-ten split.

  "Ooh, that's a shame," Rick said.

  She turned, Trent's arms falling away, and looked hard into Rick's eyes. "Why is that a shame? I knocked down eight pins."

  "Because you won't be able to get the spare."

  "I wasn't going to get the spare anyway. I suck at this game." She set her hands on her hips. "And yet you dragged me here—when I could be in a ballroom with hotel quality hors d'oeuvres instead of nacho chips and cheese sauce."

  Rick scowled. He walked up and pulled her close. It still felt natural, being cradled in his arms, looking up at those soft brown eyes, the curve of his lips.

  The hint of a baby face he'd had when she met him sophomore year was gone now, replaced by high cheekbones and a strong chin. He was taller, his shoulders broader. All man.

  "You never complained like this when we were dating," he flirted.

  "We're not dating anymore."

  He ground his pelvis against hers. "You know you still want it."

  The rhythm of his body sent a flush through her, a conditioned response, more habit than desire. Unlike Trent, Rick wasn't hard.

  With a giggle, she pulled away. "You're an asshole." She looked into his smiling face, and a longing squeezed her chest. Rick had always made her laugh. Beneath his brash posturing, he was one of the sweetest guys she'd ever known. "I've missed you."

  His teasing eyes softened, glistening in the bright light. "You too."

  "Enough of the love fest," Bernie called from the next lane over. "Someone fucking bowl."

  ***

  Trent eyed Cyn, unsure what to make of her. When she had pressed her ass again
st his dick that way—she had to know what she was doing. She had to feel him getting hard. But it seemed like she was flirting with Rick and Jordan too, so he shouldn't make anything of it, right?

  Cyn was no tease. Jordan was safe, and Rick—well, she wasn't taking any shit from him, when she'd always been docile as his girlfriend. He liked this side of her, spunky and self-confident.

  It would make it that much sweeter to see her on her knees.

  Damn it, where had that thought come from? Now he couldn't get rid of the image: her kneeling, blindfolded, arms bound behind her, his cock sliding between her lips. He could hear her sweet moans as he pushed into her throat, as if they were real.

  Now he was sporting wood in earnest. He looked over at Bernie, scolding Max for dripping the unnaturally orange nacho cheese onto the tabletop. Wow, that cooled him down. Bernie was beautiful—and let's face it, a great lay—but the aggressiveness in her that he'd disliked in high school had grown with time. She bossed Max around, and he took it. Why? A guy with that kind of money could have any woman he wanted.

  "You're up," Rick called to him.

  He picked up the borrowed ball from the console. It felt off in his hands, as if the weight wasn't balanced. Probably his imagination, since he was used to his own ball. He threw a strike, followed quickly by another. He nodded and pumped his fist.

  He turned to see Cyn's mouth hanging open. "When did you get that good?"

  "I've always been that good, sweetheart. You never gave me a chance."

  Jordan laughed, a happy, easy, comfortable sound, like they were kids again.

  Cyn strolled up to Trent, the bowling shoes looking ridiculous on her feet but the rest of her body perfection. Narrow waist and gentle curves of hips. She stood in front of him, so close that the points of her nipples nearly touched his chest. "I'm back now," she said in his ear. "Time for second chances."

  He swallowed. It felt like she was flirting, her body near enough to grab and hold. But not here—Rick would be on top of him if he manhandled Cyn.

  And that's exactly what he wanted to do. To be rough with her while she moaned with pleasure. But what if he'd read her wrong? He couldn't assume she was a submissive based on one kiss five years ago.