Only You Read online

  My legs get a little wobbly, and I start to feel a bit out of place. Suddenly, that delicious dark nook with the curvy benches and sensual lighting draws me in.

  “Trish, I’m going to go sit for a sec,” I scream over the music.

  She nods and smiles and turns back to Mark. For a quick second, I feel stupid… and alone. In this room crowded with people, I feel lonely. It’s crazy, I know. I think about Matthew and Melanie and wonder what they’re doing at this exact moment. Probably making love whilst drinking beer and watching the hockey play-offs, and she’s teaching him a few words of Spanish between kisses.

  I want to go home and cry in my pillow.

  That’s when I see him. A beautiful man sitting in the corner, partially hidden by the shadows. He’s staring at me, but he doesn’t attempt a friendly smile as most men do when you catch them ogling you. He just stares. He studies me.

  I look away, uncomfortable. I’m not sure why he’s watching me, but I’m curious. I venture a closer look at him. He’s scruffy and wears a tight-fitting plaid shirt and worn jeans. He’s also sexy as hell. His eyes are still fixed on me—the intensity of his stare feels amazing.

  I said I wasn’t interested in hooking up with anyone, but apparently my pussy didn’t get the memo.

  3

  Just the sight of this stranger brooding in the corner and staring at me arouses me beyond belief. I’ve never hooked up with a stranger, and the thought suddenly seems intriguing. Yet this guy’s probably a player. He doesn’t seem to be with anyone, so he’s the guy who shows up at clubs by himself and zones in on lonely girls who have just been dumped and are vulnerable.

  I pull my gaze away and watch Trish and Mark dance. They’re pressed against each other, still talking into each other’s ears, oblivious to anyone around them. If I didn’t know Mark was gay, I’d wonder if anything was going on between them. I get so lost in watching them I don’t even notice when Mr. Sexy sits next to me.

  My pulse races when I catch a glimpse of him and he grins at me—a beautiful wide smile that seems familiar somehow.

  “You seem to be… how do you say it? A third wheel?” He has that broken French accent everyone around here seems to have, a slow and smooth rhythm dotted with pauses, every syllable deliberate. His words are musical with a hint of a soft twang.

  I’m at a loss for words. I swallow hard and finally manage to reply. “Yes… that’s my friend Trish.”

  “And her boyfriend?”

  I shake my head. “No, they’re just friends. She has a boyfriend.”

  “I see…” he says with a cocked brow.

  I notice he has a silver nose ring. His hair is in need of a haircut, but it suits him. And there are colorful marks on his faded jeans. He looks kind of like a hoodlum, but he exudes class and intelligence.

  He sets his bottle of beer on the table and offers me his hand. “I’m Alex.”

  I smile shyly, shaking his hand. “I’m Samantha.”

  He smiles but adds nothing. We steal glances here and there, but neither one of us seems to know what to say. Suddenly, I’m feeling frisky. The drinks coursing through me make me feel loose. I want to forget all about Matthew. I want to dance.

  I stand and extend my hand to him. “Would you like to dance?”

  I don’t need to ask twice. He smiles as he takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. Trish shoots me a playful wink.

  The man can dance. At first we stand at a respectable distance, and I try to show off my best moves. I close my eyes as I let the music consume me. When I open them again, he’s pinning me with an intense stare. With a wicked grin, he pulls me to him. Damn, he smells good—a hint of citrus. Grapefruit or orange, I’m not sure. And something else. For some reason, I’m taken back to my childhood. I stare at the floor, too shy to make eye contact. But once in a while, I venture a look up. He has the most beautiful eyes, a lovely shade of hazel.

  Soon enough, we’re grinding against each other, his hot mouth pressed against my neck, his hands digging into my ass. My leg is hiked up, my sex pressing against him. And he feels so good. God, he feels so damn good.

  I haven’t been laid in a long time, and I want this guy. I know nothing about him. His name is Alex. He’s French Canadian. He smells like oranges and my childhood. That’s all I know. But I don’t care.

  We seem to be on the same page when he presses his mouth against my ear and says, “Do you want to go somewhere more quiet, Samantha?”

  I love how he says my name, slow and drawn out. A heavy weight presses at my core, and my sex throbs just from the sounds of those words. And when I look up at him and spot the arousal in his eyes, I practically melt to the floor. I want this, but… I’m suddenly overtaken with fear. I’m a good, cautious girl—always have been. But where has that gotten me? Dumped! Dumped for being too boring.

  I get lost in his eyes when I whisper, “Yes.”

  He smiles and takes my hand. He leads me through the crowd, his steps quick. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t want him to think I’m a whore, that I just screw any guy I meet at a club. I’m not sure why I care what he thinks, but I do.

  As we bound up the stairs to the top level, I tell him, “I… just so you know… I don’t usually do this. I mean… go off with strangers in dance clubs.”

  He turns to me and grins. “Me either.”

  I wonder if he’s full of shit. I wonder if I should tear my hand out of his and turn around. My pussy tells me to shut the fuck up and just follow him. Of course, I always listen to my pussy.

  We finally make it to the top level—a beautiful outside terrace. The air is a bit cool, but I’m sure he’ll warm me up in no time.

  For some reason I don’t quite understand, I’m still rambling. “You see, I just got dumped...”

  He turns to me with a raised brow, confused.

  “My boyfriend just broke up with me,” I clarify.

  He nods. “Oh, I see. Well, your boyfriend sounds like he is an idiot.”

  I smile. “He is.”

  We make our way around tables and chairs, people sitting in groups, chatting and drinking. The noises and clatter of conversations mingling sound like a song. I wonder where he’s taking me as we travel farther to the back.

  Then I spot it—a secluded booth tucked away at the rear of the terrace. A velvet rope blocks the entrance to it. He unhooks the rope and urges me to make myself comfortable. I wonder if this is where he takes all the ladies, but I quickly remind myself that I don’t care. He takes a seat on the curved velvet bench and extends his hand to me. I spot his tattered bracelets and a tattoo of a woman on his arm.

  “Come,” he says.

  He leans back, a playful expression traces his features. Less than twelve hours in la belle province, and I’ve managed to find myself a gorgeous bad boy already—not bad for a good girl.

  I’m feeling bold. I don’t want to be the good girl tonight. I inch closer to him, hike up the skirt of my sleazy little dress, pull one leg over him, and straddle him like a stripper offering up a lap dance. He seems a little surprised by my behavior but is certainly not complaining. A playful smile traces his mouth, and he actually bites his lip.

  “I’m not usually like this,” I confess. “I’m the girl who never breaks the rules. I’m usually very boring.”

  He laughs. “You don’t seem very boring to me.”

  I giggle like a schoolgirl—not sure if it’s the alcohol or this lovely man. “Oh, but I am. That’s why he left me.” I should just shut up, but yet I keep blabbering. “He left me for this superhot girl who drives a Mustang, has a black belt in judo, and likes beer and anal sex.”

  He laughs again. Who knew I was so funny? “You don’t like anal sex?”

  Kind of a private question, but what the hell? I’ll never see this guy again after tonight. “Well, I sort of… I love butt play. You know, when he plays around back there, but then…” I’m mildly embarrassed. “He just tries to stick it in... and, um… it just won’t
. I tense up.”

  He shakes his head. “American men. They don’t know what they are doing.”

  “Tell me about it…”

  He seems to take this literally when he pulls me to him and presses his mouth against my ear again. I inhale his scent and swallow hard.

  “If it was with me, you would love it. I would have you completely naked and relaxed, with your beautiful ass up in the air,” he mutters softly. His voice is smooth as silk, and I wonder if it’s possible to orgasm from the sound of an accent alone. “I would stroke your skin, your breasts, lick your pussy… your ass…”

  I close my eyes, taking in every word and savoring them—this boy is dirty.

  He toys with the hem of my dress as he goes on. “I would touch you until you were so wet, until you could not stand it anymore.”

  His playful fingers find their way under my dress. They travel to my ass and tease me. I love it, and I desperately want him to go further, to dig his fingers in my panties.

  “Then I would tease you until you were wild, but you would not be allowed to climax.” He toys with the string of my thong, and I almost lose my mind. “I would tease you everywhere… slide my fingers up and inside you.”

  I’m completely breathless when I ask, “Then what…”

  “Then you would be so hot you would beg me to stick my cock in your ass,” he whispers.

  Damn, this man is filthy, but I love it. The old me might have found his words crass, but the new me is so turned on she can barely see straight.

  He rips his hand cruelly from my skirt, pulls my face to his, and presses his mouth against mine. He tastes like beer, and when his tongue wraps around mine, I feel a steel stud on his tongue and wonder how it would feel against my clit. God, I want this man. I’ve never really understood wanting raw fucking for the sake of fucking, but now I totally get it.

  4

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so aroused. As we deepen the kiss, he pulls at my hair, and I grind against him. He’s hard, and the more I press against him, the better it feels. I feel pressure build and know I’m about to come. I just want to let go.

  And I do. As I moan softly into the cool night air, I let the waves of pure ecstasy carry me along to a wonderful place I haven’t been in a while. When I come back down to earth, Alex looks stunned.

  “Um… I’m sorry.” I can’t believe I just let go like that. What must he think of me? But in my defense, it has been a very long time for me.

  I’m kind of mortified, but then I notice he’s not looking at me. I turn to see what he’s looking at—a large man in a suit flanked by three well-dressed women.

  Fuck.

  Nice going, Sammy…

  I don’t climax for over a month, and when I finally do, I have an audience. I’m horribly embarrassed as I climb off Alex and adjust the skirt of my dress. I stare at the ground as they scream in French at each other. I don’t understand a word, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’re in trouble. The big guy is mad as hell, but Alex seems polite, his words slow and soft. I think he’s trying to charm his way out of this.

  I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life. As soon as I’m steady on my feet, I scamper away as fast as I can. I turn to look at Alex, who is trying to get to me, but the screaming giant holds him back. I don’t know what to do. I wonder if I should wait for him. But then what? What would be the point? I’m here for three days, and he’s just a player who picks up random women in bars. He’ll forget all about me before the sun rises.

  With those thoughts rattling around in my head, I find Trish and tell her I’m ready to call it a night.

  * * *

  We both wake up late. Really late. Trish swears she set the alarm, but she must have messed up because it obviously didn’t ring. We fight over who gets to hop in the shower first and then rush to get to our class, completely frantic. We eat granola bars on the way.

  My head pounds as I help Trish carry her art supplies. I have none of my own, so I’ll be borrowing her stuff the whole weekend. I barely take in the beautiful campus with its large trees and beautiful architecture. I can’t stop thinking about last night—that was the wildest night of my life.

  “So… you had a good time last night,” she teases. “That guy you hooked up with was hotter than hell.”

  I smile at the memory of him. It wasn’t quite a one-night stand… but almost. I wonder what happened to him after I left. I feel kind of bad about running away, but I’m sure he’s already over it. “He was, wasn’t he?”

  She smirks at me, distracted. She’s poring over her map and directions, trying to locate our classroom. “You were supposed to hook up with a man bun.”

  I laugh. “How I managed to find the only guy in Québec City who doesn’t have a man bun, I’ll never know.”

  “So what happened exactly?” she asks with a mischievous smirk.

  I bite my lip, not sure if I want to tell her everything. I decide I’m not going to mention the dry humping or the getting off in front of an audience. “Well. We chatted a bit… and we kissed—”

  “Oh… you kissed?”

  I get a little dizzy as the memory of that kiss fills my head. “Yeah, it was amazing. He had a stud in his tongue. That was kind of fun.”

  “So… what happened? Did you give him your number? Where did you leave off?”

  “I…” I stare at the cobblestone ground, feeling a little saddened. “No, I kind of just ran off… he was a player, and you know how I hate players.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to marry him.” She smirks. “You could have just had a little fun.”

  I mull over her words. She might be right, but the idea of just enjoying a man makes me uncomfortable. Love is more important than sex, right? Then again, I thought that with Matthew, and look how that worked out for me. I could have had a really good time. If only I weren’t so uptight…

  “There it is,” Trish chirps.

  I’m on her heels as we walk through the beautiful historical building and into a large room. The scent of paint assaults me as soon as we walk into the bright, open, eclectic space. I see paintings on the wall, canvases lined up on the floors, easels set up in a circle, a beautiful pink Victorian love seat, and a very dirty sink in the corner. I kind of like it. I smile at the few people already here.

  “Was he an amazing kisser?”

  “Oh yes,” I practically growl. “And he had a tongue stud. Did I mention that already?”

  “Yes.” She frowns a little. “I’m so jealous right now… not going to lie,” she says with a smirk. “But I’m happy for you. I think that was just what you needed to forget all about Matthew for a little while.”

  I smile as I follow her around like a lost puppy. We introduce ourselves to the others quickly, and I just stand there like an idiot as Trish sets up. She hands me a few of her supplies, and I mimic her every action, attempting to give the appearance that I know what I’m doing and that I belong here too. All these people have large portfolios and brush totes filled with fancy brushes and chalk sticks. All I have is a notebook and a pencil. I can’t even remember the last time I drew anything. Apparently, the teacher is running late, so we have a few more minutes to set up.

  I peruse the pamphlet again and check out the classes we have lined up.

  Illustration of the Nude Form. Medium: Conté.

  What the hell is Conté?

  Then we have Watercolor: The Nude Form.

  This guy seems to really like the nude form.

  Tomorrow we have Watercolor: Plein Air (Architecture), then Watercolor and Ink Wash on the final day. That’s the one I’m most looking forward to.

  I gaze up to see a beautiful man walk in. He’s tall and broad and smiles at one of the students, then he kisses her on both cheeks as they sometimes do here. He’s absolutely stunning. He says something in French as he makes his way to the back room. Trish and I ogle him shamelessly.

  “Wow,” she mouths.

  I nod enthusiastically. Our t
eacher is hot! This might be fun after all.

  “Go get yourself an easel,” she presses.

  As I try to set up the easel, I see him walk in. He’s wearing hipster glasses, but it’s the same guy from last night. Oh God, I thought I’d never see him again. And now he’s in my damn art class? My pulse races as I try to remember everything that happened between us.

  He smiles and chats with a student—I don’t understand a word. Unlike the other students, he doesn’t carry a large portfolio, just a small worn leather satchel.

  I turn to Trish, who is staring at him, slack-jawed.

  “It’s your mysterious stranger,” she whispers.

  I want to leave. It’s fine, I tell myself. He won’t even remember me. He was probably drunk and likely moved on to another girl as soon as I left the club.

  He settles at the opening of our little circle and commands the room. The energy shifts as he starts speaking, first in French. Then he says in his thick accent, “Welcome, everyone, to Québec City: Watercolor and Mixed Media. It is my pleasure to have all of you with me. We will be very busy—”

  I don’t hear the rest. I can barely breathe. I turn to Trish, who’s just as stunned.

  Fuck. I dry humped our art teacher. Nice going, Sammy.

  I can’t believe it. He looks nothing like the photo on the brochure; his hair is longer, his face is scruffier and more mature, and the glasses are completely different.

  As he goes on, his gaze shifts around the room. He makes eye contact with everyone and smiles, quite the charmer. “We will be working both in studio and outside in this beautiful ci—”

  His gaze falls on me, and he turns speechless. Damn, he remembers me. He wasn’t that drunk after all. He stares at me, bewildered, for what seems like an eternity—certainly long enough for everyone to turn toward me and wonder what is so word-stopping about me.