Very Wicked Things
“Come on, Dovey, stop playing around and let me in,” he said. “Tell me something real. Shock me.”
“I’ll have you know, Elvis was real. He lived in 2A and was the sweetest black man.”
His reply was to pull his keys out of his pants and dangle them. “Last chance, Dovey. Do you wanna drive my car or not?”
“I’m a virgin.”
A sharp intake of air and a look of wonder greeted me. Had he thought I wasn’t? Because I’m from Ratcliffe?
Seconds passed and passed and passed. Was this a deal breaker?
I shrugged. “I spent my younger years never having anything that was just mine. But I have dance and my body. It’s not much, but I’m waiting for the right person.”
“I think I just fell in love with you a little bit more,” he said.
I let that slide. I mean, what could I say? He was joking.
“Hand over the keys,” I said.
We got up to leave, and he placed his hand in the small of my back, guiding me. The touch seemed almost gentlemanly from a guy who was anything but. It created a fire in me. And it scared me, too. Because usually in life the first time you meet someone, you’re strangers, but with Cuba, it hadn’t been like that. Almost as if we were meant to be, as if we’d known each other in another life and were reconnecting. And I know it was a silly thought, but it stuck with me. Like a dancer who automatically recognizes which toe shoes are hers, my heart sensed him as mine.
Bah. How ridiculous.
We stopped at his car in the parking lot of the restaurant. More than driving his car, I wanted to kiss him. Desperately.
Cuba was a mind reader. “I never got my kiss,” he said. “You gonna give me anything else tonight?” His eyes raked over my short skirt.
I let that go.
“Why do you like me?” I said, feeling bold, obviously delusional from all the carbs.
He scooted in closer to me, and my eyes got tangled up on his big-ass biceps. “It’s hard to say. I think it’s the whole package: the way you don’t care who I am, the way you smile, the way you don’t take any shit from me. But mostly, your ass is so tight from dancing—”
I slapped his arm and he laughed. Then he kissed my earlobe, and I stopped breathing. Our first kiss had been on the nape. Now the ear. My lips were jealous.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” he said.
Yeah. Ditto.
“So why do you like me?” he asked casually. But his eyes were filled with intensity.
“There’s a rumor going around you have these prophetic dreams. I want in on the action, maybe open a Tarot reading store or palm-reading or…” I lost my train of thought because he’d kissed my ear again, his teeth nibbling on my pearl earring.
“That’s disappointing. I took you for much deeper than that,” he breathed.
“Maybe I like you for your car.”
He chuckled. “Don’t think I’ll ever let you drive it now.”
“Do you want your kiss?”
“I want way more than a kiss, Dovey.”
Yes. “Like what?”
He didn’t say. Just tilted my chin up and bent down until our noses touched. And it should have been awkward because first kiss moments usually are, but for some reason it wasn’t. The air between us mingled and grew warm. Or maybe that was my face. My lips parted, and I wet them with my tongue. I prayed I didn’t have lasagna breath.
“Are you going to kiss me? Because the build-up is killing me. Just do it already,” I said sil kily, in a tone I’d never used with anyone.
“What if it’s not as good as my dream?”
“Make your dreams come true, then,” I said.
“You’re as cheesy as I am,” he said softly, cupping my face, and then the world went on pause as he pressed me against the car and eased between my legs. His hard body aligned with mine, and he took my mouth gently, giving me soft kisses and then harder ones, tilting his head this way and that, experimenting. He lifted his lips from mine after a while, breathing just as heavily as I was.
“Good?” he asked huskily.
“More,” I whispered, pulling his head back to mine.
He groaned and took my mouth fiercely, applying delicious pressure, giving me what I needed. We sky-rocketed right out of that parking lot as it went from sweet to hot and erotic and mouths wide apart. His tongue took control, and I willingly let him own it. Passion blazed, and my hands hung on to sanity around his neck. He kissed me so long and hard and perfectly until I was convinced I would die from suffocation but I didn’t care. Who needed to breathe?
Kissing Cuba Hudson was a good way to die.
He came up for air, wearing a dazed expression, placing his forehead against mine. “That was a hell of a kiss.”
“Yes,” I admitted. But what was I doing? I had no room in my life for a boyfriend.
He said, “Don’t pull away. I’m scared, too. And I know we’re young, but I feel older than I really am. I’ve gone through some bad shit in my life…” he trickled off.
I cocked my head. It sounded like he’d been through something serious. Maybe his life wasn’t so perfect.
He continued. “Maybe I don’t know your birthday—yet—or if you like country music or pop or rap or whatever. But I do know I’m fascinated by the way your lips curve when you smile. And dammit, now I want to kiss you again.”
“My birthday is October 20th , and I like all kinds of music. And yes, please kiss me.”