Losing Me Finding You
If you want a book that shows a love blossom in unconventional circumstances between unlikely lovers. If you want a to see what happens when a girl sheltered from the world finds the real world in the arms of a hot guy. Do you want gritty hot sex. Read this book you will not be disappointed. CM Stunich pulls another great book out of her hat. I look forward to many many more amazing stories from this young talented and prolific author.
“Godless people,” she says, and I don't correct her. There's no point. Some guy with a pentagram tattoo just walked by and much as I know that could mean anything, my mom thinks it's the sign of the Antichrist. “Do you have your pepper spray in your purse?” I took it out to accommodate Daniel, but I nod and tell her that yes, I do. I need an e-reader, I think as I imagine carrying thousands of books around in my hand. My father refuses to buy one for me, saying that digital devices like that are portals to hell in and of themselves. He let me have a computer, but he unplugs the Wi-Fi at night. I should really move out. “Go straight inside and don't talk to anyone.”
“And please don't let Jodie try on anything that you know isn't going to fit. You know how moody she's been lately.”
My mother pulls up to the curb and lets me out into the throng of people. I can see that she doesn't want to leave me there, but that she's more afraid of Jodie's wrath than she is of the motorcycle fanatics. I'd have to agree with
that one. I start towards the front door of the bridal shop and then just stop. My mom isn't looking; Jodie doesn't know I'm here yet. Now's my chance to look around, just take a peek at the motorcycles. It won't take long; after all
there's a whole row of them parked at the end of this block, just behind the red signs and yellow tape banning cars from this stretch of road. I glance over my shoulder to make sure that Mom's completed her U-turn and start down the sidewalk.
Amy pushes through the doors in the back like she knows exactly where she's going, leading us into a room with four pool tables and not much else. Once she's inside, she spins to face me, her beautiful hair sticking to her lips as it flows around her face.
“How do I join?” she asks and it takes me a long, hot second to figure out what it is that she wants. I'm having a hard time thinking past the surges of excitement that are coursing through my body, begging me to grab the girl and throw her over the green felt, fuck her until these strange feelings inside of me are gone.
“I don't know what you mean, babe?” I ask as Amy steps close, too close, and her heat envelopes me, teasing me with the soft scent of flowers and sex. This girl is ready whether she knows it or not.
“Your gang – group – whatever. The people with the triple M's on the back of their jackets.” Ah. The girl wants to join my motorcycle club. I pause for a moment and rub my chin, trying to figure out what to say. She's not the first chick to ask, but she is the first to seem so serious about it, to look at me with eyes burning with fire and a voice quavering with need, like if I don't answer her, she'll shrivel up and die.
“Believe me, Amy, when I tell you that you don't want to be a part of this.”
“No,” she tells me, glancing up sharply. “I need to be.” And then she's stepping forward and running her hands up my chest, leaning forward on her toes so that the lace trim on the neckline of her top skims the fabric of my shirt, close but not close e-fucking-nough.
“Help me,” she whispers, voice dropping so low that the last word barely reaches my ears. Or maybe my pulse is pumping too loud in my Goddamn head to hear anything at all; I realize that the buzz and the clink of glasses from the bar has gone silent. Whoever this girl is, I don't care. All I know is that I need her, now, right here, fucking fast and friggin' furious. But then I remind myself that she's a virgin and a small town lady who doesn't know shit about shit, and I just can't do that to her, not unless she asks.
There are some things that translate perfectly from real life to writing, that dance from the author's fingertips like
petals on the wind, spinning a bit of prose that is just as good, if not better than seeing it with one's own eyes.
Orgasms are not one of them.
Oh, believe you me when I tell you that I've read lots, hundreds, thousands maybe. I've read explosions of
light and sound, convulsions, fireworks, pleasurable bursts of unstoppable energy that transcend this very realm of
existence as we know it. None of those are accurate. I believe the French are most on point with the term la petite
mort – the little death.
“Stop,” I tell Austin with force, trying to cull this building feeling in my belly. With every thrust of his
Austin's hips, I feel it spiral up from down below and infuse my body with this sense of urgency, like if I don't stop
now, I'll really, truly be done for. “I said stop,” I repeat, but my voice only comes out in a weak whisper. “Please.”
“I can't,” Austin groans through clenched teeth, letting his head fall back while his hands tighten so much
around mine that they hurt, trapping me like steel cuffs against the table as his body slams into mine, erasing twenty-one
ridiculous years of pious virginity and countless hours of reading romance novels by the truckload.
“Good morning, sugar,” I say, and I smile when I see her shiver. Sure as shit ain't the weather that's pricking her skin with little goose bumps; it's hotter than hell out here.
“Good morning, Austin,” she says, all proper like. Her eyes keep flicking over to a shoe shop with a picture of Jesus H. Christ himself plastered across the window. Weird ass little town. And somehow complicated, too. I gotta find Gaine and quick; this isn't a pleasure run. Things are tough. After I left the bar last night, the shit hit the fan, and it didn't stop spinning. Bikes got trashed, and people got hurt, and I didn't have anything to do with any of it. I was too busy upstairs rubbing my cock and thinking of Amy while Gaine and Beck and who knows who the fuck else were doing my dirty work for me. “How do you do?” I laugh because the words slip from her mouth automatically, making her blush and then putting this real angry look on her face like she wants to stop, but doesn't know how. I've got a couple of ideas on how to keep that mouth occupied, but I keep them to myself. I don't have time for that right now, much as I'd like to get to know Miss Amy a little better. “Um.” She pauses and nibbles her lip, reaching up to brush some of that golden brown hair behind her ear. “Thank you.” I stare at her, and she rushes to explain, using her hands to emphasize her words. “For last night I mean?”
“Are you thankin' me for fucking you, darling?” I ask with a laugh, and she wrinkles her nose.
“I just … I don't know how these things work,” she begins, but I'm already stepping forward and hooking my fingers beneath her jaw, drawing her face up to mine and pressing my mouth against hers. She tastes sweet, like maybe she's wearing some of that flavored makeup crap that Mireya likes, but her mouth is hungry, pressing against me with a vigorous fury that I didn't expect. We tangle tongues and soon my arms are around her and I'm trying to figure out where the closest place is that we could fuck.