Page 20 of The Pleasure of Panic

It’s normal. I don’t know why and I can’t say how it happened, but it is. Maybe it’s the game? Maybe it’s because we both know we’re playing. We both know why we’re together tonight, we both know what’s gonna happen next, and we both need it.

I’m not sure.

But I like it, I realize. I like the certainty of how things will now play out. I like the prearranged scenario.

I like him, too. Sorta. In that new possibilities kind of way.

I think he’s got potential and I don’t know how or where he’s planning on fucking me in front of other people tonight—hell, maybe this is just a practice run or something? Maybe the game goes on for more than one night? I have no idea—but it’s OK.

We’re gonna fuck, and then he’s gonna say something like, Hey, I know this place we should go, and I’m gonna say, OK, let’s do that, and then we’re gonna make those plans, and yeah…

I haven’t had sex in almost six months and I’m way too close to scoring to back out now.

We walk up the front walkway, which is made of those old cement blocks from like the nineteen forties. You know the ones. They’re all tilted and uneven, so far away from the flat surface they used to be. I’ve tripped over them several times coming home from the corner bar since I moved in. I joked with my homeowners’ insurance chick, Miranda, that they should count as a security system, they’re so dangerous. We had a good laugh at that, but she didn’t give me the discount.

Then there’s the trees. They are old, and tall, and sturdy, just like the windowless brick walls that surround them. Their trunks are easily four feet in diameter. And the roots…. Jesus, the roots. They are poking up from the earth in all directions. Gnarled, and twisted, and amazing. I’m pretty sure the trees are what killed the walkway. Probably why my plumbing sucks too.

But I don’t care. I love them.

In the spring they’re like an umbrella. It rains, and rains, and rains, and almost nothing gets past their jungle-like canopy. It’s a shitty yard for growing anything because there’s no sun. And my front lawn—if you can call some spotty patches of grass a lawn—is a mess, just like the house.

But it’s a beautiful yard for sitting in the shade and that’s really all I expect of it.

When I get to the door I turn and smile at him, appreciating him a little more now that I’m no longer handcuffed, as I unlock it.

“What?” he asks. “Changing your mind? We don’t have to do this, ya know.”

I grab his tie and pull him towards me. He’s so much taller than me I figure the logistics of kissing will be comical, at best.

But the kiss isn’t comical at all. There’s no awkward nose-bumping, no Which way do I turn my head?, no teeth crashing.

He simply bows his head and… there he is. His mouth finds mine, his full lips covering me, then he nips my lip, making me gasp in surprise. I open my eyes to look up at him. Normally I keep my eyes closed for kissing, but the unexpected pain associated with the pleasure of the kiss knocks me off my game.

Did I enjoy that?

He doesn’t give me time to decide because he takes my face in both his hands and knocks me sideways as he crushes me with his lips.

My legs almost buckle for a moment. My heart either speeds up or stops altogether, I’m not sure. My mind spins—maybe from the wine at dinner, but maybe not.

I think I… swoon.

CHAPTER FOUR - FINN

I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m gonna lose my job. I’m gonna get a black mark I can’t afford to have. I’m gonna…

Fuck it.

Her mouth is delicious. She tastes like dessert and sweet wine. She tastes like Valentine’s Day. I kiss her harder after that thought, threading my fingers into her hair, then grabbing fistfuls to hold her close and keep her from pulling back, because it’s been way too long since I had a date on Valentine’s Day and even though she’s probably a criminal and a liar who’s gonna end up in prison before this is all said and done… I can’t help myself. I just react.

The tie grab was unexpected. Shit, who am I kidding—this whole fucking thing was unexpected. But it was the tie grab that got my full attention. Little fucking wannabe dominatrix, that’s what she is.

Newsflash, Issy Grey. Headline reads: Not Gonna Happen.

I guide her through the open door, making sure she doesn’t trip over the rug, and kick it closed behind me as I continue my punishing kiss.

“Upstairs or on the couch?” she asks, still kissing me.

I don’t answer, just push her up against the foyer wall and drag her coat down her shoulders. She’s wearing a blazer underneath. Something completely professional. It comes off with the coat and they drop to the floor in a heap.