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  His chuckle was the same amused leonine rumble of pleasure, but laced with amusement. He slipped his hand from my neck and let it trace a sensuous, teasing line down my back to rest just above the swell of my hip, no more sexual a touch than if we were dancing in a club. I wanted him to move it down the rest of the way, to mirror my hand's placement.

  Our kiss broke for a moment, and he pulled his face back far enough to meet my eyes. The lust was there in spades, but now it was mixed with too many other emotions for me parse them all out. His eyes were boiling, rife with the same desire he'd looked at me with since I bumped into him at Ram's Horn, but mixed in with it was a different kind of desire, as if he'd like to just sit and talk, or just kiss me all night. I didn't think it was possible to express so much with just a look, but Chase managed it.

  He also managed to get both his arms around me and grab my ass with both hands. He had long arms.

  Then he kissed me again, and this time it wasn't a kiss meant to surprise, like the first two, quick and hard and shocking, all lips and startling power and zero finesse. This time, he kissed me slow, languorous and deliberate and skillful. He let our lips touch, and then he slipped his tongue out to touch my teeth and explore the contours of my mouth, the corner where my upper and lower lips met, the hollow beneath my tongue, and then farther in to slide along the surface of my tongue.

  I may have moaned, then, a soft murmur of my vocal chords. Chase tugged my hips flush against his, and I felt a hard length between us. It was just a bulge against the leather of his pants, but it was enough to get me wetter than rainforest between my legs, and I knew then that I would stop at nothing to get even a glimpse of this man with out his pants on.

  My hands circled around away from his ass finally, and tried to slip between us to unbutton his pants, and yes, I was aware that we were in public, mere feet away from several hundred people and oh hell no I'm not an exhibitionist. What can I say? Even through his pants I could tell the man was endowed like a god, and all I wanted was a little taste.

  "Just a taste." The words actually came out of my mouth.

  "You can have more than a taste, sweetness," Chase said.

  I don't think he realized I was talking about his manhood.

  "I didn't mean your lips," I said.

  What the hell is wrong with me? My brain seemed to be disconnected from the rest of me. This guy was playing me, and I knew it. I wasn't just letting him play me, I was actively throwing myself at him.

  Chase pulled away long enough to meet my eyes. "I know," was all he said, smirking.

  That smirk, that stupid, knowing smirk. He didn't know, but my flush of embarrassment gave me away. He moved his hips away from mine, keeping that smirk on his lips. I wanted to wipe it off his face with my fist, or my lips. I wasn't sure which. He was touching me and kissing me like he owned me, and it infuriated me and intoxicated me at the same time.

  Intoxication may have had the upper hand.

  My hand found his stomach, and rested there as I warred with myself over whether or not I could bring myself to touch him any lower down. I wanted to, of course I did, but I wasn't that kind of girl. I just wasn't. I was the girl that let guys convince her into bed. I didn't pursue them, because that never went well. I'd tried it, and it sucked. Rejection always hurts, but when you like the same hot guy as a skinny bitch, well...the rejection is usually a bit rougher for girls like me.

  But Chase was pursuing me, wasn't he? That was the argument the horny side of me offered up. It was starting to sound like the logical side of me too, which was odd. Usually the horny side and the logical side were telling me exact opposite things. So, when they started agreeing with each other, I listened.

  I snuck my fingers underneath his shirt to touch his stomach, and the slab of muscle my hands found was ribbed and cut into deliciously soft yet hard divots and squares. It was a tempting playground, and normally I'd jump at the opportunity to rub my hands on the kind of abs Chase had, but in that moment I was in search of another, more dangerous place to explore.

  The leather was rough and pebbled under my fingers as I dragged my hand south from his stomach to the waistband of his pants. I forced myself to let the moment last, to draw it out. The bulge was growing larger as my hands neared it, and I felt a tremble in his hands on my hips, just the merest leaf-shake of his fingers, but it was enough. He wanted it, too. I mean, of course he did. He's a guy. All guys want their members touched.

  But this was different, right? He wanted me to touch him. And it was right there, waiting for me. Sure, I didn't even know his last name, but he was this ridiculously gorgeous guy decked out in leather pants—my Mr. Sexypants for real, tonight—with a ripped body and what promised to be a positively, deliciously enormous package, and he was all but claiming me as his.

  I was perfectly willing to be his, to be played by him, if it meant just one night with a guy this gorgeous. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I was determined to take it.

  Yes, I was psyching myself into it, so what? It was a new experience for me, and I needed some self-motivation.

  It worked. I found the button and slipped it through to let the tight pants spread apart, and then drew the zipper down, forcing myself to go slow, because you can't rush beauty. Then there was just a thin layer of stretchy cotton between my hands and his flesh, just black DKNY boxer-briefs that didn't stand a chance against my daring fingers. His pants were tight, though. Too tight. The zipper opened them enough to let the bulge spring free, and I pulled the band of the boxers away from his belly to get a glimpse of the glory contained therein.

  Fuck me sideways! The man is hung like a porn star! It was too good to be true, surely. He would let me get a glimpse, maybe let me suck him off—which I would gladly have done right there and then—but that would be it. No way he'd take me back to his apartment and fuck me proper.

  Determined not to let such a golden opportunity go to waste, I touched him with my forefinger, just one reverent brush of the pad of my finger along the pre-come-glistening tip. He was sensitive. He gasped, sucked in his belly and throbbed his hips into my hand. Oh, oh, oh my god, did he fill my hand.

  Touching him was like eating a chip; I couldn't stop after just one. I had to have more, had to get both hands around him, and yes, he was a two-hand man. Maybe, two and half hands, even, because for a big girl I have small hands. I wrapped my fingers around his girth and shoved his boxers farther down with the heel of my hand so I could fit my other palm around him.

  He sucked in his breath and arched his back. "God, Anna. You're driving me crazy."

  "I like hearing you say my name." I didn't mean to say that, but it slipped out, and Chase didn't seem to mind.

  "Anna," he gasped.

  I was smearing his pre-come with a hand-over-hand motion, and he was writhing into my grip. He was nearly there, about to explode on my hands, and I wasn't about to stop. He put his hands on my ribcage, just beneath my breasts.

  "Yes," I whispered, "touch my tits."

  What am I doing? The voice of reason, my more prudish nature, which shies away from such behavior as this, was speaking up now. Are you really about to blow this guy behind The Dive?

  Yes I was. I told my inner prude to shut the hell up and read a book or something. My inner prude didn't like it when I touched myself, even alone, and didn't like it when I thought lusty thoughts about hot guys. My inner prude could get fucked...which was the entire point of all this, after all.

  I felt the veins of his shaft pulsing under my touch, so I worked one of my hands into his pants and cupped his heavy, tight testicles as I continued to work his length with the other hand. He was bucking up and down now with his entire body, bending his knees and thrusting up with his entire torso, driving him through my slippery grip. His eyes were hooded and his breathing was coming in desperate gasps.

  I wanted him to come, and hard. I wanted him to want me to make him come again, and again, and I was determined to make sure he damn well neve
r forgot this experience, even if it was all we'd ever have together. I didn't care about getting off myself, momentarily; I knew I could go home and break out Mr. Pinky McVibrator and use this memory to come at least once, if not twice. I was multi-orgasmic, you see, if only with myself. No guy had ever made me come more than once, but I hoped someday, someone would.

  I was trying desperately not to hope it would be Mr. Sexypants himself, who was now mere seconds from spooging into my hand.

  "Anna, wait," Chase gasped, trying to back away. "This wasn't...I wanted to—with you—"

  I didn't let him get away. He curled in over his stomach, and I knew it was time. I dropped to my knees, wrapped my lips around his head and sucked for all I was worth. He couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but thrust into my mouth and shoot his load into me. He shot, and he shot, and he shot, and I took it all, tasting the smoky, salty thickness against my tongue and my throat and for once not minding at all, for once actually understanding those girls who claim to love giving head.

  I'll do it, every once in a while, just to make the guy feel good and to remind him who had the power, but I'd never enjoyed it before. I didn't dislike it, it just wasn't a "hooray, I'm sucking dick” kind of thing for me.

  But Chase...oh, he came beautifully. He stretched his mouth wide and arched his back, fluttering his lovely, pulsing erection into me, holding back, restraining himself from cramming himself straight through the back of my throat like I knew he could have. Even as he came, he was trying to think of me.

  That was when I knew I was really in trouble. You know how many guys out of the....let's say less than half a dozen...that I'd slept with and gone down on had ever, even during sex itself, ever thought of me? None. Zero. As soon as they got off, that was it for Anna. And let me tell you, I'd never been able to finish myself off under those circumstances. It's hard to feel sexy when the guy you had sex with turns over and starts snoring, leaving you hot and bothered and sometimes on the very cusp of coming, and if they'd just kept at it for a few more minutes, seconds even, I could've gotten there with them, but they just didn't care.

  It was a little thing Chase did, not jamming himself down my throat while he came, but it meant a lot to me, and I knew I had to cut and run before I got attached. The fantasy was bound to come crashing down around me any minute, and I wanted to get free while I still had a good memory to hold on to.

  When I'd milked him of every last drop, I tucked him back into his DKNY boxers and zipped up his pants and buttoned him up.

  "You have a beautiful cock," I told him, rising to my feet, "and you taste awesome."

  I kissed him once, a fast, hard crush of the lips.

  "Thanks for a good time, Chase," I said.

  And with that, I turned and made my exit.

  "Wait," Chase growled, grabbing my arm. "You can't just leave. That wasn't what I—"

  I kept moving, despite his grip on my arm. "I have to finish my set."

  He grabbed my other arm, then, and pulled me forcefully back around to face him.

  "I wasn't done with you yet."

  I jerked free, starting to angry that he'd ruined my exit, and was in the process of ruining my memory of him. "Let go, Chase. You got what you wanted, didn't you? I've got to go back to work."

  Chase's eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed. "Got what I wanted? You did that, not me."

  I gritted my teeth in irritation. "Yeah, I know. You didn't ask for it, not in so many words, but guys like you know how to get what you want without asking for it. Especially from girls like me."

  "Guys like me." Chase frowned and squeezed my arm hard enough to make me wince.

  "Yeah. Guys like you. Talented, gorgeous, guys who can get anyone they want."

  "How do you know what I want? And what do you mean by girls like you?"

  I absolutely refused to answer that question. Why was he pushing this? Why can't you just let me have my memory?

  I jerked free and walked away as fast as I could, just as my partner Jeff came looking for me. I haven't mentioned my partner yet, have I? Jeff...a stable, steady guy, a good business partner, just barely better-than-average looking, and an incredible singer. We DJed together, splitting the profits and making quite a bundle, usually. We'd never been more than friends and partners, even though I knew he had a major crush on me.

  "Where have you been, Anna? Everyone's waiting," Jeff said. He knew me well enough to see I was upset. "Is everything okay? What happened?"

  I was glad he hadn't come around the corner twenty seconds earlier; he wouldn't have done or said anything, but it would have hurt him to see me doing that to Chase, and I didn't want to lose a good partner.

  "I'm fine, Jeff. Don't worry about it." I turned him by the shoulders and pushed him back to the front door of The Dive before Chase came around looking for me.

  Which would be in....three...two...one...

  "Anna, wait." I felt his hand on my arm, and spun around with my fist flying.

  Of course, he caught it like he had the first time. Thank god, Jeff was already inside, so he didn't see anything.

  "Chase, seriously. We both know the score here."

  "Score? What score? Don't be like this. What you did felt great, better than great, but that wasn't what I was going for. I don't know why you're getting so upset, all of a sudden. I like you, I want to—"

  "Anna, let's go!" Jeff stuck his head out the door, saw me stumble as Chase told me he liked me.

  "Hey, listen, buddy, I don't know what your game is, but Anna's not interested." Jeff thrust his chest out and strutted towards Chase, thinking he was defending me. Jeff was sweet, and meant well, and was obviously fearless, since Chase was several inches taller and several pounds of muscle heavier.

  I pushed Jeff back inside. "It's fine, Jeff. He's not bothering me. He was just leaving."

  Chase's face darkened. "No I wasn't." He strode past me, ignoring Jeff completely. "You owe me a song, at least."

  Jeff glance at me, and I shrugged, stifling a sigh.

  We sang "Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee. I couldn't hold on to my conflicted feelings, not with Chase's dulcet growl braiding perfectly with my voice. The bar was silent as we sang, even the bartenders going still to watch. The tension rippling in palpable waves between Chase and I took the performance into overdrive, sparks crackling as our gazes met, his angry and confused and determined, mine hard and agonized. The lyrics fit our conflict perfectly.

  Sometimes, when you perform, time itself seems to stop and watch, if you hit your notes just right. The music seems to glide between the pores of your skin to bubble through your veins in place of blood, and you can't help but clutch the mic with both trembling hands and let the song flow out of you like blood from a wound. In those moments, when the music has replaced everything and even your awareness of your own body has faded, you can't even breathe, can't do anything but let the song own you, let the performance rocket through you. There's no people, no problems in your life, no buzz of alcohol in your blood or pain in your heart...and if you're sharing that moment with another person...it's more intimate than sex. It's a bonding experience like no other, except maybe going into combat, from what I've heard. You and the other person lock eyes, bend at the waist to belt the notes into the mic and invisible, sun-hot flames burn between you, linking you. You could be the only two souls alive in the world.

  When the song ended, I was exhausted, feeling as wrung out as if Chase and I had just gone three rounds in bed. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and neither of us knew how to approach it. The chemistry required to share a song like Chase and I just had, that was rare. You could harmonize perfectly with someone, and even give great performances together—like Jeff and I did every week—but to be able to join your souls together for the length of a song, and interpret the music and lyrics to have deeply personal meaning...you just didn't come across that every day.

  The next several numbers felt flat, even to me. The rest of the bar s
eemed to feel it, reluctant to take the stage and sing, not when the memory of Chase's and my song still rang loud in the small space.

  Eventually, a chant began. "Sing, Sing, Sing...."

  The whole bar caught on, until the chant was echoing off the ceiling and the patrons were pushing Chase and I onto the stage.

  Jeff, ever the professional, knew exactly what to do. He stuck in a CD and sat back in the shadows.

  When the first notes pounded from the speakers, Chase and I rolled our eyes and sighed in tandem. Jeff had put on "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)" by Meatloaf.

  Of course he knew the song. I knew, right then, before we'd sung a single note, that we'd bring the house down even more than the first time. He'd provide the perfect harmony, and of course the song would fit our tension yet again.

  We killed it. No one could breathe, and I think I saw a few teary eyes as Chase and I sang, the roiling emotions between us ratcheting up even further with every note. I hated Jeff for putting on this song. I was trying SO hard not get attached, not to let my emotions lead me to a broken heart, which I knew was all that waited for me on the other side of anything with Chase. And of course the man was bleeding himself dry selling the performance, pushing himself the edge.

  The crowd went wild when the last note faded. We held hands and bowed, as if we were on stage at Harpos or somewhere.

  Jeff put on fill music and I vanished out the side door. Chase followed, of course.

  "Chase, I can't do this—"

  "Come home with me."

  We spoke at the same time, and I was so shocked by his words that I could only stand, stunned. Then he kissed me. You know how in The Princess Bride it says in the history of the world there's only been five truly great kisses? Well, this one blew them all away. Yes, I know that's the next line from the movie, but I've never thought that kiss between Westley and Buttercup was all that great, for one thing, and for another, this kiss between Chase and I...the stars froze in the sky, and the moon went dark, and all the world stopped and stared, awed at the sheer, breathtaking passion blazing between us.