Someone to love, p.1
Someone to Love,
Someone to Love
Copyright 2012 by Addison Moore
Cover by Addison Moore Publishing
Editors: Amy Eye, Sarah Joy Oaklief
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
All Rights Reserved
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Books by Addison Moore
(Celestra Series Book 1)
(Celestra Series Book 2)
(Celestra Series Book 3)
(Celestra Series Book 4)
(Celestra Series Book 5)
(Celestra Series Book 6)
Toxic Part One
(Celestra Series Book 7)
Toxic Part Two
(Celestra Series Book 7.5)
(The Countenance 1)
Someone to Love
To my husband
who taught me all the best parts about love.
Table of Contents
1 — Pleased to Meet You
2 — The Experiment
3 — Magic in the Air
4 — Familial Festivities
5 — Curl up and Dye
6 — A Lesson in Love
7 — The Date
8 — The Syllabus
9 — Run into Your Arms
10 — A Dozen Long-Stemmed Heartaches
11 — The Big Surprise
12 — The Gift
13 — Afterglow
14 — Hat Trick
15 — Dinner Theater
16 — Baby be Mine
17 — Perfect Love
18 — Chain Reaction
19 — Heart of Glass, Heart of Stone
20 — Forever
It was that season in my life, the coming of age of the woman inside me who longed to know the secrets of the universe—those potent with lust and desire—the very thing that harnessed a sexual frenzy and drove humanity along on its erotic trembling wings.
I’ve always thought of love as a very sharp knife that held the promise of exquisite pain, never one that satisfied, never a theory you could nestle in, warm and safe, forever. Love was dangerous terrain. It was where you met your enemy and gutted them before you sacked their belongings, hitting the road long before the ink dried on the divorce papers—that’s what my mother taught me.
I was my own universe. I guarded my heart, froze and buried it in the tundra of my own misgivings. But now that I was clear across country at Garrison University, desire and passion reared their ugly heads. My body ached to know things, and those kinds of lessons could only come from a heated body pressed against mine.
Sex manifested itself in all things. It was all around me—the hibiscus with its sticky pistil, its stamen hungry to release; the perfect round bottom of the peach, the fig tree heavy with its sacks of seeded fruit—the stray cat locked in heat as she begs for a companion. It was everywhere, viral and prolific. All of nature was making love, encouraging humanity with its undeniable whispers. Every day it resonated like an erotic echo. I was envious, greedy to experience the gnashing of hips, the interlacing of hands, knees tucked against mine. I wanted to glean all of the sensual knowledge firsthand.
I held onto virginity and reason long enough—staved off the enemy far too long. Every intimate part of me is quivering, cheering on my newfound carnal revolution, and now here I am, standing in front of the god of Garrison in the exact amount of clothing I was born in.
“Down,” he instructs.
I get on my knees, and he pulls my head back. Instinctively I know this is going to hurt, and I want it to. I want to feel everything Cruise has to offer—all that he’s willing to thrust my way.
He steps into me and unbuttons his jeans. He flicks at his zipper and gives the impression of a wicked grin.
“With your teeth,” he commands.
And I do.
Pleased to Meet You
“Coke or Pepsi?” the Adonis before me asks, as if the only thing he intends on quenching is my thirst. I think inaugurating me as his love slave for the evening is more specific to the point.
He’s tall with broad shoulders and light blue eyes the color that rain wishes it could be. He sports a five o’clock shadow, the stubble is a little darker than the caramel hair protruding from his ball cap. His cheeks are cut high and chiseled. He’s one of those guys—the ones that make your stomach squeeze tight with just one wayward look. We’ve been stealing glances for the better part of an hour even though he was seven-deep in girls, two of them gnawing on his ear and neck respectively.
The Christmas lights on the anemic tree behind him blink on and off spastically in a rainbow of holiday hues with a pink bulb winking out of synch.
“I haven’t played Questions since ninth grade,” I say, turning to the burgeoning crowd, pretending like I’m not interested. Not that I didn’t get the fact he was offering me a drink. Honestly, if a guy of his loose moral caliber wants to sleep with me, the first thing I’m going to do is make his brain cells strain a little—that is, if he has any.
All I really want to do is find Pennington and convince him to stop guzzling his high-octane beverages long enough to show me to my dorm. That was my first stupid move in what’s panning out to be a bona fide fiasco—trusting a moron with my housing arrangements.
“Questions?” The Adonis dips in with a lewd smile budding on his lips. He’s wearing a white cotton T-shirt and dark inky jeans—my all-time favorite combo on a guy. His tennis shoes look as though they’ve seen their fair share of the great outdoors. He’s probably the type who overindulges in half a dozen sex sports before breakfast. I bet he’s some kind of perverted adrenaline junky. God knows he’s pumping up mine.
He drinks me in with a fondling gaze, undressing me with those blue cellophane eyes. He’s rounding out all the bases mentally—he’s already bent me over home plate, I can tell.
“You know, Questions,” I say, “Coke or Pepsi, male or female—in or out .” I’m not sure if peppering the conversation with innuendo is the best idea, although it’s most likely his native language. I look past him at the crowd, trying to distract myself from the fact he’s even more alarmingly handsome up close than he was clear across the room.
“In or out?” He says, seductively. “Definitely in, and for sure, female.” He gives it in a heated whisper just over my ear and rips a fire through my insides, awakening something in me on a primal level. His voice resonates above the raucous music, and my eyes close involuntarily at the quasi proposition.
Shit. I startle to my senses and scan the room for the simpleton I might be moved to strangle once I locate. It’s
The Adonis pushes out a smile, and a pair of deep-set dimples go off, rendering me defenseless.
Honest to God, I’m about five minutes from pulling Mr. Coke or Pepsi into the corner and raking my body against his. Not that I’ve ever done that before, nor have I ever been motivated to do so. But after a long travel day, and a four-hour layover in five-inch heels, spontaneous sex doesn’t sound so bad.
“Cruise Elton.” He shoves his hand at me as if we were about to conduct business, and something in me softens to him. His glacial eyes burn into mine. He’s watching me, drilling his watery pools through all of the formidable layers I hide beneath. He’s inspecting me for the truth, for the underpinnings of who I really am. I bet he’s embroiled in deep philosophical questions like do I know how to properly utilize my tongue and whether or not I have a piercing that could pleasure him into an erotic nirvana.
“Kendall Jordan,” I yell over the music, taking up his warm, thick fingers. He feels safe, reliable, and something stirs in me when we touch.
“Nice to meet you Kenny.” He gives a wicked grin and swivels his hips into mine. He’s still acting like the playboy he’s been for the last hour, but something in his eyes tempers when he says my name, albeit incorrectly.
“It’s Kendall,” I repeat, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles, memorizing how he feels before letting go. I wish I were one of “those” girls. If I were ever going to be one, tonight would be the night.
“You look more like a Kenny to me. Cute and sporty.” He plucks off his baseball cap revealing dark blond waves before settling it over his head again. His shirt rises over his tan stomach, offering me a glimpse of rippling muscles, solid as granite, and I resist the urge to run my fingers over him like some erotic form of Brail.
I don’t know what he wants from me. At least six girls stood ready to commit an entire slew of indecent acts with him right here in the commons room with total disregard to the bodies crammed into this place. I’m still in the awkward glances phase when it comes to guys. For sure I haven’t graduated to one-night stands at frat parties.
I grind my heel into the floor. Perhaps it was my sexy stilettos that inspired him to slither on over.
“You go to Garrison?” He takes a swig from his soda. Odd that it’s not a beer but a refreshing change of pace. On second thought, he’s probably got it locked and loaded with an eighty-proof fuel enhancer.
“Just transferred in.” I turn in an effort to shut down the prospect of evoking an erection out of him, but he’s quick to jump back in my line of vision. “Look…” I sigh. “I’m actually engaged to Pennington.” Sadly, I’ve resorted to playing fast and loose with the truth in hopes he’ll find someone else to sexually assault for the evening.
He nearly chokes on his drink. “Really?” His face ignites in an ear-to-ear grin like he knows I’m lying.
“Really. Our mother’s arranged the whole thing when we were like twelve.” I leave out the part about meeting Pen for the first time last week in cyberspace. “He’s pretty nice.” Nice as a donkey’s ass but that’s none of Cruise Elton’s freaking business. Besides, I don’t like the smug look on his face, like I’m fresh meat ready for the sexual slaughter.
“That’s too bad about the betrothal,” he says, moving in close as an entire stream of bodies push in behind him. His soft cologne wraps around me like a pair of strong arms, and I feel the heat radiating from his body, covering me like a coat.
A linebacker carrying a keg in his arms, barrels through the center of the room, parting the crowd like a Red Sea miracle. The swell of humanity forces Cruise into me and we land flattened against the wall, with his iron abs pressed against me so tight you couldn’t squeeze a quarter between us. His hips adhere to mine with a noticeable protrusion pressed against my thigh.
Cruise runs his heavy gaze over my features. His lips part involuntarily. We lock eyes, and neither of us moves from this compromising position.
The music dies down and a familiar Christmas carol belts over the speakers, inspiring a bunch of girls in the corner to sing along.
He grazes his bottom lip with his perfect straight teeth, so unearthly white they glow. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Kenny?”
Everything in me freezes. If I did believe in love at first sight, I would hope it would be with someone as godlike as Cruise Elton who saw fit to back me in a corner and bless me with his rock hard body—but, alas, the answer is no.
“After my mom’s fifth marriage ended, I stopped believing in love and Santa.” It comes out much cheerier than the sad news it really is.
He pulls his cheek to the side and gives a sexy smile that sears me with heat in places I’ve never felt before.
“I don’t believe in it, either. But you can’t tell me Santa isn’t real.” His grin widens. “I knew I liked you.” He cups the side of my face and swallows hard. Gone is the playful flirt as his features take a turn for the serious. His eyes close as he comes in for the kill. My heart gives a few wild thumps, alerting me to the fact that Cruise Cock on Fire Elton has the power to induce a cardiac episode in me if he wanted.
“Whoa.” I slap my hands over his chest and give a good shove. “Sorry, cowboy, I’m not into one-night stands either. I get it. I really do,” I say, trying to maneuver my way from under him. “You’re on a road show with your penis, and trust me, I’m the last person who wants to get in your way. But I’m telling you, operation occupy-my-vagina is a no-go for the evening.”
“Road show?” He mouths the words, perplexed by my penile analogy, just long enough for me to twist myself free and speed over to a couple of girls as if I knew them. They’re standing in front of a vast display of beverages, all of which guarantee a hangover with the exception of Coke or Pepsi.
I dart a glance back to Cruise only to find he’s once again surrounded by his hormone happy harem.
A brunette digs her hand into the back of his jeans while a gorgeous blonde whispers in his ear, inspiring a laugh out of him. My stomach cinches at the sight of all those bimbos pawing at him. An unexpected pang of jealousy spreads through my chest, and I force myself to look away.
“Nice,” I whisper.
“Ally Monroe.” A chipper blonde with bright red lipstick takes up my hand. She’s wrapped in a black-and-white-checkered coat, paired with patent leather boots that inch past her knees. I have on my less-than-warm jean jacket and spiked knock-off Manolos. Having lived in L.A. all my life, I’m pretty sure I’m ill-prepared for a brutal Massachusetts winter.
“Kendall,” I say to the two of them.
“Lauren Ashby.” The brunette gives a brief nod. Her hair cascades around her shoulders in waves, and I admire it for a moment. My own hair hangs long and for the most part, straight—dark as soot. Most of the time it just looks like a bad Halloween wig. “We see you’ve met Cruise.” She tips her head back and laughs, revealing a pair of light-up Christmas tree earrings hidden beneath her dark tresses.
“Is he a graduation requirement?” I ask. Not that I’m anywhere near graduation. I’m a sophomore who recently upgraded her undeclared status to Liberal Arts with no real intention of doing anything productive with it.
Lauren laughs so hard she spills her drink over her bright red heels. “No, but God, wouldn’t that be great? Actually, he’s a mess. Stay away from him. He had a rough time last summer, and now he’s nothing but a ball of testosterone on fire.”
“He was shit on.” Ally nods as if to testify to this.
“He was shat on.” Lauren spears her with a look. “Get your grammar straight.”
Pennington struts by with his collar turned up like a preppy and a pair of sunglasses firmly planted over his face, which cements any pending douchebag status I may have afforded him. I’ve seen enough pictures to know it’s him, plus we Skyped twice last week
“There’s my future husband,” I say sarcastically, mostly to myself since they’re both locked in a heated argument over semantics.
“Pennington?” Ally’s mouth squares out and the two of them break out in cackles.
I speed over and yank him aside.
“Hey! How’s it going? It’s me, Kendall!” I pony up all the mock enthusiasm I can muster. “The party was fun and all, but I sort of just want to get settled in my room. Can I have the key?”
Pennington secured me a dorm on campus, which is really hard to do since they’re usually booked by August, and here it is December, so I guess it’s sort of my Christmas miracle.
His lips crimp. “About that…”
“What happened?” I don’t need to be Nancy Drew to know this isn’t going to end well.
“Nothing happened.” He sloshes his drink over the floor as if trying to wave off the absurdity. Pennington is tall and decent in the looks department, not in the caustic jump-in-my-bed sort of way that Cruise is—Pen is more your stoner boy next door. I’m sure every female within a twenty-mile radius would love nothing more than to drag Cruise off to the nearest bushes, and Pennington—well, he’s the reason girls carry mace in their purse.
by Addison Moore / Mystery / Romance have rating 4.3 out of 5 / Based on43 votes