Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

“Because.” I take her hand in mine. “Your pulse is racing. Your hands are shaking. I want you to feel safe.”


“Nothing is safe anymore.” But her hand squeezes mine. “I thought I could avoid getting hurt. I thought I could avoid caring. But I can’t.”

She sets her other hand on my chest.

I wish I could lie to her. I wish I could tell her that this is nothing, that she’ll never be hurt. I wish I could say that even though I’m going to take over for my dad in two weeks, we can still be something.

But I remember Peter’s funeral all too well: the crowds. And yet…not one person from outside work. I don’t even think I’ll be able to hold on to myself when I go back. I can’t promise to hold on to her.

“How can I make this better for you?” I ask.

Her hand slides down my chest. “This is going to hurt no matter what we do. It’s never going to be safe. But maybe we can have something. A memory that we can keep safe, no matter what happens.”

“I don’t want a memory,” I tell her. “I want the whole damned two weeks.”

I want more than that. I want so much.

Her hand slips down another inch. Her finger bisects my chest, cleaving a line through my abs. She hooks it in the waistband of my jeans and pulls me closer.

“If we start now,” she says in a low voice, “it can be two weeks and eight hours.”

The night seems very dark despite the lamp lighting the street. I can hear the weeds in the empty lot rustle in on a night breeze. All my senses are catching fire. The sensation of her hand, warm against my skin, inches from my groin. I slide my arm around her, pulling her close to me for a hard kiss. Her lips open to mine.

And then there is no night. There is no lamp. There are no weeds to rustle. There’s just me and her and this shattering kiss. There’s only our hands, wrapping around each other, touching, wanting. Our bodies, closing the distance.

She doesn’t uncurl her finger from my jeans; instead, she undoes the fastening. She takes hold of the zipper.

“I’m undoing this on the count of three,” she says. “So if we’re not inside by then…”

I pick her up. She lets out a little gasp, but leans against me. Her weight is welcome. It’s wanted.

“One,” she says.

I take her across the street.

“Two.”

At least she’s counting slowly. I struggle with the gate. We pass the clothesline strung in the backyard, laden with shapes that are indecipherable in the dark.

“Three.”

True to her word, she’s unzipped my jeans by the time I’ve managed to unlock the door. By the time we’re inside, shutting the door, her hands are on my bare hips, sliding under my boxers.

“Tina. Wait.”

I can’t see her face in the dark.

“Two weeks,” she says. “And eight hours. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for.” And she slips to her knees. She takes down my boxers, and takes me in her mouth.

I go from semi-erect to sledgehammer hard in the space of a few seconds. Her mouth is fucking hot; her hands slide up my thighs. She teases me with her tongue, tracing the head of my penis, then taking my full length again.

“Holy fucking shit.” My hands tangle in her hair. “Tina. Jesus.”

She pulls away briefly. “Don’t tell me to slow down.” Her voice is shaking. “I want to do this.” And then her mouth is on me, hot, sending pleasure shivering up my spine.

“I want to do things, too,” I growl.

In answer, her lips press around my length. The pressure intensifies. It’s so good, it takes control of me. My hips flex of their own accord. My hands tangle in her hair. My whole body tightens, tensing. I can’t take much more of this, not without blowing my load. And as much as I want that…

It takes an act of willpower to set my hands on her shoulders, to step away.

She looks up at me. She’s on her knees in front of me. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light filtering in through the windows.

“Tina.” My voice is a growl. “Do I get to touch you back?”

Her hands clench on my thighs.

“It’s easier this way. If I don’t have to…”

“Be vulnerable?”

I can hear her exhale. “If I don’t have to admit that I am vulnerable.” But she looks up, and then, very slowly, she stands. “But I am.” Her voice is low. “I am, Blake.”

“Hey.” I touch her lips. “You’re not alone.”

She reaches out and takes my hands. “Nothing is safe,” she says, and slowly, she stands. She puts my hands on her. She slides them under her shirt, and my fingers find her skin, warm and soft and inviting.

“Bullshit,” I say softly. “After all this time? You know how I feel. You know what I want. Maybe the rest of the world is dangerous to us. But you? Me?” I run my hands up her ribs. Her bra is soft and silky to my touch. Her nipples make hard dots against the fabric. She shivers, and I can feel her body tense all over. And then she relaxes, melting into my touch. Letting me stroke those hard points, letting that sensual desire coil between us.