Page 40 of Hockey Halloween
I look, and sure enough, there’s a woman dressed in red, and she’s draped herself on my brother’s right arm. There’s also a princess on his left arm and a witch hovering close by. I don’t point that out, though. It doesn’t seem helpful.
“Please tell me how her costume beats mine. I’ll wait.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says, but I can see a smile pulling at her lips. “This is a great costume. It’s a winner for sure. How am I not up there on stage, but my friend is? She’s not even wearing a costume. She forgot. She dug that red sweater out of the lost and found when we got here. So, like I said, total bullshit.”
“That’s pretty shitty,” I agree.
“But?” she asks. “I hear a ‘but’ coming on.”
I shrug. “Your costume is great, but if you want to get technical, Chuckie didn’t wear a mask. And you have a mask on.”
My table mate is unimpressed with my honesty. “Technically, Chuckie wasn’t wearing a corset either, but it’s Halloween. Liberties are taken.”
She’s got a point. But, in my opinion, the lacy pink corset peeking out from underneath her striped tank top and denim overalls is a nice touch. “I stand corrected,” I tell her. “You’re right. It’s utter bullshit.”
“Thanks,” she says, offering me a smile. It’s a little lopsided, due to all the stitches on her made-up face, but it’s brilliant all the same. It almost reminds me of Val’s smile, but I shake that thought off before it has a chance to fully form.
“So, you’re a mummy?” she asks.
I gaze down at my costume, which basically looks like someone wrapped my body in rolls and rolls of toilet paper, and then look back up at Sexy Chuckie. “How’d you guess?”
Her laugh is musical, and I want to hear it again. Before I can think of anything to say, though, the deejay starts pumping music through the bar again. He must have announced winners at some point, but I’m not the least bit invested in the contest, and Chuckie is a little too invested, so it’s probably best that we missed that part.
The music is too loud, but the beat is good, so I find myself swaying along.
“You’ve got decent moves,” Sexy Chuckie tells me, reaching her hand out. “Feel like dancing?”
Yeah, I do. So instead of overthinking things or fishing my keys out of my pocket and heading home, I put my hand in hers and step out onto the dance floor. It’s crowded, but we don’t mind. The only person I’m paying attention to is the woman whose hand I’m still holding. I might be pushing thirty-five, but I’m not a terrible dancer. And though it’s been a while since I’ve bumped or grinded, moving my body in time with hers is easy.
The song changes, but we’re still dancing, our bodies nearly fused together. Sexy Chuckie is on the tall side, and the heels she’s wearing add a few inches of height. Her back is pressed to my front, giving me the perfect view of the swell of her breasts as they threaten to break free from her lacy corset. I barely know the woman—I haven’t even asked her what her name is— but I’m getting lost in the rhythm, intoxicated by the scent of her. She takes our joined hands and pulls them across her body, the movement forcing us closer together, pressing the hard ridge of my cock into the soft curve of her ass.
When I press my lips to the nape of her neck, she arches into me, tipping her chin up. I’m cursing my stupid choice of costume because kissing her isn’t a problem, but that’s not all I want to do.
I want to devour her. I want to taste every inch of her.
This isn’t like me, not really, but it feels right. And what was it that Jared said earlier? Something about letting loose before I crack? Suddenly I feel like I might crack right here on this dance floor, like I might split wide open just from the sheer force of wanting her so damn badly.
When the deejay spins a slower tune, Sexy Chuckie turns to faceme, letting my hands fall to the base of her spine. I pull her in close, not wanting any distance between us. She tilts her face toward mine and our lips meet. Between the mask she’s wearing and the gauze covering most of my head, our kiss should be clumsy and awkward, but it’s slow and sensual. It leaves me wanting more.
So, when she clasps her hand in mine and leads me off the dance floor, I have no choice but to follow.
Val
I did not plan to drag a sexy stranger into a bathroom stall in the women’s room of a dive bar, but I’m not complaining about it.
And neither is he.
Our costumes don’t allow for much maneuvering, and neither does the cramped space, but that doesn’t slow us down or dampen the chemistry between us. This is a little crazy, given the fact that I don’t know his name and can’t see much of his face, but there’s something almost familiar about him, something trustworthy. That sounds ludicrous, even as the thought runs through my head, but when his lips cover mine and his hand cups my breast, I’m way past caring what is sane or logical. His thumb grazes the hardened peak of my nipple and a moan escapes my lips. I tug at the straps of my denim overalls, desperate for more of his touch. Brandi scoffed at my Sexy Chuckie costume when we met up in the parking lot an hour ago, but I don’t regret a thing, especially when I yank my striped tank top up to reveal the pink lace underneath. My breasts spill out over the cups, on full display.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” the sexy stranger mutters as his fingers trace the swell of my breasts. “I need to taste you.”
“Yes,” I pant, unable to stop the shiver that rolls through mybody when his mouth closes over my nipple. I give myself over to the sensations of his lips on my skin. He’s licking and sucking and nipping and all the heat in my body rushes between my legs. I’m not the only one affected by what’s happening between us. His breath is heavy and unsteady, his grip on my waist is firm, and the hard length pressing against my belly is undeniably hot. Despite the layers of fabric between us, I can feel how much he wants me, and that’s intoxicating, because my desire for him is just as needy, just as all-consuming.
This stall is far too small for what I have in mind, even if we get really creative. But while my mind is racing ahead to what comes next and how to get there fast, the mummy takes his time skimming his lips and hands all over my upper body. He’s completely unhurried, despite the fact that we’re in a public restroom and people are waltzing in and out. His clear blue eyes find mine and for a second, my brain stutters. It’s sending me a signal, and I’m determined to decipher it until the mummy’s next words halt all coherent thought. “I want to touch you. God. I want to sink my fingers deep inside you and watch you fall apart.”
“Yes. That. Please. I want that, too,” I answer. If I weren’t so caught up in the moment, I’d laugh at my own breathlessness.
