This week My Sexy Saturday is giving a nod to historical authors and challenging us to show them our carriage rides. But that doesn't have to mean literally, after all. In fact, there's quite some leeway there. So I'm going to go with something from To The Max, my first published book.
This scene takes place years before, when Max first met Richard at a disco in Illinois, and they head out to the parking lot, where Richard has a muscle car. Well, it's not his, he borrowed it, but that's beside the point. They're about to take their first "carriage ride", so to speak... and history is about to be made. It all starts somewhere, right? Enjoy!
We exited the disco for the parking lot, the receding refrains of 'Stayin' alive' soon becoming lost behind us—a completely other world we were no longer a part of. The gravel scrunched beneath our feet, sounding overly loud in my ears, as I closely followed this exquisite man. Our hands were still clasped, by mutual consent. We wove our way between rows of silent vehicles. For the most part these were unoccupied as their owners shook it for all it was worth on the illuminated dance floor within. But occasionally we could see entwined silhouettes, and a bobbing head or two. And once I caught a glimpse of pale buttocks pumping furiously in an unseen rhythm. I blushed at this, even as I wondered to what purpose he’d brought me here. Not that it mattered, I realized, my heart thumping so loudly I was tempted to muffle the sound lest it betray my nervousness.
He led me to the far corner of the parking lot, away from the other vehicles; a lone car sat in the darkness. From what I could see, it was some type of muscle car, and he’d probably parked it at this safe distance to prevent drunken drivers from carelessly flinging open their doors and inflicting painful scratches on what was no doubt a highly polished finish. "Yours?" I asked, gazing up in admiration at that splendid profile. His, not the car’s.
"I wish!" He laughed. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes held it out to me. "Care for one?"
"No thanks, it's bad for my health."
"You have poor health?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. I merely shook my head, not wanting to get into particulars quite so soon—but I knew I couldn't avoid the question forever.
"No, the car belongs to a friend," he answered my question, striking a match. It flared briefly in a burst of sulfurous light while he touched it to the end of his smoke.; I caught a flickering glimpse of his beautiful face, and God, how I wanted him then. He knew it, too. It was something palpable that hung on the air between us. He pursed his lips into an exaggerated bow as he blew out the flame, and I knew it was done for my benefit. "It's a '69 Chevelle. A real beauty. Care to see her in action?"
"Sure," I replied with an attempt at being calm, cool, and collected—which failed miserably. I was obviously no Sean Connery, and I was definitely a far cry from being James Bond either. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide what was blatantly and painfully obvious. At least to me.
Now see who else is taking part in the blog hop this week!