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!
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