Sign in with Facebook
Trade Me Quotes
Trade Me
by
Courtney Milan5,680 ratings, 3.75 average rating, 1,057 reviews
Open Preview
Trade Me Quotes
Showing 1-30 of 39
“And your mom?” Blake clears his throat. “She’s not with us.” I remember the conversation Blake and I had on the way down and tense. I can only imagine what my mother will say. But my mother just smiles brilliantly. “That’s good! Too many boys your age get spoiled by their mothers. They don’t know how to cook, how to do laundry. Tina is going to be a busy doctor. She’ll need someone to do all that for her. Better if you’re not used to having someone else take care of you.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Money may not buy love, but it buys something like it. Not having any money makes love complicated.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Love is never safe,” Tina repeats. “It’s weird. It’s magical. It’s the moment when you break through the dark shell that protects your heart and say, this, this person. I’m going to let this person in, let him come so close that he can hurt me more than I can possibly imagine. I’m going to let him hurt me.” She inhales. “Love is never safe.” “And yet,” I say, “we do it anyway.” “We do it anyway.” Her voice is a quiet echo of mine, but her hands close on mine.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Do Chinese dragons even eat people?” “She lives in the Bay Area,” I say severely. “She eats a Westernized diet.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“In fiction, the story ends when Prince Charming whisks Cinderella away to his castle. But there’s a reason why the poor girl who wins herself a prince is usually an orphan. Because if she wasn’t… “Darling,” Charming would say in the scene after the end, “you know I love you, doll. But we have to talk about your parents. I’m thinking I should buy them a cottage, maybe something high up in the mountains, yeah? Don’t worry. You can always call. You can even visit them when I’m busy with my affairs of state.” Even with Cinderella’s essentially family-less status, the story always ends before the painful, embarrassing scenes that come a few years in. “Darling, I never meant to fall in love with Snow White. I swear it. But she was raised in a castle as a princess, you know? She gets me in a way you never will.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“You said that I didn’t notice people like you.” His voice lowers. His eyes are relentlessly blue, and they cut into me. “That’s completely false. You’ve never been invisible to me. I saw you the first day we crossed paths, and I’ve been seeing you ever since.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Experience tells me that fiction is fiction and that hope leads to disappointment.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Today, we’re talking about food stamps. Everyone speaks earnestly and academically about topics that have no effect on their daily lives. I don’t know if I’m alone in my experience—I can’t be the only one in here who doesn’t come from money—but from the conversation, it sure sounds like it. I nod and pretend that these things don’t matter to me, either. I pretend it doesn’t matter when the girl at the front of the class says that people on food stamps are lazy. I pretend I don’t care when someone talks about how they saw someone buying a fifth of vodka and a bag of candy with EBT. I nod and I smile and I try not to shiver. I tell myself it’s the draft, that it’s my drenched, mud-stained, no-longer-lucky sweater.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Good thing he’s not your boyfriend, though, Tina. He’s so skinny, I think a condom would pop right off.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“And the light we’re going to build together will drown out every million-year-old star that insists we cannot be.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“She’s the one who reaches for me first. She takes my head in her hands and then pulls me down to her. I wrap her in my arms and kiss her. And for a moment—or maybe an hour—I don’t do anything else. I just hold her close and kiss her in the dark, let our lips, our hands, our bodies melt into each other. They say all the things we could whisper. We kiss and kiss, first, like there’s no tomorrow, and then—when we’ve made our way past that, when our lips and tongues are acquainted once more, we kiss like there is one.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Maybe the stars have it right. Maybe mortals dabble with gods at their own peril. But then, those Greek gods of old? They never met my mother.
I think she could take them.”
― Trade Me
I think she could take them.”
― Trade Me
“I wasn’t ready to hear his words. I didn’t let myself believe that we could be anything together. I didn’t know how to look at him and think that he would do anything other than break my heart. So I broke his instead.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse in response. “That. Always that.” And he slides his arm around me, pulls me close, and kisses me. He tastes sweet like mango. Like he’s bigger than my taste buds, like he’s precisely the luxury I have been craving. I let my eyes shut and tilt my head back, falling into his embrace.
And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment.
His tongue is sure against mine, touching me with insistent strokes. His hand clamps around me, holding me in place. And he holds me like I matter, like I’m the entire world.
“I can’t touch you,” I say. “My hands are sticky.”
“That,” he says, “is what washing machines are for.” He reaches out and takes hold of my fingers and then, very deliberately, he wipes them on his shirt. The sun is hot against my shoulders; Blake is sweet to the taste and tempting to the touch.
I’m not sure how long we stay there, kissing in the sun and the wind, stopping only long enough to feed each other bites of fruit. Long enough for me to touch him all over, to feel his body hard and lean through his shirt.
The air smells of new beginnings—crisp and clear, untouched by any worries. He touches me like the middle of the story, strong and sure. But despite the mango on his tongue, he tastes almost bittersweet, because the end is coming. It’s coming, but it’s not here. Not yet.
“Let’s get home,” I tell him. “Let’s go home and find a bed.”
I glance over at Blake. He’s driving. For the first time in…I’m not sure how long, he looks completely calm. As if he’s finally in place.
And for all the turmoil I feel inside, I sense it too. That hint of calmness, as if in a sea of things that have gone wrong, this one thing is right.”
― Trade Me
And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment.
His tongue is sure against mine, touching me with insistent strokes. His hand clamps around me, holding me in place. And he holds me like I matter, like I’m the entire world.
“I can’t touch you,” I say. “My hands are sticky.”
“That,” he says, “is what washing machines are for.” He reaches out and takes hold of my fingers and then, very deliberately, he wipes them on his shirt. The sun is hot against my shoulders; Blake is sweet to the taste and tempting to the touch.
I’m not sure how long we stay there, kissing in the sun and the wind, stopping only long enough to feed each other bites of fruit. Long enough for me to touch him all over, to feel his body hard and lean through his shirt.
The air smells of new beginnings—crisp and clear, untouched by any worries. He touches me like the middle of the story, strong and sure. But despite the mango on his tongue, he tastes almost bittersweet, because the end is coming. It’s coming, but it’s not here. Not yet.
“Let’s get home,” I tell him. “Let’s go home and find a bed.”
I glance over at Blake. He’s driving. For the first time in…I’m not sure how long, he looks completely calm. As if he’s finally in place.
And for all the turmoil I feel inside, I sense it too. That hint of calmness, as if in a sea of things that have gone wrong, this one thing is right.”
― Trade Me
“He passes on the day-old Wal-Mart cupcakes that Mom has brought home for dessert, and offers to do the dishes afterward.
I help him. We work in silence—mostly. But at the end, when he’s drying glasses, when my parents are watching TV in the other room, he leans toward me.
“For the record,” he says, “you should stop worrying. Your parents are awesome.”
I didn’t want to be embarrassed by my parents…but maybe I did. I wanted to watch him not fit in so that I could remember that he doesn’t fit in. But it’s becoming harder and harder to remember that.
There’s just one reason to keep him at arms’ length now: He’s leaving. We’re over before we ever started.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Also for the record,” he says, “no, I wouldn’t need two condoms.”
I flush all over again, but this time it’s in heated memory. I’ve felt him, after all. I’ve been on top of him. I know precisely how thick he is, how long his erection is.
“I remember.” My mouth is dry. I don’t want to look at him.
But he brushes a strand of hair away from my face, and involuntarily, I look up. I don’t know what I’m seeing in his eyes now. Something raw and hungry.
Or maybe I’m just seeing a reflection of my own want.
“Good,” he says. “Keep on remembering.”
― Trade Me
I help him. We work in silence—mostly. But at the end, when he’s drying glasses, when my parents are watching TV in the other room, he leans toward me.
“For the record,” he says, “you should stop worrying. Your parents are awesome.”
I didn’t want to be embarrassed by my parents…but maybe I did. I wanted to watch him not fit in so that I could remember that he doesn’t fit in. But it’s becoming harder and harder to remember that.
There’s just one reason to keep him at arms’ length now: He’s leaving. We’re over before we ever started.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Also for the record,” he says, “no, I wouldn’t need two condoms.”
I flush all over again, but this time it’s in heated memory. I’ve felt him, after all. I’ve been on top of him. I know precisely how thick he is, how long his erection is.
“I remember.” My mouth is dry. I don’t want to look at him.
But he brushes a strand of hair away from my face, and involuntarily, I look up. I don’t know what I’m seeing in his eyes now. Something raw and hungry.
Or maybe I’m just seeing a reflection of my own want.
“Good,” he says. “Keep on remembering.”
― Trade Me
“Once I get over that flushed, heated embarrassment, I realize that things are worse now, not better. Blake is kind of perfect—drawing my mother out into the most animated version of herself, bringing my father into the conversation, even getting Mabel to talk about music and how she wishes she had her own saxophone. This, I remind myself, is media training in action.
I have to stop lying to myself. It’s more than media training. Blake’s always been easygoing. Hell, I’ve seen his comments on scripts going back a full decade now. He was like this at eleven: complimentary, interested, kind without being weak. He’s probably been serving as his father’s foil his entire life. His father growls about manufacturing and secrecy; Blake learns Mandarin and compliments the factory owner on the side. His father says that an idea is shit; Blake comes back and points out the good in it. This is what he does: he smoothes things over. He’s so good that Mom doesn’t even notice that he’s eating only a fraction of the food on his plate. I wonder if it’s always like this for him, if he’s always fixing things while nobody notices him.”
― Trade Me
I have to stop lying to myself. It’s more than media training. Blake’s always been easygoing. Hell, I’ve seen his comments on scripts going back a full decade now. He was like this at eleven: complimentary, interested, kind without being weak. He’s probably been serving as his father’s foil his entire life. His father growls about manufacturing and secrecy; Blake learns Mandarin and compliments the factory owner on the side. His father says that an idea is shit; Blake comes back and points out the good in it. This is what he does: he smoothes things over. He’s so good that Mom doesn’t even notice that he’s eating only a fraction of the food on his plate. I wonder if it’s always like this for him, if he’s always fixing things while nobody notices him.”
― Trade Me
“Before I can say anything, the door to my parents’ apartment bursts open. My little sister darts out, and she dashes down the concrete stairs.
“Tina, Tina!” She cannons into me; I grab hold of her. We squeeze each other hard. She’s getting so big now—she’s just an inch shorter than I am—and she hugs my breath out.
“Stop,” I croak. “Mayday, mayday!”
“I’m so glad you’re here. Can you tell Mom that I am too old enough to go to a coed sleepover?”
I give her a once over. “Sure,” I say, “as long as the parents kick it off by caponizing all the boys.”
Beside me, Blake chokes.
“What’s caponizing?”
“Removing the testicles,” I say. “It improves the temperament of the male animal. Try it sometime.”
Blake clears his throat.
“Oh,” I say. “Mayday, this is Blake Rivers.”
We’ve agreed—and by we’ve agreed I mean I’ve insisted—that we won’t give his real name. No point opening that door. Mom is bad enough when she thinks he doesn’t have any money. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she knew the truth.
“Blake, this is my little sister. Her name is Mabel, but I call her anything that starts with an M. Mayday, Maple, and Muggle are my favorites.”
She wrinkles her nose at Blake. “You can call me Mabel.” Mabel purses her lips and looks at Blake. Blake looks at her right back. Some people say that Mabel and I look alike, and I guess we do, in the most superficial sense. We’re both Chinese. But Mabel’s hair is short and dyed blue, and she wears it pulled over her eyes. Her eyes are set more narrowly than mine. And—this is really unfair, but I swear I am not bitter about this—she is thirteen and she’s already in B-cups. Which, ahem. Is more than I will ever manage.
Mabel shrugs. “Hi Blake. You’re the guy who is definitely not Tina’s boyfriend.”
Blake shifts the shoulder strap of his bag. “One of many, I presume.”
“Nope.” Mabel twirls away. “You’re the only one. The rest of the boys aren’t dating her.”
“Oh, well,” Blake says vaguely. “That is an important distinction.”
I try to jab my elbow into his side, but he sidles away.
“And you’re the only she talks about like this: ‘Mom, he’s not my boyfriend.’”
Oh, that imitation. It’s just a little too spot on. I raise a finger at her, but she twirls away before I can get her back.
“Come on. Mom is cooking. This is the first time you’ve brought a boyfriend home from college.”
“He’s not my—” I stop, because my sister’s lips are twitching.
“Fine.” I pick up my own bag.
“Lay on, Macduff,” Blake says.
Mabel stops and turns to him. “Hey. Only Tina can call me M-words other than Mabel.”
“Sorry.”
“Tina and her boyfriend,” she corrects. “So you’re okay.”
― Trade Me
“Tina, Tina!” She cannons into me; I grab hold of her. We squeeze each other hard. She’s getting so big now—she’s just an inch shorter than I am—and she hugs my breath out.
“Stop,” I croak. “Mayday, mayday!”
“I’m so glad you’re here. Can you tell Mom that I am too old enough to go to a coed sleepover?”
I give her a once over. “Sure,” I say, “as long as the parents kick it off by caponizing all the boys.”
Beside me, Blake chokes.
“What’s caponizing?”
“Removing the testicles,” I say. “It improves the temperament of the male animal. Try it sometime.”
Blake clears his throat.
“Oh,” I say. “Mayday, this is Blake Rivers.”
We’ve agreed—and by we’ve agreed I mean I’ve insisted—that we won’t give his real name. No point opening that door. Mom is bad enough when she thinks he doesn’t have any money. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she knew the truth.
“Blake, this is my little sister. Her name is Mabel, but I call her anything that starts with an M. Mayday, Maple, and Muggle are my favorites.”
She wrinkles her nose at Blake. “You can call me Mabel.” Mabel purses her lips and looks at Blake. Blake looks at her right back. Some people say that Mabel and I look alike, and I guess we do, in the most superficial sense. We’re both Chinese. But Mabel’s hair is short and dyed blue, and she wears it pulled over her eyes. Her eyes are set more narrowly than mine. And—this is really unfair, but I swear I am not bitter about this—she is thirteen and she’s already in B-cups. Which, ahem. Is more than I will ever manage.
Mabel shrugs. “Hi Blake. You’re the guy who is definitely not Tina’s boyfriend.”
Blake shifts the shoulder strap of his bag. “One of many, I presume.”
“Nope.” Mabel twirls away. “You’re the only one. The rest of the boys aren’t dating her.”
“Oh, well,” Blake says vaguely. “That is an important distinction.”
I try to jab my elbow into his side, but he sidles away.
“And you’re the only she talks about like this: ‘Mom, he’s not my boyfriend.’”
Oh, that imitation. It’s just a little too spot on. I raise a finger at her, but she twirls away before I can get her back.
“Come on. Mom is cooking. This is the first time you’ve brought a boyfriend home from college.”
“He’s not my—” I stop, because my sister’s lips are twitching.
“Fine.” I pick up my own bag.
“Lay on, Macduff,” Blake says.
Mabel stops and turns to him. “Hey. Only Tina can call me M-words other than Mabel.”
“Sorry.”
“Tina and her boyfriend,” she corrects. “So you’re okay.”
― Trade Me
“Incoming call: Adam Reynolds.
I let those words fill my vision for a moment. Not because I intend to make him wait; it’s simply that for a second I freeze. Blake’s dad is a wolf, and I feel very much like the rabbit. The last time Adam and I talked, it didn’t turn out particularly well. But right now, the CEO of Cyclone—and the man who, incidentally, still thinks I’m dating his son—is calling me.
What can I do? I hit accept.
He appears on the screen: messy pepper-gray hair and beard scruff in need of a shave. His gaze fixes on mine.
“Tina.” His voice is just a little hoarse. He clears his throat and sniffs. “Is Blake there?”
“No.”
“Good.” He frowns. “Look. Blake’s a little distant right now. Is something going on with him?”
Something is obviously going on between them, but even I can’t tell what it is, and I suspect I know about as much as anyone on the planet except these two.
I shake my head. “I’m not talking to you about Blake.”
“Yeah.” He blows out a breath. “Probably just as well that you’re loyal to him. I just…” He pauses, tapping his fingers against his cheek.
“It’s not that,” I interject. “It’s just that you’re an…” I choke back the word I’d been planning to put in that blank. Last time was bad enough. “You’re a little intense,” I finish.
For a moment, he stares at me. Then, ever so slowly, he smiles. “Don’t start holding out on me now. I’m an asshole.” My surprise must show, because he shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”
I suspect this is as close as Adam Reynolds will ever come to apologizing for his behavior in that restaurant.
“Blake thinks you’re not an asshole.”
“Blake,” Mr. Reynolds says with a roll of his eyes, “is a ridiculously good kid. There’s a reason I’m a little protective of him. I’m always afraid people will take advantage.”
I don’t say anything. A little protective is what he is?
Despite my silence, he sighs and waves his hand. “Good point,” he mutters in response to the thing I didn’t say. “It hasn’t happened yet, and God knows if he were as naïve as I really feared, it would have by now. Of all the women he could have had, he did choose you.”
I think this is intended as a compliment.
“Still,” his dad continues. “I worry. Is everything okay with him?”
I have the distinct impression that even though Blake has never said so, most of his problems lie with this man. Somehow. Some way.
“This is a conversation you should have with Blake.”
He puts his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” He doesn’t move for a few moments. And then—of all things—he sniffles. Unconvincingly.
“Mr. Reynolds, are you fake crying to try to get my sympathy?”
The hand lowers. He glowers at me—obviously dry-eyed. “Fuck me,” he says. “First, call me Adam. Mr. Reynolds makes me sound like some bullshit old fart. Second, I don’t fucking cry. I especially don’t fake cry. Emotional manipulation is for morons who don’t have the strength of will to get people on their side with reason. I have a cold.”
“Aw. Poor baby. You should get some rest.” I incline my head toward him, and then widen my eyes. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You can’t.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, yeah. My kid has good taste. I’m fucking things up for you. I hope it won’t be too much of a disturbance.”
“You know.” I swallow. “I think Blake gave you the wrong impression about us.”
“What, that he’s into you more than you’re into him? I got that from him.”
I swallow.
“That you need to be convinced? That he’s going to end up convincing you, no matter what you’re telling yourself right now?
I let out a breath.
“Exactly.” Adam points a finger at me. “That’s what I thought. My money’s on my boy. But hey, don’t tell me what’s going on. Who needs details? Surely not his own father. I’m not invasive.”
“Right. Calling me in the middle of the night when Blake’s not around isn’t invasive at all.”
― Trade Me
I let those words fill my vision for a moment. Not because I intend to make him wait; it’s simply that for a second I freeze. Blake’s dad is a wolf, and I feel very much like the rabbit. The last time Adam and I talked, it didn’t turn out particularly well. But right now, the CEO of Cyclone—and the man who, incidentally, still thinks I’m dating his son—is calling me.
What can I do? I hit accept.
He appears on the screen: messy pepper-gray hair and beard scruff in need of a shave. His gaze fixes on mine.
“Tina.” His voice is just a little hoarse. He clears his throat and sniffs. “Is Blake there?”
“No.”
“Good.” He frowns. “Look. Blake’s a little distant right now. Is something going on with him?”
Something is obviously going on between them, but even I can’t tell what it is, and I suspect I know about as much as anyone on the planet except these two.
I shake my head. “I’m not talking to you about Blake.”
“Yeah.” He blows out a breath. “Probably just as well that you’re loyal to him. I just…” He pauses, tapping his fingers against his cheek.
“It’s not that,” I interject. “It’s just that you’re an…” I choke back the word I’d been planning to put in that blank. Last time was bad enough. “You’re a little intense,” I finish.
For a moment, he stares at me. Then, ever so slowly, he smiles. “Don’t start holding out on me now. I’m an asshole.” My surprise must show, because he shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”
I suspect this is as close as Adam Reynolds will ever come to apologizing for his behavior in that restaurant.
“Blake thinks you’re not an asshole.”
“Blake,” Mr. Reynolds says with a roll of his eyes, “is a ridiculously good kid. There’s a reason I’m a little protective of him. I’m always afraid people will take advantage.”
I don’t say anything. A little protective is what he is?
Despite my silence, he sighs and waves his hand. “Good point,” he mutters in response to the thing I didn’t say. “It hasn’t happened yet, and God knows if he were as naïve as I really feared, it would have by now. Of all the women he could have had, he did choose you.”
I think this is intended as a compliment.
“Still,” his dad continues. “I worry. Is everything okay with him?”
I have the distinct impression that even though Blake has never said so, most of his problems lie with this man. Somehow. Some way.
“This is a conversation you should have with Blake.”
He puts his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” He doesn’t move for a few moments. And then—of all things—he sniffles. Unconvincingly.
“Mr. Reynolds, are you fake crying to try to get my sympathy?”
The hand lowers. He glowers at me—obviously dry-eyed. “Fuck me,” he says. “First, call me Adam. Mr. Reynolds makes me sound like some bullshit old fart. Second, I don’t fucking cry. I especially don’t fake cry. Emotional manipulation is for morons who don’t have the strength of will to get people on their side with reason. I have a cold.”
“Aw. Poor baby. You should get some rest.” I incline my head toward him, and then widen my eyes. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You can’t.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, yeah. My kid has good taste. I’m fucking things up for you. I hope it won’t be too much of a disturbance.”
“You know.” I swallow. “I think Blake gave you the wrong impression about us.”
“What, that he’s into you more than you’re into him? I got that from him.”
I swallow.
“That you need to be convinced? That he’s going to end up convincing you, no matter what you’re telling yourself right now?
I let out a breath.
“Exactly.” Adam points a finger at me. “That’s what I thought. My money’s on my boy. But hey, don’t tell me what’s going on. Who needs details? Surely not his own father. I’m not invasive.”
“Right. Calling me in the middle of the night when Blake’s not around isn’t invasive at all.”
― Trade Me
“And then she turns away. Before I can say anything else, she’s standing up and pulling her shirt back on.
“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, won’t even look in my direction. She grabs for her coat and checks her watch. “I have to go.”
“Tina.”
“I—I really have to go.” She grabs her keys. Her hands shake as she opens the door. And that’s the point when the blood rushing to my cock stops interfering with the functioning of my mind and I remember how this all started.
I want to do something stupid. Something risky. Something mind-numbingly idiotic.
That’s what she said. And then she kissed me.”
― Trade Me
“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, won’t even look in my direction. She grabs for her coat and checks her watch. “I have to go.”
“Tina.”
“I—I really have to go.” She grabs her keys. Her hands shake as she opens the door. And that’s the point when the blood rushing to my cock stops interfering with the functioning of my mind and I remember how this all started.
I want to do something stupid. Something risky. Something mind-numbingly idiotic.
That’s what she said. And then she kissed me.”
― Trade Me
“For a second, I’m too shocked to react.
I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this.
My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders.
My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear.
She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire.
Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders.
She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us.
And there isn’t—not much.
I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra.
Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand.
She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone.
If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close.
She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going.
I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now.
And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.
She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch.
She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick.
“You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.”
She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.”
I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?”
She shivers.
“You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.”
She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.”
― Trade Me
I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this.
My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders.
My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear.
She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire.
Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders.
She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us.
And there isn’t—not much.
I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra.
Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand.
She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone.
If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close.
She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going.
I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now.
And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.
She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch.
She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick.
“You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.”
She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.”
I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?”
She shivers.
“You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.”
She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.”
― Trade Me
“For a second, I’m too shocked to react.
I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this.
My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders.
My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear.
She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire.
Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders.
She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us.
And there isn’t—not much.
I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra.
Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand.
She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone.
If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close.
She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going.
I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now.
And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.
She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch.
She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick.
“You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.”
She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.”
I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?”
She shivers.
“You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.”
She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.”
― Trade Me
I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this.
My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders.
My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear.
She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire.
Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders.
She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us.
And there isn’t—not much.
I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra.
Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand.
She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone.
If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close.
She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going.
I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now.
And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth.
She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch.
She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick.
“You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.”
She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.”
I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?”
She shivers.
“You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.”
She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.”
― Trade Me
“He doesn’t put his arm around me. He doesn’t touch me. He just looks at me like he wants to.
“Out of curiosity,” he says, “that money I transferred to your account. Have you spent any of it?”
I haven’t wanted to touch any of it. I want to let it build up, a huge sum to ward off any possible danger.
Still, I slowly nod my head.
“On anything extravagant? Anything silly?”
I swallow. “I bought mangoes.”
He smiles a touch sarcastically, and I reach out and give him a little shove. That’s a mistake. It puts my hand in contact with his shoulder. His bare skin is cool to the touch, and I don’t pull away.
“Hey,” I say. “Mangoes are expensive.”
He doesn’t laugh at me, even though I know that to someone like him—to someone who spends fifteen thousand dollars a month, something I can’t even contemplate, mangoes are nothing. Even though I haven’t moved my hand from the point where it rests on his shoulder, and my thumb itches to caress him.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll pay your parents’ utility bill this month.”
I have some idea how little money he must have. I know exactly how much that would cost him.
“But—”
“Hey,” he says. “No arguments. We’re trading lives. I’m taking that on. If you’re terrified, I should be, too. But you have to do something for me in return.”
I still haven’t moved away, and I know I should. Sitting here this close to him, touching him—I’m giving him ideas. I’m giving myself ideas. Fuck, I don’t know what to do with these ideas. I have a sudden urge to slide my hand down his chest, feeling the ridge of every muscle, the whisper of short, light hairs against my fingers. I could undo his jeans. Find out precisely how much of that bulge there is fabric, and how much is him.
“What?” My throat is hoarse.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Something you wouldn’t normally do. Something risky. Something silly. Go skydiving. Buy a name-brand purse. Do something that terrifies you, something you can’t get out of your mind, that you’ve been holding back on.”
I look at my hand on his shoulder. I’ve never wanted to go skydiving. I’ve never lusted after purses. I’m just getting used to the luxury of the occasional mango. There’s really only one thing I want right now that terrifies me.
“I’m thinking of something.” My throat feels dry. “Something blindingly stupid. Risky. Idiotic.”
“Do you want to do it?”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes.”
“Then go for it,” he says.
For a second, I’m frozen in indecision. It will change everything. It will start a snowball rolling down a mountain, and I’m not sure I’ll escape the avalanche.
Still, I turn to him. I look into his eyes. My hands tremble.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice trembles, too. “Here goes.”
And before I can think better of it, I do the stupidest thing possible: I kiss him.”
― Trade Me
“Out of curiosity,” he says, “that money I transferred to your account. Have you spent any of it?”
I haven’t wanted to touch any of it. I want to let it build up, a huge sum to ward off any possible danger.
Still, I slowly nod my head.
“On anything extravagant? Anything silly?”
I swallow. “I bought mangoes.”
He smiles a touch sarcastically, and I reach out and give him a little shove. That’s a mistake. It puts my hand in contact with his shoulder. His bare skin is cool to the touch, and I don’t pull away.
“Hey,” I say. “Mangoes are expensive.”
He doesn’t laugh at me, even though I know that to someone like him—to someone who spends fifteen thousand dollars a month, something I can’t even contemplate, mangoes are nothing. Even though I haven’t moved my hand from the point where it rests on his shoulder, and my thumb itches to caress him.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll pay your parents’ utility bill this month.”
I have some idea how little money he must have. I know exactly how much that would cost him.
“But—”
“Hey,” he says. “No arguments. We’re trading lives. I’m taking that on. If you’re terrified, I should be, too. But you have to do something for me in return.”
I still haven’t moved away, and I know I should. Sitting here this close to him, touching him—I’m giving him ideas. I’m giving myself ideas. Fuck, I don’t know what to do with these ideas. I have a sudden urge to slide my hand down his chest, feeling the ridge of every muscle, the whisper of short, light hairs against my fingers. I could undo his jeans. Find out precisely how much of that bulge there is fabric, and how much is him.
“What?” My throat is hoarse.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Something you wouldn’t normally do. Something risky. Something silly. Go skydiving. Buy a name-brand purse. Do something that terrifies you, something you can’t get out of your mind, that you’ve been holding back on.”
I look at my hand on his shoulder. I’ve never wanted to go skydiving. I’ve never lusted after purses. I’m just getting used to the luxury of the occasional mango. There’s really only one thing I want right now that terrifies me.
“I’m thinking of something.” My throat feels dry. “Something blindingly stupid. Risky. Idiotic.”
“Do you want to do it?”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes.”
“Then go for it,” he says.
For a second, I’m frozen in indecision. It will change everything. It will start a snowball rolling down a mountain, and I’m not sure I’ll escape the avalanche.
Still, I turn to him. I look into his eyes. My hands tremble.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice trembles, too. “Here goes.”
And before I can think better of it, I do the stupidest thing possible: I kiss him.”
― Trade Me
“She’s looking into my eyes. If I hooked my hand under the arm of her chair, I could slide her toward me.
She drops the pen and pulls away.
“No, but seriously.” Her voice returns to normal. “I have no idea what any of this stuff actually means.”
I let out a breath. Damn. It’s a good thing this is only going to last an afternoon. More than that, and I’d forget we were pretending.
I clear my throat and straighten. “Basically it comes down to this: don’t trade Cyclone stock without talking to your lawyer. Don’t tell anyone shit about Cyclone’s business without talking to your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Well. Get one before you do either of those things.”
― Trade Me
She drops the pen and pulls away.
“No, but seriously.” Her voice returns to normal. “I have no idea what any of this stuff actually means.”
I let out a breath. Damn. It’s a good thing this is only going to last an afternoon. More than that, and I’d forget we were pretending.
I clear my throat and straighten. “Basically it comes down to this: don’t trade Cyclone stock without talking to your lawyer. Don’t tell anyone shit about Cyclone’s business without talking to your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Well. Get one before you do either of those things.”
― Trade Me
“I know he’s lying, but even so, he could convince me if I was stupid enough to let him do it. I yank my hand from his. He reaches over and takes it back calmly, as if he’s making a statement.
“You know what?” I tell him. “Same holds true for you as for your dad. You don’t get to announce that you’re…you’re…” I choke on the words. Marrying me. The concept is completely ridiculous. We don’t even know each other. And even though he’s acting, even though I know this isn’t real, I don’t even know why he’s doing this. “You don’t get to announce that without talking to me about it.”
He looks me square in the eyes. “It’s a statement of intent.”
Fuck. I can feel a tension winding in me, curling tighter and tighter.
“I got her out to meet you under false pretenses,” Blake says. “She doesn’t know how serious I am. In fact, I bet she doesn’t believe me now. She’s coming up with a reason why I’d say this to you.”
True. I have to keep reminding myself of that reason. He wants to do the swap; he thinks I should have the prototypes. Ergo, he must pretend to be serious about me.
“One of these days, though,” Blake tells his father, “she’s going to realize that I think the sun rises on her smile.”
I inhale slowly. It’s almost cruel of him to be such a good actor. If we were in any kind of relationship—if we’d so much as kissed before—I would have been completely snowed.”
― Trade Me
“You know what?” I tell him. “Same holds true for you as for your dad. You don’t get to announce that you’re…you’re…” I choke on the words. Marrying me. The concept is completely ridiculous. We don’t even know each other. And even though he’s acting, even though I know this isn’t real, I don’t even know why he’s doing this. “You don’t get to announce that without talking to me about it.”
He looks me square in the eyes. “It’s a statement of intent.”
Fuck. I can feel a tension winding in me, curling tighter and tighter.
“I got her out to meet you under false pretenses,” Blake says. “She doesn’t know how serious I am. In fact, I bet she doesn’t believe me now. She’s coming up with a reason why I’d say this to you.”
True. I have to keep reminding myself of that reason. He wants to do the swap; he thinks I should have the prototypes. Ergo, he must pretend to be serious about me.
“One of these days, though,” Blake tells his father, “she’s going to realize that I think the sun rises on her smile.”
I inhale slowly. It’s almost cruel of him to be such a good actor. If we were in any kind of relationship—if we’d so much as kissed before—I would have been completely snowed.”
― Trade Me
“There is a long moment. I don’t even understand why he’s standing up for me in front of his father. In another handful of months, the truth will come out. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not someone he cares about. I am only after his money.
But for a second, the lie seems real. Blake’s eyes blaze. His hand holds mine. I can actually believe that he cares about me, that he’s willing to stand up to his father for me. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.
The version of Romeo and Juliet where the Montagues have nothing and the Capulets can crush them all without thinking, that is. The version where Juliet dies alone in the tomb from a drug overdose and Romeo says, “Oh, shit, I knew I was forgetting something, but I was trying to figure out how to get out of paying ordinary income tax.”
― Trade Me
But for a second, the lie seems real. Blake’s eyes blaze. His hand holds mine. I can actually believe that he cares about me, that he’s willing to stand up to his father for me. It’s like Romeo and Juliet.
The version of Romeo and Juliet where the Montagues have nothing and the Capulets can crush them all without thinking, that is. The version where Juliet dies alone in the tomb from a drug overdose and Romeo says, “Oh, shit, I knew I was forgetting something, but I was trying to figure out how to get out of paying ordinary income tax.”
― Trade Me
“It really is that easy. I can say no. I can tell him I have a problem, and it becomes just a… thing. An obstacle. Something I can attack. It was only silence that made it insurmountable.”
― Trade Me
― Trade Me
