A Wicked Choice Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes were peering through the tiny optical plastic of contact lenses now.  Still, I felt like the four-eyed, metal mouth that the last two years had burdened me with. Wherever I went, boys would taunt me and call me names. “Four eyes..!” “Soup strainer..!” “Stupid girl...!” I’d hunch my shoulders and wish to God I could be invisible. Even though Cam tells me that I’m pretty, I guess I carry that self-image around with me today, as evidenced by my reluctance to get close to him. 
    Cam and I, we have our sexy moments, for sure. I remember the first time we ever made love. Cam lived in a tiny studio in Green Lake, one of the older and prettier parts of Seattle. The Green Lake area features a natural lake and an expanse of green space within its dense urban setting. It has a walking/running/biking/pushing-your-baby-stroller path around its perimeter which gets used on a daily basis. I’d even run there on occasion. Cam’s studio was on the corner of Greenlake Way and Wallingford Avenue. It overlooked the lake, which was refreshing if you had to live in the city. The small apartment consisted of a sink, refrigerator, and stovetop for a kitchen, a closet-sized bathroom, and a futon bed. There were tiny windows through which the sun streamed like a golden fountain on the crisp, white walls.
    We had been dating for a couple weeks, having met at U-Dub, slang for the University of Washington. Cam, an older 30 to my 27, had been there to see a seminar called “Stopping the War in the Home.” I had taken a shortcut through the campus to get to my aerobics class. He came to a halt when he saw me weaving through the students.
    “Hey!” he called, surprising even himself by his boldness.
    “Hey,” I replied, eyes squinting against the intrusion. He ran up to me and asked me my name.
    I hesitated before replying. “It’s Cheerio. Cheerio Manhattan.”
    “No, really. What’s your name?”
    “That’s it. Cheerio, short for Chérie.”
    “It’s not really short…it even has more syllables,” he replied. With a quick burst of laughter, he invited me out for tea. And so our relationship began.
    In his studio, a few tea dates, a dinner, and a movie or two later, he had pushed open the door and swept a hand around the room.  “M’ lady…my humble digs.”
    I cautiously made my way in , scrunching my nose and biting my lip. The kitchenette was clean. The living area was strewn with books, papers, magazines, and newspapers as well as ropes, carabiners, and other rock climbing paraphernalia. He quickly pushed them aside with his foot and indicated that I should sit down on the futon, covered with a faded purple batik print. Shyly, I sat. He tossed a magazine across the room then came and sat down next to me. Then he held my face in his hands and kissed me.
    We’d kissed a few times already after our dates were coming to an end….only they were more like kissing marathons. Cam was a great kisser. A completely sensual man, he liked to kiss long, slow, and deep, or impart brief little butterfly kisses over my neck and face. I loved having him suck my lower lip and then lazily investigate the inside of my mouth with his delectable tongue. After being delighted with Cam’s kissing, we’d sit back, panting. However, I always had an excuse ready when it looked like things were veering “south of the equator,” my term for my…ahem…you know…private areas. 
    When he began to kiss me in his studio, however, I stiffened. I knew where things were headed. He got up and crossed the room with a few brisk steps to open a cupboard.  His hand reached inside and emerged with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. 
    “Drink,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, proffering the glass. I drank.
    The wine eased my anxiety enough to accept his next kiss. His hands started delving further, pushing up under my sea green sweatshirt. Next, he was reaching up under my camisole. Feeling both excited and terrified, my