Hold Me Down (C 1), page 1
part #1 of Carolina Girls Series
HOLD ME DOWN
A Carolina Girls novel
Sara Taylor Woods
Contents
Praise for Sara Taylor Woods and HOLD ME DOWN
Also by Sara Taylor Woods
Acknowledgments
HOLD ME DOWN
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Bonus scene
Well Suited
Author’s Note
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Sara Taylor Woods
Cover design by Ashley Poston
Cover image from
Cover copyright © 2017 Sara Taylor Woods
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
“Well Suited” has been lightly edited since its original appearance at tiffanyreisz.com in 2013.
ISBN 978-0-9909168-6-4
Created with Vellum
Praise for Sara Taylor Woods and HOLD ME DOWN
“Edgy, sexy, and authentic. Sara Taylor Woods’ luscious dream of a debut will have you pinching yourself—or finding someone naughty to do it for you!”
–Tamara Mataya, New York Times Bestselling Author
* * *
“Sexy and sensual and smart. Everything you’re looking for in an erotic romance.”
—Tiffany Reisz, International Bestselling Author of the Original Sinners on “Well Suited”
“HOLD ME DOWN is a sexy, provocative, unforgettable read from start to finish… If what you want is what you need, then this book will have you tied up in knots and falling in love page after page.”
–Katherine Locke, author of SECOND POSITION and the District Ballet Company series
“Humorous and emotionally wrenching. Plan to read this all in one shot, because you’re not going to want to put it down. Real people, real issues, and real kink make this a very touching and hot read.”
—Jodie Griffin, author of MATZOH AND MISTLETOE and the Bondage & Breakfast series
“Bold, sensual, and sparklingly witty, Woods’ debut demands your attention from the first page, and refuses to let go long after you finish. Sean Poole is a hero worth falling for, Talia fresh, funny, and relatable—together, they crackle off the page. HOLD ME DOWN will keep you up all night and leave you breathless, bruised, and begging for more.”
—Brianna R. Shrum, author of NEVER NEVER and HOW TO MAKE OUT
Also by Sara Taylor Woods
“Well Lit,” DIRTY DATES, ed. Rachel Kramer Bussel
“Into the Wilderness,” GUNS & ROMANCES, ed. Nerine Dorman and Carrie Clevenger
“Overkill,” THE BIG BAD II, ed. John Hartness and Emily Lavin Leverett
“A Girl’s Gotta Eat,” THE BIG BAD, ed. John Hartness and Emily Lavin Leverett
Acknowledgments
Books are a labor of love, and often an exercise in masochism. So many people helped this book get to where it is: Tiffany Reisz—without whom these characters would literally not exist—I’ve never been so glad someone called my bluff in public. Lana Popović, my agent and greatest cheerleader and quite possibly Sean’s biggest fan. Krista Merle and Riley Miller, who graciously allowed themselves to be subjected to some of the rougher drafts. Katherine Locke and Tamara Mataya, for their invaluable advice on the fiddly bits. Cam Montgomery, who is probably the only person on the planet who’s read this book more times than me (sorry/you’re welcome). Ashley Poston, for her late-stage read across the table at Starbucks: thank you for having such an expressive reading face, especially during the last third of the story. Dahlia Adler, for her constant support and love and advice at every stage. Brianna Shrum, for being perhaps too obliging of my early-morning texts and incorrigible teasing and that one Thor/Loki gif. Chelsea Cameron for her publishing advice. Lindsay Smith and AK Furukawa for their sensitivity feedback. Romance!Twitter and kink!Twitter: thanks for making sure none of us ever feel alone.
To the #bratpack: I love you. Keep making them earn it.
And most of all, to my beloved: Thank you for believing in me, for pushing me, for helping me stand on my own. I’m yours, always.
HOLD ME DOWN
Sara Taylor Woods
To the girls who are told you’re too much:
you’re just enough.
אני לדודי ודודי לי
* * *
I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
Song of Songs 6:3
One
When I graduated from high school, my dad offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse: all I had to do to secure a debt-free adulthood was major in business and graduate from the Darla Moore School of Business.
Three years later, I was absolutely miserable.
And if it was just the classes that were terrible, then okay. But, even as a junior, I had yet to make any friends in the department that I spoke to outside of classes. There was something foreign about me, or about them. Floppy-haired frat boys in pastel shorts and boat shoes, slavering at the thought of calculating Excel pivot tables, clamoring for the opportunity to discover and exploit target markets?
Kill me.
But the good news is no matter how much you hate your major, you still have to take electives. My freshman year, I stumbled into an intro-level Anthropology class, and fell head over heels in love.
So I kept taking classes. And I didn’t tell my dad.
The Zooarchaeology class I took the fall semester of my junior year with Dr. Rennicks was my second one with him. He was one of those genuinely cool professors who sat on the desk because he liked to be comfortable, didn’t bother with PowerPoint, and hung out with students between classes. Which is why, in the second week of the semester, when he caught me after the end of class and asked if I was busy that afternoon, I didn’t even try to keep the smile off my face. My commercial law class had sucked out all my chill.
“No, this is my last class of the day.”
A guy I’d seen in his company before was already loitering in the doorway, playing with his phone. Rennicks said, “An old student of mine is in town for the game this weekend, and some of us are going to grab some food in a little. You in?”
I shrugged, which hopefully came off a lot cooler than I felt. “Sure,” I said, like this wasn’t the greatest thing that had happened to me all semester. “Where?”
Forty minutes later, I pulled into Oaxaca Grill’s nearly empty gravel lot. I was clearly the first one here, but I went inside anyway. This one of my favorite joints, cheap and delicious, if a little shaky on the air conditioning. Inside, it was decorated like a bad hangover: strings of shamrocks and glittery candy canes and grinning jack-o-lanterns, strands of little Corona bottles and jalapeno pepper lights, Mardi Gras beads, Mexican flags. I loved it.
I didn’t have to wait long before the door dinged and disgorged a boisterous stream of men into the vestibule. They clogged the entryway while we waited for the hostess, and Rennicks finally worked his way up to me.
“Hey, you made it,” he said brightly, like he was surprised and pleased to see me. It made me feel all warm and squishy, which in turn made me feel ridiculous. But in a school with almost forty thousand students, it was nice to know your favorite professor didn’t consider you part of the faceless undergraduate mass.
“I didn’t know how many, so I didn’t put in for a table,” I said. “Plus there’s like, nobody in here, so it probably doesn’t even matter.”
“We’ve got, uh…” He wiggled his fingers, scanning the group and counting, while two of the guys behind him bumped fists over something. “Nine.”
“Eight?” I suggested.
“We’ve got one more coming.” Rennicks looked at his watch. “He’s teaching a class right now, but should be on his way any minute.”
The waitstaff pushed us some tables together and everyone sat down, laughing and talking, shoulder-jostling each other for menus. The only one of them I actually knew was Rennicks, who sat across from me. Today’s end-of-class loiterer, Cooper, was on my right, and on my left was the one empty chair, because no one wants to be the guy who has to sit next to someone he doesn
Introductions were made. Chips were brought. Everyone ordered beer—except for me. I ordered water. The guy next to Rennicks (Hunter?) brought his sweating bottle to his lips and said, “Designated driver?”
“No,” I deadpanned. “Minor.”
He choked on his beer.
Rennicks slapped him on the back, and the guy on his other side (Steve? Maybe?) shouted, “Pooley!”
Everyone turned around, so, with, okay, maybe a little more eyeroll than was necessary, I did, too.
Uh.
Pooley was hot.
Hot like, Thor moved to Portland and got a job in a logging company hot. Blond hair pulled back into a little knot. Beard. Plaid button-down, solid tie. Flat front chinos, broken-in workboots, and—
Jesus. Legs for days.
He strode across the restaurant, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He walked around the table and Hunter managed to get his cough under control before he stood up and embraced Pooley. They pounded each other’s backs like rutting silverbacks.
“How’ve you been, man?” Hunter asked when they let go.
“Living the dream,” he replied. His voice was deep, smooth, like expensive bourbon. I wanted to get drunk on it. “My defense is in April.”
Hunter whistled in sympathy and sat down as Pooley came around to claim the empty chair next to me. I stared at the bowl of salsa in front of me, because I had no idea what to do with my eyes. The chair creaked under Pooley’s weight, and I felt it when he turned his attention on me.
And here I was, in ripped-up jeans and a sloppy bun, held together with bobby pins and prayer, because of course I was.
He extended his arms, reseating the fall of his shirt.
He said, “I don’t think we’ve met before.”
He started rolling up his sleeves. Tattoos, black lines and bright splashes of paint, in a slow revelation of skin.
My mouth was dry. Like the freaking Gobi. I said, “No, I don’t think so.”
He paused his forearm striptease to extend his hand. “I’m Sean Poole.”
I made myself look at him. Blue eyes. Of course. But dark, like the last gasp of twilight. I shook his hand, but it didn’t quite fit in mine. His index finger lay against my wrist, resting against my pulse.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I wanted to crawl into his lap.
And I really, really wanted that beer. “Talia Benson.”
One corner of his mouth crept up, and he took his hand away, returning his attention to his sleeves. My eyes followed, like a good little girl. “Nice to meet you, Talia. How’d you get suckered into hanging out with this bunch of degenerates?”
“Uh,” I said. “I’m in, um…” Those arms, Christ. I forced myself to look at his face. Not any better.
“She’s in my zooarch class,” Rennicks supplied.
I winced. Stupid Sean with his stupid forearms and his stupid eyes making it impossible for me to even carry on a conversation.
But he didn’t even look over at Rennicks. He just repeated, “Zooarch,” kind of thoughtfully. Was I being quizzed? Judged? Mocked? The whole conversation made me feel like I needed to justify my class choices to him, this guy I didn’t even know.
The hell with that. Embarrassment hardened into rebellion. I gathered the tatters of my dignity and said, “Yeah. Zooarch.”
He looked over at me without lifting his head. I looked away like I had been caught doing something naughty, my gaze jerking around the room like a mosquito stuck in a spiderweb. I looked at the windows, the bathroom sign, the kitchen pass-through. Anywhere but those eyes. He said, “Anthropology major?”
“Accounting,” I said.
“No wonder I haven’t seen you around.” I made the mistake of looking at him again. He was grinning. “I’d have remembered you.”
I blushed and looked away. Then I blushed harder, because it takes a lot to make me blush. It takes a lot to unnerve me, in general, yet there he was, effortlessly unnerving the shit out of me.
I liked it.
A lot.
He finished rolling up his sleeves and said, to the table, “Y’all ordered yet?”
“Drinks,” Hunter said. “We were waiting for you to grace us with your presence.”
“Well,” Sean said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head, “here I am.”
Lord. Bodies like that should be illegal.
Speak, Talia.
“So,” I said, then cleared my throat when he looked over at me, “your defense?”
He nodded and ate a chip before he answered. “My dissertation is on the assimilation of communities of color in the Southeast during the first hundred years after European contact.”
“Shit,” I said, and he laughed. “I mean, that’s”—ugh, find something to say that doesn’t sound extremely undergraduate—“intense.”
Fail.
“Yeah,” he said, and looked away.
No. I was not going to be That Girl.
“Are you including the Spanish settlements in Florida?”
He met my eyes again, but there was some new tilt to his head that told me I had done the right thing. “No, I’m mostly focusing on the British and Scots-Irish in the Carolinas and Georgia. The Spanish cultural influence was so hugely different than it deserves its own paper.”
“So your timeline is more like, 1650-1750?”
He nodded, then raised one eyebrow conspiratorially. “Truth be told, including Spanish and Portuguese colonization would make me have to change the title, and honestly, that is just so much work at this point.”
I laughed, and he grinned back. “Got it. I understand priorities.”
For the rest of the meal, every time Sean looked at me—and he kept fucking looking at me—I got flustered, self-conscious. I couldn’t sit still. I kept touching my hair, my face, my neck. I covered my mouth when I laughed in case I had refried-bean breath or cilantro in my teeth.
And when he reached down for his wallet to pay his bill, his arm brushed mine. I looked down at where he’d bumped me, and when I looked up, those deep-sea eyes were waiting for me. They dropped to my mouth for a second, just a moment, just long enough to know I hadn’t imagined it.
He licked his lips and murmured, “Sorry.”
My body reacted to that little flicker of pink tongue, to that utterly insincere apology, as if he had actually touched me.
“It’s fine.” The words came out all whispery and loose, like I’d just finished a marathon. My breath too shallow, my pulse high and hard in my throat, my cheeks hot as fire. Running, even though I wanted nothing more than to be caught.
It happened again when he put his wallet away. And when he stood up to go to the restroom. And when he sat down.
He didn’t apologize again.
The boys tumbled out of the door the same way they’d come in, bouncing, bumping fists, talking about how Carolina was gonna beat the shit out of ECU. For my part, I tried not to be too obvious about matching my pace to Sean’s.
Talk to me, look at me, anything. Anything.
“This you?” he asked as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. He gave my car a quirked-eyebrow once-over, which, to be fair, it deserved: it was a hand-me-down Volvo station wagon we’d used as a family car since I was in elementary school.
“Yep,” I said, rising up on my toes and patting her side. “Good ole Bea Arthur.”
He blinked. “You named your car Bea Arthur?”
“You should hear when I start her up,” I said. “Sounds exactly like you’d imagine.”
He laughed, and—well, he’d laughed before, in the restaurant, if you get down to the technical, physiological point of it. But out here, he lit up like the summer sky. He didn’t laugh because that was the appropriate social reaction, he laughed because I made him laugh.
Pride surged high in me, made me brave. I made Sean Poole laugh.
He said, “Star Wars Christmas Special.”
“Oh my God,” I groaned.
“I can pull it up right now,” he said, reaching into his back pocket.
