Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Sandra Hill

  “Sorry. I’m enjoying the view too much. Where to start, where to start?”

  “I liked your kisses,” she suggested.

  “Your wish is my command,” he said, and arranged himself over her on braced elbows so he wouldn’t crush her. Before he lowered his mouth to hers, though, he said, “I want you to know that this isn’t just a slam-dunk game for me, just another score. I think I’m in love with you.”

  Her eyes shot wide and she started to protest, “No, that’s not—”

  He put his fingertips to her lips and said, “Shh. I’m not expecting you to reciprocate.” Not yet. And then he replaced his fingertips with his mouth and proceeded to kiss her into acquiescence and then full participation. She was wet and open to him as he shaped her lips to fit his, demanding and coaxing, teasing and devouring. If he were a true basketball fan, he would call this a full court press of the mouth, except he wasn’t sure who was on the offense and who was on the defense in this exchange. Her hands were framing his face, and her legs were locked around his hips.

  But he had a full court to work here, and the timer was counting down. There was a third participant in the one-on-one who wanted a goal now. That was the entity between his legs that had a mind of its own and had surely grown two inches in the past five minutes.

  He moved down her body and back to his knees so that he could see her breasts—feast on them, actually. She lay flat on her back, her eyes closed, but her lashes fluttered open and she stared at him through eyes that were already hazed with arousal. She looked more confused than disgruntled at his move.

  “Do you know how much I like your breasts?” he asked.

  She blinked and became more alert. Rising up on her elbows, she glanced pointedly at a certain part of his body and said, “I can tell.”

  “Witch!” he chided her and pinched one of her nipples, lightly, in reprimand.

  She gasped, more in pleasure than pain. “More.”

  He spent a long time then, a really long time (for a penis anyhow), maybe five minutes, playing with her breasts. Molding them from underneath. Palming them in rough circles. Tweaking the nipples, then flicking. Finally, using his mouth and teeth and tongue to bring her to a writhing, moaning tribute to his expertise (even if I do say so myself).

  “Don’t . . . want . . . to . . . come,” she choked out.

  “What?”

  “Not . . . like . . . this . . . again.” She grabbed for that part of him, and almost gave him an instant ejaculation. “Inside!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, and unpeeled her fingers off his cock. Sliding even lower down the mattress, he was about to touch her exposed moistness. “Just let me check to see if you’re ready.”

  She slapped at his hand and snarled, “I told you I was ready two hours ago.”

  Well, that was an exaggeration. They’d only been inside a half hour, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. Not when the woman he probably loved was inviting him in. Quickly, he rolled on a condom, placed himself on the key spot, and swish, he was home. Goal!

  And that’s exactly how he felt. Home. Thirty-five years he’d been trekking along in life. Had this been his final destination all along? Oh, not Delilah’s vagina. Jeesh! I’m not that crude. But Delilah herself. He thought about telling her so, but if she’d been shocked at his declaration of a possible love, just think how she’d react to being his destiny. Besides, he doubted he could speak above a gurgle in his present state, buried to the hilt in muscled folds that were spasming around him in welcome.

  For a moment, Merrill lay heavily atop Delilah, forehead to forehead, trying to regain a little bit of control. He’d never been accused of firing the torpedoes too early, but he might be now. If he wasn’t careful.

  Once he’d taken his arousal down a notch, he raised his head to look at Delilah.

  She smiled at him. She actually friggin’ smiled. While he was in agony.

  He straightened his arms and began the slow withdrawal of his cock, followed by the slow thrust. Over and over, at least a dozen times.

  She wasn’t smiling anymore. In fact, her mouth formed a little O of surprise.

  This time when he was in to the hilt, and then some, he moved his hips from side to side so that he rubbed against her clit.

  She whimpered and tried to arch her lower body off the mattress.

  He was having none of that. He kept the pace long and slow. As long as he could.

  Her whimpers turned to pants.

  “Do you like that, sweetheart?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply.

  So he did the talking.

  “Spread your legs wider. Knees up. Yes! Like that.”

  “Do you want it faster? Ouch! You pinched my butt! I take that as a yes.”

  “De-li-lah, you feel so good. Like warm honey.”

  “Can you put your legs over my shoulders? Ouch! No? Maybe next time.”

  And then he was quiet as he began the short, hard thrusts that moved them both up the mattress to hit the headboard. Rolling over, she was on top now, straddling him, looking dazed and unsure what to do next.

  He showed her. With hands on her hips, he lifted her up and down until she got the rhythm.

  Being the one dazed now, he gave himself up to her climax which was pretty much telling his cock, “Now! Now! Now!”

  In the aftershocks of their mutual, mind-blowing orgasm, she lay splatted over his body. Possibly asleep. His hands swept over her bare back and rump, caressing, comforting, loving.

  Yep, he was home.

  He didn’t understand why or how this had happened, what had drawn him to Delilah from the get-go, but one thing was certain. He was never letting her go.

  Time for a full court press.

  Just how thankful was she? . . .

  Delilah was having an out-of-body experience.

  It felt like she was a spirit or something floating above, watching one love scene after another—two so far. Merrill had control over the first one, turning her into a throbbing, keening creature she did not recognize. Then he led her down the rocky slope to the rough shore of the Atlantic behind her property where they swam together in the nude, a fantasy Merrill had been harboring for some time, or so he claimed. That led to the second bout of lovemaking back in her bed where she took the lead, worshipping Merrill’s hard, battle-scarred body in ways that must be instinctive because she sure as sin never learned that from experience.

  Who is this sensual woman?

  Was this core of wantonness always in me, hibernating, just waiting for the right man to draw it out?

  Is that right man Merrill?

  Is this a one-night stand . . . an affair . . . or something more?

  Do I want something more?

  Can I afford something more, with all my baggage?

  Why not just enjoy the moment, and stop looking back, or peering forward?

  So many questions!

  Merrill was fast asleep now, belly down, spread-eagle on her bed, taking up most of the room on the double mattress. She smiled at the view of his world-class white buttocks. The rest of his long, lean body was suntanned to a deep bronze, not just from their week out on the water, but from years spent outdoors with the SEALs. She also smiled, thinking that she’d had the ability to wear him out so.

  Unlike Merrill, Delilah was unable to sleep, despite trying for the past hour. It was four a.m., but she was too hyped-up.

  Slipping out from under Merrill’s arm, she grabbed his dress shirt and padded out barefoot to the kitchen where she did what she always did when unable to sleep, or whenever she had a free moment, actually. Baking. And she barely stifled a laugh as she grabbed for some fresh lemons.

  After putting on a fresh pot of coffee, she sat glazing her lemon cinnamon rolls when Merrill came out. He wore white boxer briefs and that’s all, leaving all that six-foot-three muscled body open for her inspection. Broad shoulders, narrow waist and hips, long legs. His short hair was rumpled from sleep. In other words, sex per
sonified. He sniffed the air. “Is that smell what I think it is? Lemons?”

  “Yes. Lemon cinnamon rolls with honey glaze. Fresh from the oven.”

  “Great. And coffee, too! You are a wonder woman!”

  “Wonder woman, or wonderful?” she asked, before she had a chance to check her tongue. She didn’t usually make suggestive remarks like that.

  “Both.” He stuck a fingertip in the bowl of honey glaze and licked it. “Yum!”

  She felt the lick in her own body, deep down.

  And he knew it! His dancing eyes said it all.

  The tease!

  “It’s only six o’clock. Are you sure you want to get up so early?”

  “Unless you want to come back to bed with me.”

  “Seriously? You’re insatiable.”

  He arched his brows at her.

  “Okay, I’m insatiable, too. But I have a lot to do today to get ready for tomorrow’s return to the site. Laundry’s done, but there’s shopping to do, and phone calls, and I need to finish up the motel rooms.”

  “I’ll help. Then we’ll have time to—” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Merrill!”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk!” He shook a forefinger at her. “I was going to say, time to come back here and let me cook you dinner, for a change. I make great grilled black and blue burgers.”

  “I don’t have a grill.”

  “We’ll buy a grill.”

  He sat down at her small table and she placed a mug of black coffee with one teaspoon of sugar, the way he liked it, along with two warm pastries on a plate in front of him. He stared at them for a moment, then raised his head to look at her, suddenly serious. “Thank you,” he said.

  She cocked her head in confusion. “It’s just cinnamon rolls. I can make them in my sleep.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Not for this. For last night. For letting me love you. For giving me”—he shrugged as if lost for words—“yourself.”

  “Oh, Merrill,” she said, and went over to him. Sitting on his lap, she buried her face in his neck and wept. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe that was the reason for her insomnia. Too much emotion walled up, and now her defenses were suddenly giving way.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you sad,” he apologized once she dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin.

  “You didn’t.” She moved off his lap and sat on the chair next to him. Motioning for him to eat and drink, she began to explain. “I was a bit emotional because I’m the one who should be thankful. No, I’m not just saying that. You have to understand, you released me last night, with your lovemaking.”

  “Release? Well, that’s another word for it.”

  “Not that kind of release, you fool. Last night was a first for me.”

  “You weren’t a virgin.”

  “No, not technically. But, in some ways, I was.”

  He tilted his head in question. “This is all related to the one guy you’ve been with, your baby’s father, right?” he guessed.

  She nodded. “Davie . . . David Zekus.”

  “Has he ever been in your daughter’s life? Maggie’s life?”

  She was surprised that he remembered her daughter’s name. “Never!”

  “Because he didn’t want to be?”

  “Because he’s in prison.”

  He was clearly shocked.

  She was shocked, too, that she’d blurted out that secret. She probably should have told him Davie was dead. Same thing.

  “And when he gets out?”

  “He’ll never get out.”

  “What—”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about Davie anymore. He’s past history. Long dead to me and Maggie. But my connection with him . . . we grew up together before we became high school sweethearts . . . and his betrayal later were more than just a ‘He done me wrong’ song. He hurt me more than I can say, and it changed me. Trust, or lack of trust, has kept me frozen.”

  “So I thawed you out,” he teased.

  “You could say that.”

  “Wanna melt some more? That tiny shower of yours has to have been made for a scarecrow, but I bet if we’re really careful we could fit in together.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

  “Hey, here’s a better idea. How about a game of drizzle and lick?”

  “Huh? Do you mean dribble and kick?” He’d been making all kinds of ball game references during the night.

  “No, sweetheart, I mean drizzle . . .” He reached over and dipped his finger in her honey glaze again, then let it drizzle in a heart shape on her hand which was resting on the table. “. . . and lick.” Before she could react, he lifted her hand to his mouth and laved the sweetness off with his tongue. Holding her gaze then, his caramel eyes dancing with mischief, he asked, “Wanna play?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “The shower would make more sense then.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Crazy in love.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said, but she liked it. Too much. She tried to draw her hand away from his.

  He wouldn’t let go. “I thought you were thankful.” He batted his eyelashes at her.

  “Oh, so now you want to be thanked with more than words?”

  “What a good idea!”

  And it was, though she would have to make another trip to the laundry with the soiled sheets. As for her hair, both sets, she would need a bottle of shampoo to get rid of all the stickiness.

  And as for the shower, they just fit. Barely.

  When he went down on his knees before her and said he was looking for more honey to lick, she laughed, at first. Then she was no longer laughing as she reached up for the shower head to support herself in his sensual exploration.

  But she got back at him when she sank to her knees and told him she was getting into this treasure hunting gig. Time for her to make her own search for gold. A gold bar, a gold staff, a golden flagpole, any old gold would do. He wasn’t laughing for long, either.

  By the time they were done, the hot water had run out. But they barely noticed, their bodies were so hot, hot, hot.

  Merrill stayed in the shower, cold as it was, when she got out to towel dry. She put his shirt back on and ran a comb through her wet hair as she walked outside with a new mug of coffee. It was nine o’clock but the sun was already warm on the patio stones under her feet. She loved this time of the day when everything was new and dewy clean, promising sunny weather. She loved the view of the sound where a sailboat could be seen skimming the blue waters in the distance, and a fishing boat was chugging out for the day’s haul of whatever the catch of the day would be—tuna, marlin, bass, shark, whatever. She loved this run-down property she’d inherited with all its potential for a better future.

  That’s when she heard an ominous sound. A car engine. Pulling into the parking lot.

  Still barefoot and only wearing Merrill’s shirt, she set her coffee cup on the patio table and walked over to peer around the corner before running inside for more decent attire.

  But it was too late.

  There was a big old gas guzzler of a station wagon coming to a grinding halt, filled with boxes, both inside and atop the rooftop carrier. Out of the passenger door popped a little gremlin with long wavy blonde hair, wearing a red Annie dress with white anklet socks and black patent leather shoes.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Surprise!”

  Delilah had no chance to run and dress now because her daughter hurtled at her with a flying leap, almost knocking them both over. Delilah hugged her little girl, kissing her face and neck and hair, over and over. “Oh, sweetheart, what a wonderful surprise!”

  And someone was going to have to answer for that surprise. That someone—wearing purple pedal pushers, a low-cut silver knit shirt, blonde hair piled atop her head like a 1940s pinup, high-heeled wedge sandals, and enough makeup to plaster a wall—stepped out of the driver’s seat and arched her back like a person who’s been driving too long without a break. On
e of those electronic cigarettes hung from her mouth, which she gave a few expert, handless puffs, creating a cloud of vapor with a strong scent of vanilla.

  Meanwhile, Maggie was hugging Delilah and rambling on, “Me and Gramma had a secret and we couldn’t tell no one, ’specially not Jimmy the Goon, who’s gonna break Gramma’s legs, both of ’em, with his HurryCane, and Honkin’ Harvey called Gramma a crazy broad fer almos’ knockin’ him on his ass with her car at the Bonzo lot, and Gramma said five bad words, and she got a ticket from the coppers fer goin’ too slow, then she got a ticket fer goin’ too fast, and what’re corns and bunions anyhow? A truck driver called Gramma a hot mama. Isn’t that silly? She’s not my mama. You are. Kin I have a dog now?”

  Her grandmother was indeed hobbling toward them on the corns and bunions that she’d been complaining about most of her life—all those years in high heels as a showgirl, she claimed. The e-cig was thankfully out of sight now, though the vanilla scent remained.

  But then, Gram stopped dead in her tracks and looked pointedly at something over Delilah’s shoulder. Delilah could guess what she saw, and it wasn’t the Bell Sound view.

  Leaning against the corner of the building, wearing nothing but a low-riding towel and a wicked grin, was Merrill.

  “Looks like we’re not the only ones with a secret, Miss Maggie,” her grandmother said. “If this is what the Outer Banks has to offer, maybe I’ll stay awhile.”

  Chapter 12

  When Vegas came to the Outer Banks . . .

  Merrill stared with humor at the scene unfolding before him. A ball-of-fire chatterbox and an overage bimbo dragging on an e-cigarette had invaded Elvis Presley land. Obviously Delilah’s daughter and grandmother.

  Delilah Jones was like a jigsaw puzzle to him. Piece by piece he was finding out things about her, like last night’s whopper of a revelation about the lifer felon ex-boyfriend. He would bet his last dollar that these new arrivals would add a few more clues to the mystery of Delilah.

  “You think this is funny?” Delilah said when the little girl ran back to the car and was dragging out a stuffed dog bigger than she was, or just about.