Wallbanger

by Alice Clayton

  “Wow,” was all I could manage as I wrapped my arms around his neck and sank into his embrace.

  The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow all around, making the terra cotta blaze red and orange, coating us in fire. My eyes were drawn to the cool blue of the sea crashing against the rocks below, the salt in the air actually present on my tongue. I clung to him, letting myself feel and experience everything. His body, hard and warm against my own, the feel of his shaggy hair against my cheek, the heat of the railing against my hip, the rush of every cell in my body curling toward this man and the pleasure he would surely bring me.

  “You ready?” he asked, his voice gruff in my ear.

  “So ready,” I moaned, my eyes rolling back in my head at the nearness of him, the feel of him.

  And then Simon took me to town.

  After Simon had driven me to the brink with his kissing on the terrace, he’d literally driven me to the brink. We were now at a restaurant overlooking the water, which was easy to do in a coastal town. But where the little hole-in-the-wall places we’d been frequenting this week had their cozy charm, this was a romantic restaurant with an emphasis on romance. Romance was served on a platter here. It was in the wine, the pictures on the walls, the floor beneath our feet, and in case you missed the romance, it was also being piped in through the air. If I squinted, I could see the word romance floating through the air on the sea breeze…I had to really squint, but it was there, I tell you.

  Floor-to-ceiling window panels had been rolled back to let in the briny coastal air, and hundreds of tiny tealights sparkled in hurricane glasses. Each table was dressed in white, with low tumblers spilling over with dahlia blooms in rich shades of crimson, pomegranate, and lusty fuchsia. Tiny white Christmas lights twisted into the wooden beams overhead cast a magical sepia tone over the entire scene. In this restaurant, there were no children, no tables of four or six. No, this restaurant was filled with lovers, old and new.

  Now we sat, pressed closely together at an epic mahogany bar, slowly sipping wine and awaiting our own tiny table. Simon’s hand settled against the small of my back, claiming me quietly and succinctly.

  The bartender placed a tray of oysters on the bar in front of us. Twisted and craggy, they glistened, with slices of lemon nestled here and there. Simon raised an eyebrow, and I nodded as he squeezed the lemon, his strong and elegant fingers making short, erotic work of the oysters. He pried one from its home and brought it to my mouth on a tiny fork.

  “Open up, Nightie Girl,” he instructed, and I surely did as I was told.

  Cold, crisp, like a burst of seawater in my mouth, I moaned around the fork as he slipped the tines back out. He grasped his own oyster and tossed it back like a man, licking his lips as I watched this little bit of food pornography play out. He winked at me as I looked away, trying not to let on how desperately turned on I was. The entire day had been like one giant, controlled ball of sexual tension, a slow burn that was now igniting into a wildfire. He slurped two more in quick succession, and as I watched his tongue dart out to lick his lips, I felt the sudden urge to help him. With no shame or sense of social propriety, I closed the distance between us and kissed him, hard.

  He grinned in surprise, but kissed me back with equal intensity. The sweetness and tenderness that had been marinating between us all week now quickly deteriorated into full-on touch-me-touch-me-now, and I was all for it. My entire body turned toward him, my legs nestling in between his as his fingers found my skin—the skin just above the hem of my dress. We were kissing, kissing all-out Hollywood style. Slow, sloppy, wet, and wonderful. My head tilted so I could kiss him more deeply, my tongue sliding against his, leading and then letting him lead. He tasted like sweet and salt and lemons, and it was all I could do not to grab him by his pretty linen shirt and have my way with him on top of the bar—but in a very ladylike way, mind you.

  I heard someone clearing their throat, and I opened my eyes to see my sexy sapphires, then an embarrassed host.

  “Excuse me, señor, your table is ready?” he asked, carefully averting his eyes from our display in his very romantic, but still very public, restaurant.

  I might have moaned a little as Simon removed his hands from my legs and turned my chair so I could stand. Taking my hands and pulling me, he smirked as I wobbled on my feet a bit. He grinned at the bartender.

  “Oysters, man, oysters.” Simon laughed a little as we shuffled off to our table. I was ready to let out an indignant huff until I saw him discreetly adjust himself. I was not the only one feeling the slow burn…

  I stuffed my huff and smiled serenely, lowering my eyes just enough so he knew I knew. As we arrived at our table, Simon pulled out my chair for me. As he scooted me in, I let my hand drift back just enough to accidentally-on-purpose graze him, feeling how worked up he was. I heard him hiss, and I smiled inwardly. Just as I went in for graze number two, he grasped my hand tightly in his own, pressing himself against me. My breath caught in my throat as I felt him harden further under our hands.

  “Do I need to change your name to Naughty Girl?” he murmured, low and thick in my ear. I closed my eyes and tried to get control as he sat across from me, grinning in a devilish way. As our waiter busied himself around us, straightening the linens and presenting menus, I only had eyes for Simon, cocksure and beautiful, across the table from me. This meal was going to take forever.

  The meal did take forever, but as much as I was aching to get Simon alone again, I also never wanted this night to end. We were served a beautiful paella, coastal style with chunks of prawns and spiny lobster, chorizo, and peas. Made in the traditional way, almost impossible to recreate, the simple shallow dish it had been cooked in allowed the saffron rice on the bottom to become crunchy and nutty—delicious in every sense of the word. We’d finished a lovely bottle of rosé and were now lazily sipping tiny glasses of Ponche Caballero, a Spanish brandy with hints of orange and cinnamon.

  The liquor was spicy as I rolled it around in my mouth. I was pleasantly warm and more pleasantly tipsy. Not drunk, just heady enough that I was hyperaware of my surroundings and found anything and everything sensual: the way the smooth brandy slipped down my throat, the feel of Simon’s leg against my own under the table, the way my body had begun to hum. The entire population, it seemed, was out and about tonight and in a celebratory mood for the festival kicking off in the center of town. The energy was raw and a little wild. I sat back in my chair, teasing Simon with my big toe, a silly smile on my face as he stared at me hard.

  “I ate your paella once,” he said suddenly.

  “Pardon me?” I sputtered, catching the drop of brandy on my lip before it rolled off onto my dress.

  “In Tahoe, remember? You made us all paella.”

  “Right, right, I did. Not like we had tonight, but it was pretty good.” I smiled, thinking of that night. “As I recall, we polished off quite a bit of wine as well.”

  “Yes, we ate paella and drank wine, got the others together, and then you kissed me.”

  “We did, and yes, I did.” I blushed.

  “And then I acted like an ass,” he replied, his blush present now as well.

  “You did,” I agreed with a smile.

  “You know why, right? I mean, you have to know that I, well, that I wanted you. You do know that, right?”

  “It was pressed against my leg, Simon. I was aware.” I laughed, trying to play it off, but still thinking of how I’d felt when I ran away from him in that hot tub.

  “Caroline, come on now,” he chided, his eyes serious.

  “Come on now, yourself. It really was pressed against my leg.” I laughed again, a little weaker this time.

  “That night? Jesus, it would have been so easy, you know? At that moment even I wasn’t totally sure why I stopped us. I think I just knew that…”

  “You knew that?” I prompted.

  “I knew with you, it would be an all or nothing kind of thing.”

  “All?” I squeaked.
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  “All, Caroline. I need all of you. That night? Would have been great, but too soon.” He leaned across the table and took my hand. “Now, we’re here,” he said, raising my hand to his mouth. He laid kisses across the back then opened my palm and pressed a wet kiss at its center. “Where I can take my time with you,” he said, kissing my hand once more as I stared back at him.

  “Simon?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m really glad we waited.”

  “Me too.”

  “But I really don’t think I can wait any longer.”

  “Thank God.” He smiled and signaled the waiter.

  We laughed like teenagers as we paid the bill and began our trek up the hill to the car. The festival was in full force now, and we passed through part of it on our way back. Lanterns lit up the sky overhead as a heavy drum beat pulsed, and we saw people dancing in the streets. That energy was back, that sense of abandon in the air, and the brandy and that very energy knocked Nerves back down, way down to my gut, where LC and Wang threatened to beat her within an inch of her life. LC and Wang, it sounded like a rap duo…

  As we reached the car, I went to grab the door handle when I was whirled suddenly by a very intense Mr. Parker. His eyes burned into mine as he pressed me against the car, his hips strong and his hands frantic in my hair and on my skin. His hand slid down my leg, grasping my thigh and hitching it around his hip as I moaned and groaned at the strength I was about to let run wild across my body and soul.

  But I slowed him down, my hands pulling at his hair, making him moan in turn. “Take me home, Simon,” I whispered, pressing one more kiss against his sweet lips. “And please drive fast.”

  Even Heart seemed pleased, floating around above. She was still singing, but a song that was infinitely more dirty.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I LOOKED AT MY REFLECTION in the mirror, trying to look objectively. When I was a kid, especially in those charming early-teen years, I used to see myself very differently. I saw dishwater-blond hair and pale, uninteresting skin. I saw flat green eyes and knobby knees that bisected skinny, bird-like legs. I saw a slightly upturned nose and a bottom lip that looked like I might trip over it if I wasn’t too careful.

  When I was fifteen, one afternoon my grandmother told me she thought the pink dress I was wearing looked nice against my skin. I scoffed and immediately disagreed with her. “Thanks, Grandma, but I got about three hours of sleep last night, and the last thing I look today is nice. Tired and pale, but not nice.”

  I rolled my eyes in that way teenage girls do, and she reached for my hand.

  “Always take a compliment, Caroline. Always take it for the way it was intended. You girls are always so quick to twist what others say. Simply say thank you and move on.” She smiled in that quiet and wise way she had.

  “Thanks.” I smiled back, busying myself with the spaghetti sauce and turning my face so she couldn’t see my blush.

  “It breaks my heart the way young girls pick themselves over, never thinking they’re good enough. You make sure you always remember, you’re exactly the way you’re supposed to be. Exactly. And anyone who says otherwise, well, poppycock.” She giggled, her voice lowering a bit at that last word, the closest she would ever come to swearing. Grandma had a list of bad words and really bad words, and poppycock came close to approaching the latter.

  The next day at school I mentioned to a friend that I thought her hair looked great, and her answer was to run her hands through it with disgust.

  “Are you kidding? I barely even had time to wash it today.”

  Even though it did look fantastic.

  Later on after gym class, I was changing in the locker room when I observed another friend touching up her lip gloss. “That’s pretty. What’s the name of that color?” I asked as she pursed her lips in the mirror.

  “Apple Tartlet, but it looks terrible on me. God, I have no tan left over from summer!”

  Grandma was right. Girls really didn’t take compliments well. Now, I’m not gonna lie and say after that day I magically had no more bad hair days or never picked the wrong lipstick again. But I did make a conscious effort to see the good before the bad and really look at myself in a more clear way. Objectively. Kindly. And as my body continued to change, I became more and more aware of features I could look at positively instead of negatively. I never thought of myself as lethally gorgeous, but I did clean up well.

  And so now, as I stared into the mirror in the bathroom, knowing Simon was waiting for me, I took the time to take a little inventory.

  The dishwater-blond hair? Not so much dishwater. It was shiny and golden, a little wavy and curly from the saltwater it had been cooking in all week. The pale skin? Nicely browned up and, dare I say, a little glowy? I winked at myself, holding back a maniacal giggle. My mouth had that slightly pouty lower lip, just full enough to trap me some Simon and not let him go. And the legs I saw peeking from below the lace just covering my thighs? Well, not so bird-like anymore. In fact, I think they were going to look pretty spectacular wrapping around Simon’s…whatever I felt like wrapping them around.

  And so, as I smoothed my hair once more and mentally ran through all my internal checklists, I was wildly excited about the night ahead. We’d raced back to the house, practically disrobed each other in the entryway, and after begging a few moments of girl time, I was now ready to go out and claim my Simon. Because who was kidding who? I wanted this man. Wanted him for my own, and did not, would not, share him with anyone else.

  Brain for once was finally in agreement with LC. Especially since she’d crawled up Backbone and slapped Brain right in the stem, telling her in that special way only she could that we needed this. We deserved this, and we were ready. Nerves, well, they continued to circle in my tummy, but that was to be expected, right? I mean, it had been a long, long time, and a little bit of nerves was normal, I expect. Had I been stalling all week? Maybe.

  Kind of.

  A little.

  Simon had been more than patient, content to take things slow, at my pace, but for crying out loud, he was only human.

  I was adamant that Nerves not be allowed to turn another Spanish night into the land of cuddle and coo. I turned in the mirror, trying to see myself as Simon might see me. I smiled in what I thought was a seductive way, flipped off the light, took one more deep breath, and opened the door.

  The bedroom had been transformed into something from a fairy tale. Candles flickered on the dresser and nightstands, bathing the room in a warm glow. The windows were open, as well as the door to the little balcony overlooking the sea, and I could hear the waves crashing, romance-novel style. And there he stood: hair tousled, body strong, eyes blazing.

  I watched as he took me in, dragging his gaze down my body and back, a smile spreading across his face as he appraised my outfit of choice.

  “Mmm, there’s my Pink Nightie Girl,” he sighed, holding out his hand. And when I stalled for just the tiniest second, Backbone picked up my hand and gave it to him.

  We stood in the darkened room, a few feet apart but connected by our woven fingers. I could feel the rough texture of his thumb as he traced circles on the inside of my hand, the same circles he’d traced weeks and weeks before when I began to fall under his spell. Our eyes full of each other, he took a deep breath.

  “It’s criminal how good you look in that,” he said, drawing me toward him and giving me a little spin so he could better see the pink baby doll nightie. As he spun me, the lacey edges flipped up just a little, showing off the accompanying ruffled panties. A low noise sounded in his throat, and if I wasn’t mistaken, it was a growl? Damn…

  He spun me back closer, grasping my hips and pressing me against him, my breasts crushing into his chest. He placed a tiny kiss below my ear, letting me feel just the tip of his tongue.

  “So there are some things I need you to understand,” he murmured, nuzzling with his nose, his hands brushing up under my nightie to fluff my ruffles and grab a han
dful of backside, catching me by surprise. I gasped.

  “You listening? Don’t get distracted on me now,” he whispered again, flattening out his tongue and dragging it up the side of my neck.

  “It’s kind of hard to focus with your distraction poking me in the thigh,” I groaned, letting him bend me backward just enough so that my entire lower body was pressed against him, his hard places perfectly content to mold my soft places around them. He chuckled against my neck, now dotting my collarbone with his trademarked baby kisses.

  “Here’s what you need to know. One, you’re amazing,” he said, his hands now traveling up to the small of my back, fingers and thumbs massaging and manipulating. “Two, you’re amazingly sexy,” he breathed.

  My hands now hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it back off his shoulders as our pace began to transition from slow and easy to fast and frantic. Now his hands were sneaking around front, his nails lightly scraping along my tummy, lifting my nightie so we were skin to skin, nothing left between us. I ran my hands up and down his back, my nails much more aggressive, digging in and anchoring him against me.

  “And three, as amazingly sexy as this pink nightie is, the only thing I want to see for the rest of this night is my Sweet Caroline, and I need to see you.” He panted in my ear as he picked me up, straight up, and my right leg went around his waist on its own.

  Once again, the Universal Law of Wallbanger dictated that legs went around hips when they were offered.

  He walked me backward to the bed and set me down gently. Leaning over, he pushed me backward on to my elbows. Shirt hanging down off his shoulders, he winked at me, nodding at his state of undress. I reached forward, crooked one finger behind the button on his khakis, and snapped it open. Seeing no peek of boxers, I gently nudged his zipper down just an inch or so, exposing the happy trail that led down, down, down to where all good things were found. Sweet mother of pearl. Commando.