by Sara Cate
“What’s going on in here?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning on the door jamb.
He straightens from the pantry. “Grub,” he says, his face serious. “This is going to be a tough decision. Would you rather have—” He holds up a dusty box. “—unfrosted blueberry Pop-Tarts or—” Another box appears. “—Twinkies? For dinner?”
I feel my eyes widen in surprise. “That’s quite the gourmet meal you’ve got going there,” I say, unable to hide my amusement. “What are your featured sides?”
He looks back into the pantry. “Chef has prepared a course of popcorn,” he deadpans, “but we also are doing a substitution for Fruity Pebbles for a two-dollar upcharge and a heavy chance of some sort of food poisoning. We recommend tonight’s meal to be paired with this well-aged and forgotten bottle of Jack.” He produces a bottle of whiskey and winks at me. I feel something tighten in my chest, but my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten anything since I grabbed a sandwich on my way out of town around noon today.
“Pop-Tarts and shots?” I ask, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
“The dinner of champions,” he says, tossing the boxes on the counter island next to me. He sets the Jack Daniels down with it and leans his hands on the counter. “I also have a package of beef jerky in my car, if you’d rather have that.”
“And these are all the options we have.”
“Short of going out and chasing down old Bill, yes,” he says, referring to the old turkey that has plagued the property since we were kids.
“Don’t you dare threaten old Bill like that,” I say. I reach for the Pop-Tarts. “This will be fine, I guess. But maybe I’ll skip the whiskey for now.” I flip the box over and read the Use By date. Sometime last year. I sigh and hope for the best. What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger, right?
He grins and takes the box of Twinkies, disappearing into the living room. I hear him turn on the TV, but then curse.
“I think lightning got the antenna,” he calls from the other room. I can hear the irritating sound of the TV snow. “So much for dinner and a movie.”
I pause partway through tearing open my Pop-Tarts. Dinner and a movie sounds like a date. Whatever that thing was in my chest, it tightens a bit more.
I step around the corner, biting into my Pop-Tart. He’s got a Twinkie in one hand, staring out at the lake with his other hand propped on his hip. The twilight leaves part of his face in shadow, but what little light is left plays across his cheekbones and makes him look like a shot from a sexy fireman calendar. I chew slowly, trying to focus on something other than how good he looks, thinking that the jelly in the Pop-Tart must have fermented and made me drunk already.
It wasn’t the jelly, that’s for sure. I had barely gotten past the crust on the edge of the pastry. It was just that, like he had been since I was in middle school, Ryder Cox was an incredibly attractive man. And after that surprising, out-of-the-blue apology earlier, he seemed to have relaxed around me. I enjoyed the easy feeling of friendship between us, and realized I had missed having him in my life.
I shiver a bit, still chilly in a sundress meant for different weather. He must have seen me move out of the corner of his eye, because he turns, concern furrowing his brow. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low.
“Just a little chilly,” I say, crossing my arms and taking another nibble from my Pop-Tart. “I’ll go find a blanket in just a minute.”
His eyes light up. “I have a better idea.”
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back a moment later, one of those long firelighters in his hands. He crosses to the gas logs in the fireplace, deftly turning them on and lighting them.
“That’s probably a bit of overkill,” I say, but the friendly flicker of the flames draws me closer.
He shrugs. “I won’t turn them up high. Just enough to get rid of the gloom and the chill.”
I stand next to him, both of us eating our non-perishable junk food and staring silently into the flames. He sighs, crumpling his Twinkie wrapper in his fist. “It’s really quiet out here,” he says. “I always forget how quiet it is out in the woods like this.”
I smile, not looking up at him. “That’s part of why I like working in the woods so much,” I say. “It’s a nice break from all the hustle and bustle of everywhere else.”
The fire is warmer now, and I move to sit on the couch, still facing the flames and feeling a touch of warmth on my face. He leaves the room, I assume to get another Twinkie. I hear the box rustle.
“Giggles…” His voice is goading, teasing. There’s a smile in the word.
I resist the urge to turn around, and tuck my feet under me on the couch. “I get a sense of impending doom anytime I hear you say my name like that,” I say.
“Look what I found,” he says, his voice still goading.
I don’t turn, but soon enough a long, flat box appears in the corner of my vision. It’s faded, but it’s clear the colors were bright and primary in a way that would always appeal to children. He rattles the box and I hear plastic board game pieces tumble around.
I look up at him, schooling my face into a mask of stern rigidity. “No,” I say.
“Come on.”
“No,” I repeat. “I am not losing Chutes and Ladders to you again. I swore when I was twelve and I have yet to break that vow.”
“Yeah, but when you were twelve…” He leans closer, his voice close to my ear. A wave of excitement runs through me. “I was cheating,” he whispers, his voice a sexy rumble.
“How dare you.” I twist to glare at him.
He shrugs casually. “You were cute when you got mad,” he says like that explains everything.
“And now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I bet you still are.”
My eyes narrow as I hear the challenge in his tone. “Alright,” I say. “But I get to pick the music.”
It had been a tradition when we were younger. All of us kids, the batch of five or six of us, would listen to records and play Chutes and Ladders until one kid got mad enough to nuke the board. More than once, that kid had been me. What can I say? Fiery hair had come with a fiery temper.
I stand and crumple the Pop-Tart wrapper, dropping it on the Chutes and Ladders box while staring him in the eye. It might look like a petty move, but it feels like throwing down a gauntlet. His expression livens, a mixture of amusement and determination.
He sinks to the floor in front of the fire while I pull several old records from the cabinet behind the couch. The record player is one of those really nice ones that can switch between records when one finishes, so I load a good selection of Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, Marty Stuart, and George Strait. This is Tennessee, after all. We have to do this right.
By the time I settle on the floor, Ryder already has the board out and two player pieces sitting by the corner. I notice one is a girl with red hair like mine, and the other a boy with dark hair to match Ryder’s. He lifts the spinner, and flicks his thumb across the arrow. It lands on five. With a triumphant smirk, he hands it to me. He doesn’t break eye contact, daring me to do better.
My spin lands me on three. I’ll be starting on the back foot, as usual, but I refuse to let this fluster me. Perhaps it’s the boredom of being in an old cabin in the middle of dark Tennessee woods, or the smug look on that perfectly chiseled face, but I am determined that he will not win this game.
We pass the pieces across the board, taking our turns. The first time our hands brush while trading the spinner, I feel myself blush. The second time, I enjoy the contact.
The third time, I think he holds the spinner longer on purpose, his dark gaze never wavering from my own.
The more spaces the pieces travel, the more our reservations melt away and by the time we get to the high seventies, we are shrieking and groaning like little kids again, celebrating landing on a ladder and lamenting a chute.
Twenty minutes later, with a triumphant squeal, my red-haired player piece lan
ds on the one hundredth square. I can’t help but come to my knees, doing a little celebratory dance. I bite my lip and punch him in the shoulder, forcing him to acknowledge my superior Chutes and Ladders skills.
To my surprise, he comes to his feet in one smooth motion, grabbing my hand and pulling me with him. A lively George Strait tune is on the record player, and he yanks me to him, wrapping a strong arm around my waist. I yelp in surprise, but my breath hitches in my throat as he stares deep into my eyes, the arm around my waist guiding me through a series of two-step moves. He releases me to twirl me, then, with a sharp tug on my hand, spins me back to him.
A giggle bubbles to the surface, sounding girlish and immature even to my own ears. I flush with embarrassment. If I’d wanted to appear that I had outgrown being the little kid that used to follow him around everywhere, this isn’t the way to do it. I try to look away from him to hide my embarrassment, but he drops me into a dip just as the music finishes.
Surprised, I grab onto his broad shoulders as he brings me back up to my feet. I can feel heat radiating from my face and I know I must be blushed full-on crimson. My chest heaves as the excitement of the past few minutes catches up to me, leaving me breathless.
“Giggles…” This time, the name is soft, there’s a dark undercurrent in his voice. I try to pull away, to look anywhere but his eyes, to avoid facing the sudden anticipation churning within me.
The record player whirs, and a slow song emanates from the speakers. I consider stepping away from Ryder, considering our dancing done, but he places his hands on my hips and gently encourages me to sway with him. It’s a non-specific dance, more of a gentle rocking movement in time to the slow music. I wrap my hands around his neck, feeling a little awkward.
He rests his cheek against my temple, and it’s a perfectly natural next step for my head to fall against his chest. He seems so calm and confident, holding me to him, but with my ear against him I can hear his heart pounding.
I straighten a bit, searching his eyes. “You okay?” I ask him, quietly.
“Why?” he responds. His voice is low and husky, like he had something stuck in his throat.
“Your heart is racing,” I say.
His lips part and he nervously bites his lower one. There’s that uncertainty again, the same one I had seen outside as we were getting into our cars.
“I—” He breaks off, clearing his throat. He seems to be hunting for words.
A moment later, he gives up. His grip tightens on my hips, pulling me closer, and his lips press against mine in a firm kiss. His fingertips are digging through the thin fabric of my dress, and I arch against him, pulling him down to me with my arms still around his neck.
His long, incredibly muscular arms wind around my back and he lifts me so that my toes are barely touching the floor. He’s nothing but hard muscle, top to toe, and my softer feminine form molds against him.
He deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I taste the heat and salt of him; his kisses are flavored with desire and lust. He spins me around and pushes me up against the wall, using it to lever me off the ground. I latch my legs around him, and I can feel his hardness through his jeans, grinding against me. One hand is braced above my head and the other is cupping my breast.
Those tiny skitterings of desire that have been running through my body all afternoon explode into a hungry ache as his kisses trail across my jaw, down my neck, across my collarbones. I want his hands and mouth all over me, everywhere, all at once. I reach for the hem of his T-shirt, and it ends up somewhere across the living room a second later. His bare chest is radiating heat. My breasts grow heavy and swollen as I imagine what it would be to be naked against it.
He pauses a moment, his dark eyes nearly black with desire in the dim light of the fire. “God, Geena,” he mutters, his voice thick and husky. “I’ve missed you in my life.”
Now my heart is racing and it feels like it might burst from my chest. I’ve missed him, too. One night with him as good as ruined me, and if he has been missing me that whole time too, that was a hell of a lot of time wasted. Both of us, barely speaking, dating other people… I see his pulse jumping in his neck, and a simple thought crosses my mind. Fuck it. We’ll unpack the rest of this suitcase later.
“You’ve already wasted five years,” I say, reaching for him and tangling my hands in his soft, dark hair. It’s just not fair that any man would have hair that soft and luscious, I think distantly. I moan as he presses close to me. “Don’t waste any more time,” I tell him, my voice breathless.
He drops me from the wall and sweeps me up in his arms like he did earlier, in the rain. Then, it was a heroic rescue. Now, it’s a purely carnal move. I am to be claimed and taken. It’s good he’s holding me. My knees would never have survived this.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“We’re going somewhere more comfortable,” he says, his voice raspy with his arousal.
“Where?”
“There are five bedrooms. Pick one. And fast.”
I gesture to the ladder. It leads to the loft in the attic. It’s my favorite place in the whole house. Sharing it with him would be a dream come true. “There.”
He drops me at the bottom of the ladder and I scurry up, turning to watch him follow me. As he gets to the top, he pauses, his eyes hungrily, openly raking me from head to toe.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs. He steps forward finally, cupping my face in a single warm, callused palm. He kisses me again, but this kiss isn’t just lust. This kiss is intimate, loving, and filled with longing.
My fingers go to the large plastic buttons on the front of my dress. He watches as I start to open the first one, and then the second, revealing the plain white bra beneath the dress and the curve of my breasts. He helps me finish the third and fourth buttons, and I can’t help but notice his hands shake a little bit. My dress hits the ground with a soft thump, and I step away from it.
His large hands close on me, guiding me to the bed and laying me back on the covers. He braces himself over me on the bed, his mouth sliding away from mine and whispering kisses and nibbles against my cheek, my jaw, down my neck, across my collar bone. He pulls my bra straps off my shoulders, and a moment later my breasts, rounded and erect from cold and excitement, are free. His tongue traces a path down from the notch in my neck to my nipple, circling it and making my wince in expectation. His teasing seemed perfectly calculated to make me come unglued at every seam, to make me ready to burst. I think that I’m at the brink and that it can’t get any better when his lips close on my nipple, gently sucking and licking me.
“Oh, god,” I moan, my legs closing tightly on his hips, and my hands tangling in his thick, dark hair. I remember now why no man ever measured up.
He drops to one side on the bed beside me. I am bereft until one hand finds its way into my panties, his fingers sliding against me. His mouth stays on my breast as his fingers dip into me, and it takes a lot of concentration not to simply devolve into a screaming orgasm right then and there. He massages, circles, slides in and out in a delicious rhythm that has my mind blown and my knees quivering.
“You’re very wet,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin.
“Take your pants off,” I reply. I want my tone to be commanding, but it comes out as a moan.
A moment later, his jeans are in a pile at the foot of the bed and I am back in his arms, my skin burning at each contact point with his. It’s like I can’t get enough. I push him onto his back, starting to go to my knees to take him in my mouth, but he catches me by the chin and shakes his head. “I’m barely holding on as it is. I want you, and I don’t want to mess this up.”
“I don’t think you can,” I say, my voice breathless, but I allow him to push me down onto the bed. I stretch out and he kneels next to me. My legs are open and it’s the most natural thing for him to position himself between them, ready and waiting.
“If you want to stop, now is the time,” he says,
his voice tense with the effort of holding himself back.
“Absolutely not,” I say. I slide closer, so that we are touching. “I want all of you, and I want you now.”
He braces himself over me, and for a split second I can see through the haze of my arousal, and I see the connection between us, there from the earliest I can remember, that knowledge that he was the only one for me.
His eyes seem to be seeing the same thing, but he says nothing. His lips close over mine once again. The passion in his kiss is so fiery, I wonder if my lips are not physically scorched. I reach my hand behind his head, pulling him toward me, trying to get as close as possible.
I feel him poised, and as he presses his cock into me, I rise to meet him. It hurts a little, but the feeling of being completely filled overrides anything else. “Jesus Christ,” he swears, his eyes closed tight and the corded muscles of his neck and arms standing out as he tenses.
“Are you okay?” I ask, freezing.
He takes a deep breath and nods. He kisses me again, fervent and heated and unrelenting, and my body tightens around his cock. He moves, sliding in and out in a slow cadence that is maddening. I moan, feeling everything in my body go taut in expectation. “Please,” I murmur, not thinking far enough ahead to make a full sentence.
“What?” he asks.
“More.” I am begging him. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. I need more and I need it faster and I need it now. I thrust my hips against his. “Faster,” I say.
His smile turns a little wicked. “Patience, Geena,” he says, but his voice hitches as I thrust against him again.
“More, I said.” I grab him by the shoulders and roll him over, coming to be on top. I pin his shoulders down with my hands, but his hands are already grabbing my hips and helping me rock against him. I don’t think he minds when I lean back, my breasts proudly exposed, and I ride him hard and fast. It doesn’t take long when the pressure, the longing, the tension in my body explodes and I arch, crying out his name to the ceiling.
