Leave Me Breathless

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  A cab pulls up and Hannah gets in, and I wait until she’s gone before I jog back to my truck. I follow the road to the end and make a right, my eyes scanning the street. I spot the women up ahead and pull into a parking space, turning the engine off and jumping out to follow them on foot.

  I keep my distance, pulling the camera up on my phone ready to take a picture when the opportunity arises. The opportunity doesn’t come. The woman turns the wheelchair into a gated complex, and I lose sight of them. “Shit.” Picking up my pace, I make it to the gate, just seeing the glass automatic doors close behind them. The sign on one of the pillars says WILD ORCHARD CARE HOME.

  The woman stops in the reception area and takes a pen, writing something down in a book on the desk. A visitor log? She sets the pen down and carries on her way, pushing the wheelchair through some double doors that open after she waits a few seconds.

  And then they’re gone.

  I move to the side and think for a few moments, spinning my phone in my grasp. I’ve got to know who they are. I make a quick assessment of the reception area as people come and go. A woman at the desk, security cameras at every corner. The doors off the reception area are all locked, opened only by a code entered into the keypad or by the receptionist releasing them with a button under the desk.

  A nurse wanders out of the building on her phone, a medical case in her other hand. “I’m dropping off the urine samples for Dereck Walters and then I’ll be back.” She looks up at me and smiles when I open the gate for her before getting back to her call.

  I wait for the perfect moment before I make my move. Tucking my phone in my pocket, I walk up the path and through the automatic doors. The woman on reception looks up at me, and I smile my friendliest smile. “Can I help you?’ she asks, returning my smile.

  “Visiting Dereck Walters,” I say coolly, reaching for the visitor log and pulling it close, like I know the drill. I look down at the list of names who have signed in recently. It also details who they’re visiting.

  “Oh?” she says. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you.”

  I have to think on my feet, just buy myself enough time to memorize the names in the visitor log. “I’m sorry, it’s a bit of a spur-of-the-moment visit. I don’t live locally. Do you need to call someone to authorize?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she says, reaching for the phone. “Can I take your name, sir?”

  I look up when the doors across the room open, and the woman who was pushing the wheelchair appears, her attention focused on her mobile as she taps away at the screen. She approaches, coming to a stop right next to me and looking up for the book. Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles, pulling it closer to her and taking the pen. And I watch as she signs herself out.

  “Thanks, Vera,” she says, waving at the woman behind the desk before moving past me and leaving. My eyes fall to the book. Philippa Maxwell visiting Dolly Blake.

  “Sir?”

  I look up blankly.

  “Name, please?” She points to the phone in her hand on a smile.

  “Don’t worry.” I turn and leave, pulling by mobile out and calling Lucinda as I walk back to my truck. “Philippa Maxwell and Dolly Blake. The former is mid-thirties, maybe. Must live in or around Grange. The latter, late sixties, early seventies, resident of Wild Orchard Care Home in Grange. See what you can get me on both of them.”

  “You sound stressed,” Lucinda says, rather observantly. “I hear you had a visitor last night.”

  “You spying on me?”

  “No,” she laughs. “I spoke to Jake this morning to see when his paternity leave is done. He said they were on their way home from yours. Nice evening?”

  Since when has Lucinda given two shits about whether or not I’ve had a nice evening? “Lovely, thanks.” I drift off. “What do you care?”

  “I like to know what my boys are up to,” she muses. “It’s in my interest.”

  “How’s it in your interest?”

  “Your well-being is in my interest. And frankly, you’re sounding a bit off lately.”

  “I don’t work for you anymore, Lucinda,” I remind her, ignoring her huff of displeasure and getting back to the matter at hand. “The names I mentioned…” I don’t mention them again. I know they’ll already be stored in her elephant memory. “See what you can find out.”

  “When are you going to tell what this is all about?” she asks.

  “When I know what the fuck is going on,” I answer truthfully. “Did you dig any deeper on Hannah Bright?”

  “Yep. And hit a rock. Dead end after dead end.”

  I reach my truck and let my forehead rest on the door. “Maybe the two names I gave you might shed some light.”

  I don’t know if she hears my despondency, or whether she’s just feeling unusually amenable today, but she sighs, and I know Lucinda well enough to know that it’s not an exasperated sigh. It’s a worried sigh. “Ryan, whatever shit you’re getting yourself into, please be careful, okay?”

  I smile at the paintwork of my truck. “You worried about me, Luce?”

  She snorts, trying to win back some hardness. “I know you, Ryan. If there’s trouble around, you can’t help getting yourself into it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I assure her. “Call you tomorrow.” I click off and realign my focus on Hannah and how I’m going to put right what went wrong last night.

  * * *

  The high street looks like a party shop has crapped all over it when I get back to Hampton, bunting crisscrossing the street, stalls and stands erected, lining the road. I slow to a crawl, mindful of the kids all out in force to help set up for tomorrow. I’m relieved Hannah is out helping, too, though past her smile I see the torment weighing her down.

  She looks up when she hears my truck, and I hate that she looks washed out. The evidence of her tears is apparent in the slight puffiness around her eyes. Did she cry the whole way home from Grange?

  I let my window down when I reach her, slowing my truck to a stop. Her hands are full of bunting, the length of her arm lined with pieces of sticky tape. “Hey,” I say softly.

  “Hey,” she parrots, glancing down at her feet briefly before looking back up at me.

  “You okay?” I feel like a prize twat for asking such a lame question, especially after seeing what I’ve seen this morning.

  “Yeah.” She lifts her hands and presents the tangles of bunting. “Whoever took this down last year made it as difficult as possible for me to put up this year.”

  All I see is small talk in our imminent future, both of us awkward and unsure. It’s not us. “Want some help?” I ask, getting out of my truck before she answers. I look down at the mess of string and colorful fabric triangles piled in her grasp, my brow furrowed deeply.

  “I think it’s completely broken,” she says softly, and I peek up to find a small smile.

  “There’s nothing I can’t fix.” There’s a deeper meaning to my statement, and Hannah doesn’t miss it, blinking slowly as she breathes in deeply.

  “Then fix it,” she practically whispers, making a point of maintaining our eye contact. The atmosphere shifts, an understanding between us seeming to settle. Problem is, I’m really not sure if I’m understanding. Should I tell her where I’ve been? What I saw? How I feel?

  I lift my hands to hers and start to unravel the string, feeling her regarding me while I pick at knots and pull bits of fabric through loops. I make quick progress, lengths of bunting starting to pool on the ground at our feet, and a few minutes later Hannah’s hands are free. I take them both in mine and lace our fingers together. “See,” I murmur, searching out her eyes again. “The bunting is fixed.” I step in a little until our hands are trapped between her chest and mine. “And now you are free.”

  She bites on her bottom lip, and I know it’s because she’s trying to stop me seeing it wobble. I feel helpless right now. Powerless. I’m a man on the edge of doing what comes instinctively to me, but being too afraid to do it for risk of losing he
r.

  Hannah forces our hands down and breaks our hold, bringing her arms around my waist and crushing herself to my chest. And suddenly I’m not feeling powerless anymore. I wrap her up in my arms and hold her like I know she needs to be held, my chin resting on top of her head. I let her have as long as she needs, happy to hold her up, happy for everyone to stare, happy not to give a fuck.

  “How much more is there to be done?” I ask, looking up and down the street, thinking it’s looking pretty complete to me. At least, as much as can be done the day before the fete. At the crack of dawn, everyone will be out stocking carts, setting up tables and chairs, cooking, brewing, baking.

  She turns her face into my throat and I feel her blinking, her lashes tickling me there. “I just need to get this bunting up.” Her words vibrate against my Adam’s apple.

  “I’ll help you.” I have to detach her from me before I put her in my truck and head back to the cabin to quench my rapid onslaught of lust. “Tell me what to do.”

  She smirks to herself, aware of my issue. She probably felt it, too. I can’t even bring myself to feel remorseful. At this moment, I need her in every way, that way the most. Our connection. Our closeness. Her peace.

  She points to the nearby stepladder and bends to collect up the bunting. “You can pass me this and I’ll stick it to the sign above the pub.” She turns and points across the street to Mr. Chaps’s store. “Then we tape the other end over there.”

  I eye the stepladder suspiciously. “You’ve been up and down this thing without any help?” I ask, not liking the thought of that at all.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Hannah,” I admonish her, annoyed, carrying the ladder to the pub and setting it down below the sign, giving it a little shake to check it’s level and stable. “Pass it here, I’ll do it.” I take the first step and hold my hand out for the end of the bunting. “Just tell me where to stick it?”

  Her eyes expand. “Stick what?”

  Naturally, my eyes drop to my groin on a laugh. She needs to stop that nonsense right now. I will not be held accountable if this bunting doesn’t make it onto the side of the town pub. I thrust my hand forward. “Give.”

  On a demure smile, she passes the goods and feeds the length through her hand as I climb the stepladder, having to go to the last but one step in order to reach the sign. I look down. “You stood on the very top of this thing, didn’t you?” I ask accusingly. She’s nearly a foot shorter than me. Needs at least another step or two.

  She doesn’t answer, just pouts her guilt, and I shake my head, annoyed, as I fix the end to the edge of the sign. I make my way down and pick up the ladder, claiming Hannah with my spare hand and taking us across the road as she lets the bunting unravel behind us.

  “Hey, Ryan,” Molly calls from her own ladder outside the post office. Seriously, has no one any care for health and safety around here?

  I stop and set the ladder down, making my way over. “Get down,” I order, taking hold of both sides to keep it steady. I watch as she throws Hannah a look, like should she listen? Hannah nods, and Molly starts shifting on the ladder to find the right angle to descend. As soon as she’s down, I claim the bunting she was struggling to fix and climb the steps, reaching and attaching it easily. “Is that it?” I ask, looking down at her.

  “That’s it,” Molly chirps, making her way over to Hannah and whispering something in her ear. What? I don’t know, but Hannah gives Molly a sharp jab with her elbow and Molly laughs. I descend and eye them both suspiciously as I claim the ladder and carry on to Mr. Chaps. “What are you two smirking at?” I ask, slamming the ladder down on the pavement.

  “Nothing,” Molly sings, walking off to the crowd of kids who are decorating the ice cream stand. “Mr. Ryan all-hot-and-outdoorsy-and-without-doubt-an-incredible-lay,” she calls back.

  Hannah spins toward her friend. “Molly!”

  She turns and starts walking backward, looking all innocent. “What?”

  “Yeah, what?” I ask as I climb and fix the final piece, my grin private.

  “Nothing,” Hannah says, tossing a warning look Molly’s way before meeting me at the bottom of the ladder. “Okay, now we have to decorate the stage, then set up the pie stand, and last but not least make the toffee apples.”

  My mouth falls open. “What?”

  “I’m kidding.” She takes my arm and lifts it, moving into my side and settling it across her shoulder. She looks up at me. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I hardly did a thing.” I push my mouth into her hair and start walking us back to my truck. “And it was mostly for selfish reasons.” I open the passenger door. “I want you to myself tonight so I can put right whatever went wrong last night.”

  She pushes back a strand of hair, thoughtful while she does. “I’d like that,” she says, climbing into my truck. I shut the door and get in the other side, settling my hand straight on her knee and squeezing. I realize now that things didn’t really go wrong. Hannah wanted to stay at home because she had somewhere she wanted to be early this morning. But of course, I’m not supposed to know that. And really, I’m not just going to put things right. I’m going to put things straight. I hope she’s ready.

  * * *

  The journey is quiet, but this time it’s not uncomfortable. I often wonder what she’s thinking, and I know she’s wondering the same about me. Is she even close? Has it crossed her mind? I pull to a stop and brace my arms against the wheel for a few moments before breathing in and letting myself out. I feel her eyes follow me around the front of the truck until I’m at her door. I open it and extend my hand.

  She leaves me hanging for a few beats before she takes it, slipping down and moving aside for me to close the door. I start walking, and Hannah lets our arms reach full length before she starts to follow. “Where are we going?” she asks, looking back at the cabin.

  I say nothing, returning my attention forward and pulling her on through the overgrowth. When Hannah and I reach the lake, I stop and take it in, never failing to be knocked back by its tranquil beauty and calmness. The sun sits just above the treetops, shimmering across the calm water. It’s perfect.

  I turn and tug Hannah forward, taking the hem of her dress and pulling it up over her head. “What are you doing?” she asks, though she doesn’t stop me doing it. I crouch and take her ankle, lifting her foot and removing her Birkenstock, and then repeat on the other side. “Ryan?”

  I cast my eyes up the length of her legs until I find her gazing down at me, a look of uncertainty splashed across her face. I take the sides of her knickers, drawing them slowly down, and when I make it to her ankles, she lifts each foot in turn without the need for me to request it. I lean in and kiss her hip bone, and she folds at the waist, reaching forward to take my shoulders. Her touch energizes me. Pushes me forward. Gives me strength and courage.

  I rise slowly, reaching behind her to find the clasp of her bra, kissing between her breasts as I slip the catch. “Ryan,” she breathes again. She can keep saying my name. I need to hear it. I pull the straps down her arms and move back as she extends them to help.

  And then she’s naked. An endless expanse of silky-smooth skin stands before me, calling to me, begging me to feel, touch, kiss every inch. I swallow on a gulp and toe my boots off, unbuttoning my fly and pushing my jeans down my thighs as I pretty much rip my T-shirt up over my head. She bites her lip. Fuck me, she bites her lip and it’s like rocket fuel to my groin. I need to get her in the lake before my plan goes to shit and I tackle her to the ground here and now.

  I extend my hand. She takes it. And I start walking backward toward the shore, relishing the mixture of intrigue and anticipation on her face. She lets our arms reach full length before she moves, taking small steps with me. The water meets my ankles, though I don’t feel the chill. But I hope Hannah does. I hope it wakes up every nerve, every muscle, every brain cell. I want her the most alert she’s ever been.

  “Ryan,” she says on a sharp inhale whe
n the water meets her toes. Keep walking, baby. I see her chest expanding more and more the higher the water climbs up her body, and when it skims her breasts, I yank her forward and push her legs around my waist, holding the small of her back. Her arms find my neck easily. Everything is so fucking easy with Hannah.

  I bend my knees and take us down until the water passes our shoulders and reaches our necks. And when she inhales, I kiss her. I kiss her with all the words I want to say crowding my mouth, waiting to be said. To be heard. And they will be. But for now, I just need to kiss her with all the crazy passion I’m feeling. There are kisses. And there are kisses. I’ve had many of the latter with Hannah, the type of kiss that makes you forget everything except the feel of that person’s mouth on yours. Kisses that make all other kisses seem inconsequential. Kisses that make you ache. That rule you. That breathe clarity and purpose into you.

  But this kiss has carried me past even that. This kiss has me signing over my life to this woman. “Hannah,” I whisper around her exorable tongue, trying to retreat. She pushes herself higher, increasing the pressure of our mouths. I tilt my head back, allowing her to continue this earth-moving kiss. Her unwillingness to pull herself from this exquisite moment only emboldens me to be the one to end it. It’s fine. There will be more.

  I turn my head and rest my mouth on her shoulder, feeling her lips now at my ear. The whoosh of her breath as she pants against me makes me shiver, and I latch onto the soft flesh of her shoulder, biting down lightly, finding the restraint I need. It takes me a few controlled inhales and a lot of inner strength. But then she catches me off guard and pulls herself up, shifting her hips, and like a radar my cock finds her. She sinks down on a whimper, and I choke on all the words I want to say. My feet push against the bed of the lake, my tense legs straightening. I rise with Hannah attached to my front, a rush of water pouring from us. I need to stand. I need an anchor, something solid beneath my feet. Her internal walls are pulsing around me eagerly as I hold her still against me, trying to catch a breath. “You ruined my plan,” I say raggedly, my face buried in her wet neck.