Where It All Began

by Lucy Score

  She obeyed but only to roll the condom onto his straining shaft. Just that perfunctory touch had John’s hips levering off the bed, his body begging for more.

  Before he could regain any control, Phoebe moved to straddle his hips and, in one swift move, took him inside her. They gasped together at the invasion, so sensual, so shocking. Phoebe felt it, that biological relief at being possessed by John.

  It was nothing she’d ever sought out or wanted—not that she’d known such a feeling existed—but Phoebe couldn’t pretend that the raw vulnerability he made her feel wasn’t real. Making love to John was nothing like any of her previous, limited experience. There was something here that went beyond pleasure and beyond scratching an itch.

  John came to life under her, his hands cupping her breasts, kneading her flesh and sending shocks of pleasure through her straining nipples.

  She rose on her knees only to sink down on him again, sheathing his cock within her. She wasn’t sure how much of her own torture she could take before she gave in to the cravings that screamed through her blood. She wanted to drive John past his tenderness, his care-taking. She wanted to push him into the dark, delicious desire that he so often held her captive in.

  She leaned down, the tips of her breasts dragging across his chest, and when she took his mouth, he wrestled control from her. He withdrew abruptly and her muscles clenched weakly around the emptiness. And then he was on his knees behind her, lifting her hips.

  Phoebe buried her face in the lone pillow left on the bed. It smelled like him. He guided her hips higher and then drove into her with a ferocity that had her gasping for breath.

  “Too much?” he gritted out, barely slowing his pace.

  It took her a moment to find the word, to catch her breath. “More!”

  Her demand was met with a soft grunt as he used her hips to thrust into her harder than he’d ever taken her.

  “Is this what you want?” he demanded, on a low growl.

  “God, yes!”

  He released one hip and gripped her breast that reverberated with every thrust.

  She’d wanted this, but she had no idea where it would take them. She was a prisoner of John’s pleasure, and it overwhelmed her.

  He was riding her recklessly as if racing toward a finish that only he could see. The primal need for release built within her until she quivered around his shaft. It was too much. Phoebe feared her body would break apart into pieces, slivers of pleasure.

  His shout, triumphant and desperate, echoed in her ears, and as he came, he reached between her legs, stroking her over the edge. She joined him, careening into the lightning and wind as her body shook with each wrenching wave.

  --------

  “What. The. Hell. Was. That?” John’s breathing was still ragged from the orgasm that had ripped him to pieces.

  Phoebe laughed or coughed under him. He couldn’t tell with her face pressed into the pillow.

  He hoped she wasn’t suffocating because he really didn’t have the energy to roll off of her at the moment. He was still inside her, still feeling the aftershocks of her own release around his half-hard cock.

  “I just need a minute,” he murmured against the smooth skin of her back. “An hour tops.”

  There was still no discernible response from Phoebe, and he worried that she might have already suffocated. With effort, he slid over onto his side and pulled Phoebe’s face out of the pillow.

  “You still breathing?”

  “Mmm.” Without opening her eyes, she rolled and snuggled into his chest, a smug smile on her pretty face.

  A wave of feeling swamped him as he pressed his face to her damp hair. He’d been wrong, dead wrong. And that rarely happened. He was a planner, a weigh-er, a debater. His decisions were rational and well thought-out. Yet, with that approach, he would have missed out on the woman cradled against his chest.

  They didn’t make sense together, but what they did make was a hell of a lot more addicting than logic.

  John had known the satisfaction at the end of a hard day’s work. Felt the joy of time spent with loved ones, the pride in the harvest of a crop grown by his own two hands. He’d enjoyed the carnal delights that sex had to offer.

  But nothing in his life prepared him for what he felt in bed with Phoebe. Every time he came, it was as if he emptied himself into her only to be refilled with… what was it? That strange glow. Well-being, satisfaction, peace? He couldn’t put a finger on it. But it was warm and bright and flooded him.

  Fuck. Was this love? Is that what was glowing in his chest for Phoebe?

  The twitch in his eye was back.

  Why couldn’t he be more like Cardona? A sexual connoisseur with a passing enjoyment of the buffet of women. No, he had to fall in love with the woman he couldn’t keep for longer than a summer, a season.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Phoebe unwrapped herself from the phone cord and hung up dancing a jig. John looked up blandly from his papers. “And how’s Elvira?” he asked.

  Phoebe knew it was a perfunctory question as he’d heard every word of her end of the conversation. She danced over to him and leaned over his shoulder.

  Reflexively, he covered his writing, and Phoebe gave him a little pinch.

  “El had some news.”

  “I gathered that from all the ‘no ways’ and ‘are you kidding mes’,” he said dryly.

  “Well, then smarty pants. What’s the news?” Phoebe flopped down in the chair closest to his.

  “Cardona asked out Hazel,” John guessed.

  Phoebe felt herself deflate. “How did you know?”

  “He told me he was going to.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Phoebe slapped at his arm. “Honestly, John. Sometimes I think I was the one who was supposed to be born in Blue Moon.”

  He grinned at her and pulled her chair closer to him until he could reach her for a kiss.

  “Well?” she asked, pulling back.

  “Well, what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Michael and Hazel?”

  “I’m a lot more interested in you and me,” he told her with a devilish smile. He brought her finger tips to his mouth and nipped one.

  “You know, for someone who was so resistant to going to bed with me, you certainly are making up for lost time,” she reminded him with a saucy wink.

  Dinner was over, the dishes were done, Murdock was snoring under the table. Before the phone call, Phoebe had been putting another round of “finishing touches” on her thesis while John scratched at his own writing project.

  It was their own time, and Phoebe had grown to enjoy these nights spent in companionable quiet. Of course, a TV would have been nice, too.

  She sighed.

  “What’s that for?” John asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said airily. “Life is pretty good. There’s really only one thing that I want. One thing that I need.”

  Phoebe enjoyed how his gaze heated at just the idea of sex.

  “And what’s that one thing?” he asked, kissing the inside of her wrist and sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

  “I want to read something you wrote.” Her declaration had the same effect as dumping a bucket of freezing creek water over his head. John leaned back in his chair and groaned. He covered his face in his hands.

  “You drive me insane,” he announced through his palms.

  Phoebe grinned unapologetically. “I know. So you might as well just hand something over now. It’ll be easier in the long run.”

  He shoved a stack of papers at her. “Read one. And do not comment on it. I don’t do this for other people’s opinions. I do it for me,” he reminded her.

  Phoebe bounced up and down in her chair. “Oh, boy!”

  She started at the top of the stack knowing if she took her time digging through the papers, it would just upset John more. Wiggling to ge
t comfortable in her seat, Phoebe cleared her throat.

  “No! Not out loud. Christ, I can’t be here when you read it,” John said, shoving his chair back from the table. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” He picked up his beer, whistled for the dog, and left through the side door.

  Phoebe, bubbling with glee, settled in to read.

  Visions of future passing

  When I look at this land, I know it’s not the present that I see. I don’t see a dilapidated barn that’s about to fall or a farmhouse that desperately needs an overhaul. I don’t see broken fence lines and overgrown fields.

  I see the future. That red barn painted up nice with white trim. Horses in the stalls and pastures. Kids spending an endless summer splashing in the pond. Lightning bugs dotting the fields and shooting stars streaking across an inky black sky.

  I see acres of corn and wheat and soy. Fields of tomatoes, beans, squash, lettuce, berries. I see family and friends and bonfires after hard, gratifying days of work. I catch glimpses of long winters buried under feet of snow. A fire crackling in the hearth and stew simmering on the stove. Snowball fights and snowmen. Christmas trees with lights. Dark nights warm under a quilt as snow falls softly outside.

  I can taste the apple cider and beer and burgers on the grill and pies fresh from the oven. Hear the laughter. Children at play, wild and free. A wife at night, quiet and teasing.

  I see community. A town that never gives up on anyone. One that butts in even when it’s not wanted. Neighbors that show up to help without being asked because they know you and love you.

  From this vantage point, I can see for miles into the future. There will be growth here. There will be family here. Harvests here. Happiness here.

  I can hear it, too.

  The high school marching band warming up before a football game.

  The crickets on a summer night.

  “Just five more minutes, dad.”

  “I love you, John.”

  There is something that I can find here and only here on these two hundred acres. I feel it in my bones as if they’re made from the same ground beneath my boots. I’m meant to be here, meant to work this earth. I’m meant to live here, love here, die here.

  Phoebe loosened her grip on the papers in her hand, her eyes damp, her chest tight. He’d painted a picture of a beautiful, perfect life. He was a poet, a man who would be a hero to his wife and children.

  The hairs on her arms stood up as if lightning were about to strike. Perhaps it already had. Not outside in the dark where man and dog wandered. But in her chest where her heart beat for the man who’d written down the life he wanted in blue ink on lined paper.

  She’d gone and done it. She’d let down her guard and fallen in love with John Pierce, poet farmer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Phoebe refilled the kibble in Murdock’s food dish and opened the door to welcome the rain-cooled breeze. After last night’s storm, they hadn’t been expecting more rain, but the heavens had opened up again for a brief but satisfying drenching which ended their day a little early.

  Phoebe laughed watching the little dog wag his stump of a tail as he chewed. She could hear John singing Culture Club upstairs in the shower, and it brought a smile to her lips.

  It seemed like all the occupants of Pierce Acres were feeling the mood. She felt lighter than she had since her father’s accident. This moment, this day, this summer was turning out to be so much more than she could have hoped for.

  She grabbed the chicken breasts that she’d been marinating in the refrigerator and turned on the oven. She’d pair the chicken with light salads and John’s own green beans fresh from the garden.

  Humming, Phoebe slid the chicken into the new casserole dish. Her first impression of John as the hero, the caretaker, had proven to be correct. All she needed to do was mention how a casserole dish would open up her menu offerings or tell him about her grandmother’s sourdough waffle recipe, and within days, a cheerful red dish and new waffle iron made their way into the kitchen.

  The phone on the kitchen wall rang, and Phoebe kicked the oven door shut, wiped her hands on the tea towel on the counter, and picked up the phone.

  “Pierce residence,” she said cheerily.

  “Hi, sweetheart!” Phoebe could hear the excitement in her mother’s breathless greeting.

  “Hi, Mom. How are—”

  “I just got off the phone with a Mr.—” Phoebe heard papers rustling on her mother’s end. “Ingersol with the FDA.”

  Phoebe’s hand tightened on the orange receiver. “What did he say?” Her voice rose seven octaves. Murdock shot her a wary look before going back to his food.

  --------

  John padded downstairs barefoot, hair still damp from his shower. He heard Phoebe in the kitchen. Her voice happy, her laughter bright. It was hard to remember what the house had been like before her. Quiet. Very quiet, he decided.

  The phone cord stretched across the doorway. The meager foot-long cord had been plenty for him. To John, phone calls should be brief, perfunctory. But to Phoebe, they were a way to give detailed reports of every second of her week to her parents, her sister, and friends. His long-distance bill was going to be astronomical.

  “A job? You’re sure he said they were offering me a job?” Phoebe asked, squealing a moment later. “Mom, this is everything that we need!”

  He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, John told himself. Technically, it was his house. And technically, he was just standing in the hallway where Phoebe could see him if she walked past the doorway. It wasn’t like he was hiding.

  She crossed the doorway. One hand on her head, her smile bright, her gaze on the ceiling, and he ducked behind the old hutch in the hallway. “Yes, of course this is what I want, Mom. Why do you think I would change my mind?”

  A job with the FDA. It’s exactly what she’d wanted, what she’d planned for. Then why didn’t he feel happy for her? Why did he feel like his stomach had just dropped into an elevator shaft? He faced the wall, staring at the hideous black and orange wallpaper. It was on his list. This whole fucking house was on his list.

  Why would she want to stay in a broken-down place with ten seconds of hot water and shitty orange flowers peeling off the wall? She knew what she wanted. A good job in a flashy city with a paycheck flush enough to support her parents. It was a shame that he knew what he wanted now, too. Phoebe. But he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

  “Don’t cry, Mom. Please?” Phoebe’s voice was softer now. “You and Dad sacrificed for the last twenty plus years for me and Rose. It’s our turn, and you’ll be back on your feet and planning cruises and dinner parties in no time.”

  She was quiet for a moment or two, and John could feel her enthusiasm fade just a bit. “I promise this is what I want, Mom. My thesis is almost done. I’ve been polishing it for a while.”

  She paced past the doorway again, staring straight ahead. The smile was gone.

  “I’ll call him back first thing in the morning and let you know what happens, okay?”

  John kicked at the dusty wall trim and, for the first time ever, regretted his choices.

  “I love you, too, Mom. Give my love to Dad.”

  --------

  Phoebe wolfed down her scrambled eggs and bacon, focusing on the tasks ahead of her for the day. There was the back-breaking, never-ending harvest of zucchini and cucumbers, another coat of paint on the west side of the barn, watering the flower beds, weeding for the zillionth time, and, oh yeah, telling John she had a day to accept a position as a research assistant with the FDA.

  Starting in two weeks. In Washington, D.C.

  She should be thrilled, ecstatic even. This was the outcome she’d been praying for. And yet she hadn’t been able to say yes to the very dry, very business-like Mr. Ingersol.

  She’d almost brought it up at dinner last night, but John had been unusually quiet. His one- and two-word answers had been few and far between. She hop
ed he wasn’t coming down with a summer cold. There was so much to do before she left. So much time she wanted to spend with him.

  John walked into the kitchen, studiously avoiding her gaze. He poured his coffee and snatched a strip of bacon off the plate next to the stove.

  So much had changed this summer. And one of those things seemed to be her dreams for the future. Phoebe hadn’t been prepared for this shift. She wasn’t even sure this was real. She’d never been in love before.

  She’d lain awake last night for hours thinking about John’s essay on Pierce Acres. No, not just thinking, she corrected herself. She could see it as if she were there.

  School delays on snow days, Thanksgiving dinners, lazy Sunday afternoons with locusts buzzing in the background and the summer sun coaxing the fields to their full production.

  Children and pets and farm animals. Neighbors and friends. Family crowding around the dining room table, which would have chairs by then. What spell had John woven with his words that his future had become her dream? She wasn’t ready for marriage, children, settling down. Was she?

  She didn’t know. And she needed some time to think. If she could find another way to get the money for her parents, maybe a job in D.C. didn’t have to be the only answer.

  “Morning,” she said, hoping to distract herself with conversation.

  John faced her without looking her in the eyes. He had papers in his hand.

  He crossed to her, handed them over, and walked back to the stove.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Your thesis. It’s done.”

  “You liked it?” She was relieved. It was his second full read-through and her nine millionth draft. John’s opinion carried weight with her, and if he was happy with her hours of labor, then maybe her professors would be, too.

  “I don’t have a doctorate, but I think you make your points clearly and succinctly.”

  She let out a slow breath, her hands rubbing her eyes. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that. I’ve been working on it for so long I was starting to think it was completely shit.”