by Amber Burns
I lift my foot of the gas, figuring that rushing to get us to Pearlwater Lodge isn’t going to solve the problem any quicker if I get there twenty minutes earlier or not.
I shut the radio off.
“Vanna.”
She stirs in her seat. I reach for her hand and cover it with my own, and though she flinches, she doesn’t move away. We hold hands like that for a while, my speed steadying and just about as tense as if a pole had been stuck up my ass coming out my mouth.
When I need two hands on the steering, it’s to turn into the long, curving drive up to the Lodge.
Pearlwater is clearly named for the lake it’s overlooking.
There’s no valet to park the car, but there’s a row of vehicles lined up in front of a guardrail, and I take my cue to find a spot and pull to Park.
We’ve got the view of the lake. For several seconds, I lean closer to the wheel to look out and admire the green-blue sheet spanning for miles. The waters ripple softly with the breeze. Other than that, all is still on the lakefront.
No one is out there. Pearlwater Lodge is as quiet as the city. I haven’t decided if that’s a bad thing yet. Quiet time is what I want with Vanna, but quiet means more time in my head at the rate of scintillating conversation were having.
Vanna is slower to eject herself from her seat. I’m out and around the back of the truck with her overnight duffel and my backpack as her riding boots are hitting the pebble road.
I keep my gait even and slower to keep Vanna close to me. It’s not like I’m expecting her to run off. My own insecurities are drawing me to her. That and I realize this could be the last day I’m with her if Vanna decides we’re through.
It’s enough for me to want to drop our bags, turn around and squeeze her, begging to let me hug her like that forever.
Get a grip. The thought coincides with my tightening grip over the straps of our bags and, subconsciously, I speed up my pace only to look back and see Vanna trailing in after greeting the front desk agent and getting the ball rolling with paperwork.
The entrance of the lodge is magnanimous. A cross between a chalet and cabin, its furry door mat, hardwood flooring, bare overhead beams, and stone fireplace nails the cozy vibe of the former and the slapdash log interiors of the survivalist’s cabin.
Luckily for us, it’s more chalet than dry cabin where the electricity and water are considered. No water-hauling activity for us, though I imagine doing anything with Vanna at this point would be a blessing.
“If that’s all, I’ll leave you and the Miss to explore. Thank you again for choosing Pearlwater.” The Lodge’s version of a bellhop takes his tip and ducks out.
Neither Vanna nor I correct him, even though I know she heard. Within earshot range, she’s facing the sliding door window taking up the whole eastern wall.
Coming up behind her, I see it connects to a walkout deck and just beyond the wood railing Pearlwater’s lake stretches out. There are even four sets of lawn chairs for anyone wanting to enjoy the view, belly up. “It’s really something, huh?”
“Mhm,” Vanna hums her agreement.
I’m glad she’s facing away. I don’t need her questioning the scowl burgeoning to her response. Disappointment tails me from our bed – I’m so out of it the idea of sharing a bed again barely makes a dent in my mood – where I drop off our bags and mumble something about ‘freshening up’.
I can’t enjoy the luxury the bathroom has to offer either.
It’s straight to the glass bowl of a sink and learning how to control the automatic tap to heave handfuls of ice cold water over my face and under my hot collar.
I hold a chilled hand to the back of my neck, the other clenching the end of the sink’s glass tightly. My reflection is pitiful. The lack of sleep coupled with the weight of my thoughts make my beard look scruffier and my eyes bloodier: Vanna isn’t going to want to touch me, let alone look at me like this.
“Fuck.”
A soft knock breaks me my hurry to grab a towel and do something about my appearance.
“It’s open. And I’m decent.” I tag on the last part when the door doesn’t open immediately.
Vanna leaves the door wide enough for her head and part of her torso to pop through, hand holding the back of the door as if that’s enough to keep either of us from getting at each other if we really want.
I know I want – want very badly.
“The, um, Lodge’s staff came back again. He brought complimentary snacks and Champagne.”
“Isn’t that thoughtful,” my tone is wry.
“Yes,” if she senses anything off from me, she doesn’t pry. Or more like she doesn’t want to pry, because why should she? She isn’t yours anymore. “I might open a bottle and, Uh, that’s all,” she’s saying, pulling back already.
I clench the towel watching the door close. Tensing is becoming lay-of-the-land for me where Vanna comes in.
Forgetting all about my plan to spruce up for the lady, I toss the towel back on its shelf, rumpled, and head out of the bathroom.
Vanna is struggling with the wine. My strides bring me to her in a few steps. I reach around and steady her hand over the bottle. She’s going to hurt herself, and nothing would kill my plans to fuck sense into her more than her bleeding.
She whirls slowly, holding out the bottle; every part of her wide-eyed expression and parting mouth imply she’s well aware of our proximity. Aware and affected by it; with the up-down rollercoaster, I’m wary to jump both feet into the hopeful sign.
So she wants to fuck me. That isn’t enough, is it?
I know the answer to that is a straight-up ‘no.’
Pouring my confusion and frustration into opening the bottle, I pick up where she left off. Vanna got the foil off and the coil down, her struggle coming with the cage. I make quick work of the opening, keeping my hand steady over the cork and twisting the bottle until the telltale hissing of entrance.
I stretch my hand around Vanna, setting the cork and cage over the pulley cart carrying our complimentary tulip-shaped glasses and treats.
“Could you?”
“Oh,” Vanna hops up to fulfill my request. She holds both glasses out, noses scrunched up with more effort than the task required. It’s fucking adorable.
I accept one flute, fill it to one-third and pass it back for her safe keeping while I fill the second. Setting the bottle down, I grip my glass by the stem and push it out. “What are we toasting?”
Vanna’s discomfiture flings off her. She’s starting to redden, her stammer returning. “T-To new beginnings?” the squeak at the end changes the statement to a question.
I sniff the wine, the bubbles tickling my nose. But it’s just background noise as my senses zero in on Vanna. She’s taking a sip, mouth closed but tongue obviously working the taste. I know the bubbles rush to her nose when it wrinkles and she covers it with a hand.
I’m hiding the smile with my own sip of the wine. Now I’m the one wrinkling my nose. Sparkling wine is not my thing. With an empty stomach, the sweet, dry flavor is almost too much.
“We should eat.” My cue brings Vanna stepping aside, revealing more of the cart’s items.
It’s all thoroughfare stuff: Small but fancy sandwiches, cheese and grapes, and watermelon, finger food essentially. “Burgers and fries would be nice about now.”
“Fries?” she tilts her head, looking even more adorable if possible.
“Yeah. Something about wine and fatty foods just work for me,” and this is all based off the one time I tried it.
Vanna picks up a stick of cheese, pulls it off with that pretty mouth and chews thoughtfully.
“So, you’re having the cheese and I’ll grab the grapes and some sandwiches.” I pick up one of the extra plates on the cart and load it for two. I feel Vanna’s eyes. Her lingering is throwing me off. Without looking up to confirm her stare, I nudge my head back in the general direction of our bed.
Our bed.
The sound of it is only start
ing to excite me. I’ll continue to remain wary, but I have no plan to show any of doubt to Vanna – she’s got enough of that on her own.
“Here we go.” I follow not too long, placing the plate between us. Vanna’s sitting on the side, legs over the bed, feet swinging patterns on the furry sheet of a rug under the four-poster.
I sit at a comfortable enough distance for the both of us. I don’t want to scare Vanna away into the nearby arm chair. Or worse, she might take off to the deck into one of those lawn chairs.
The plate piled high with our snacks is as much a physical barrier as our clothes are, and an emotional reminder that sex isn’t a Band-Aid to the deeper wounds at work here.
Kicking off my shoes, figuring I should get comfortable for this, I climb up onyo the bed – our bed.
The bed sheets are soft and thick.
“Running out of wine,” I notice our glasses are emptying. Shifting from my comfortable position, I return with the bottle and a brochure I only noticed lying on the cart.
Vanna fills our glasses over the dark wood bedside table. She sucks her thumb into her mouth, the consequence of her filling the glass to the brim.
“New adventures?” I glance at the back of the pamphlet before opening it and skimming through the contents. Pearlwater Lodge has outdone itself. I mean, other than the wine and fancy foodstuffs.
“They have canoeing on here.”
Vanna’s quiet directs my attention to her. I’m starting to feel like I’m alone in the room, but she’s sitting right there, twisting a grape from its vine and popping it past those sweet lips. A dribble of grape juice, or maybe its wine, coats her natural pink mouth in a sheer gloss.
Mhm.
Did I mention a late recurring fantasy is those lips around my cock? My cum staining her mouth instead of grape juice and wine.
She’s pressing a tissue to her lips, reaching for another from the box by the bedside.
Unsurprisingly, my boxers are growing tight by the second. I don’t bother to close my eyes, that’s not going to rid me of the searing image of Vanna on her fours closer to the end of the bed, her mouth lowering over my dick, pert tongue dashing over my oozing head, and then taking me down the back of her throat, putting me out of my misery –
“Let’s go.”
I’m swinging my bed off the end, hand running over my bare head, and getting a good stretch in before glancing back at Vanna’s confused expression.
“Where?” she standing though, and that’s a good indication her interests been piqued.
Good thing, baby.
“To explore the lake and find us some treasure.” I grin. “By which I mean, canoeing.”
Vanna follows me, hardly quiet save when I’m talking to the front desk and arranging a guided tour to the back of the lodge and the trail leading to the lakeshore, not quite a beach, but wide enough for a campfire party or something equally backwoods-y.
“First time canoeing?”
“Nope,” I’ve got both Vanna and our guide’s attention. I explain how my grandfather, or Pops, had taken me and Iris out on his boat enough times during the summer to consider myself well past the novice bracket.
But Vanna was clearly a newbie, and I sensed as much back in our room, and I wanted that first with her.
Our guide is an older lady who knows what’s she’s talking about – she’s also intensely fascinated by Vanna and I.
“What’s the occasion?”
Vanna’s openly clueless. I smile and grab her hand, answering for the both of us, “Anniversary.”
My girl is freaking – her hand is stiff and I’m doing all the hand-holding alone. I don’t have to see to know she’s got that doe expression done.
“Ah? How many years?”
“Weeks, actually, and only one of those,” my smile is even in the face of our guide’s flailing attempt to change topics.
“That’s nice,” is her only comment, her gaze returning to the canoe and picking up where she left off in her explanation of the basic mechanics of setting out on the self-guided boat expedition.
For the next part, I have to let Vanna’s hand go. I miss the warmth of her smooth, small palm the seconds it’s gone.
“The lake’s perfect for this today.” The guide turns from staring out at the water body spreading to the forests on the far other side, miles long. “Well, as long as you’re not planning to take a swim.” and her smile wavers as she glances between us. She can’t surely think we’re going to swim. I’m pretty crazy, but skinny-dipping in this weather – with Vanna or not, would be stupid.
“Enjoy your paddle.”
“Aye, aye.” I flag her off.
We follow her instructions locking on the life vests and once I’ve secured myself in, I help Vanna to her seat across from me and the steer.
“What should I do?”
She’s looking around, her hands groping as if wanting to grip something, make them of use. I shake off the picture of her hands joining her mouth over my hard-on.
“Absolutely nothing but sit there and look pretty, babe.” I say, failing to mask all of the erection-induced hoarseness from my words.
Vanna must have sensed something. Surprise, surprise – we’re on one hell of a romantic date, plus there’s the whole overnight and sharing a room and bed thing.
That should spell S-E-X, or at the very least intent to have sex.
She’s all flustered by the endearment, giving me a side profile to cover as much of the embarrassment and the fizzle of lust, like a bubbly on its own.
I saw that, Vanna.
Apparently once the faucet is on, it stays on. I should know: Vanna’s under my skin deeper than any ink could go.
“How far are we going?”
“As far as my muscles can handle,” I’m concentrating on getting a handle of the paddling, keeping the boat steady and preventing a pre-mature tip-over. It’s taking more upper body strength than I remember.
Then again my shoes haven’t touched the bottom of Pops’ canoe, or any canoe, well past a decade, and Pops would do all the grunt work. And that’s only because he didn’t trust me or Iris to not try to tip-over the canoe for laughs, but it probably had more to do with letting us enjoy the outing.
If it was to let us make those good memories, then I’ll have to remember to thank Pops. How he did this almost once every summer up until I left for uni is beyond me. It’s up there with Recruit drills with hats breathing down our necks pushing for one last sit-up or mile around the track.
The one upside of this muscle-burning, joint-aching task is working the blood from one head to the other head – the head I need. It’s also helping me appreciate Vanna’s awe.
She’s swept up by the sights around her…and the sounds.
“Oh, what kind of bird is that?”
“Not a pigeon, that’s for sure.” I steady my paddles up the water, bringing us to a slow stop. I crane my neck back to where she’s pointing. A bird is skipping from its feathered companion, thin legs hopping over the water while its wings flap wildly. “Some kind of waterfowl obviously… A loon? Looks like it’s got a red throat, and that doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“It’s coming this way.”
Vanna’s observation is not entirely wrong. The bird turns and flaps in our direction, kicking up water along the way. It stops a few miles from us, settling into the water and steering itself back towards its quietly floating pal.
“That’s too bad.” Vanna’s pout drives me to say, “I can bring us closer. Can’t promise they’re going to stay put though.”
I’m already navigating us towards the birds, loons, whatever. My paddles whoosh over the water, sluicing it over its sides and raining cascades over the soft, red plastic fronts, the plastic handles becoming drenched in the back splash.
“They do have red throats.”
“Good eyes,” I grace her a quick smirk. “I have no clue what they’re called. I’ll leave that to bird watchers.” A thought occurs to me hardly befo
re I complete the last one. “Hey. Is bird watching a hobby of yours?”
“No. I like to cook, bake, catalogue and journal sometimes,” she’s sharing pretty easily, if not absentmindedly. I’m not a stickler for details, especially with the alternative being stone-walled, period. Another good sign we’re making progress. “Oh, and yoga, but I’m a new to it.”
I’m about to inquire about that last hobby. Say something smart like ‘guess that makes you flexible’ when my girl shrieks and lunges back into her seat.
The sway is the worse, a simple trigger for my reflexes to dig the paddles against the side of the boat, secure traction for us. I really want to avoid fulfilling that old guide’s premonition of us taking a swim.
