by Rylee Swann
Long Distance Lover
Rylee Swann
Copyright © 2019 by Rylee Swann
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
DESCRIPTION
1. December
2. Jayson
3. December
4. Jayson
5. December
6. Jayson
7. December
8. Jayson
9. December
10. Jayson
11. December
12. Jayson
13. December
14. Jayson
15. December
16. Jayson
17. December
18. Jayson
19. December
20. Jayson
21. December
Epilogue
A Note from Rylee
Also by Rylee Swann
About the Author
DESCRIPTION
Sometimes you have to face the past to find your future.
Ten years ago, I made the gut-wrenching decision to leave Jayson.
I had no choice.
When the man who still occupies my dreams appears in the small town where I've restarted my life, my heart is torn in two.
He's not the man I knew back then--wants a second chance at love and the fire that still blazes.
But old wounds haven't healed.
If I give him my heart, will he fail me again?
Dee is the love of my life and always has been.
Even though she had to leave me to protect herself from what I had become.
Drowning myself in alcohol ruined any chance for our happily ever after.
But now, I'm a different man.
I'll stop at nothing to prove that we belong together forever.
Can time and distance heal all wounds?
1
December
The sublime voice of David Bowie finds its way into my waking consciousness. I don’t remember why I set my alarm last night but the sexy rock star’s voice is far from the worst way to open my eyes. As an author of romance novels, I work from home and set my own hours. There’s no reason for me to be awake at the ungodly hour of—I squint at the digital clock on my nightstand—eight o’clock in the morning on a Thursday. What?
Vaguely, I recall a notion to rise earlier to get my daily word count written so my afternoon could be my own. Good idea on paper. Not so much in practice. I’ve always been a night owl. Why change now?
Stretching, I snuggle back under the covers, not wanting to get out of bed. I’m not tired. In fact, I’m fully rested, but as Bowie croons about the serious moonlight in “Let’s Dance,” heat blooms between my legs and grows. Staying in bed now seems even more attractive, and I close my eyes, allowing myself to be swept up in an unexpected frenzy of spicy Bowie lust.
Opening the top drawer of my nightstand, I fumble about until my hand finds the finger vibe I store there for just such occasions. It’s a small but powerful toy and always gets the job done. I have other, bigger toys but I’m only looking for a quickie and this will do. Quickly attaching it to the pointer finger of my right hand and switching it on, I wrench off my panties and press the purring device against my clit. A sweet jolt whips through me and I slip unbidden into a memory of the best sex I ever had.
“Damn, you’re smoking hot,” Jayson says, his dark eyes sweeping up and down my body, his lips curved into an appreciative smile.
“It’s been a few months since we’ve been together. Did you forget?” I smile as I tease him with an impromptu striptease by undoing the buttons of my black shirt to reveal a lacy black bra.
His eyes widen and he falls silent, waiting for more.
We’re in a hotel room in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada. We haven’t seen each other in months—neither of us able to get away from work long enough to meet until now—and oh how I want to rip off his clothes. He exudes raw sexual heat. Damn, I need him inside me. Now.
I quickly shimmy out of my jeans and watch for his reaction. He loves me in black and white lingerie, and I picked this lacy white thong especially for him.
He doesn’t disappoint, a smoldering look entering his eyes and a smirk forming on his lips. “I’m guessing you want my cock, December?”
Oh, hell yes!
Moving a stop closer, I have a long way to look up to meet his lustful gaze, with him standing at six-feet tall and me at only five foot, two inches. I’d missed his strong, broad shoulders, his handsome face. Darting my eyes down to his crotch, I enjoy the fact that I’ve already made him hard. “Looks like your cock wants me.”
He nods, pulls off his white tee shirt and smooths back his wavy black hair. Ah, there’s those washboard abs. I lick my lips in anticipation as he runs his hand down the sexy, happy trail of black hair on his lower abdomen. There is nothing about this man that is not erotic.
“I need you.” His words are a growl. Animalistic. He’s a hungry bear lumbering toward me, pupils dilated.
He rushes me, pushing me backward as his body impacts with mine. His need presses against my abdomen. He slams me against the wall, his hand behind my head to cushion the blow. My nipples harden. Heat explodes in my cheeks and between my legs, soaking my panties.
Pulling my hair to the side to expose the sensitive flesh of my neck, he bends closer. He nips with his teeth, causing involuntary shudders, and licks a path from ear to shoulder, sucking hard until I can’t breathe. I begin to wrap my arms around his lean, muscular body but he stops me. Takes my hands in his and puts them above my head, against the wall. With one hand, he holds them there while he grabs my bra with the other, wrenching it up until my breasts are exposed. I gasp as the air hits my pebbled nipples and writhe, pressed against the wall, when he sucks one into his mouth. Pulling with his teeth, his teasing brings me to a shuddering mass of raw nerve endings.
Attempting to catch my breath, I gulp a lungful of air and taste more than smell his cologne—a heady mixture of musk and oak. I moan as my senses are overwhelmed—him holding me hostage, unable to move, more erotic than I could ever have imagined. I’m on the verge of coming long before he thrusts his hand under the rim of my panties.
His fingers push past my folds, driving into me, rough and hard. Thrusting again and again, it’s too much. My instinct is to escape the sweet punishment but with my back against the wall, I have nowhere to go. Moaning, I lose control, shuddering as my back arches. Jayson chooses that moment to bite down on my nipple, and I scream out my pleasure.
My eyes open. I’m consumed by my orgasm, laying spread-eagle in my bed, gasping for breath. The beginnings of a frown wrench my lips downward while I’m still quaking from the self-ministrations of a powerful little finger vibe.
Why am I thinking about Jayson after all these years? We broke up ten long years ago. Although it was a damn fine memory for my orgasm, it’s annoying, nonetheless.
Pushing up and out of bed, I go to the picture window and gaze out at the view of the Catskill Mountains. I adore this view; it both calms and soothes me.
I moved up here from Long Island to heal a year after that dreadfully painful breakup, to regroup, to start my life over, and it worked. I enjoy my life now. I’m living it to the fullest. I have friends, I date on occasion and even share my bed when I’m horny. At forty-four years of age, I’m no longer looking for Mr. Right. I don’t need him. If he should happen to show up anyway, I’ll deal with it if and when it happens.
I stretch, gazing o
ut at the vivid green mountain range in the distance, fulfillment vibrating through me. I love this apartment, fell in love with it upon first sight of the exterior of the old Victorian mansion. Not sure whether I approved of the owner breaking it up into several apartments, I jumped at the chance to live here regardless. I don’t regret the decision. I’m in a good place now, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Yet, the vivid images of Jayson haunt me.
My long distance lover. With almost ten years separating us, I was the seven years older cougar to his youthful exuberance. The man I’d hoped to marry. The man who crushed my heart—my soul—into a powder so fine they blew away on the slightest breeze and it took so very long to put me back together.
Physically trying to shake him off, I reach for my phone to check my email. Is it possible that he’s trying to contact me? He and I once had such a strong mental connection that this has happened once or twice before—a restlessness, a compulsion telling me to check. Once, after not hearing from him for a month, I was compelled to get out of bed in the middle of the night to boot up my computer and check my email. To find a message from him waiting for me.
Is that what is happening now? Please, no.
Tapping the icon for my email, my heart leaps into my throat. Please don’t let there be an email from him there. That is the last thing in the world I want. Gmail opens and I quickly scan my new messages. Nothing from him. I heave a heavy sigh of relief, the lump in my throat dissipating.
Still, the unsettling, nagging mood persists.
A little while later, I’m showered and dressed in jeans and a light blue sweater. By the calendar, it’s April, but I’ve learned that spring doesn’t actually show up here in the mountains until weeks later.
Ready for my day, I go into the kitchen and pull out the ingredients for my breakfast smoothie. Checking the bananas I bought the other day, I find that they’re ripe. No doubt, by tomorrow they’ll be black and unusable. Isn’t that always the case? I plug in the blender, retrieve the low-fat almond milk from the fridge and pour in a cup. Peeling the banana, I break it in half and plop it in. A scoop of protein powder and a small container of vanilla yogurt, and I’m ready to press blend.
As my finger hovers over the button on the blender, my cell phone comes to life, blaring out my ringtone—another David Bowie song, “Heroes.” Yes, I’m obsessed with him. I don’t smoke and rarely drink, so I’m okay with the Bowie addition. What I don’t want to think about is that Jayson and I used to talk for hours about Bowie. What he might be like in person, what we’d do if we met him, his music, his strange, otherworldly appearance. During Jayson’s drunk years—and the reason our relationship fell apart—David Bowie was like the third person in our relationship. Those were good conversations, good times. Midnight ramblings during which I could let myself forget that Jayson was drunk and needed mindless distractions.
Walking to where I left my cell phone on the dining room table, that haunting eeriness hits me again. Would this be Jayson calling me?
I know it’s impossible. I changed my phone number a couple of times, for various reasons, in the years since we broke up but I can’t banish the foreboding. It doesn’t help that I don’t recognize the incoming number.
With an uncomfortable sigh, I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Um, Miss Jagger? Dee?”
Male voice. Familiar.
Oh god.
“Yes, this is December,” I say in a whisper.
“I’m at the police station. Can you come and get me? Please, don’t tell my mom, okay?”
I realize it’s my good friend, Gemma’s, sixteen-year-old son on the phone and shake my head at my foolishness. Of course, it’s not Jayson.
“What? Isaac, you’re where? What’s going on?”
“Please, just come? I’ll explain when you get here,” he says in a pleading voice.
I don’t like this. He’s at the police station and wants to keep it a secret from his mother. This can’t be good.
“I…umm…”
“Please, Dee, please.”
His begging gets to me—I like this kid and want to help him—and I sigh. “Alright, but I’m not promising I won’t tell her when I find out what this is all about.”
“Thank you, Dee,” he gushes, his relief apparent.
Putting down my phone, I return to the blender and press the button. Damned if I won’t finish making my breakfast before heading out to whatever adventure this might be.
When the smoothie is perfectly blended, I add some ground flaxseed, pour it into a travel mug and head out the door.
Still, that damned sense of foreboding persists. At my car, I take a moment to turn off my email notifications. I need to concentrate on my driving and whatever mess Isaac has gotten himself into. My thoughts should not, can not be on Jayson.
2
Jayson
I pace in the confines of my small studio apartment while waiting for the water to boil. I need my morning cup of coffee to get me moving.
The place—located in the back of a very nice home on a rural country road—came furnished, which is a good thing since I purged most of what I owned before the big move. I arrived in Upstate New York a couple of weeks ago—March 27th, my birthday, and a day that never meant much to me until her—with only a suitcase full of clothing and a shoebox full of memories.
The kettle starts whistling, bringing me back to the present. And why I’m here. The insanity of what I’ve done punches me in the gut again. I left my home in Northern Ontario, Canada and moved an entire country away. Eight months ago, I barely knew this area existed, but I was driven by a higher purpose and I’ve cashed in all my chips. Mixed metaphors be damned, what I’m doing here makes sense to me.
Really, does it? That tiny voice of doubt pipes up.
I ignore it. Letting out a long breath, I pour the boiling water into a Christmas reindeer mug—I found a set of three of them in the cupboard along with a few mismatched glasses—and add a heaping spoonful of instant coffee.
I’m here in the United States to win back the only woman I’ve ever really loved—December Jagger.
Once I’d made the decision to do this, the hard part began. First, I had to find her. We didn’t end things on good terms. Hell, if she ever thinks of me, she probably curses my name.
I knew she changed her phone number and my educated guess was that she didn’t live at the last address I had for her. She was unhappy there.
Taking a sip of coffee, I cast my thoughts back to what it took to locate her.
Helplessness settles upon me like a shroud. Utterly and completely devastated, I boot up my computer to read our old back and forth emails. If I can’t find her, I want to lose myself in the memory of her for a time.
I try to remain patient through the agonizing wait of my old computer booting up and then the struggle to get online with my outdated dialup modem. Technology and I never got along. Something that Dee teased me about, I recall wistfully.
When I come upon the emails in which we talked about the book she was writing, I leap out of my chair and shout for joy. I know she published it, and what it’s about. I even know the first name of the pseudonym she chose.
Searching for her book amid the countless romance novels available on Amazon is like the proverbial needle in a haystack but I am determined. About as determined as I had been to finally, once and for all, give up the demon booze.
I find myself smiling as an image of her comes to mind. The spectacular woman I let slip from my hands years ago. My December is a petite little thing with big breasts, sweet curves, a glorious smile, and expressive light brown eyes that captivated me from the moment we met in person. Her dark brown hair is soft to the touch and hangs in loose curls almost to her shoulders. I used to love tugging on that mane, exposing her elegant neck while making her come screaming.
At the time, I couldn’t give her what she needed—a sober man. More than that. A warm, caring, and considerate man. A selfless ma
n. Back then, I wasn’t strong enough. I was too deep in the throes of alcoholism and couldn’t let go. I’ve regretted that weakness every day since. Stewed in my self-loathing until I finally picked myself up, and with a vow to win her back, I dug in, sweated as I worked the AA program until I found my sobriety. I had more than a few false starts but I kept at it and haven’t had a drink in ten years.
When I finally found her book, Must Love Sex, I allowed myself another shout of joy, and then stalked her like a madman.
On her website, she talked about living in Upstate New York. She mentioned the Catskills, which helped me narrow down the broad mountainous region. I signed up for her author newsletter with an email address I created especially for that purpose, my heart hurting when I read the first to show up in my inbox. Still so witty, her personality shined off the computer screen, and I missed her with renewed vigor.
I was getting closer. The clues were coming fast and furious even with my meager Google skills. At last, I believed I had her location pinpointed.
A small town called Ashville. That was a momentous phone call.
Pushing down my old fears, I figure out *67 and call the gym I hope she belongs to.
“Catskill Club,” a polite female voice answers.
I clear my throat. “Hello, is December there by chance?” There couldn’t possibly be more than one December in this small town. I figure I’ll hear the recognition in her voice if Dee is, in fact, a member.
“D’you mean, Dee, hun? She’s usually here much earlier in the day.”
