Some Like It Wild

by M. Leighton

  “After today? Quite a bit, actually.”

  I nuzzle the side of her neck, the scratch of my stubble sending chills down her chest and tightening her nipple. I feel my body jump against her ass where she’s sitting between my legs.

  “Re-ally?” she purrs, tilting her head to one side to give me better access to her neck.

  “Mmm.”

  “Then maybe we can talk a little.”

  I feel the sigh swell in my chest, but I hold it in.

  Not this again.

  “What do you want to know?” I ask after a long pause.

  Laney says nothing for several seconds. Instead, she grabs a bar of soap and rolls it between her palms, creating a nice thick lather. She lays the soap aside and starts to wash one arm. I watch her begin at her wrist and make slow circles all the way up her arm to her shoulder. The closer she gets to her chest, to the curve of her breast, the tighter my entire body gets, like a clock winding up.

  She’s too innocent to know what she’s doing will drive me crazy. My guess is that it’s the easiest spot to wash first, as nearly everything else is submerged.

  That or I’m not giving her nearly enough credit.

  “What was it like, growing up on the orchard? What was your family like?”

  It’s an innocuous enough question, one that doesn’t overtly stimulate any touchy areas. I don’t mind answering if it keeps her doing what she’s doing.

  “Not much different than most childhoods, I’d say. At least not around here. I played outside most of the day, climbed trees in the orchard, sometimes helped pick peaches, skipped rocks at the wide place in the river down by the northern border.”

  “What were your parents like?”

  “Just like regular parents. We ate meals together. Played games together. Watched television together.”

  I’m mesmerized as I watch her soap her chest, her hands inching her way toward her breasts. “And then Jenna came along,” she says, letting her fingers play over the smooth, round globes.

  “Yep,” I say almost absently, my eyes glued to her hands.

  When she uses her index finger to ring her nipples, my breath hitches in my throat. My balls throb with the sudden need to lift her up and plunge her down on my cock, to watch that perfect ass of hers move up and down as she rides me.

  And then she kills off my hard-on with one question, with the one question she’s been sneaking up to.

  “Why do you think your father didn’t love you? It sure sounds like he did.”

  “Laney, I told you—”

  She cuts me off by whirling around in the tub to face me, her hands splayed across my chest and her eyes pleading with me.

  “Please, Jake. Please talk to me. I want so much to be okay with this, but it’s . . . it’s just . . . it’s hard. I need to know you. At least a little bit. Just tell me something about your life here. Tell me something. Just a little bit.”

  I want to kiss her. And shake her. And walk away. And hold her close. I’ve never been with someone like her, someone who actually tries to be . . . less. Most of the girls I’ve known just are. But not Laney. She’s trying to be casual and easy, jumping into a sexual relationship with someone she barely knows. But it doesn’t come naturally for her. Oddly, as bass-ackwards as it sounds, that makes me respect her all the more.

  This time, I do sigh.

  “My mother was already sick when she got pregnant with Jenna. She wouldn’t even consider terminating the pregnancy to save her own life. She knew the risks, but she valued Jenna’s life more than her own.” I swallow hard. It’s never easy to think about all this shit, much less talk about it. Which is why I don’t.

  Ever.

  “Jake, I’m so sor—”

  I hold up my hand to cut her off. I can see her sincerity in the big, glistening pools of her eyes. But she wanted it. Now she’s gonna get it. At least part of it. There’s still a part I’ll never share with another living soul.

  Ever.

  “So when Jenna was born, Dad was busy taking care of her and Mom just kept getting sicker. There was a point where there was nothing else the doctors or medicine could do for her. Other than to just let nature take its course.”

  “How old were you when she . . .”

  “Eight. I was eight years old when my mother died.”

  I lean my head back against the cool ceramic of the tub, closing my eyes against that time in my life. I feel Laney’s lips, light as twin feathers, brush first my mouth then my cheek, my jaw then my chin, before she settles down on top of me. She rests her head on my chest and her right hand over my heart.

  I can feel the sympathy and the regret rolling off her in nearly tangible waves. But I don’t want her sympathy. I don’t want anybody’s sympathy. I just want the past to be left alone. It’s already brought me enough pain in life without having to dig it all up again.

  My tiny smile is bitter when I think to myself that Laney probably won’t be asking any more questions any time soon.

  SEVENTEEN: Laney

  I can’t help but smile as I smear cream cheese on a bagel half for Jake. It’s such a domestic thing to do—fix breakfast for the man with whom I share a house and a bed—that it makes me feel happy all the way to the bone. I could see this being my life for a long, long time.

  Over the last four weeks, I’ve been bungee jumping with Jake, white water rafting with Jake, cliff diving with Jake, done all sorts of things I never thought I’d ever do, and as much fun as it’s been, some part of me still craves this—a home and a family. Mundane activities like making breakfast for the people I love.

  As always when I think about my feelings for Jake, I feel the frown pucker my brow. I know he cares about me, and I care about him. Do I love him? I don’t know. Whatever it is I feel for him, it’s fierce. And passionate. And deep. It’s different than the way I felt about Shane. A lot different. The thing is, I don’t want to be in love with Jake. He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s not in it for love. He just wants to have some fun.

  And we do. We have a lot of fun.

  He loves my body. I know that for sure. We have some of the most amazing sex I’ve ever had. Better than anything I even thought could be experienced. So there’s that. But it’s not enough.

  Sometimes, when I catch him staring at me or when I fall asleep on his chest while watching television on the couch and I wake to find him watching me or rubbing my cheek, I’ll think to myself that he must love me. But I’m not crazy enough to believe that actually means it’s so.

  But do I want it to be?

  Yes, I think I do. Despite it all—the unsavory reputation, the bad-boy ways, the thrill-seeking streak, the aversion to relationships—I still want him to be all mine.

  But I don’t know if a guy like Jake will ever be all anybody’s.

  And time is running out for me to try to win him over. I’ve already put in for two extensions with work. Another couple of weeks are all I’ll be able to get before I have to turn in my reports and leave the account with my boss.

  The back door bangs and I jump, startled. I turn to see Jake walk into the kitchen, sweat beading on his forehead and a satisfied smile on his face. “Mmm, are you what’s for breakfast? Because I’m starved.” He bypasses the fridge and heads straight for me. He takes the bagel and the knife and sets them aside and then threads his fingers into my hair and kisses me long and deep, enough to set my skin on fire. When he lifts his head, I’m breathless and wanting something much more . . . personal than breakfast.

  “I think I could probably arrange something.”

  “No arranging necessary,” he says, his fingers already at the zipper of my shorts. “I have everything I need right here.”

  The instant I realize he’s serious, heat floods my core. I run my hands over the slick skin of his chest and then down around his waist, tugging at the elastic of his shorts. He pushes at mine until they pass my hips then he sets to work on my panties as I pull his shorts down enough to free his long, s
trong length.

  Chills spread down my back when I wind my fingers around it, the tips barely meeting around his thick base. It never ceases to amaze me that something so large will fit inside me. Yet I’m not at all surprised that it brings me so much pleasure. Jake knows his way around my body like he’s been loving it for years.

  With a growl, he grabs my hips and turns me toward the cabinet. He reaches around and slides his palm down my stomach to the fire that’s raging between my legs. I spread my thighs for him, stepping out of the tangle of my shorts and panties as I do.

  When he thrusts a finger inside me, my knees get weak and I take hold of the counter for support. Jake pushes me forward until I’m bent at the waist. With his thumb grazing my clitoris and his fingers thrusting into me, I’m quickly approaching the edge.

  I pant breathlessly as he brings his other hand between my legs from behind. His fingers are making circles and diving in and out of me, all at the same time. He leans over me to lick and then bite my shoulder. “Is this enough or do you want more?”

  I’m breathless and my head is swimming. “More,” I breathe. “I want more.”

  “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

  I feel his hardness pressing against my hip. “I want you. Inside me.”

  “Tell me you want my cock. Tell me you want to come all over my cock,” he snarls as his fingers move over me, winding me up like a pocket watch. His words are like gasoline poured on an already raging fire. My muscles clench as the tension in my body reaches fever pitch.

  “I want your cock. I want to come all over your cock. Please, Jake. Please.”

  I’m so close, but I want him inside me. And he knows it. He’s holding back just long enough . . .

  And then he’s sliding wetly into me from behind. One deep, sharp thrust. I cry out, unable to hold it in one second longer. His fingers bite into my hips as he pumps into me.

  “That’s right, baby. I wanna hear you. Let me hear you,” Jake demands from behind me, thrusting into me harder.

  I can’t hold in my gasps of breath or my moans of pleasure. This was so sudden and so raw, I feel like I could growl.

  I curl my fingers around the edge of the counter, holding on to the world, to my sanity, as Jake stiffens behind me. I feel his fingers tangle in my hair and tug as he shoots liquid heat deep inside me. Then, with his name on my lips in a voice that I barely recognize as my own, I shatter like a stained glass window.

  Shards of multicolored crystal explode behind my eyes. Jake’s thrusts are vicious. And all my body can say is Give me more!

  When the spasms subside and I’m collapsed on the counter with Jake draped over me, both of us drinking in huge gulps of air, I marvel at the intensity of what we just shared. Rather than things losing their luster or becoming too comfortable or ordinary, it seems they’re going the opposite direction. It’s as though every minute of every day, every time we make love, it gets better and better. Hotter and hotter. More and more earth-shattering.

  And more and more meaningful.

  * * *

  After the tingling wore off from my waist down, I finished smearing sweet spread on our bagels. Now, I’m sitting across from Jake as we munch on a late breakfast.

  A very late breakfast.

  “How’s work coming?” he asks, out of the blue.

  “Fine,” I say, noncommittally. I swallow a piece of bagel, feeling it stick in my suddenly dry throat. “I don’t have much left to do. Soon, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  I keep my attention on my food, carefully tearing off another bite of bagel, but not putting it in my mouth. My appetite seems to have disappeared.

  When finally I look up, Jake is watching me. His expression is fathomless. His golden eyes search mine for several long seconds before he starts to nod slowly. “How would you feel about a camping trip this weekend?”

  I grin. It’s like a stay of execution, this invitation. I love the thought of spending more time with him, especially out away from the world. Something secluded like a camping trip sounds wonderful.

  “Sounds like fun.” I try for a mild answer, which I’m sure is belied by my bright smile.

  “That way we can be gone on Sunday, too. I know how much it bothers you not to be going to church.”

  My heart melts a little at his thoughtfulness. I had told him that very first Sunday that I stayed here that I felt guilty, that any time I was in town, I attended my father’s church on Sunday. At the time, Jake made no comment, but now I know he heard. And it means the world, not only that he listened, but that he cares enough about me to be mindful of my comfort.

  Don’t read too much into it, Laney, I caution myself, but I know it’s too late. It’s just another little thing that I’ll dwell on, wondering if it means he has deeper feelings for me.

  I shrug. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  Jake is quiet for a few seconds before he speaks again. He clears his throat. “You know, if you want to go, you can. And if you need me to go with you, I would do that.”

  I would give anything to be able to control the gush of tears that floods my eyes. But I can’t. Before I know it, my eyes are burning and Jake is blurry. Quickly, I look down at my plate, but I know I wasn’t fast enough.

  I hear the scrape of wood against wood as Jake pushes his bar stool away from the island. I don’t bother to look up. I don’t want him to see the pain in them now, behind the tears. I knew this would be too much for him. Too emotional. Too . . . real.

  But, much to my surprise, Jake rounds the island and comes to my side to turn me around on my stool. I keep my head down, but, with a finger under my chin, he lifts my face until I’m looking into his eyes.

  “It’s all right that it bothers you. It should. Your father is a good man. Misguided at times, but I think his intentions are good. He loves you. That much is obvious.” I blink and tears spill down my cheeks, unchecked. Jake’s eyes follow one all the way down to my jaw where he brushes it away with the backs of his fingers. “You’re lucky to have him. I’d have given anything for my father to feel that way about me.”

  For just a few seconds, the real Jake, the one behind the tough guy, peers back at me from somewhere inside those guarded amber eyes. I want so much to talk to him, but I know better than to try. I know better than to ask any questions. No matter how much I want to know, I’m well aware that there are some things Jake won’t tell me until he’s good and ready. Which he may never be. But I know enough. Somehow, his father hurt him. Badly. And Jake has never gotten over it. That much is clear.

  “Anyone would be a fool not to love you,” I blurt, caught up in the moment, in the haunted look that’s in his eyes. When I realize what I said, I feel a moment of sheer panic. But then Jake smiles, and I mentally exhale.

  His expression is wry when he says, simply, “Thank you, but you don’t know me as well as he did. He had his reasons.”

  As I watch, the curtain falls back into place and, just like that, tender, broken Jake is gone, replaced once more by the person who pretends to feel nothing. Who wants to feel nothing.

  “But I want to know you, Jake,” I confess candidly, and not for the first time.

  “I know you do. But I also know what I’m saving you from. Trust me, it’s for the best.”

  With that, he kisses my forehead and backs away. “How about we divide and conquer? I know you’ve got some work to do, but do you think you’d have time for a quick trip to the store? If you can get that, I’ll have everything else ready and we can leave after lunch tomorrow.”

  Back to business as usual.

  I hide my sigh behind a sniff.

  “Sure. Just tell me what to get.”

  “I’ll text you a list. First, though, I need a shower.” He gives me a casual smile, a peck on the lips and then he turns to walk away. Jake has an enviable way of just moving on, not dwelling on things he can’t control. He can’t fix the past so he doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to think about it. He just . .
. moves on. Some might call that hiding, but Jake’s no coward. I think this is just his way of conquering it. By not letting it conquer him.

  While I admire his determination, it still makes me feel so sad. “Okay. I’m heading to the office,” I say with a smile. We now refer to the dining room as my office.

  Jake tosses me a wink and takes the stairs two at a time. I don’t move on nearly so quickly.

  * * *

  True to his word, my phone chirps about an hour later. It’s a text from Jake. A list of things to get from the grocery store. As I’m scrolling through it, my phone rings and startles the crap out of me. When I finish fumbling to keep from dropping it, I see that it’s Tori.

  Again.

  She’s called me at least a dozen times in the last week. It’s not that I don’t want to hear what she has to say. Well, I don’t, but now I feel a little more willing to. She’s been my best friend for a lot of years. The least I can do is listen to her.

  No, one of the biggest reasons I don’t want to talk to her is that I feel like Jake and I are living in a bubble, one that could pop at any moment. And I want to enjoy every second of it while I can. I don’t want anyone intruding on our time together. Tori included.

  I hit the red button to decline the call and set my phone back on the table.

  Maybe later. Right now, I’m going to the store. I don’t really have time to talk to her.

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  After running a brush through my hair and putting on some lightly tinted lip gloss, I text Jake that I’m leaving and head for my car. He’s out in the orchard. Somewhere.

  It only takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the one and only grocery store in Greenfield. I look at the clock when I pull into a parking spot in the lot. Two forty on a Thursday afternoon. I shouldn’t be running into anyone I know at such an odd time.

  I grab a buggy and pull up Jake’s list on my phone. I start in the produce section. For having such a hellion reputation around town for most of his life, he sure does practice mostly clean living. He drinks a beer or two on occasion, but mostly drinks water and eats healthy foods. He runs almost every day and he stays active. He doesn’t smoke or do drugs. He’s in outstanding physical condition, something I can personally attest to, and I can’t think of one thing I’d change about him.