by Unknown
Then puberty hit me. That and a shit-ton of feelings for Hawke. My hands were sliding under the sheets most nights with one boy on my mind. My brothers saw all of my girly emotions come about, and suddenly, I was on the other side of the lens. Boy, did they take advantage of that. I’d find notes tucked everywhere. Beastly notes that were repulsive and embarrassing. Boys were filthy, dirty beasts as far as I was concerned. Notes were in my tampon box, my underwear drawer, my jewelry box, and even taped onto my Chapstick tubes. I began to wonder if Hawke was the author.
Will you speed-jerk my meat for ten bucks?
Any fuzz growing on the curtains?
Want to touch my meter-long King Kong dong?
Things changed when Mama found the speed-jerk note in my jeans pocket while she was doing laundry. She had a little sit-down with the boys and me. Naturally, I filmed it. Hawke’s face was quite possibly the single greatest image I have documented in my library of films. When Mama read the note out loud then asked who wrote it, I zoomed in on his face. It was scarlet. His saucer-like eyes were darting this way and that. My brothers giggled like a bunch of girls until Fletch admitted to writing it. I’ll confess I was sorely disappointed that Hawke hadn’t written it.
That’s when I identified what a filthy mind I had.
The very next day, the notes changed. Suddenly they were typed, and Hawke’s fingertips were marked in black ink stains.
Care to join me for a dirty handshake?
That was the first note. It was folded up and shoved inside the battery compartment of my alarm clock, which happened to not be working the day I found the note—along with my batteries in the wastebasket. The second note made soda come out of my nose when I found it. Quinn and Coco were sleeping over on that particular Friday night. It was taped on the thick, long, silver rod of my curling iron.
Just in case you were wondering, my Jurassic pork is bigger than this.
It became a daily hunt for me. Better than candy-filled Easter eggs. Every typed note was filthy-dirty, and I adored him for it. My crush soared. I pictured him cracking himself up while typing then cutting them into little squares as he tried to think of where he’d put them. I have all of them to this very day, each one mounted in a tiny, black frame on white archival paper. There might be one hundred or so. They will all be hung in my new bathroom. More than likely with his help.
After a while, the notes started becoming more of a tease. And I wanted to start answering them. So I did. I filmed myself reading the note then giving him an answer. I’d make a copy of the film then place it in an envelope in his mailbox and wait anxiously. Little did I know there was a name for what we were doing.
He’d ask, What makes you wet?
I answered, You mean like sweating under my arms, right? How was I so naïve?
Then I found another note taped into the crotch of my white, cotton panties. What’s your bra size? Would you let me touch them?
Just the idea of him riffling through my panty drawer made me wild for him. I begged my mom that very night to let me go online and buy some Victoria’s Secret panties and bras. I answered him the day they arrived. I stood like the naughty kitten I was in my hot-pink 32A bra and panties, filming myself in the mirror.
I’d like you to kiss me first. Maybe, if you French me, I’ll let you touch my bra, the outside only. If you’d like to German or Italian me, that might be okay too. The empty silo near the cattle barn on the north end, six o’clock, Tuesday night. Be there.
I thought I was so sophisticated, telling him he could French, German, or Italian me. What in God’s name was I thinking? The only thing I’d ever made out with was the crook of my elbow. He was all boy and sweat and nerves wrapped in a filthy-mouthed, hot, jeans-clad, gray-T-shirt-wearing ball of fire.
I avoided seeing him that entire day. I sat in my room, reading Seventeen magazine while my belly fluttered as I looked for any tips on how to be a good kisser. Not many of the European countries were covered in that magazine, only Frenching. I remember thinking that we Americans had a long way to go in regards to kissing. That night, I rode my black mare, Sister, like we were being chased by lions to get to the silo first. I shoved a handful of Buttermints into my mouth, still chewing them as I opened the rusty silo door. He was already there, and I was ten minutes early.
It seems like yesterday. And that kiss seemed like a fairy tale. I can still, to this day, hear his words, mostly because I filmed it, so I’ve watched our first kiss maybe a hundred times.
“You’ve gotta dirty mouth,” I said the second I saw him standing there in the middle of the silo with a single beam of summer sunlight streaming over him from above.
My God, he was handsome. That cocky smirk on his face.
“Not too dirty to kiss though, huh, Cricket?” He reached his hand out.
I took it. Then he walked backward until he was leaning against the wall and I was two seconds from his lips. He smelled like mint and sweat.
“You want my tongue?”
“Yeah, I want that,” I said, not knowing what I’d do with it once it was in my mouth, but I knew I wanted my first kiss to be a zinger. And that meant tongue was part of the deal. European tongue. I pulled my small video camera from my bag, attached it to my tiny tripod, and set it on the ground.
“You serious?” He was chuckling.
I blushed all over. “You’re not?”
He knew damn well I’d be filming.
“We’re gonna have to lie down, then,” he said.
“Were we gonna stand?”
He cracked up then went down on his side. “C’mere,” he said, holding his hand out. I remember my hand shaking and the way I almost puked in my mouth. But I knew I was doing it. I was going to kiss Hawke Slater for the very first time, with tongue, at thirteen years old. What I didn’t know was what the kiss would lead to and how it would forever change me.
For the rest of my life.
Sloan gazes off into some distant land, her fingers working knitting needles skillfully as a pattern of yarn falls from the underside of her hands. “Remember our first kiss?” she says softly, the beginnings of a smile on her lips.
“Of course I do. Is that what you were just thinking of?”
“Yeah. Well, that and all of those dirty little notes you typed and hid everywhere.”
I nestle close to her, chuckling at the thought.
“I still have those filthy notes,” she adds.
“Might need to check the ink in my Underwood. I’m pretty sure my dirty mind could crank out more than a few notes to startle your senses.”
“Is that what you call it these days? Underwood?” She cracks up, waggling her eyebrows my way.
“Still a perv. Good girl. Put your knitting down.”
I finger our ring in my hand as Sloan rolls onto her side, resting the yarn and the needles on the nightstand next to a small grouping of candles.
“Give me your hand, darlin’.”
A perverted smirk curls on her lips. “What are you doing?”
“You remember this?”
Her voice cracks with emotion when she whispers, “You still have it?” She flips the gold band over in her fingers, examining it from every angle. Then she slides it onto each finger until it fits one.
“Of course I still have it. Doesn’t fit me anymore. I’ve added two dates since you left, and I want you to have it.”
“You’re giving it back to me? That feels weird,” she says as she kicks a heap of covers to the floor.
“Why? It’s ours. Our memories—why would it matter if I wear it or you do?”
Her hand cups my jaw. “You’re not saying anything by giving it back to me, are you?”
“Of course I am.” I kiss her mouth. “A beginning. Look at the dates.”
She pulls the ring off her finger and scoots on her bottom while grabbing a votive from the nightstand. I take the candle as she leans in toward the flickering light. With the ring in her fingertips, she reads each of the dates aloud. Th
e first time we had sex, the date she left me, and today’s date. The day she came back into my life. I had it inscribed after the McQueen brothers told me she was moving home. It was going to land either on one of her fingers or in the sludgy bottom of the lake.
My nerve endings tingle as a world of sentiment floats onto her face. Then she crumbles into a tear-filled smile. After setting the candle down, I hold her. Her hands land on my face, and she smothers my lips with wet, salty kisses.
Sloan and I have always been two people who assign meaning to moments. It’s one of the things I noticed about her early on. Some things never change.
When she pulls away from me, her smile reveals even more. It’s magical and irresistible, not to mention how it snags a chunk of my heart. Who knew she didn’t already have all of it? Certainly not me.
“You’re really lovely. Thank you. This is…” She shakes her head while looking at the ring. Then she holds up the porcelain underside of her arm.
A miniscule line of numbers is tattooed in a row that starts at her pale wrist bone, ending halfway to her elbow. I noticed it on the raft, and wondered if she was going to say anything about it. Questioned what sort of meaning this line of numbers had held.
“What’ve we here?” I study the numbers, separated by dots, underscores, and dashes, some of which I can pin events to.
Others leave me wondering. Another piece she’ll reveal. When? What are the open spaces? And will they include me?
“Things that matter,” she tells me.
My finger traces over them as she watches my face. “A hell of a lot, I would imagine, if you got them inked.”
“You could say that.” She nods. “And then some.”
“Care to share?”
She folds her arms across her breasts, one pink nipple peeking out between them. “Just did.”
“I meant share the importance behind them, little mystery keeper.”
Sloan shakes her head while biting down on a smirk. “Let’s just start here.”
“Fair enough.” I wrap my arms around her waist. “You okay that I gave you the ring? You understand, right?”
An errant piece of hair falls across her face, and she blows it out of the way, puffing her bottom lip out. I claim that wet lip with my tongue. She meets me with hers in a sweet kiss that feels bursting with meaning.
“More than you think I do.”
“I know tonight’s our first night back together and we have a lot to uncover. I hope you know I’ll give all of me to you. I’m all yours, free and clear.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Nothing in life is free.”
“That’s a load of crap and you know it.”
“How so?” she says, planting a hand on her hip.
I take her chin in my hand to steer her mouth back toward mine. “Kisses are free.”
“Everything comes with a price—even kisses.” She falls onto her back then swallows an obvious chord of laughter.
I drag my fingers over her lips, wetting them in her mouth then taking them to her nipples. “Bullshit. Meandering fingers are free.”
She arches into my touch.
“Your response to my touch is free. And sexy.”
She giggles as I tickle her ribs.
“Looking at you is free, even though it feels like a million dollars to have you naked next to me.”
She tries to frown through a smile. “Only a million?” Her smile widens. “I think free comes with a very high price tag.”
I slide her thighs open then roll my body onto hers, settling between her legs. “How high?”
“Unconditional.” She comes back with a jab. “And that’s an awfully high price tag.”
“That big?”
“Big, I told you.” Her hand wraps around my erection as I rub against her. “Big like you.”
“And free…” I mark her with a trail of hickeys between her breasts.
“Stop acting like you know everything about everything.”
“Oh, I know very little. Remember, Cricket, I’ve been here the whole damn time, at least physically.”
“I really did a number on you, didn’t I?” Her swallow is loud and telling.
“Not just a number, a whole mathematical equation.”
“I’m sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?” She thrusts her hips against mine and lets out a long, desirous moan. “There must be something I can do?”
“Be mine. Let me lie naked next to you every night for the rest of my life, my skin against yours, endless, long nights. Let me wear your scent on my fingers and my lips. Let me fall asleep with you, wake up next to you. Tell me your secrets. Tell me how I can heal you. Be my best friend, my lover. Tell me why you’re crying and what makes you smile. Give me your heart—all of it. Can you do that for me?”
“I want to give you everything, but I… Listen, it’s not that…” She pauses. There must be an ocean full of words swimming through her brain, by the looks of it. “I have the potential to be everything you may never want. Be careful which doors you really want me to open.”
“Someone’s very deep these days. One of us. The other one, namely me, would like to get deep, and I’m not talking philosophically. I’m speaking physically. Inside you.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m playing you with mind games, like I said earlier.”
“Good. Then don’t.” I nudge myself in the tiniest bit.
She answers me with a wet, warm welcome.
“You ready for some deep?”
Sloan. She’s slow waves crashing all around me, and I’m just hoping to hell I’m shore enough to capture all of her.
I wake up at sunrise to roosters crowing and a foggy morning filled with the earthy smell of lake permeating my senses. A hint of manure rounds out the countryside nasal bomb of the ranch. The lazy smile on my face grows as I roll over to see tall, dark, and delicious next to me.
Here we are, all these years later, and this is the man I’m waking up with. His body lies stretched out in a magazine-worthy pose. Every bit of him belted with muscles, which makes me wonder if there’s room on his body for any more. The wrinkled white sheet wraps around one of his calves then slides between his thighs until it meets and barely covers his hips. If I were hosting a semi-nude drawing class and he was my model, I’m not sure I could have put him in a more appealing position.
I slide my fingers under the sheet, hoping to feel him grow in my hand. He’s warm velvet in my palm, with a masculine dusting of hair tracing a line up his abdomen. I raise the sheet for a better view. Why miss an inch?
He slowly grows while he stirs, and what a beautiful thing it is. Thing? God, is that what I’m calling it? More like obsession. Yes. Thing is a good word for objects in and around the house. Not for Hawke’s gorgeous erection.
“Jesus. Is this what I have to look forward to? Can you put your house on the market and move in with me?” He groans out a lovely, deep noise that has me climbing on top of him.
“That might be premature, don’t you think?”
“The only thing that’s going to be premature is my ejaculation by the way you’re fondling me. Cricket…that’s so… fuck…” His chest bridges off the bed as he grabs my waist. “Wait. Stop. I can’t yet…”
Call me a bad listener, but he’s maybe two seconds away from his orgasm, and really, watching him like this, on the edge, so turned on by my hand alone. Why would I stop?
“You…You’re taking me…” Hawke mutters, falling back on the bed in defeat. He reaches behind his head and grabs the iron headboard. His stomach rolls into hard bands as his arms flex while he growls.
Hawke Slater is a porn star. The videos are nice, sure. But this, being in on the action and playing producer, director, and leading lady? I could get real used to this situation. Us. How will we do this? He growls out a guttural noise as he comes, making my insides twist.
“And cut. Lovely. I’ll be sure to call your agent and let her know what an excellent performance you gave tod
ay. Maybe I’ll consider having you back again as well.” I belly-laugh so hard I fall like a drunk onto his sticky torso.
“I’m glad you enjoyed that as much as I did.” He chuckles. “Maybe even more? No, you couldn’t have enjoyed it more. Last hand job I got was probably from you.”
“In the tree house?”
“I could’ve sworn it was out in the hayloft. One of those sweltering summer days when you’d drag me up there to make out and your hands would get the best of you. And me. You were a frisky little thing back then.”
Hawke chuckles then asks, “Want to go into town for breakfast?”
“Hell yeah. I need some very black joe with my morning sugar.” I smack my lips, thinking about it as he yawns.
“How about we go get you some banana-blueberry-pecan pancakes. Those still your favorite?”
“How the hell can you remember that?”
“You’re etched all over inside me—pancakes are easy. I even remember when you lost your big toenail after your old cow, Diesel, stepped on you and you painted your skin with nail polish anyways.”
“Do you remember what color, smarty pants?” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch.
“Hot pink,” he answers, biting my neck.
I jump up, squealing. Then I grab a T-shirt that’s peeking out from under the bed and throw it on. “You told me you wanted it to match your nipples. Which made me laugh, as they are not hot pink.” I flash him my breasts as he laughs at me. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I have all kinds of ideas about that, but for now…you get ready and I’ll head over to my cabin to shower. Then I’ll take you into town.”
“It’s a plan. Give me about fifteen so I can feed the little one then shower, okay?”
“Take your time. And that goes for everything,” he says as he gives me a wink and rolls out of my bed. Everything.
