by Anne Calhoun
Adam came up behind her, swept her hair away from her nape, and kissed her ear. “You got cold on the walk back,” he said.
“It was worth it,” she replied. “I feel like I’ve been here, not just flown over it.”
“We’ll see more tomorrow,” he said as his hands slid down to hers. Warmth seeped into her chilled fingers. “The room doesn’t have a tub, but it’s got one hell of a shower,” he said. “Go get warmed up.”
Distance widened between them. She didn’t look at the bed as she walked past it to the bathroom. They’d fooled around in the backseat of a car, on the back of a motorcycle, on a blanket by the creek, in a cozy nest in the loft, in her pantry, but only twice had they had sex in a bed, an experience that nearly annihilated her. Comparatively speaking, the king-sized bed in this silent, elegant room looked like a hedonistic playground.
Would she have to ask?
The thought sent heat shimmering through her, hot longing swirling through her cold body like cream in coffee. She peeked over her shoulder, saw him watching her, knew he was thinking the same thing.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to ask. Maybe she already had.
The bathroom was a work of art, tiled in marble in subtle, dusky shades of brown. It boasted a shower almost the size of her bathroom back home, tiled on two walls, the other walls glass. Marissa ran the water hot enough to steam up the glass, stripped and left her clothes on the counter, and stepped into the glass cocoon.
She closed her eyes and let the day play across the movie screen of her mind. Adam at her door. The jet. Breaking through the clouds. The yacht club, boats jostling against the docks. That heart-stopping moment when she realized she, Marissa Brooks, fifth-generation South Dakotan, was going sailing.
The moment when her body disappeared into limitless water and sky.
Holding hands with Adam as they strolled through Chicago. The feel of his palm against hers, his lips brushing her ear.
A gentle tap on the glass startled her. Adam stood just outside the door. Water pounded around her, but the look on his face, the intensity in his eyes, was unmistakable, and drew an answering nod from her, even though he said nothing. When he’d undressed, she opened the door to let him in. He stepped into the enclosure, set a condom packet in the soap dish, then closed the door on the cool air in the bathroom. The water pelted them both, stinging hot and loud, but he didn’t say a word. He just stepped into her and held her, and she buried her face in his chest.
The silence between them rang with things said and things better left unsaid. The water trickling down his defined pectorals caught her attention; without thinking, she bent her head and lapped at one rivulet, tracing it back up his chest, over his nipple to his collarbone. She did it again, felt his cock thicken and nudge at her thigh. Again, and again, each time following the water flowing over his shoulders and chest. A nip to his collarbone, then with the next trail of water she went on tiptoes to lick his chin and flick her tongue against his lower lip. The second time she did it his hand cupped the back of her head and held her mouth to his.
Again, that shocking moment of dissolving, but while the Resolute’s keel anchored her on the lake, Adam’s mouth and hands kept her from soaring into the void. Then he turned his back to the tiled wall and sank to the floor, taking her with him.
She straddled his lap. His cock notched against her sex as he cupped her head and held her mouth still for his. The ocean rhythm of her breathing rushed and ebbed in her ears when he covered them with his hands; or maybe it was the water, all around them, pouring over their heads, down her back and his chest, heated to steam in the air they were breathing. She was drowning in water and Adam and life, no longer safe on solid ground. Laying her hands flat on either side of his jaw, she took kiss after kiss after kiss from him, her nipples rubbing against his slick chest. When he pulled her away to stare into her eyes, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes dark.
The thumb and fingers of one hand held her mouth for his as they traded kisses; the other roamed from her hip to her breast and back, the pace leisurely, the sensations anything but. When his fingers found her nipple and pinched, she gasped and arched into his palm. She slid against him, her body’s slick fluids and the water easing her movements. When the shock of sexual electricity subsided, she eased back down and felt his cock stretch her swollen, sensitive opening. Her body took over, working him inside while the water beat at the tiles and steam swirled around them. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, making her lightheaded, or maybe that was the intense energy surging under her skin.
Then his eyes widened. He gripped her hip hard enough to stop her. Hard enough to hurt. “Condom,” he said.
She froze. That’s why it felt so good. Skin to skin, nothing separating his erect shaft from her yielding flesh. The water droplets transformed his muscular body into a stone-cold, oiled-up warrior. Her inner muscles spasmed in response to the image, the words, his hands on her naked, vulnerable body. This was Adam, pure control over himself, over her, the boy she’d loved in a man’s body.
“You don’t have to,” she said. She was on the Pill. She always insisted on condoms, and she wanted him to let go, to give her his trust, his vulnerability so she wasn’t alone in this. She wanted more than this Marine. She wanted Adam.
His eyes closed briefly, and she felt more than heard a low rumble in his chest, but after a short, hot expanse of time, the hand on her hip tightened and lifted. He reached overhead and found the condom in the soap dish.
Mildly disappointed, she plucked it from his hand and tore open the wrapper, then pulled his erection away from his ridged abdomen. She locked her gaze with his, then placed the condom on the tip of his shaft and rolled the thin latex down, covering him in tiny increments. When his eyelids drooped, she stopped. His hands tightened on her hips and his breath eased from his broad chest in one long, hissing groan. When he opened his eyes, she resumed, stroking each inch before sheathing it, stopping to caress his balls before seating the condom at the base of his shaft.
His dark gaze bored into hers. Her head was empty of everything except the water pounding all around them and the heat in his eyes. “Jesus, Ris,” he said.
His hand covered hers at the base of his shaft, pulling it away from his belly. The hand on her hip tightened, urging her down. Looking deep into his eyes, she took every hard, hot inch in a slow, slick glide that had her trembling against him when he was seated to the hilt inside her.
She’d never felt closer to anyone in her life.
His eyes dropped closed. “Fuck,” he whispered.
She bent and kissed him, wet and passionate, her tongue rubbing the roof of his mouth, flicking against his while she kept her lower body completely still.
“That’s not helping, Ris,” he said.
“You feel so good inside me,” she whispered.
“It feels so good to be inside you,” he groaned. “I can’t . . . fuck. I can’t.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest, one hand urging her face into the curve of his neck. “Just sit still for a minute, okay? While I—”
“Recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”
His mouth smiled against her temple. “Something like that,” he said.
Naked and slick and hot, they sat on the tiled floor of the shower, water splattering around them, while time stood still, the tension hovering at a plateau. After a few moments—or perhaps an eternity—passed, he fisted his hand in her wet hair and gently tugged her face away from his neck.
“Slow,” he said. “Really slow. Like it has to last forever.”
She looked deep into his eyes and lifted herself, the granite-hard shaft caressing her swollen pussy lips until the head of his cock was barely nestled in her folds. Then she sank down again, watched the banked fire in his eyes flare infinitesimally hotter. Her knees skidded on the wet tile, so he braced his hands on either side of them to hold her in place.
“Touch yourself,” he murmured, and the command, low
and rough, flicked through her. She lifted her hands to her breasts and pinched the nipples as she picked up the pace. One hand slipped down her belly to circle her clit, but she didn’t need it, wanted the build without the nitro burn. She lifted her fingers to his mouth, let him lick water and her juices off the tips of her fingers before returning the hand to her nipples. Her hair hung in wet strands against her forehead and cheeks, partially obscuring her vision, but she saw enough, saw the sexual heat climb up his throat and merge with the hot flush on his cheeks, saw the muscles tighten in his chest and arms as he held her in place on the wet tile.
“So hot,” he said, and the words disappeared with a hiss into the steam.
A rope of desire tangled deep from her sex all the way to her throat, and each clinging surge of her hips tightened the knots. She didn’t want it to end, but longing drove her on until she tipped over the edge. Each hard pulse unraveled a tangle of nerves and emotions inside her, until her bones and muscles gave way, leaving her limp against him.
Unlike her, he was rigid with tension, tremors running through his muscles, on the ragged edge of control. She lifted her head and looked at him, trying to discern what was going on inside him. His gaze was as steadfast, but behind those glittering hazel eyes simmered vulnerability, maybe even fear. Not this Marine. Not Adam, either.
She lifted her hands to his jaw and kissed him, soft, delicate, precise impacts on his lower lip, the corner of his mouth, then full-on, openmouthed and wet and hot as she rose and fell, enveloping his cock in her body. Each measured stroke brought a soft sob up from her lungs. She couldn’t hear them over the water and the electric noise in her head, but she could feel them much the way she felt his shaft thicken inside her. He reached out, gripped her hip and her hair, pulled her down so her mouth rested on his, breaths gusting together. His muscles contracted and his eyes dropped closed as he jetted into her, warm, liquid pulses deep inside her.
He came, but she was the one who came apart.
Her vision contracted sharply and her head throbbed. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. “I’m too hot.”
A huff of laughter from that broad chest, then he gently shifted her to the side and stood. She reached for his extended hand to get to her feet, then gripped it tightly when her vision faded to black. Adam turned the water to a cooler temp and stood her under it. Air drifted into the shower stall when he stepped out, and returned several moments later. He handed her a tiny bottle of shampoo. She began to work lather into her hair while he unwrapped the bar of hotel soap and unselfconsciously soaped up. It was an intimate little dance, him rinsing off while she worked shampoo through her hair, then used the conditioner as well.
“I’ll be outside,” he said, and stepped out of the shower. Unaccountably shy, she took her time getting the conditioner out of her hair, then turned off the water. The towels, thick and plush and warming on a towel rack, were luxury in themselves. She found a mini-bottle of lotion in the basket by the sink, and used it on her face.
In the room, Adam was stretched out on the bed, wearing his shorts, one hand behind his head, the remote in his hand as he surfed through the channels. He looked so handsome, dark stubble shadowing his lean jaw, his body muscular and relaxed on the bed. He gave her an appraising glance, a quick smile, then turned back to the basketball game.
It hurt, that he’d give her such a beautiful gift as the day of sun and water and wind, but not himself.
Do you want him to give himself, then leave? Because he will. Live in this moment. It’s enough.
She pulled on her nightgown and went to sit by the window, using the towel to dry her hair, then her brush to finish the job, pulling the bristles through the strands in stroke after stroke as she looked out over the skyline and the enigmatic darkness of the lake beyond.
15
SHE AWOKE THE next morning in a burrow of down comforter, sheets, pillows, not completely sure where she was. A rough fingertip stroked the sensitive skin and delicate hairs at her nape, raising a shiver completely unrelated to the air temperature and calling her from the sleep of the dead. She rolled toward daylight and tugged the sheet down to peer out. The cream paint and apple green valance oriented her. A hotel room. Chicago. Sailing.
Adam.
He lay beside her, head braced on his hand, the sheet at his waist, his dark hair, tanned skin, and hazel eyes vivid against the sea of white around them. Under the sheet he traced a line from her nape to her tailbone and back. “Sore?” he asked.
Shifting her weight fired her muscles, reminding her that a day of sailing used different muscles than a day of construction work. She was indeed sore but she wouldn’t admit to it in the cold light of day.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said as she lifted herself on her elbows to look over his shoulder at the clock. “It’s eight o’clock!” she yelped.
A firm hand between her shoulder blades pushed her back to the mattress. “Do you have to be somewhere?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
His hand left her back to tuck her tumbled, sleep-warmed hair behind her ear, but his face didn’t change. “Whatever you want, Ris,” he said softly. “We can play it by ear. I just need to give the pilot a couple of hours’ notice before we leave so he can file a flight plan.”
She reached for something casual, informal, something that wouldn’t feel like too much. “Let’s start with something simple. Breakfast. Maybe just coffee.” She pushed back the covers and got to her feet but ruined her easygoing approach by wincing when her muscles protested. Limping only slightly, she made it to the coffee pot sitting on a tray on top of the mini-fridge and grabbed the small glass pot.
“Halt.”
She halted and looked at him.
“We’re in a city, Marissa, a real city with real coffee shops. We’re not drinking watery instant swill from a packet on the minibar. Go take another hot shower. We’ll get coffee while we’re sightseeing.”
“I don’t need another shower,” she protested.
“Fine, tough girl. Stand up straight.”
She tried, and winced as things cracked.
He lifted one eyebrow. “The heat will loosen your muscles.”
“You’re bossy when you’re right.”
Humor flickered across his face. “It’s called ‘command presence,’ and I’ve got it when I’m wrong, too,” he said. “Go on.”
She secured her hair in a topknot so she wouldn’t waste time drying it again, and stretched under the warm spray, felt her muscles loosen and ease. Fifteen minutes later she was dry, her teeth brushed, and dressed in her jeans, sweater, and the deck shoes. She brushed her hair into loose waves, then secured it low on her nape with her barrette. Back in his cargo pants and windbreaker, Adam brushed his teeth while she packed. After a quick conference with the concierge to pick up a Chicago tourism booklet and identify an acceptable coffee shop for her coffee snob, they strolled through the sumptuous lobby, down Adams Street to Michigan Avenue, then along Millennium Park to a sleek coffee shop called Intelligentsia, where Adam snagged the last copy of the Chicago Sun-Times and they waited in line.
“What on earth are all these choices?” Marissa said under her breath.
“Coffee,” he said, the word vibrating with satisfaction and anticipation as he folded the laminated street map and tucked it in his back pocket. “Unburnt coffee. Different roasts, different beans from different parts of the world.”
She chose a large dark roast, with room, and a cranberry muffin from the case. Adam got an enormous blueberry muffin and his own cup of coffee, no room. They settled into a table by the windows. Adam pulled the Auto section from the paper and pushed the rest of it across the table to Marissa.
She sipped the coffee, then blinked. “Oh my God,” she said.
Humor glimmered in his eyes. “I know. You can get a bag to go so you can treat yourself at home. Just ask them to grind it for you.”
She did exactly that, looking around as she waited, automatically
comparing her jacket, jeans, and deck shoes to what the other women in the shop wore. The tourists were easily identified by their Chicago sweatshirts or windbreakers, while the women she guessed were residents carried brown bags with gold letters in the leather and wore scarves draped in a variety of ways. In her sailing jacket and shoes she didn’t look out of place. Like no one knew that twenty-four hours earlier she’d woken up in South Dakota.
Engrossed in the paper, elbows braced on his knees, Adam sat by the window, completely at home.
“Have you been here before?” she asked while she tucked the coffee into her tote bag.
“No,” he said.
“How do you know where to go?”
“The Marine Corps taught me how to find things,” he said casually. “If I can find my way through gullies in Helmand Province at night, I can find a coffee shop on clearly marked streets in broad damn daylight.”
“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Chicago, drinking the best coffee I’ve ever had, and deciding what to do with my day. Is this real?”
“I’m doing the same thing,” Adam said, his gaze back on the newspaper, “so we’re either hallucinating together or it’s real.”
“Can I try your muffin?”
Still focused on all things automotive, he pushed the plate across the table to her. She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth, then flipped through the sections of the newspaper. Arts and Leisure caught her eye, so she pulled it out of the stack and opened it. Articles about the ballet; two concerts, one pop, one classical; a traveling dance troupe; and a new exhibit at the Art Institute. The tourism booklet boasted some of the world’s best shopping along the Magnificent Mile. She flipped to the map, found their location, and smiled.
