by AJ Matthews
Daddy will not be happy I’ve withheld this from him. Jen will be upset too, but I can’t subject them to additional stress
I know they’ll understand why I’m doing whatever it takes to stay healthy.
To stay alive.
A long, productive life without breasts—or with fake ones—will be better than a short life with my original breasts.
I hop out of bed and hit the kitchen for my morning burst of caffeine. I’m greeted by empty silence, which means Leesh and Bennie are still sound asleep.
A couple cans of pop and a pizza box with a single slice left are all that remain in the refrigerator.
As I nibble on the pizza, I recall how broken Daddy was when Mama died. People leave you, one way or another, and the pain is too much to bear.
I had “boyfriends” throughout college, but never beyond a few months. Certainly no declarations of undying devotion.
Yet here I was, after less than a week, ready to drop the “L” bomb, which might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
I should avoid Shay for these last couple days. Spend more time with my friends.
They’d chastise me, saying I’m stuck with them year-round, and how I should “do the hottie” as many times as possible before my time here ends.
Which I so want to do.
I also want to say things I shouldn’t. Express emotions that came too easily in the last few days. The zebra-striped duct tape Jen tried to tape across my mouth might prevent me from saying something stupid today.
We could still do lots of fun things not involving my mouth.
I tremble at the idea. The guy has skills with his hands, and from the way he kisses, he’d put his mouth to excellent use over every inch of my willing body.
I chew on the last bite of crust and head to the shower. Time to cool off before Shay gets here. More touristy stuff today, which others might find boring, but I love. In his company, everything is better.
What the hell am I going to do when he’s gone from my life forever?
I shut the notion out as the tepid water blasts my skin, waking me up more.
Today and tomorrow morning are all that matter.
The air conditioner kicks on as I exit the shower, and my nipples stiffen under the whoosh of freezing air from the overhead vent.
The tightness is a stark reminder of what I’m losing. It’s shallow, but I love the attention my breasts garner. Next to the athletic Bennie and the willowy Leesh, I’ve always been curvier. I love my body, and my breasts were—are—my best feature, and I’ll miss these girls.
I pinch one nipple and watch the reaction. The rosy skin puckers under my fingers and a slight tingling grows between my legs.
After my surgery, this won’t happen again.
I’ll never be able to nurse a child. Knowing I can’t makes me want it.
Shay’s devotion to his family and memories of my happy childhood, make my heart ache for a family of my own.
I picture a baby snuggled on my warm, comfy chest, the way it looks now.
And delaying surgery is an option.
No.
Every day I wait my chances of developing a tumor increase. I can’t risk cancer for any reason, and I shouldn’t have a baby to leave motherless at such a young age. It’s been hard enough without my mama the past six years, but at least I had her until I was a teenager.
If Jen’s cancer recurs, her kids might lose their mama when they’re four years old.
I scowl at my reflection. Why the second-guessing? The decision has been so easy. As soon as I discovered I was positive for the brca1 gene mutation, I researched my options and decided surgery was the right thing.
I slather on the requisite sunblock, then throw on pink panties and matching bra before selecting a pair of black shorts and a peachy tee shirt. I won’t even check the mirror to do my hair. A ponytail will do today. And no make-up.
No need to get pretty for a guy I won’t see ever again in two days.
Shay
Fresh-faced and casual, Thea is still gorgeous. Her pastel tee shirt sets off her fair hair and makes her skin glow. Her look is practical for sightseeing, but she still outshines everyone.
Maybe it’s her zeal for life—she only stops when I’m kissing her, which is whenever I can. I missed her the past couple nights and want to compensate for lost time today.
Our last day together.
“So what’s next?” She stops and stares into a gallery window displaying paintings of many of the Key West landmarks, framed and ready for hanging.
“Let me think.” I touch my finger to my mouth. “Hemingway Home. The Lighthouse. The Maritime Museum. Butterfly Conservatory. Done.”
We pass on to another storefront, this one loaded with suggestive tee shirts and souvenirs as well as general touristy merchandise. One of the items reminds me of a place she’d expressed interest in visiting. “Key West Cemetery. You mentioned it at breakfast. You still want to go?”
She shudders and averts her gaze.
“I . . . I don’t want to anymore.”
I suspect there’s more, but I won’t press, the way she didn’t when she touched the scar on my arm.
“Can we go to Paddy’s and grab a bite? I’d love a cold beer or two.”
“Sure.” I could use a drink.
We walk a block or two up Duval, and Thea says out of the blue, “I’ll miss you, Shay.”
I stop short, the rubber of my shoes scuffing the sidewalk.
She must sense my surprise, or else she surprised herself. Her grip on my hand tightens. “I mean, I’ve had fun, and I don’t want it to end. You know, go back to the real world.”
I know what she means. I was prepared to hit the books, dissect cadavers, and devote every ounce of my time and energy to becoming a doctor.
Now all I want to do is love Thea. All day. Every day. I won’t say it though.
That’s more intense than her declaration of missing me.
We walk the rest of the way with ropes of tension tied around us.
The bells on the door of Paddy’s jingle, and the sound of my baby brother’s scratchy guitar playing greets us. I’m surprised he’s here since he was rattled after the car accident two days ago, and he wasn’t sure this morning if he was up to playing. Despite a couple stitches in the forehead, he’s on stage playing a rousing acoustic cover of a 1980s hair-band hit. Not one my favorites, but Mac is a terrific singer and guitarist, so I think his version sounds better than the original
I’m proud Mac’s overcoming his anxiety of playing in public. Appreciative applause and copious tips play a part.
Thea leads me to a booth. She slides in, and I head to the bar and pour a couple drafts.
I move in next to her. Though I love sitting across from her, looking at her, I want to be as close as possible. Arm-to-arm, thigh-to-thigh. As much skin-to-skin contact as I can get in public.
With the hope of getting full-on contact later, in private.
She told me her friends keep joking, asking if we’d done “it,” and calling Thea a liar when she told them no. After tonight, I hope she can say no.
And actually be lying.
Thea
I peruse the menu and decide on nachos. I wasn’t hungry when I asked to come here, but the thought of melty cheese and spicy chili sounds delish.
The lie got me out of a trip to the cemetery. I don’t want to be surrounded by death on my last day here.
Warm, living flesh, as close as I can get to it. That’s what I crave.
Shay heads to the kitchen to put in the order then comes back, moving in close. His musky, salty scent envelopes me.
I lean into him. Shay watches the television tuned to the cable news channel, and I people-watch as customers come and go. Paddy chats with a few barflies who are stacking empty beer cans in a pyramid on the bar top.
I squeeze Shay’s knee and trace lazy circles around the raised scars. I wonder if he got these at the same time as the ones on his arm.
We’ve all got things we don’t want to discuss, wounds penetrating beyond the flesh deep into our hearts and souls, so I left it alone.
Shay brushes his callused thumb across the sensitive skin at the base of my neck. I shiver.
A clap of thunder shakes the room, and the skies open, dumping rain at an alarming rate.
If we can’t do go outside, plenty of indoor activities can keep us occupied. I don’t want food or beer.
I’m hungry for his touch, thirsty for his lips. I lean in and whisper as I rub his thigh. “Can we go? To your house?”
He turns to look me in the eye. “Thea, I . . .”
“You live over the garage, behind your house? It’s private, right?” I bite my lip and hold my breath.
“Yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Are you sure?”
“Shay, I’ve been sure since the night I met you. Please.”
He throws a twenty dollar bill on the table to cover the food and beers, and I slide out. We run out into the downpour.
While everyone else is running for cover, we’re standing in the onslaught, staring into each other’s faces. His hazel eyes darken, turning brown as he lowers his head.
Water streams from my face and his, rivulets pouring from his strong forearms gripping my hips. His white shirt is plastered to his torso, outlining his shoulders and tapered waist.
My mouth waters. My chest flattens against him, my nipples tight and tingling.
His kisses before were sweet, tender, and passionate.
His hands cup my face, his thumbs caressing my cheeks.
As soon as his lips close over mine, I know this one will be different.
He nips my bottom lip with his teeth and engulfs my mouth with his. The hot pressure of his lips ignites a fire that threatens to torch me where I stand.
The passion? Yeah. Sweet and tender?
No more.
Now his kisses are voracious. Hungry.
The fervor of this kiss makes my knees weak. If my arms weren’t around him, I might have collapsed into a puddle and washed into the storm drain.
Though I’m disappointed when he breaks the kiss, I know it’s so we can go.
He leads and I follow, stray wet curls slapping against my face. We head toward the seaport, turning on Grinnell to a pale yellow house with a whitewashed wood fence surrounding a tiny yard. He unlatches the gate, and we run to a two-story structure to the right of the house. A flight of stairs leads us to the apartment above the garage.
He unlocks the door in a flash, and we duck inside. A gust of wind slams the door with a heavy thud.
Rain pelts the roof and the wild winds echo through the eaves.
The angry weather is nothing compared to the storm brewing in this little room.
My fingers fumble at the buttons of his dripping shirt, revealing his well-muscled chest, the rippled lines of his abs.
I lower my head to lick his skin, the slick, salty warmth an oasis to my sex-starved senses.
Shay’s throaty groan makes me hungrier.
I push the shirt from his shoulders, the buttons clicking on the hard tile as it hits the floor.
I reach for his belt and undo the zipper, the crisp sound inviting me to kneel and slide the shorts over his hard thighs. His erection strains against the black knit of his boxers, and I hook my fingers into the elastic, eager to taste him.
He grips my wrists and drags me against him.
I melt at the chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh contact.
“Sweet Thea.” He strokes a callused finger across my cheek, over my lip. I draw his thumb between my lips and suck on it.
His devilish pseudo-smile flares up, and I grin back.
“Why can’t I stop kissing you?” I quake at the rumble of his voice
A rhetorical question with no answer.
I can’t stop kissing him either.
He sucks on my lower lip, and I shiver.
If my panties were damp before, they’re now drenched.
Tingles of pleasure skitter across my skin as he tangles his hands into my hair, loosened from the elastic by the strong winds and heavy downpour. I cling tighter to his solid frame, my soft curves molding to his hard planes.
He deepens the kiss and explores the recesses of my mouth, his wet tongue dueling with mine in a battle of wills I’m sure to lose. My hands move of their own volition, stroking the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
He drags his lips from mine and trails hot kisses across my jaw to my neck, arousing sharp, prickling, swirling sensations I’d never imagined were possible.
Thunder rattles the windows, and the vibrations radiate to my toes.
He kisses me again, and I dip my tongue inside, savoring the malty hint of beer clinging to his mouth. The coil of desire tightening inside me the last couple days is unraveling.
The realization hits me like a boulder.
Shay will be the last man I make love to in my present state. He’ll be the last to know the real me. It’s a heady thought, and I want to give him every last bit of me.
His lips leave mine again, and I clutch at him in desperation.
The light kisses he dusts across my cheeks, my chin, my nose, they are gentle and sweet.
Heartwarming—and scary.
I remind myself to suppress such emotions.
This is a straight-up vacation fling.
That. Is. All.
His kisses escalate from gentle to hard, slow to frantic, sweet to sexy.
He’ll be the death of me. I can’t take this teasing any longer.
I stroke my tongue across his full lower lip, nipping it with my teeth. He responds in kind, and I growl, the primitive sound surprising me.
A moan erupts from him too. I move away, and he reaches for me. But his protests turn to satisfied grunts as I yank my shirt off, then unfasten my water-logged shorts and kick them to the floor.
My nipples are tingling, my breasts heaving as I gulp for air under his heated gaze.
The need for him to see me is a hot, delicious ache in the pit of my stomach.
I reach behind my back to unhook my bra, but he reaches out and stops me.
“Please,” he chokes out, “let me.”
I turn my back and lift my hair. His long fingers trail a path of fire from my nape to my spine before unhooking the bra. He pushes the straps off my shoulders and slides the cups away, my heavy breasts spilling forward into his eager hands.
My knees buckle from his scalding touch.
He sweeps me into his steely arms, carries me across the narrow room through a door, and lays me on his bed.
He kisses me again, his tongue tracing the outline of my lips, his teeth nipping at my mouth.
“Please.” I take his hands in mine and lay them on my aching breasts.
He was made to hold me.
A thumb and forefinger pluck at each engorged tip.
He drops his head, sucking and licking at one hard peak. The friction elicits a tugging sensation inside me.
“Oh, yeah . . .”
He moves to the other breast, paying her equally divine attention. My fingers grip at the comforter. “Please, Shay. More.”
He slides to the end of the bed and does something unexpected.
He massages my feet, running his finger along the sensitive arch of one foot, then the other. He presses a spot under the middle toe, massaging deeply, and once more I think I could orgasm.
I quiver imagining what he’ll do when he makes his way between my legs.
His every touch drown my fears about him finding my body unattractive. He teases and taunts and tugs at my flesh with his hands, his hot tongue following the path blazed by his hands. I throw my head back, wet strands of hair sticking to my face. His tongue circles my navel, tracing the lacy outline of my panties. His lips drop to the inside of my sensitive thigh before closing his mouth over the flimsy silk separating me from absolute ecstasy.
He lifts me off the bed, crushing my breasts to his
rock-solid chest, teasing the nipples to hard peaks again with the slight mat of hair on his skin. Dropping to the floor, he hooks his thumbs into my panties. He skims the thin fabric from my hips, and I lift one foot after the other so he can take the panties off.
I stand bare before him, but I’m not the least bit vulnerable as he gazes at me reverently from his position at my feet.
I’m cherished and admired and desired.
And on fire as his tongue lazily circles my clit. His fingers trace a scorching path from behind my knee to the back of my thigh before drawing circles on my ass.
He nudges me back, and my legs hit the bed, compelling me to sit, lie.
I open my legs, inviting him to explore deeper.
He laps at my wetness, sucking my nub and nipping with his teeth as he slides a finger into my tightness.
He quickens the pace, his tongue impatient on my clit as his finger curves upward, massaging my g-spot. I pant, unable to catch my breath as my hands clench at the comforter and my legs convulse. He cups my ass again, this time to hold my bucking hips to his mouth until I stop shaking.
As my ragged breathing slows, he slides up on the bed next to me, removing his boxers. His wet tongue dances along the curve of my hip, feathery kisses dust my belly and my arms.
He nuzzles my neck, his warm breath in my ear fanning my desire.
I spread my legs in invitation.
“No. Like this.” Shay fumbles around in his nightstand and finds out a foil packet. He slides on the condom, then holds me by the hips as he flips on his back while reaching up, cupping my breasts, staring at them.
Spellbound by them.
I’d felt powerful when he knelt at my feet.
That was nothing compared to sitting atop this gorgeous, virile man, in control of his pleasure.
I arch over him, taking his thick cock into my hand, teasing him with my wetness. He throws his head back and growls as he arches underneath me.
I want to prolong his pleasure like he’d done for me, but I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.
I slide on him, little by little, and then take my fill. He almost throws me off as he thrashes on the bed.
I grind my hips against his, moving up and down and side-to-side to find the exact spot for both of us. A heavy fog of sex and sweat and pheromones hangs around us.
