by Alice Ward
I supposed I was flushing because, from the moment I saw him, I couldn’t understand why I’d stressed so much over packing when all I really wanted, and all that mattered now, was that we were going to be together for an entire night. I was giddy at the prospect.
Swallowing the nervous flutter of anticipation inside me, I motioned to him. “You’re just… I didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I own two pairs.”
I smiled.
His eyes swept over me, fixating on my bare legs. “And you look utterly amazing. It’s going to take every ounce of concentration I have to not pull over at the side of the road and defile you before we get to our destination.”
I couldn’t say I would object to that.
I grinned. “Are you going to tell me where that destination is?”
“If you’ll tell me your name.”
Truthfully, I’d thought about telling him. What kind of relationship could we have if he didn’t even know my name? But then it always came back to one thing… we couldn’t. We could have no relationship anyway. Still, part of me must have wanted one, ached for one, or I wouldn’t have been with him right then.
Until he indicated that he wanted more, too, there was no point. Well, not even then. When he learned I’d lied to him, spied on him…
I sighed and shook my head, hoping he saw the gesture as mysterious instead of me completely giving up.
“Then you’re out of luck.” He touched the brim of my hat. “You might want to hold on to this. We’re going on the highway. Unless you want me to put the top up?”
Oh, hell no. I’d never ridden in a convertible before, and it was a gorgeous day. I wanted to feel the breeze in my hair. I opened my mouth to tell him that this was a first for me, but then thought better of it. I needed to channel Bernadette, the worldly woman who belonged to him. “It’s fine,” I said, removing my hat and putting it at my feet. “What kind of car is this?”
“Mustang,” he said, not pretentiously at all, and he pulled out of the space. “Let me know if you get cold.”
“And you’ll find a way to warm me up?” I asked with a sideways glance.
He nodded and wiggled an eyebrow.
We didn’t talk much in the car. We pulled right onto 95 and stayed on highways the whole way. There was little traffic, and the wind was blowing noisily, which didn’t make for much conversation. But that wasn’t to say it wasn’t an experience.
In fact, it was better that we didn’t talk. I loved feeling the sun on my face and the wind whipping around as we drove. There weren’t many sights to be seen, save for trees on the median, but I didn’t mind. I knew my hair was a wreck, but I didn’t care because once we left Pennsylvania and headed into Maryland, I was in unexplored territory. I’d never been this far south before, though I kept that to myself. I loved watching him in his mirrored sunglasses, his strong forearm flexing and moving every time he had to shift. When he wasn’t shifting, his hand was on my bare thigh, tracing little circles there that gave me a million goose bumps. Occasionally, he let it stray farther, and though I parted my legs, welcoming his touch, he stayed very much the gentleman.
Finally, we pulled off the interstate onto Route 301, and I saw the signs for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. He’s taking me to the beach, I thought, looking around excitedly. I’d been to the beach maybe twice, but in New Jersey, when I was a little, sandcastle-building kid. “Have you been on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge before?” he yelled over the noise at me.
No, I hadn’t. But what was the difference? I’d been on the Ben Franklin Bridge before, of course, so did it matter? Rather than answer a no, I just smiled and pretended I hadn’t heard him.
And then we came to the bridge. It was, quite possibly, the scariest piece of real estate in all the world. It was narrow and seemed to stretch on and on, forever. When I looked over the side, all I could see was the bay beneath us. No bridge. Nothing. Cars whipped forward like they weren’t one toothpick-like guardrail away from certain death.
“Okay?” he said, looking at me.
I nodded, then looked down and realized I’d taken his hand, which was on my thigh, into my sweaty death grip. “Okay, I’ve never been on this bridge,” I admitted.
He let out a laugh. “So I noticed.” My face heated, and I wondered if he thought I was a completely naïve idiot who’d grown up under a rock. Before I could feel too embarrassed, though, he said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I won’t let anything happen to you.
I clung to the words. I had no doubt that he meant them. They weren’t words you said to someone you just wanted to fuck silly. They were words said to someone who meant something. Someone who mattered.
I wasn’t sure if that was the sign I was looking for, but I knew right then that this had moved past infatuation.
I was falling in love with him.
And even before the knowledge settled deeply in my brain, I made a decision…
Forget it, Owen. I’m through. I let out the breath I’d been holding all week. Get your dirt from someone else because I won’t let anything happen to Cameron either.
We made it over the bridge and entered a small, quaint little town called Rock Hall. He navigated through the busy streets filled with shops and cottages, and then took a sandy, winding drive between hills of dunes. We drove on for at least five minutes, with nothing to see but dune grass around us and a blue line of the sea up front. Finally, he pulled into a parking space in front of a small, beachfront cottage. Removing his sunglasses, he looked up at the house, and then at me. “Home sweet home.”
I looked up at the cottage. A dozen or so stairs of peeling white paint led straight up to a slat-windowed, enclosed porch, and beyond that, a shaker shingle-sided home rather precariously balanced on stilts. From the outside, it was nothing special. Rickety, even. Nothing like the massively pretentious and majestic home he kept in Delancey Place. “This is yours?”
He nodded. “I know it’s not much, but it’s private and has a great view. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
He really seemed eager to know my opinion, as if I did matter. As if all of this mattered.
I reached for the door to the Mustang and pushed it open, climbing out of the car and removing my sunglasses so I could get a better look. Mr. Fluffers bounded out behind me, tickling my calves with his wild, abundant fur as he raced around me. By now it was about dinnertime, and the sun was still strong, but behind the house. “It’s perfect,” I breathed.
He came around the car to me and took my hand. “Come on.”
The stairs creaked as we climbed them. He picked through a ring of keys, found the right one, and pushed open the door. I thought that it would be the same as at the club. I thought that with how much he’d said he wanted me, he’d be on me the second we had the opportunity. But he led me through a small, bright mudroom and into the open area.
The house smelled like fresh air. The walls and floors were cheery and whitewashed. The furniture was pillowy and comfortable. The kitchen, with its farmhouse cupboards, was a gourmet cook’s dream, with gleaming copper pots hanging from a rack above a large center island. The walls were decorated with a nautical flair and old country signs pointing the way to the beach. I walked down a long hallway and peeked into a small bathroom, complete with a huge clawfoot tub. I admired the quaint décor with him following close behind, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. I looked into the guestroom, and when I reached the master bedroom, I turned around. He was looking at me expectantly as if he couldn’t continue without my seal of approval. “It’s lovely.”
“But that isn’t the best part,” he said, leading me to a set of French doors.
He opened them, and led me out onto an enormous balcony overlooking the glassy blue sea. I gasped at the beauty and absolute serenity of it all. A long, narrow pier stretched out into the water, and a sole red rowboat bo
bbed at the end, tied to a piling. The sun was sinking in the sky, and I knew the sunset would be stunning. I could almost imagine how gorgeous it would be.
Then I turned and saw a little table in the alcove, with place settings for two, champagne flutes, and salads. “How did you…?”
He checked his watch. “I thought you would be hungry when we got here, so I had them set out some food for us when they finished getting everything ready.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Them? You mean, the help?”
He nodded like it was an everyday thing, to have help. This place may have been unpretentious and totally not Brice-style, but he was an Ivy League, Upper Crust snob through and through. But he’d done it for us. For me. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he went through such trouble for people like Bernadette, or if I was special. “Do you come here a lot?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “No. In fact, you’re the only person who knows about it.”
I looked at him, surprised. Was that true? What about his parents? Bernadette? I couldn’t imagine that he would keep this a secret from them. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Some things are better kept secret.”
“Oh.” I assumed I was one of those things.
He led me back inside. “I’ll get our things. Did you want to eat first, or…?”
“I think I’ll just…” I pointed to the bathroom.
Inside, I washed up, checking my reflection to see that I’d gotten a little sunburn on my nose and cheeks. I looked pretty, happy. Excited.
Mostly excited. Now that I’d cast worries about completing the assignment away, I was free to enjoy myself. To enjoy Cameron, without the guilt of knowing I’d soon destroy him.
Outside, I heard Cameron’s faraway voice, uttering commands, and realized he must have been talking to the dog. When I came out, my bag was set in the bedroom. I turned around as Cameron walked in, hands still in the back pockets of his jeans, looking oddly sheepish.
“Okay, so. Change in plans,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Mr. Fluffers ate our first course. He can be a bit of an asshole.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “It’s okay.”
“I still have the lobster though. Are you hungry?”
Lobster. I blanched. I’d never eaten that before. Didn’t it have a hard shell that you had to crack in strategic locations to extract the meat? I’d likely make a total fool of myself. Though my stomach was rumbling with hunger since I’d only had a bagel for breakfast, I shook my head. I looked at him coyly, which gave him the permission to take a step forward, and another, until he reached for my hand and we stood, close together, just bathing in each other’s presence. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear.
Then he lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me with a soft, tender passion that took my breath away.
I peeled off his clothing layer by layer, taking my time with every movement, trying to savor it all. I lifted the hem of his sweater and when he pulled it over his head, pressed my hand against his chest, trying to commit it all to memory. I examined the way the dark hair swirled over his strong pectorals, the strength in his collarbone, the rise of his abdomen into a not-quite six-pack. He was perfect, really, just breathtaking. I almost felt it was a sin to look away.
He plucked each of the straps of my sundress from my shoulders, covering the skin underneath with kisses before he lifted it and let it fall to the floor. Then he stared at my breasts with such reverent awe before touching them and sucking each nipple in turn into his mouth. I moaned in a combination of agony and ecstasy, wanting to speed things up, wanting this to last forever.
He eased me onto the bed with such care that I felt like I’d fallen on a bed of clouds. When he draped his body over me, and his warmth seeped into me better than any blanket could, I gasped, feeling his every pore alive atop mine. He kissed me so thoroughly, not leaving a place unexplored. His hands worked my body as if he were a sculptor, and it was better than any massage I could have received.
He parted my legs, nibbling down my hipbone, and by the time his tongue touched my core, I was already in the throes of abandon. He slowly sucked, tasted, and licked me, pressing his hands to my thighs to open them, and when I came, he kept his mouth there, absorbing every last tremor that rippled through me, as if it was his own.
I felt like I was a part of him, like we were one. How could this not matter?
“Cameron,” I cried desperately as he climbed up my body, his mouth wet with my juices. I tangled my hands in his hair and kissed him with a desperation that frightened me a little, tasting myself on his warm tongue as he slowly, inch by inch, entered me. “Don’t let this end.”
He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his answer in his every move. This wasn’t fucking. He moved slowly, rocking into me with deliberate motion, as if each thrust mattered more than the last. I was no longer aware of our individual body parts. Now, we were one being, working in perfect harmony. I’d never felt such completion in my life. When I felt myself rising to a second climax, as I cried out, tears squeezed from my eyes.
As much as I loved the tenderness of it, there was a sadness about it too. I got the feeling he knew this would be the end, that this couldn’t continue. I’d never really made love before, since all of my other lovers had involved a lot of fumbling, a lot of unsureness, both physical and emotional. But whatever the previous times had been, there was no doubt in my mind that this was making love.
He growled my name, the name he knew as he came, letting out a soft breath of tortured release. I held him to me, so tightly I hoped we’d fuse together. We stayed like that for a million breaths, just holding each other, until one thought settled in my head, turning my insides to cement…
It has to end.
He peeled off me, his hands on either side of my head as he kissed each temple, my forehead, and finally my nose. “Dinner?”
I nodded, thinking, New experiences. He’d made me stronger, and now, I was ready for them. For anything.
“Though I… I’ve never had lobster,” I whispered, finally feeling safe enough to admit it.
He pulled me up, and when I reached for my sundress, he kicked it away.
“Trust me. Lobster is better eaten au natural.”
He led me outside to the table. Mr. Fluffers perked his ears up and wagged his tail, so I leaned over and petted him as Cameron lit the candles there. He poured a tall glass of champagne and handed me the flute.
Despite the unseasonably hot and sticky weather, made bearable by a thin breeze coming off the bay, I shivered and crossed my arms over my nakedness.
“Cold?” he asked.
I shook my head, looking around. “Do you have neighbors?”
“Nope. Not anywhere nearby.”
Relaxing, I took a sip of the champagne. “Never had this, either.”
He poured himself a glass. “Never had this vintage?”
I stared at him. “No. Um. Actually, never had champagne.”
I thought he’d laugh at me, but he just smiled and clinked my glass with his. “Well, I’d say Moët et Chandon is a hell of a way to start.”
I squinted to look at the green bottle. “Expensive?”
He gave me a look that said obviously. I grinned at him. “Snob.”
“Who are you calling a snob?”
I pointed at him. “I had a little bet going with myself that you slept in cashmere monogrammed pajamas.”
He frowned at me. “You wound me.”
“So you don’t own cashmere monogrammed pajamas?”
He set the champagne bottle down and took a sip of his champagne, then stared out toward the bay. Were his cheeks turning pink? “Well, I do.”
I laughed.
“But,” he said, holding up a finger. “They’re still in the packaging. They were a gift from my mother. I sleep in my boxer briefs, usually. And I’m very down-to-earth. I don’t like everything expensive.”
“Okay. What do you like that the
common man likes as well?” I challenged.
He scratched his stubble-crusted jaw, pretending to think. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen.
“I won’t hold my breath,” I called after him, perching on an Adirondack chair and admiring the tableau in front of me. The sun had already set and gray clouds were dotting the horizon, but beyond that, the sky peeked out with wisps of seashell pink mixed with Creamsicle orange. The colors glittered on the calm bay, more beautiful than any painter’s palette. “Have you ever painted this?” I wondered aloud.
He’d brought out a tray of bright red lobsters, which he set on the table. He raised his eyebrow. “No, actually. You know I paint?”
Shit.
SHIT.
“Actually, no, I didn’t. I just feel like this scene needs to be painted,” I recovered, offering a bright smile. “It’s gorgeous. I mean, it would make even a non-artistic person like myself feel like painting.”
Okay, now I was just babbling. But he bought my lame recovery. He nodded.
“I’ve thought about it,” he said, pouring us each another glass. “I mostly paint people. If they inspire me.”
“Oh?” I asked, trying to hide the goose bumps that had appeared everywhere on my body.
He brought the champagne to his mouth, took a sip, and looked directly into my eyes. “You. I’ve painted you a dozen times, Cassandra.”
Forget stopping the goose bumps. Now there were mountains on my skin. “You have?”
He nodded, his eyes raking over my naked body. “You’re my muse. You have a gorgeous body, Cassandra. I love to paint it, but I’m afraid I don’t do it justice. Any sunset pales in comparison.”
I flushed immediately, and all the colors of the sunset were evident right on my face, my chest, and every naked part of me.
Then he took a lobster and set it on my plate. I scooted out of the Adirondack chair and moved to the small cushioned chair at the table, watching him as he picked his up.
“Now. The trick to opening one of these suckers is…” He twisted off each of the claws and used a small fork to dig out the meat. I watched intently, then looked down at my poor victim.
