He returned my farce in true Jeremiah form, his audacious smile surfacing. “In the movies when a guy defends a girl’s honor, he gets a lot more than dinner.”
We nestled into a dimly lit corner table at Mai’s, a local restaurant. Hawaiian music played softly in the background. We had an ocean view, as the warm night air whirled through the place carrying with it the Aloha spirit. We took each other in across the table, quiet laughter surfacing within both of us, simultaneously wondering how in the world two kids from Georgia, Pennsylvania ended up on Maui Island together.
“Hi. I’m Lana. I’ll be taking care of you tonight. What can I bring you to drink?”
Jeremiah waited for me to order. “Mango peach iced tea for me, please.”
“I’ll try the lager.” He read from the beer and cocktail menu.
“Sounds good. I’ll be right back with those,” Lana said.
“So, that arm twisting thing you did back there. Did you learn that in the Marines?” I asked, putting my elbows on the table and leaning in toward him curiously.
“Yep. Been in four years now. The day you left, I signed up. Went to basic a week later.”
“Think you could show me how to do that move?” I mimed the action. My elbow caught the flaming candle on the table, nearly tipping it over.
“I think you’re dangerous enough without any moves.” He smiled, catching the candle, tipping it right side up.
Lana returned, placing our drinks in front of us, taking our dinner orders. I leaned back in my chair locking in with his gaze. “It looks good on you, life. You look good, Miah.”
“You too,” he said, his eyes keeping mine. “The hair took some getting used to.” He ran his hand self-consciously over his crew cut. I loved his unkempt surfer-boy do, but the military look suited him well. Anything looked good on him.
“So, what are you doing here, in Maui?” I asked.
“My unit. We’re on assignment, mandatory R & R.”
“Your unit?”
“They left for Honolulu this afternoon. I stayed here. It’s quieter, less people. What are you doing here?”
“Work and school, massage therapy. What do you do, in the Marines?” I continued to play twenty questions, more interested in his story than in telling my own.
“Recon. Spec ops,” he said. “Tell me about this massage therapy. You rub people?” He smiled.
“No way! You’re Marine Reconnaissance?” I whispered, looking around as if our conversation entailed covert information.
He laughed lightly at my reply. “I thought you might like that. So back to this masseuse thing...”
“Massage therapist,” I interrupted. “I’m licensed with the state. It’s homeopathic, kind of like a chiropractor, and completely legit. So, you’re like a bad-ass, huh?”
He looked at me, pleased at my deduction, but too humble to acknowledge it. He shook his head and grinned, as Lana returned to our table with our entrees. “Would you care for another?” she asked Jeremiah, referring to his nearly empty glass of beer.
“Ah, yeah. I’ll take one more.”
Noticing I hadn’t ordered an alcoholic beverage, she inquired, “Would you like a drink with dinner?”
“No. No thanks. I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t bother you, me drinking, does it?” Jeremiah asked, as Lana left the table.
I shook my head. “No. I just don’t drink.” Twenty-two years old, I didn’t even have a drink on my twenty-first birthday because I didn’t want to turn into a mean drunk. “After all, I am my father’s daughter.”
“It’s not in you,” he said, fully catching and dismissing my insinuation.
“How do you like it, Recon?” I quickly changed the subject as I took a bite of my macadamia-crusted mahi-mahi.
“I like it. They recruited me out of boot camp. It’s encouraging to be good at something, to be chosen. I’ve traveled all over, Harley, places I never thought I’d see.” His face lit up. “The best part is the guys. It’s nice to have a family,” he ended, looking down at his plate. He shoved his food around with his fork momentarily before taking a bite.
I never knew Jeremiah to have much family present in his life, other than his dad. I was glad to hear he found a kinship with his unit, their bond strong as blood, dependent on one another, even for their lives at times.
“Back to this massage thing,” he said, giving me an inquisitive look, arching his brow, causing me to chuckle.
“You just can’t let it go, can you?”
“Seriously, my back is killing me, you think a massage might help?” His smile curled flirtatiously.
Midnight found us in the living room of my suite at the resort, my housing provided as part of my contract. Jeremiah lay on the massage table covered with a light sheet. I pushed it down to his waist, exposing his perfectly sculpted back, cursing myself. He was so fine. I needed something, anything, a distraction.
Aha, music! That would fill the dead space, and give me something to focus on. I powered up the radio, using my nifty remote control, and the first words flooding out of the speakers, Marvin Gaye’s, Let’s Get It On. I aimed the remote at the radio, desperately trying to change the station as the song continued. Finally, the seek button took off, dialing into a new, less provocative tune, but by that time we unsuccessfully held back our laughter.
“You play that song for all your clients?” he teased.
“I find it breaks the tension,” I returned his playful tone. “Okay, take a few deep breaths for me. Get nice and relaxed and try not to talk. I know that’s a challenge for you.” I snickered. “Really, you’re supposed to feel it, take it all in, melt into it.”
He did as I instructed. I prepared my hands with the appropriate amount of oil, placing them on his back, and we were off. Although blatantly distracted with his physical presence, I was determined to show off my prowess. My hands in contact with the warmth of his flesh, kneading the taught muscles just under its surface, I took note of every glorious fiber. It was impossible not to. For the next hour his body was mine and I claimed it, releasing it from tension, leaving him fully relaxed and pain free.
Returning from the bathroom after allowing him time to get dressed, I proudly found him sitting on the edge of the massage table, in a stupor.
“Wow,” he said, his voice raspy. “I think my vocal chords even relaxed. That was awesome.”
“You needed that. You really should get a massage at least once a month in your line of work,” I assured, yawning. It was a quarter past two in the morning.
“It’s late. I probably should get going.” He stood from the massage table, barefoot, in his jeans with his shirt completely unbuttoned. Stop it, Harley. I tore my eyes from his torso, catching his gaze. He looked tired. Tell him he can sleep on the couch, I coaxed, but the words wouldn’t come.
“You have plans for tomorrow?” He slipped his feet into his shoes while buttoning his shirt.
“Not one.” I pulled the band from my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders in preparation for bed.
He watched me, his eyes engaged, his look changing from sleepy to tormented, painful, as my hair cascaded around my face, soft and uncontrolled. He turned from me, running his fingers through his hair, a habit he had displayed as long as I knew him. He looked up at the ceiling, letting out a sigh, gathering himself before turning back to me. “Have you made it over to Haleakala National Park? We could hike it, camp out, whatever you’re up for.”
“What time should I be ready?” I asked, quickly confirming my participation as I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing my coffee pot for morning.
“Just call me when you get up.” We started towards one another, instinctively, presumably for a goodnight hug. I stopped at the counter, resting my hand on it, alert to the chemical pull between us, realizing I couldn’t just hug him and then let him go. He stopped when I did, about ten feet away, the space between us tense, charged.
“I’ll pack us a picnic,” I blurted out, filling the sil
ence as I backed away from him, around to the other side of the counter.
He ran his fingers through his hair again, turned, and walked to the door. Grabbing the handle, he paused momentarily, resting his forehead against the wooden frame, his back to me, he said, “Harley, I don’t want to leave.”
“Well then, don’t leave. Stay. It’s late. The couch pulls out into a bed.”
He tapped his forehead lightly on the door, frustrated, before turning around, facing me. “If I stay here...with you...I’m not sleeping on the couch.”
“Stay,” I whispered.
He locked the door and came to me, slowing only when he reached me, his lips hovering over mine. “Have you ever missed someone so bad it hurts?”
“Feels like you can’t breathe.”
He covered my mouth with his own. Softly he lingered, causing every nerve in my body to tingle. Pulling away, his eyes opened slowly as he ran his teeth over his bottom lip, full with my taste. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you behind the bar,” he said. He picked me up, setting me on the counter, pulling my halter-top from the waist of my jeans, returning his lips to me with ardor.
Reciprocating his desire, I unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it down over his shoulders, slowly trailing my fingers over the muscles in his arms. He watched me in my admiration, further exploring his chest and his abdomen, his body solid and defined, concave and convex, in all the right places. “You are so freaking fine,” I whispered, a smile forming on my lips.
“It comes with the job,” he modestly dismissed. Picking me up from the counter, my legs straddled his waist. His torso closed around me, his strong arms, one under my bottom, the other supporting my back as his chest pressed against mine. “God, you feel good,” he growled, carrying me to the bedroom.
He laid me on the bottom of the bed as he stood leaning over me. His arm muscles bulged, one on each side of my thighs, bracing his weight. Definitively male in his entire makeup, I closed my eyes, breathing him in, his virile scent filling my lungs. His closeness made me feel safe and sheltered. Heat radiated off his skin, warming mine. He affected me like no other. I was completely bewitched. He could have asked me for anything in that moment, and I would have obliged. There was no refusing him.
I sat up, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, claiming his lips for my own as I moved from the bottom of the bed to the top, pulling him with me. Both of us freed our legs on the way up the bed, removing our jeans. I moved beneath him. He followed stealthily, managing his body so as not to put too much weight on me, but leaving very little space between.
I assumed he moved so accurately from his military training, fully content in my position as his current assignment. I pushed at his chest, coaxing him to roll over onto his back. He pulled me with him. I sat up astraddle of his waist.
My hand, trailing with one finger, deliberately traced his body. Starting at the well between his pectoral muscles, I followed that happy little indented trail, brawn dispersing from it in every possible direction. He watched me watch him and how his body reacted. His breathing quickened, his flesh grew taught as I neared his lower abdomen, retracing my steps, with my mouth this time. He pulled me up, turning me onto my back in one effortless motion.
“It’s my turn,” he said, straddling my thighs, sitting back on his heels.
“How about we take turns?” I sat up to meet him, my hands busying themselves on his playground.
“You got your turn, with the massage.” He ran his hands through my hair, kissing my face intermittently, covering all its parts.
“That was professional, business,” I teased.
“I have some business of my own,” he said low and seductive, coaxing me to lie back onto the bed, promptly removing every shred of underclothing from my body. His business—exploration—he left no part of me unseen, untouched, or untasted. He covered me skillfully from head to toe, front to back. I thought I would just die, sure to erupt from the intensity. He just kept going, fully committed.
“Miah, please,” the words escaped my mouth in a whisper for what seemed the hundredth time, patience never my virtue.
He lifted his head from my body, sitting upright, nestled between my thighs, wiping the moisture from his mouth. I lay there flat out on the bed, my arms limp, my hair scattered, my lips pink and swollen from his devoted attention. My chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths, every nerve fiber of my being stretched to its limit. He covered me, his flesh against mine, his eyes dark, inebriated. “Do you know how many times I’ve had you...in my mind?”
“Not as often as I’ve had you,” I said, my hand stroking his face from his temple to his chin.
He studied my eyes and my mouth as he eased into me. I bit down on my bottom lip, my eyelashes momentarily closed against one another with the size of him, appeased by finally having him inside me. I accepted, meeting his thrust with my own, moaning deep in my throat.
He groaned, his voice low, seething with sex. He stayed with me, his eyes locked on mine, as our bodies followed each other rhythmically, taking turns with the lead. It had been two years since I slept with a man and this was not just any man. Jeremiah Johnson was the man. The one I thought about when I pleasured myself in the solitude of my room. And here he dwelled, in the flesh. Our pace remained slow, steady, and strong. Every movement deliberately aware, executed to perfection. I could feel my body growing tense, nearing the point of release.
“Miah,” I moaned breathlessly, my head pushed back into the pillow, my entire body tightening from the waist down. He watched me with anticipation.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispered, his lips wetting mine like a blade of grass in the morning dew.
This man, the things he did to me! My mouth parted as low, intermittent moans escaped, the tension becoming unbearable. My body arched beneath him, into him, against him, any way it possibly could move in its glorious release, before cascading into a state of enchanted relaxation. Refraining momentarily from moving inside me, he allowed me time to fully recuperate. My skin flushed, my body satisfied, a soft smile formed on my lips. He pushed my tousled hair out of my face with his hands. “I wish you could see yourself like this. It’s like nothing else. It’s beautiful, Harley-girl. You’re beautiful.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever done that,” I confessed, “with a man,” I finished, as an afterthought, a slightly embarrassed giggle escaping me. Orgasms always made me feel like giggling, blissful in their aftermath.
“What?”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever had an orgasm, with a man.”
“So, what else exactly have you had an orgasm with?” He grinned.
I pushed him onto his back playfully, as he took me with him, securing himself inside me. “Now I’m curious. What you look like, when you come.” My smile faded, as my words coupled with sincere intent. I wanted to satisfy him as he had me. Leaning over him, my hair tumbled around his face, my thighs establishing their cadence as I moved against him. “I think about you. When I’m alone,” I said, teasing his lips with my tongue. He tried to cover my mouth with his, but I pulled away flirtatiously, after softly biting his bottom lip.
“How do I measure up?” His hands wound in my hair, he pulled gently, until my mouth hovered over his. “In the flesh?”
I rocked my hips steadily against him, he moaned as I briefly increased the momentum, taking him in at full length. “There’s no comparison.” I pushed myself up off his chest, sitting upright, the motion hitting that delightfully sweet little spot inside me. As I watched him there beneath me, I had never been so turned on.
“Harley,” he groaned.
He closed in, his rhythm steadily picking up speed. Just the thought of him having an orgasm quickly brought me to the same point with rapid intensity. I could feel him growing harder still, a deep guttural moan escaping his throat as he released himself to me. My own insides like liquid heat, quivering, bearing down on him with every contraction.
Our senses hazy, euphoria
lingered in the room, in the air, and in the space between. Orgasms do something to people, to the complexion and the spirit, one’s overall aura. That after-sex look, it’s ravishing. And he was glorious, simply stunning. Our eyes fixed on one another, our chests rising and falling in rapid succession.
Years of familiarity allowed us the privilege of remaining in-sync no matter the passage of time. If any two souls were ever meant to be one, we were they. My emotions surfacing, tears knocked at the back of my eyes. Normally I would have attempted to shut them down, calling in my ever-faithful friend, my almond, but these tears of the friendly persuasion fell, happy tears. Simultaneously, they trickled down both sides of my face, as I ducked my chin to my chest, diverting my eyes quickly from Jeremiah.
He pulled me to him, rolling onto his side, swiftly guiding my head to the pillow. He propped himself up on one arm, while covering me with the other, his concern growing. I smiled at him purposefully to ease his worry.
“They’re the good tears, happy tears,” I said, wiping at my face, extinguishing the moisture. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
“Aw, baby.” He cuddled, pulling the blanket around me. “We’re inseparable. You should know that by now.”
“I know,” I said, but I didn’t really know. No one ever knows anything for certain. “I guess I’m just emotional. I had you for eighteen years, and then I spent the last four without you. And boom, all of a sudden you’re here. I still can’t believe it.” I caressed his face with my hand. “And sex. That can be emotional, too.”
“Making love is emotional.” He caught my hand in his, pressing it to his lips. “You know this wasn’t just sex, right? Nothing’s ever just anything with you.”
Uncomfortable with the L-word’s introduction into the conversation, I ridiculed lightly, “How about making whoopee, making bacon, knockin’ da boots?” I giggled. “Why does it always have to be making l-o-v-e,” I spelled it out, rather than actually saying it.
“Knockin’ da boots?” He laughed. “Wasn’t that a song?”
“H-Town,” I replied with the group’s name. “You remember.” I sang the chorus through a wide smile.
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 13
