Bountiful

by Sarina Bowen

  I had a great life. I was halfway through the best NHL contract of my career, paid like a superstar. But I’d miss the stillness of the deep woods, so I stood still for one more moment to appreciate it. It was a warm night, but not sticky. I loved that about Vermont. The air smelled sweet, but it was silent. The end of summer had approached, and the frogs and crickets had gone quiet. I took one more deep breath of the nighttime.

  Then I went inside the bar.

  It was a Wednesday, and as I took a seat on a stool, I noticed the crowd was a little thin.

  As usual, Zara took her time coming over to greet me. “Evening,” she said eventually, placing a coaster onto the polished wood in front of me. “What can I get you?” The lack of familiarity in this greeting made me bite back a smile. Even though we’d spent a lot of time together these past few weeks, Zara always kept my ego in check.

  If this was how she wanted to play it, then so would I. “What do you have on tap?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know. I’d spent many summer nights sitting on this very stool, drinking my way through the Vermont craft-beer selection.

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the signboard which made it painfully clear to anyone with eyes which beers were on tap.

  “Right.” Point for Zara. “Pour me an Allagash, pretty girl.”

  And that’s when I got my first smile of the evening. It was so quick another man would have missed it. But I have sharp eyes. Ask anyone.

  She grabbed a pint glass and pulled my beer while her other hand was busy opening a bottle for someone else. Zara was always crazy busy back there, even on a slow night. She did so many laps around the bar that I swear she’d covered more miles than I did during a championship hockey game. I enjoyed watching her move. She had an economy of motion as she wiped down a table or rang up a check. It turned me on almost as much as the cleavage I could see every time she leaned down to clear a glass off a table. And she had a long, regal neck that begged to be traced with my tongue.

  When she set the beer down in front of me, I didn’t get my a wink. Not even a quick one. But this was our dance, our tentative association. Maybe it wasn’t how normal people behaved. But I’d discovered these past couple of weeks that neither Zara nor I had any taste for normal.

  I took a sip of my excellent beer and settled in to watch her work the last hour of the night. Zara didn’t remind me of any other woman I knew. Or any other bartender, for that matter. She was like a storm front on the move—always two steps ahead of the customers. Those busy hands. Those long, elegant limbs. I admired all the parts of Zara I could see. But her cool demeanor always suggested the important stuff was still hidden from view.

  I’d seen it, though. And I didn’t mean this in a crude way. I’d seen the expression on her face when she truly let go, and I’d heard the laugh she unfurled when she thought nobody was listening.

  But even in my arms she kept a tighter lid on herself than any other woman I’d met. Sometimes when I looked at her, she seemed to be focused somewhere else—as if her soul was tuned in to a back channel that none of us mere mortals could hear.

  The Milky Way and Zara. My favorite two exotic things about Vermont.

  A Green Day song came over the sound system, and I saw her move her shoulders in time with the beat, not for anyone’s benefit but her own. “Last call,” she said to no one in particular.

  After that, Wednesday’s crowd died out in a hurry. I didn’t have long to wait. Soon enough she was walking around, stacking the chairs upside down on the tables. Ignoring me. Once I’d tried to help her with this task and gotten snapped at for my trouble.

  I finished my beer instead.

  Eventually I was the only man left in the bar. Without a glance in my direction, she counted the cash in the register, then disappeared into the back, presumably to lock it in the safe.

  I got up off the stool, anticipation humming in my veins. I walked to the door and then slipped outside, where the stars were waiting. Leaning against the clapboards, I tipped my head back until I saw Jupiter in the sky, where it had just risen. And then I heard an owl hoot. A real owl. Herr-herr-herrrrrr, it said.

  Where I grew up, owls were only in storybooks.

  The door opened beside me, and Zara stepped out. I held my breath while she locked up. The second the key was retrieved from the lock, I stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her wrist.

  Dark eyes darted to mine. But she didn’t say a word.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice husky. “You didn’t have a lot to say to me tonight.”

  “When do I ever?”

  I laughed, and the sound seemed loud in the quiet night air. “Good point, gorgeous.”

  She took her wrist back. “You want to stand here and converse now? Is that your plan?”

  As if. I stepped into her personal space and stole my first kiss of the evening. Had to. Watching her move for an hour made me crazy. And hell. Every time, I felt a jolt of energy when we came together. The heat of the stars and sun were inside me when she was nearby.

  Zara sighed in a way that sounded as if she didn’t approve, even as she softened under my mouth. I deepened the kiss, treating myself to a taste, but just a quick one. “Come out with me tonight,” I said, breaking it off. “Just this once.” Usually we went upstairs to her place.

  She stepped back and raised those dark eyes to mine. “Out where?”

  “Outside. Not far. I only get one more night to look at the stars. Want you to come with me.”

  Zara considered this, her hands wandering up to land on my pecs. She had a thing for my chest. And I was smart enough never to point that out, because I was pretty sure she’d never touch me the same way again if she knew I’d noticed.

  My favorite girl was a prickly one. But that only made us more compatible, I supposed.

  “We don’t go places together,” she reminded me.

  “Only because there’s nothing open after you get off work,” I pointed out. “But the stars are open. And I want one last, good look at them. You won’t come?”

  She looked at my rental truck standing by itself in the lot. “You’re breaking the rules.”

  “Nah,” I said softly. Zara loved her rules. Sex only. No sleepovers—she’d kicked me out every single time. We talked more now, though. I was going to miss her irreverent sense of humor. “You’re not afraid of me, though, right? If I thought I was making you nervous, I wouldn’t be a dick about it.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “What if I’m not scared of you, but I have other objections?”

  “Then I will be a dick about it.”

  She laughed suddenly. Zara’s laughter was a rare and perfect thing—a husky burst of joy that tapered off quickly and was over practically before it began. “Fine,” she said, her face already serious again. “Let’s go see some stars.” She sidestepped me and walked toward my truck with her typical efficiency.

  As usual, her mind had turned on a dime, leaving me to catch up and follow her.

  * * *

  The hilltop where I’d chosen to go stargazing was a little farther away than I’d thought. But Zara turned on the radio and rolled down her window. She looked content enough beside me, gazing into the night.

  I didn’t know the right word for what we’d been to each other this summer. It wasn’t a relationship. Neither of us wanted one of those. Zara would call it a series of one-night stands. But that wasn’t quite right, either. A tryst, maybe?

  But every single time I came to see her, Zara made it clear that she wasn’t a sure thing. She always let me know she was doing me a favor.

  I ate this up, too. Usually, getting sex was easy as a snap of my fingers. There was a certain type of woman who loved hockey, and loved hockey players. I never had to work hard to find my fun.

  In spite of all the nights we’d spent together by now, Zara still didn’t know I was a professional athlete. We didn’t swap life stories—that was another one of her rules. I was just a guy in her bar. And I liked this arra
ngement just fine, because she liked me as just a guy in her bar. I didn’t have to be that star and impress her. She never asked me if I knew Tyler Seguin or Henrik Lundquivst. She didn’t want war stories or anybody’s signed jersey.

  She just wanted me.

  Even if there was no word for it, the thing between us had been great. Every three or four nights I’d gone to the bar alone before closing time, waiting while she finished up, mostly ignoring me.

  I’d thought I’d get a warmer greeting as time went on, but my girl made it clear that we only knew each other after all the customers had left. I was her dirty little secret, apparently.

  Best. Thing. Ever.

  Even though I teased Zara about her long list of rules, I liked them just fine. There was no pressure on me to pretend we had a future together. Our conversations weren’t burdened with expectation. We were free to talk about our favorite movies. (Zara’s was Kill Bill, mine was The Blind Side.) We talked about where to eat in Vermont and who made the best ice cream.

  There was chatting and wild sex. Upstairs in her room I’d had some of the best sex of my life. And—another first for me—it just kept getting better as we spent more time together. It was a revelation, too. I thought I knew everything there was to know about pleasing a woman.

  Not true.

  I hadn’t expected that knowing Zara a little better each time made it more interesting. It was like the playoffs—a seven-game series meant figuring out some things about the other team as the games piled up. We came together with passion reinforced by familiarity and—dare I say it—a kind of respect that I’d never felt before.

  Who knew? It was knowledge I’d probably never use again, though. Our odd little temporary matchup was coming to a rapid conclusion.

  Just like the playoffs.

  She knew it, too. I’d been careful to tell her exactly when my time was up, and that I’d probably never be back. “Who says I’ll miss you?” she’d asked last week.

  Right.

  Now I pulled onto a winding road that took us to a hilltop lookout. When I parked at the top, we were the only car in sight. “Come on,” I said.

  She got out of the truck, and I grabbed a quilt and a little cooler I’d brought. “Carry this?” I asked, handing her the quilt. I grabbed my binoculars, too.

  “Look at you! Mr. Prepared. Were you a boy scout?”

  “Nope.”

  She didn’t ask any follow-up questions. Not my Zara. Other women might start the inquisition, trying to learn about my past. Zara just marched into the field ahead of me, chose a spot for the quilt and flung it onto the grass. Then she lowered her elegant self onto her knees and looked up into the heavens.

  I joined her a moment later. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” I whispered. I sprawled out on my ass, then pulled her nearer so she could lean her head against my chest and look up. “Want to see the half-moon?”

  “Sure.” She snuggled a little closer. Her words were prickly, but her body language could never manage the same level of reserve.

  And I liked it in a way I never had before. Cuddly to me was always synonymous with needy. But Zara wasn’t the least bit needy. Her physical affection was an unexpected benefit, demanding nothing of me other than pleasure. I got a quick whiff of the coconut scent of her shampoo. Hell, the scent of coconuts would probably always make me hard after this.

  I lifted the binoculars to the sky and focused them. The craters came into view, especially along the receding edge where the earth’s shadow hid half the moon. The detail was especially sharp there, where brightness faded into pitch dark. It was breathtaking. Before last month I had never known I could see it for myself.

  “Okay, here you go.” I handed the binoculars to Zara.

  She made a soft sound when she found the moon. She was very still, taking her time, not saying a word. Pure Zara. After a contemplative silence she handed them back.

  I set the binoculars on the quilt and couldn’t resist stroking her hair with one hand. “That’s Jupiter. The big bright thing.”

  “That’s not a star?”

  “Nope. A planet. If we had a telescope, we could see some of its moons.”

  I ran my hand up under her skirt, my fingertips skimming the smooth skin of her thigh. With any of my other hookups, this would be a Big Move. A signal. A transition from conversation to sex. But I touched Zara because I liked the way she felt under my fingertips.

  The word intimacy had started to take on a different meaning for me than it had before.

  Zara lifted the binoculars again and focused on Jupiter. I was moving around too much for her to lean on me anymore, so she wriggled away from me and lay on her back, using the earth as a brace to get a steady view.

  Propping myself up on my elbows, I kissed the strip of skin where her T-shirt rode up. I nuzzled her bellybutton with my nose and then kissed my way upward, toward her breasts.

  Still focused on Jupiter, Zara shifted her hips, as if she just couldn’t help herself. She was easily the most responsive woman I’d ever fucked. To be honest—she made me feel like a sex god. Her words were standoffish, but her body couldn’t keep up the act. When she forgot to push me away, she became cuddly and affectionate.

  And I ate it up. I wasn’t used to affection. Who knew it felt so good to touch someone all the time?

  Now I kissed my way up, pushing her shirt out of my way. Wrecking her stargazing, I reached underneath her body to unhook her bra. She had small, perfect breasts, and I bent down to suck on their tips. I’d recently proven that she could come just from nipple stimulation. Or almost, anyway. I liked to suck on her until she was begging for it. Then, if I slid quickly inside, she’d come immediately, pulsing on my cock and moaning up a storm.

  Hottest. Thing. Ever.

  But tonight I had a different plan. Her short skirt had given me ideas, and my mouth was watering with anticipation. I kissed my way back down her belly and lifted the skirt. As I began to trace patterns with my lips on her thighs, my bare lower legs were spread out on the cool grass, and the night breeze kissed my skin.

  My tongue traced the line of her panties as an owl hooted in the distance.

  “Come here,” she whispered.

  “No. Busy.” I tugged the elastic down, but she didn’t help me get her panties off. “Up, baby.”

  “You want to do that here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s nobody around.” And I was hungry for it. My heart thudded while I tugged on her panties again. After a beat, she lifted her hips and let me slide them off. With a groan, I nudged her legs apart and began to drop kisses at the juncture of her thighs.

  I’ve had a lot of sex in my life, in various places. Hotels around the country. The bathroom of a jet, once. (Totally uncomfortable and not a great experience.) And I’ve had as many partners and as much variety as any guy ever needs.

  None of it came close to feeling as debauched as pushing Zara’s skirt up a blanket on that hilltop and then rubbing my lips gently back and forth against the softest part of her body. She groaned, thinking I was teasing her. And I was, I guess. But the truth was that I’d rarely gone down on anyone before Zara.

  This summer had made me realize that I had less experience with women than I’d thought. Because it was an experience to make the same woman shudder for the tenth time, because you knew exactly how she liked to be touched. It was an experience to memorize the cat-like shape of her smile.

  It was absofuckinglutely an experience to get comfortable enough with someone that you couldn’t wait to drag your tongue across her clit while she dug her fingers into your scalp.

  The breeze whispered along with Zara’s whimpers. She fought me a little. Being hyperorgasmic meant she would often try to delay it. “It’s better when I can wait,” she’d explained once, panting underneath me.

  But I wasn’t in the mood to wait. I pinned her hips to the blanket and tongued her. Then I caught her clit in my lips and sucked gently.

  The result was a breathy
cry and shaking hips. Christ, it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard, and I nearly came in my shorts as she suddenly got wetter under my tongue.

  That’s when I heard the car.

  Shit.

  I sat up fast and saw the headlights of what would turn out to be a police cruiser coming slowly up the road.

  Zara was still sucking oxygen into her lungs as I tucked her skirt into place and lifted her into my lap. I leaned her back against my chest and picked up my binoculars as a car door slammed and footsteps could be heard on the gravel.

  “Evening,” the policeman said from behind us.

  “Evening,” I answered cheerfully, raising my binoculars in the air. “Is there a problem? We’re just looking at the stars here.” I looked over my shoulder at him, and so did Zara.

  “No problem, no.” He smirked. “New hobby, Zara? Didn’t know you were into…” He paused. “Astrology?”

  Oh, buddy. Really?

  “Big hobby of mine, astronomy,” she said, then sighed.

  “Is it, now? You two have a good night.” He chuckled. Then he turned slowly and walked back to his car. Then we heard the crunch of gravel under his tires as he reversed the car to drive away.

  I kissed Zara’s neck, but she stiffened. “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing new,” she said quietly. “He was in my brother Alec’s class in high school. Now he’ll have something fun to tell the guys at poker night this week. Slutty Zara is still hanging out on Jasper Hill with the boys.”

  “Oh, fuck him!” I grumbled. “He’s driving around in a polyester uniform and a car that smells like whichever drunk last puked in it. Gossip is all he’s got. You’ve got the moon and the beer I brought you.” I pointed at the cooler we hadn’t touched.

  Her slim fingers stroked my bare knee absently. “It’s fine. It’s just a small town. Nothing ever changes. My reputation in high school was well deserved, anyway.”

  I swept my hand down her dark hair, which was shiny in the moonlight. Zara had hardly ever confided in me before. “I was a total slut in high school,” I admitted to her. “Isn’t that what high school was for?”