by Lori Wilde
He kissed her forehead.
She kissed his neck.
He gave her another smile, this one less cocky, more endearing. “How have you imagined this moment unfolding?”
She ducked her head, peeked at him from underneath her lashes. She’d spent all summer dreaming of this moment. “I’m a writer. I have a creative imagination. I’ve pictured this hundreds of different ways.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“We’re going to reenact my fantasy?”
“You’ve waited this long, sweetheart, you should have it exactly the way you want it.”
“My fantasy involves the cheetah scarf.”
“Ah,” he said. “No wonder you wore it tonight. Where did it get off to?”
“It’s in the foyer.”
He set her in the middle of the bed, kissed her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
She watched him move, his supreme buttocks flexing, and her heart went with him. What a sight. What a view. What a man.
The moment was so aching sweet. This was her first sexual experience, and she was miserably, gloriously in love.
Melancholy pierced her heart, but she shook it off. No. She wasn’t going to let herself get sentimental. Nor was she going to back out. If he never loved her the way she loved him, it was going to be okay. It was truly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Her heart would survive this, and would be richer for having known him.
She went up on her knees in the middle of the bed, angling her head to quickly check herself out in the mirror. Her hair lay every which way, and her lips were slightly swollen from the kissing.
And there was no missing those scars, slicing right down the middle of her chest, visceral evidence of her pain. Okay, so she wasn’t a beauty queen, but Rowdy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to think she was gorgeous.
She shifted her weight from knee to knee, wondering if she should go brush her hair or her teeth or both. Should she get under the covers? It felt weird being naked in full view.
Before she could decide, he came back into the room, completely naked too, carrying the cheetah scarf and a box of Magnum condoms.
For the first time, she got a good look at him. She’d known he was big. But an erection safely tucked away inside his pants was a whole other story when it was right out there in the open, on proud display. Omigod, he was beyond magnificent.
No wonder the women were gaga for him.
Her mouth went dry and her pulse revved like a sports car engine. She pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth, shook out her hands.
His gaze hooked on her neck where her pulse fluttered at the hollow of her throat. “Are you certain your heart is healthy enough for sexual activity? Did you check with your cardiologist to be on the safe side?”
She laughed at his earnestness. “My doctor has given me a clean bill of health. I’m good to go.”
“But if you’ve never had sex, how can you be sure?”
“Look at it this way, think of all the fuel it would add to the flame of your ladies’ man reputation if you killed me with your . . .” She trailed off, dropped her gaze to his erection.
“You can say the word, Breeanne. Go ahead. Give it a try. I know how much you like words,” he teased.
“What did other women call it?”
“Everyone finds their own way.” He chuckled, and the sound was music. “You could be straightforward and say penis. But it lacks flair, and you go in for gentler words. You could say cock, but it’s a bold choice. You need more sheet miles for that.”
“Sheet miles.” She giggled.
A sheepish shrug humped his shoulders. “There’s always dick. Which falls somewhere between penis and cock. Those are the three biggies. There’s dong, but that’s got a sixth grade ring to it. Or you could go redneck and call it a pecker.”
“Now you’re just poking fun at me.”
“Never,” he said. “But poker is an option.”
“Oh, the possibilities.”
“There’s prick, but that tends to be more of an insult. A woman might use that if she was dissatisfied.” He wrinkled his nose, shook his head. “Let’s toss that one. You’re going to be satisfied. One-hundred-percent guaranteed.”
“Big boast,” she teased.
“Nope. Honest truth, not ego. I won’t stop till you get what you need. So what’s it gonna be?”
She mentally thumbed through her own vocabulary, searching for a word that wouldn’t make her blush. “Hmm. How about Johnson? It’s a name. Sounds substantial, and upstanding.”
“Johnson?” Amusement yanked up the corners of his eyes like invisible strings. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“For the time being, yes. What do you call Mr. Johnson?”
“How do you know I call him anything?” His eyes twinkled, full of mischief.
How she loved this side of him. “Don’t all men nickname their . . . um . . . you know?”
“Not all men do anything.”
“You’re right. Hyperbole. So you don’t have a name for it . . . him?”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “But the closest thing I’ve come to naming my”—his devilish eyes met hers—“Johnson . . . is Little Rowdy, but feel free to try names at random, and we’ll see what sticks.”
“Little?” She put a palm to her mouth. “Now that’s a misnomer.”
“Sweetheart, you are priceless. One in a million.” He leaned over to kiss the corner of her mouth, a sideways kiss that was as unique as he was. He crawled up onto the mattress with her.
They were face-to-face, both of them on their knees in the middle of the bed. He had the cheetah scarf wrapped around one hand, a condom clutched in the other. None of her fantasy scenarios went quite like this. It felt a little confrontational, sort of gunfight at the OK Corral–ish, except that he was the only one with a gun in the fight.
“Gun?” She said what popped into her head.
“Huh?”
“Another name for Mr. Johnson. Pistol’s good. What do think of pistol?”
“Naw, he’s a lover not a fighter.” His eyes held hers and she forgot to breathe again. She did that a lot when she was around him. Should she have talked to her cardiologist before embarking on this adventure?
He dropped the scarf onto his erection, flexed his muscle so that the scarf bobbed and fluttered.
Laughing, she reached for the scarf, but he snatched it away from her, wrapped it around his hand.
What was he intending on doing with it?
He scooted closer. She sat back on her heels, looked up at him.
His left hand, the one with the cheetah scarf wrapped around it, traveled up the nape of her neck, his fingers spread, sliding through her hair. He pulled her nearer and they kissed deeply, quickly finding the rhythm they’d lost in conversation.
Finally, he pulled away. “Let’s take our time. We have the whole rest of the weekend. Let’s make it last.”
“Yes.” She nodded eagerly. “Could we make love until the sun comes up?”
“We’ll see.”
“See about what?”
“We’ll have to keep an eye on your stamina, and if we plan on lasting until dawn, we have to pace ourselves.”
“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Close your eyes,” he said.
She didn’t question him. Simply obeyed. He was the master lover, and she the love slave. He was the sultan, and she his willing concubine. He rubbed Aladdin’s lamp and she was the genie. His wish was her command.
“Aladdin’s lamp,” she said.
“What?”
“Another name for Mr. Johnson. Because when you rub it, magic comes out.”
“You gotta stop making me laugh, Breezy. If we never start making love, we won’t be able to keep at it until dawn.”
“I thought Aladdin’s lamp was clever.”
“Too clever for your own good. Close your eyes.”
Slowly
, she lowered her eyelids. Felt the silky scarf touch her face. His fingers tied a knot in the material behind her head, making a blindfold of it.
“But I want to see you,” she protested.
“First,” he said, “you feel.”
She gulped. What did he mean by that?
He took her hand in his, and guided her to Not-So-Little Rowdy. Her fingers grazed flesh that was at once brick firm and velvety soft. She had no idea a penis could feel so plush, and yet at the same time so hard.
“You . . .” she whispered, her fingers breaking free from his hand to go exploring on their own. “You.”
“Me,” he whispered back, his warm mouth against her ear again.
The shape of him intrigued her. More contrasts—straight but rounded, smooth yet ridged.
He was right. Her sense of touch was far more acute with the blindfold on.
She slipped her hand down to cup the heavy sacs beneath his shaft.
“Easy there, sweetheart.” His deep voice vibrated through her. “The boys are sensitive. They appreciate a light touch.”
She explored him for the longest. Taking her time. Making him groan. She loved it.
“If you want to last until dawn, you’re going to have to stop touching me now.” He manacled her wrist, and she let go.
She reached for the blindfold.
“No,” he said. “Leave it on for now.”
It felt weird to touch him, taste him, hear him, and smell him, but be unable to see him.
His lips touched her bare breasts, and she let out a cry. How sweet, the hot suction of his mouth. While his mouth played with her nipples, his hand slid down her belly. Her body went rigid, anticipating. Slowly, he stroked over her hip, the warmth of his caress crept under her skin, burned a fever through her.
Tenderly, he touched the warm, moist spot between her thighs and she came undone. His mouth was hot on her shoulder, her collarbone, her breasts, her belly. Everywhere. He was everywhere.
“Ooh, ooh.”
“You like that, huh?” Pride tinged his rich, deep voice. Using his finger, he played her as if her body was a finely crafted instrument, and he was a virtuoso.
He was all hands, and lips, and tongue, and teeth. He smelled of earth, and sky—solid, infinite, abundant. His strong masculine fingers combed through the tuft of hair at the apex of her thighs.
“Are you disappointed that I don’t wax there?”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“A lot of women my age do.”
“You’re not them,” he said. “And I like you just the way you are.”
His kiss silenced her, and she drank from his lips, quenched and nourished. He tortured her with his caress, investigating her with his fingers. Touching her in places that made her cry out with sheer joy.
She arched her back, pushed into his hand. He murmured happy noises. She parted her thighs, eager for his exploration. Her body was slick, hot, ready for the finger he slipped gently inside her. He moved his hand rhythmically, taking her back to the delicious place where his mouth had taken her before.
Behind the scarf, colors popped on the backs of her eyelids. She could smell them. Red was the fragrance of bricks and cinnamon—spicy, dusty, fertile scent. Green smelled of limeade, the pond water they’d skinny-dipped in. Yellow gave off the aroma of butter, and sun, beachy and hot. The more he touched, the more colors exploded, the more scents she smelled. Pink bubblegum. Blue smelled of backyard pools. Brown smelled of creosote. Black stoked the fragrance of patent leather.
His fingers drove her to the top of the mountain, and once she got there, she looked into the abyss, and discovered there was only one way down—over the mountain and into the void. She let go. Let him take command.
She hung suspended on the peak. A roller-coaster ride stopped in the middle of a segment—dangling, waiting, frustrated that she was going to lose the sensation before she crested.
And then . . .
Chaos—neon neurons firing over pathways, electrical impulses sparking up nerve centers, chemical signals racing headlong to oblivion. Any, and all, primal desires clamoring for connection.
She fell, fast and long. A thin keen broke from her lips, and she was gone.
CHAPTER 26
When you’re in a slump, it’s almost as if you
look out at the field and it’s one big glove.
—VANCE LAW
Rowdy made waffles at dawn, and they ate breakfast in bed, dribbling syrup on each other in interesting places and licking it off.
“These are delicious,” she declared, waving her fork around as sunlight peeked in through the partially open blinds. “I’m glad I picked a lover who can cook. No runs to IHOP at six in the morning.”
“You’re delicious,” he said, dipping his pinky in the syrup on his plate, dabbling it behind her ear, and proceeding to kiss it off. “Mmm.”
“That’s not me! That’s the maple syrup.”
He laughed. “You’re so much fun.”
“So are you.”
He chucked her under the chin. “Are we going to spend the day in bed together?”
“I’ve been holding my breath.”
He took the plates away, stacked them on the bedside table, and dragged her down under the covers. He swept his mouth along her naked bare belly, delighted to her laughter, a sweet-pitched sound of glee. He was light-headed, dizzy with the taste of her on his tongue, and dazzled that he was her first lover. He’d never been with a virgin before. It was as novel for him as it was for her. With Breeanne, he felt fresh and new again. His first time on the mound as a professional pitcher, he felt the same, felt . . .
Invincible.
He reached for another condom, flipped her over onto all fours.
“Ooh, doggy style. Fun!”
Her innocent enthusiasm was catching, and he had to think of baseball scores so he could keep things slow and gentle. While things were still new for her, she needed it this way. Later, he would teach her just how pleasurable her body could be.
For hours, they dozed, and made love. Talked, and made loved. Ate, and made love.
They took a bath together in the claw-foot bathtub and then took their time drying each other off. Breeanne bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t polished her nails for him. He found a bottle of red nail polish someone had left behind and coaxed her into letting him paint her toes. Kneeling on the bathroom floor while she propped her foot on the side of the claw and slowly dragging polish over her nails was one of the most erotic things he’d ever done in his life.
Mischievous Breeanne insisted on painting his toenails to match hers. And he went along with it because it made her so happy. Giggling, she lined her feet up beside his and took a picture on her smart phone, and when she said, “This is so going on Facebook,” he didn’t protest.
Obligingly, she then removed the polish from his nails, and he noticed she didn’t ask why he had women’s nail polish at his house. He was glad of that. He didn’t want to talk about the other women he’d been with.
Not with her.
Not for today.
Not ever.
In fact, he had an immediate impulse to grab up a trashcan and run through the house throwing away everything that belonged to other women.
He carried her back to bed, curled his body around hers, pulled her up snug against him, and rested his nose in her hair, her delicate scent turning him inside out. He liked this. Liked being with her.
They cuddled, spooning together. Sometime in the early evening, he woke from a nap to see her lying with her hands stacked beneath her cheek, staring at him. He smiled and reached for her, but she didn’t smile back and resisted when he tried to draw her closer.
“What is it?” he asked. What had he done to displease her? A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek, and when he moved to brush it away, he was alarmed to find his hand was shaking. “Breeanne?”
She sat, the sheet falling away from her, revealing her lovely breast marked by s
cars. He wanted to press his lips to those scars, kiss away her pain, but she pulled the sheet up to her neck and leveled him a look so mournful he was instantly sick to his stomach.
“What is it?” Had she thought about what he’d told her last night and decided she simply couldn’t be with a cheater?
“Rowdy,” she said after a long moment when he stopped breathing. “I’ve got something I need to tell you, but I’m afraid it might scare you away.”
If any other woman had said something like that, he’d already have one leg in his pants, hopping out the door. But Breeanne was different. He couldn’t imagine anything she could possibly say that would scare him off.
He plumped his pillow against the headboard and sat up beside her. He took her hand in his. She was trembling too. Now that did scare him. “What wrong, sweetheart?”
“It’s about the cheetah scarf.”
“What about it?”
“You know how only you and I can feel that it’s soft?”
“Yeah.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. Her skin was as soft as the scarf.
“There’s more to it than that.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, but okay.”
“I don’t want you to think that I believe this story, or anything, but seeing as how this is Stardust, it’s going to get out sooner or later. And I’d rather it come from me.”
He didn’t know what to think. “What story?”
She told him how she’d come to find the scarf in an old hope chest. About the odd old woman she’d bought the chest from. About the prophecy written on the chest. About the wish she’d made for her writing career and how it had come true. Then she told him about the prophecy that was carved into the box that the scarf had come in.
“ ‘One soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole,’ ” she quoted. “My sisters think it means that if two people feel the same thing they’re soul mates, but that’s silly. Right?”
Her voice went up on a hopeful note, as if the last thing she wanted was for him to confirm that the quote was indeed silly.
He didn’t look at her, just tightened his grip on her hand and kept rubbing her knuckles, a storm of emotions whizzing through him. If any other woman on the face of the earth had told him this strange story about a soul mate–detecting scarf, he would have been long gone. But this was Breeanne and that made all the difference.
