Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  “We both have memories here, but perhaps it’s time to make some new ones.” I can already feel the lust pulsing in my blood.

  “What kind of memories do you have in mind?” Ella’s mouth is so close to mine I can feel it when she moves her lips.

  “The really, really hot kind,” I say, and kiss her. I kiss my fiancée. I kiss Ella with that ring on her finger, and I can’t help but wonder what Dee said to her. Whatever it was, it must have been something really powerful. And it’s no wonder, I think, because she is Ella’s mother. And despite Ella not being able to see this half of the time because of all her own issues, Dee and John Goodman are good people, with their heart in the right place. And what warms my heart even more is that, once Ella and I are married, I won’t be the only Brody left anymore and, moreover, I will have a family again. I will have a wife and parents-in-law and a sister-in-law, the obligatory pain in the ass—I make a mental note to tell Nina later, when we share the good news. I won’t be an orphan anymore.

  “Let’s sit down,” I say to Ella in between kisses while my hands make their way underneath her sweater. The air is quite chilly, so it’s probably not wise to undress, but I need to feel her skin against my hands, need to feel as much of her as possible.

  The food she unearthed from the basket remains untouched as we lie down on the blanket and I kiss Ella’s neck, I inhale her scent and it mixes with the scent of the trees around us, and the muskiness of the earth and I think it’s only fitting for a biologist to do this here.

  Ella starts tugging at my shirt and I don’t mind being naked. I swim in the lake all through autumn and I can withstand lower temperatures much better than her. So I let her take off my top and my bra, and I let her look. I revel in how her eyes glint when she locks them on my breasts, how simply watching me can do that to her. I let Ella keep her sweater on, but I will need her to take off her jeans for what I have in mind. I find the button and flip it open, and the simple act of doing so sends my heart aflutter. I pull her trousers all the way off. She’s still wearing her panties—but not for long, I think.

  I crawl in between her legs and I see now that she’s wearing the panties I gave her for Valentine’s Day earlier this year. She came to this spot in the woods well-prepared.

  “Are you really giving me lingerie for Valentine’s?” she’d asked, after I’d given her the present. Just like of marriage, Ella is not a big fan of Valentine’s Day. It didn’t stop her from wearing these panties—and on this day of all days.

  I press my mouth against the gusset and I can smell her through the fabric. Her arousal turns me on as well, but I can wait. Because oh how I want Ella in this moment. How I want her for what she’s willing to overcome for me. I lick her through the fabric and I can feel how swollen her clit is. Then I can’t control myself any longer and push her panties to the side. I don’t even want to take the time to hoist them off her. Like this will do fine for me. I look down at her glistening pussy lips and I remember what I told myself after Ella left for work on Wednesday morning, and in the evening before I fell asleep, and just about every other hour until now. It’s okay if she doesn’t want to marry me. It’s okay because we’re already so good together. But now that she has said yes, I feel extraordinary, and extra worthy of bringing my tongue down to taste her most intimate parts. And even though it shouldn’t make a difference that we’re engaged now, it does.

  I let my tongue dart along her lips, teasing her entrance, then trail it up to her clit. I give her a few determined licks before tracing my tongue down again, and pushing into her. And this is not really the place to take my time with her, to make her suffer a bit for making me wait for her reply for three long days, so I suck her clit between my lips and let my tongue trill against it.

  “Oh Kay.” Ella’s hands are in my hair, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it or not, but it’s as though I can feel the engagement ring press against my scalp. This only spurs me on to lick her more frantically, until, to my surprise, Ella puts both her hands on my cheeks and pulls me away from her.

  When I look at her, she pants, “I want to feel you when I come.” The sight of her is so thrilling, so intoxicating, I can feel my clit thump against my own panties.

  “Yeah?” I quirk up my eyebrows. What if someone else decides to come up here? I think, but don’t ask. Fuck all of that. This moment is about me and Ella and if someone does walk in on us, well, then good for them.

  “Yes.” Ella’s voice is sharp but firm. “Take off your jeans,” she huffs.

  I jump up, wrestle my jeans and underwear off me, and watch how Ella throws her panties carelessly next to the blanket. I paid good money for that, I want to say, but, that too, is of no importance.

  “Straddle me,” Ella says, and who am I to contradict my future wife?

  I move toward her and present my backside to her while planting my knees on either side of her. The air is cool on my pussy, and I’m so wet I fear I might actually leak juices on Ella’s face as I sit on top of her. But then, I don’t give any more thought to things like that, because Ella’s pussy is looming in front of me again, her legs spread wide, unencumbered by Valentine’s Day panties. I lower myself and taste her again. In this position it’s much easier to suck her clit into my mouth than to penetrate her with my tongue, so I do just that. I can only focus half as much as before, though, because Ella’s tongue has launched its own assault on my clit. And fuck, all of this is too much. Ella beneath me, her tongue on my pussy, that ring on her finger, the happiness riding through my veins. My conscious mind slips away, bowing to the needs of my body. All my emotions seem to have transformed into sexual energy that is converging in my clit. I can’t think of a time when I’ve been more excited and at peace with everything. I hear birds screech above me, and I hear Ella moan below me, and I hear the sound of my own lips sucking at Ella’s clit, and the air is fresh in my nose and on my pussy, and it’s as though I lose myself for an instant and all the stress I haven’t allowed myself to feel the past three days releases at once as Ella’s tongue works my clit and her fingers dig into my ass cheeks, and I give her everything I have.

  “Oh fuck.” I fall in between Ella’s legs, and I don’t even know if she has come, that’s how far out I was. I need a few seconds to catch my breath, but as soon as I do I turn toward Ella, which is quite awkward in the position I’m in. “Christ almighty,” I mutter as I search for her face, but Ella has fallen onto her back, and she just lies there gasping for breath.

  I maneuver myself off her carefully and sit next to her, not caring that I’m fully naked and, now that the biggest thrill has worn off, I’m cooling off quickly.

  “Is this a taster for when we’re married?” I ask, as I find her eyes.

  “Orgasms in the woods in the plain light of day?” Ella says while she reaches for my hand.

  “Nu-uh.” I smile down at her. “You bossing me around.”

  We both break out into a chuckle and I try to remember when in my life I’ve been happier. I come up empty.

  * * *

  THE END

  Far from the World We Know

  About the Book

  How far must you run to escape the past?

  Laura Baker has just moved to the small Texas town of Nelson for a life of solitude and recovery after a traumatic event that has scarred her irreversibly. But her chosen isolation is difficult to maintain after she meets Tess Douglas, the charming editor of the town paper. Tess is determined to break down the walls Laura has built up around herself.

  As their friendship develops, so do their feelings for each other. Will Tess be able to get past Laura’s defences? And will Laura allow herself to love, and live, again?

  For everyone who wrote to me after reading At the Water’s Edge. We are not alone.

  One

  Laura

  I’ve left the past behind, I think, as I flatten the last cardboard box. This one held the few books I brought. I stacked them next to Aunt Milly’s on the built-in shelve
s in her living room—my living room. It’ll take some time before I can think of this house as mine, especially because it’s not—not legally anyway. Aunt Milly’s name is on the deed and she’s still very much alive, though not so much kicking anymore.

  Sweet Aunt Milly, who understood, without me having to say a word, that I needed to leave Chicago, if not for good, then at least for a long time. She’s the only person I know in Nelson, Texas. Speaking of which, it’s almost time for my daily visit to Aunt Milly at Windsor Oaks, the retirement home she now resides in. I offered—basically insisted—for her to stay in her house. It’s surely big enough for the two of us, and I work from home, so I could have taken care of her every need, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

  “It’s time for me to leave as well,” she’d said, and, in turn, I had understood her meaning in those few words.

  I put the flattened box in the garage with the rest and go in search of my running shoes. Windsor Oaks is in the center of town, about two miles from where I live. Running back and forth doesn’t come close to the distances I used to run along Lake Michigan, but it’ll do for now. I find myself exhausted after four miles these days. “This could be a result of the severe trauma you suffered,” the last doctor I visited in Chicago said. He must have been right. And then, out of nowhere, there are the flashes in my mind again. The ones I’m so powerless against. Blood pooling on the living room carpet and the sound of bone breaking, over and over again. I shake my head and refocus on tying my laces. Running is the only thing that makes that distorted movie in my brain stop.

  * * *

  “Are you taking care of my spider plant?” Aunt Milly asks, as she does every single day.

  In response, I show her a picture I’ve taken this morning on my phone.

  “How do I know you’re not showing me the same picture every day?” she asks with a grin.

  “You know because I’m your favorite niece and I wouldn’t deceive you like that.”

  “I have no choice but to believe you, but my favorite niece you are.” Her face goes blank for an instant. Every time it does, I can’t help but wonder whether she’s thinking about what I’m thinking about. About the events I asked her not to speak of anymore. That doesn’t mean every single second of it doesn’t still occupy my mind.

  “How was your run?” she asks. “It must be getting hot out there.” The temperature in Aunt Milly’s room is always exactly the same, no matter the conditions outside, and warm enough for the sweat to keep pearling on my forehead. “This is nothing,” Aunt Milly says, then falls silent again.

  I wish, for her sake, that I was the kind of person who could make endless chitchat, but that’s not me. So we often sink into a companionable silence for minutes on end, me racking my brain for a tidbit of safe information I haven’t shared with Aunt Milly yet, and, judging by how her eyelids sometimes droop, my aunt dozing off in her chair. As long as she knows she’s not alone, I think, as I always do when I fail to come up with more words.

  “Any exciting plans this weekend?” she asks, as her eyelids flutter.

  “Tending to your garden.” Although garden is a big word for the patch of overgrown grass and weeds at the back of the house. After she broke her hip last year, Aunt Milly wasn’t able to take care of it anymore.

  “It’s your garden now, dear.” By the time she gets to the word dear her voice has lost its oomph and I can tell she’s getting tired. She takes a few seconds to catch her breath. “Why don’t you go to Sam’s Bar on Saturday? It’s not good for you to be on your own all the time.” This last statement seems to have zapped the last conversational energy from her body.

  “I’m not though, am I?” I give her a kind smile. “I have you.”

  She just nods.

  “I’ll let you rest now.” I push myself out of my chair.

  “That’s okay, dear. Just stay a little while longer.” Aunt Milly closes her eyes.

  I sink back into the chair and wait until I hear her breath steady itself and she breaks into a gentle snore. Every day I come here, we perform a different variation of this conversation, and every time, when we reach this bit—contemplative for me, drowsy for her—I think exactly the same thing: being alone is good and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  * * *

  After I return home and take a quick shower, I stand in front of the fridge and realize it’s empty. I quickly push back the memory of how a not properly stocked refrigerator made Tracy feel. I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve become so lax about grocery shopping simply because I can now, then head to the supermarket. Nelson only has one and, when I first arrived, I was amazed by how spotless and brand new it looked. It’s not massive, but the aisles are wide and I never feel rushed when I push my cart through them and examine what’s on offer.

  I don’t get out much—Aunt Milly is surely correct about that—so when I do, I like to take my time. I wasn’t born a hermit. And a daily run works for me now, but I know its magic will cease to be enough soon. So I make a point of nodding at everyone I encounter, sometimes even throwing in a smile. I’m not out to make friends just yet, but having a chat with someone closer to my age range wouldn’t be a bad thing, I guess. I’m just afraid of what might slip out if I let my guard down even a little.

  I scan the vegetable aisle, pondering what to make for dinner, when another shopping cart crashes into mine.

  “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” a woman says, but she doesn’t pull her cart back. “I was rushing again, as usual.”

  “Never mind.” I give her a smile so as to reassure her that it’s really no big deal.

  The woman stares intently at me for a second too long. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” she asks. “I’ve seen you run along Main Street. I have my office there.” She paints a big smile on her face and extends a hand. “I’m Tess Douglas, managing editor of The Nelson Ledger, which basically means I do everything.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Laura.” I barely touch my palm to hers. “And yes, I am new.”

  Tess flicks a strand of hair away from her shoulders and looks at me again. “Welcome to Nelson,” she says. “Are you here to stay? Where did you move from?”

  “From Chicago. And I—I might be.” I start pulling my cart out of the way, anxious to get back to my shopping and not prolong this conversation.

  “Do you work here?” Tess quirks up her eyebrows. She really wants to know everything.

  “I’m a freelance graphic designer, so I can work pretty much anywhere.”

  “Oh!” She clasps a hand over her mouth. “You might just be what I’ve been looking for, Laura,” she exclaims, her voice going all high-pitched.

  I should be amused by this comment, but it terrifies me instead. What does this woman want from me? I pull my cart a bit farther away from her to indicate that I want to move on.

  “TNL—The Nelson Ledger—has been ready for a makeover since I started working for it in 2006… Well, actually, come to think of it, long before that, but I digress. I finally scraped a budget together and I’m ready to start talking about it to people like you.”

  “I’m very sorry, Tess,” I say with a firm voice. “I’m currently not looking for new clients.”

  Tess’s posture deflates a little. Then she inhales, and it’s as though the oxygen she sucks in instantly replenishes her bravado. “Maybe you can recommend someone then?”

  This woman really will not let up. “Maybe,” I mutter.

  She reaches into her purse and gets out a business card. “Here. Call or email me if you think of someone… or when you do have time for new clients.” She follows up with a wide smile, baring a row of ultra-white teeth.

  “Sure.” I take the card and, without looking at it, drop it into the side pocket of my jacket. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “Yes,” Tess, who suddenly seems a bit flustered, says. “Take care now.” With that, she spins her cart around and heads into the opposite direction.

  Full on much, I think, as
I follow her with my gaze. She’s tall and her full hips sway a little as she walks. Her blond hair comes to well below her shoulders and… her stare unsettled me a little. Perhaps I could have been more polite, but she made me feel so cornered, what with her cart blocking mine—though I could have just turned around.

  I refocus my attention on the vegetables to steady myself. I think I’ll have sweet potatoes with my dinner tonight.

  Two

  Tess

  “Average height, short dark hair, unfeminine clothes?” Megan asks.

  I nod, recalling Laura’s jeans and leather jacket. It looked and smelled brand new.

  “I’ve seen her around. I think she’s living in Millicent Johnson’s house,” Megan says.

  I shake my head then roll my eyes. “In true Tess Douglas fashion, I put my foot in it again. I came on so strong, she practically ran away from me.”

  “But your gaydar pinged?” my sister asks.

  “Not just pinged, Megs; it shrieked. Loudly.”

  “And you gave her your card?” Megan keeps repeating everything I said.

  Megan’s husband, Scott, walks into the den. “What are you gals talking about?”

  “Nothing that concerns you, hon,” Megan says. “Girl talk.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll make myself scarce then. Jesus.” He mock-sighs, gives Megan a quick kiss on the top of the head, and walks into the hallway. “I have a game to watch, anyway,” he shouts from around the corner. “I don’t have time for your girl talk.”

  Megan chuckles. “That man.”

  “He’s a good one, Megs,” I say.

  “Don’t I know it.” Megan leans against her chair, as if she’s pondering all the excellent qualities of her husband and the father of their three children, who are currently at our parents’ ranch. Which is also still my home. “But back to you, sis. Judging by the enthusiasm you walked in here with, I gather you’d like to see the mysterious Laura again.”