by Anne Calhoun
“Here. You do this,” and guided his hands to her breasts so she could palm his fine, firm ass and pull him into each stroke. He groaned, raw and hot, and picked up his pace, giving a choked shout when she lifted her head and licked the tip of his cock the next time it popped free of the tight channel between her breasts.
“You can finish like that,” she said, looking up at him. “If you want.”
He stared at her, obviously stupid with lust at the moment, then pulled back to sprawl over her, trapping his cock against her belly. “No,” he said, and kissed her, unapologetic and demanding. “Want to be inside you.”
She opened her mouth to him, letting him taste the fading musky salt of his precome while their oiled bellies slid hotly together. “Now’s good,” she said. “Now is really good.”
He was so close to her slick sex, and for the first time in her life she understood the primitive, bodily demand for now, bare, yes. A couple of inches lower, an opportunistic cant to his hips, and he’d be inside her the way she wanted him inside her. Before she knew what her body was doing, she’d angled her knee and dug her heel into the back of her thigh.
“I want that, too, but not yet, not yet, it’s not…” he groaned and pushed away, showing her exactly how much stronger he was, and scrabbled in the nightstand.
“You make me want things I can’t have,” she whispered as his slick fingers grappled with the condom wrapper.
“We can have whatever we want,” he said, his gaze hot and dark above her.
She liked the sentiment, even if it was a pipe dream, and especially liked the dangerous thrill it sparked inside her, so she took pity on him and opened the condom wrapper herself and rolled it down his shaft, taking extra care to tease him a little, smooth her hand down the straining flesh, caress the sweet spot behind his testicles as she did. A muscle in his cheek twitched and his cock flexed in her hand as he leaned forward and nuzzled against her ear, her cheek, her open mouth. She got the condom on by feel, the emptiness inside her growing more hollow by the second.
His skin as slick as hers, he shifted between her thighs, then laced their fingers together and nudged his way inside her. He bore most of his weight on his knees and forearms and kept his head lifted, watching her face as he took possession of her body.
“Look at me,” he murmured when her eyelids drifted down. “Charlie. Look at me.”
Her heart climbed into her throat as she obeyed, swamped with swirling emotion. Desire. Vulnerability. Fear. Joy. She looked at him, both desperately afraid he would see what she felt, understand it, and just as desperately afraid he wouldn’t. Hot tears stung her eyes, collected in the corners, but didn’t trickle down her temples.
He stopped. “Does it hurt? We’ve been at it like…”
Like we’re kids. Except they didn’t do this when they were kids, and now they were making up for lost time. While her body didn’t hurt, her heart ached, but she was barely able to articulate her feelings when she wasn’t naked, slack from a full body massage and yet thrumming with tension.
This wasn’t about feelings. “No,” she said.
Inch by glorious hard inch slid in until his hips pressed hard against hers, until she couldn’t breathe. He took her like that, slow, calm, steady, kissing her when her eyes closed, looking deep into her eyes when they opened. As the minutes passed and the tension coiled hot and tight inside her, she found she craved the eye contact as much as the kisses.
He didn’t stop when she came, thrust through the contractions. Only after her muscles went slack did he release her hands so she could wrap herself around him while he tipped over the edge.
She drifted on a haze of endorphins while he cleaned up, physically unable to get out of bed and take a shower after the massage and the sex. “Athletic shower sex doesn’t turn you into a puddle of goo but a massage does?”
One corner of her mouth lifted in response. “Are you staying?”
“Depends on how early you’re getting up.”
“I’m teaching a basketball fundamentals class at the East Side Y at nine.”
“Do you ever sleep in?”
“Sundays,” she murmured. “Sundays I don’t work out. Sometimes I don’t even leave the house. You should hang around for a Sunday.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said, and crawled under the covers, groaning as his bare skin made contact with the sheets.
She was half asleep when he spoke again, his voice aching with a pain she never would have guessed he could harbor. “I wish it had been me.”
* * *
Jamie stood with his brother on the sidelines of the East Side Y basketball court watching Charlie and her two assistants—Coach Grace and Coach Lyssa—lead a group of elementary school kids through a co-ed basketball fundamentals class. The kids, all somewhere in that “not baby but not teenager” pack that Jamie found difficult to label, vied for attention from Charlie and her assistants; more importantly, her two high school girls blossomed in the leadership roles. Jamie could see them hold themselves a little more self-consciously, aware of the role they were playing in the kids’ lives, proud of the opportunity, eager to help and to please Charlie. All these subtle things she did—watching Grace intently as she talked the kids through a layup; demonstrating respect, attention; showing the give-and-take between adults and kids. It was almost enough to get his mind off something he rarely thought about: regrets.
Almost.
Normally he didn’t waste a second on regrets. What was done was done, couldn’t be undone. All he could do was learn from his decisions and go forward more aware of who he was, what he wanted. But this was different from a mistake. This was an ache deep inside his chest for something he’d not been able to have, an opportunity gone forever. The chance to be Charlie Stannard’s first lover was gone, and he ached with loss and a simmering anger, not with her, but with himself. Other men meant so much to her, taught her everything, and not just sex. Food, wine, trips. Life. They’d had a decade of Charlie’s life, a decade he’d never have.
Most of all, he regretted what he’d said last night. Because she’d said nothing at all in response. Her breathing caught ever so slightly, maybe a slight hitch as she sank into sleep, or maybe a tightly controlled reaction. Either way, she hadn’t brought it up that morning.
No regrets, he told himself firmly. He’d make a future with Charlie, no matter what.
“Earth to Jamie,” Ian said.
“Yeah,” Jamie answered, still focused on the game. The boys were all over the court, while the girls listened closely. They were more tentative, too, paying attention to her instructions, taking careful shots. When she was teaching them about offense and defense, she guided them with her hands on their shoulders and a smile on her face.
“We’re on for the meet at the Met tonight,” Ian said, his voice low. “You remember what she looks like?”
“Yeah,” Jamie said again, somewhat absently. He’d had eyes only for Charlie when they were kids, but Eve Webber was an unforgettable girl. He had no doubt she’d grown into an unforgettable woman. They’d known her peripherally because her brother had been a basketball star, gone on to play for Duke, turned down a shot at the pros to go to law school. “We’ve got this. Relax.”
“I’ll relax when it’s over,” Ian said.
“I thought she’d agreed to be an informant. Don’t you trust her?” Jamie asked. He could barely hear his brother over the organized chaos of balls bouncing, whistles blowing, and coaches talking. Parents chattered quietly on the bleachers, and younger kids ran along the sidelines playing an impromptu game of hide and seek. No one could overhear them.
“I trust her as much as I trust anyone,” Ian said.
Jamie snorted.
“It’s not just that. Talk on the street is there’s a hit out on her.”
Jamie’s head swiveled to look at Ian. “On Eve?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve got this, Ian.” His brother was a good cop, which meant he paid att
ention to his instincts, had a healthy dose of paranoia, and didn’t let down his guard. This was Ian’s op. All Jamie had to do was follow orders, and try not to think about should-have, could-have, would-have. Or Charlie in that deep pink dress, her hair loose around her shoulders, in those killer heels.
Ian’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen, then said, “I’ve got to take this. I’ll meet you at the car. We’ve got more boxes to go through.”
“Catch you later,” Jamie said.
Charlie blew her whistle and the kids all dropped down to sit on their basketballs. “Sharks and minnows!” she called out. “Who wants to be my sharks?”
Eight hands shot into the air. Charlie picked out a smaller boy and a tall, talented girl while her assistants herded the other kids into a line against the far wall. The goal of the game was for the minnows, lined up against the wall, to dribble to the other wall while the sharks, also dribbling, tried to tag them. Kids were ducking and weaving away from each other, with varying levels of ball control, some bouncing the balls off their feet while others had an instinctive awareness of the ball’s relationship to their bodies, but all with big grins on their faces.
“Dribble low, bend your knees, get your backsides out,” Charlie called out, her tone firm but encouraging. “You’re reaching. Don’t reach!”
They played a short game, the coaches guiding kids into a basic zone defense to protect the four corners of their “house” while the opposing team tried to get open. Only a couple of kids scored, but they seemed to be getting the idea. When the practice ended, Charlie called them all in and held out her hand for all the kids and assistant coaches to pile on. “On three, basketball. One, two, three!”
“Basketball!” the kids chorused.
“Have fun out there!” Charlie said, then caught Jamie’s eye. He smiled at her, waiting until the parents collected their offspring.
“You want us to raise the hoops, Coach?” Grace called to Charlie.
“Yes, please,” Charlie said. “They’ve got open gym all afternoon.”
Flashing covert glances at them, the girls got the poles used to raise and lower the hoops.
“Hey,” Jamie said.
“Hi,” Charlie responded. “What are you doing here?”
He gave her a look, just a look, enough to make her blush. “Okay,” she said. “Dumb question.”
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said lightly, and held out her hand. He automatically looked down at her fingers, strong and tough from a lifetime on the court. Three fingers had hangnails. “I’m getting a mani-pedi, remember?”
He smiled. “It’s not a root canal.”
“Have you ever gotten one? They push back your cuticles and snip them with tiny sharp scissors.”
“Oooh,” he said, mock-serious. “Sounds painful.”
“I just don’t like people messing with me. My hair, my makeup, my fingers and toes. Then I’m getting a trim. Grace said I’ve got split ends,” she said, giving the end of her ponytail a sidelong glare.
He thought about how she used her body as a shield and battering ram to protect the ball, how she’d throw it to the floor, into the wall or other players. He thought about all the ways he’d touched her, how maybe the way she went boneless under his hands from the massage was the most intimate thing she’d done. He let desire simmer in his eyes, watched her stop breathing for a long moment.
“Present company excluded,” she added. “And don’t look at me like that in front of my players.”
“Everyone’s going to be looking at you tonight,” he said.
She shrugged dismissively. “You walk into a room in fuchsia, people are going to look.”
“At you, Charlie. NCAA championship winner. European championship winner. You going to wear your rings?”
“I am,” she said, looking right into his eyes. “So the girls know what they can do and be if they work hard and stay smart. Champions. I have to go,” she said, and zipped up her hoodie.
“See you later,” he called to her retreating back, making it a promise.
* * *
Ian drove them to yet another hole in the wall BBQ joint, then home, where they ate ribs and fries and fritters while sorting through more childhood toys and mementos. Ian left to go back to his apartment to shave and shower. Jamie did the same, then inspected his uniform for any hint of a stain or a dulled crease, then laid it all out, the undershirt, the rows of medals and commendations, and put on each piece. He paused to examine his reflection in the mirror with a critical eye.
It meant so much to him, being a SEAL. It was his life, the career he’d chosen for love of country and love of the brotherhood. He’d wanted this, had it, and had no regrets. Back then it hadn’t been a choice between Charlie and the Navy. It wasn’t now, either. He was a SEAL. He’d find a way to have both.
“The only easy day was yesterday,” he said to his reflection, then trotted down the stairs.
“You look very nice,” his mother said, brushing at the backs of his shoulders. She wore an elegant suit in a shade of lavender that matched his father’s pocket square. He’d learned to love and respect the uniform from his father, who substituted a sharp suit and wingtips for the police chief’s uniform when he retired from his first career and started his second in politics. That’s how he knew this could work. He’d seen it done, even if Charlie hadn’t. All she had to do was what was hardest for her to do: trust him.
He rode with his parents to the Garden Club’s Art Deco building, situated in the middle of the park they maintained for the city. The beds lining the brick walk to the front doors were in full bloom, riotous color sprawling at ground level and rising along trellises. His mother stopped to greet Helen Powell, holding court in a cluster of people he actually knew from the present day. Helen’s grandson—Jamie’s right-hand man and fellow Navy SEAL, Jack Powell—was already there, with Jack’s best buddy on the team, Keenan Parker, in the cluster of people around Helen.
“How’s it going?” Jack asked, holding hands with a woman sporting a serious case of road rash under her fancy wrap. Jamie blinked. He’d never seen Jack hold hands with a woman before.
“Fine. You?”
“Great,” Jack said, beaming. “Couldn’t be better. This is Erin Kent.”
“Ma’am,” Jamie said.
Keenan Parker appeared with his fingers wrapped around four bottles of beer, which he distributed to Jack, Erin, and a woman who could only be Jack’s sister and Helen’s granddaughter. Keenan wore a navy suit and a tie. He draped his arm around Rose’s shoulders and gave her a quick kiss. Jamie raised an eyebrow.
“Turkey,” Keenan said succinctly. “I’ll tell you about it later. Take this,” he added, offering Jamie his bottle of beer.
“Thanks, but keep it. I’ll get one of my own,” Jamie said, scanning the crowd. The average height of females in attendance skewed to the tall side, thanks to the current and former basketball players, but none of them were wearing a standout shade of fuchsia. He turned to scan the far end of the party, stretching through the flower beds and tulle-draped trellises, and saw most of Charlie’s players, but not Charlie.
“Looking for someone?” Jack asked.
“Yeah,” he said, then turned back to the entrance again.
His heart stopped. Charlie stood on the wide-plank patio stretching the length of the building. Her hair, normally a pretty blonde, caught the sun like someone had streaked gold along the strands, and hung in tousled sexy waves around her face. She’d done her makeup, too, a little more mysterious than he’d seen back at the high school, something with her eyes that turned them violet, a barely there shade of pink on her lips.
Jack was talking, then Keenan, and he knew from the tone whatever they were saying was at his expense, but he was out of fucks to give because a big, powerful fist had reached into his chest and squeezed, heart and lungs and diaphragm and stomach all crammed together, none of them working the way they were supposed to. He love
d her so goddamn much. If this month didn’t work, then he’d come at it again, come home every leave he had, even if the travel time left him with twenty-four of a forty-eight with her. He wasn’t quitting until she was his, forever.
“Who’s that?” Keenan asked.
“That’s Charlie Stannard. She was a starting point guard on the championship team, and coaches the Lady Knights now,” Jack’s sister, Rose, said.
“Hm,” Keenan responded politely.
“Starting power forward,” Jamie corrected absently. “She could clear space under the basket like nobody’s business, and holds the school record for rebounds, boys or girls. She won the NCAA championship her junior and senior year in college, and started on the French team that won the European championship a couple of years ago.”
“Hm,” Keenan repeated, this time with the respect Charlie deserved.
Making his rounds of the assembled local dignitaries, retired teachers, administrators, and coaches, Jamie snagged a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing server and found Charlie under a rose trellis, Grace and the tall, silent Lyssa at her side. Grace tugged Lyssa away, leaving Charlie and Jamie alone.
In place of the kiss he wanted to give her, he handed her a glass of champagne.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You look amazing.”
“I can do makeup and hair,” she replied. “I just don’t usually do it. Have you been catching up with the guys?”
“Yeah,” he said, distracted by the novelty of looking up into a woman’s face. “I lost touch with most of them after we all graduated.”
“I stayed in touch,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “It’s easy to keep friendships going with Skype, Facebook, text.”
“But it’s like the last ten years never happened.”
“This is true.”
“Got a second? I want you to meet some friends of mine.”
“Sure,” she said, and followed him back to the loose cluster of people.
He introduced her to Keenan and Rose, then to Jack and his date, Erin, and from there to Jack’s grandmother and a whole subset of Lancaster society. He watched her, knowing the strong lift of her chin hid her lifelong awareness of being from the East Side rather than from the Hill. But when he saw her step back and gesture for Lyssa and Grace to join them, then introduce them to Helen, he knew what she was doing. She carried deeply rooted shame that made walking through the Garden Club’s pristine white doors so hard for her, but she never stopped setting an example for her players. They had earned the right to be here, regardless of their families’ lives, their poverty, their uncertain futures. If she could do it, so could they.
