Then I remember. She's vulnerable. She needs my help.
I pull back suddenly, but she reaches for me, trying to keep her lips to mine. I stop her by placing my fingertips to her mouth – though, it's really hard to do.
“We can't do this, Celeste,” I say.
“Why not?” she says. “I want it. I want you, Grant. After everything you've done for me – I want you.”
“I can't,” I say softly.
“Don't you want me, too?” she asks. “I see it in your eyes. Let's not deny ourselves. What's the point of that? I mean, if this whole episode has taught me anything, it's that life can't be taken for granted because it can be snatched from you, just like that.”
God, she's right. I do want her. My cock aches in my jeans, pressing against the zipper and begging for release. The idea of being with her, of taking her right here on my couch, certainly has its appeal, but I stop myself. It's more difficult than I care to admit, but I push away all those thoughts. I can't take advantage of her like that. I simply can't do it.
I stand up, and Celeste stands alongside me. She looks shaken and embarrassed. Her cool cheeks are flushed, and she suddenly looks like she wants to crawl into a hole.
“I'm sorry, you're right,” she says. “I don't know what got into me. I guess my emotions are running high. I just needed some comfort, and you're so –”
She stops and shakes her head, not finishing the comment. Probably for the best.
“I'm going to take a shower,” I say. “I'll be right back.”
“I think I'm going to take a nap, if you don't mind,” she says. “I'm feeling pretty mentally beat up after this morning.”
“Go for it,” I tell her.
We share a look, and those flames of desire burn brightly inside of me again, but I force myself to walk away from her. The bathroom is connected to the bedroom, so Celeste follows me in. She slips off her jeans, leaving just the oversized sweatshirt, but I try not to look at her as I get some fresh clothes for myself. She climbs into my bed, wearing nothing but my shirt and panties, and my cock twitches in my pants despite my best effort to control myself.
God, she's not making this easy for me. Not at all. But I do what I have to do, grabbing some clean clothes before I lock myself away in the bathroom. Once she's out of my sight, and I'm inside the shower, I turn it on cold, hoping to distract me from my throbbing erection and all the thoughts swimming around in my head.
The water is incredibly, startlingly cold, but it’s not enough. I need to clear my head, to help myself stay in control. Knowing there's only one way I'm going to be able to do that, I take my cock in my hand and start to stroke it. Leaning forward, bracing myself against the shower wall with my other hand, I close my eyes, and let my mind run wild.
Even with the cold water running over my body, the blood flows to my dick. Of course, my first thought is of the beautiful woman in my bed, even as I try to push her out of my mind. I shouldn't think of her like that, I tell myself, but I can't help it. She's ingrained in my head.
I picture us kissing on the couch, but in my head, this time I don't pull away. This time, my hands wander over her body, lingering over her breasts. She sucks in her breath, her back arching. A moan escapes her lips.
“Please,” she whimpers.
I push her back onto the couch, hovering above her and staring into those gorgeous baby blues. Her cheeks are flushed, and she continues moaning, wrapping her legs around my body and pulling me into her. In my fantasy, the clothes come off quickly. Before I know it, I'm thrusting myself into her, my hand gripping my shaft tighter as I imagine penetrating her, burying myself deep into her body.
I can't control myself any longer. I stroke myself long, hard and fast, imagining fucking her until she screams out my name over and over again. Imagining the feel of her body pressed to mine, the feel of my cock so deep inside of her. I fantasize about the way she feels, the way she smells, the way she tastes. It only makes me want her more.
God, I want to feel her from the inside, to have her body wrapped around me. It's wrong, so wrong, but as I stroke myself, it sounds like the best idea in the world. My balls tighten to my body as I imagine her coming hard around my cock, her eyes growing larger and wider as pleasure washes through her.
That's all it takes to push me over the edge. My legs buckle with the force of my orgasm, and even as I do my best to stifle my voice, I groan louder than intended Even though it can never happen, it feels so good and real – and, at least, provides me some temporary relief.
Chapter Six
Celeste
I lay in bed, trying to sleep, but am not having much luck with it. I'm mentally drained, but I'm not tired. Not yet, at least. I just don't know what else to do but sleep – and I can't even do that very well right now. I roll over and listen to the water running from the shower. Imagining Grant naked causes a tingle down below. I smile as I remember the way his lips felt pressed against mine. The way they tasted. My smile grows wider remembering the way his beard scratched against my face as we kissed. It wasn't the right thing to do, no – but I wanted it. I still want him, and I know he wants me.
Another sound from the bathroom catches my attention. Is that – no, it couldn't be. I listen closer. I’m positive that I can hear Grant's moans over the running water. Suddenly, my mind is filled with images of him – his hard, chiseled body covered in soap, his shaggy hair wet – stroking his cock. I'm still wearing panties, and just like that, they grow wetter as the image solidifies in my mind. I close my eyes and sigh, drinking in the imagery of him showering – and jerking off.
My hand moves down my stomach, then slips between my thighs. I part my legs and rub myself through my panties. I'm so wet, they’re soaked straight through. Another groan sounds from the bathroom – though I can tell he's trying to be quiet – and my body is suddenly aching to be filled.
If I can't have what I truly crave inside of me, I’ll do the next best thing. I slide my hand underneath my panties and circle my clit. Gasping, I spread my pussy lips apart and slip a finger inside of me. Just one for now, but it's enough to bring a soft moan from my throat. A moment later, I slide a second finger in, though I desire something thicker and longer inside of me. I slide a third finger in and finally, I get some relief from the craving gripping me. I can almost feel Grant's cock inside of me – or at least imagine that I can.
In my head, it's not my hand, but Grant's cock moving in and out of me. I can almost see his hazel eyes staring down at me as he fucks me. Another groan comes from the bathroom, this one louder and longer. It aids in my fantasy. I moan with him, whispering his name under my breath as I bring myself closer and closer to the edge.
With my other hand, I massage my breast, teasing the nipple. That sends another powerful current of pleasure ripping through me. I'm lost to my fantasy world now, completely caught up in it as my body trembles. I whimper and moan, crying out, as I imagine having Grant inside of me.
“Mm, yes...” I gasp, as my orgasm approaches.
Then like that, my eyes pop open as I climax, coming hard around my hand as I thrash on the bed. I only barely catch my breath when I realize the bathroom door is open, and Grant is standing in the doorway staring at me with wide eyes. He quickly turns away and rushes out of the bedroom as I sit up in the bed.
“Grant, it's not –” but he's already shut the door behind him.
Oh God. He caught me. Had he heard me call out his name as I came? I thought I’d been quiet. My cheeks burn, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole and hide. Maybe forever. I want to cover up with the blanket and never leave the bed again. Except, I know that's not the way to handle things.
Besides – I heard him too. I know he wants me, even if I didn't hear him calling out my name. He may not have been thinking about me, but we had kissed, and I know he was having a really hard time stopping. I'm pretty positive he was thinking about me in the shower.
Not wanting to let the awkwardness continue to fester, a
nd determined to nip this in the bud, I do the adult thing and climb out of bed throwing my pants on before leaving the bedroom. When I open the door, I find Grant in the kitchen. The smell of bacon fills the air, causing my stomach to growl.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I say softly, stepping into the main room.
“I'll whip up some brunch then,” he says.
Grant focuses all of his attention on the skillet on the stove – very pointedly ignoring me. In addition to bacon, there's eggs, ham and cheese on the counter as well. He's totally involved in making omelets as if it's the most interesting activity in the world.
As I watch him cooking, I weigh my options. I can bring it up, and we can have an incredibly awkward conversation about what just happened. Or I can pretend like none of that happened and go on like normal. Whatever normal means, anyway.
I choose the latter.
I step into the kitchen and lean against the counter, a smile on my face. He glances over at me, but then turns his attention back to the food in front of him. I decide small talk is the answer to alleviate all the tension. Just act like everything is fine and normal. Eventually, it will be. As they say, fake it 'til you make it.
“So, Grant, are you from around here originally?”
“No.”
“Just no?” I ask, smiling. “What made you move to the middle of nowhere?”
“I just did,” he says, tossing the bacon onto a plate with a paper towel on it. He dabs up the grease, still studiously ignoring me.
“Where did you live before you moved here?”
He sighs, clearly annoyed either by all my questions, or my determination to act like he hadn't just walked in on me getting myself off in his bed.
“On the outskirts of Chicago,” he finally says.
At the mention of Chicago, something hits me. Not quite a memory, just a feeling. Grant must have sensed something had shifted, because he raises an eyebrow.
“Remember something else?” he asks.
“No, just a feeling,” I say. “I'm not sure if it's even right or not, but I think – I think I might be from Chicago, too.”
He chuckles. “Oh yeah? That would mean it's an awfully small world for you to end up in my yard then,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say and then shake my head. “Yeah, you're probably right. Why would I be all the way out here if I'm from Chicago? Then again, why are you out here?”
Grant turns back to the stove, remaining quiet for a long time.
“I came out here after my best friend died,” he says solemnly. “He was murdered.”
He doesn't look me in the eye, instead he stares down at the eggs in the skillet. I, on the other hand, feel like I've been hit with a lead weight. I step back until I'm pressed against the refrigerator, using it for support.
“Jesus, Grant. I'm sorry to hear that,” I say softly. “I don't even know what to say.”
“There's nothing to say,” he says. “It happened, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.”
“Did they ever catch who did it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. No one has a fucking clue,” he says.
He tosses the omelets onto a plate and turns toward me, handing it to me. We make eye contact for a split second, and I see the pain in his face. It kills me to see that look in his eyes.
“Are they still looking?”
“Not really. I still talk to an FBI agent about it sometimes, but he's the only one who seems to care,” he says. “I'm not even sure why he cares so much, to be honest. No one else does. Everybody else seems to have just dropped it and gone on with their lives.”
With the plate of eggs in my hand, I walk toward the table, following behind Grant. He sits down, and I take the seat across from him, on the bench sitting against the wall where I can see the gorgeous Colorado mountains through the large picture windows.
There's orange juice and coffee on the table, and I pour myself a cup of the rich, black brew. I savor the scent of it, closing my eyes and come to the realization that I really, really enjoy good coffee – or, at least, the smell of it. The mug feels warm in my hand, and everything seems so normal, I can almost forget about everything that's happening in the moment. Until I open my eyes, that is.
Grant is watching me. As soon as my eyes open, he looks away, turning his attention back to the plate in front of him as he pushes his eggs around with a fork, without ever actually eating.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he mutters.
“No, seriously, why were you staring at me like that?” I ask, smiling.
“You just looked so happy and peaceful,” he says. “It was nice to see.”
“I was, for a second,” I say.
“But not anymore?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I momentarily forgot about losing my memory. As strange as that is to say,” I say. “I had amnesia about my amnesia, and it was nice feeling normal for a second.”
He nods, seemingly pleased with my response. Still, he studies my face just a moment longer.
“No new memories? Nothing about Chicago?” he asks.
I start to shake my head, to tell him that I don't remember anything other than my initial feeling, but then something hits me. Another feeling. This time, it’s stronger. A sense of homesickness washes over me at the mention of Chicago, and I'm picturing parts of the city in my head. Restaurants. Cafes. Parks. Nothing well known, just places that feel real in my head, places I can almost believe I've been to. But then, perhaps I haven't. Maybe I've made them up as I desperately try to fill in the gaps in my head.
I close my eyes again and focus on the restaurant in my mind's eye. It's a nice place, incredibly fancy and higher-end Italian. There's ivy growing around the patio, wrapping around the columns and up the side of the brick building. The name stands out to me – Francelli's.
It seems so real – and yet, I can't trust myself to know if it is or not.
“I don't know,” I say at last.
“You don't know?”
“I see places in my head now. A restaurant,” I say. “Not sure if it exists, or if it's even in Chicago or not. But, there's something about it. Something that stands out to me.”
“What do you remember?” he asks.
“A name – Francelli's. It's a red sign with gold lettering, surrounded by green ivy,” I say.
He looks a little surprised. “That's rather specific.”
“I know, right? I'm not sure why I'm remembering it,” I say. “Maybe I'm making it up –”
“Only one way to find out,” he says, sliding his chair back.
He leaves the table, including his food, and walks over to the computer on the desk. He starts up the laptop and begins typing into the search bar. I stand and walk over, standing behind him as I look over his shoulder. A moment later, images pop up of a restaurant in downtown Chicago named Francelli's.
It's exactly as I imagined too. I draw in a sharp breath as I look at the sign, and the ivy, that had been so distinct in my mind.
“What's this mean?” I ask.
“It means you've at least been to Chicago,” Grant says. “Which is a good start to figuring out who you are.”
“How so?” I ask him.
“Easy. We go to Chicago, to this Francelli's, and we ask around,” he says.
I laugh. “We just go to Chicago. Just like that. Like it's no big deal,” I say. “You'd do that, for me?”
He shrugs and rubs his face. “I'm from Chicago, I'll never pass up a chance to visit.”
“Isn't it expensive?”
“It's okay. I've got it covered,” he says. “Don't worry about it.”
I still don't feel right about any of this. Grant hardly even knows me, and he's willing to shell out a fortune for us to fly to Chicago on a hunch? It seems a bit much. Yet, when I look at the images on the screen, a feeling passes through me. A familiar feeling, yes, but also a foreboding one. It's
almost a sense of doom. It settles in my stomach, and I feel my legs growing weak, forcing me to sit in a chair nearby. My entire body trembles with a fear I can't understand, let alone explain.
Which means I need to do this. If I want to find out who I am, I need to seek out what scares me, and find out why.
Chapter Seven
Grant
“You chartered a plane? Seriously?” Celeste asks as we pull into the small airport. “How can you afford something like that?”
I cringe inwardly. I forgot that Celeste knows so little about me. I hate flying to begin with, and there's no way I want to make the experience worse by being crammed into a metal tube with two hundred strangers when we're already concerned about Celeste's well-being.
The fewer people around, the better. Or so I tell myself. Really, I just prefer flying privately. I don't like being around people all that much.
“It's not a problem, trust me,” I say, hoping she'll leave it at that.
I should know better though. If there's one thing I've learned about Celeste already, it's that she's inquisitive. She likes asking questions. Sometimes too much.
“Are you like some secret millionaire or something?”
“Something like that,” I chuckle as we board the private jet.
“Something like what?” she asks.
We step aboard the jet. It’s nicely appointed with leather seats that recline into beds and a mini bar that comes fully stocked with enough whiskey to drink myself into a stupor and forget that I'm flying. I don't have many fears in life – as a Marine you get over most of them – but I still don't care for flying. Not at all.
“Can you just sit back and enjoy the flight without asking all kinds of questions?” I ask.
She frowns, seeming to take my words a little too seriously.
“Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you,” I sigh, sitting down in the first seat I come to. She takes the one across from me. “Flying just tends to make me anxious.”
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