Wanderlust

by A. R. Hadley

  "You’re just jealous."

  "Of what?" Cal laughed. He stood in her space again, touched her waist, and looked into her eyes. "Ah. The boys who danced with you." He tugged her sides. "Annie, I'm the one who gets to have you.”

  Smiling, she pushed his hands off her body and then shook her finger around. "You just think you can have … and get … and have whatever you want." She bit her lower lip, but it couldn't stop her from grinning.

  He smiled too, exposing the dimples to die for.

  "Fuck you," she said, the smile now reaching her eyes.

  "Do you want one of those boys?" He nodded toward the dance floor.

  "Is everyone under twenty-whatever a boy to you?"

  "You want one of those men to what? To press their body against you again?" Cal did just that. He pressed his chest against her breasts. "You think I'm jealous? The opposite. You make me so fucking hard I can't think. Who do you want, Annie?"

  She sucked in a breath and gripped his shoulders. "You, you bastard. I don't want any of those boys." She spoke into his cheek, played with his collar. Her nails grazed his skin. "I want you."

  "Good girl." He squeezed her ass, took her hand, and tried to stuff away the craving to have her right now. Where? Anywhere. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He didn't do this. This didn't happen to him. He’d thought he could wait.

  They exited the building and stood on the busy sidewalk. People were still lined up to get into the club.

  Crowds, noise, distraction.

  Cal wanted quiet.

  Cal wanted Annie.

  His impulse to fuck her was as strong as it had ever been, and he wasn't going to ignore it. He wasn't going to wait.

  "Aren't you going to call Carl?" Annie scratched the nape of her neck. "I'm hot. Call him. Please. God, my feet."

  "I want to walk," he said, pulling her along.

  Annie determined he’d gone mad.

  They rounded the corner into an alley that stretched between two of the buildings. After walking a little more than halfway, far from the shadows of people and their chatter, they finally stopped several feet from a back door and a dumpster full of bottles and boxes.

  Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to. They communicated so well without words. His intentions were obvious now — so obvious she didn't know how she’d missed them. Still, she held onto a little shred of denial he would actually try to do anything so crazy — he is crazy, mad — out in the open, right on the fucking street.

  Annie's heart dropped hard and fast, like a two-hundred-foot waterfall over the edge of a cliff. She was more nervous now than she’d ever been at the idea of his insatiable appetite for having her, and she knew right now, at this moment, that this was indeed happening.

  The little scrap of denial evaporated.

  What he wanted was still unspoken, but she heard it loud and clear. The energy between them choked her. Her throat pulsed. Would she cry or burst or vomit? Please. God. The shaking started. Her adrenaline could’ve lifted a car. It superseded any effects the alcohol may have still had on her body. The only warmth running through her veins now was the anticipation of Cal. His warmth. His cock. His safety.

  He walked her to the side of the building, nudged her against the concrete wall, put his hand on her cheek, wrapped his fingers behind her neck, and pulled her hair. Gazing at her face, carefully, he studied her willingness.

  The surrender was in her eyes. He saw it.

  Did she see how much she meant to him? Could she see it all over him? The madness, the necessity, the loss of control?

  She touched his face and nodded. She didn't think she could speak or swallow.

  Cal kissed Annie with a fervor that lit her lips on fire … her belly … her pussy. God, she burned. Ached. Butterflies swarmed her everything. Trapped under her skin. Unable to escape.

  He smashed her upper body into the wall, causing her bare back and shoulders to scrape against the concrete with each forceful movement, with the weight of his kisses, hands, and tongue.

  Would it be the last time? The last time they tasted skin meant for each other? The last time he would find a home inside her body?

  Cal continued swirling his tongue around hers, fucking her mouth, making love to her with it as he bunched her dress around her waist.

  Annie kissed him with the same intensity, barely breaking to breathe or moan or reach down and unbutton his pants.

  Yanking her arms from his zipper, he shoved her wrists against the wall above her head, jolting her. He moved his mouth along her lips and slowed the pace, tasting each lip in turn, the top and bottom, softly, purposefully, while he kept her arms pinned harshly over her head.

  Annie attempted to kiss him as she whimpered, almost sobbing, the urgency never more than it was right now, but Cal held her back, her hands into the concrete, scratching, rough, his fingers over her wrists, dominating her, grazing her skin with his lips, pressing his lips over her entire face, over her neck, her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, teasing, caressing, panting, pushing against her, solid, his warm breath tickling, his lips over her and over her, repeatedly again and again, making her ache, making her tremble, her head moving side to side, drowning, unable to contain the sensation, trapped and full, gushing, until finally he released her, releasing her wrists, her arms, releasing it all, pouring, unmasking, kissing her intensely, harder, faster, keeping his tongue in her mouth while pushing her underwear to the side and then unzipping his pants, Annie helping to push them down, wasting no time — Cal pulled her legs up around him and furiously began to penetrate her against the wall in the dark alley.

  Annie cried out with each thrust.

  He didn't stop. He didn't tease. He didn't speak. He only held her in place against the wall and fucked a million reasons into her pussy like a madman, a crazed animal, a man who could only show feelings with action.

  She opened her eyes and took in the surroundings and sensations. The faint vibration of the club, the sticky smell, the sweet taste of his skin, the intense scratching on her backside, his breath on her neck, sweat dripping from his face to her tits, the push of him inside her — pushing and pushing and pushing — owning her, claiming her, loving her.

  Annie closed her eyes, forgetting the world. The only world existing contained just the two of them.

  She succumbed.

  She forgot about death and pain and sadness. He fucked her into nirvana.

  Each pulse, each scratch, each breath — hurt. A terrible hurt. A wonderful hurt. A hurt she wanted forever. From him.

  "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck..." Cal groaned the expletives as he held himself inside her tight walls and began to release. "Annie..." The tip of his cock bumped her womb as he took her hand and slid it between them. "Touch yourself, baby."

  And that … was the end.

  She made shaky, breathy sounds, and they only increased with the strokes she gave herself.

  "Yes?" He started to pound her again.

  "Yes!" She bit his neck and nibbled the words into the teeth marks. "Yes, yes, yes."

  Annie cried out his name over and over.

  Cal finished coming and grunting and sweating and cursing.

  The moment seemed to be over as fast as it had begun.

  Cal swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, tucked himself away, then buttoned his pants. As Annie straightened her underwear, her hands shook. He steadied her and took over the rest, watching her face as the hem of her dress fell over her thighs.

  He stood tall. Their eyes locked. Their breathing continued to even out.

  Cal touched her face, brushed his fingers along her cheek, spoke words without sound. He kissed her lower lip, pulled away, and smiled with an affection she often saw him display when they shared intimacies. If that wasn't love in his eyes, then she would never know it, or she didn't want to know it — not from any other man.

  Stepping a couple feet away, he turned around, took out his phone, and typed a text message. Probably to Carl.

  Annie shoo
k.

  Uncontrollably.

  Everywhere.

  Her head dropped while both her hands rested on her temples. Fingers grabbed at hair. Her eyes must’ve looked like spheres, dripping with tears.

  She didn’t want him to see her cry. And she wished to God crying hadn’t become a constant companion.

  Standing tall, she sucked in several ragged but quiet breaths, then wiped a finger under her nose and across her cheeks, destroying the evidence. She couldn't stop the sting in her eyes or the shaking, though.

  She covered her mouth with one hand and her eyes with the other.

  Cal straightened his clothes, tucked his shirt into his pants, and slipped his phone into his pocket. He walked up to Annie and moved her hands from her face.

  "Did I hurt you, baby? Are you okay? Is it your back? Turn around." Worry consumed his eyes and throat.

  "No, no. You didn't hurt me." She choked back more tears, and even though she was only inches from his face, she looked away.

  "Then what is it?" he asked, touching her chin and forcing her eyes to remain on his.

  As she stared at him, seconds turned to hours. Her eyes fell into him more, farther, deeper.

  "What?" he repeated.

  "I love you."

  Cal didn't speak or move. The impact of her words showed up in his eyes, but he was trying to keep it still. He tried to pull it back inside. He searched her gaze, looking as if he was asking how or why.

  The shock of her declaration crossed every line of his face. He aged.

  Cal touched her cheek, kissed her upper lip, then he looked at her once more without speaking. Apparently, he’d become mute.

  Annie's heart turned to skin. She would rip and bruise and burn. Her heart would die. Again. All conscious thought erased — all but the thunderous roar of those three heartfelt words…

  I love you. I love you. I love you.

  Cal stood tall, bolt upright, and slipped his fingers through hers. He pulled her away from the wall, the concrete, the moment, the awake, the dreaming, and he guided her toward the street. They held hands the entire walk back to the car.

  Annie waited.

  She waited between breaths and heartbeats for Cal to say something, anything, a single word, but the quiet man didn't speak. Other noises increased, becoming louder and louder, shoes stomping, people talking, crowds, music, cars, but Annie — she only heard the sound of Cal's silence and the clank of her heels on the concrete.

  "I'm going to start a bath for you," Cal said the moment they stepped foot into his apartment.

  His first words since the I love you. Not the words she wanted, but she had to face facts. Or not. She was consumed with the selfish notion she needed to hear him say it back.

  She simply nodded her approval, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of water. By the time she entered the bathroom, steam had fogged the mirrors and much of the surrounding space. After undressing, she stepped into the warm bubbles while Cal remained seated at the edge of the tub, fingers in the stream, watching Annie.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Annie focused on the sound of the rushing water as she sank into it neck-deep. She could feel his eyes entering her skin, but she wouldn't meet them. She skimmed her palms over the foam and closed her eyes.

  Cal moved to the rear ledge, washcloth in hand, and pressed it to her shoulders.

  Her eyes popped open at the contact.

  Instinctively, she sat up, leaned forward, and hugged her knees. She could only imagine what he was seeing as he dragged the soft cloth over the entire length of her sore back. It went on for several minutes. The tender washing, the unspoken sentiment. Tears built in the corners of her eyes, and love caught in the tangled net inside her throat.

  It couldn't last forever.

  Nothing did.

  Cal finally stood. And as Annie watched him undress, she admired his form. Tall and strong, defined back muscles, rock-hard hips, a posture an artist would beg to sculpt. Every inch of his physical body was an open book.

  Why couldn't his heart be the same?

  He entered the shower because, of course, it would be too intimate to join her in the bathtub, especially after tonight. But what was with the washing? It had been intimate. He was still ever the enigma she’d encountered that very first fateful night.

  What had she done? Had she made a mistake? Was there such a thing as a mistake? Timing, Cal had always said, emphasized. Timing and choices.

  Annie hadn’t planned on saying I love you in the alley. The non-planning daydreamer relying on feelings.

  But he had to know.

  She could no longer deny it, and she didn't want to. He needed to know before she left.

  No mistakes. No denial.

  It had to be said. Expressed. No matter the consequences — he won't say it back — she didn’t regret telling Cal she loved him.

  After his shower, Cal lingered in the kitchen, sipping whiskey, while he waited for Annie to finish her bath.

  Unbeknownst to him, she had finished and now stood near the mirror over the bathroom sinks, drying off alone. She glanced over her shoulder and tried to look at her backside. Surely there would be bruises or marks.

  Seeing the proof of their connection, their joining, the pleasure they took in hurting, she closed her eyes and recalled the frenzied moment leading up to her confession…

  The warmth and the tingling, the sweat and the need. Why was it all such a need? And now it was still a need, and it stung, stinging her like a wasp, leaving her feeling a different kind of warmth. A chill, really. A feverish chill slowly warming her, poison creeping into her veins. She was reliving it again and again and again, the push of him inside her, pushing for life, for death, for reason, his breath on her skin, the way he’d held her up and gripped her as if it was both an end and a beginning.

  The chill climbed the ladder of her heart.

  The poison was a high.

  She caught her eyes in the mirror, turned around, stepped closer, and peered at her reflection.

  Awakening replaced innocence.

  Freedom replaced prison.

  She’d come to South Beach for herself and had found some missing pieces. Where would she go from here? Home?

  Home was in his smile…

  Would he ask her to stay? To move? Was it the end?

  She didn’t want to feel, but she did. Numb was over and done.

  You have loved.

  Annie looked away from the woman who had changed, who loved, who lived, who didn't give up, and she grabbed Cal's robe from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on. She tied the string around her waist and took a deep breath. His smell encapsulated her more than the material. His scent was time in bed on a rainy day under the covers with a book or a movie — time without worry.

  Could she fit his robe in her suitcase? Or him? She could box him up or tuck him into her sleeve.

  The wasp poison in her veins moved to the pit of her stomach and stayed. Rocks rolling around in her gut. Unsure. Sure. A hope. Everything she did in her life stemmed from hope, didn't it?

  She went into the empty room, lay down in bed, and within minutes, fell asleep — Cal's scent both a protection and barbiturate.

  Cal entered the dark room wearing a pair of comfortable sweat pants and no shirt, the nightlight in the bathroom barely giving it a glow. The smell of rose bubbles still permeated the air, the soap he knew Annie preferred. It couldn’t mask her natural scent — orange blossoms, tangerines.

  Oh … Annie.

  Cal leaned against the dresser, ankles crossed, ruffing fingers over his chin, watching her sleep.

  Was she really asleep? Or was she pretending and avoiding and running? They’d both done enough of that. He should’ve known better than to have allowed it all to happen. The summer spent with a woman twenty years younger. Age didn’t matter, but it would once her clock began to tick.

  Walking over to the bed, he sat on its edge next to Annie. His breath caught in his
throat as he wiped a palm across the entirety of his face. He still couldn't breathe as he watched her dream…

  …shading her in and etching her into the corners of his mind.

  She was asleep and beautiful and his. Smart and strong and talented and … what? A comfort. A place to keep his secrets and hang his head. Was she even ready for all that bullshit? Was he?

  What would Constance Prescott think of Annie Baxter? He laughed. If only they could meet.

  They could not.

  His mind clouded. Gray and black, ominous cumulonimbus collided.

  His first responsibility would have to be to his mother. Right? He’d avoided Constance for too long. Too many selfish years. The strength he normally drew upon to handle most every situation in his life seemed weak. Annie couldn't see him weak or his mother sick or the life he had to lead. Summer had been like vacation. What would reality do to them?

  Destroy, flatten, and change their relationship. An atom bomb exploding over loveliness.

  Calvin Prescott … falling in love with a girl of only twenty-five. What was his excuse? Misguided loneliness. Excuses weren’t for him. He made things happen. He controlled his destiny.

  Besides, he’d known it would happen. He’d known it was unstoppable. He could decipher lust from connection. The night he’d met her, his throat had turned raw. His mind had gone into hyperdrive. She had never been a conquest or a fling. She’d never left his thoughts. She made him better. Stronger.

  Then why was he weak?

  Because he wouldn't allow her to tie him off.

  He hadn't summoned the courage to be the man she needed — the one he needed.

  What could he offer her? Twenty or thirty good years. No children. He had done nothing to stop any of it except live in denial. Maybe he could still do that. Sure, he could be with her and fuck her and hang out with her, and he could even talk to her — although he still held back in that department too — except she was leaving and deserved more.

  Fun and summer vacation were one thing, but taking care of her, being responsible for her, stealing her youth away … they were other things entirely. Did she even understand what that would mean? A life with him. The things she would give up. The sacrifices.