“Sweet Jesus,” I groan, pulling back to look up at her. Her head tilts back. Her eyes close. She’s set a pace at the seam of my zipper and I know what she’s going for.
“Sweet Goddess,” she murmurs, without a break in her stride. Her hips swivel and roll, and my hands clutch her backside.
“Yeah, her too,” I reply under my breath, and a small grin crosses Naomi’s lips. I want that grin, and her full smile, and her gentle laugh. I want it all but first, I want her orgasm.
“Nae, I’m gonna—” I’m about to have a problem in my pants. Her eyes open and silver beams silence my tongue. The mercurial gleam in them holds me prisoner as her body continues to work at coming undone over mine.
“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t make me stop.” With her begging eyes locked on me, I can’t deny her. As if. I shift under her and she squeaks without losing her pace. Her steadiness increases, the pressure building. I’m not going to last, and then she stills, her lips covering mine. Her body tenses as her nails scratch over my beard. Her knees dig against my outer thighs while a moan fills my mouth and I know what she’s done.
I’m on the edge, teetering with an achy need, but I’ll let her have this one. She releases my lips and rests her forehead on mine.
“I was bad at that, wasn’t I?”
“Seemed pretty good to me.” I chuckle lightly, kissing her nose.
“So good,” she whispers. “It’s been so long.” I want to think she’s talking about me and the firm ridge screaming under her, but I’m sensing something else.
“How long has it been?”
“Eighteen years,” she says pulling back. Her hands slipping down to my shoulders. She’s drawing away from me, and it’s more than physically.
“Eighteen years since you orgasmed?” That can’t be correct.
Slowly, she shakes her head. “There was this boy in a bar. No, a man on the edge. He was dangerous and sweet, a heady combination for me, and I thought he was into me.”
I swallow at the hollowness in her voice. This doesn’t sound like a good story, and why the fuck do I care about some dude she screwed around with so long ago.
“I felt special that night. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was because it was my birthday.”
Oh shit.
“I was dancing, and I’d been drinking, but I wasn’t drunk. I knew what I was doing and what I wanted to be done.” Her fingers slip down my leather jacket. “He peppered me with flattering words and covered me in kisses.” Her voice turns edgier. “And I gave him everything of me.”
I stare at her until I think I understand. “Were you a—” I can’t get out the word.
“Couldn’t you tell?” It takes me a moment to register what she asked. You. It’s hard to answer the question but it’s equally difficult to dismiss. We were drinking. She was cute. Did I take advantage of her? Did I push her too far? Then understanding occurs.
You’re giving me something sacred.
“You were a virgin,” I choke, surprised and disappointed in myself. How did I miss that? How did I not know this detail? The rest of the night flashes before me—the after—like a flip book you make as a kid in the edge of a textbook. The after clouded everything and I realize how it’s possible I forgot this precious detail, but I don’t think so. An additional comment she just mentioned becomes a red flag.
Eighteen years.
“And you haven’t been with anyone else since then? Since me?” I swallow hard, uncertain how to feel about this revelation other than an ass for not recognizing her condition.
Her head shakes once. “We’d see each other again. He promised. He said he’d call.” She shrugs as her lips twist. “He never did.”
Fuck me.
I swallow again. I can explain what happened but now isn’t the time. The accident. The Wraiths. The conditions. I’ll never forget that night—it haunts me in more ways than one—and I try not to remember the smallest details. But a memory taps my brain. My phone. I’d left it behind.
Put your digits in here, I said as I tossed my phone to her in my haste. I was going to be late, so late. And I was going to be in trouble with Catfish. Being a prospect of the Iron Wraiths was fucking punk work, and I hated it most days, but I’d pay my time to be part of something greater, to belong to something. I’d forgotten my phone on the bed after one more kiss. I rushed out of the Fugitive, leaving the girl behind as well. I can’t believe I forgot my phone, as my leaving it behind would play a crucial role later in the night.
“Do you know who that person was now? The one who didn’t call.” Her words remind me of my confession earlier this evening about her. I don’t need to answer her. “I’m still waiting for him.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dewey Decimal Classification: 386.4 Telephone
[Naomi]
I have no idea what I’ve just done. I mean, I know what I’ve just done. I’ve given myself an orgasm on Nathan Ryder. I rode his lap, like a mechanical bull where I control the speed, but now is not the time for joking. There’s nothing funny about what I’ve just told him. I’ve just admitted one of my deepest secrets and biggest regrets. I gave my virginity to a man with false promises. And I’m still waiting for the man I’ll never have. He’s a memory that’s lived in my head for too long. He’s lived a lifetime in the eighteen years since I’ve seen him, and I’m sitting on his lap like the hussy I was at twenty-one, taking orgasms from him.
I slip off his thighs.
“Nae?” His voice drips with hesitation.
“I got carried away,” I whisper, my voice trembling. You have this effect on me.
“You must hate me,” he says, and my head turns toward him.
“Hate is a strong word, Nathan. One of the deadliest. I don’t feel that strongly toward you.” I feel something else entirely, when I shouldn’t.
Deny.
“So why didn’t you call?” I ask as the tension and silence thickens.
“I had my reasons, Naomi, but I swear it had nothing to do with you. Nothing. I wanted to see you again, but I … I just couldn’t.” The sorrow in his eyes as he stares at me tells me to believe him. Something happened to him, but he isn’t trusting me enough to tell me what.
“Can I ask you a question?” The hesitation in his voice concerns me but I nod. “Why weren’t you with anyone else? I mean, it’s been eighteen years.”
I want to believe he isn’t judging me, and in some ways, I want to rail at him, and remind him again he said he’d call. I want to fault him in some ways but after Nathan, my avoidance of sex came from something deeper. The shame my parents placed on me at the death of my brother. Once I learned Wiccan practices, I accepted my responsibility even more—a reaction to an action—instead of freeing myself completely, which my religion would encourage. My actions with Nathan resulted in the reaction of my brother’s death. Since then, I’ve worked hard to put out positives in order to receive them, avoiding anything negative … which included sex.
“I’ve just been waiting for the right person to be next.” And I’ve been afraid it would happen again. Someone wouldn’t call, wouldn’t keep their promises. I didn’t seek out men and they didn’t seek out me. I mean, I’ve been attracted to some but avoided the desire, denied myself.
So, why Nathan? Why now do I feel this need to release the inner goddess and stop denying myself?
An unsolved puzzle, like he said.
His shoulders fall and he scrubs at the underside of his chin, the scratchy sound of his stubble filling the truck cab. He shakes his head and starts the engine. Guess the night is over. Date number one—fail. All that is left now is to go home and wait for the catastrophe that will inevitably follow tonight, despite my rational mind believing there won’t be a disaster. Yet as I gaze out the window while we finish the drive back to Green Valley, the trees remain upright, the fields billow in the evening breeze, and my house still stands when we pull into my driveway. It’s my heart which won’t be able to handle the aftermath of this ev
ening.
Once we park, I open the truck door but find Nathan already standing beside me.
“This didn’t really go as planned,” he mutters, more apologies filling his tone. His eyes still hold a sympathetic twinge and blood ripples through my veins. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I want an explanation. If it wasn’t me, what was it?
“No plan,” I say instead, weakly grinning up at him, repeating the words he said to me when I saw him at the Stop-and-Pump, and he asked me to join him for a drink. A thick hand palms my cheek and then slips under my chin for a second. He stares at me for a long moment and I can’t read all those silver eyes are trying to say. Releasing me, he reaches for my hand and walks me to my front door.
“Hand me your phone,” he commands, when we near the door and I reach in my pocket.
My head shoots upward and I blink. “Why?”
“I want to call you.” My heart drops—caught between the possibility he could be mocking me and his potential sincerity. I hand him my phone, and he gasps. “What is this?” I glance down at the device in his thick fingers as he flips open the cover.
“It’s my phone.”
He chuckles, genuine and refreshing after the tense car ride. “We need to move you to the modern era.”
“You want to change me?” I sarcastically mock, although in some ways I’m not certain it’s a joke. Maybe it’s more of my own insecurity. I don’t think I can satisfy Nathan. I’m not a modern woman, not by his standards. I’m not leather and skin like the girls at the track. I’m not carefree, casual sex either.
“Not change you, sweetheart. Just want to find the girl I believe still lives inside you.”
“That girl isn’t who you thought she was, Nathan, and most of the time I try to forget her.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “Because she just doesn’t exist anymore.” She couldn’t exist. She caused too much suffering.
“What happened to the carefree spirit of that girl?”
I’m not ready to tell him, not tonight. “She disappeared,” I whisper. “She had to go.”
He stares down at me, his brows severely pinched. “She’s just holding back.” He leans forward and tweaks my nose. “She’s waiting, but the wait is over.”
His thumb caresses my lips and then he glances back at my phone and adds his number.
“Hello?” The ringing of my cell phone catches me off guard. I’ve hardly made it inside my door.
I had an orgasm. On Nathan Ryder. With shaky legs, I’m sliding to the floor against the wooden barrier as I answer.
“Hey,” a thick smoky voice fills the line.
“Who is this?” Trembling fingers come to my forehead and squeeze.
“It’s Nathan.” He chuckles.
Oh, oh.
“I know I’m about eighteen years late, but I wanted to call and say I had a nice night.”
“You did not.” I laugh, mocking his sentiment. “It was awkward and weird.”
“And too short.” Silence falls between us.
“You just left,” I say, stating the obvious as I thump my head against the door behind me. Laughter fills my voice as I ask, “Why are you calling me already?”
“I didn’t want to break any promises this time.” He pauses. “And I didn’t leave yet.”
I spin to my knees and then knee-walk to my front window. Peeking through the curtains, I see his truck still in my yard.
“What are you doing?” I hush-whisper.
“Keeping my promise.”
I. Can’t. Breathe.
“I don’t want the night to end yet, so I figured calling you would prolong things.”
I should ask him in, but then again, I want to play this game with him. “I haven’t really talked on the phone in a long time. I mean, who chats by this mode of communication anymore.”
“I know, kids these days. Always their nose in a phone and thumbs moving on the screen but not speaking.” He chuckles again.
“Guess it’s just us old-timers who talk on the phone.”
“I’m not old,” he laughs. “I’m seasoned.” He’s definitely seasoned. His mouth. His scruff. My thoughts wander to the thick length pressed at my center about thirty minutes prior. So seasoned.
“So, is this like a phone date? Date number two.”
“This is not date number two. I’ll do better next time. And as for a phone date … well, unless you’d prefer phone sex …”
I gasp. I’ve never had phone sex or any other kind of sex other than the one time with him, and he knows that now. My cheeks heat with the thought and I’m grateful he didn’t judge me for my lack of experience. He’s right, though. I need to join the modern era. But that’s what Vilma’s Discovery Videos are all about. The modern woman doesn’t need a man to complete her.
You are your own center.
“I …” I don’t know how to respond.
“Forget that.” He chuckles. “Let’s just talk.”
“Okay. What’s your favorite book?” I’m not good at small talk. I mean, I can do small talk. I do it all day with children at the library, and occasionally adults, but that’s because books are the main topic. I don’t know how to start a conversation with someone I hardly know other than asking about their favorite book. I’m also thinking we need to calm things down before I do another thing I’ve never done before—like give a man a personal lap dance to get myself off—and invite him into my home. To my room. To my bed. Mother Earth, what came over me?
Nathan chuckles. “Would you hate me if I said I don’t read? Remember I already mentioned I’m not good at it.”
Not hate, I think. Definitely don’t hate him.
“Well, what are you good at?” He chokes a cough through the phone and my cheeks heat again. Okay, then …
“How about your favorite song?” We play twenty-questions for several minutes, exchanging random information about ourselves until the conversation shifts to his daughters. Nathan explains how he got some girl pregnant, resulting in Dahlia. The timing of things seems strangely close to when we were together, but I don’t ask.
“I was living in Nashville for a short time before I went to Florida. Her mother, Becca, didn’t want to be a mother by the time Dahlia was one. Most days I don’t feel I’ve done much better at parenting. I didn’t do right by her, sending her off to my mother when she was so young, then claiming her back when she was six, and moving us back here when she was sixteen. She hates me on a good day.”
I’m saddened to learn the tale of Dahlia. It certainly explains the girl who didn’t leave her grandmother’s side when she was a child.
“She certainly has changed,” I say, not meaning to insult her but recognizing the difference from the shy child she once was.
“Yeah, she’s a handful lately. I think God’s punishing me by giving me girls.” He huffs, and I smile to myself.
“Why punish?” The line goes quiet and I wonder if I’ve struck a nerve.
“Maybe punish is too strong a word. The big man is waiting for me to get it right with women.” I’m reflective for a moment. What does he mean? There’s so much I want to ask, but I’m worried forcing the conversation deeper will scare him off.
“Well, I adore Clementine,” I interject, clearing my throat, shifting the topic. “She’s so sweet.”
“She seems to adore you as well.” Pride fills his voice, and he tells me more about his second daughter. “I call her Dandelion because of that crazy fuzzy hair. I’m sure she’ll hate it as she gets older, but I can’t stop myself. My two flower girls.” He chuckles. “I’m not sure I’m doing much better by her either, but she’s been with me her entire eleven years and I don’t plan on that changing. Her mother, Margie, didn’t want to keep her once she found her fancy attorney husband.” There’s a pinch of bitterness at the mention of Clementine’s mother.
“And you never married either woman?” I hear Nathan sigh, but I need this answered.
“Becca wasn’t a smart
move on my part. Like literally, my head wasn’t in the right place with her and being with her I blame on my faulty wiring at the time.” He chuckles without humor. “Margie. Well, I thought she’d be different but turns out she didn’t want a man with another daughter, a lingering mother, and only a construction working future.” I do, I think but I’d never say this to Nathan. The words sound significant. I. Do. Words I’ll never say to a man.
When I think of his children, my heart swells. I don’t have children of my own, obviously. I have two nieces, but it’s never been the same thing. The children at the library are all my children. Some I’m happy to return to their parents, while others I’d like to hold onto a little longer, like the Harrys and the Clementines of the valley.
“You and Dahlia will find your way,” I offer, drawing away from the bitter tone of Clementine’s mother. “And Clementine. She’s going to be a beautiful swan one day.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s all fuzzy, right now, with that light, yellow hair. An ugly duckling, she says.” Clem has large glasses which magnify her eyes and with the flyaway ringlets, she looks a little disheveled most days. “But I tell her ducklings aren’t ugly. They’re sweet, and fluffy, and spread joy. And one day, she’ll grow into a beautiful swan.” She was cute when she asked if she will be a swan like me, curling my white hair around her finger when she questioned her future. “Of course, then she had to correct me, telling me swans don’t have ducklings. Ducks do.”
Nathan chuckles, but something remains stuck in his throat. “Sounds like her. She’s so smart.”
“Precocious,” I tease. “But she’s sweet.”
“You’re sweet,” he says, and my heart skips a beat.
“Thank you, I think.” I mean, ducklings are sweet. Swans are more regal and refined, but … oh, never mind.
“When can I see you again?” He’s still sitting in my driveway, and if I had the courage, I’d ask him in right now.
Love in Due Time Page 12
