by Mika Jolie
Claire leaned over the table and tried to focus on the red solid ball. Problem was Forrest was standing on the opposite side and her eyes kept landing on that bulge in his sweatpants. Crazy thoughts zipped through her head.
Was he wearing boxers or briefs?
What if she slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his pants and touched?
An unfamiliar sensation shot between her thighs. Groaning, she took her shot, and missed.
“Your aim was wrong.”
Truer words had never been spoken. “Um…yeah.”
“Here, let me show you.”
He came to stand behind her. “Follow my lead,” he said, way too close to her neck, so close the heat of his breath tickled her skin. “You have to focus on your target. Which ball do you want to hit?”
“What?” Her voice came out husky. She cleared her throat.
He chuckled. “Pick a ball and I’ll show you how to aim. Let’s go for the red ball again. I think that’s the one you tried for before, right?”
Oh, God, she was hot. The last thing she needed was to start sweating. Mouth dried, she nodded. Finely sculpted muscles of his chest pressed down on her back. She sucked in a breath, in an attempt to control the tremors inside.
“There are physical and mental aspects of playing pool,” he said quietly.
Umm…right. Rife and powerful desire spread through her. She nodded again.
“If you want to hit that ball, you need to forget about the others and give all of your attention to the one you’re aiming for. Turn your body a little to the left.” His hands guided her hip right against his hard male heat. “Don’t move. Now pull your shoulder back and swing forward…gently. Move with me.”
Mesmerized by everything Forrest, from the way his mouth was so close to her ear, to the feel of what made him male pressing on her back, she followed the instructions and watched the red ball sink into the corner pocket.
“I did it.” Excited, she tried to spin and face him, hug him, anything to have her hands on him. But he tightened his grip and held her steady.
“Don’t move.”
She stood stock-still. More like bent over. Her bottom pressed against the front of his sweatpants. A rush of heat pooled in her stomach. For the record, he was going commando.
“Focus,” he said in a thick voice. “Aim for the orange ball. Here turn your body this way." He shifted her hip. His iron-hard body with that thing poking at her, moved along with her. "Remember what I told you, forget about everything else and go with the flow.”
The torture continued for about ten minutes until Claire somehow managed to focus enough to clear all the solid balls from the table. Her palms were damp. Her body was damp too, yearning and aching for him. She turned, leaned on the table and looked into his eyes, watching every slight flicker take a dark, stormy shade. For a beat, she thought he was going to let her go but instead he cupped her face. Warm breath caressed her lips as he leaned ever closer, his nose brushing against hers.
“That day inside the barn and that afternoon in the rain, I wanted to kiss you.”
Her heart leaped, going a mile a minute. He was so close, so real, and she’d dreamed of this moment for so long.
“I want to kiss you now.”
“Kiss me,” she mouthed.
He hesitated. Then slowly, so slowly it hurt, he brought his lips down to hers for one too-short second. Claire's body trembled like a leaf. Her heart missed a beat. And then he jerked away, stepping back.
Her fingers went to her bottom lip, feeling the imprint of his mouth. She wanted more. “Forrest.”
“I promised I wouldn’t touch you.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Will you regret kissing me?”
“Maybe.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I can’t think straight.” He took another step, furthering the distance between them. "I know you kissed Tyler.”
Her first kiss. The weak attempt to mend her broken heart by kissing a boy one grade ahead of her. Part of her had done it because she knew word would get back to Forrest, and she’d hoped to get a rise out of him. There’d been rumors Jason, Blake, and Adam had threatened to tear Tyler apart limb by limb if he mustered the courage to get close to her again. But Forrest had done absolutely nothing.
“To forget you,” she whispered. “I was hurt.”
“Did it work?” His voice was low and grainy.
While the kiss had been nice, pleasant, it failed to ignite the flame in her bonfire heart. She moved closer, homing in on his lips. “No. If anything I want you more than ever.”
Forrest pressed his forehead to hers and swore beneath his breath. “Claire…”
“Please, Forrest, I’m beg…”
And then he kissed her again. It was magic, the way his lips connected with hers. Among all the dizziness, heat, and clinging to him like a lifeline, something inside her changed, never to be reversed. This new feeling could be dwelled upon later, because, for now, she was exhilarated to feel his breath come and go with hers.
She closed her eyes to better enjoy the sensation as his tongue lightly swept across and between her slightly parted lips. The hardness of his body pressed into hers as the kiss went even deeper. His tongue, filled with the spicy beer flavor, becoming a substitute for all the other parts of his body she’d like to absorb into her own. A rough groan escaped the back of his throat as his lips became more fervent and rougher until they broke for air.
“God, Claire.” He walked over to the large couch, this time putting enough distance that she couldn’t touch him. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“You’re practically my best friend’s sister.” He reached for his beer.
“But I’m not.” She took slow, calculated steps to where he stood with beer in hand. She took the bottle, gulped down a mouthful and nearly spit it out. The shit tasted disgusting.
“You shouldn’t be drinking,” he warned, watching her.
“Technically, neither should you.”
“How often do you drink alcohol?” he asked, ignoring her countering.
There was that one time she had a glass of wine with one of her friends. “Here and there.”
He looked at her for a beat. Obviously not buying her bullshit, then the last thing she expected happened. He grabbed another bottle. “First, let me say, I know you’ve never had beer before.”
“I’ve had beer.”
“Right.”
His tone confirmed she was a terrible liar. Whatever. She was on a mission and took another swig. Yep. Still disgusting.
“Second, let’s make a toast.”
She met his eyes. “A toast?”
He clinked his bottle to hers. “To you and me and all this tension between us.”
“I’m not mad at you. I was just embarrassed.”
“Not that kind of tension.”
Her heart kicked up a notch as realization sank in. “Oh.” Throat suddenly dry, she took another swig of the beer, nearly choking with a hiccup. “And you like this because?”
“It’s an acquired taste.” He quaffed down the alcohol. “Up for another game of pool?”
“Can we talk about the um…tension?” She took another mouthful of the alcoholic drink. Still tasted awful but she needed strength and something to boost her confidence.
“I’m listening.”
“You…feel it too?”
“Yes.”
The admission did something funny to her stomach. And lower. She took another swallow of the beer.
“You’re drinking too fast.”
She ignored the warning and gulped down another mouthful. “I thought you didn’t want me. Why are you telling me this now? Unless…”
“There’s no unless. I just thought you should know the feeling is not one-sided.”
They stood in silence, face to face, his beautiful slate gray eyes glinting with lust and desire. He wanted her. He was fighting it.
“Don’t go there.” His voice was rough, his hands gentle as he caught hers and held them still.
“Why?”
“You’re not even legal. You’re seventeen.”
“The legal age for consensual sex is sixteen. I checked.”
“It’s more than that. You should be dating.”
“I don’t want to date. I want you. My heart belongs to you.”
“You’re too young to know that.”
The room moved and Claire squeezed her eyes shut for a second or two to regain her composure, “I know what I feel.” They stood facing each other, gazes locked, neither daring to break the silence. Sexual tension hung thick in the air. Tilting the beer bottle to her mouth, she swallowed the last drops. She inched closer, tiptoed, and removed his glasses. “What will your excuse be next year when I’m eighteen?”
He squinted, stared at her, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “I won’t have any. But your feelings might change.”
“They won’t.”
He looked at her long and hard. “If you still feel the same way on your eighteenth birthday then I’m yours, Claire. For as long as you want me.”
Something fluttered crazy low in her stomach. Hope. Excitement. Happiness. “Forever. I’ll want you forever.”
He smiled. “Tell me that next year.”
“You’ll wait for me?”
One hand went to her ponytail, pulled it loose and tangled his fingers in her hair. “I'll wait for you.”
His lips found hers again, warm in contrast to the cold outside. Everything faded away, and all Claire heard was her breath and their heartbeats.
Chapter Three
“Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus
Herring Creek Farm, Martha’s Vineyard ten years ago…
Finally, the moment Claire had been wishing for was here. Giddy with excitement, she wanted to run, to shout, and tell everyone what was going to happen. The day had been the longest of her almost eighteen years. She boiled the kettle for the fifth time that morning. Filled to the brim with tea and wired with caffeine, she busied herself with a book.
A romance novel, her fave.
It failed to divert her attention from thoughts of Forrest. Instead her mind kept running wild with scenarios—Forrest’s lips on her breasts, his fingers between her thighs. Romance novel. Bad choice.
Unable to sit down, let alone read, she walked back to the kitchen and stopped. Another quick glance at the luminous digital clock of the oven made her wonder if time had slowed down, her stomach knotted. Every distraction she chose for herself–much like a butterfly would flutter toward the possibilities of tonight. Then she’d get that tingly feeling all over again.
But try as hard as it might, the day couldn’t last forever. The afternoon heat reluctantly faded and Claire found herself behind the wheel of her Volkswagen Cabriolet. Wait for me, the words replayed in her head. She shifted the gear of the convertible to park and looked at her watch. Eleven fifty-eight p.m. Two more minutes and she’d officially be eighteen.
Humming to the tune of Feel Good by The Gorillaz and De La Soul, she sat back and stared at the dappled moonlight surrounded by little stars. There was something beautiful about nighttime, magical, when the world’s asleep. The minute hand moved forward, nearing midnight.
Eleven fifty-nine p.m. As Claire stepped onto the grounds of Herring Creek Farm, the light breeze brushed the skirt of her dress. A nervous kind of energy crept through her like electrical sparks, gathering in her toes. She tugged at the new dress the store assistant swore accentuated her curves in the most flattering way. But she knew better. Willowy and without a large bust, she barely had any curves. Now she wondered if Forrest would think she looked beautiful or find the mini wrap dress too short. With each tug, the front went lower and lower, so she stopped and glanced up at the corner window of the Victorian estate.
Forrest.
Her heart pounded like the thundering hooves of a thousand wild stallions.
Three hundred and sixty-five days unable to think of anything except this moment. She’d written and circled the date on every notebook. It felt like an eternity, waiting and wanting to transcend the stolen kisses whenever he’d visited the island. But Forrest had insisted they wait, and now...
Midnight and officially eighteen. Every fiber of her body vibrated.
She looked up at his bedroom window again. Pitch black. Probably sleeping, he had no idea she’d be coming tonight. His last words to her were, See you at your party. But she’d been desperate with longing. Grateful Charles had suggested they stay in town for the weekend, so all of her friends could easily attend her birthday party, Claire had gone to bed fully dressed and watched the clock until all the lights were out, before grabbing her car keys and making her way to the farm.
Her fingers twitched, she paced back and forth on the grass yard, found a small rock and picked it up. She aimed at Forrest’s bedroom window, held her breath at the little tlock sound against the window pane.
Swallowing a hard lump in her throat, she waited. It felt like forever. Her palms were sweaty and her knees were shaking. Then the window slid open and Forrest stuck his head out. She watched as he donned his glasses and brought her into focus.
“Claire.” His voice was low, filled with questions.
“I’m eighteen,” she said in a whispery voice.
Absolute stillness. No air stirred the grass or leaves. No clouds drifted in the sky. No water dripped or flowed. Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the distance. Even her own breath died as soon as it left her mouth. It was an eerie sort of tranquility, so instead of being soothed, her senses heightened.
She glanced at her watch again, now a few minutes past midnight. Shit, did he change his mind? “In the tree house, you said…” she started, her heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box.
“Don’t move. I’m coming down.”
And then he disappeared. Nerves now on edge, Claire sunk her teeth into her bottom lip in order to keep her knees from buckling under the weight of her wobbly body. Within minutes the front door opened and Forrest came into view, wearing a pair of low-slung black pajama pants and nothing else. Sheer male perfection.
“I’m eighteen and I thought...” She squeezed her hands together. “I mean, I want, we said–”
He peeled his body from the doorway and started toward her. “You’re rambling.”
As he closed the distance between them, she let her gaze go south to well-defined abs, to the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath those deliciously indecent low pajamas. He was beautiful and she was in love with every inch of him.
“It’s my birthday.”
A smile crept across Forrest’s face. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. The air grew thick, forcing her to breathe slower, deeper.
“Happy birthday.” His lips brushed over hers, then his mouth moved to the tender area at the base of her neck. Claire’s eyes fluttered shut and light exploded behind her closed lids. When he drew back, she quickly searched his face, panic ready to take over.
“Claire, we don’t have to–”
“I want to,” she cut him off. “You said when I turn eighteen…”
“I know what I said.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. His eyes hooded behind his glasses. “I want you to be sure.”
“I’m on the pill.” She was prepared. “I couldn’t be surer.”
“Let’s go inside,” he said after a beat.
“I brought a blanket.” She had a picnic basket in the trunk of the Cabriolet with a blanket and everything. “I figure we can go by the lake.”
“My bedroom.”
“What about your parents?”
“They are in Nantucket ’til tomorrow.” He smiled. “You could have knocked.”
> “You didn’t tell me they were gone.” He scratched the back of his head. And Claire’s eyes narrowed. “You knew I’d come over if you told me.”
He gave her a sheepish smile. “It crossed my mind.”
Was he having doubts? The idea chilled her. She ran a nervous hand over her dress and let her face fall with gravity, focusing her attention on nothing in particular. “Did you change your mind?” she asked, heart in her throat.
“No.” He exhaled. “God, Claire, I can’t stop thinking about you.” He clutched her hand. “Let’s go inside. I have a gift for you.”
A sigh of relief streamed through her lungs. Her gaze went back to his face. So handsome. “I’ve been waiting.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Not my penis. I bought you something.”
Forrest wrapped one arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer. She inched her nose toward his neck. His scent was intoxicating, not of cologne but of freshly cut timber, like the damp forest on a rainy day. With her body pressed against his side, they walked inside the house. He didn’t let go until they made their way upstairs. In comfortable silence, they headed down the hall to his bedroom, her pinky hooked into his. He didn’t let go until they entered his room to turn on the lamp.
She glanced around the place she’d visited many times in the past and could never get enough of. In here she was surrounded by everything that represented Forrest. Deep azure walls with white slat board added a classic balance to the otherwise sports fanatic decorated room. A wall decal of his all-time favorite quarterback, Joe Montana, one of his skateboards casually thrown against the red dorm trunk next to a football. His favorite Ronix surfboard leaned on the wall next to his headboard. She peered at the bed. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, her head buzzing with possibilities.
“Sorry, room’s a bit messy.” He grabbed a balled-up royal blue tee and a black rash guard from the floor, then walked over to the closet and tossed the shirts inside. Their eyes met for a split second and she gave him a quick smile. “Right now,” he said in a grainy voice, “my heart is beating really fast.”
