by Pike, Leslie
The moans are less controlled now. She’s pushing against my mouth. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me, please.
And then she starts to let it go. I hear the breathing change from labored to freeform breaths of passion.
“Oh, oh, ohhhhhhh,” she calls, lost in the feeling.
I grab her round cheeks, half covered in silky lace, pressing her pussy against me. Then I slow my roll, quieting the tongue so not to ruin the sensation with too much pressure.
She falls into the orgasm. It’s too strong for words or sounds. Her body stiffens against me. She comes and comes, and I taste the juices that reach my tongue. Oh, woman.
“God. Every time,” she says lifting my chin.
I stand and kiss her. The taste of her perfect pussy on me. She takes her tongue and lightly licks around my lips, getting all of it. A crooked smile paints her face, showing how much she loves the naughtiness.
“Let me start the water,” she says turning on the spigots.
“It fills in less than a minute. That’s another reason I picked this place.”
By the time we’re naked, the water has reached the top of the tub. A twist and tuck of her long hair is expertly done. I help her in.
“When my pussy hits the water, it’s gonna boil,” she says taking a careful seat.
Standing in the water, straddling her legs I lean forward balancing myself on the wide surround of the tub. Now my dicks where I want it. She parts her lips and looks up at me.
“Let me love you,” she says.
Ohhhhh. She’s doing exactly what I did. Dancing around the word. Using it in every other context. Testing the waters.
I smile my impression. “It’s all I want.”
Before she takes me in her mouth, she places a tender kiss on the tip.
An hour and a half, a mind-altering blowjob and a slippery fuck later, we’re stepping out of the lukewarm water.
“I want to dry you,” I say grabbing the thick white bath towel from the edge of the tub.
She turns her back to me and untwists her hair. It falls loose in one seductive motion. Coming up behind her I begin to dry. The skin looks flawless and the shape of her at this angle stunning.
“As a man, let me say this is very sensual,” I say admiring the view.
She looks over a shoulder. “Let’s spend the rest of the day and night in bed. Is that alright with you?”
The towel’s dropped where we stand, and I don’t bother to dry myself off. My answer to Scarlett’s question is to pick her naked body up and put her over my shoulder.
“Eeeeep!” she screams.
“To the bed, woman,” I say slapping the velvety, round ass.
The feeling of breasts against my back is my new favorite sensation.
When we reach the huge bed I toss her right in the middle of the down cover. She sinks in the luxurious bedding. Then I pound my chest like a gorilla that just smelled the female in heat. It’s unlike me. But she brings out the play.
She throws back the covers, climbs in and locks eyes with me. Sometimes eye contact is more intimate than words will ever be.
“Come here. Take everything I have,” she whispers.
It’s soft, genuine. I stop with the monkey business and get in bed. Rolling over and leaning on an elbow, I watch her. The light through the windows has changed. It’s sunset.
“Look, they weren’t kidding. The city looks like a jewel,” she says looking past my shoulder.
I don’t turn to see the sunset’s show. Everything I’m interested in looking at is right in front of me. The corners of her mouth lift and fingers move a piece of hair from my forehead.
Inside my head a voice is telling me to say it. Tell her. Scream it or whisper, just say it. Find her eyes and say it now.
“I love you, Scarlett.”
The words float on the air and settle in her eyes. I’m praying they reach the heart.
Hands reach for my face. “I love you too, Parish. All the way.”
We bask in the moment, neither wanting to break this spell.
“Are you certain? You denied it this morning,” I tease.
“I thought I scared you. I had to take it back.”
“Scared me? Don’t you know what you’ve done for me?”
“I hope I’ve made you happy.”
“You’ve done more. You brought me back from a dark place. You’ve made the worst parts of my life bearable. That’s not a small thing.”
“From now on we’ll have each other to share whatever makes us sad. I promise to be your comfort. Will you be mine? You are my Valentine.”
“Kiss me, love,” I say not wanting to wait another moment.
“Get in here, baby,” she says arms open wide.
One of Scarlett’s gifts is she fills me with feelings I didn’t know were there. They show up unannounced. The little moments aren’t so little. I know the best part of my day is going to be with her. The way I know she’s the one. The only one for me.
Love is real. I’m glad I waited for it.
Chapter 22
Scarlett
Only narrow trails of chocolate remain on the bowl lined in real edible gold. There isn’t a trace of white coffee ice cream left. Le Coucou has lived up to its reputation as one of New York’s finest French restaurants.
The double row of chandeliers and the soft French love songs set the romantic mood of the room.
“Thank you for giving me the last bite,” I say raising the champagne glass.
“You’re welcome. Have you had a good night?”
“I’ll never forget it, Parish. Had I told you I always wanted to see the Phantom?”
“You mentioned it.”
“See, that’s one of your strengths. You pay attention.”
I pour the last of the champagne, splitting it between us. It’s the first alcohol I’ve had.
“I’ve got a question,” I say.
“Ask me.”
“It’s about Sam. I’ve been thinking about how us being in love affects him.”
He takes a big breath and fidgets in his chair.
“Does that make you nervous?” I say chuckling.
“Not at all. I’m just trying to think of how to say what I mean.”
“Well, he and I are together for life now. If you and I are together does it mean you love him too? Is that what we aim for?”
His expression softens. “Scarlett, I’ve aimed successfully for friendship with Sam. I think that’s the right thing to do. His father just died. Do you think he’s going to love another man in that way so soon? Or for that matter, I love another child? It doesn’t work that quickly.”
I roll his words around my mind.
“That’s not to say it can’t grow to love,” he continues. “But first he and I need to build respect and affection. I’m pretty happy with how close we are already. We genuinely like each other.”
“That sounds right. I’m just so out of my depth with this mother-figure role. And now there’s a new unfamiliarity. I’m in love. So be patient with me.”
“I think Sam and I have a better chance at getting to love if we walk slowly towards it.”
Sometimes the fact Parish is a writer bubbles up. He’s so good at expressing himself.
“And let’s vow to do this. Talk everything out. Okay?” I say.
He reaches for my hand across the table. Our fingers entwine.
“Yes. I want that too. And just know I’m mindful of Sam’s vulnerability. I’m going to be what fathers are. A male voice, a protector and someone who has his interests in mind. Shall we start there?”
I let his words settle in my heart. I think this is going to work beautifully.
* * *
Memories of the past week float freely. I’m pretty sure I’ve rinsed this plate twice. My one-track mind can only concentrate on Parish. It wants to stay close to him, live in the image of his face, go over his body in detail.
Then to make it absolutely perfect I replay the moment he first said
he loved me.
What an incredible feeling that was. Love flowed between us, his to me and mine to him. I didn’t think our lovemaking could get any better. I was wrong about that. There’s a new kind of tenderness that love has brought, mixed with the passion we’ve felt from the start.
And the most stunning realization is that I have both feet on the ground. This isn’t a romance based on unicorns and butterflies. Its root is in the real. We started in the storms of life. Our love was forged in them.
I’m choosing not to think too far ahead. We need to live in our love for enough time to know its strength. To figure out its direction. I’ve known where my heart’s going, I’ve already dipped a toe in the idea. But I could be alone in that leap. Only time will prove it all.
Sam should be home from school soon. Boo’s taken her post. It’s getting to be that time of the day, and she stands guard by the back door. They’ve become a team, she and Sam. That bond formed on the first day. They’ve become each other’s protector.
I watch Parish coming up the stairs with the Monopoly game he retrieved from his house. That red hoodie looks hot on him. But then everything does.
Every day since we got back from New York he’s been slowly moving an item or two from his house to ours. He’s not fooling anyone. Sam thinks it’s funny. Last night when he suggested Parish hire the local moving company, it made us all laugh.
“Where do you want this?” Parish says coming through the slider.
“Leave it on the dining table. We can play tonight.”
“I just got off the phone with my sister. Her husband’s going on a business trip in a couple of weeks. She’s going to stay at my place.”
I give him a meaningful stare. “And you? Where are you staying?”
He picks up an apple and takes a bite. “Here, of course.”
“Parish, you see your sister once every five years. Don’t you think you should stay there with her?”
“No.”
My head tilts a doubting stare.
“What?” he says knowing full well what I’m saying.
I just chuckle.
“There’s no reason to have to sleep in the same house,” he says. “I’ll spend all day and evening with her. But when it’s lights out I’m heading to Casa Scarlett.”
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I kiss his nose.
“You’re a horny son of a bitch.”
“My being horny has nothing to do with it. Well, maybe ten, twenty percent. I just like being with you.”
I can’t fight that. I feel the same.
The sound of the dog’s bark pulls our attention.
“I’m home!” Sam calls from the hall. “Stop kissing.”
I untangle my arms from Parish’s neck and turn to greet our returning scholar.
“See, I knew you two would be doing that,” he says entering the room.
“We’re not doing anything!” I say laughing.
“Yes we were,” Parish teases. “You just ruined a beautiful moment.”
That’s the great thing about their relationship. Already they’ve built this rhythm to their conversations. Both know exactly when they’re teasing and when it’s serious. I like watching the friendship build. What Parish said the other night really set things straight for me.
Sam wouldn’t respond to a pushy guy. Never. He’d back off. Parish saw that before I figured it out. Now the foundation is being laid. I’m happy. So happy.
“Up for a walk? Or a run?”
The dog hears her second favorite trigger word. It comes right after treats. Ears perk up and tail wags a response. Take me! Take me too!
Sam drops his backpack on the counter and grabs the leash.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
The sound of Parish’s cell interrupts their march to the slider. Sam’s face shows his impatience. The dogs not too happy about the delay either. When he looks at who’s calling, he waves them forward.
“I gotta get this. It’s my publisher. Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”
Dog and boy don’t hesitate. They’re out the slider, down the stairs and on the sand before Parish takes a seat on the couch.
It’s a joy watching them in the bright sun of this February afternoon. The ocean is churning. The dog is energized and running at full speed. They’ve got the entire beach to themselves.
This is what youth looks like. A boy and his dog. Hopefully Sam’s not thinking of things that could make him sad. Every day I look for that expression he wears when he’s thinking of his parents. Today it wasn’t there. I’ll take it. Even if it’s just for a day. Blessed peace.
“Alright. I’ll be sending it by Monday or Tuesday at the latest,” Parish says. “Talk to you at the end of the week.”
He disconnects.
“This is the first time I’ve missed my deadline. It’s all your fault,” he says getting up.
“My fault?”
Taking me in his arms, he shares his theory. “I’m pretty sure it’s because so much of my writing time has been usurped by how much times required to satisfy you. You want to fuck all the time. It’s exhausting.”
There’s a beat before we both start laughing at the absurdity and partial truth of the statement.
“Well, there’s an easy fix. Let’s make a schedule. Say, twice a week, for a half hour at a time. That should leave you plenty time to write.”
He gets a horrified look on his face.
“Stop! No! I’d rather write less and be in bed with you more.”
“Then quit your complaining,” I say slapping his firm ass.
I see his eyes dart to the slider behind me. And an expression comes over his face I’ve never seen before. When I turn I see why.
“God dammit,” he says softly.
Out on the sand, close to the shore, a blonde curly headed child kneels. The lighthouse keeper and a younger woman stand watching the sandcastle being built. All three are bundled against the cold.
I press Parish against me and lay my head on his chest.
But it’s no comfort. He untangles my arms from around his back and steps away. Walking to the slider he grabs the binoculars Sam left on the end table.
He’s focused on the child. I know there’s nothing he wants to hear. So I just lay my hand on his back in a wordless acknowledgment of his pain.
When he lowers the glasses and turns to me he’s about to cry. Silently and without a change in expression. Closed eyes and a shake of his head speak the depth of his agony.
“I’m going back to my place for a little while. Don’t worry.”
He kisses the top of my head, sets the binoculars on the table and walks out. My heart’s pounding. I’m not sure if I should follow him or let him do what he chooses. Shit!
I watch him take the stairs and cross the sand. He hasn’t looked away from the group at the shoreline. Then I lose sight of him when he goes around the corner of his house.
Tears well in my eyes and the lump in my throat starts to ache. What do I do? It only takes me a few seconds to come to the only conclusion that makes sense. Give him his alone time. He needs to process. I only hope he’s changed his methods of coping.
Of course he has. I haven’t seen him in that dark place for months. He’s completely reigned in the out-of-control drinking. That was all before we met. He never slept on the beach after that first night.
Relax, Scarlett.
This is how grief plays out. I’m beginning to understand. My grief for Kristen, and even Sam’s for his mother, doesn’t look the same as Parish’s for his son. His is a wound that will never completely close no matter what it looks like on the surface. Underneath the scar it’s raw.
What’s this? He’s leaving the house, hood up and dark glasses on. Oh no, is he walking toward the child? Is that a good idea, or the worst one he’s ever had? I grab the binoculars.
About half way to the water he makes a sharp right and avoids our neighbor and his guests. Good. That makes sense. I can’t see an
y good outcome if they spoke.
He’s probably trying to catch up with Sam. Somehow he knows how to handle Parish’s moods with the least amount of conversation. Just two guys not talking it out.
There’s a long list of things I wanted to get to today, but no chance I’ll get to any of them. I’ll be sitting on the deck pretending to read my romance novel until I see them returning.
The sky’s getting dark and for the last half hour the waves have been steadily building. The lighthouse keeper and his family are starting back. Where are the boys? I had to retreat to the house ten minutes ago when it just got too damn chilly. Then I hear the barking.
Damn, I left the binoculars outside on the table.
Opening the slider and stepping into the cold, I grab the glasses. Lifting them to my eyes I try to spot Parish and Sam. The wind’s whistling and salty mist settles on my face.
Where are they? Then I see the dog. She’s running full force along the shoreline, focused on the stick Sam just threw. The dog retrieves it, pivots and runs back with it between his teeth. She offers it to Sam. I move the binoculars to the right, looking for Parish.
He’s coming around the dunes. Why’s he so far behind? What’s that in his hand? Shit! It’s a bottle. The same size and brand he was drinking the night I covered him with Sam’s blanket. As far as I can see it’s empty. I wasn’t expecting this. He trips and almost goes down.
Then the unexpected happens. In an instant his face transforms from a detached expression to the most focused stare I’ve ever seen. He takes off running full force, dropping the bottle and throwing his sunglasses off to the wind. I swing the binoculars to the left and see the horrifying sight. Sam’s being tossed in the crashing sea. The dog’s in the curl of a wave, one leg sticking out in a disgusting sight. Unnatural.
I’m off.
Down the steps.
Onto the sand.
Running and screaming against the wind. Calling Sam’s name. By now I can see Parish in the water, frantically searching for Sam. His back’s to a huge wave that beats him to the sand. Oh God! Help us! Help Sam! Please! I feel like I’m in a dream, moving in excruciatingly slow motion.
