Swing

by Adriana Locke

  “I hope that works out for you.”

  “Me too.” He laces his fingers together and rests them on his knees. “What about you, Dani? What are you working towards?”

  “In what way?” I ask, gulping.

  “In any way. What are your goals? What do you want to accomplish in your life?”

  Leaning away from him, I try to wrap my head around that question. I want to accomplish so much. I want to do so many things, but I don’t know how to verbalize them.

  When I’m sure he’s not going to talk until I answer, I take a deep breath. “Really, Lincoln? I just want to be happy.”

  “You aren’t happy now?”

  “Yes and no, I guess,” I say, laughing nervously. “I’m doing what I love. I love working with kids and making a difference somehow. But I want more, you know? I want a family someday. I want stability I’ve never really had. That’s important to me.”

  His lips press together as he takes that in. His gaze pulls away from mine and lands over the water somewhere again.

  We sit in silence for a long time, the birds calling to each other and an occasional fish jumping out of the water. I get so lost in the peacefulness of it that I don’t notice Lincoln nudge closer to me.

  “You chilly?” he asks.

  Looking at my arms across my chest, I realize I’m shivering. “I guess so,” I laugh.

  With a cautious movement, he wraps an arm around my shoulders. At the contact, my breath catches in my throat. He’s so warm, so hard, that I’ve never felt so wrapped up and safe in my entire life.

  “Have you always wanted those things?” he asks finally, the gravel in his tone singing through me. “Or did they change?”

  “I think I’ve always wanted them. I’ve wanted to do different things with my life, not always the job I have, but I think that’s a normal part of life. Wanting new things, evolving.”

  He nods. “Maybe so.”

  The sun starts to drop behind the trees and a chilly blast of air drifts across the water. “I better get going,” I tell him. “I hate driving in the dark.”

  “Do you have to go far?”

  “Not really.”

  His fingers press lightly into my arm before he unwinds his arm from around me. Taking my hand, he helps me off the picnic table. I expect him to let go as we walk to the car, but he doesn’t. My palm fits so snugly inside his, the coarseness of his skin rough against mine. We don’t speak until we get to the parking lot.

  “Thank you for coming out here,” he says, opening the door for me.

  “It’s really no big deal.”

  “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  I shouldn’t. I could get sucked into this vacuum faster than I ever imagined if I don’t watch it.

  “I don’t know about dinner,” I tell him.

  “Okay,” he gulps. “What about . . . let’s play catch.”

  “What?” I laugh.

  He grins. “Meet me back here tomorrow. We’ll play catch. You can’t even consider that a date,” he points out as I start to object. “I’ll bring two gloves and a ball and you just have to show up.”

  I want to say no. Sort of. But there’s no saying no to the look on his face.

  “What time?” I ask.

  “Four-thirty?”

  “See you then,” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat before I agree to anything else. As I drive off, I see him in the rearview mirror looking like the smug Lincoln Landry I know.

  Danielle

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M DOING this.” Climbing out of the car, I try to suppress the excitement that’s whirled in my belly all day. I’ve thought about him since I left here last night—the way he touched me, smiled at me, seemed honestly interested in what I had to say. He’s trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

  Spying him near the picnic table from last night, I can’t help the smile on my face as I approach. He has a glove on one hand and is tossing a ball in the air with the other. When he senses me coming, he smiles wide.

  “I was starting to think you backed out on me,” he laughs.

  “You wish,” I tease, tugging at my hoodie. “Did someone tip you off about my skills?”

  “I don’t need someone to tell me you’re skilled,” he jokes, leaning in and kissing my cheek. “Now put on this glove and let’s get started before I start thinking about all your sundry talents.”

  He stands a few feet away from me and tosses me a ball. The leather cracks as I catch it and whizz it back to him. His eyes light up. “You weren’t kidding. You have played before.”

  “Yeah,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “I played four years of varsity in high school.”

  “Impressive.” He sends one back to me and I toss it back to him. “What else did you do in high school? I had you pegged for a cheerleader.”

  “God, no,” I laugh. “I played softball and volleyball. I didn’t love either one, to be honest, but my parents insisted I do something with my time.”

  “How can you not love baseball? Or softball, I guess.”

  I shrug, catching one a little harder. He seems surprised. “I think I would’ve liked it if there hadn’t been pressure on me to be good at them,” I say. “I had private coaches and camps and seminars. It was just too much.”

  “What would you rather have been doing?”

  “Painting, maybe,” I offer. “I always wanted to try swimming. I loved watching their competitions. I would’ve sucked though. My boobs are too big.”

  “Nice problem to have,” he teases, making me laugh again.

  “What about you? Did you love just baseball?”

  He considers this, his features darkening for a long moment. “I do love it. I always have. I liked football too but it was so physical and I didn’t want to tear my body up like that.”

  “That would’ve been a shame,” I smirk.

  He catches my toss and winces just a little. “I was better at baseball anyway. It was my thing. In our family, you have to have something you’re known for, and baseball was all I really had.”

  “So if you’re a nerd and aren’t good at anything, what happens in your family?”

  “You’re Graham.”

  This must be a joke of some sort because he bursts out laughing. Although I have no idea why, I’m laughing too. Our voices meld together in the air, his Southern twang and my girly giggle, and I love the way it sounds.

  Once we settle down, our game of toss continues. Back and forth the ball goes, a comfortable silence between us. After the fifth or sixth throw, I notice a slight cringe around his eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, holding the ball. “Does your shoulder hurt?”

  “It always hurts some.”

  “Let’s stop. This can’t be good for you.”

  A shy smile touches his lips. He looks at me in a way he hasn’t before, like something has shifted between us. “This is the best therapy I’ve had yet.”

  “If you mean practicing, it’s not,” I insist. “Not if it hurts.”

  I’m not sure what I said, but he laughs. “Gotta push through the pain sometimes, Dani.”

  “And you have to rest sometimes too, Landry,” I sigh.

  He holds his glove up and I throw it back to him, gently this time. The thought of him going through the motions pushing through pain hurts my heart. I wonder how many times he’s tried to push through injuries and discomfort for another play or another win.

  As if he reads my mind, he shakes his head. “I know my limits. I push as hard as I can and stop when I have to. It’s a balance because you know you have physical limitations, yet there are all these expectations,” he gulps. “It’s just a part of the job.” He reads my face and his features lighten. “Besides, I’ve prepared for this my whole life.”

  “I get what you’re saying,” I tell him, thinking back to the demands my father put on me growing up to be the best. Years of my life spent pitching two hundred strikes every day without fail. Hours upon hours of time with coaches, dieticians, ph
ysical trainers, all to achieve something he wanted. Not me. “I know the pressure to be good at something. I hated it.”

  “I didn’t hate it,” he comments. “I just have three older brothers that are all badass in their own way. It’s tough living up to that.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Do you have siblings?”

  I catch his toss and hold it in my glove in front of me. “It’s just me.”

  “That must be lonely.”

  “It is. That’s why I want like ten kids.”

  “Ten kids?” he repeats, his eyes bulging out of his head.

  “Maybe not ten,” I laugh. “But a bunch. I don’t really have a family, so I’m going to make my own someday.”

  His features twist together, and I don’t know what to make of that. Before I can think about it too long, he’s closing the distance between us. Standing a few feet in front of me, he brushes a lock of my hair out of my face.

  “You look so beautiful,” he whispers. “I don’t know how a woman can look more beautiful in a hoodie and sweatpants than she does in a dress and heels, but you do.”

  “So you don’t like my dresses?” I tease.

  “Oh, I do. Trust me, I do. But I love the way you are so natural right now. So . . .”

  “Boring?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Whatever,” I laugh. “You’re such a charmer.”

  He takes my hand and pulls me to the picnic table from last night, and we sit in the same spots as before. “I like you better like this,” he notes.

  “Like what?”

  “Out of your domain, as you called it. When we both know we are on equal footing.”

  “Screw you, Landry,” I laugh.

  “Yes, please do.”

  That’s all it takes for everything to switch between us. Unlike at the hospital, we are alone. In the course of six words, the lighthearted game changes. Our breathing is as heavy as if we’d just run a mile. Using every bit of self-control I have, which is way more than I ever knew I possessed, I tug my gaze away from his. My head is angled so he can’t see my face. My eyes squeeze shut in anticipation of his next move because, if I know anything, it’s that there will be a next move.

  The weight of his touch, forceful yet respectful, rests on the small of my back. I’m aware that I suck in a hasty breath at the contact, but there’s no chuckle or tease from him. Watching a bird land on the water, I give myself a few seconds to decide how this goes. Do I want to pursue this moment or do I not?

  Tucking my chin against my shoulder, I look up at him through my lashes. “Whatcha doin’, Landry?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  My blood pounds through my body, like it’s a race to course through my veins. It’s dizzying. Then I look into his eyes, those deep, intense swirls of green, and it’s all I can do not to tip backwards.

  The lights flicker on around the park as the sun continues to creep beyond the horizon. The chatter that ricocheted through the trees earlier from other patrons is gone. Everything is quiet, like the world is waiting on the next move as much as I am.

  “Can I kiss you?” It’s the simplicity of his question, the sweetness of the proposal, that does me in. I’m a goner, putty in his large, calloused, surely-capable hands.

  “You better.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches as he leans in and touches his lips to mine. My bones turn to mush, my body temperature melting me from the inside out. The taste of his mouth as his tongue separates my lips and works against mine is hot and sweet, full of everything I feel. He breathes into my mouth, filling me with such a carnal need to feel him in so many ways.

  His hands find my waist and he jerks me closer to him, the tips of his fingers digging possessively into my hips. As I moan into his mouth, he clenches harder around my sides, his lips working harder, more urgently against mine. He winds his fist into my hair, creating a knot, and holds it at the base of my neck. Using it to position my face where he wants it, which at the moment is cocked to the side, he slides his kisses off my lips, down my cheekbone, and behind my ear.

  They’re soft against my skin as they demand a reaction. Like I have a choice. When the stubble of his five o’clock shadow scratches against my neck, I moan much louder than I realize.

  He chuckles, his breath scalding against my skin. “Shhh.”

  “You started this,” I say, a giggle in my tone. “You picked the park.”

  “Because it’s the only place I can get you to meet me.”

  “Because I didn’t want this to happen.”

  He laughs out loud, pulling away from me. “Don’t kid yourself, babe. The only reason you came here was for this.”

  “Liar!” I giggle.

  “Oh, you came here because you really wanted to play catch, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  His hands go behind him as he stretches his torso out. “I wanted to take you to dinner and then to my place for dessert. You didn’t want that, so I switched to the backup plan.”

  “Which was?”

  “Getting to see you somewhere without a bed instead.”

  I smirk. “Are you really going to let that stop you?”

  He growls as he moves closer. My breath catches at the predatory look in his eye. The playfulness is gone, replaced with a look so intense, so starved, that I actually shiver.

  I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands are wrapped around my waist and he’s moving me so I’m standing in front of him. My body obeys, like it’s turned over all control.

  Maybe it has.

  I’m turned and sat in front of him on the ledge of the picnic table. His legs are on either side of mine, my back against his chest. His lips are against my ear, whispering something I can’t hear over the anticipation of what he’s about to do.

  He reclines back just a touch and I lean along with him. His hands find the sides of my thighs, squeezing them. I shiver mercilessly, every synapse firing all at once as he broaches the waistband of my sweatpants. His hands are flat against my skin, not missing an inch of contact on their down my stomach.

  I feel his cock harden against my back. I want to reach behind me and cup it in my hand, massage it through the fabric of his pants, but that would require more coordination than I’m capable of right now. His right hand finds the lace of my panties. One long finger runs from the underside of the wet panel to the top near my belly button.

  “God,” I gasp, prepared to beg for more. Mentally berating myself for not just letting him come to my house, I try to keep my breathing even. “Landry?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “Make me come.”

  “Fuck,” he groans, the reverberation of his torso just making me wetter. His fingers slide beneath the edge of my panties, this time dipping into the seam and sliding from my clit down to my ass. “I was right.”

  “About what?” I grimace, raising my hips to try to initiate more contact.

  “You want me as bad as I want you.”

  “You think?” I try not to get exasperated, but it’s so hard with his finger slipping up and down my slit, his cock pressing against me. When he chuckles at my response, the urge to get annoyed gets heavier. “If you can’t do the job, I can do it myself.”

  I almost don’t get the words out before his finger sinks into my body, making me cry out. “Ah!” I moan, bucking against his hand.

  “Shh,” he whispers, pressing kisses along the side of my face. “Be quiet.”

  “I don’t care,” I cry.

  “I can tell,” he chuckles again, adding another finger into the mix.

  His free hand presses against my belly, holding me firmly against him. My head falls back. My eyes flutter closed as he works his fingers in and out of my opening.

  I spread my legs as far as I can, needing, craving, beseeching all the connection he will possibly give me. “Landry,” I moan as the pads of his fingers find my clit. “Fuck.”

  “You would be getti
ng fucked if you weren’t so hard-headed,” he whispers in my ear. His fingers roll over and over the swollen bud. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? You’re imagining my cock, the same one that’s hard as fuck right behind your ass, sliding inside you. You’re thinking about what it would feel like as it swells while buried in your pussy.”

  “Fuck you,” I moan, rocking my hips to meet his hand.

  “Next time. Next time, I promise.”

  My vision is blurred, the build-up quickening, ready to boil over. I suck in a breath.

  “You feel so good on my fingers,” he says against my ear. “So fucking wet. I can’t imagine what you would feel like riding my cock.”

  “Oh, hell,” I moan again as he gives my clit a final flick and sinks his fingers into my opening once again. He wastes no time stroking in and out of me, his pace in beat with my stuttered breaths. My hands grip the sides of his muscled thighs. They flex as my fingers drill through the cotton and into the muscled flesh beneath. “Landry”

  “Come for me, baby,” he growls in my ear.

  “Just like that? Do it just like that . . . Ah!” My head jerks to the side as my body clenches around his fingers. A dozen lights explode in my vision. He maintains his pace as I come apart. “I can’t! Lincoln! I can’t! My Godddddd. . . .”

  His chest rumbles and I figure he’s chuckling at my outburst, but I can’t hear him over the roar of blood in my ears. Slowly, I begin my descent back to earth. As if he understands my body, he eases his tempo, and as I still against him, stops.

  My hair is a wild mess, my head buried beneath his chin. I’m so content, so beautifully tired, that I want to curl up on his lap and go to sleep. He brushes my hair off my face and kisses my forehead.

  After everything that just happened, that’s what wakes me back up to reality: the kiss on the forehead. The sweet, delicate kiss on the forehead sends off warning shots in my brain. Even so, I have to literally count to three in my head to make myself sit up, stand, straighten out my clothes, and step off the picnic table.

  When I turn back around, he’s still sitting there. His elbows on his knees, bent forward. “You good?”

  “If you’re asking if I enjoyed that, I did,” I smile.