Chasing Waves

by Bianca Mori

  He shakes his head, tugging his flannel button-down off, leaving him in his signature flimsy gray t-shirt. Then he kneels on the floor with a tired groan. “Just what I need. More fans.”

  I pat his head. “Life is so hard.”

  He reaches out and pulls me in front of him. I sit back on my heels, my knees touching his. He has that maddeningly naughty grin on his face again. My gaze focuses on his dark eyes as I try to ignore how warm his palm is, and how his thumb skims lightly on the skin of the back of my hand.

  “You really need to get real chairs, Luke.” My voice kind of peters out to a breathless whisper.

  “I should,” he nods. His thumb sketches across mine. “So,” he grins, eyes twinkling. “Which part of my amazing performance was your favorite?”

  “Oh, the floor work,” I say solemnly.

  “Indeed?” he raises his brow.

  “It was so earthy. Very Martha Graham.”

  “Ah yes. That was the point of the whole thing, you know. Cultural and artistic appreciation.” His face breaks into a wide grin.

  I nod. “You were very much appreciated, friend.”

  He lets go of my hand. Then he raises one knee, his head bowed under an imaginary fedora, just like his pose at the beginning of the dance earlier this evening.

  I tamp my mouth closed to stop the smile that’s threatening to split my face open. Because right now, right in front of me–and only for me–Luke begins to dance.

  His head starts bopping to imaginary music. He leans over and bangs his fists twice on the floor, then straightens up to bang on an imaginary wall in front of his face. He moves to his other knee and repeats the move. He pretends to tear through a big piece of paper, thrusts his head forward, and then places one palm on his chest to do a body wave. His palm drifts down to his stomach, his torso undulating.

  Then he rises on his knees, his hands moving to his waist.

  I know what’s coming, and I stop myself from biting my lip. This is my favorite part.

  He rolls his hips in a circle, slowly at first, and then gradually gaining speed as he moves up and down his knees.

  Then he sits back on his heels and shimmies his shoulders as he bends backwards, until the back of his head nearly touches the floor.

  He repeats the hip-circle-to-backbend combo twice, each time giving me a delicious eyeful of the beautiful column of his torso stretching from belly to chest, his flimsy gray shirt rising to bare his lower belly and the happy trail that creeps up from the waistband of his jeans.

  I take a deep breath as Luke rises from the backbend one last time. My hands are getting cold and my heartbeat stutters. I feel like jumping out of my skin or getting a glass cold water or hiding under the bed–anything but stew in desire for this guy for another minute.

  He laughs as he sits back up and I join him, my giggles soft as his gaze focuses on mine.

  His laughter tapers off to a slight grin, full of meaning.

  I hold my breath, unable to move.

  His fingers creep across the short distance of the floor to twine in mine. He lifts it and places it on his chest, over his heart.

  I can feel it thump under my palm, the beat as heavy and stuttering as mine at that same moment.

  The beat of his heart, the feel of his warm chest under my palm, his own hand covering mine…

  He watches me in that super-concentrated way of his, that listening pose that tells his trainees “You have my full attention, and any suggestions you make in this space won’t be wrong.”

  Maybe the same holds true in his nearly bare studio. It is his place—a safe place—and I feel up to the challenge of making a suggestion.

  I move my hand under his and slowly drift it up his chest and neck, stopping to cradle his jaw.

  His skin is warm, and smooth like velvet, and when he drops his cheek on my palm and shuts his eyes, I sigh at the same time he does.

  It seems like the night for making suggestions, because when I open my eyes and lean towards him, he closes the distance between us with a kiss.

  I’d imagined this moment quite a few times, but no daydream can compare to the real feeling of Luke’s soft lips slanting against mine, or the feel of his breath against my cheek, or the way his eyes are shut tight when I sneak a peek at him.

  My hand moves to the back of his neck. Oh, this is it. That nape that had driven me crazy the very first day we met is under my fingertips now. I explore those few inches of velvety skin, from the bristles of his haircut down to where his neck meets his broad shoulders. His skin is thick and smooth, a stronger texture than mine. I think of expensive paper, of creamy wedding invitations or the satisfying thickness of a nice hardbound book.

  Lord. I’m making out with Hot Training Manager and comparing him to stationery supplies. Ugh.

  But my fingers still enjoy their exploration of Luke’s neck. Dare I burrow them down his shirt, to feel the smooth expanse of his muscled back?

  It gets harder to decide re: Luke’s back, because he starts kissing me like he means it. His lips nudge mine apart, and when his tongue first meets mine I feel like sinking to the floor. He squeezes me against him, tight against his chest, and deepens the kiss. My tongue slides against his, and the debate about touching his back is abandoned as I taste him: sweet and rich, faintly of beer, but uniquely all Luke, and I lose my ability to think.

  I just kiss him back like kissing would be outlawed tomorrow.

  “Mags,” he murmurs as he comes up for air. I’m seized by a sudden inspiration and raise my hands over my head.

  And because we make a good team, Luke gets me immediately. My shirt is off and on the floor in barely a wink, and because Luke is ever the extra-miler, his own follows right after. The gray shirt is pulled off in such haste he stretches out the neck.

  Then he resumes kissing me, and does such a fine and thorough job that I start to wonder if I’d ever been truly kissed before. Really, truly kissed, like what Luke is doing now: putting his whole self into it, lips and tongue, yes; and nose and cheeks getting into the action too, because this is how he does things: with commitment and conviction.

  Every other kiss I’d had seems to have been a pale warm-up to this one.

  He presses me closer against him, his bare arms encircling me, warm skin sliding against my tingly, hypersensitive flesh. It’s like every hug we’d ever exchanged, but better. So much better. Like hugging multiplied by the power of 20.

  Each kiss seems to take long, slow minutes to end, and when we come up for air, it is just for a split second until we dive back into each other. It seems as though I will never get tired of this, kissing Luke, holding him, trying to contain him within my arms as he starts to get a little bit hungrier, just a little bit frenzied. I suggest the little nip of teeth on his lower lip, and Luke literally rises to the challenge. His hands scoop my bottom and, without unlocking his lips from mine, cradles me to the futon.

  Minutes or hours later, and with vastly less clothes than when we had started out with, Luke kneels on the bed and looks at her with such fire I feel like melting into to mattress. He sheathes himself, and I–clichés be damned–literally feel my knees (and thighs and more besides) quiver in anticipation.

  “Well,” he says, patting his thighs as he sits on his heels. “Climb on up.”

  I do, and Luke shows me a new and extremely close demonstration of the hip circles I’d drooled over all night long.

  Leg Day’s definitely paid off handsomely for him. Oh…and core exercises too. Such strength! Such absolute muscle control. Every time his hips rotate to collide with mine just so, something inside me seemed to detonate with tiny, sparkly fireworks.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again, until the small sparks gather into one joyous blaze and everything inside me catches flame: a New Year’s Eve celebration right between my legs.

  ***

  When I come to, it’s to find Luke chuckling. I am wrapped in his arms, my cheek against his chest, and he s
mooths my hair away from my forehead, letting his fingers drift lazily down my back at the end of each stroke.

  I can’t decide if I love or can’t stand his expression. “Don’t you look smug?”

  It doesn’t seem possible for him to look any smugger, but Luke defies possibility. “Correct me, Miss Magsie, but that seemed like a ringing endorsement.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s hard to be arch and cutting when you’re naked and still nearly breathless from the biggest of the big Os, but I try my best.

  He rolls on top of me, trapping my body under his. “Oh you don’t?” his brow furrows. “I seemed to recall hearing several iterations of ‘Yes.’ And ‘Yes please.’ And ‘Luke.’ And let’s not forget when you put them all together: ‘Yes, Luke, yes please!’”

  I hide my face against his shoulder, my cheeks burning, but Luke isn’t going to let me off so easily. His elbows pin my sides and his fingers dive to attack my waist.

  “Stop!” I cry, giggling helplessly, wriggling like mad. Luke has a devilish smile on his face and doubles his attack by nuzzling his nose on the sensitive spot on my neck, under my ear.

  I buck to dislodge him but that only changes the pitch of his breathing. He raises his head and favors me with a smile full of naughty promise. His tickling hands brush over my stomach. I freeze.

  “What’s wrong?” He drops beside me, one hand still on my belly.

  I bury face in his chest. “Nothing.”

  “I sense a definite mood shift there.” He tilts my chin up. “Did I do something wrong?”

  I wrinkle my nose and exhale very slowly. He’s looking at me with real worry. I hate to be a mood-killer, but knowing Luke, this isn’t something he’ll let go without a satisfactory answer.

  I sigh and cast my eyes down my body. “It’s my scar.” He rises on his elbow and glances at my belly. “Don’t look!” I cringe, diving to lie face down on the bed.

  Gently, his finger circles above my elbow and pries me off the mattress. I roll up, dreading to look in his eyes and have him read the embarrassment in mine. But he looks kindly at me, and his voice is soft and low.

  “What about the scar?”

  I force myself to keep my eyes on him. “It’s…it’s ugly.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Look at it!” My hand flies over the spot. “Or better yet, don’t. It makes me feel disfigured.”

  Now Luke’s brows meet in the middle. “Disfigured?”

  “Look, I know all about the memes about how these are ‘battle scars’ and ‘tiger stripes’ or whatever.” I hate how whiny I sound, but I’m also suddenly angry. It’s my body and I’ll whine if I want to. “I know I sound like a total dick whining about one C-section scar when some people, like, are missing a limb, or something.”

  “Or can’t have kids,” he says quietly.

  I draw in a quick breath. “I know. And I’m sorry for them. But I’m not responsible for their fertility issues.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, after a beat. “Wrong thing to say.”

  I press my head down on the pillow and let my gaze drift to the ceiling. It’s easier to talk this way, instead of looking straight at him.

  “This is my body. As selfish as it sounds…it’s like…no one ever tells you that becoming a mom can mean becoming a stranger in your own skin. Yes, I’m getting used to it. But there are still times when I think of myself in the old ways, and the fact that my body can’t do the things it used to and doesn’t look the way it once did–sometimes it’s so jarring I can get disoriented. Like, Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

  I risk a glance at Luke. He is watching me, and his hand squeezes mine in encouragement to go on.

  This time I hold his gaze.

  “My second cousin was my OB, and Mom pushed me to go to her because she promised to waive her professional fee for the delivery. But I didn’t think she’d be so…”

  My throat tightens. The three days I’d spent in the hospital while my doctor tried to induce labor come back to me in traumatizing force. Those three days had been painful, frightening, and filled with anxiety and guilt. There was the very real fear that I might lose Magnus–the same child that, just a few months before, I wasn’t even sure I wanted. It felt like some sort of cosmic punishment, and all because I’d initially reacted to the news of my pregnancy with revulsion and panic. It would have been such cruel payback: that I’d come to finally accept and cherish and look forward to becoming a mom, only to lose my child on the birthing table.

  I’d filled those long hours of labor with prayers and bargains, promises and threats.

  “In the end, even she had to concede that we needed a C-section if we wanted to save the baby. He was losing amniotic fluid fast. And she…” My eyes suddenly sting. “She wrecked me. The woman butchered me open. But I didn’t care, because Magnus was alive, and he was out and healthy, and that’s all that mattered.”

  Luke’s arm wraps around me tightly.

  “It was only later when I found out what a poor job she’d done,” I whisper to his shoulder. The gory details flash back before my eyes, and I want to forget them but I can’t stop.

  “I had abnormal bleeding. The wound took so much longer to heal. For a long time, I couldn’t do a lot of things that I’d loved because I was scared it would split open. No surfing or running or strenuous activities. And when it finally healed…” My hand drifts down and rests on the ugly, raised scar on my belly, tracing the thick, angular, ungainly line. “I’m never wearing a bikini again,” I laugh lamely.

  “But it’s more than that,” Luke says softly, his hand joining mine.

  I nod. “It’s a permanent reminder that at one point, if things went differently, I could be lying here and Magnus…” My breath hitches. “And Magnus wouldn’t be.”

  Luke’s touch is soft as it traces the edges of my scar. The movement sooths me, somehow, and I shut my eyes as he goes over the scar’s outline again and again.

  “You could look at it differently,” he suggests, after few long minutes.

  One of my eyes pop open. “Oh?”

  “You can look at it as a reminder of what you survived.” His gaze is soft, earnest. “You survived a shitty situation with Magnus’ dad. You survived your mom’s disapproval. You survived an OB who frankly should have her license revoked. You survived all that and now you have all these gifts: a wonderful son who adores you. An aunt who probably thinks you’re the smartest woman this BPO has had the privilege of hiring.”

  He pauses as I scoff.

  “I mean, look at everything that had to happen for you to get here, to this very moment,” he shifts over me so that I have to face him. “If you hadn’t had that situation with Clarence, would you have left Project Clausen? Would you have joined us? Would you have looked over at our amazing training department and said to yourself, ‘Damn. I should be part of that kick-ass team!’”

  I fight the urge to smile. “That implies that one of the gifts I get in return for surviving is you.”

  “Damn right,” he grins, and his head bends down to drop kisses down my neck.

  I give in and laugh. I can’t help it. He knows just what to say to defuse a situation and make me smile.

  And also, because somehow, flippant joke or not, a small part of me thinks that it is true.

  That Luke is one of my gifts.

  He moves lower until he reaches my scar. He raises his eyes at me and the look that I see–dark with need and desire–makes my breath catch in my throat.

  He places his lips on the ugliest part of me and lavishes it with kisses.

  Chapter 11

  Auntie Tilde fixes me a knowing look over the rim of her coffee cup.

  It’s very quiet in her dining room. For one thing, it is six in the morning. For the other, Luke is sitting across from her, having breakfast. He’s holding a fork very awkwardly so as to make the least amount of noise possible. The sound it does make when it scrapes against the ham he’s c
utting is like the screech of an owl.

  I smile tightly at him and have another spoonful of fried rice and ham. Luke and I had rolled home around thirty minutes ago, only to find Auntie Tilde up and insisting on making us breakfast.

  “How’s the ham?” Auntie Tilde asks Luke.

  “Very good, Auntie.”

  She smirks as I widen my eyes at her. “No need to look alarmed either, my dear. You have nothing to worry about with me.”

  “Auntie…” I nudge her with my foot.

  “This is timely, no?” she continues with a twinkle in her eye. “The holidays are right around the corner. The perfect time for couples to make decisions. You know that Harold and I called it quits mid-November, yes? But this,” she makes a tiny circle with her fingertip, “is good too. Speaking from a logistical point of view, of course. I am just thinking about the details of buying gifts and how many places to set for noche buena.”

  “Auntie Tilde…” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Where were you planning to spend Christmas Eve, Luke?”

  His throat works to swallow the bite of breakfast he had just taken. “I, uh. I usually spend it by myself?”

  “Oh, psh. That’s awful. Where are your parents?”

  “They’re in the States, Auntie,” I interject, with a meaningful glance.

  She continues blithely ignoring me. “No other relatives here? Family friends?”

  “All some distance from the city, and I wouldn’t want to impose.” Luke regains some of his composure.

  “It’s settled then.” Auntie smiles. “We have a simple noche buena, just the three of us, with ham, good cheeses and hot chocolate. I hope you don’t usually spend your holidays at a hotel and are expecting some sort of grand buffet spread.”

  Luke opens his mouth, shuts it, swallows hard. “N-no, Auntie.”

  “Good.” Her face turns sharp, like a lawyer going in for the kill with her closing argument. “I am sure Magnus will enjoy having you here.”

  “I will enjoy spending time with Magnus, too,” says Luke, quietly.

  “Good. Because my niece? She’s a packaged deal.”