by Cecy Robson
“A little vengeful? Hale, why on earth would you ever be with someone like that?”
I speak long before I think about everything I’m saying. Becca still doesn’t get it. “Because she wasn’t you, Becks. This wasn’t a woman to befriend or even someone I always got along with. Unlike you, she was someone incapable of breaking my heart.”
Becca breaks down, crying all at once. I press my head against hers. “Priscilla wasn’t you,” I repeat. “She couldn’t hurt me and I knew that I could never love her.”
Becca lifts her head, gulping with how hard she’s crying. “Do you think you could ever love me?”
This is the moment I always told myself I’d run from, except that I don’t. I’m done running.
“I’ve always loved you, Becks. You just never fucking loved me enough to tell you.”
“Oh, God.”
I silence her with a kiss, pulling her so all she knows is my body and how bad I want her.
Forget the lead Pris gave me.
Forget that I’m still fighting for my reputation.
I want Becca. This beautiful woman life never made sense without.
My mouth claims hers. I lift her, gently squeezing her ass as I prop her on the edge of the desk. Her nails drag up my back, her arms hooking underneath mine, her long fingers cupping my shoulders.
Fuck. She tastes so good. I don’t want to stop, but I won’t make her do something she’s not ready for. She grunts when I pull away.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Giving you moment to tell me no.”
Her tears fall slowly. “We’ve already had a lifetime of no and not yet. I don’t want to wait anymore. Not when I’ve loved you before I understood what love was and not when I’ve been so alone without you.”
“What did you say?”
She smiles, her eyes shimmering. “That I love you, Hale. I always have.”
She loves me.
I love her.
And now, there’s nothing here to stop us.
Chapter Seventeen
Becca
Hale effortlessly carries me in a straddle, yanking a blanket from the family room before racing us outside. I can’t stop kissing him or keep my hands from sliding all over his bare chest. He curses when I give his ear a teasing flick, banging the sliding glass door a few times before he manages to shut it.
I want to laugh and squeal with happiness. Kiss him until my lips bruise from the effort. He loves me. The man my life was empty without loves me!
We’re alone. The only sound, the gentle ocean waves beating against the sand and the squawks and chirps of birds soaring across the bright blue sky. So, instead of delighted squeals and simple kisses of affection, it’s time for us to share more.
He groans when I rub against him, clumsily flapping the large blanket to lay across the sand. It’s a gorgeous day, warm, the small lingering clouds no match for bright sun. It’s too early in the year for tourists, but it’s perfect weather for locals to wander and fish. It doesn’t matter to me and I don’t think it matters to Hale. Between the dunes and the vegetation, we’re well hidden should someone pass, and I’m done being shy.
He lowers us to the blanket onto our knees, placing me somewhere in the center. I yank down his sweats. He’s not wearing underwear. That’s good. It would only get in the way.
I reach for his long, thick shaft. He’s fully hard, the tip rigid and throbbing. I take my time, playing, starting at the base and stroking him from base to the tip, my grip tight and slow.
His fingers thread through my hair, kissing me, his breath hitching the more I tease him.
I lost my shoes somewhere between the house and here. The tops of my feet slide across the fleece blanket as I remove his pants completely. I watch him as I lower myself and take my first taste of his hardness. My tongue swirls, moistening the tip several times before my wide mouth descends down his length.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he rasps.
I didn’t think he could become more aroused. But the deeper I take him, the more he proves me wrong. He fists my hair to better see me, gasping and cursing when he passes the back of my throat.
I’m more than happy to finish him this way, the surge of his lust accelerating mine. Hale has other plans. He lifts the skirt of my dress, ridding me of my panties and spinning me in the air. His swiftness and agility catches me by surprise, as does the care he uses so he doesn’t hurt me.
He lands on his back with me on top of him, my knees on either side of his head. He shoves my skirt away, yanking my hips down toward eager lips. I hiss every cuss word I know through my teeth when he suckles, pulling off my dress and partially tearing the fabric in my haste to remove it.
I strip out of my bra, carelessly tossing it away. I reach for Hale’s erection, wanting to get back to his needs, but barely able to do more than stroke him. I whimper, my wanton needs turning my brain to mush and urging me to rock my pelvis.
My back arches, exposing my taut nipples to the sun and the sky above. Heat and sunlight beat against my breasts, their heavy weight slapping against my skin the faster I move.
My orgasm builds in a rush I’m not prepared for, crashing harder than hail over granite. I fall forward, unable to stop my thighs from quivering or my pelvis from tilting up and down. Deep moans thunder through Hale’s generous lips when I take him into my mouth again and create a firm seal. I meant to take things slow, to find out what he likes. But like me, once we started, neither of us could do anything slow.
I just finish my next orgasm when he flips me once more, placing me on my side with his chest pressed against my back. I crane my neck, trying to see Hale. He cups my jaw, holding me in place as he kisses me.
It should be a sexy, aggressive kiss, seeing what we just did to each other. But somehow Hale keeps it tender, the love he feels for me warming my heart with each gentle pass. “I love you, Becca,” he says.
“I love you, too.” I almost say, I love you more. Only because he can’t imagine how much I’ve waited for him.
His tongue drags down the curve of my neck. “Are you ready for me?” he murmurs.
I shudder when he slides the tip of his rigid staff between my legs. “I’ve been waiting for you for years,” I confess.
Hale slips his hand away from my face. My head sags from the weight of my anticipation. He reaches between us, positioning himself so he can push inside me.
I expect him to get down to business. He is a man, after all. Instead, he kisses me, his other hand tucking under me to play with my breasts, rolling and pulling the tight centers, making me whimper and sky-rocketing my desire.
Hale is well-endowed and I haven’t had sex in many years. It takes him a while, every upswing of his hips pushing each inch of him inside of me. I’m almost crying with how good it feels, but when he starts, no tears come. Those groans and screams he craved from me begin.
I’m no longer that professional I work hard to be. I’m no longer me at all. The woman who takes one methodical step at a time to get the job done has disappeared and I bid her good riddance. I’m done being lonely and going without Hale’s touch. What’s remains is a crazed woman whose lover is more than happy to oblige her.
Hale lifts my leg, hooking it over his neck, watching me as he thrusts hard. He morphs from gentle lover to voracious male bent on pleasing me. He attacks with each ram of his hips, his greedy hands and lips capturing every part of my body.
I don’t own my body anymore. It belongs to him just as his body is now mine. I bear down, meeting each excited slap of skin with one of my own.
I’m losing my mind. But my heart, that’s something I lost to him a long time ago. I can’t slow down. Our rhythm is outrageously fast.
Hale grunts, biting out my name, telling me how good it fucking feels. He’s close. I can sense it.
Instead of allowing himself to finish, he flips me onto my back, sending a stream of sa
nd into the air and onto our bodies. He folds my legs so they rest over his shoulders, my heels drifting over his back. His thumb rubs my throbbing center.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he asks, his eyes glazed with desire.
I shake my head, out of breath with how turned on I am.
“Let me show you,” he says.
He doesn’t quite finish talking before he circles the center of my delicate flesh, electrifying me and sending jolts shooting out toward my thighs. I reach for my breasts and pinch my protruding nipples. I’ve never been this exposed or enlivened. But Hale is experienced. He’s proving his prowess and I don’t want him to stop.
I see his eyes. How he watches me as his hips continue to pound. Primal moans escape my mouth, my whimpering and grunts of bliss begging him to go harder and ram faster.
I orgasm at least twice, my body convulsing, my feet kicking out wildly as the wind picks up and the waves sing their sweet lullaby.
Another orgasm begins when Hale hauls me up, pulling me forward for another long kiss. My legs fall on either side of his. I move quickly, not yet ready to stop.
“It feels so good,” I choke out, my voice trembling.
“Hell, yeah, it does,” he assures me, gripping my hips and helping me to go harder. Sweat drizzles down his chest, slicking my breasts when our skin connects. His heady stare latches on mine. “Jesus, Becca, you’re so damn beautiful.”
My breasts lift and fall with each drag of my hips. “I want you so much, Hale.”
He places me back on the blanket, thrusting wildly and filling me. We’re loud as we reach the end, our mouths and lips seeking more of each other, and our voices crying out with pleasure. God help me, I could give a damn.
Hale falls back on his knees, clasping my ankles and spreading them in a “V.” The cords of his neck strain and his teeth clamp. He comes, brutally, like a beast that was caged for too long.
I haul him on top of me as he finishes, kissing him until his movements slow and he stops.
The sun intensifies as he lowers himself beside me. He kisses my palm when I stroke the scruff along his jaw, his irises reflecting the joy I feel. “I’m never letting you go,” he rasps. “You and me, we’re infinite.”
I smile, unable to stop my eyes from blurring. “We always have been, Hale.”
I position myself across his chest, trying not to think about all those wasted years.
Hale kisses me, longingly and sweetly. It doesn’t take long for our kiss and touches to turn to more. He pulls me on top of him, my spine bowing as I move and bounce my hips.
Hale encourages me to go faster, his hands on my backside, grazing my nipples with his teeth between sucks and seductive licks.
We’re outside a few hours and spend several more in our bed.
We are infinite. We are in love.
But life isn’t perfect. We’re reminded of such in the coming weeks and in all the worst ways possible.
Chapter Eighteen
Hale
I stare at my childhood home for what seems like too long. The wraparound porch is exactly that, curving around the modern Victorian as if hugging its beauty and refusing to let go.
My brothers, Daddy, and me spent the entire summer before my sophomore year of high school building that thing. It was a brutal summer, as far as summers here go. The ocean is less than a mile away. During the summers, the breeze skimming along the water does a lot to cool the harsh sun painting our skin a deep gold and soaking our skin with sweat. But not that summer. It was like the breeze took a vacation, leaving our skin to bake with the permanent taste of salt on our lips.
The sun bleached my hair almost white that summer. But it left my brothers’ hair alone. Back then, I attributed it to the baseball caps they wore. Except, back then, I was still mostly in the dark. I knew I was a little different. In the way I looked and in the way I carried myself. I just never dreamed how different I was and how much I didn’t belong.
Emer and Carson have light eyes like me. I remember Mrs. Stevenson from up the road coming up one morning to drop off fresh peaches from her grove so Momma could bake us a pie.
That’s the excuse she gave for visiting. Mrs. Stevenson, being the busybody that she was, wanted to see how our project was coming along.
“Three boys doing all that work? I don’t believe it,” she said. “Even if they are Jacob Wilder’s boys.”
Well, she wasn’t quite right about that.
Mrs. Stevenson did stop and admire our work, scrutinizing to see if all the boards were laid right, even though that woman probably never swung a hammer in her life. She also stopped to admire our young strapping bodies. Mrs. Stevenson was always like that, checking out the young men around the island when she thought no one would notice.
I remember that day so well. Ever since Becca started my interview about my upbringing, I remember things I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten.
Becca and me are lovers, first and foremost. She’s become the most important person in every aspect of my life. We haven’t spent a night apart since the first time we made love on the beach. There are dinners with our friends, our share of meals on our own, and lots of work to repair my legacy and business. She cares about me and what happens. It’s obvious by the way she touches me and fusses whenever Mason calls. Her love, her devotion, it shows in every way, even with respect to these interviews.
The questions she asks probe deep despite their simplicity, painting those memories of my time with my family in vivid colors, bringing back the good times I remember, but also the torment that haunts me to this moment.
That day Mrs. Stevenson arrived is so ingrained from all the probing into my life Becca’s done, I can almost see Mrs. Stevenson standing before me. She had the basket of peaches tucked under her arm, their amber and red colors bright and luminous under the sun. Her head shifted from side to side, taking in the detail of the woodwork, her large sunglasses hiding most of her face.
“My, Jacob,” she told Daddy. “What handsome boys you have. And they look so much alike. The girls are going to give you a hard time, fellas,” she warned.
My brothers laughed, knowing how she was and how she used those large glasses to hide the blatant stares she’d throw our way. I started to laugh as well, even though at fourteen, she made me strangely uncomfortable. But my laugh didn’t quite release as it should, not when I saw the look on Daddy’s face. He bowed his head, staring hard at the ground.
“Hale looks more like his mama,” he said.
Mrs. Stevenson paused, turning to him because Daddy was a good-looking man too. “Don’t they all?” she asked, clearly confused.
“Not as much as Hale,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he meant then. But I recognized her confusion, even though I was still young and blissfully blind. I wasn’t hurt, exactly. I still thought I was loved and one of his boys. But as I look onto the porch and everything I thought my family and me had built together, all I feel is a bite of pain.
The door swings open without much care and the screen slams just as rough against the siding. My brother Carson steps out. I don’t think it’s much past eleven yet, but here he is, taking a swig from the half-empty bottle of beer in his hand. I think he’s pissed I’m here and that’s why the doorframe hit against the house as hard as it did. It takes a few sloppy steps forward on his part for me to realize that he’s not angry, he’s just way past drunk.
His feet shuffle forward, coming dangerously close to the edge of the porch. His dark hair is mussed and his beard is long enough to brush against his stained white T-shirt. It’s not one of those fashionable beards that are in style. It’s tangled and speaks of a man who no longer cares about anything, let alone shaving.
“Well, well, well,” Carson say. “Look who the fuck finally showed.”
I’m sure he’s talking to me until Emer, our middle brother, emerges from the side of the house. The gray shirt he’s
wearing is coated with dirt, and he’s holding freshly pulled weeds in both hands. He has a beard, too, but his is neat and trimmed close to his jaw.
In New York, everything I wore cost a lot, right down my drawers. But here in Kiawah it’s not about dressing for success. It’s all about being comfortable. Today, I’m in a pair of jeans and light navy T-shirt. The way Emer eyes me from head to toe, you’d think I’d shown up in fur and diamonds just to fuck with him.
Unlike Carson, Emer isn’t drunk. Very much like Carson, he’s not happy to see me. There’re no warm brotherly hugs, not that there ever were. Those touchy-feely kind of brothers, we were never them. Roughhousing came naturally for us and usually ended in blood and Momma ordering us out of the house to run a few miles until we “stopped acting like wild animals and more like the Wilders we are.”
“Go walk it off,” Emer tells Carson, his steady gaze never leaving mine. I expect a fight today. I’m prepared for it and I’m not afraid. Regardless, the next few steps I take to meet Emer are the hardest yet.
Emer tosses the weeds in his hands aside. I already know they’re from Momma’s garden. Like all southern women in the area, she used to pride herself on a garden that overflowed with grand flowers and tomato plants that produced fruit almost too pretty to eat.
Carson hobbles down the steps, missing the last two. I hurry toward him to help him up, but he smacks my hand away. It doesn’t hurt like I think he wants it to. He almost misses me, the tips of his fingers barely connecting.
“Are you here for your birth certificate or something?” Carson asks. “Maybe some money you think you’re owed from the will? Shit, I hate to break it to you, but I think all that’s done and used up.” He rises, barely keeping his balance. “Isn’t that right, Emer? Didn’t we up and spend that money together, brother?”
The emphasis on the word “brother” is supposed to hurt me. For all I’m trying to be that stone figure I was on Wall Street, the one nothing could penetrate, Carson accomplishes his mission. Pain boils my insides. I do my best to not reflect it on my face. I’ll admit, it takes some doing.
