I was still leaning over her, pressed against her thigh to chest, the thick squish of her breasts flattened against my chest. With an utterly natural gesture, she rested her palm against the outside of my bicep, her eyes on mine. The sliver of air between her face and mine blazed and crackled with chemical energy, the reactive pulse of mutual desire. A centimeter of space between her face and mine.
Her lips and mine.
Even her lips were beautiful. Plump, with a deep Cupid’s bow, naturally pink. Delicate and kissable.
I had no hope of not kissing her. Futile to even consider it. She was soft; her skin was warm where her arm touched mine, where her hand slid up my bicep. Her breasts spilled sideways out of her shirt, and if she moved just so either way, one or the other would spill out. I wouldn’t complain if they did, but I wasn’t going to push my luck by helping them along. Not yet, anyway. For now, I slowly let gravity pull my mouth closer to hers, and she blinked up at me, held my gaze, and then her lips parted with a sigh as the last paper-thin millimeter vanished, and I felt her mouth on mine, wet warmth melding and melting on me, and her sigh turned to a murmur turned to a moan as the kiss gradually deepened.
Her palm floated up my arm, over my shoulder, graced into my hair and held me into the kiss, pulled me closer. Hers was the first tongue to quest out, but I eagerly met hers with my own, and then somehow our bodies were melting together, clothed but melding, fitting just so, angles into curves, softness into muscle.
How long did we just kiss? I don’t know. Time stopped. Melted along with my lips on hers, my chest against hers, her hip against mine. The only thing that didn’t melt was my cock, becoming a hard ridge between us—and her nipples, pebbling against my chest.
I wanted…
A complicated thing.
To delve into this, with this woman. To know how she tasted, every inch of her. To plummet into pleasure with her. Here, in the predawn gray, with bear tracks dimpling the grass mere feet away, with pink staining the horizon.
But for once in my fucked-up life, I didn’t want to rush into it.
Always before I’ve been after getting to the good bits right off. Kiss to touch to come, goodbye. Not because I don’t care or don’t want to know, but because I haven’t got the capacity to care, to know a person beyond hello and goodbye. Beyond the shape of curves and sounds of sighs, beyond a sleeping form under covers of a dim hotel room as I shoulder my bag, leaving the keycards by the TV, paying for the room as I leave.
Just jumping into the rough exploration of naked flesh as fast as I can get her there, into what makes her scream hardest, soonest.
Because if all I’ve got is the moment, let’s make the best of it before the next bend in the metaphorical road calls me onward.
As it always does.
Yet here I am, with a willing woman under me, kissing me fit to devour, all but silently begging me to strip her naked and show her what she’s been missing all this time…and I find myself slowing us down.
Resisting the siren song of her breast as it sags with heavy natural weight nearly out of the side of her tank top, resisting the slip of her thigh between mine.
Wanting to enjoy the ascent to the peak, not just the mountaintop high.
I pulled away from the kiss, and she was baffled. “Errol? I…I thought…”
I was just as confused, and now I had to make sense of it to her. Leaning up on an elbow, I made no bones about devouring the allure of her curves with my eyes. “Poppy, I…”
She bit her lower lip, fingers brushing at wayward locks of my hair. Familiar, intimate, affectionate—delirium-inducing. “I wasn’t going to stop, Errol.”
“I know.” I was still hunting for an explanation that would make sense.
“So why’d you…why’d you stop?”
“I…it’s…” I sighed in frustration. “Not sure how to explain it, honestly.”
“Well, try, before I start feeling rejected. And pro-tip, I don’t deal with rejection well, buddy.”
I sucked in a slow breath, held it. Stared down at her—golden skin bathed in the soft pink of new dawn light, black hair like an ink spill on the pillow under her head, molten cocoa eyes searching mine, not hiding her confusion or desire, the generous cleft of her cleavage taunting me, sideboob swell on either side of her tank top strap drawing my eyes and begging for my lips and my palms, her floral print skirt hiked up around her knees, blanket shoved aside, bare feet cute and sliding against her calves and my knee.
“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” I breathed, the truth drawn from my lips. I brushed a fingertip over her forehead, sliding a thick sheaf of black hair aside. “I’m always rushing into things,” I said. “Always running from one thing to another. I never stay anywhere long. Never hang around any one person for long. But for some reason, with you, I don’t want to rush right into things. I can’t explain it even to myself, Poppy. But the truth, as best I can verbalize it, is that I want to enjoy the process of getting there, with you. I don’t know what that means. I just know I’ve never met anyone as fascinating or as beautiful as you, and I know I probably will never meet anyone like you again, and I want to just…I don’t know how to put it…savor what we have for as long as we have it.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “That’s a good explanation.” Something haunted flickered through her expression, however.
“What?”
She shook her head, faking innocent confusion. “What, what?”
I sat up, and so did she. We sat facing each other—I was sitting crisscross and she had her knees hugged to her chest. “I saw that look. Dunno what it meant, but it wasn’t nothing.”
She laughed. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?” A sigh. “It’s just…weird. Because I was thinking the same thing. And it’s just weird. I’ve never not wanted to rush into things before. And it’s weird to think about, and weirder to talk about.”
“So, how about I make some coffee and we can do one of two things—ignore it, sweep it under the rug so to speak and not worry about it and just go with it since we both feel the same way—whatever that is and whatever it means.” I shrugged. “Or we can hash it out and just deal with the weirdness.”
Poppy laughed. “Is there an option C?”
I stood up and began rolling the sleeping bag. “I mean, not as far as I can see. You see one, please, let me know what it is.”
“Coffee first.”
I pointed at her. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
She smirked. “I thought you liked me for two reasons.”
I let my eyes rake down to her chest. “I mean, those are some seriously world-class reasons to like you, but I’m not actually as shallow as that.” I grinned. “I guess I’d have to investigate the matter further before I can say whether those are the only reasons I like you.”
She tugged the shirt up by the straps, lifting her breasts tantalizingly, but also settling them into the shirt more fully as well. “I thought you were about to investigate just now, but you stopped.”
I growled as I hopped up into the van and got out the supplies to make coffee. “I was. I want to, even right now. I told you, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not like me, at all.”
“So normally we’d both be naked right about now, you’re saying?”
I didn’t dare look at her, instead focused on counting out scoops of coffee beans into the manual grinder. “Well, if you’re asking how I usually do things…no. You’d be naked. I’d probably still be mostly dressed. I’d have a mess all over my face, and you’d be on your second or third orgasm.”
Profound silence.
I looked at her then. Had to. Her nostrils were flaring, and her fingers were knotted together on her lap. Her nipples were drawn to pointed peaks against her shirt, and for the first time I noticed two dimples to either side of the outline of her nipples—she had piercings. Shit, shit, shit. I’ve always been curious about that, what it was like to get my mouth on a woman with pierced nipples.
Fuck.
Her eyes were heated. Almost angry, or something like it. She was breathing deeply, slowly, as if measuring out each breath to keep her composure. Each breath made those breasts swell, which did nothing good for my own composure.
I don’t mean to wax on about them, but her breasts made me crazy. Not just because they were big—and make no mistake, they were huge—but because of their shape, the way they hung against her shirt, the totality of them. I’m not obsessed with the biggest breasts, I like small ones too. All breasts are good breasts in my opinion, and I’ve enjoyed all shapes and sizes. But hers were just…fucking glorious.
And when she took those big slow breaths, the way her shirt stretched and showed the hard peaks of her nipples and the bumps of her piercings…I about went nuts. About abandoned the idea of going slow, wanting to just rip that damn shirt into shreds and bury my face between those lush silk mounds until I suffocated.
Idiotic, I know.
Shallow and rabid and macho and testosterone-fueled moon-headed stupidity.
And I only just barely restrained myself.
She was glaring at me. Staring at me, drawing in those slow deep breaths and fixing me with a hot hard look I didn’t know how to begin deciphering.
“Poppy? Are you mad?”
“American mad, or British mad?” She asked, her voice pitched low and husky, almost hoarse.
I chuckled at that. “Both? Either?”
“I feel like you’re playing with me, Errol, and I don’t like being toyed with. I’m an upfront sort of girl. What you see is what you get. I don’t play games. I don’t play hard to get. I know what I want, and I take it, and when I’m done, I’m done.” She stood up, began rolling the fleece blanket into the same tight package as I did, found the bungee and looped, hooked, and set the rolled-up blanket on the edge of the van’s open doorway, not getting within reach of me, as if I was a dangerous animal. “You want me? Say so. Better yet, show me. I’m not easy, but I’ve got no qualms about going for what I want when I know I want it, and I know exactly what I want where you’re concerned, Errol. So, when you kiss me like that, and get me worked up, and I start thinking things are going to happen, and then you back off like you don’t want me, or like there’s some reason we shouldn’t hook up…and then you’re all like ‘I want to take it slow’ but you can’t explain why…and then you say some shit like that? What fucking game are you playing, dude? So, am I mad? Yes. And feeling a little of both senses, actually.”
I growled. “I can’t fault you for that. But I also can’t change what I feel. I’m not playing games. Swear I’m not.”
She huffed but said nothing else; I wasn’t sure if my answer had mollified her or made it worse.
I had an electric kettle, and at the start of the process I’d poured water from a sealed bottle and set it to boiling while I measured and ground the coffee beans. Then, when the electric kettle clicked off as it reached a rolling boil, I slowly poured it over my Chemex. Coffee being such a vital part of my morning routine, I had no issue reserving space in my limited gear for the kettle and Chemex, because as long as I had potable water and electricity, I could make coffee. And I always carried a small solar battery so, in a pinch, I could boil the water when I was away from the grid…and I always carried a portable filtration system so I could be sure my water was potable. Yeah, I’m serious about my coffee.
When it was ready, I poured the piping hot black liquid into camp mugs and glanced at Poppy. “I hope you take it black, because I don’t have milk or sugar.”
She snorted. “Guess I’ll take it black, then.” A grin. “I do drink it black, though, so it’s all good.”
“You missed your chance to practice sounding like a Kiwi. That was a prime spot to say ‘no worries, mate.’”
“I thought that was an Australian term.”
“Well, there’s a bit of overlap.” I handed her a mug and sat in the open doorway. Sipped.
She blew across the top, took a ginger sip, sitting in the doorway beside me, but not too close. “Damn, Errol. This is fucking fantastic.”
I smirked behind my mug. “I was in Indonesia recently, I think I told you that, and while I was there I made a point of visiting a few coffee farms. Ended up doing this little freelance puff piece on organic coffee farming for a tiny international coffee roasters e-zine. Upshot is, one of the farmers personally roasted a ten-pound bag just for me. I mean, I helped pick the cherries, helped wash them, helped out the process from pick to roast. Fascinating process. And now I’m addicted, so I’m gonna have to end up flying all the way back to that one particular farm so I can get more, because plain old store-bought garbage ain’t gonna cut it anymore.”
“No shit.” She shook her head and laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You. You literally have a story for everything. Nothing you do, nothing you own is just…normal boring bullshit. I bet even your shoes are interesting.”
I glanced at my boots where they sat beside me, feeling self-conscious, now. “Well, I mean…”
She laughed, a shriek of disbelief. “There is! I knew it! Even your fucking shoes have a cool story.”
I sighed. “Not that cool.”
“Not buying that for a second.”
“Fine. Short version is this—I was doing a piece on archeological digs in Brazil…last year, I think. Maybe end of the year before. I was deep in the jungle, me and the writer I was working with, some archeologists, our guides. It was a big group of us. We were making our way out, actually, the piece wrapped up and we headed for civilization after something like three weeks in the mosquito-infested jungle, getting rained on and bitten, snakes crawling all over you inside your fucking tent somehow, boots soaked, socks soaked, fucking miserable, actually. Ready for a hotel and a bed and a meal I didn’t cook myself over the camp stove.”
“This is the short version?” she interrupted.
I laughed. “Fine, I don’t have a short version. I’m a long-winded bag of self-important hot air, okay?”
“Now we come to the truth,” she said, laughing at me over the top of her mug.
“Hey, you asked.”
She nodded. “Indeed I did. So? What happened? Bandits stole your boots and you had to fight them off barefoot with only a machete and your belt?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not quite. I got stuck. Our ute got stuck to the arches in mud, and it took all of us pushing and pulling to get it out, and in the process my boots came right off while I was knee-deep in mud. Boots, socks, the whole lot. Just sucked right off. I’d packed light, so those were my only pair.” I snorted. “So, I did the only thing I could—went mud diving. Had to hunt around in two, three feet of mud for half an hour, but I found them. Of course, it was days before they were clean and dry enough to wear again, and the boots I had to borrow were two sizes too small, but still. I rescued them, and I’ve been wearing them just about every day since.”
She shook her head. “See? Stories for everything.”
“You hungry?” I asked.
She lifted a shoulder. “Um…? Yeah-nah.”
I cackled. “You’re getting it. Assuming you mean you’re not really hungry, but you’ll eat if I make something, but don’t feel like imposing by asking.”
“Wow. That is a very specific nuance of meaning.” I nodded. “But largely accurate, actually.”
“I’m not much for brekkie either, so if you’re cool, I’m cool. We can finish our coffee and head out.”
She just nodded, sipping at her coffee.
After a few minutes, she looked at me over her mug. “So we’re avoiding, then.”
I reached behind me, grabbed the Chemex and refilled her mug and mine. “I’m not playing games with you, Poppy,” I said again. “I swear by anything I’m not.”
She watched mist writhe on the surface of the pond, swirling as a pair of ducks scudded down from the tree line, wings curved and legs extended, to land with soft twin V-trails on the green water.
&nbs
p; “So you do want me.”
“Too much, maybe.”
“But yet you stopped when I was clearly ready to go all the way with you.”
“You’re making me feel a bit stupid for it.”
“I just don’t know…” She shrugged, shook her head. “It’s new. It’s different. I’m absolutely not some…shrinking violet or…or prudish virgin who needs you to tiptoe around my feelings and be all sweet and gentle. I hope you realize that. I’ve never had a guy just…pull back like that. So I don’t know what to make of it.”
I scraped my hair backward. “I…shit. I don’t know how to make sense of it because it’s not like me, which I’ve said more than once now.”
“Try.”
“I fuckin’ am, alright?” I winced. “Sorry, don’t mean to snap.” I took a too-big swig off too-hot coffee, scorching my throat. When I could speak again, I was a little hoarse. “Fucking hot, holy shit.”
I paused to sip slowly, swallow, and then start again.
“When I was a kid, Mum and me would go for ice cream after she was done in the studio, and I’d have mine gone while she was on her third bite, and I always, always promised myself I’d go slower next time. But I never could. Then one day, I did. I chomped down that first bite, and then I was like, ‘no mate, savor it,’ so I forced myself to slow down. To really taste it. Each bite was slow, deliberate. I tried to make it last as long as possible. And, I fuckin’ swear, I’ll remember that ice-cream cone for the rest of my life.”
“So I’m like ice cream.” Her tone was…not flat, but I couldn’t decide how she felt about my metaphor.
“Sort of. Metaphorically.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “I mean, yeah. Creamy, delicious, and something I want to devour, and have to make myself slow down and enjoy it properly.”
Goode Vibrations Page 9
