Accelerate

by Tracy Wolff

  “But you figured it out.”

  The confidence in her voice shakes me. She barely knows me and what she’s seen hasn’t been very impressive, yet she sounds like she’s got total faith in me. Nobody but my crew has ever given me that before. It feels good. Too good, considering the fact that the whole point of this story is to disabuse her of that notion.

  “Not quite,” I tell her with a shake of my head. “I mean, I did what I had to do to keep my family together—for a while, anyway. But it was never easy. It didn’t come naturally to me like it did to her.”

  Jordan looks like she’s going to say something else, but I hold a hand up. If I don’t get through this story now, it’s never going to happen. She nods like she knows what I’m thinking, and settles back against the sand again. But she keeps her hand on my arm, her leg pressed against mine, and somehow it makes it easier to say what I have to.

  “My mother died at the end of September, and I think we spent the first two months in shock. I know I did even if I didn’t really have time to dwell on it. Not when I was picking up extra hours at work to keep the lights on all while trying to deal with two totally traumatized kids. The whole thing was a disaster waiting to happen.” I shake my head as the memories—and the shame—come flooding back.

  “So Christmas rolls around and it was always Mom’s favorite time of year. She decorated the house, made all kinds of Christmas cookies, made a huge deal of hanging lights outside and spent hours making sure the tree was as perfect as we could make it. And no matter how much overtime she had to pull, there were always presents for us. Always stockings hanging by the fireplace. Always hot cider on the stove to go with all the cookies.”

  “It sounds nice.”

  “It was nice. It felt normal, you know? When so much in our lives wasn’t.”

  She nods. “I do know.”

  “Anyway, I’m not her by any stretch of the imagination, but I managed to get a pretty decent tree for us to decorate. I picked up more hours at work so I could buy Joe and Lena a few presents for under the tree. I even made the world’s worst Christmas cookies. It wasn’t much, but…”

  “It was everything!” Jordan tells me. “You were still so lost yourself but you made sure that your siblings had a good holiday—”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not quite how this went down, so don’t get too excited.” I close my eyes so I don’t have to see her face when I tell her what really happened that morning. “Joe got up first on Christmas morning and he came running to get me. It was the first time I’d seen him that excited since before Mom died and it felt good, really good. At least until we rounded up Lena and went downstairs. Then they just looked confused. And that’s when I realized I’d forgotten the most important part of Christmas morning. I had presents under the tree from me, but Santa Claus had forgotten to come.

  “There was nothing in the stockings, no presents laid out from him. Nothing. My mom had always made such a huge deal about Santa Claus, always stuffed our stockings to the brim with fun little treasures, always had one or two big presents for us from him. Joe and Lena loved it—and I totally forgot the whole thing.

  “And suddenly, there they were, staring up at me. And Joe was asking why Santa hadn’t come? Asking if—” My voice breaks a little and I have to clear my throat to force the words out. “Asking if he didn’t care about them anymore since they didn’t have a mother. Asking what they’d done wrong to make him stay away. What they’d done wrong to make all of this happen to them.” The guilt pours through me as I remember the tears in my brother’s eyes, the fear in my sister’s.

  “He thought it was their fault, that they’d done something wrong to make Santa stay away. To make Mom go away. I couldn’t stand that he was blaming himself, couldn’t stand that my sister was, too. That they thought there was something wrong with them. Maybe if I’d been faster, I could have made up a story that made sense about Santa running late or getting mixed up since Mom wasn’t there.

  “But all I could think about was how badly I’d fucked up. How this was my fault, not theirs, and I wanted them to know that. So right there in the middle of our family room, three months after he’d lost his mother, I told my seven-year-old brother that Santa Claus wasn’t real. I took that from him, too, the last piece of childhood he had, just when he needed to believe the most.”

  I can still see his face, still see the look in twelve-year-old Lena’s eyes when she realized what I’d done. It was the same look she had six months later when they hauled me off to jail—and them off to foster care.

  Jordan doesn’t say anything at first, but then, what is there to say? I’m the asshole who ruined Christmas, the fucker who couldn’t even do that right, let alone anything else. The bastard who—

  “You know,” she finally says after several waves have found their way to shore. “You keep talking about how your brother and sister lost their mom. About how bad it was for them and how hurt they were.”

  “It was bad for them—”

  She cuts off my protest by putting two fingers on my lips. “Of course it was. I’m sure it was absolutely horrible. For all of you. Because you lost your mother, too, Nic. It was hard for you, too, plus you had the added responsibility of having to take care of them. You were doing the best you could.”

  “Yeah, well, my best wasn’t very good, was it?” I mean for it to sound like a joke, but it comes out bitter instead.

  “You don’t get to say that. You were put in a terrible, terrible situation and you did the best you could. Nobody gets to judge you. Not Lena, not Joe, and definitely not yourself.”

  “I let them down.”

  “You did. Maybe it was the first time, maybe it wasn’t. But I guarantee it wasn’t the last.” She cups my cheeks in her hands, waits until my eyes meet hers. “No matter how good your intentions are, no matter how much you try to do everything right, you’re going to screw up. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It just means that you’re human and that’s what humans do. We mess up.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Believe me, Nic, I know a lot about self-blame. A lot about hating yourself for a decision you wish every day, every minute, that you could take back. But life doesn’t work that way. There are no take backs. There’s only learning from your mistakes so that when you move forward you don’t make those same mistakes again.”

  “You just make different ones.” I lift a brow at her.

  She grins at me. “Exactly. And in the grand scheme of things…finding out there’s no Santa Claus is pretty traumatic. But it’s also completely natural, something every kid goes through. In fact—”

  I cut her off with a kiss. Our faces are already so close that our breaths mingle with each inhalation and it seems like the most natural thing in the world—despite everything—to lean forward and take her lips with mine.

  She stops talking mid-word, takes in a strange, squeaky little breath. And then her hands are sliding from my face to my back, her arms wrapping around my neck as she kisses me back.

  She tastes like oranges. Like the ocean. Like chocolate and sweetness and infinity…and I can’t get enough of it. Of her. I pull Jordan closer, shifting her onto my lap so I can wrap myself around her as I lick my way slowly, slowly, slowly into her mouth.

  She gasps at the invasion, but doesn’t protest. Instead, she tilts her head, opens her mouth. Lets me in.

  I’ve never been more grateful for—or more excited about—a woman’s interest in my life. With that knowledge front and center in my mind, I slide inside her mouth, gently stroke my tongue against her own, then lick my way across the top of her mouth and down her cheek. She tastes so damn good, feels so damn good, that I can barely think, barely breathe as she tentatively licks her way inside my own mouth.

  There’s a voice in the back of my head warning me that this is a bad idea, but I’ve never been very good at listening to that voice and right here, with Jordan, is no exception. Instead of pulling back, I accelerate, burying one hand in her hair
while sliding the other to her hip.

  She moans a little at the feel of me tugging at her hair. But she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t pull away. Instead she strokes her tongue between my teeth and my upper lip, plays with my frenulum, then laughs a little as lightning rips through me at the contact.

  “Fuck, Jordan, you feel so good,” I murmur without ever lifting my mouth from hers.

  “So do you,” she answers softly, her hands tangling in my dreads, her fingers scratching gently against my scalp.

  I want to take it deeper, want to roll her over onto the blanket and thrust against her.

  Want to slide my hand down the front of her jeans and feel her wet heat.

  Want to hear her breath hitch and see her eyes go blurry as I make her come and come and come.

  But we’re on a public beach in broad daylight and while there’s no one around, that can change at any moment. I won’t do that to her, not when this is only our first kiss. She deserves so much better than that.

  Fuck, she deserves better than me, better than anything I have to offer. I shove the thought away, refuse to think about it here. Now. Not when she’s warm and soft and pliant on my lap. Not when she’s making those soft noises and rocking her hips against mine. Not when she seems to want me as much as I want her.

  Just the thought has me growing impossibly harder, has need tearing against the edges of my control. One more kiss, I promise myself as I tug on her hair, pulling her head back just a little. Just enough. And then I plunder her—there’s no other word for it as I take every single thing she’s willing to give me.

  As I delve so far inside her that I’m not sure I’ll ever find my way free again.

  As I ask—no, beg—for more.

  Chapter 11

  Jordan

  I don’t know what I’m doing. Don’t know what I’m feeling. Don’t know anything except that I’ve never felt anything like this before and I want more. I need more.

  More of Nic and more of the insidious pleasure that’s flowing through my veins like warm, sweet syrup.

  I keep waiting to freak out, keep waiting for the fear to rise up like it always does when I’m close to a guy. It doesn’t come.

  Sure, I’m a little uneasy, a little nervous, as I pull Nic closer, as I rock against him. But the mind-numbing, bone-chilling terror that usually accompanies explorations like this isn’t there. In its place is the most profound, most delicious pleasure.

  I’m on his lap, straddling him so that my knees are on either side of his hips and my sex is pressed against his long, hard cock. And he is hard, so fucking hard that it should terrify me. Should have me running away from him as fast as my legs can carry me.

  I’m not sure what it means that I’m not. Not sure what it means that the feel of him only makes me want more. I don’t have an explanation and right now I couldn’t care less. Not when Nic is turning my insides to molten lava with each skim of his fingers across my back and each stroke of his tongue against my own.

  He tastes good, so good. Like dark coffee. Like rich cream. Like the wild waves crashing against the shore. It’s a taste I could spend hours—days—exploring and still never get enough of.

  But I don’t have hours, don’t have days. All I have are these few, stolen moments and even those are slipping away from me, slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass.

  Nic must feel the same way, because he lifts his head with a muffled curse.

  For long seconds I can do nothing but drag great gulps of air into my tortured lungs. I’d probably be embarrassed by how long it takes me to catch my breath if he wasn’t doing exactly the same thing with exactly the same intensity.

  Once I can breathe again—once I can think again—I work on uncurling my fingers from the death grip they have on his hair. It’s harder than it sounds, especially when I want nothing more than to hold on to him as tightly as I can.

  “Fuck,” Nic says, still breathless, as he drops his forehead to mine.

  “Well, that’s profound.” I’m aiming for sarcasm, but the shakiness of my voice ruins the effect.

  He just snorts. “You want profound, you probably shouldn’t kiss me like that.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure you’re the one who kissed me.”

  “Best decision I’ve made in a long, long time.” He starts to pull away, but I give up the battle not to touch him as I slide my fingers back into his dreads in an effort to keep his face against my own for just a little longer.

  He looks funny like this, his nose squished and eyes sliding toward the center of his face, becoming one. The fact that I like the way he looks, even now, is more worrisome than my response to the kiss could ever be. I mean, that I can understand. It’s been over three years since I felt anything close to that for a guy, over three years since I let anyone close enough to touch me like that. The fact that I have now—and that Nic’s the person I’m letting in—means something. It means everything, even though I’m not yet sure what that everything is.

  I slide my hands down his back, then circle them around to his chest, where I clutch at the thin material of his T-shirt. As I do, my nails scratch gently against his pecs and his eyes darken even more, to a brilliant forest green that I want nothing more than to fall into.

  Then his hand is fisting in my hair and he’s kissing me and kissing me and kissing me, until I lose the breath I just got back.

  Until my lips burn and my jaw aches.

  Until my whole body goes up in flames.

  I whimper, my lower body rocking against the hardness of his. Nic groans in response and his huge hands slide down my body to grab my hips, my ass. And then he’s moving me against him in a rhythm that takes me higher, that has me growing hotter and wetter with each clench of his fingers against me.

  “Nic!” I manage to gasp against his mouth as the heat—the need—builds and builds inside of me.

  “I’ve got you, baby,” he growls. “I’ve got you.” Then he’s skimming his mouth across my jaw, down my throat, to the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. He bites down gently, then laves the small hurt with his tongue before doing it again and again and again.

  Pressure builds inside me with each lick of his tongue over my skin, with each clench of his fingers against my hips, with each thrust of his hard cock against my aching sex. My breath hitches in my throat, my body moving of its own volition now and Nic groans a little at my response even as he bends to press his hot mouth against my fabric-covered breast.

  With a strangled gasp, I arch my back, press closer. He laughs a little—a dark, sexy tortured sound—then sucks my nipple into his mouth. I can feel the heat of his mouth even through the fabric of my bra and shirt and it feels good, so good. I tell him so, my voice shaky—shredded—with need. He responds with a groan and a powerful thrust of his hips against my own. Then he’s biting down gently, gently, gently and my body’s going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  Nic stays with me, his mouth drawing on my nipple and his hands lifting and lowering me on his cock as I come and come and come in the first orgasm I’ve had in over three years.

  When it’s over, I collapse into him, my face buried in his neck, my heart beating hard against his own. Long moments pass as I try to get myself together, try to return the favor when it registers that he’s still hard against my thigh. But I’m wrecked, shuddering and gasping and weak, so weak that I can’t do anything but lean against him and tremble.

  And he lets me. He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t try to take what I’ve so obviously offered. Instead, he rocks me, with his arms around me and his fingers tracing soothing patterns on my back. It’s tender and sweet and exactly what I need after the most explosive orgasm of my life. After the first orgasm—the first pleasure—I’ve allowed my body to feel in a long, long time.

  When I can finally breathe again, I press kisses to his neck as I slide my hand down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans. I fumble with the button a little, partly because
I’m out of practice and partly because the tension is back now that I’m no longer drowning in pleasure. Not because I think Nic will hurt me—he’s proved over and over again that he won’t—but because the last time I was this close to a guy’s—

  I shut the thought down, refusing to let the past creep into this sweet, perfect moment. But my tension must register with Nic—that or he remembers before I do that we’re on a public beach—because he wraps a gentle hand around my own and pulls my fingers from his waistband. Then he lifts my hand to his lips and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of my palm. I nearly melt all over again, the tension disappearing as easily as it came.

  He must sense it, because he smiles—really smiles—at me and I freeze at the way his whole face lights up with it. He looks happy, happy and young and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. It’s a good look for him.

  I lift a hand to his face, run my fingers over the curve of his lips, the sharp blades of his cheekbones, the slightly crooked bump on his nose that testifies to the fact that it’s been broken before. As I do, I stare directly into those crazy green eyes of his and though it’s hard for me to imagine it, somehow this moment becomes more personal—more intimate—than any of the others that came before it.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I tell him and he smiles at me, quirks a brow.

  “It’s just a face,” he answers. “Just a freak accident of nature.”

  “No.” My other hand moves to rest over the strong, steady beat of his heart. “No, it isn’t.”

  For the first time since I met him, he seems at a loss for words. Long seconds pass as he bows his head, closes his eyes, swallows convulsively. And when he finally looks at me again, there’s something in his eyes that I don’t recognize. Something powerful and important and just a little bit frightening.

  Then he’s leaning forward and kissing me again, taking my breath away with every brush of his lips against my own. I don’t know what’s happening here, don’t understand how one day can change so much. But somehow it has…somehow he has.