by Tawna Fenske
When she starts to work my shoes off, I struggle to sit up. “Lie back.” She pushes my chest, making sure it happens. “If I need help, I’ll ask.”
This seems so wrong. “I’m not used to being helpless.”
“You’re not helpless,” she says, stripping off the last of my clothing and returning to dot a million tiny kisses over my hips and abdomen. “You’re powerless.”
“That’s not reassuring.” But it is. My insides go gooey as her breasts skim my cock. Everything inside me is humming, just a big, sloshy sea of sensation.
I could get used to this.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Her tongue grazes my belly button, and I shiver. “It’s nice sometimes to let go of control.”
I nod because I want her to keep kissing my hipbone like that, and also because she’s right. This loss of control, it’s something I’ve never imagined. Something I never knew I needed.
“Christ.” Her breasts brush my thighs as she slips into the space between my legs. Her warm breath fans across my cock, and I close my eyes. The instant her lips touch me, I nearly fly off the bed.
“Sensitive guy,” she murmurs, laughing a little. “I could have guessed.”
“Oh, Jesus—Blanka.” I grit my teeth as she takes me all the way into her mouth.
Constellations burst behind my eyelids as her tongue curls around me. The gentle suction, the way her fingers clench the base of me, it’s too much. Mouth, palm, breath, teeth—I can’t tell where one sensation begins and the other ends.
I give up trying to categorize anything and just melt into an ocean of pleasure.
“You’re so fucking good at that,” I grind out. “Did you write a thesis on giving the perfect BJ?”
She laughs, sending a fresh wave of vibrations moving up my body. “Maybe I should. Want to be my guinea pig?”
“Keep doing that, and I’ll be any animal you want me to.”
“Hedgehog?” She murmurs the word around me, letting the syllables vibrate up my shaft. “Platypus?”
Her giggle sends a ripple of pleasure through my cock, or maybe that’s what she’s doing with her tongue. How the hell did a recitation of zoo animals become sexy?
“Anteater,” I choke out, conjuring the first animal I can think of with suction expertise. “Plecostomus.”
She laughs and a warm, swirling current moves through me. She sucks me in deep again, moaning around me. “Parastratiosphecomyia.”
“What the hell is that?” I choke out.
“The longest insect name I could think of,” she says. “You seem to like the vibration of syllables.”
Like doesn’t begin to describe how insane I am with pleasure. How close she’s bringing me to the edge with the tremor of her words and the softness of her mouth.
She sucks me in deeper, then releases me. “Tasselled wobbegong.” That one she delivers with her lips pressed against the underside of my shaft, a gentle buzz of breath. “A species of carpet shark, if you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” I’m too close to coming my brains out, too close to the edge to turn back now. “Blanka.”
I should tell her to stop. That’s the right thing to do; I know it is. “Blanka.”
That’s the only word I can manage.
“Let go,” she says. “Do it, Jon.”
That’s the last thing I remember. Then my brain explodes. It’s a bright burst behind my eyelids, a rush of pleasure so intense I call out.
“Holy Christ.”
The waves slam into me, one after another after another, knocking me back against the bed. My hands ball into fists at the headboard as a whirlpool of pleasure pulls me under. I’m drowning in sensation, gasping for breath.
So help me God, I never want to come up.
As the last wave ebbs, Blanka slows down. She draws back softly, and with one gentle kiss on my hipbone, sits back on her heels.
That smile. My God, I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.
“Admit it,” she says, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth
Jesus.
“Admit what?” At this point I’d confess to killing Gandhi.
“Admit that being selfish feels pretty damn good.”
I nod, hoping that’s concession enough. I’m not sure I can manage a complete sentence. My heart’s threatening to blast through my ribcage, and my body’s buzzing like a can of warm Coke tossed down the stairs.
Still smiling, Blanka leans up to unfasten the balloons. I beat her to it with one hard yank. That’s all it takes, and I’m free. It was as easy as that.
But not really. There’s something inside me bound tight. A new tether, fragile as a spider’s web, tying me to the woman beside me.
“Come here.” This time, I don’t give her a choice. I pull her against me, burrowing my face in her hair. “I want to hold you.”
She relaxes into me, curling against my side as she tucks herself into the space under my arm. She’s careful not to bump the incisions, unbearably gentle as she settles her head onto my chest.
Her hand comes up to touch the medallion hanging from a cord around my neck. Fingertips graze the warm metal, and I shiver.
“What is this?” she asks softly. “I’ve been meaning to ask about it.”
I take my time answering. I don’t want to ruin this moment, this connection between us. “A gift from my father,” I say. “He gave it to me when I was seven.”
I don’t specify which father. There’s no need, and I can tell by the way she tenses in my arms that she knows I mean Cort Bracelyn.
“He must not have been all bad,” she murmurs softly. “Not if he helped create you.”
I close my eyes tightly, breathing in and out as Blanka lets go of the medallion and strokes her hand over my chest. Right now, in this moment, I almost forget I’m stretched taut between two worlds. Between the family that raised me, the one where I most want to belong, and the father whose shadow I can never quite shake.
Blanka’s palm makes slow circles over my breastbone, and I feel myself relax. Feel the slow, gentle ebbing of tension, the softness of the woman who only sees the best in me.
Admit it.
Her earlier words echo in my head, but I’m not thinking about blowjobs or balloon animals or that multi-syllabic insect she named.
I’m thinking the one thing I’m not ready to admit. Not out loud, not even to myself.
I’m falling in love with Blanka.
No amount of persuasion can convince Blanka to stay the night. Not even when I point out that she might miss the miracle of kitten childbirth.
“I need to start cleaning for my parents’ visit,” she insists as she kisses me goodbye at the door. “I’ll see you this weekend for our canoe trip, right?”
“Yes.” I know it’s lame, but I hate the thought of going even that long without seeing her. “Want me to let you know if I see kittens emerging from the business end of the cat?”
“Yes, please,” she says, brushing back a flyaway strand of hair. “I know Jade said she shouldn’t need assistance with the birth, but I feel like we ought to be nearby just in case.”
“Agreed.” I’m not above using my cat to earn more time with Blanka. Wait. “Not my cat.”
Blanka tilts her head. “What?”
“Nothing. Just—never mind.”
She rolls her eyes as she goes up on tiptoe to kiss me again. “You’re a good man, Jonathan Bracelyn, but you’re a strange one.”
“I’ll have that printed on business cards.”
I can’t take my eyes off her as she walks to her car, gets in, and heads off down the driveway. I’m still staring when I hear a sharp, whistled catcall from next door.
Turning toward it, I spot Gretchen and Izzy sitting in Adirondack chairs in front of the cabin that used to be Bree’s. Iz is wrapped burrito-style in a blue and green blanket, while Gretchen sits spooning ice cream out of a vessel the size of a mixing bowl.
“Nice one, bro,” Gretchen calls around
a mouthful of what I’m assuming is chocolate chip mint. She ate it by the gallon when we were growing up. “I wondered how long it’d take you two to get together.”
I amble toward them, not sure how to respond. “We’re not together.”
Gretchen rolls her eyes at me while Izzy pats an empty chair beside her.
“Join us,” Izzy says, eyes full of apology. “I wanted to thank Blanka for the books, but it seemed like an inopportune time to interrupt.”
Gretchen snorts and scoops up more ice cream. “You mean when his tongue was in her mouth? Yeah, bad time for conversation.”
Izzy laughs and rolls her eyes at Gretchen. “You’re the absolute worst.”
“I love this,” I tell them as my attention swivels back and forth between sisters.
Gretchen eyes me like I’ve lost my marbles. “That we’re abusing each other?”
“Yes, actually.” I ease into the chair next to Izzy, then reach out to take the ice cream bowl out of Gretchen’s hands.
“Hey—” she protests, but hands me her spoon.
“I love that my sisters—who have zero blood relation to one another—have become friends.” I shovel ice cream into my mouth, savoring the minty coolness. “And I love that Izzy’s gotten over feeling like a burden all the time. And I love that you’re both here.”
“Jeez, what a sap.” Gretchen watches me shovel up another mountain of ice cream before waving at me to give it back. I steal one last spoonful before she can take it, swallowing a little too fast.
“Ow,” I complain around the freezie brain headache.
“Serves you right,” Gretchen says as she reclaims her bowl and spoon. “I like it here. I can’t believe you’re not sticking around.”
“What would that even look like?” It’s the first time I’ve tossed the idea out loud, and both sisters blink.
“Well,” Gretchen says slowly, “You’d choose to remain at the resort with your family instead of racing off to some war-torn region of the world to save lost souls. And you’d stay here and look for lost souls instead.”
There’s no way it’s that simple.
But that doesn’t stop me from picturing it in my head, wondering if there’s enough charity work here to keep me occupied. It isn’t the charity work I’m imagining. It’s Blanka with her hair fluttering in the breeze and that beautiful, gap-toothed smile.
“I’m thinking of staying,” Izzy says shyly. “After I’m cleared to travel, I mean. I might choose to stay, at least part of the time.”
“Iz, that’s amazing!” I pull her in for a hug, delighted by the news. “It’d be great to see you all the time.”
Gretchen cocks her head. “You just said you’re not staying, didn’t you?”
“So? I visit a lot.”
More in the last year than I ever did when my dad was around. There’s something that keeps pulling me back here, giving me excuses to return for family meetings and weddings and random holidays.
Izzy looks thoughtful. “Blanka does seem pretty independent.”
“Which is key if you’re talking about a potential long-distance relationship,” Gretchen puts in.
“We’re not in a relationship,” I insist. “Blanka’s adamant about not wanting that.”
My sisters exchange a look I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Izzy says. “I’m sure you’re right. You know her better than we do.”
I refrain from saying anything about how well I’ve gotten to know her just recently. Kissing and telling is not my thing.
“I admire her, actually,” Gretchen says. “When she gave us the tour of USGS, she was telling us about all these trips she’s taken. Said she loves traveling by herself.”
“That’s so brave.” Izzy smiles and swipes a finger over the rim of Gretchen’s ice cream bowl, stealing a lick of chocolate chip mint. Is this the same woman who almost died at a wedding because she didn’t want to trouble anyone? “And she lives by herself,” Izzy adds. “Said she prefers it that way.”
“See?” I don’t know why I think this proves my point. “The last thing she wants is a relationship. Some guy hanging around, breathing down her neck, following her everywhere.”
Gretchen gives me a look. “If that’s how you think relationships work, we need to talk.”
“Sounds more like stalking,” Izzy agrees.
I grab the bowl back from Gretchen and reach a hand in to grab a golf ball-sized hunk of ice cream. Shoving it in my mouth, I make the obnoxious smacky sounds that used to bug the crap out of her when we were kids.
“Disgusting,” she says, yanking the bowl back as she whacks me on the head with her spoon.
Then she goes back to eating with it, her expression one of fond frustration. “You know we’re all proud of you, right?”
“What?” I’m suddenly self-conscious, not sure where she’s going with this. “Yeah, sure, I know.”
Gretchen sighs like I’m being dense. “Mom and Chuck and all the rest of us—we’d be proud of you no matter what you did for a living.”
“Of course.” I’m agreeing because it’s easiest, but deep down, I know it’s not that simple. Gretchen’s their daughter—Mom and Chuck’s. I was there when she took her first steps. I saw the pride in their eyes the first time she brought home a science fair trophy.
It's different for me. We act like it’s not, but deep down, I’m different. I’m Cort Bracelyn’s son, no matter how we pretend otherwise. I’ve always known I need to work harder, need to earn my place in the family.
I finger the medallion at my chest and order myself to remember that. To never lose sight of the fact that I’ve got something to prove. To my parents, my siblings. To myself.
Even if it means eventually letting go of Blanka.
Chapter 10
Blanka
“God, this feels good.”
Jon’s voice behind me has my brain ambling back to his bedroom a few days ago, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face.
“You’re not overexerting yourself, right?” I glance over my shoulder to see his mile-wide grin on full display.
“No way,” he says. “Being out on the water is the purest form of self-care. This is like a bubble bath and a hot fudge sundae and an orgasm all rolled into one.”
“Sounds messy,” I point out, smiling as I dip my paddle in the water and look out over the mountains on the horizon.
We’re both paddling, but his spot in the stern means he’s doing more of the steering. It’s the awkward thing about canoeing as a date. You spend the whole time facing forward instead of looking at one another. One person’s stuck staring at the other’s back instead of gazing romantically into each other’s eyes.
Then again, romance isn’t the point. We’ve already established there’s a time limit on our fling. Today is about getting Jon to relax, not about getting into each other’s pants.
“Look, an osprey.” I point to the sky where the slender-bodied hawk is swooping low over the water. As we watch, he dive-bombs the glassy surface and comes up splashing.
Jon slips his paddle out of the water to watch. “Why do I suspect you know everything there is to know about ospreys?”
I smile, flattered he sounds proud instead of annoyed. “Not everything.”
“Do they mate for life?”
I hesitate. “Yes. Usually.” I’m facing forward again, grateful he can’t see the heat creeping into my cheeks. “They’re monogamous and generally return to the same mate year after year.”
“You mean they separate for migration?”
I nod and dip my paddle in the water as the osprey swoops low again, water flickering in the sun like crystals on its wings. “They can migrate more than three-thousand kilometers in a season. But the males in established pairs always return to the breeding ground before the females do.”
“No kidding. To prepare the nest or something?”
“Exactly.” I don’t know why this feels so inti
mate. Why I’m fretting that my words sound like some way-too-obvious hint. “After eggs are laid, they work together to fight off intruders and defend the nest.”
We both watch as the osprey plummets again, his body an arrow aimed straight down at the lake. Wings flapping, he surfaces again.
“He got something,” Jon says.
Sure enough, there’s a flashing silver fish clutched in the osprey’s talons. The fish wriggles, but it’s no match for the bird’s fierce grip.
“Bad day to be a trout,” Jonathan observes.
“Good day to be an osprey.”
We watch as the bird disappears into the trees, eager to devour his dinner in peace. Jon’s quiet behind me, and I assume he’s still watching the sky for birds. I see bald eagles here a lot, and once a great horned owl.
“Blanka?”
I glance over my shoulder. The serious look on his face has me pivoting completely on the seat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I feel like I should apologize for what happened in my bedroom the other day,” he says. “For the fact that it was all about me and I didn’t uh—pleasure you at all.”
I sigh and dip my paddle in the water. “Jonathan, the whole point—”
“Wait, let me finish.” He smiles, green eyes sparkling like the water around us. “I said I feel like I should apologize, but the truth is, I don’t want to. That was fucking phenomenal, and I don’t regret it. Not one bit.”
Heat blooms in the center of my chest. I fight the urge to pat myself on the back. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to,” I tell him. “But I get the sense you’re not used to giving up control in the bedroom.”
His chest flexes as he strokes his paddle along the left side of the boat to turn us. “I didn’t catch the question part of that,” he says. “But if you’re asking whether I’ve been tied up before, the answer’s no. And definitely not with balloons.”
The heat that started in my chest spreads in a warm rush down my arms to the tips of my fingers. “I wasn’t trying to pry—”