Time Stamps

by KL Kreig

  Laurel, good grief. Stop already.

  Okay. Okay.

  Deep breath in.

  Deep breath out.

  It’s now or never, and never isn’t an option, so…

  Here goes nothing.

  Silently, I shuffle until the backs of my knees butt up against the bed. I drop his hands and toe off my shoes. My stomach does backflips when I reach for the bottom of my dress.

  He watches my every move, his breathing labored as I drag the fabric up over my head. His eyes grow darker, the slant of his jaw more severe as I drop it on his shoes.

  Resisting the urge to fidget, I stand still in front of him, arms at my sides, positively defenseless in my red demi bra and matching thong.

  Red. I know, I don’t understand how that happened either.

  But seemingly it was the right call, because the homage Roth pays me causes all focus on my imperfections to drop away. In a split second, I feel seductive and wanton.

  And powerful. It’s absolutely true what they say about red.

  “Jesus,” he whispers under his breath.

  He runs his eyes over me in a rush, as if he doesn’t know what to concentrate on first. Then he visually devours me, slow and savory, as though I’m a gourmet seven-course meal at a five-star restaurant.

  His gaze trickles over my face and shoulders first, leaving my skin tingling without a single touch. He lingers on my breasts. They feel swollen. They ache. He swims over my ribs and belly with languid strokes, and the low growl that emanates from him when he gets to my panties makes me want to drop onto the bed in sweet surrender.

  When he swallows hard and loud, it empowers me, this reaction of his.

  “Touch me,” I hear myself say. Raw need has me strung tight, my inhibitions all but gone.

  “I’m going to do more than touch you, Laurel,” he murmurs, now tracing the lacy fringes of my bra cups before feathering circles around my erect nipples. I moan lightly and close my eyes. My head feels heavy, my legs like damp tissue paper.

  He winds an arm around me just in time and lowers me to the bed, laying me on my back before standing over me.

  “My God, I wish you could see yourself.”

  He pretends as if he’s capturing me in a picture frame, his index fingers and thumbs forming a loose square.

  “Your hair is splayed in a hundred different directions. Your skin is luminescent, as though you’ve bathed in liquid silver. Your breasts, Jesus. Your body is sheer perfection.” As he talks, I visualize. I see a sexpot that every man desires. I see myself through his eyes and though I know that’s not me, at this moment it feels like it could be. Like maybe it is. Reaching for the button on his pants, he pops it open. He drops his jeans, then shucks his shirt. The air thickens. “You are undeniably sexy, but…” His breath hitches as if he’s having a hard time breathing too. His erection presses against the confines of his boxer briefs, demanding release. I could help with that. “You are absolutely radiant, Laurel. So stunning I can hardly think.”

  Hook. Line. Drop shot sinker.

  I am his.

  For all my days.

  “It’s all you.” I reach out my hand, begging him to come to me.

  He hooks his fingers into the band of his underwear and removes them, and holy shit. Yes. I said it, because there is no other adequate description for what I am witnessing.

  Roth Warren Keswick is not only buff, he is built.

  His eyes gleam as I get my fill of him the way he did of me. I’ve had sex, of course, but I am not what you’d call sexually experienced. I haven’t orgasmed at a man’s hand, ever. And I’ve never had a man in my mouth, the thought of it demeaning and repulsive, actually.

  But I had it all wrong. That is an act of pure devotion where I would hold all the power. And I’m wearing red to boot, which I fear is making me irrationally emboldened because now all I can think of is wielding all that command to make Roth cry my name as I swipe my tongue over that bead dotting his tip.

  I reach for him, but he grabs my wrist right before contact.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, highly disappointed he’s thwarted my first attempt at giving a man oral pleasure.

  “Going first.”

  “Oh.”

  His gaze drops between my legs and I feel myself gush. He licks his lips before telling me, “I’ll get there, don’t you worry.”

  I start to laugh, but it morphs into a drawn-out moan when he slips a finger underneath the crotch of my panties. I arch my back as he leisurely runs the back of his nail over my sensitized, wet flesh. I whine when he stops.

  “Relax,” he tells me softly, lying at my side.

  “Easy for you to say.” Every part of me is taut, ready to snap.

  “You have to trust your partner.” He said the same thing earlier tonight on the dance floor. “Do you trust me, Laurel?” His strokes down my belly are unhurried and featherlight. No woman could be more worshipped or adored or undoubtedly, unconditionally loved than I am right now.

  “Yes,” I reply without a second thought, the same way I did earlier. “I trust you.”

  “Good.” His arousal jerks uncontrollably against my thigh. I marvel at the restraint he has, my needs coming before his. Another first. “Then close your eyes, please.”

  “Since you asked so nicely…”

  I do. I close my eyes and allow myself to just feel.

  Roth speaks to me in soft tones, telling me how much he loves the softness of my skin, which pebbles under his touch. He tells me how every curve and bend in my body, which won’t stop undulating, is majestic. He tells me how beautiful I am and how lucky he is to have found me, and my heart swells with each devout word.

  Each caress stokes the embers hotter. Every kiss steals my breath away.

  He rids me of my panties and bra and gently palms both breasts. He thumbs my nipples, lightly pinches them, then sucks one into his hot mouth. I cry out and snake my fingers through his hair, holding him to me as I writhe in pleasure. He moves from one breast to the other but takes his time, alternating between gentle laps and harried pulls. It’s as if he’s fighting between his mind and his need.

  I know because it’s the same for me.

  “Roth,” I moan. Carving my nails into his back, I drag them down over his hips and dig them into the tautness of his butt. His erection flutters in a steady, insistent beat, growing more indignant by the second at being denied.

  We can’t have that, now can we?

  With a surge of energy, I flip our positions. Now I’m on top, straddling him, and Roth is on the bottom at my mercy.

  I am in control.

  It’s the red, I swear it.

  “What are you doing?” he asks me, the cutest smirk cutting into his cheekbones. I’m suddenly glad the lamp is on, so I can see him. He pushes his thumbs into my hip creases, making me squirm. It tickles.

  “I’m taking matters into my own hands,” I say, flattening my palms to his pecs. His smirk widens until I flick my fingernails over his nipples. He sucks in a harsh breath as his eyes momentarily roll back.

  “Is that so?” he moans.

  “Uh-huh,” I reply, proud of myself.

  Wedging him between my wet folds, I rock my hips back and forth, sliding along the length of him easily. I move. I feel. I palm my own breasts as I let every pretense of what I should do go. Instinct takes over. With each pass, his face sharpens, and I revel in this authority I never knew I had. It’s addicting. Red is my new go-to.

  But Roth turns the tables once again. He slips one of those thumbs that were tickling me between—Oh God—right between my legs, circling my bundle of nerves with the right amount of pressure to throw me off my game. His other hand grips my hip, steadying me as he watches me get closer and closer with every rotation.

  “I told you, ladies first,” he murmurs, and I am on such a high right now I can’t possibly form a sassy comeback even if I wanted to. My heart pounds, my skin is warm, my breathing erratic.

  I drop m
y gaze to his hand, the one working me to new heights, and I’m surprised that I am on the knife’s edge already. When I glance up, he’s trained on me. I watch him watch me, and watching him watch me may very well be the most erotic experience of my life.

  I come on the spot.

  Head thrown back, eyes twisted shut, my body shudders and shakes as I ride wave after sharp wave of pure, utter bliss. And Roth’s hum of male satisfaction only serves to prolong my gratification.

  “That’s it,” he urges me on. “Christ, Laurel. You are magnificent when you come.”

  I feel magnificent.

  Though he could stop with one and take his turn, he doesn’t. He tosses me on my back and brings me up again and, “Again,” he demands, my body responding to him as if he has been the lone keyholder all along. I orgasm under his tongue and his fingers and his tongue again until I feel boneless and atrophied and so tender I can’t stand one more. Only once I am sated like never before does he slip inside me on a choppy groan.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers in my ear. In one swift move, he hitches my hips upward until I moan. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on as he hits the right spot with each lazy thrust.

  “So…do…you.”

  Unbelievably, I am balancing on the precipice again. Is that possible?

  Rising on his forearms, Roth hovers over me, spanning the whole of my face with his hands. When he tells me in a low voice, “You feel like mine,” my thoughts momentarily freeze before I tell him back, “I am,” though I’ve never felt like anyone’s before now.

  His stormy gaze bores inside me and I am unable to look away, nor do I want to. This is straight-up intimacy. We are as locked together as two human beings can be. It should be uncomfortable and terrifying. It would be with anyone else. But with Roth, it’s the exact opposite. It feels so right I am a wound-up ball of raw emotion. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  He moves inside of me, in no hurry whatsoever. Never breaking our connection, something between us clicks together. It’s audible and permanent and by the gentleness on Roth’s face, he hears it too.

  He makes love to me so sweetly, so purposefully, tears gather in the edges of my lids.

  “Pure beauty,” he murmurs when I come undone for the countless time, and when he finally reaches his own pinnacle long, long minutes later, I stare into the soul of a man I love with every part of my being.

  Even if I’m afraid to say it, a person’s eyes can’t hide the truth.

  I hope he sees it while I build up the courage to say it. I hope he knows this isn’t casual for me. That, while I am terrified of the dark, he’ll always be the one lighting the way for me.

  We lie together, arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined. We let our breathing even and our slick skin cool. Neither of us is in a rush to clean up and frankly, I don’t want to leave him, even for the few moments it will take.

  I wonder what he’s thinking, though I don’t ask. I hope he’s still going to stay.

  Eventually, he says, “I’m going to get you a warm washcloth, okay?”

  Uh… “Okay.”

  I try to keep the question Do guys do that? out of my voice, but I know I’ve failed when he says, “Any man worth his salt takes care of his woman after he makes love to her,” as he exits the bed.

  And Roth Warren Keswick is definitely worth his salt.

  Not only does he retrieve a warm washcloth, he makes it his mission to clean me as well, even through my protests of embarrassment.

  Then he climbs back into bed and pulls me toward his chest.

  While I miss the fact, he won’t be sending me a song tonight, a smile turns my lips and satiation warms my body as Roth’s heart beats beneath my ear, and I have one final thought before sleep thieves me away.

  He’s passed with flying colors.

  8

  Feels Like Letting Go

  Laurel

  Ten Years Earlier

  June 8, 8:46 a.m.

  Warm, bright rays wake me from a deep, peaceful sleep. An intoxicating scent invades my nostrils—it’s woodsy and spicy and quickly followed by an inexplicable sense of belonging, as I lie wrapped between strong, sinewy muscles I want to wake up to every morning.

  How long was I out?

  I cup my palm and breathe into it, cringing.

  Yikes. Long enough to have morning breath.

  “She wakes.”

  The thickness in Roth’s morning voice reminds me of gravel being raked through concrete. It is an unexpected turn-on.

  “Morning. Sorry about that.” I keep my face strategically pointed away from his. He draws circles on my shoulder blade. His touch is featherlight and so highly sensual I want him again; morning breath be damned.

  But no. That’s just gross.

  “About what?”

  “Passing out.”

  “Well…” he rumbles. “Multiple orgasms will do that.”

  I adjust how I’m lying so I can see his face. His eyes are a bit droopy, and he has a goofy smile softly curling his lips. He’s sated and content and something bubbles up inside of me because I did that. I’ve never felt so much satisfaction making another person happy.

  “Are you fishing for a compliment, Mr. Keswick?” I tease, twirling a few short strands of his chest hair between my fingers.

  “I believe you gave me plenty of compliments last night if I’m not mistaken.”

  Heat washes over me as I remember how many times I came undone moaning his name. And I may have actually shown my appreciation by thanking him once or twice. Awkward.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” I swat at him, but it’s mostly air.

  “It’s true, is it not?”

  Oh, it’s true all right. But should you feed into your man’s ego or make him work that much harder next time?

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Roth visibly frisks me, searching for the white lie I’m trying to keep hidden. Though he finds it with ease, he plays along nicely.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  Smiling in my small victory, I reluctantly scoot out of his hold. Grabbing a throw blanket on the end of my bed, I wrap it around me as I slide off the edge. “Be right back,” I toss over my shoulder right before I shut the bathroom door.

  A couple of minutes later I emerge, bladder relieved and breath minty. I climb back into bed and Roth greedily yanks me into him.

  “So, besides multiple orgasms, what else makes you happy?”

  “More multiple orgasms?” I suggest cheekily.

  “So, you admit to multiple orgasms now, do you?”

  I feign indignance. “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “If you say so,” he replies on a chuckle.

  Who are you and what you have done with the real Laurel?

  The Laurel I know would never banter sexual innuendos back and forth like she was some sort of field expert. It seems Roth has managed to unearth a part of me I didn’t know existed.

  A rather fun one.

  Those three loaded, perilous words start to fall off the tip of my tongue, but I snatch them with my front teeth and bite down, managing to shove them back in. Then I shift the subject.

  “What makes me happy, huh?”

  “Yeah, you know…this.” He points to his now exaggerated grin. It makes me laugh. “And this…” He places his palm between my bare breasts. My body reacts. The way his nostrils flare, he notices, yet he stays focused. “What warms your heart and feeds your soul?”

  This, I think. This does. You do. A future with him plays out right in front of my eyes as if it’s already been caught on film. A lifetime of love and fulfillment and dreams realized. Gray hair. Great-great-grandchildren. Arthritis. Alaskan cruises. Holding hands while we watch the five-o’clock news. Four thirty all-you-can-eat buffets. Celebrating a golden wedding anniversary.

  That could definitely make me happy.

  But I can’t vomit all that because, well, that’s obvious.


  “I didn’t know this was such a hard question,” Roth jibes.

  “I don’t know, I guess.”

  “You don’t know what makes you content?”

  I shrug. “I’ve never thought about it before.”

  “Well, now’s your chance.”

  Now’s my chance. Great. I grasp at straws, coming up blank, so I go with the first thing that comes into my head.

  “I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain…” When he doesn’t respond right away, I keep going, steeling my mouth into a straight line. Speaking the words versus singing them is harder than it sounds. “And the feel of the ocean and the taste of champagne.”

  Roth pushes himself up. “Go on,” he encourages, eyes wide and bright.

  Really?

  I rack my brain trying to think of another line and can only come up with one. Dammit. I don’t want to say it, but I don’t know what else to do. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I like making love at midnight in the dunes of the Cape.”

  No smirk. No flash of lust in his eyes. Just genuine interest. I almost feel bad I didn’t take this more seriously.

  “Well, then I guess I’m the love that you’ve been looking for.”

  He says this with such deadpan that my heart thuds in my chest.

  It takes me a few seconds to catch on and when I do, strangely my racing heart takes a dive into my belly. My little ditty has backfired. He was onto me the whole time.

  Then he grins and his grin quickly turns into a belly laugh. I ball up a fist and punch him in the meaty part of his arm to get him to stop, but it only serves to make him laugh harder. I find myself joining in, and we laugh until our faces are streaked with tears, our sides ache, and our cheeks hurt. We laugh like all of our laughs have built up over our lifetimes, as if reserved only for the other. We laugh until we can’t laugh any more.