by Jewel E. Ann
I’ve always wanted only the very best for her. And as I see her two little girls, both with her blond hair and blue eyes, playing on the beach in Mexico, I’m reminded just how fragile life really is, how some loves never die. It gives me hope that this life of mine has more to give than I probably realize.
Morgan and Nate,
Hope you’re finding magic.
~Swayze, Griff, Eloise, & Harley
Always a simple postcard.
Always with the same four-word greeting. Hope you’re finding magic.
I usually return the sentiment, without words, just a postcard with a picture of Morgan. I think she knows why I have nothing more to say. She knows I lost too much. She knows her happiness is my happiness. Every postcard from her is a reminder that I did the right thing.
I let go.
“My pen pal competition?”
I glance up. Gracelyn in a white sundress with yellow straps and yellow stitching along the bodice brings me out of the past and all that I lost.
“Maybe.” I set the mail on the round table by my chair. “Nice to see you dressed.”
“Said no man ever.” She ascends the steps in her yellow flip-flops.
“How was your Scottish porn last night?”
She smirks. “Jamie never disappoints.”
“Do you think your obsession with this Jamie guy is the real reason for your man ban? Unrealistic expectations.”
She twists her lips to the side and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Obsession is your word, not mine. And my man ban was born of bad luck, not a hot guy in a kilt.”
When she turns around to sit in the other rocker, I wrap my hand around her wrist and pull her to me, justifying it with nothing more than a look. Guiding her onto my lap with her back against my chest, I slide my hands around her waist and rest my chin on her shoulder.
“This feels friendly,” she whispers.
“Well, I know about the cherry and elephants. And you know I wear flannels to bed—only I don’t. So I guess all that’s left is to decide if you’ll go to dinner with a single dad who doesn’t wear a kilt.”
“What did you have in mind?” She leans her head back, giving me access to brush my lips along her neck. As I dot slow kisses from her shoulder to her ear, she covers my hands with hers, lacing our fingers together.
I don’t know why this feels so easy.
So fated.
So unavoidable.
“A patio with a view, good wine, an insane amount of appetizers, and dessert even when we’re stuffed.”
She turns her head, smiling as my mouth finds hers. Her hand presses to my cheek. It’s slow like us.
Destination unknown.
Fortuity.
When she pulls back, I take a minute to remind myself she is my here and now. An experience. A beautiful memory in the making. She’s not Daisy or Jenna. I will leave. She will stay. And that’s okay.
“You had me at good wine.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gracelyn
It’s not an ocean view. It’s a breathtaking garden with floral covered trellises, secluded tables adorned with candles, good wine, and appetizers that look like works of art.
“You do well.”
“Well?” Nate refills my wine glass.
“The menu didn’t have prices. I know what that means.”
A hint of sadness steals his expression. “I did fine—but not until I was much older and secured a job as an anatomy professor at the university. I told you about my hand-me-down skates. Jenna had money. Family money.”
I take a sip of wine. “I almost had money.”
He grins. “All but the Powerball number?”
“If only … That’s still good money, though … all the numbers but the Powerball.” I laugh. “No. I had two opportunities to not live paycheck to paycheck. As soon as I finished my undergrad for med school, I dropped out. Then I was seconds from saying ‘I do’ to Michael, president of an investment firm in Boise. I like living on the edge. Savings accounts and IRAs bore me.”
“So boring.” He spoons more food onto my plate. I’m stuffed and we’re still on appetizers. “I grew up poor, but my mom had an affair with a rich man. My goals were to not ever be so poor that I wasn’t sure if I’d have three meals a day, but not so rich that I’d sleep with another man’s wife—like morals and decency didn’t apply to me.”
My nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. She came back. Things worked out. It’s a small scar compared to other events like losing my best friend at such a young age.”
“Sorry,” I repeat.
“No. Please … let me change the subject. I’m not at all looking for sympathy. I’m just …” He shakes his head. “Oversharing.”
“Not oversharing. I’m asking all the wrong questions. Not that I’m implying there is such a thing as too much information in a relationship, but ours is different. Maybe we save the heavy stuff for pen pal status …” I tap my fork on my lower lip. “That is … if I make pen pal status, which really should be email status. However, I kinda dig the old-fashioned handwritten letter, envelope, and stamp. The forced patience that comes with snail mail. The race to the mailbox to see if you’ve received a letter. I can’t remember the last time I waited for something with any sort of anticipation that wasn’t coming from Amazon.”
“Well …” He sighs and shrugs. “I hope you make it that far.”
“Me too, but I’ve suffered worse disappointment in my life. So don’t think that you can lord this over me. I won’t be asking for your address.”
His eyebrows inch up his head. “There you go again … making crazy assumptions. It would be a P.O. box, not my actual address. I imagine you could cross the line into a stalker.”
“Says the creepy guy who watches me out his window.”
He points his knife at me for a few seconds before cutting through a candied Brussel sprout. “I can’t figure out why you don’t change your clothes at work.”
“It’s a hairy place.” I divert my gaze to my plate. “Just … so much hair circulating in the air. It’s just better to do it right before going inside.”
“But you’re riding in your vehicle.”
“I cover the seat.”
“But—”
“Seriously? Am I really getting the third degree over this when you clearly seem to enjoy my current stripping protocol?”
“True. It’s rather titillating.”
“You mean arousing.” I peek up at him.
“Possibly.”
Over the next two hours, we finish only a fraction of the food ordered, get a sack full of leftovers to go, and take the long way home because it’s an enjoyable night and the breeze feels so intoxicating.
“Don’t fuck up my streak.”
I whip my head toward him just before getting out of the car after we pull into the driveway.
“Okay, Mr. Vulgar. What exactly does that mean?”
“Let me get your door. You may have forgotten how to act on a date, but I haven’t.”
I rest my hands on the sack of leftovers and bite my lips together, patiently waiting for his chivalrous self to open my door.
He opens it, takes the sack, and locks the car after shutting my door. Before I have a chance to hug my arms to my body, he clasps my hand and leads me to his door. I think going inside is a bad idea. It’s been too … everything, but mostly too perfect. I don’t want to mess it up with a stray toenail or my nerves getting the best of me again. My ability to refuse his silent offer dies along with all other words. Again, I can’t think or breathe when we’re touching.
“So …” I fold my hands in front of me as he sticks the leftovers in the fridge. “I had a nice night. Thank you so much for dinner.”
He shuts the fridge door and retraces his steps toward me.
“It was good.” Here it comes—my nervous mumbling continues. “The company was good too.”
Nate stops in front of me, studying me wi
th a mysterious grin like I’m thoroughly amusing him.
I swallow hard and wait for him to say something … do something, but he’s much more interested in making my nerves reach an unhealthy level by not saying or doing anything.
“Say something.” I stare at his chest, a safe zone.
“I feel like you’re getting ready to call it a night, but I’m not done with you yet.”
Gulp …
“I know you bought condoms.” I say those five words, but they come out as Iknowyouboughtcondoms! A brand-new word. An SOS of sorts.
“What?” He furrows his brow.
See. One word.
My nose wrinkles and I glance up at him. “Morgan told me you bought condoms. She said you said they were for Mr. Hans, but we both know that’s not true. And maybe you have other potential pen pals I don’t know about, and maybe you bought them for one of them. I’m just saying …” My words slow and fade into a whisper. “I know you bought condoms.”
How does he remain so unaffected? So cool? When I asked—without saying the actual words—about him masturbating, he showed signs of being human by dropping his gaze and blushing ever so slightly.
With a slight nod, he nibbles his bottom lip. “Yeah … did she also mention she gave him the condoms?”
“Seriously?” I chuckle.
“Yes. I was outside talking to him on the deck, and she ran outside and gave him the box with a ‘Here. My dad got you these.’ He gave me a wide-eyed look.”
I giggle more. “What did you do?”
He scrubs his hands over his face. “What could I do? I went along with it, and said I hoped they were the right ones.”
My laughter settles deep into my belly, making it hard to breathe. “Wh-what did you s-say when he … gave them back?” I press my hand to his chest to keep from falling on my ass with my giggle fit.
“That’s the thing … he’s never given them back to me.”
“What?” My other hand finds his chest too as I collapse into it.
“I’m glad you find this funny.” He gathers my hair into a small ponytail and tugs it, forcing me to look at him and his frown.
My laughter dies from my chest compressing to his and his tugging of my hair. I feel it in places that shouldn’t be connected to my hair follicles. “Stop looking at my mouth unless you’re going to ki—”
It’s a nip, more than an actual kiss. His teeth capture my bottom lip, just to shut me up. He sucks it into his mouth. A moan cuts through the air, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s mine. The kiss turns into my hands clutching his shirt. He releases my hair, sliding his hands down my back. One hand grabs my ass, the other hand slides between us, pausing at my ribs for a few seconds before sliding up an inch.
There’s that moan of mine again. This time the slide of his thumb over my nipple elicits my automatic reaction. The fabric is thin, and I’m not wearing a bra because of the cut of the dress. He squeezes my ass again … and again. The short skirt works its way up until his hand cups my ass over my panties. As his tongue slides against mine, his hand slides into the back of my panties, grabbing a handful of flesh.
It all happens so fast. I guess that’s the speed two people go when it’s been so long since having sex.
More moans.
His other hand moves to my backside.
He’s lifting me up.
My legs wrap around him.
Several steps.
A wall hits my back.
His erection pushes between my legs and my bunched-up dress.
One strap of my dress falls off my shoulder, and he has my bare breast in his hand, kneading it, pinching my nipple, and driving me fucking insane!
“Condoms …” he mumbles against my neck, biting and sucking my flesh. “We … have … to … find … them.”
I agree.
That will require him to stop kissing me. That will require him to put me down. And right now, we’re in a good place—specifically his cock is in a good place, causing intense pressure and friction in the most perfect spot.
“O-K … in…” I shamelessly grind against him “… just…” holy crap that feels good “… a … minute.”
There’s a special message system going between my vagina and my nipples. It translates into confetti, trumpets, and a high probability of fireworks.
He dips his head and flicks his tongue over my nipple before his mouth completely covers it.
“Nate …” I arch my back away from the wall as he presses me to it—pressing there.
Oh god … glorious THERE!
“Fuck … we’ve got to stop.” His mouth works its way from my breast to my shoulder. He bites it playfully before resting his forehead on it.
I rock my pelvis against him.
He thrusts in response.
“Gracelyn … I…” another thrust “…need … more.”
I do too, but I’ve never been opposed to short-term goals. They’re my specialty more than long-term goals. If he lets me orgasm now, I’ll be in a better frame of mind to get the condoms.
“Torture …”
Thrust …
Thrust …
Thrust …
He pleads his case while gripping my ass and moving me right where he needs me. And as luck would have it—exactly where I want to be.
No!
He pulls away, easing me to my feet. Our labored breaths fill the fraction of space between us as my legs decide if they’re going to hold me upright.
No joke. If the slightest breeze crosses my clit, my eyes will roll back in my head with an orgasm. I’m that close. I attempt to play it cool, pulling up the strap to my dress before smoothing down the skirt. My panties have been thrust into no-man’s-land. I’ll deal with them later.
“We have to go find them.”
I nod, only partially coherent. I’m so drunk on Nate right now, I’d never be able to walk a straight line.
“K.” I nod again several times. “Where?”
“Your place. Maybe in his bathroom.” He grabs my hand and drags me next door. “I’ll check the bathroom; you check drawers in the kitchen and living room.” He grabs my face and kisses me hard, stoking the fire. I wrap my leg around his leg, looking for any friction.
Seriously, anything!
“Go.” He pulls away.
I look in all the side table drawers and all the kitchen drawers.
Nothing.
It would have been quicker to just drive to the closest convenience store.
I hear banging of drawers and clattering of things being riffled through in the bathroom. When I peek inside, Nate looks at my reflection in the mirror, a mix of pain and desperation.
“No luck?” I cringe.
He turns and attacks me again. His hands holding my face. His tongue frantically exploring the inside of my mouth.
There has to be something we can use. Plastic wrap. A sandwich bag. Something!
This … this is how even really smart, mature, levelheaded women get pregnant. They go way too long without sex and find something better than a Scottish, kilt-wearing hottie. They (I) dry hump a man who hasn’t had sex in over ten years.
There’s no way this ends well. He’s going to rip off my clothes and deposit ten years’ worth of sperm inside of me. Yep. Here we go …
Nate shoves down both straps to my dress and ravages my breasts. He keeps them distracted with his mouth while his hands not so patiently pull off my panties.
It’s not that I didn’t go through a time in my life where I dreamed of having children. I did. That time passed. My womb is no longer taking applications. I just inherited a ten-year-old. And I have a super important but rather shitty job.
Lives depend on me being responsible. I can’t die. I can’t forget to get Gabe registered for fall classes. And I can’t let my temporary neighbor deposit millions of half babies into my vagina.
“Oh boy …” I push away, out of breath, really turned on, and freaked out of my mind. A few labored laughs escape
as I continue to step back, going in reverse until I hit the threshold to the kitchen.
A safe six feet away.
I wrinkle my nose, feeling equally as frustrated, as I tuck my breasts back into my dress and pull my panties up my legs. Nate looks nothing short of tortured—an animal desperate for its first meal after months of hibernation.
“I’m not on birth control. I don’t want my first letter to you to be an ultrasound picture of tonight.”
He catches his breath and nods once while resting his hands on his hips and dropping his gaze to his feet. “You’re right. I’m just … It felt …”
“Yes. And yes.” I blow out a long breath and grin. “I know. Trust me … I know.”
Nate threads his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. “Fucking condoms … I … I should have just told Morgan they were mine.”
I take a few seconds to commit this moment to memory. My female psyche has been weakened over time from a roller coaster of ups and downs—acceptance, love, hope, rejection, disdain, abandonment. As often as I tell myself that things like wrinkles, great hair, and perfectly toned muscles don’t define me, I’m often crippled by self-doubt. Just because I’ve lost hope … lost the desire to find lasting love, doesn’t mean I’m immune to the sheer elation of someone desperately wanting my touch … my kisses … my body. So I’m doing my best to pause time and feel this moment, to imprint the need and anguish he’s feeling because he can’t have me the way he needs me.
Tomorrow and a million tomorrows after that, Nate won’t need me, but now he does. It’s hard to explain how feeling needed means more than feeling loved. I realized this after Brandon died. It wasn’t just love; it was more. I needed him. Humans don’t function well when their needs are not met. I have not been okay. For nearly two decades, I have not been okay.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Nate pulls his hands out of his hair, letting them flop to his sides. “What can you possibly be thanking me for?”
Hugging my arms to my chest. I roll my lips together and shrug. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s big. It’s sincere. And I won’t ever forget it.”
He grunts the hint of a laugh before blowing out a slow breath. “I’m going home to take a cold shower.”