by Erin Noelle
“You okay? Ready to get out of here?” Davis leans over and whispers into my ear, his hand resting on my thigh.
I nod, keeping my gaze down as I feel the numerous sets of eyes watching our exchange. “Yes, please.”
Davis scoots his chair out from under the table, the legs scraping across the floor, drawing even more attention. “Well, folks, it was great having dinner with y’all, but after the day in the sun and all that emotional prodding this afternoon,” he looks directly at Isaac and grins, “I’m exhausted and gonna call it a night.”
He stands up, and for a split-second, I’m afraid he’s going to leave without me or make me look like I’m chasing after him. Thankfully, he moves behind my chair and gallantly pulls it out for me. “Bristol, we should leave the adults here so they can talk about things not suitable for our young ears, like overstimulated political races and lackluster economies,” he jests.
I chuckle under my breath as I stand up next to him, amused at the curious expressions of everyone at the table except Charlotte. “Goodnight, guys. I’ll see you all in the morning at breakfast.” A chorus of goodbyes follows us as we cross the room, both of us eager to leave.
Once outside, Davis loops his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close to him, so I slide mine around his back, tucking my hand in his back pocket. Neither of us says anything for the first few minutes of our walk back toward our rooms; more than anything, I’m just happy to be out of the dining room and in the fresh air.
The closer we get to the end of the road, the questions and insecurities begin to swirl in my head, causing my belly to flip-flop with anxiety. Do I assume we’re going to hang out together? Will asking him to come over be too forward? Too desperate?
He slows his stride as we walk in front of his cottage, turning to face me. “Your plunge pool or mine?” he asks, one corner of his mouth curling into a cocky smirk.
I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. “Mine,” I reply. “I don’t have a neighbor on the other side of me.”
“Good point,” he quickly kisses my forehead. “I’m gonna grab my trunks; wait right here.”
He bounds up the couple of stairs and into his room, returning in board shorts and a t-shirt in less than a minute.
“Holy shit!” I exclaim. “How did you change that fast? Were you wearing that under your clothes?”
“No. I’m a guy, so I change fast,” he pulls me by the hand the short distance to my cottage, laughing and shaking his head. “Why? Do you need me to help you change into your swimsuit? Or better yet, we can just strip that dress off and let you swim in your bra and panties.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, making me burst out in laughter.
“That’d be a great plan if I was wearing any,” I taunt as I unlock and open the door, letting us both inside.
“Trouble,” he growls in warning, “go and change now before I find out if you’re telling the truth.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the small, oval-shaped plunge pool on my deck, which reminds me a lot of a hot tub from back home only the water is on the cool side and about four feet deep. Each of us has a glass of champagne from a bottle he opened in my room while I put my swimsuit on, and surprisingly, it doesn’t taste nearly as bad as I thought it would.
My chest presses up against the cement edge as I stare out over the tranquil water, the twinkling canopy overhead creating the most picturesque, romantic ambiance I could ever imagine. Davis sits next to me in the water, but facing the opposite direction, his back resting against the side as he slowly sips the amber-tinted bubbly. Our bodies aren’t touching, though I long for them to be, but I wait for him to make the first move.
He tilts his head to the side to look at me, intently studying my face for a few moments before speaking. “Why sports journalism?”
“Why not?” I quip back, setting my glass down as I hold my focus out over the midnight sea.
“Don’t answer a question with a question, Bristol.” He reaches his hands out underwater and grabs my waist, dragging my body over in front of him so we are face-to-face, leaving his fingers curled around my hipbones. His golden brown eyes are intense yet compassionate, imploring my own. “Now tell me why. I want to know more about you.”
“My dad.” I swallow hard, fighting back the emotions threatening to surface. “My dad was a sports junkie. From before I can remember, I’d sit in his lap, watching whatever was on TV—football, baseball, basketball . . . it didn’t matter. My mom used to bring our dinner to us on these trays so we wouldn’t have to miss any of the game” My voice trails off as the memory I hadn’t thought about for so long plays out in my mind like it was just yesterday. Davis stays quiet, patiently waiting for me to collect my thoughts.
“I attempted to play softball and basketball when I was younger, but I just wasn’t coordinated enough. Mentally, I knew the games backwards and forwards; I couldn’t figure out how to make my hands and feet do the things my brain told them to.” I laugh softly. “So I’ve always loved to read and write—I got that from my mom—and when it was time to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up, I thought sports journalism combined the two things I loved.”
“And it was a way to honor both of your parents,” he says understandingly.
I bite the corner of my lip as I nod, trying desperately but failing miserably to push back the tears. “Yeah, I want them to be proud of me.”
With a small smile, he swipes his thumb across my cheek. “They’d be crazy not to.” Then dropping his hands from my hips down to my thighs, he gently coaxes each of my legs up around his waist until he’s holding me in the water. My hands naturally lock around his neck, my fingers lightly stroking the back of his head. Leaning into me, he traces the shell of my ear with his nose. “A girl who knows sports—like really knows ’em and likes ’em—is sexy as hell.”
A moan escapes from the back of my throat, his raspy words igniting a deep-rooted burn inside of me. His lips skim across my jaw until they’re hovering directly over mine. A hand glides effortlessly up my back until it’s tangled into my wet locks. I need him to kiss me, need to cover the sorrow with ecstasy. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
With his strong grip of one hand in my hair and the other on the small of my back, our eyes still glued to each other, he lowers me into the water until I’m floating on my back, spread out before him. My legs squeeze tightly around his hips, pressing my tingling sex against his rock-hard shaft as he breaks our stare and allows his eyes to roam freely over my body.
“So goddamn beautiful, Bristol,” he murmurs hoarsely.
Goose bumps blanket my skin as I shiver with need. “Please,” I whisper, arching my back. “Please, Davis, touch me.”
“Fuck,” he growls, whipping me out of the water, back up to his chest.
Our mouths crash together in a lust-driven collision, the most perfect combination of stroking tongues, nipping teeth, and shared breaths I’ve ever experienced. Large hands cup my bottom, holding my body flush against his as our kiss alternates from fervent madness to sensual passion and back again. My brain is no longer in control of my actions; my body moves of its own accord, taking what it wants, striving to feed the carnal craving between my legs.
Without our mouths breaking apart, Davis somehow stands up straight and walks us over to the stairs, lifting us both out of the water. He carries me inside and carefully lowers my back to the bed, our wet bodies dripping everywhere.
“Lie back and relax,” he instructs, his intensity pinning me to the mattress. “You can show off your trouble another time.”
NEVER IN MY LIFE have I said the words ‘Let me take care of you’. Not until now.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not that guy who gets mine and leaves the girl unsatisfied . . . not even close. Hearing a female scream my name in ecstasy is part of how I get off; knowing I’ve rocked her world in the best way possible is the ultimate ego booster. But the part about me getting mine is indeed vital, the point of the entire encounter.
However, ton
ight, it’s not. All I want to do is make Bristol feel good, to provide her an escape from the shitty past—the one I’m still too scared to ask about—that haunts her . . . just like mine does me.
Laid out beneath me atop the white comforter with her long, wet, dark hair fanned out on the pillow, she gazes up at me with hungry brown eyes, truly the most breathtaking sight I’ve ever seen. I lower my face to hers, reuniting our kiss, our mouths moving together in synchronized unison as if they were made for each other.
Then, tearing my lips from hers, I slowly skim my mouth down the smooth skin of her neck to her chest. She bows her back off the bed, giving me access to the tied bikini strings, which I make quick work of. Not wasting any time, my hand cups one precisely-shaped mound as my lips engulf the other perfect mouthful. Kissing, sucking, and flicking one, massaging, pinching, and caressing the other, not one inch of her supple breasts is left untouched.
“Please, Davis,” she moans, lifting her hips to rub against my stomach as her hands push my head downwards.
Her begging my name is like music to my cock, a tempting song of want and need, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to rip her bottoms off and bury myself inside her with a single greedy thrust. Giving in to her request, I slide the rest of the way down her thin frame, hooking my thumbs into the sides of her swimsuit and tugging the wet bikini down her legs and onto the floor.
Her completely nude body sprawled out, prime for the taking, is nearly my undoing. I’ve seen more than my fair share of naked women up close and personal, but never have I witnessed something as erotically stimulating as the sight of Bristol right now. If I don’t pull it together, I’m going to come before I even take my shorts off.
I position myself between her bare legs, using my shoulders pressed against her inner thighs to keep them spread wide. My mouth follows my hand’s lead, teasing and taunting as I glide between her soft, shaven lips and sweep across her swollen clit. Up and down, down and up, my tongue and fingers trace back and forth from her tight bundle of nerves to her drenched slit. Purring and moaning, she squirms sensuously, causing my throbbing dick to strain against my trunks.
“Inside,” she breathes, her fingers grabbing at hair I don’t have, “I need you inside me.”
Hurriedly, I remove my shorts, retrieving a condom from the side pocket in the process. Thank god for waterproof pockets. My hands trembling with anticipation, I open it and roll it on, then resume my place on my knees between her legs. Bristol lifts her head slightly off the pillow, peering down her body at me, her eyes glazed over with pure, brazen desire.
“You sure about this?” I ask, hoping and praying she says yes.
“Never been more sure about anything.” She reaches down and wraps her petite fingers around my dick, pulling gently to line me up with her slick opening. “Need this . . . need you.”
Completely lost in her, I gradually ease in, soaking up each sweet inch of her tight core until I’m completely buried. Lowering my chest, careful not to crush her, my face hovers directly over hers as I begin to thrust in and out of her, slow and deliberate. Our eyes are locked in on each other—something I never do—and my lips seek out hers, needing to taste her once again.
“Need you too,” I mumble against her mouth as my tempo begins to steadily increase.
In and out, out and in, my strokes become frantic as I can’t get enough and I’m getting too much all at once. Her nimble body writhes underneath me, nails digging into my back, ankles hooking around me as we both grow closer and closer to our release.
“Fuck, Davis,” she gasps for air, “I’m gonna—”
She throws her head back and screams out as her inner walls clamp down on my shaft and she unravels into euphoric bliss underneath me. Drowning in her orgasm, she pulls me right along with her, causing me to plunge into her one last time, falling over the edge.
Everything around me gets hazy . . . everything except the sight of Bristol’s face below me, the sated expression in her heavy eyes, and the lazy smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. The just fucked look suits my little troublemaker way too well; I may want her to look like this the rest of the trip.
“I’ll be right back; let me grab a washrag,” I whisper as I lean down and tenderly kiss her swollen lips before rolling off of her.
I hurry to the bathroom, throw the condom in the trash, and wet a rag for her, but by the time I return to the bed—in what has to be less than two minutes—she’s passed out in the same position I left her in. Laughing softly, I delicately clean her up and cover her with the blanket, careful not to wake her, and then debate if I should go back to my place or sleep here.
As inviting as the bed looks with her curled up in it, I know I need to leave. Sex is one thing; sleeping together is another. Neither of us needs to get any false hopes about the future. In eleven days, she returns to her life and I go back to my own miserable reality.
With a hopeless sigh, I step into my cold, damp board shorts and quietly let myself out, walking the few feet over to my place, where I lie awake all night long.
THE FIRST NIGHT I WAS either too tired, too drunk, or maybe a combination of both, to notice it. Yesterday, the fascination of so many ‘firsts’ and spending time with Davis fully captivated my attention. And after its brief appearance at dinner last night, I was too spellbound in the moment of selfish, unadulterated physical pleasure to care about anything else. But this morning, when I awoke, there it was, suffocating me with its presence, reminding me who I am.
Guilt.
A sentence of the spirit I can’t escape no matter what I do.
The enemy I sleep with every night and wake up to every morning.
I lie in bed staring at the white gauzy canopy above me, hoping I don’t have to get up quite yet. Maybe if I sleep a couple more hours, it will go away. Glancing to the side, the clock reads a little after eight and I curse under my breath. I can’t miss breakfast for the second day in a row.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I cringe at the soreness between them as my feet hit the floor. Flashbacks from the night flood my memory and the shame overwhelms me. I shuffle my naked self across the floor, through the bathroom, to the outside shower, turning the cold water on full-blast.
The icy spray pounding down on my head does little to penetrate the stifling remorse I’m suffocating in. Resting my forehead against the rock wall, I give in and allow the tears to flow freely until I’m choking on my sobs—the way I start most of my days.
My guilt doesn’t lie in the fact I had sex with Davis last night, or that he didn’t spend the night with me. Despite the fact we only met a couple of days ago, I actually know more about him and his past than I do most guys I’ve slept with. No, I enjoyed what happened very much, and will most likely do it again . . . many times if the opportunity arises. And it’s probably best if he doesn’t see me in the mornings, at least not until post-sunrise breakdown. After that, I can pretend to the point I actually start believing I’m normal . . . just for a little while.
The fact I’m alive to experience such things as taking trips, having summer flings, going to college, eating delicious food, making new friends, even to fucking breathe is what smothers me to the point I question my own will to live. These are things my parents and the other fifty-seven people in my neighborhood will never again get to experience, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I’m allowed to. Logistically, scientifically, plausibly . . . none of it makes sense. Bottom line is I shouldn’t have lived through that tornado, but somehow I did, and now I get to carry that burden around with me for the rest of my life.
Once I’m out of the shower, I pull a new bikini out of my suitcase, seeing that the one from last night is still wet and wadded up on my floor. I put it on underneath a cute, bright yellow cover-up, then brush my teeth and braid my wet hair into two pigtails. Since I’ll be headed to the beach right after breakfast and morning session, I don’t bother with any makeup; it’ll only sweat off or wash away in the
water anyway.
Looking over the schedule of sessions before leaving, I see that my morning will be spent with Alex, and my afternoon with Kayden and Peyton. Oh, joy! I scan the rest of the schedule to see when Davis and I will be paired up, and am happy to find we have a one-on-one the morning of Day 5, and afternoon group on Day 11. I have a good idea of how I’d like to spend that morning with him . . .
I grab my beach bag, still packed from the day before, and make my way down to the main house for breakfast. There’s no sign of Davis around his cottage, and I’m afraid it’ll be a little overbearing if I stop in to see if he wants to walk with me. I don’t want him to think I’m going to be attached to his hip just because we had sex. I can do casual with the best of them.
The tables are almost all full by the time I walk into the dining room, having stopped off quickly to email Granny and Alyvia to let them know all is going well, and still not saying anything to Lyv about Davis. Ashleigh and Charlotte are sitting together, but there’s not a free chair since they’re with Lynnette and another lady I haven’t met yet. As I stand there perusing the other options in the room, an arm circles around my waist from behind, pulling me into an embrace.
“Good morning, baby girl,” Kayden exclaims cheerfully, pulling on one of my braids.
I turn around in his arm and hug his neck, then take a step back away from him. “Morning, old man. How are you feeling today?” I reply with a smile.
“I’m feeling great, the best I have in years.” He winks. “Are you just getting here, or have you finished eating?”