Let It Go

by James, Brooklyn

  “Right as rain,” Brody identifies, his deep syrupy voice drowning her fears.

  “Yeah,” she emits a pleasurable whisper, her eyes finally meeting his.

  Brody pulls her to him, his forehead resting on hers. His hands take turns stroking her hair and the sides of her face. “I’ve heard people talk about it. This feeling.” He kisses her forehead. “I asked my mama, after my divorce, ‘How will I know when I’m ready again? When the right one comes along?’” He kisses her left cheek. “Asked my daddy the same question. Probably the only time they ever agreed.” Brody chuckles, kissing her right cheek, his fingers provocatively trailing over her skin. “‘You’ll just know, Son. It’ll be effortless. Just feels right,’ they said.” He kisses her chin, milling his way to her lips, hovering there. “It’s never felt so right.”

  “Uh-huh,” she whispers, her bottom lip growing wet with moisture at the anticipation of its contact with his.

  “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for, Sweet Savannah,” his low, libidinous tone is followed up with a soft, lingering kiss. Indulging in the fullness of her lips, the tip of his tongue is playful in its exploration of her mouth, teasing and building with mounting pressure. The exchange of wet and warmth where they touch at odds with the chill and emptiness of the air between, together they work to fully seal the union, saturating each other with their whiskey-tinged taste.

  Coming up for air, Savannah releases him of his t-shirt in search of a repeat from their prior football follies. Her eyes roam his chiseled torso much the same as they did when he solidified himself as a member of the skins. Her hands splay across his chest, her thumbs coming together and sinking into the deep defining cleft that separates his pectorals. As her fingers continue to roam south, her thumbs centered and exploring the happy trail of taut flesh leading to his navel, her green eyes glance up, the image of his rugged personable face as satisfying at what lies beneath her touch. “You’re simply the most beautiful thing,” she says.

  Brody looks at her slightly taken aback, having been referred to by a lot of complimentary adjectives, beautiful never the operative masculine word. Considering the endearing and salacious way in which she looks at him, he is ultimately satisfied with the expression. “Lift your arms,” he purrs.

  His hands firmly grazing her skin at every contact as he pulls her t-shirt from her body, taking note of the softness of her skin juxtaposed to the tone beneath. Releasing her bra from her back with one skillful flex of his fingers, the straps fall from her arms. The cool air in the room coupled with the presence of Brody’s gandering steel blues deftly brings her flesh to a point at the center of her full breasts. Unable to resist feeling her skin to skin, Brody hugs her chest and stomach tightly to his, reveling in the peaks and valleys of her form.

  The stickiness of their sun-kissed, football-playing hide ever-present adheres them. “Think I have time for a quick shower?” Savannah purrs, her lips thick with the taste of his salty skin.

  “Let’s do,” he says. Standing with her fixed around his waist, he maneuvers to the bathroom, fastidiously relieving her and himself of any remaining clothes. The ceiling lights dim, he starts a warm, steady stream from the overhead rainfall shower spout.

  “Nice view,” Savannah giggles, stepping into the mirror-lined roomy shower.

  “‘The better to see you with, my dear,’” Brody playfully rips off The Big Bad Wolf, pulling Savannah under the falling water as it cascades over their entangled bodies. Her kiss, the wettest he has tasted, gentle water adding a completely new dimension to the meeting of their mouths. “Did you have fun this afternoon?” Brody makes conversation as his hands lather shampoo through her dirty blonde mane.

  “Loved every minute of it.” She smiles, taking his lead, her hands massaging the bubbly agent through his thick, dark hair.

  “Ah, that feels good.” He groans at her fingertips, kneading tiny circles against his scalp. “Think you could get used to that? Spending time with me and my family?” He carefully tips her head back allowing the water to rinse the lather from her long locks, the weight momentarily pulling the curls straight.

  “Without a doubt. Think I could get used to this, too.” She sighs, charmed at being bathed.

  “You could pack up your house. Move on in. Make this a nightly ritual,” he entices with a handsome grin. “Stay forever.” His smile disappears, replaced with sincere ambition.

  “Now, don’t go letting the moment lead your mouth to writing checks your fine ass can’t cash.” Savannah plays off his sentiment, her hands, timely in their fondling execution, roam ever so slowly over the muscled dimples of his lower back, settling on his firm, round attribute.

  “You think I’m bluffing,” Brody challenges. Grabbing up a bottle of body wash, he drizzles it from her neck to her navel, lathering it over her body with his hands, taking great care with the luscious bounty sitting atop her ribcage. Savannah gives into a gratified moan, escalating to an aroused, kittenish purr as he plucks her nipples to a stiff point. Settling on his knees, his hands work circles around her taut abdomen. “I can’t wait to get you pregnant,” he continues with his talk of a future.

  The comment slightly intimidating but mostly intriguing, Savannah retreats to whimsical fare, “We sure do get enough practice.” She returns his attention, her hands roaming in their sudsy cleansing of his back.

  “How many kids do you want?” Brody looks up at her, the ends of his eyelashes accentuated by drops of water.

  “Two is a manageable number,” she says softly, stroking his incomparably bewitching face. “So long as they get your lashes.”

  “And your lips,” he says, rising to meet them. “So you’ve been thinking about it? You, me, kids?” he inquires between water-drenched kisses.

  “More than thinking,” she lets out between breaths. “I made a checklist.” She giggles, poking fun at his pastime, however fully serious in her intent.

  “How am I measuring up?” He stands much like a superhero, puffing out his chest, the playful action flexing his overpowering frame.

  “I’d say things are shaping up just fine,” she spars back, her hand trailing down to his thighs, gently giving a soapy shine to an overly attentive Thor.

  Taking his cue, Brody pulls them under the water, efficiently rinsing their simmering frames. Draping Savannah’s arms about his shoulders, he supports her weight, Thor diligent in his pursuit of his most prized dwelling. “Ah,” Brody groans with the entry. Even though the water washing over his back is warm and refreshing, it fails in its heat and spine-tingling exhilaration when compared to her innermost kingdom.

  Savannah fights for air taking him in, finally exhaling once he is fully immersed. “Ah Gawd,” she whispers, her teeth biting down on his shoulder. Catching their entwined image in the mirror behind her, she discovers a new turn-on. The balmy vision something out of a movie as the muscles in his back and legs support her weight, propelling the gentle pumping action of his hips.

  Pressing her back against the reflective shower wall, Brody maintains his smooth, velvety cadence. Both of them watch the union of their forms in the steamy illustrative surface, further driving their desire. “I could never get tired of this. You. Seeing you like this,” he talks, watching her in the mirror, her drenched body moving measure for measure with his. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, his tone somewhere between hurt and hunger. “It feels so fucking right,” again, he muffles the adjective, unable to censure it completely.

  Finally looking away from the mirror, his face hovers about hers, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, chin to chin, their mouths wet and wanting, the distance between painful. “I’m sorry I can’t find a more appropriate way to say it. What you do to me,” he laments, his steel blues pleading with her dark greens for understanding and mutuality.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Savannah whispers through an escaping moan, his rhythm growing heady. “I can feel it,” she speaks of the passion with which he makes love to her, kn
owing his actions speak more than any words ever could. Her hands and her body clench even firmer around him at every juncture, symbolism that she, too, could never get close enough to him.

  Their chests clash, rising and falling laboriously, the water baptizing their exterior as they tend to the interior. “I just want to stay inside you forever, Sweet Savannah.”

  With each powerful lingering stroke, Brody maintains his mouth directly over hers, no kisses exchanged, simply there and present adding to the tension, exchanging in guttural moans and sighs. His eyes keep hers prisoner, reading each layer of emotion, pleasure, allegiance and desperate need.

  “Brody,” she whispers. Nearing her release, her eyelashes meet together.

  His hand at the side of her face and wound in her hair grows firm until he peers into the irises of her dark greens once again. “Don’t shut me out. Keep ’em open, baby,” he coaxes, knowing fully well they’re about to have a breakthrough.

  Savannah relinquishes the power of her uncomfortable truth locking her gaze with his, now not only seduced by his body but the warm and inviting windows to his soul. “I…” Savannah whispers through a moan, her body growing tense steals her words from her.

  “You what?” he prods, bearing down on her, his steel blues pressed and pleading.

  “Brody,” she battles the tender emotion, the words bubbling to the surface. Digging her nails into his back, her core contracts and releases around him, effectively milking his seed from his body.

  “Aw God,” Brody groans, the precursor to his signature carnal growl. His legs growing shaky with the release, he leans tighter against her to the mirror. Her body fully relaxing and molding to his, both of them spent, the once titillating shower now completely serene. Brody traces her parted lips with the tip of his thumb, his fingers massaging the flesh at her jawline and neck. “I need to hear you say it,” his deep throaty whisper emerges.

  Savannah’s eyes soften, perfectly glazed over. “I fucking love you,” she purrs, paying homage to his choice adjective, indicative of the profound sensation. The three little words simply not enough, require a certain magnitude.

  “Ah,” a long drawn out sigh escapes him. “There it is.” His forehead rests gently against hers, his head shaking slightly, that handsome grin appearing.

  Savannah puts her hand over his opening mouth. “Don’t say it, just because I did,” she lets him off the hook. “Maybe it was the heat of the moment. I lust you. I love you.” She shrugs her shoulders with a giggle comparing the two oft-confused variables. “I just felt like saying it, so I did. Wait until next time, you feel like saying it,” she backpedals.

  Understanding her apprehension, a despondent Brody swallows his reciprocal sentiment. Turning off the waterfall above, he steps out of the shower, setting Savannah on the bathroom counter and covering her tranquil frame with an oversized cozy towel. Wrapping one around his waist, his strong arms firmly planted on each side of her hips, he can’t let it go. “You know this goes a lot deeper than lust…sex, right?”

  “I know.” She strokes her hand along his ruggedly squared jaw. “I’m just trying to get a handle on everything. Make sure the feelings are real. Day by day.” She yawns, the anesthetic effect of a perfectly blissful orgasm setting in.

  “Let’s get you to bed.” Brody says.

  “You’re such a good man,” Savannah reflects on his attentiveness, suddenly feeling a bit unworthy.

  “You’re a good woman,” Brody returns, his genuine eyes never faltering from hers with his delivery. “And you’re right. It would do us both good to be patient with this. Take it as it comes.” He shrugs, considering the failings of their past relationships.

  “I don’t want you to feel like I’m not in it, because I am,” Savannah affirms. “I feel like I know who you are.” She touches her hand over his heart. “I like you, a lot, Brody McAlister.” Her smiling eyes match the appealing grin on her lips. “I just feel like we have more to go through and explore. See if we can pull it off, together.”

  “Very true,” he agrees. “But it is nice to get caught up in the feeling, right? Actually let it affect you.” He runs his arms along the length of hers as her body shivers, the steam from the shower no longer warming the room. “It’s been a long time for me…feeling like this. Hell, I don’t know that I ever felt quite like this.” He grins at her sincerely, slightly bashful with the admission. “I like the way I feel when I’m with you, Savannah. And I don’t want you to take it away just because you think it’s too fast.”

  She can’t help but ponder the difference between Jack and Brody, how they cope and communicate. There are no pointing fingers, pity-parties and elaborate arguing, followed up with dramatic apologies and frenetic affection. All destructive and ineffective measures, often misconstrued as passion, she had grown accustomed to in unhealthly relationship conversation and theatrical makeups with Jack.

  Savannah swallows hard, moisture beginning to cloud her vision at the handsomely sweet man standing before her indulging in a healthy and respectable discourse about the trajectory of their future, not only considering his feelings but hers, equally. “That’s just it,” she chokes out, “I don’t think I could stop…take it away…even if I thought I should.” She looks at Brody, completely helpless in his attractive, companionable presence.

  “Baby, don’t cry,” he soothes at a low whisper, his lips gently kissing away one solitary tear on the apple of her cheek. “This is a good thing.” He forces a smile, an attempt to camouflage his troubled eyes. “You don’t want to be without me. I sure as hell don’t want to be without you. So let’s just be, Savannah.”

  “I know.” She smiles back at him, water continuing to well in her dark greens. “It just hurts a little, that’s all,” she says, referring to the agonizing sensation of losing control of her heart.

  “It only hurts until you give in to it,” Brody encourages knowingly. Leveling his eyes with hers intently, he continues, “The safest place you’ll ever be is with me, Savannah. That’s my job as a man,” he grins, knowing how his man talk incites her, “to safeguard your heart. To do everything I can to see that you have everything you need. To fulfill you. Protect the ones I love.” Savannah’s eyebrow involuntarily perks at the mention of the devotion. “Yes,” Brody answers her coy inquisition, “I love you, Savannah Bondurant.” His lips meet hers, now cool and tingly.

  “Mmh. You give such good shelter,” Savannah purrs, his warm grasp pulling her body snugly against his frame, calming her sporadic shiver.

  “Let me hold you through the storm,” he speaks figuratively of her ensuing emotions. Brody walks her to his room, stripping the towel from her frame. Quickly replacing it with his toasty skin, he cocoons around her bestowing of his valorous protection.

  Chapter Twenty

  Midweek, the week before Thanksgiving, presents a clement Savannah, Georgia, morning, the Southern metropolis knows nothing of a brutal winter. Adorned in active attire, Savannah revels in her morning run downtown. A true joy, as the sleepy city awakens, the streets belong to her and a few early risers. Purposely devoid of her MP3 player, she jogs with intent, mulling over the snowballing changes in her life and her family’s.

  The usual smooth-sailing and drama-free Vangie experiencing her first tumultuous challenge in her fifteen-year relationship with Payton. Her mama, Buffy, seemingly just now discovering herself in her mid-fifties. The staunchly anti-relationship and happy player of the field Jac, becoming more and more exclusive with Gavin. The shocking yet pleasant addition of Noah in their lives.

  Brody and her tentative future take up the majority of her mind’s eye. Even though she and Jack had been separated, living in two different households for a year and a half prior to her divorce just three months ago, Savannah cannot help but examine her newfound affection for the fabulous gym boy. Unconvinced that she has taken the appropriate amount of time in finding a new love, she replays the high points of their expeditious union, wishing there was a handbook or a definitiv
e marker of some sort rather than simply having to rely on her own fallible instincts.

  She treks up a street lined with affluent local businesses harboring upstairs apartments that most would consider dream homes with their sprawling square-footage and every amenity known to man. Not to mention the convenience of their location, literally within walking distance to a plethora of food and entertainment venues. Savannah fills her lungs with the rare unpolluted air, the skyline graced with a vibrant orange glow as the sun begins to rise, overpowering the dark.

  Her attention is pulled to the sound of footsteps coming from an overhead apartment. Emerging from the veranda is a familiar form, a shirtless jeans-wearing Brody McAlister, his thick, dark hair in a sexy mess. From her vantage point, she quickly assesses the business below, Wooten Real Estate and Business Law. Her pace slows as the significance sets in.

  Walking to the outer ledge of the veranda, Brody spots Savannah on the street, the look on her face and his whereabouts dually alarming.

  “Brody,” a high-pitched female voice beckons. Stepping out onto the veranda behind him, there she is with her bed-head tousled ultra-bleached blonde locks, a silky housecoat-laden Candida Wooten proffers him a cup of Morning Joe.

  “Uh,” Savannah expels as if she has been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat. Her curious expression turns to distress as she backs away from the establishment, her feet not yet capable of catching up to her mind, screaming at her to run.

  “Savannah!” Brody calls from above. Leaping off the side of the veranda, he scales the fire escape.

  Savannah’s feet finally catching up with her thoughts, she bolts in the opposite direction in a full-on sprint. Her lungs fight for air, confused as to what they are supplying, the will to run or cry.

  Honk! Honk! Honk! A car sounds at the hands of its angered and scared driver as Savannah dodges out in front of it at a cross-street.

  “Savannah!” Brody yells, his feet dismounting from the fire escape, nimbly hit the concrete. “Wait!” He takes off after her, his heavy work boots counter-intuitive to his pursuit.