The Escape

by Alice Ward

  We made it over the bridge and entered a small, quaint little town called Rock Hall. He navigated through the busy streets filled with shops and cottages, and then took a sandy, winding drive between hills of dunes. We drove on for at least five minutes, with nothing to see but dune grass around us and a blue line of the sea up front. Finally, he pulled into a parking space in front of a small, beachfront cottage. Removing his sunglasses, he looked up at the house, and then at me. “Home sweet home.”

  I looked up at the cottage. A dozen or so stairs of peeling white paint led straight up to a slat-windowed, enclosed porch, and beyond that, a shaker shingle-sided home rather precariously balanced on stilts. From the outside, it was nothing special. Rickety, even. Nothing like the massively pretentious and majestic home he kept in Delancey Place. “This is yours?”

  He nodded. “I know it’s not much, but it’s private and has a great view. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

  He really seemed eager to know my opinion, as if I did matter. As if all of this mattered.

  I reached for the door to the Mustang and pushed it open, climbing out of the car and removing my sunglasses so I could get a better look. Mr. Fluffers bounded out behind me, tickling my calves with his wild, abundant fur as he raced around me. By now it was about dinnertime, and the sun was still strong, but behind the house. “It’s perfect,” I breathed.

  He came around the car to me and took my hand. “Come on.”

  The stairs creaked as we climbed them. He picked through a ring of keys, found the right one, and pushed open the door. I thought that it would be the same as at the club. I thought that with how much he’d said he wanted me, he’d be on me the second we had the opportunity. But he led me through a small, bright mudroom and into the open area.

  The house smelled like fresh air. The walls and floors were cheery and whitewashed. The furniture was pillowy and comfortable. The kitchen, with its farmhouse cupboards, was a gourmet cook’s dream, with gleaming copper pots hanging from a rack above a large center island. The walls were decorated with a nautical flair and old country signs pointing the way to the beach. I walked down a long hallway and peeked into a small bathroom, complete with a huge clawfoot tub. I admired the quaint décor with him following close behind, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. I looked into the guestroom, and when I reached the master bedroom, I turned around. He was looking at me expectantly as if he couldn’t continue without my seal of approval. “It’s lovely.”

  “But that isn’t the best part,” he said, leading me to a set of French doors.

  He opened them, and led me out onto an enormous balcony overlooking the glassy blue sea. I gasped at the beauty and absolute serenity of it all. A long, narrow pier stretched out into the water, and a sole red rowboat bobbed at the end, tied to a piling. The sun was sinking in the sky, and I knew the sunset would be stunning. I could almost imagine how gorgeous it would be.

  Then I turned and saw a little table in the alcove, with place settings for two, champagne flutes, and salads. “How did you…?”

  He checked his watch. “I thought you would be hungry when we got here, so I had them set out some food for us when they finished getting everything ready.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Them? You mean, the help?”

  He nodded like it was an everyday thing, to have help. This place may have been unpretentious and totally not Brice-style, but he was an Ivy League, Upper Crust snob through and through. But he’d done it for us. For me. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he went through such trouble for people like Bernadette, or if I was special. “Do you come here a lot?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “No. In fact, you’re the only person who knows about it.”

  I looked at him, surprised. Was that true? What about his parents? Bernadette? I couldn’t imagine that he would keep this a secret from them. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Some things are better kept secret.”

  “Oh.” I assumed I was one of those things.

  He led me back inside. “I’ll get our things. Did you want to eat first, or…?”

  “I think I’ll just…” I pointed to the bathroom.

  Inside, I washed up, checking my reflection to see that I’d gotten a little sunburn on my nose and cheeks. I looked pretty, happy. Excited.

  Mostly excited. Now that I’d cast worries about completing the assignment away, I was free to enjoy myself. To enjoy Cameron, without the guilt of knowing I’d soon destroy him.

  Outside, I heard Cameron’s faraway voice, uttering commands, and realized he must have been talking to the dog. When I came out, my bag was set in the bedroom. I turned around as Cameron walked in, hands still in the back pockets of his jeans, looking oddly sheepish.

  “Okay, so. Change in plans,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Mr. Fluffers ate our first course. He can be a bit of an asshole.”

  I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “It’s okay.”

  “I still have the lobster though. Are you hungry?”

  Lobster. I blanched. I’d never eaten that before. Didn’t it have a hard shell that you had to crack in strategic locations to extract the meat? I’d likely make a total fool of myself. Though my stomach was rumbling with hunger since I’d only had a bagel for breakfast, I shook my head. I looked at him coyly, which gave him the permission to take a step forward, and another, until he reached for my hand and we stood, close together, just bathing in each other’s presence. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear.

  Then he lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me with a soft, tender passion that took my breath away.

  I peeled off his clothing layer by layer, taking my time with every movement, trying to savor it all. I lifted the hem of his sweater and when he pulled it over his head, pressed my hand against his chest, trying to commit it all to memory. I examined the way the dark hair swirled over his strong pectorals, the strength in his collarbone, the rise of his abdomen into a not-quite six-pack. He was perfect, really, just breathtaking. I almost felt it was a sin to look away.

  He plucked each of the straps of my sundress from my shoulders, covering the skin underneath with kisses before he lifted it and let it fall to the floor. Then he stared at my breasts with such reverent awe before touching them and sucking each nipple in turn into his mouth. I moaned in a combination of agony and ecstasy, wanting to speed things up, wanting this to last forever.

  He eased me onto the bed with such care that I felt like I’d fallen on a bed of clouds. When he draped his body over me, and his warmth seeped into me better than any blanket could, I gasped, feeling his every pore alive atop mine. He kissed me so thoroughly, not leaving a place unexplored. His hands worked my body as if he were a sculptor, and it was better than any massage I could have received.

  He parted my legs, nibbling down my hipbone, and by the time his tongue touched my core, I was already in the throes of abandon. He slowly sucked, tasted, and licked me, pressing his hands to my thighs to open them, and when I came, he kept his mouth there, absorbing every last tremor that rippled through me, as if it was his own.

  I felt like I was a part of him, like we were one. How could this not matter?

  “Cameron,” I cried desperately as he climbed up my body, his mouth wet with my juices. I tangled my hands in his hair and kissed him with a desperation that frightened me a little, tasting myself on his warm tongue as he slowly, inch by inch, entered me. “Don’t let this end.”

  He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his answer in his every move. This wasn’t fucking. He moved slowly, rocking into me with deliberate motion, as if each thrust mattered more than the last. I was no longer aware of our individual body parts. Now, we were one being, working in perfect harmony. I’d never felt such completion in my life. When I felt myself rising to a second climax, as I cried out, tears squeezed from my eyes.

  As much as I loved the tenderness of it, there was a sadness about it too. I got the feeling he knew this would be the end,
that this couldn’t continue. I’d never really made love before, since all of my other lovers had involved a lot of fumbling, a lot of unsureness, both physical and emotional. But whatever the previous times had been, there was no doubt in my mind that this was making love.

  He growled my name, the name he knew as he came, letting out a soft breath of tortured release. I held him to me, so tightly I hoped we’d fuse together. We stayed like that for a million breaths, just holding each other, until one thought settled in my head, turning my insides to cement…

  It has to end.

  He peeled off me, his hands on either side of my head as he kissed each temple, my forehead, and finally my nose. “Dinner?”

  I nodded, thinking, New experiences. He’d made me stronger, and now, I was ready for them. For anything.

  “Though I… I’ve never had lobster,” I whispered, finally feeling safe enough to admit it.

  He pulled me up, and when I reached for my sundress, he kicked it away.

  “Trust me. Lobster is better eaten au natural.”

  He led me outside to the table. Mr. Fluffers perked his ears up and wagged his tail, so I leaned over and petted him as Cameron lit the candles there. He poured a tall glass of champagne and handed me the flute.

  Despite the unseasonably hot and sticky weather, made bearable by a thin breeze coming off the bay, I shivered and crossed my arms over my nakedness.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  I shook my head, looking around. “Do you have neighbors?”

  “Nope. Not anywhere nearby.”

  Relaxing, I took a sip of the champagne. “Never had this, either.”

  He poured himself a glass. “Never had this vintage?”

  I stared at him. “No. Um. Actually, never had champagne.”

  I thought he’d laugh at me, but he just smiled and clinked my glass with his. “Well, I’d say Moët et Chandon is a hell of a way to start.”

  I squinted to look at the green bottle. “Expensive?”

  He gave me a look that said obviously. I grinned at him. “Snob.”

  “Who are you calling a snob?”

  I pointed at him. “I had a little bet going with myself that you slept in cashmere monogrammed pajamas.”

  He frowned at me. “You wound me.”

  “So you don’t own cashmere monogrammed pajamas?”

  He set the champagne bottle down and took a sip of his champagne, then stared out toward the bay. Were his cheeks turning pink? “Well, I do.”

  I laughed.

  “But,” he said, holding up a finger. “They’re still in the packaging. They were a gift from my mother. I sleep in my boxer briefs, usually. And I’m very down-to-earth. I don’t like everything expensive.”

  “Okay. What do you like that the common man likes as well?” I challenged.

  He scratched his stubble-crusted jaw, pretending to think. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  “I won’t hold my breath,” I called after him, perching on an Adirondack chair and admiring the tableau in front of me. The sun had already set and gray clouds were dotting the horizon, but beyond that, the sky peeked out with wisps of seashell pink mixed with Creamsicle orange. The colors glittered on the calm bay, more beautiful than any painter’s palette. “Have you ever painted this?” I wondered aloud.

  He’d brought out a tray of bright red lobsters, which he set on the table. He raised his eyebrow. “No, actually. You know I paint?”

  Shit.

  SHIT.

  “Actually, no, I didn’t. I just feel like this scene needs to be painted,” I recovered, offering a bright smile. “It’s gorgeous. I mean, it would make even a non-artistic person like myself feel like painting.”

  Okay, now I was just babbling. But he bought my lame recovery. He nodded.

  “I’ve thought about it,” he said, pouring us each another glass. “I mostly paint people. If they inspire me.”

  “Oh?” I asked, trying to hide the goose bumps that had appeared everywhere on my body.

  He brought the champagne to his mouth, took a sip, and looked directly into my eyes. “You. I’ve painted you a dozen times, Cassandra.”

  Forget stopping the goose bumps. Now there were mountains on my skin. “You have?”

  He nodded, his eyes raking over my naked body. “You’re my muse. You have a gorgeous body, Cassandra. I love to paint it, but I’m afraid I don’t do it justice. Any sunset pales in comparison.”

  I flushed immediately, and all the colors of the sunset were evident right on my face, my chest, and every naked part of me.

  Then he took a lobster and set it on my plate. I scooted out of the Adirondack chair and moved to the small cushioned chair at the table, watching him as he picked his up.

  “Now. The trick to opening one of these suckers is…” He twisted off each of the claws and used a small fork to dig out the meat. I watched intently, then looked down at my poor victim.

  When he saw my expression, he laughed.

  “Ah, fuck it.” He dipped the white, shredded meat into a tiny vat of melted butter and held it out to me. I leaned forward, opened my mouth, and he deposited it between my waiting lips.

  Never had I tasted anything so sublime. The butter, with the soft white meat, made my tongue positively beg for more. Where had this been all my life?

  “Good?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No. Amazing,” I gushed. “More?”

  He motioned me over to him. I stood up, slid around the small table, and he sat me down in his lap. He took a lobster cracker in his hands and cracked it expertly, like he’d been doing this all his life, and likely, he had been. Even with me in his arms, he pulled out the meat without any fumbling, expertly, the way he did everything. The more I watched his hands working, the more I wanted them on me.

  And it was clear from the way his cock had started to harden again, that he wanted that too.

  Still, he gave me step by step instructions on how to eat a lobster, feeding me bits of it drenched in butter from the fork, sometimes taking bites directly from the shell, letting me try too. All the while, he kept his arms around me. Maybe it was the champagne, but as we toasted each other again and again, I lost all sense of self-consciousness. Night descended, and the candlelight waned. We let the shells fall on the ground, and the warm butter dripped all over our bodies. By the time we were done, our skin was glistening with butter and bits of lobster, and I was more than a little tipsy.

  Taking the flute, I whirled around on him, straddling his lap. His cock was now rock-hard between us, and I wriggled my bottom against his warm thighs, feeling more and more aroused. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a better meal,” I told him as I took another sip.

  “I have,” he said, kissing me, drawing my lower lip lazily into his mouth as he wrapped his strong arms around my body. “In fact, you look good enough to eat right now. Nice and buttery.”

  I rocked back and forth on his lap, feeling his hard cock grazing my center. My insides throbbed for him, and I was so wet again. I felt brazen. “So, you seemed like an expert. How many times have you eaten lobster like this?”

  I didn’t want to know the answer, really. I could just imagine he and Bernadette sitting in this very position, naked, feeding each other chunks of lobster meat. Plus, he was a Brice, and they’d never lacked for women. Bernadette was probably the second to last of many women he’d fed lobster to.

  “Truthfully?” he asked, his hands tightening at the small of my back as he beheld my naked breasts. I was sure they provided great interest, oiled down like they were, nipples glistening in the candle’s dancing flames. “Never. I usually wear a bib.”

  I had to laugh, but he didn’t even smile.

  “For the record, this is my new favorite way of doing it,” he said, flicking a piece of shell off my shoulder, then kissing it tenderly. “I don’t think I will ever do it another way.”

  But not with me, I thought, sadness threate
ning to overtake me.

  This is a night for new experiences, a voice inside urged me. Make the most of it.

  “Swim with me?” I said to him suddenly, to stop the emotions from taking hold. I grabbed his hand and yanked him down the sandy beach, toward the pier. I stopped at the very end of the pier and bit on my lip, the champagne not enough to quell my nerves. “You think there are fish in there?”

  He looked at me, a quizzical expression on his face. “It’s the bay.”

  I took that as a yes. “I’ve never… actually swam in anything other than a pool.”

  “You’re serious?” he asked, searching me out in the moonlight.

  I nodded.

  “No problem.”

  Oh, god, I thought as he walked to the edge of the pier with me at his heels. Now he must really think I am a total country bumpkin who grew up in a cardboard box. Despite my embarrassment, I couldn’t stop sneaking looks at the way the full moon adored his naked body. He had the most perfect ass, the broadest, most drool-worthy shoulders, a square back that tapered in a V to his athletically sculpted waist. I’d seen all this before, but at this angle, I couldn’t help but feel a flash of pride. He’s mine.

  Stop it. He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours.

  I swallowed as he studied the dark waves lapping at the pier, nodding decisively. “It’s okay. I’ll protect you.”

  Then he did a perfect swan dive into the glassy surface of the bay, disappearing completely. When he surfaced, he flipped his hair back, throwing a ribbon of water into the air. “Your turn.”

  Had this really been my idea? I’d had five years of swim lessons at the Y, so I was competent. But I couldn’t do that Olympic dive thing if my life depended on it. I gingerly sat down on the edge of the pier and let my feet dangle over. Holy shit. How had he not reacted with a scream of utter agony? The water was ice.

  “Fuck this,” I said, lifting my feet from its peril. I started to scramble away. “I’m going inside and burrowing under some blankets, in front of a fireplace, preferably.”