Wesley

by Leanne Davis

  He gets all fidgety. Good Lord, does he expect me to leave? Does he need more privacy? I take my stuff and go out of the tent and around the back, where the beach has no view of me. There’s nothing but a short amount of grass and a hill behind me that would block anyone from the mainland. We’re too far from everything and everyone anyway. I change quickly, shaking my head in puzzlement. This is really odd.

  I come around the tent and discover he set up my stove and table. I comb my hair out, and he emerges from the tent wearing Wyatt’s shorts. My prickly annoyance dies instantly when I’m faced once more with the skin on his back. His scarred back. From early childhood. Yeah. Who am I to judge? Getting annoyed? So Wesley is a little shy? A lot shy, actually. He is hesitant, wary, and apparently uninterested in sex, for all I know. He just makes me feel hurt and confused and so much love for him is building up inside me.

  He takes my hand, and we spend the rest of the day frolicking in the water. It’s warm and clear and lovely. The air. The water. The sand. The wind comes up in the afternoon, creating white foamy caps on the waves and turning the water a dark navy blue color. We float and dive and swim through the waves, splashing each other. He has all the advantages, of course, in height and muscles, but I’m a fast, furious swimmer, and I can hold my breath forever. So, I have a slight edge. We have so much fun. Serious, crack-me-up kind of fun, just joking and horsing around.

  He lifts me up and starts to throw me out again after I tug his swim trunks halfway down. I was eager to see those delicious, rounded, smooth, oh-so-toned butt cheeks when I look up and swat his chest. “Hungry. I’m so hungry I’m going to die if you don’t feed me soon.”

  He drops my feet down. “Wimp. Liar. But fine. Let’s go eat something.”

  I let him drag me by my hand up the dry beach. The fine white sand spans a good twenty feet from the edge of the grass and the small slender trail to our campsite. The tide is out again so the Columbia passes our private spot further down, exposing the smooth, clear beach. The sky has turned a deep orange and pink as the hills across the river, which are lower and smoother than up by Silver Springs, and still tree-covered but empty of civilization. The hills darken to black lines and the sun barely catches the edges of them.

  We rub each other with our towels and head up towards the camp stove. Still dripping, especially my waterlogged mass of hair, I say, “You’ll be glad now that I brought us actual food.” I smile as I light the stove to boil up some hot dogs. It’s what we eat for several nights. But, heck, it’s better than a bag of rice. He uses his mess kit. I use paper plates and the plastic utensils I brought. He frowns at me, disliking the waste. I frown at him, disliking his washing skills, or lack of them.

  We sit at the beach on huge, old logs that washed up long ago. They are still wet and warm. It’s heavenly fun, and we swim after we eat until I grow cold. I run up to dry off and throw on a loose pair of sweats and a hoodie, staying barefoot. The endless sand makes it pointless to wear socks or shoes. When I get to the beach, he’s already got a fire going. He left a pack of matches down there earlier. I flop down on the lumpy sand, glad for the heat on my legs from the crackling fire. The sun sets, and a sea of stars twinkle in the sky over the river. The moon shines, making the entire scene glow romantically and lovely in a ghostly white veil. Cutting through land, it changes the landscape from dark and scary to shadowy and lovely. Wesley disappears to dress for dinner. God forbid we change clothes at the same time. I try to keep my thoughts to myself. He flops down behind me, pulling me against his chest with his arms holding me. I sigh. I feel tired from all the fresh air and swimming and not a lot of relaxing.

  It feels so nice, and I grow sleepy as the darkness envelops us. He feeds driftwood pieces onto the fire. Sticks of every shape and size surround us so he only reaches out now and then.

  “What was your favorite place you’ve ever been?” I ask after a long quiet time. He starts talking. His voice is low and rumbling and holy crap, can he tell a story. He describes the mountains he’s been in, a tree in Southern California that he bungee jumped from, old Civil War monuments he visited all across the South, and the time he went lobster fishing off the coast of Maine. He talks and talks, and I’m lost in the exciting world he paints. It’s dreamlike to me. Unreal. I can’t imagine it ever possibly being my reality.

  “Hey,” he shakes me softly. I am falling into a lulling, soft sleep. I nod and stumble to my feet, rubbing my eyes. Turning, I shuffle to the tent while he puts the fire out. I shake the sleep from my eyes. We have only a few days together. I don’t want to waste a moment of it. How can I waste such precious time sleeping? Or do I? What about sex? With him? Yes! I really want to. I want to try.

  It’s time. I’m going to make this happen. Despite his fear, or maybe because of it, I want this for him and me. I lift my shirt off and let it fall to the tent floor and drop my bra just as quickly. I slip my pants off, too. And there I am with beige panties, trimmed in an inch of lace and cut high on my thighs and butt cheeks. I hold my breath and keep my hands at my sides. Nerves make me clench and unclench my fists mindlessly.

  Damn, I can do this.

  He’s been closing up the camp. I have the portable LED lantern hooked to the tent ceiling turned on. It imbues a soft and gentle light that would flatter anyone’s body more than the usual bright room lights. We have one big bed. Does he really believe we’re not going to do this? Perhaps. He’s clueless even if he is worldly. It’s the most unique combination I’ve ever seen.

  Oh, my God, I’m nervous. Finally, the zipper goes down. He gets it caught halfway up as he comes through the door. As he fiddles with it, my anxiety continues to grow until it is climbing up my throat. Oh, crap! What am I doing? I feel like diving into my sleeping bag and hiding while I still can. I have a moment. A second more perhaps. What will he do? Will he walk away? Take off in another dead sprint? Run down to the beach, across the slough and back to my car? I don’t mean it in a snide way; I’m truly worried. With a mutter and a curse, he gets the zipper all the way down and steps through it. He turns around, zipping the door shut again without a glance at me. At last, we have our own little world now in the private nylon dome.

  Not what I pictured, but in a way, it must be a palace compared to what Wesley is used to. Maybe he has to be in a place like this, since it mimics his usual “home,” the one he believes allows him to escape his past and childhood trauma. Cherishing his freedom, Wesley only feels in control when he can choose where his bed will be. Maybe he’ll choose to have sex with me because a tent means good things to him. Plus, he can get away. He’s just a zipper away from being outside and free.

  The beach and open spaces are everywhere if he needs to sprint to freedom. I don’t discount that being a possibility. My heart is both heavy and hammering. It’s not a good feeling, heightening my anxiety until I’m almost dizzy.

  He turns and says, “So I think the bugs aren’t going to be—”

  He stops talking when he actually sees me. His mouth is wide open. He stares for a long time at my half naked body under the light. My nipples are tight and puckered from the cool night air. It’s warm tonight but not that warm. I’m small-breasted and his eyes are glued there. His gaze sparkles.

  I swallow my nerves at his stony, frozen demeanor. He’s three times as strong as me. If he doesn’t want me, all he has to do is say so, and I’ll be done. I step closer. His gaze drops from my breasts to my stomach and down to my legs. I’m right before him. I have to be… forward. Like… Jacey maybe. Get out there with my sexuality. No big deal. I can do that. I’m sexy… I’m hot… I’m a healthy woman…

  Oh, fuck, who am I kidding? I feel like a virgin playing a stupid game. I don’t know how to seduce anyone. I never stood naked and unsure in front of a man who looks like Wesley, let alone with issues that are impossible to articulate like Wesley’s.

  I’ve only been with Wyatt, who always wanted to have sex. I never had to seduce him. This is all new to me.

  I’m
close, but we still aren’t touching. His hands are at his side, not moving or even fisting. He’s breathing harder, however. I lean forward and take his hand in mine. His gaze drops down to watch our fingers link. I look up, making sure I can see his gaze. Eyes sparking. The lust is there, and it’s undeniable. I take that as a sign to continue. I bring his hand to my breast and press his palm over my nipple. He closes his eyes at the touch and doesn’t move after that. His hand stays on me. I lean into it and grab his other hand, bringing it to my waist. His hands are big, and his fingers extend far beyond my nipple and breast and around my waist. He flexes his fingers and swipes them over my hard nipple. He does it again. Then again. I almost shout with glee. He’s fully engaging me.

  I know he wants to do this, I’m just not sure if he can allow himself. He probably needs counseling. But since the man doesn’t currently live anywhere and has no plans to ever, I don’t see that happening. I only see him being here. With me. Now. I know I’m good for him, and he cares for me. That trust just might be enough to help him over his fear and anxiety and allow him to finally feel what sex and intimacy is all about.

  I take his hand from me. He stops all touching of me immediately. I smile and tug him towards the bed. It’ll be perfect for this. I push him on it. I don’t know how he feels about ditching his clothes. I know he wants me to not have mine on. We’ll start there. I have to get comfortable with my nudity real quickly, it seems. I turn us so I can gently push on his shoulder to sit. He does and stares up at me, his jaw growing tense. His eyes are still glittering. I concentrate on the shadows behind him as I take the sides of my panties in my fingers and slide them downwards, slowly, like a professional performer, winding down my legs until I let them go and step out of them. He stares harder right at me, of course. The whites of his eyes show—what? Fear? Maybe fear. But also anxiety. However, there is a gleam of indisputable interest. I’m sure of it, and it’s without total panic. Not yet. I step towards him.

  Grabbing his shoulders, I slowly sink down until I straddle his lap. I can feel his erection through his shorts as he bumps against me, hard, strong, and straining. Good. So good. His hands come around me, and he rubs my back. I let him. I let him touch me and hug me as much as he likes. As much as he needs.

  I grab his face and bring him towards me, but not to my mouth. I direct him towards my torso, urging him to latch on to one pointy nipple. He takes it between his lips, and his tongue swoops around it. His eyes are closed, and his mouth moves slowly over me. I moan. Letting him know it’s amazing and feels right and I want to keep doing it. He does. He doesn’t need any lessons on this. Wetness fills me, and I shift on his lap, reacting to his wet tongue and lips. He switches sides, and I groan my support and encouragement. My hands slide along his shoulders and back.

  I push him back and pull on the sleeves of his shirt. He doesn’t hesitate but helps me shrug him out of it. I sigh in relief, not sure if it could be an issue. But no. He lets me run my hands along his bare shoulders and back. I can feel his cratered skin in so many spots. But I know better than to stop or express pity, least of all to draw attention to the scars. This is supposed to be about reclaiming all that was taken from this man in his youth. He can find some normalcy and healing now. Or some such version of those. Whatever versions we manage to create together.

  He kisses my breasts. I start to see pretty colors behind my eyelids when he does it for so long. I’ve never had anyone do that as long as he does it. He does it hard and vigorous until I’m whimpering, and my bottom half is weeping with urgent need. His mouth works me over, and I think he likes it, a lot. I also believe he’s never touched another female breast before. He kisses, licks, and caresses them with such a reverence and interest that is both flattering and almost orgasmic. His undivided interest and tender touch makes me breathless. When I touch his cheek to get his attention, he lifts his face up.

  “You like this?” I ask him.

  “I love this!” He’s still staring at my breasts. I laugh at his eagerness.

  “Yeah, you have real original taste.”

  He smiles. I’m glad to see the cocky tilt to it. Not something I would have expected to value in a guy. But Wesley? And knowing how much this causes him anxiety? I’m super glad to see his interest in something as basic as my naked breasts.

  He runs his hands up and down my back, over my shoulders, and down my bare arms. Shivers break out wherever he touches. I adore his touch. Which was so rare until now. “Are you cold?”

  “No. It just feels good. See?” I return the touching. I rub his large back and shoulders, moving up and over the rounded knobs to his collarbone and down his pecs until I end at the muscles of his stomach.

  He nods. “Indeed.”

  I stop and push my face into his chest to hide my laugh.

  He nudges me back. Frowning. “Why are you laughing?”

  It’s not from anything as deep as he’s thinking. I giggle again as I answer, “Indeed? Did you get a sudden British streak from so much horniness?”

  He grabs me under my armpits and lifts me up, where he proceeds to tickle me everywhere and damn if I’m not hysterical! Squirming helplessly, the more I do, the more he does. Eventually, I’m gasping. “I’m going to pee! Stop it! I mean it!”

  He lets up, and our gazes meet. His glance gleaming with victorious satisfaction at besting me while mine reflects my mirth and hot flash from the sudden exertion. Our eyes hold, and slowly all the smiles and fun fade into the background and we’re left breathing hard and staring at each other intensely. His gaze descends. To my mouth. And my breasts.

  “Suddenly there seems nothing to compare this to.”

  I hold my breath while my heart stops. For a moment, it seems to stop at the gravity of his words. All the feelings of tenderness, joy, heartbreak (for him), and so much caring and love for him fill me up. I reach up and touch his face, cupping his cheek, and smiling at him. “You don’t have to kiss me. There are so many other things we can do.”

  But he doesn’t answer. His gaze flickers toward my mouth and his face comes closer until his lips touch mine. Always, he starts slow and easy, and so much with the lips. We are experts at making out using just lips. It is thorough and sexy and lasting, and we both have great lips. Soft, warm, wet and full of feelings. So many sensual, loving feelings for each other. And he kisses like that often now. I sigh heavily, feeling like I am in heaven. His hands rub over my breasts some more. His fingertips slide down my stomach and over my opening, a quick tease before resting on my inner thighs.

  My heat could be felt by him. I was so hot and wet and ready. But that wasn’t what held my attention or interest. It was his mouth still on mine. Ever so slowly, he slides his tongue between my lips. I keep my mouth still and pliable, ready for whatever he wants to do. He licks my lower lip, then nibbles on my upper lip until the tip of his tongue hesitantly comes into my mouth. I open it and let him explore until his tongue slides next to mine. He starts tentatively. Almost as if it’s a new feeling.

  He goes slowly, not overwhelmed by desire or panic. Which is huge. Huge. He keeps kissing me, and his tongue continues to explore my mouth. I wait. My arms loosen around him. I’m ready to grip him if I sense him getting upset. But after a few long, profound moments, he moans ever so softly in our mouths. He settles against my body, and I open my legs, letting his still covered penis nestle against me, hard and masculine. It is so much the opposite of the tender way he holds my head and uses his tongue and lips to make love to my mouth. This is… far… so far beyond any make-out session I’ve ever had. If I weren’t naked, well, it would be the hottest make-out session ever. I love it but it breaks my heart because he is so intent on kissing me. He is discovering something that is both new and hard for him to accept.

  Forever, he licks and touches my tongue with his lips and tongue, swirling in and out of my mouth. Finally, he rests his forehead on my chest. Breathing hard. For this? The kissing is the hardest part for him. The thing he’s most scared to d
o. Terrified to do.

  He’s done it! I want to throw up a fist of triumph in the air but that would be going a bit too far and would embarrass him.

  “That was…”

  “It was.” I have to lift and strain, but I touch my lips to the top of his head. “We can stop.”

  “We should definitely not do that.”

  I run my thumb over his lower lip. “You’re not feeling confused?”

  “No.” He doesn’t elaborate. I let it go. It was obviously in the past. There is a distinct shift in his comfort level. I have to believe him. I want to believe him. And I do want him.

  I take his hand and place it on my inner thigh. All in. I find it seems to be what he lacks. He needs guidance and a firm, clear push as a signal about what I want him to do. His fingertips start rubbing the smooth, sensitive skin and then he grazes the edge of me. I sigh. “Do you want to touch me?” I whisper into his ear. His head nods yes.

  “Then do it. It’s okay. You feel so good.”

  He runs a finger along me, and the wetness he finds there convinces him I’m not just saying empty words. All the making out and worshiping of my nipples and mouth have made my body feel tuned up and primed. I’m definitely ready for him. He moves his fingers around inside me, gentle and searching at first, until they slide into me, and I grip his shoulders. He’s clumsy and slow. I can tell he’s surprised by what it feels like to him. I’m swollen with need and the pressure of his touch helps relieve it. I open my legs more and lift my hips up. Then down. He looks up and stares at me, surprised perhaps by my impatience. I shrug and smile. “You got me turned on.”

  He’s so hesitant. And worried. I put my hand on his to show him what I want and where I want it. He’s eager to excel at that. As if I tried to stick his fingers somewhere far more shocking than my vagina. But he nods and moves his fingers, two of them, the way I showed him, and I press myself down hard and meet his thrusts. I grab his head and pull it between my breasts. I’m wanton and laid out before him. Sweat breaks out over my skin, and I’m completely wet wherever he touches. I moan and gasp and fill the tent with the loud sounds of my unbridled bliss.