by K. B. Nelson
“Then use your God-gifted imagination.” I spin one leg off the horse and hop to my feet so that the horse separates us. “No touching,” I command, “but I want to see you use your imagination.”
His eyes dart to side and he tilts his head at me.
“Do you want to touch me, Kemper Scott?” My hand glides to the buttons of my shirt, and undoes them in quick succession. “Do you want to watch me undress?” He nods in approval as I throw the plaid shirt behind me. I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head and toss it beside the plaid. My fingers reach behind my back and unhitch my bra, the straps falling down my shoulder, but I freeze in place and wait. “It’s your turn.”
He takes no time disposing of the blue dress shirt, and rips the white undershirt straight over his head. He moves to climb over the horse, to meet me on the other side, but I protest with a wag of my finger. “We’re pretending, remember?”
He swallows a breath of protest and reaches for his jean-clad erection. He pumps his cock through denim, chewing into his lip while his eyes struggle to stay open. “I want to bend you over this horse.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck you till you can’t walk.” He frees himself form one boot, then kicks off the other. “I want to come deep in your pussy while kissing you.”
I wait until his eyes are pulled short for a short moment to let out a light laugh. When his eyes are thrown back open, I’m back in seduction mode with a straight face, full of desire and anticipation.
“I want that too, Kemper.” I pull the straps of my bra down my arm until my breasts are exposed, perky and waiting. “I imagine you standing before me, hard and naked.”
“That’s easy enough.” He smirks and drops his jeans in an instant, stepping out of them when they pool at his feet. His erection tents in black underwear, and without taking his gaze off me, he slides them down his legs and steps out of them. “Is it everything you imagined?”
“Everything and more.” I free myself from my own jeans and tangle my fingers in my panties, taunting and teasing him. His chest heaves because he wants to rush the space between us and close the distance. He wants me right here, right now with exactly zero fucks that anyone could see. “Now hop on the horse and use your imagination.” I grip one hand around the pole and marvel at his beautiful body kissed by the light of the moon. “Pretend to feel the wind in your hair.”
He does as instructed and jumps onto the horse, his muscular ass hardly fitting on the seat because he leaves enough room for me to sit in front. He closes his eyes and exhales softly, his head is thrown back an inch and his chest heaves. A smile ripples across his face, but it fades just as quickly. He might think this is stupid, but he’s playing along.
I step out of my panties. My lips tremble and my body shakes. It’s too cold to be bare-ass naked outside. It’s probably a felony to be this naked in public, but I’m too lost in this new world I’ve engulfed myself in to care.
While his eyes are still glued shut, I reach for his hard cock and wrap my hand around his flesh. He gasps and shifts against my touch. I swing one leg over the horse and rise to a standing position so that I straddle the inanimate animal. The cold metal of the pole is freezing against my tits, but I know the cold is only temporary as a fire burns behind me, and soon beneath me.
I lower myself onto his cock, reveling in the sweet burn as I impale myself on his hardness. A long treble of a moan slips from my lips as I sink deeper and deeper until we’re skin to skin.
He reaches his strong arms around me, with one hand held against my stomach, holding me in place, and the other hand groping at my breast.
“Move,” he begs, but I’m the one in control and I want him to be reminded of that, and to always keep it in the forefront of his mind. I buck my hips backward and lean back into him, throwing my head over his shoulder. Blood pumps through the veins of his neck and his body shifts underneath of me. “Please,” he begs, and I finally oblige.
I throw myself forward and wrap both hands around the pole. I begin to ride him in long, careful strokes, up and down as if the ride itself were moving. His palms grip my sides as he tries to assist, trying to make me move faster, but I’m content to ride the waves of the slow build.
When I close my eyes, I’m back in fantasyland, bucking my hips on a horse as it stampedes through a field of green. The warmth I feel from Kemper beneath me, behind closed eyes, is that of the sun kissing my skin.
The funniest thing happens, when I open my eyes and I see the world for what it is, dark and gloomy with clouds merging into the light of the moon, I accept it, taking pleasure in the way he fills me, completely in every way imaginable.
And too soon, he’s bucking his hips upward as he releases his seed inside me and I’d be disappointed if this were any other night. It’s not. I don’t crave climax, because what I’ve found is more thrilling than any orgasm. I’ve found peace, and I’ve found it here with him, and I don’t know what that means, but I’m willing to pay the price to find out.
24
I lead Kemper into my hotel room on the fourth story of the tallest building in this God-forsaken town. It’s not the worst place I’ve ever been, that honor belongs to Ridgefield, but it’s a hellhole none-the-less. I don’t do well with small towns, they’re all the same to me. They’re too small, and claustrophobic. It becomes hard to breathe when you’re constantly suffocating under the weight of judgment.
If you’re born in a small town, you’ll most likely die in a small town. It’s a trap I fought so hard to claw myself away from, but ended up back at square one worst off than when I had first left.
“This is nice,” Kemper muses out loud as he takes in his surroundings. It’s nothing too fancy, but the sheets are clean and the room has a pleasant odor. There’s also free cable and wifi, so for all intent and purpose, it’s a five-star hotel. Also, it’s not a motel. So spank me as I score a touchdown.
He tugs his shirt over his head and throws himself on the bed sideways. “Almost as comfortable as an aluminum horse.”
I peer over my shoulder and shake my head. “Did you have fun tonight?”
“It was wild.” He reaches out his hand for me to take, and pulls me down on the bed beside him. “Best night of my life.”
“Shut up.” I slap my hand against his stomach and roll my head onto his chest, the most comfortable pillow on this side of an actual five-star hotel. “Tell me something I don’t know about your life,” I inquire as I draw my name, using my finger, on his bare chest like an adolescent teen scribbling her crush’s name in a notebook.
His chest rises and his lips purse. “There’s nothing to know.”
“Bullshit,” I call it like it is. “Absolute malarkey.”
“What do you want to know, babe?”
“Babe?” I eye him.
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s new.”
“Everything’s new at one point or another.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” I rest my head on his chest again. “Where are you from, really?”
“I told you.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “I’m from everywhere.”
“Fine,” I huff, growing a touch aggravated. “Tell me where home is. Where you grew up, where you escaped from.”
“There’s a town less than a hundred miles away from Ridgefield called Lakewood.”
“Oh yeah,” I mumble, my eyes growing heavy. “I’ve heard of that place.”
“There’s nothing to it really. There’s about six-thousand people, too caught up in their own mediocre lives doing mediocre things to survive.”
“Sounds like Ridgefield.”
“It’s all the same,” he says as low as a whisper, and I can feel him preparing to run. He slides out from under me and hops to his feet, spinning around to face me as soon as his heels land against the carpeted floor. “Lets get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Anywhere.” He pushes his hands deep into the mattress
and crawls toward me. “We can get in your car and drive.”
“That’s my husband’s car,” I point out with a smile.
“Fine.” He chews into his cheek. “We take my car, then.”
“You’re being serious,” it’s not a question, it’s a statement. A realization. “We can’t just pack up and leave.”
“Why not?” he pleads. “I have a few thousand dollars in a suitcase under my bed.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Make it that simple.”
I shift up in the bed and kneel. “I have a life in Ridgefield—“
“In a town you can’t stand.”
“I have a husband—“
“Who cheated on you.”
“And a family.”
“That’s what phones are for. That’s why they created the internet.”
“I have a job,” I say flustered, running out of excuses when in the back of my head, running sounds like the best possible option.
“A job that you can have anywhere.”
“Please stop this,” I plead and slide off the bed and pass him to lean on the dresser.
“Stop what?” He turns to me. “Dreaming?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I can’t live a life I don’t want to live.”
“That’s life, Kemper.” My eyes roll and I begin to pace back and forth.
“This place almost killed you.”
“I almost killed me,” I correct him and come to a rest in front of him.
“You put the gun to your head, but you didn’t load the bullets.” He points to an arbitrary space behind us. “They did that. They loaded the bullets and handed you the gun.”
“You only see what you—“
“You’ll die in that town, kicking and screaming as they drag your cold, dead body into the dirt.”
“Have you thought about being a writer?” I peel the plaid shirt from my body and throw it on the dresser. “You’re amazing with your words.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what, Kemp?” I twist to face him, exhausted and more than ready to lie down and pass out. “Compliment you?”
“Change the subject.”
“You can be happy anywhere.” I take his hand in mine and bow my head against his. “You’re young and full of life. Why do you feel so trapped?”
“Because in this world, I’m alone.”
“You have me.” I force a smile and caress my palm across his cheek. “I’m right here.”
“For how long?” He breaks away from me, taking a measured step back.
“That’s a loaded question,” I sigh and twist on my foot to grab a glass of water from the top of the mini-fridge.
“See, right there it is. You don’t have a proper answer.” He smacks his lips as I turn to him, sipping on a glass of ice-cold water. “I love you.”
“What did you say?” I reach behind me and set the cup on the dresser, but I miss and it crashes to the floor, spilling on my bare feet.
“It slipped from my tongue.”
“You love me?” I smile, but it’s with a heavy, unsure heart.
“I can feel it in my bones.”
“It’s a strong word.”
“That’s why I said it.”
“I said those words once,” I whisper, “and then I said them again in my vows.”
“I’m not him.” He takes my hand and pulls me close. “Come with me. I have a cousin in Lakewood. We can stay there until we figure things out.”
“Isn’t it kind of pointless to run from one damaged place to another?”
“We can be happy anywhere.”
“Then what’s wrong with here?”
“You know what’s wrong with here.” He retreats, once again reaching a peak level of frustration. I think it’s because he knows I’m understanding what he’s selling. I just can’t admit it out loud. “This place, it’ll eat you alive.”
“Can we stop this, and just pretend like we’re happy?” I sink onto white sheets.
“We are happy.” He takes a seat beside me and wraps his arm around me. “I just want to ensure we both stay that way.”
“We have all the time in the world to figure this out.”
“I’m terrified I’ll fall back into old habits.”
It dawns on me that we never talk about his troubles. It’s easy to forget he has them, when we’re constantly circling around my merry-go-round of pain. I lean my head on his shoulder to comfort him. I want to say the right words, but I don’t know where to begin.
Instead I speak to him the only way I really know how. I push his body gently against the bed and crawl up to his chest. He strokes his fingers through my hair and in the quiet moments that follow the rupture, I feel serenity.
“You’re going to be all right,” I whisper and close my eyes.
“I know.” He lands a quick kiss on the top of my head.
“I’m going to be okay, too.”
“I know.”
But nothing feels all right. It feels irrevocably broken, and I don’t have an explanation for the shift in hopes and dreams. It feels over before it even truly began, but I know love again. That’s the part that cuts the deepest, slicing through my soul and leaving an open wound that may never heal.
But I can love.
I’m dreaming of an unknown man, lurking in the shadows outside my home as I wash the dishes in the kitchen sink. He passes between two trees, and with squinted eyes, I’m able to observe that he’s tall, but not much else more.
And then there’s a creak of the floor behind me sending a shiver down my spine. I peer up to the window and see the reflection of a man behind me, and I know I’m surrounded.
I twist on my foot to face the man, and sigh with relief that it’s only Kemper.
“Wake up,” he says. “Wake up.”
“What?”
I throw myself up in the bed and clutch my chest. Breathing heavy, I look over to see Kemper standing before me, all dressed and ready to go.
“Jesus,” he says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No,” I say softly. “Just you.”
“Aww,” he coos and pounds his palm against his chest. “Were you dreaming about me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I adjust in bed and push the covers off my sweaty body. “Where are you going?”
“I have that charity event, remember?” He raises his brows. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah.” Transitioning between the land of dreams and the land of reality is often a difficult task, as you’re left reeling trying to differentiate the two. “Do you need a ride?”
“Nah,” He shakes his head. “It’s only about seven blocks. Besides, I need time to come up with an excuse as to why I snuck out of the hotel last night.”
“What time is it?” I ask groggily and bury my face in my hands.
“It’s almost noon.”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “He’s going to kick your ass.”
He laughs with me, his cheeks flushing red as he takes a seat beside me. “When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know.” I smirk, reveling in the change of mood since our late-night conversation. “I can call Mrs. Benson and see what her plans are.”
“The word on the street is that she’s always free.”
“That’s just how I like my men, available.” I run my palm across his cheek lovingly. “You should go.”
“I know,” he sighs and leans over me, smelling of fresh flowers and cool mint. He eyes me for a moment and an unshakable smile rests on the edge of his lips. He’s beautiful and innocent under the morning light, but I know better. He presses his lips against mine. It’s short and sweet, and it’s sufficient in pulling me inside out, leaving me wrecked with a hodgepodge of emotions. A full heart, an alive and breathing soul, and a butterfly trapped within a gilded cage fluttering around my stomach.
It’s after he walks out the door that the guilt sinks in, burying itself in the deepest
pits of my own personal hell.
25
I multi-task around the kitchen, tripping over myself as I rush to rip open the stove. I almost reach for the hot baking dish, but remember at the last moment I need an oven mitt.
My eyes scan the kitchen, searching for a mitt but it’s been so long since I’ve used the oven, I’ve no idea where to find one. I pull open a drawer and grab a kitchen towel to use instead.
I retrieve baked spaghetti from the oven and rush it into the dining room to the right of the kitchen. I place it on the long dining table beside a fresh plate of breadsticks. I reach into my pocket and grab a lighter to light two candles in the center of the table, and when I’m all done, I stand back and admire my work.
There’s just one thing missing. Wine. Lots of fucking wine. I maneuver into the kitchen and drop to a squatting position to pick out a bottle in the wine fridge. I reach for one Moscato and one Riesling. Food pairings be damned, he likes his red wine and I love my white.
I carry them into the dining room, grabbing two glasses on my way, and pour each half-full before storing the leftovers in the refrigerator. Coach—Brock, I mean—has a drinking problem, but he’s nowhere near as bad as he used to be. After his father died in the fire that burned his childhood farmhouse to the ground, he went on a bender, and that was before he broke his back.
I flip off the lights to the foyer, living room, and kitchen and stand in the candle-lit darkness waiting for Brock to come home from Old Town. My heart skips a beat when he pulls into the long driveway, headlights streaming through tall windows. When the engine is cut, I take a long sharp inhale, and pray this night won’t devolve into the same old fights as every other night.
The door is pushed open, and he calls out to me with an earnest tone, “Stassi, are you home?”
“In here,” I call back and wait for him to approach.
His shadow enters the room before he does, and it’s his shadow that I surprise first, throwing my hands in the air and exclaiming, “Happy Birthday, Brock!”
“You did this?” His eyes shift around the room with apprehension, like I’ve just set some kind of trap for him. “For me?’