Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  I hop off the stool, determined to go upstairs, retrieve my purse, and head out. “I can see you later tonight though. Maybe you can take me to dinner or something?” I beam at him.

  Oh shoot, here he comes. Before I’m able to step back to avoid his embrace, he takes me in his arms.

  “Hey…” He lowers his face to look me in the eyes, and my eyes can’t avoid his. “If you don’t want to stay in bed, that’s fine. I got greedy. You want to call a cab to take you around the island? I’ll pay for it.”

  “Why are you coming on so strong?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because you’re the one, Daisy,” he says bluntly. “I know it even if you don’t.”

  “I’ve seen scenarios like this on TV. Are you a rich guy looking to lure a wife, put a life insurance policy on me, and…?” I use two fingers to slice the air in front of my neck.

  Belmont’s hazel eyes brighten as he laughs out loud, but I don’t laugh with him. I’m dead serious—no pun intended.

  “No,” he answers as if he’s talking to a crazy person. “And if I had those plans, do you think I would tell you?”

  My eyes expand with horror. “Wrong answer.”

  He squeezes me tighter. By the feel of things, he’s ready to have sex again. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers hoarsely.

  My mouth is caught open, giving his tongue space to slip right in there. My lips feel softer lodged between his, and then we taste each other with gentle, warm tongues. He’s expertly leading the dance of this kiss. The longer we do this, the more we can’t stop. I whimper and sigh. I feel as if I’m floating on air.

  Maybe Belmont’s right. We are meant to be. We certainly have intense sexual chemistry. Or, as Charlie suggested, maybe he’s just good at this.

  “Hey,” I breathe as I force my lips to part from his.

  “What? Do you want to stay in? We can do this and only this. I can make out with you all day and all night long.”

  My head is spinning. I want to take him up on his offer, but instead I keep my focus. “No, that’s not it. It’s just that Charlie asked me to ask you why you’re so good at ‘f’ing’ me?”

  “What’s ‘f’ing’?” He’s amused by my word choice.

  “You know…” I imply, lifting my eyebrows.

  “No, I don’t.” He’s feigning ignorance. “Do you mean this?” He grabs my rear end and shoves me into his healthy lump.

  “Yes,” I sigh. My eyes are closed. He hasn’t stopped rubbing me against him. He’s making me feel something.

  “Because I know a woman’s body better than my own. See…” He shifts me against his bulge once and then twice until he shoves me harder, holding me steady. He doesn’t ease the tension. My eyes are closed as the tingling sensation builds. I can feel him studying my expression.

  It’s coming…

  I’m close…

  I’m so damn close…

  Then suddenly I explode. I wrap my arms around him, moaning into his neck, which smells so good. Belmont presses his mouth to mine. He greedily lifts the hem of my dress, spreads my legs, and shoves two fingers inside of me.

  “Shit,” he mutters as he bites and sucks on my neck. He takes me by the hips and smashes me against his bulge again. I hold tight to him as he shifts me up and down his swollen crotch until he lets out a series of grunts.

  When he’s done quivering, he goes completely still, stalling my next climax. “I’m sorry, Daisy.” His warm breath tickles my ear canal. “That one was for me.”

  More than likely, I’m influenced by the one and a half orgasms in the kitchen, but I agree to let Belmont call a cab and accompany me on my island expedition. I tell him he’s not allowed to pay or interfere in any way.

  After Belmont changed his soiled pants and underwear and talked me into venturing out without panties—since he made mine all wet—we walk up the winding dirt path from his house cut between the forest on our way to State Road. Along the way, he keeps tugging at my skirt, taking me into his arms to steal kisses, and groping the round of my butt. It’s awfully strange how uninhibited he is. He’s like a man with the hormones of a teenage boy. He’s nothing like Adrian, who was always too angry with me for some reason or another to feel me up. Adrian probably should’ve broken up with me seven years ago, the year after I kept getting steady work. But as I stand here on the side of the road pressed up against Belmont, who pulls my hair to the side to nibble on the nape of my neck, which I’ve newly discovered is a hot spot, I can only blame myself for not being the one to break up with Adrian seven years ago–especially if another man can make me feel this way.

  “What are you thinking?” Belmont whispers thickly.

  “I’m thinking that you must have more hands than an octopus,” I joke.

  It works. He chuckles. “Are you complaining?”

  I shrug. “No, but… But you’re making me…” I don’t know how to say it out loud. I’m too embarrassed.

  “Horny?” He’s grinning mischievously.

  “Yeah.” I giggle like a girl with a crush. Actually, he makes me beyond horny.

  Belmont is awakening me. I want to be sensual and sexual. I want to ignite his lust.

  “I’m not trying to seduce you,” he whispers as his hand snakes up and under my skirt. His fingers draw circles around my “ON” button. “I like to feel you quiver and twist. And those sexy sounds you make…”

  “Are you a poet?” I sigh and chuckle.

  And then suddenly he stops. I open my eyes in time to see a car speed by. Belmont lifts a hand at the driver, who honks back.

  “Daisy,” he says once we’re alone, “I’m not going to touch you first again. You’ll have to be the one to make the next move.” He spins me around and draws my backside into him. I feel his chest rising and falling. “Starting”—he squeezes a handful of one of my breasts and then gently squeezes the nipple—“now.” He’s no longer behind me. He’s beside me, his fingers interlaced in front of him, and smirking.

  My body longs for his stimulation, but my mind is happy that it can finally focus. I let him fondle me with impunity, and I forget all the questions I must ask before I can truly trust him. A large part of me is still on guard.

  “So it’s Sunday, right?” I ask to get the ball rolling.

  “Yep,” he says, unaware of what’s coming next.

  “So do you work tomorrow?” I want to figure out what the heck he does on daily basis.

  “Do we?” He smiles and does that flirting thing with his eyes.

  Oh, he’s smooth.

  “Yes. I’m here to work, but what about you? What does a guy who goes to a nursery with a strange list of plants and then is directed to a strange house to buy pot do everyday?”

  He laughs. “What makes you think I bought pot?”

  “I’m sexually naïve, not generally naïve,” I sniff.

  “You’re not sexually naïve. You’re sexually neglected,” he states. “And what? Do you think I deal drugs?”

  I shrug. “Do you?”

  He laughs harder this time. I seem to be delighting him somehow. “No, I’m not a weed peddler,” he states for the record.

  “Do you smoke it?” I ask slyly.

  “Occasionally. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Never?

  “Never. I don’t ever want to try it. My body is my temple,” I say with a smile.

  He elbows me playfully and says, “You mean it’s my temple.”

  I smack my lips and shake my head. “You just don’t stop, do you?”

  “It’s true, Daisy. I’m going to enter you and worship you every day for the rest of our lives.”

  “You sound crazy.”

  “Crazy for you.”

  I burst out into laughter because that was not only corny but cliché. Even the dispenser of such tripe has to chuckle at that one.

  “I wasn’t buying weed,” he says after our laughter simmers. “I bought an exotic tulip bulb. I hired a horticulturist to
plant it for me. I put it in the glove compartment because I had to protect it from sunlight until it’s ready to be planted, which is why I had to drive to Nancy’s house to pick it up. She couldn’t store it at the nursery.”

  “Really, what kind of tulip?”

  “It’s a mossy blood red bulb.”

  “Oh…” I’m embarrassed that I got it all wrong.

  “So, Daisy,” he asks in a completely different voice, “when are you going to make a move? I want to kiss you, but I can’t because I’m a man of my word.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “When the time is right.”

  “And this is not the right time?”

  I narrow one eye to think. I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  He laughs. “I see…”

  “What do you see?” I’m grinning, so enjoying whatever game we’re playing.

  “You’re playing hard to get. I’ve got to tell you, it’s working.”

  “I’m not playing hard to get. You’re just hornier than I am.”

  That gets another loud laugh out of him. “Only for you, babe, only for you.”

  “If every girl got a dollar for every time she’s heard that…” I mutter cynically.

  “You don’t believe me?” He lifts an eyebrow.

  I’m impressed; not many people can do the one-eyebrow-up trick. It makes him look even more scrumptious. “No, I don’t.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “My actions will speak louder than my words.”

  I study his expression, searching for signs of inauthenticity. He is smiling as usual, but he doesn’t look deceitful.

  “You’re going to kiss me now?” he asks.

  I shake my head while still studying him. “You’re right. I’m playing hard to get.”

  He runs a finger from my cheek to my chin and then steps back. “You sure are.”

  I face the main road. I haven’t had much experience with men outside of Adrian, but I’ve been in ancillary relationships with my many girlfriends. I’ve watched them all make the same mistakes and listened to them complain and bellyache over the same incidences. My main takeaway was sex clouds judgment, especially for a woman. Something about being penetrated makes the act so much more than just a casual one for the average, emotionally stable woman.

  I’ve certainly had doubts about my love for Adrian. I used to ask myself if I even liked him. He was dull. Gosh, he’s dull. I hated the way he name dropped as if he’s best friends with all the Hollywood A-listers. It was way more tragic and sad when he tried to convince me—the woman who knew him best—that he was part of the in-crowd. He was annoying most of the time, but after we had sex, I felt as though I loved him more than any man on God’s green Earth. The cycle of emotional deprecation will start all over again until I’m horizontal and he’s on top of me.

  That is why I will not make the first move. So far, I like everything about Belmont’s personality, but I don’t want the mind-blowing orgasms to make me miss something, especially in this early stage of whatever kind of relationship we’re building.

  “It’s taking the cab forever to get here,” I whisper, trying to suppress my lust.

  “Where do you want the cab to take us anyway?” he asks.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to ask the driver.”

  “Ask the driver? What will you ask?”

  “Maybe where’s the most beautiful beach on the island?”

  “Why couldn’t you just ask me?”

  “Because you’re not a cab driver.”

  “He’s just going to tell you what I can already tell you.”

  “Oh, Belmont,” I groan, “you didn’t call a cab, did you?”

  He shows me his impish smirk.

  “Belmont,” I whine and slump my shoulders, pouting. “This is my article. Come on…”

  “Daisy, the beach you’re looking for is about a half mile up the road. And I read your articles. Maybe you should write a different kind of story. I don’t see the cab-driver angle working on the Vineyard.”

  “You read my articles?” I’m stunned by that revelation. “When?”

  “Yesterday after I dropped you off. I had a librarian friend send me some of your stuff. I read the ones on Antigua, Jamaica, Fiji, Aruba, Barbados, Provence and the French Countryside—”

  “That’s a lot!” I exclaim.

  “What can I say? I’m a fan.”

  I roll my eyes. There he goes again, only this time I’m cheesing like a Cheshire cat. Adrian never read one of my articles. He always said that he didn’t like to read about a destination before he got there, but once I caught him skimming a travelogue before his trip to Bermuda. A travelogue that wasn’t written by me.

  “All right, I’ll do it. I’ll forgo the cab and follow you,” I say, swayed by the fact that he took the time to read my work before screwing me. That’s certainly impressive.

  “Really?” He seems surprised that I’ve given in so easily.

  I bop my head, grinning. “Yes, and if I kiss you or something, then what does that mean? Do you get to make all the moves you want on me from then on?”

  “That’s exactly what it means.” He smirks.

  “Okay.” I dig my heels into the gravelly drive and keep my arms at my side, determined not to submit to my own desires. “Then lead on.”

  He steps forward to stand nose to nose with me. He moves his face from one side of mine to the other. I forget to breathe, and when I remember, I release a long breath.

  “I rarely like games, Daisy,” he whispers, “but I like this one. I see that it’s coming from an honest place.” His lips are close to mine. “I want you to know”—his breaths beat upon my parted lips—“I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll hurt me before I hurt you.”

  I gulp. “How do you know I’m afraid that you’ll hurt me?”

  “Because I pay attention.” He steps back and takes a deep, calming breath. “Let’s go before I declare myself the loser.”

  I can’t speak; I can only nod.

  On that note, he does an about-face. I sigh in relief one more time before following.

  Chapter 6

  The First Day of Ten Years

  A quarter mile up the main road, we turn onto a trail. Dwarfed by the spiky forest of barely alive conifers and oak trees, Belmont curls an arm around my waist. The thistles crunch beneath my sandals and thick grains of dirt settle between my toes.

  “The best part of the Vineyard are the beaches,” he says like a good tour guide. “The hard part is getting to them. The public beaches are nice, but the best ones are hogged by property owners.”

  “You mean private ones?” I ask.

  “Exactly.”

  “But I can’t tell my readers to trespass. Are we trespassing?”

  “Not if you’re with me.”

  I glance up at him, amused, and his dancing eyes are already watching me. “So what do I write? Meet a local boy and he’ll teach you how to trespass?”

  “It’s not hard to do. Especially if they look like you.”

  I drop my face and blush. “You’re such a charmer.”

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” He sounds serious.

  “I’m uncomfortable with that kind of stuff,” I admit easily and shrug. I’ve never said that to anyone.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m not?” I ask, a little annoyed.

  “Those are some very in-depth articles you wrote. Do you really think those cab drivers would’ve carried you around if you weren’t so damn hot? What did you wear? The kind of dress you have on now? Or the red one from yesterday?” He bites his bottom lip as his mind wanders.

  “You’re just saying that because you are attracted to me. That’s how it works. Attraction is subjective.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself?”

  “That’s what I believe,” I say.

  “That’s what you choose to believe. Why is that?” There’s nothing condescending or malicious in his tone, which makes
it easier to answer his question.

  I look up at him. He looks eager to hear my reply. “Who cares what I or anyone else looks like? In the end, it’s the heart, spirit, and soul of a person that we’re ultimately attracted to.” I wait for his response, but all I hear are our footsteps and birds making peculiar noises around us.

  “I agree,” he finally says. He takes my hand and lifts it in front of his face. “It doesn’t seem like we just met, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I want to kiss your hand, but that’ll be me making a move on you.”

  “That’s true.” I take back my hand playfully.

  He tugs at the skirt of my dress. “When are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe on Friday.”

  “You really think I can wait that long? Hell, could you wait that long?”

  “I don’t know.” I stare down at my soiled feet. “Maybe.”

  “I can’t wait that long. I probably won’t be able to wait five more minutes,” he whispers. He looks at the ground as if the thought is burdensome. In a more spritely tone, he asks, “Were you an English or philosophy major?”

  “Both, actually. Why you ask?

  “It’s what you said about subjective meaning.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “I’m an oracle, baby. I know everything.” There he goes grinning again.

  I shake my head, officially and once again charmed.

  “All the hot girls were English majors, so I took a lot of classes I really didn’t need,” he confesses.

  “Chasing girls in college, now that’s a novel idea,” I remark sarcastically.

  “I bet you were being chased.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “No, I was not chased. I’m sure of it. When I was in college, I looked like a twelve-year-old. I didn’t blossom, really, until I was thirty-two.”

  “How old are you?”

  “You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.” I wink. “How old are you?”