Wild Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  “No.” He holds the shirt up to his chest, resting it against his heart. “I want to go with you.”

  Chills. Up the spine and around my chest. That’s what I feel.

  I turn around to allow Nate to pull on some pants and his new shirt, and together, we head to our first Giants game.

  When we step out of the cab, Nate is nervous and excited, like a ten-year-old kid. But he doesn’t show it like a child would. I can see it in the widening of his eyes at the sight of the stadium, the rise of his mouth at the statue of Willie Howard Mays Jr. in front of the gates, the way he clutches his ticket and almost doesn’t hand it over to the ticket counter, and how his face positively lights up when he sees the field, his favorite team warming up for the game.

  We walk around, taking in the whole park. He is mesmerized by every facet and steel beam. Me? I’m fascinated by the many food stands—Crazy Crab’z, Orlando’s Caribbean BBQ, pizza, cheesesteaks, and a nacho cart. There are so many awesome food stands, all decorated with characters and themes. I grab his hand and rush him over to grab some grub, and he willingly obliges.

  We are in our seats, a few rows behind the Giants’ dugout. The tickets cost me a lot of money, but I don’t care. Just seeing the look on Nate’s face makes it all worth it. When the national anthem is played, we take our hats off and sing. When the first pitch is thrown, we cheer. And when the game starts, we watch.

  I have no idea what is going on, so he tells me. He’s informative and entertaining, not condescending or annoyed. He has his eyes on the game and me in equal parts.

  My favorite part of the experience is yelling, “Charge!” and, “Let’s go, Giants!” and, of course, doing the wave. Because, hey, it’s the wave.

  We eat some more and walk around a second time. He waits in line and makes us take a picture with the World Series trophy on display. He buys himself a matching foam finger and joins me in being silly throughout the game.

  When the seventh inning stretch comes, I stand on my chair and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” as loud as I can. When I look down, he is just beaming.

  And when the eighth inning is over, “Lights” by Journey is played, and I positively melt. The sun is setting, and the air is chilly. The melody pouring over the stadium is absolutely beautiful as the crowd of thousands sings a song about a love for their city. A song about two lonely people and a city on the bay. A song about finding your home.

  I’m singing, smiling, and oohing along with Steve Perry. I look over at Nate, and he’s not singing. He’s not oohing. And he’s certainly not smiling.

  He’s staring.

  At me.

  And not in a way he’s stared before.

  His eyes are stunned and startled. They’re looking at me like I’m a revelation, a discovery, and he is just now realizing it all for the very first time.

  His gaze is intense and smoldering, and those green eyes are so dark and full of something so powerful that I can’t help but fall right into them.

  And then he whispers, “Olive juice.”

  Two words.

  Two words that make my knees go weak and the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight from the sheer electricity those two words elicit.

  “Olive juice,” he repeats the words again as he snakes his hand around the side of my face, his thumb grazing my mouth, pulling my lower lip out.

  He takes my lip in his mouth and holds on to it tightly. I moan when his teeth graze the flesh.

  His other hand rises to the other side of my face, and he kisses me. His lips part, and mine open without having to be coaxed or softened. The desire I’ve been harboring for weeks comes to the surface. When his tongue glides against mine, I do everything to keep from falling apart. I grab on to him and pull him in.

  The smell of him, the feel of his hands in my hair, the taste of Nate are intoxicating me in so many ways that I forget where we are, who we are, what we are.

  “Down in front,” a loud voice bellows from behind us.

  We startle, staring at each other, wide-eyed and in shock of our public display of affection.

  My heart drops to my stomach. Nate is going to freak out. He doesn’t lose control, and when he does, he panics. I brace myself for the rejection. Taking a deep breath, I wait for him to say the words.

  Instead, he leans forward and kisses me again, and with a grin to match all grins, he says, “How fast can you run?”

  I don’t even have a chance to answer. With his hand in mine, he pulls me with him.

  We run.

  Up the stairs and through the tunnels.

  Out the gates and to the curb.

  Nate raises his arm to hail a cab.

  We kiss.

  We kiss with vigor and passion and weeks of pent-up sexual frustration. We kiss until the cab comes. We get in the backseat and kiss some more. We’re all hands and tongues and legs, heavy breathing and friction being caused by two bodies that can’t get close enough to each other, even in the small confines of a taxicab.

  We run.

  Through the hotel lobby to the elevator bank.

  A sound of relief pours from Nate’s throat when the doors close, and we start to rise.

  We kiss.

  His hands run up the insides of my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders and onto the floor. My back hits the wall, the full weight of his body pushing up against me. He entwines his hands in mine and raises them above my head. I can feel every inch of him—hard, so very hard. The hard planes of his chest against my pebbling skin, his strong thighs locking mine apart, and the rock solid mass between his legs making me hot and warm and ready for him to take me.

  The doors open, and we stumble into the hallway. Our mouths still connected, our hands looking for room keys, any key.

  “Back pocket,” I mutter.

  Soon, my head hits the back of a door, and Nate breaks our kiss to pull the key from my pocket and swipe it into the card lock.

  When the click of the lock sounds, I spin my body around and walk inside the room. The king-size bed along the wall, looking out at the twinkling lights of San Francisco, is now more prominent than ever. I’m out of breath and flustered. I turn around to see Nate standing near the door. His chest rises and falls. He’s as out of control as I am. And his eyes. They’re burning, carnal, and their green is so dark that they’re onyx.

  If I had any concerns of him backing out, they are quickly erased with the purposeful strides he is taking toward me. One hand around my waist, the other in my hair, Nate lays claim to me, his tongue entering my mouth once again, and I fall right into him.

  “Crystal,” he calls out my name.

  My name.

  No one else’s.

  Because there is someone else.

  I push my hands against his chest. “We can’t do this.”

  With his hands wrapped around my waist and hair, Nate’s head falls to my shoulder. His back is rigid, and his fingers are digging into my skin, like they don’t ever want to let go. When his eyes rise to mine, he is determined. Focused. Clear.

  “I haven’t made love to a woman in four years. I have so much to explain. So much to tell you. Right now, I just want to be a man making love to a beautiful woman. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. I want to be with you, Crystal. I’ll tell you everything. My story, my life. You might want to run. Oh God, I hope you don’t run. But, for now, please, let me love you. Let me be Nate.”

  I can’t imagine where his story begins. I’m frightened to know where it ends.

  He’s so different from anything I’ve ever wanted. The opposite of what I should want. Yet I need him more than I need air to breathe.

  This could all end badly, but I don’t care.

  I want him.

  I want him forever.

  Time stands still.

  I step back.

  My hands cross in front of my shirt, and I slowly raise my shirt over my head. I swallow down the emotions I feel from the sheer look of his eyes when I unclasp my lace
bra and let it fall to the floor. They’re glazed over. The look is full of appreciation and love, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

  I push my jeans down my legs and am left in nothing but lace panties. My skin is cold in the exposed air.

  Nate’s pupils dilate as he takes in my body. Every curve, every inch.

  “Beautiful,” he breathes.

  His gaze is so heated that I instantly start to warm.

  Nate removes his shirt. The perfectly defined chest and rippling torso are on display. What I’m surprised to see is clean, untouched skin. I assumed by the tattoo on his wrist that he’d be covered in ink beneath. Instead, it’s just golden, masculine Nate. I was too flustered yesterday to notice. Today, I can appraise all I want. I reach a hand forward to touch the velvety skin. Nate lets out a groan.

  He reaches for me and places soft kisses along my neck. Goose bumps run up my back.

  “I want to say the words,” his pained voice whispers into my hair. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Olive juice,” I breathe.

  And his lips become harder, firmer on my skin.

  With wild abandon, I run. Not from him. I run to him.

  I throw my hands around his neck and kiss him with every ounce of fight and trepidation I have.

  My legs wrap around his waist, and Nate walks me over to the desk, kicks the chair behind him, and sets me down. His denim-clad groin pushes against me, and I gasp when he brushes up against the sensitive core. He feels my response, and with his hand on my lower back, his other on my hip, and his mouth hard against mine, he grinds against me again and again, making me squirm.

  When his hand rubs a palm against my breast, my nipples harden, and I nearly come out of my skin.

  “Even better than my dreams,” he groans.

  He uses two hands to pull and tug on my breasts, and he rubs against me. I cry out when his mouth bows down, his tongue nipping and sucking along the pebbled ridge.

  He glides my panties down my legs and slides his hand between the folds. My hips twitch when his fingers hit my clit.

  “Holy shit, that feels so good,” I cry when he inserts two fingers deep inside, filling me in a way I didn’t know I craved.

  Nate growls, seriously growls, as he falls to his knees and takes my clit into his mouth. My knees tighten around his head.

  With a free hand, he pushes them apart and sits back to look at me. “Oh my God, you’re perfect.” He dips down and runs his tongue up where his hand just was. “You taste like a miracle.” He takes another swipe, and I start to pant. “And you look like a fucking goddess. How did I get so lucky?” He dives back in and licks and nips and savors every teeny-tiny fiber of my swollen core.

  My hips buck, and he holds me down. My climax building higher and higher, I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I just inhale and inhale, and when the feeling is so intense, so exquisite, I come so hard on his mouth, and I scream so loud that I’m sure they can hear me in the Atlantic.

  And he’s not stopping. Like a man caged for centuries, he is unleashed and continuing his assault on me. My body has never been abused in this way, and I hardly recognize the internal build again, the sensation and intoxication that comes with multiple orgasms. My control is pouring out of me, and my need for the man is so intense that I have to have him.

  With my left foot, I push him into the chair behind him, causing the casters to wheel him back a few feet. I fall to my knees and unbutton his jeans. He lifts his hips as I guide his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His erection springs free, beautifully corded and swollen, ready to be taken.

  So, I take him. In my mouth. Slick, wet, and deep.

  “Crystal!”

  My name from his mouth only pushes me to suck on him hard. I want to do nothing but bring pleasure to this man. I run my tongue along the vein and use my free hand to gently pump him where my mouth can’t reach.

  “Fuck,” he cries.

  But I’m soon realizing that it’s not out of pleasure. It’s in frustration.

  I rise onto my knees when he takes my hands in his and kisses me.

  “I didn’t bring condoms. Crystal, I…I didn’t think this was possible. I want to be with you, but—”

  “I have them.” I swallow, realizing he probably thinks I was planning this. “Naomi thought they might come in handy.”

  He kisses me again. “Naomi’s a fucking genius.”

  I smile and watch as he walks to my bag. With his back to me, he slides the condom on. I want every single piece of him. Every inch, every heartbeat.

  What I don’t want is him on the bed.

  When he turns around, I stand up, take him by the hand, and walk him over to the couch. I want to feel him in me as deep as humanly possible. Pushing him down onto the cushions, I place my knees on each side of his hips and straddle him. Sweeping my hand around his neck, I run my free hand through his hair. His dark waves make his green eyes piercing. He is absolutely gorgeous.

  “I heard you liked to grab a guy’s hair,” he says.

  It’s not a joke. He’s serious.

  “You did this for me?”

  “Everything is for you.”

  His mouth finds mine again, and when his tongue sweeps against my lips, I know there is no one else I ever want to kiss for as long as I live.

  I rise up and hold him in my hands, just outside my entrance, and then I lower myself on him, causing us both to gasp into each other’s mouths.

  Nate sits up and wraps his arms around me, and I do the same to him. Our bodies move together, our hearts beat as one, and our fears erase each other’s. I ride him until I feel the burn again. My hips grind, and his rise to meet me. Together, we move—one being, one soul.

  I cry when he rubs me so hard from the inside that I come undone. And when he loses control inside me, it’s with a growl so intense that the beast is finally released and free with my name on his lips.

  chapter EIGHTEEN

  “Do you believe in fate?” Nate asks.

  Nate and I are tangled in bedsheets—my leg wrapped around his torso, his hand running soft fingers along my back.

  “Nathaniel Teller, I hardly pictured you as someone who believed in things happening for a reason.”

  “I forgot to lock the door. I never forget to lock the door.”

  I lift my head from the nook of his arm and curve my brows at him.

  He kisses my nose and clarifies, “The first day you walked into the bar. You should never have been there.”

  “It’s a good thing you were forgetful.” I run my hand through his hair. I can’t get enough of it. “I suppose I do believe in fate. Fate that Naomi met a guy from California, moved here, and convinced me to get on a plane.”

  Nate looks up at the ceiling, his focus lost somewhere else. “Do you believe bad things happen for a reason, too?”

  His words are reminiscent of one of the first things he ever said to me. “I believe in love just as much as I believe in death.”

  Placing my hand on his cheek, I guide him back to me. “I think things happen in life that are out of our control. It’s what we do with our lives afterward that matters.”

  Nate clenches his eyes closed and takes a deep breath. “You have no idea how amazing you are, do you?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” I tease. “But if you care to tell me how amazing I am, I’m more than happy to listen.”

  Nate rolls me onto my back, the full weight of him above me for the third time tonight. The darkened San Francisco sky is cascading us in our cocoon. A condom is torn open with his teeth.

  “How about I show you?”

  Before I know it, he is showing me very, very deeply.

  Buzz. Chime.

  “Ignore it.” His nose is buried in my hair.

  I can’t even breathe from what he’s doing, let alone speak to answer him.

  Buzz. Chime.

  “Next time I take you away, we’re leaving our phones at home,” he says into my mouth.r />
  Buzz. Chime.

  “I really think you should get it. Just don’t stop doing that.” I reach a hand onto the nightstand and hand him the offending phone.

  “Leave it.”

  Buzz. Chime.

  I drop my hand onto the bed, and his eye catches the incoming number.

  “Fuck!”

  With a rapid pace, Nate is off me and sitting up on the bed, his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  I sit up and pull the sheet over my bare breasts, and I peer over Nate’s shoulder. His brows are knit tightly together, and his mouth is pinched.

  “What do you mean she…” He puts his hand to his mouth. His eyes are wide with worry. “Where is she?”

  He’s standing up, looking furiously around the room for his clothes. After pulling his jeans on, he throws his sneakers on without socks.

  Knowing something urgent is happening, I get up and throw on my yoga pants, which were sitting at the top of my bag, and I slide on my shoes.

  He hangs up the phone and starts pacing. He can’t find his shirt.

  “What happened?”

  His hands are a jittery mess. His eyes are rabid with panic. “She…she had a seizure. She hasn’t had one in over a year. They put her in a coma—”

  “Who, Nate? Who is in a coma?”

  “My wife!” he shouts, flipping over cushions on the sofa.

  My bra and T-shirt from last night are on the floor. I grab them and see his shirt peeking out from under the bed. I pick it up and hand it to Nate, and then he is running out the door.

  Purse in hand, I chase after him.

  His wife?

  Nate hits the button for the elevator, but it isn’t coming fast enough. He punches the wall out of frustration and runs his hands through his hair.

  I can’t believe he’s married. I should want to scream at him, call him obscenities, tear his shirt off, spit in his face, and kick him in the balls.

  But I don’t do any of the above.

  There is something in the way he’s biting on his fingernail. In the way he’s mumbling to himself. In the way his feet can’t stop moving in place, anxious to get out of here.

  We step onto the elevator, and his eyes well up when he sees my lone Giants jacket strung in the corner, the same spot he threw it just hours ago when he couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough.