by Kira Blakely
“Abby.”
Just the sight of her out of breath in her dark jeans and green shirt, her hair hidden under a gray cap with the rest flowing past her shoulders, is enough to send my heart pounding and heat coursing through my veins straight to my crotch. There’s nothing I want more than to pull her into my arms and fuck her inside my tent, to engrave my whole body into hers so that she’ll never stop wanting me again.
I restrain myself, though, reminding myself that it’s not about the fucking.
I can’t scare her away.
“Please sit down,” I tell her calmly, gesturing to the foldable chair while I sit on the rock in front of the fire pit, the wood still hot from the lunch I cooked earlier. “You must be tired.”
She remains standing even though she’s still panting, her hands on the straps of her backpack. “I won’t stay long.”
I frown. Not only does she not look the least bit happy to see me, she’s even in a rush to leave.
Why? Why is she mad at me? I should be the one getting mad at her after what she’s put me through.
I take a deep breath. “How did you find me?”
“With difficulty,” she answers, annoyance in her voice. “And a little bit of help from Roger.”
I look around. “Where’s Roger?”
“When your tent was in sight, he told me to go ahead. He said he didn’t want you to bite his head off.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you come out here to escape, not just from work and life but from women.”
That’s true.
“Don’t worry. Like I said, I won’t stay long. I’ll leave as soon as you sign the papers.”
“Papers?” I raise an eyebrow.
She moves her backpack to her chest and opens it, taking out a plastic folder and handing it to me. “If you had only kept your phone open, you would have known that your lawyer needs these papers signed immediately.”
I take the folder, opening it on my lap. “I don’t have a signal out here.”
“I sent a hundred messages. Some of them must have arrived before you left your hotel.”
I go through the papers. “I was busy.”
“Well, if you had brought me with you, then there wouldn’t have been a problem, would there?” She puts a hand on her hip.
So, that’s why she’s annoyed – because I left her behind.
I close the folder. “Well, I wouldn’t have left you if you hadn’t acted so mean.”
“Mean?” Her eyes grow wide. “I was just… being professional.”
I set the folder on the ground and get up, walking toward her. “If nothing happens between us because I’m your boss, that’s you being professional. If something happens even though I’m your boss and you deny it, that’s cowardice and it’s mean.”
She steps back, swallowing.
Now I’ve scared her. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it, not with that attitude of hers. Besides, if I’m going to open up to her, she should do the same.
I grasp her trembling chin. “Why don’t you just admit how you feel about me, Abby?”
Her jaw clenches. Even though she’s quivering in fear, she’s still trying to put up a brave front. She’s still doing her best to resist me.
She slaps my hand away. “How dare you presume to know how I feel. You—”
I silence her with a kiss as I pull her into my arms, unable to restrain myself any longer. The more she resists, the more I want her.
At first, her arms flay at her sides, her backpack falling to the ground. Her tongue tries to push mine out as she tries to push me away, to slip out of my grip. I can tell she isn’t really putting all her efforts into it, though, and little by little, as my tongue pushes hers back and explores her mouth with all the passion I’ve been keeping at bay, her resistance wilts and her body melts in my arms.
Fuck. I’ve missed this.
As the cap falls off her head, I run my fingers through her hair, messing up the silky tendrils as I pull her body even closer to mine, delighting in the feel of her soft breasts against my hardened chest and grinding my hard cock into that valley between her legs.
Another shudder goes through her, a moan escaping her lips as she clings to me. I grin in triumph, and as we break the kiss for air, I place my mouth near her ear, my voice hoarse as I speak.
“You can’t fight it, Abby.”
The moment I finish my sentence, I see her body immediately become tense again and I realize I should have kept my mouth busy with something other than talking.
With both hands, she pushes me away, seriously this time. As she steps back, she glares at me, her eyes like icy daggers even as they brim with tears.
Then she runs back into the woods.
“Abby!”
I start to run after her but Roger stops me, having emerged from his hiding, his gaze telling me all I need to know.
I fucked up. Bad.
And now, I wonder if I can ever make it right.
Chapter 7
Abby
No!
My mind screams as I run down the trail as fast as I can, the soil, pebbles, and leaves crunching beneath the soles of my sneakers and the wind blowing in my face.
Where am I going? I don’t know. I’m not even sure if this is the same trail I walked on with Roger earlier. The trees and shrubs all look alike as I pass them by – a green and brown blur. I just want to get away, to be alone.
Why am I running away? That’s easy. It’s because I’m scared.
Suddenly, I find myself at the top of a small slope. I run down, hoping to find safety in speed, but my foot slips. Losing my balance, I slide down and end up at the bottom of a pile of leaves.
I don’t get up. Instead, I stay still as I catch my breath, looking up at the sky that has suddenly turned gray.
Just like my body has turned from one burning with heat to one burdened by worry and fear.
It isn’t Grant exactly who scared me away. It’s what he whispered in my ear.
You can’t fight it, Abby.
It’s scary for one reason only – because it’s true.
I can’t fight the guilt gnawing at me inside out from rejecting Grant. I can’t fight the joy that bursts in my chest whenever I remember watching Miss Saigon with Grant or dancing in his arms at that party. I can’t fight the blush that coats my cheeks at the slightest recollection of how he made my body feel. And most of all, I can’t fight the desire to feel his body next to mine again – a feeling that washes over me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes at his slightest touch, just like earlier.
What is all this? Love?
Whatever it is, it makes me feel helpless and that scares the hell out of me, so much so that it has my body in a state of panic and anxiety, my chest heavy and tears spilling out of the corners of my eyes.
It scares me. Not only because I’ve never felt like this before, but more so because I never thought I’d feel this way. I promised myself I’d never feel this way.
I promised myself I’d never end up like my mother.
Just then, I feel a drop of water on my forehead, followed two seconds later by another on my chin. And another. And another. I get up, running to seek shelter under the nearest, largest tree as rain falls all around me and trickles down the leaves and splatters off the ground to the tune of its own melody.
A little rain can hardly hurt me now…
It was raining when my mother died. I don’t remember much of that day – not the words said during the funeral service in the chapel, not the guests clad in black, not the music playing as they laid her down into the earth. I clearly remember, though, that after everyone had left, I knelt in front of her open grave. As I threw in the rose that I had been gripping so tightly, I swore that I would never live like her or die like her.
For seven years, I watched her go from one man to the next. It was a cycle, really. During the first few days or weeks, sometimes months, she would go around wearing freshly s
tyled or dyed hair, makeup, and sexy clothes, euphoric that she had a man. She was constantly doing anything and everything she could to please him – cooking, dressing up, giving him gifts, massaging his feet, squealing like a pig while she let him fuck her night after night. Anything in the hopes of keeping him from leaving. He left anyway – the second phase – and she would beat her fists against his chest and grab his thigh like a toddler, sobbing uncontrollably. I hated seeing her like that but the third phase was worse – the phase when she wallowed in self-pity, crying her eyes out every day and drowning her sorrows in alcohol every night. Sometimes, it lasted for days. Sometimes, longer than when she was with the last man. After that, she’d come to her senses. It was what I called her Phoenix Phase. I liked being with her during this phase because it was when we spent times as mother and daughter. During those days, I tried to make her feel like she was good enough and that I was enough for her. But it was never enough, and it wasn’t long before the cycle started all over again.
I swore to my mother and to myself that I would never be a victim to such a vicious cycle. A cycle, as my mother demonstrated, that could only end in ruin and death. I swore that I would never give too much of myself and definitely not give without getting as much in return. I swore that I would always be in control of how I felt.
Yet, here I am, unable to stand in front of Grant without my knees shaking or my heart racing or my palms prickling with heat, unable to resist his advances, unable to stop thinking about him. And worst of all, unable to stop wanting him even though I know he’s out of my league, even though I know how much he loves women, even though I know he probably just wants to fuck me some more.
Why does wanting Grant feel so good even though he’s bad for me? Why does he make me feel so helpless? Or what if I’m really just not as strong as I want to be? What if I’m just like my mother? What if I end up just like her?
As the rain pours, some drops finding their way through the sheets of leaves, my cheeks grow wet with tears. Tired, I close my eyes, my last thought of my mother before I drift into unconsciousness.
Help me, Mama.
***
“Mama!”
I call after her as she goes into the house, a smile on her face and her black hair with streaks of red bouncing off her shoulders. I follow her, hearing her laughter in the air as soon as I step through the door.
“Mama?”
I start looking for her, searching every room. But in each one I find a different man and no sign of her. I become more frantic as I climb up the stairs, pushing doors open, running down the hall.
Where is she?
“Aah!”
I run in the direction of her scream, kicking the door down. As soon as it tumbles, I clasp my hands over my mouth and fall on my knees on the floor, my mother in front of me, surrounded by a puddle of her own blood.
“Mama!”
I sit up as I open my eyes, my heart pounding against my chest. Softly, I hear someone telling me to calm down. Vaguely, I feel the warmth of someone’s arms wrap around me. I sit still, waiting for the nightmare to fade as my heart begins to slow down, waiting for my vision and my mind to clear.
When it does, I realize that I’m surrounded by patches of orange and blue.
“Where am I?”
“In my tent,” Grant answers. “Roger and I found you and brought you here while you were sleeping. We didn’t want you to catch a cold.”
I glance around. “Where is he now?”
“He’s left. I sent him off to deliver those documents that you wanted signed so badly.”
The documents.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to send those back.”
“It’s all right. Roger and I both decided that you need to rest. He was more than happy to finish the errand. And I promised him I’d take care of you.”
Take care of me? Suddenly, I become aware that Grant’s arms are still around me. I shake them off.
“Shh.” Grant holds me tighter. “It’s all right. You don’t have to run away from me.”
I continue struggling.
“I’m sorry for what I did earlier. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Let me go!”
He finally releases me, and I move away from him. “You may be my boss, but you don’t own me.”
“I don’t claim to,” he answers calmly. “And I don’t want to.”
“Liar.”
“And if being your boss means you’ll be keeping your distance from me, I’d rather not be your boss.”
I feel confused. “Are you firing me?”
“I’m telling you that you have nothing to be afraid of, Abby.” He leans forward. “Especially not me.”
I move farther from him, shaking my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t believe you. I don’t need you. And I have nothing to give you.”
“I’m not asking you to need me or to give me anything. I’m not going to take anything away from you.”
I still don’t believe him.
“I’m just asking you to want me.” Grant moves closer, taking my hand and placing it on his marbled chest over his racing heartbeat. “And to take me.”
He moves my hand lower between his legs to another hard, bulging part of him, one that quivers beneath my fingers, straining against my palm.
Then he takes his hand off mine, leaving it there on his crotch. My gaze travels back up, meeting his, my breath escaping me as I see the warmth in those blue eyes.
Warmth, not heat.
Exquisite, not overpowering. Strong but gentle. A ripple, not a wave.
Slowly but surely, it spreads through me, enveloping every cell of my body, every fiber of my being, melting the pain from my past and my fears for the future.
I’m no longer afraid.
“You don’t have to give anything up, Abby,” Grant says, his voice as warm and tender as his gaze. “Just give in. You don’t—”
I put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Then holding his gaze, I run my thumb over his lips. He parts them, letting out a deep breath as he closes his eyes. I place my hands on his cheeks and press my mouth against his, my tongue slipping into the crevice.
Grant and I have kissed before but never like this – more like a caress than a clash, our tongues tangling instead of battling. And yet, the effect seems stronger, my mind already reeling, my body already burning.
“Grant,” I gasp out his name before I kiss him harder, climbing onto his lap and moving my hands to his nape.
He, in turn, places his hands on my back, tracing my spine until his fingertips disappear into the waistband of my jeans. Pulling my shirt out, he slowly lifts the hem until it reaches my underarms. I put my arms up, tearing my mouth off his just long enough to let the cotton pass through and then kissing him again fiercely.
Madly.
Shit. His mouth feels so good.
My heart races, the warmth in my veins turning into prickling heat. My fingers get lost in his hair, gripping some of the golden locks as I press my body closer to his, rubbing my softness against his crotch even as my tongue continues to rub against his, the delicious friction sending ripples of pleasure throughout my body.
So good.
Grant’s fingers find the hooks of my bra, undoing them. I feel the cotton undergarment becoming loose, and my breasts, now full and tingling, spring free. Then I feel his hands on them, first tracing the sides before pushing me just slightly backward to cup them, his thumbs rubbing against the pert, sensitive nipples.
Shit.
I break the kiss to let out a gasp, which turns into a moan as Grant sucks on my neck, his skillful hands continuing to work their magic on my bare breasts, which are loving the attention.
Outside, drops of rain start to fall again like beads bouncing off the tent. This time, I don’t mind it. Soon enough, I fail to even notice it as Grant lowers his head to suck on one of my breasts, my moans drowning out the rain as a stronger storm brews inside me.
T
hat tongue, that sinfully wicked tongue, sweeps across my nipple as his lips hold my breast captive, sending more shivers up my spine. As he moves to the other, his hands work on the button and zipper of my jeans, getting them open so that one can slip beneath my underwear.
As his fingers brush against the heated mound of flesh under the cotton, I grab his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I tremble in anticipation. That anticipation turns into thrill as he finds the sensitive bud in my nest of curls then into madness as he coaxes it into bloom.
“Shit!” I hiss, clinging to Grant as the playfulness of his tongue and the right amount of pressure from his fingers send me tumbling into a sharp, early orgasm.
Panting, I collapse against Grant’s chest, resting my head on his shoulder as he, in turn, lies down on the floor of the tent. That spike of pleasure was amazing but that’s all it is – a spike. It’s just like the slide at the end of those water rides: Intensely exciting, but over too soon and leaving you wet, breathless, and wanting more.
I want more.
I lift myself on my arms, gazing down on Grant.
He grins. “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?”
I make a face. “You do understand that you’re saying that while looking at my boobs.”
He chuckles. “Well, they are beautiful.” He cups one and then reaches up to stroke my cheek. “And so are you.”
Again, with the warmth, both from his eyes and his palm. My breath catches.
“Liar,” I tease even though I can tell he meant what he just said.
“Oh, you’re so sassy now that you’re on top, huh?” he teases me back.
I grin. I have to admit being on top is kind of fun.
“You know what? It’s unfair. I’m half naked and you’re not.”
“Fine. Let’s fix that.” He lifts his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside.
Now, I’m the one staring at his chest, marveling at its perfection. Indeed, his upper body is a masterpiece like one of those chiseled marble busts at a museum. I could stare at it all day, but I don’t want to. I’ve already stared at him long enough, several times before. Now is my turn to touch, to feel.
Just as I’m about to touch his chest, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his arm. Upon closer inspection, I realize that it’s a bald eagle, a red rose in its clutches.