by Gage Grayson
That’s her name. I keep forgetting but keep remembering.
I know I don’t really feel neutral about it, but I still don’t know what the fuck I feel.
I get ready to meet Madeline like it’s a well-worn morning routine: half-conscious shower, semiconscious tooth-brushing and flossing, near-unconscious selection of a halfway acceptable outfit.
Wait, no. What the fuck, Ethan? Way more casual than that. What would I be wearing a fucking tie for?
Dark button-down, sleeves rolled up, tucked into dress slacks. Brown belt matching my shoes.
I comb my hair in the full-length bedroom mirror. I need a fucking trim.
I put on my wristwatch and look at it. No time to shave...what time are we supposed to meet again?
I’ve taken part in ribbing coworkers for growing a vacation beard on their honeymoon. A honeymoon is no fucking place for that—at least I don’t think. Some beards look okay, some look like fucking shit...
To be on the safe side, I take one more visit to the bathroom for a quick shave with my straight razor, and I break out the good aftershave lotion.
Who the fuck are you trying to impress? I can hear Audra asking me that―she was there, right at my side, close enough to touch me ever so slightly, when I picked it up at the boutique. I see her tantalizing, off-center smile for a fleeting instant before it disappears, leaving behind a moment of light physical pain, like a soft kick to my gut.
Fuck this shit, it’s time for my date.
Sunset is still in progress when I get to the asphalt path leading back to the beach. The range of scarlet hues are giving way to the bluish tint of dusk, but the colors are still brilliant, near-overwhelming over the western horizon.
Good thing there’s a narrow strip of pavement leading all the way to the beach bar. Last think I need is more sand all over the goddamn place.
This bar isn’t much more than a canopied little counter in the middle of an uncrowded beach.
There’s a scattering of cliché vacationers with shorts, sandals and daypacks surrounding the front and sides of the bar. Nobody’s swimming or surfing or sitting on the beach and watching the sunset.
And there’s no Madeline.
My first thought: there’s no date with Madeline. I’m remembering some drunken dream and fucking following it into reality.
My second thought: the remaining rays of the sunset are sparkling perfectly off her features, which are just as dazzling when laid bare by her pulled-back hairdo.
Fuck, here she is again, appearing out of the thin salty beach air.
“I hope I’m not still dreaming,” is my less than smooth greeting. Why the fuck does this girl make me unable to function normally?
I watch for Madeline’s reaction, her face now just a few inches from mine.
I feel Madeline’s fingers grabbing a fleshy section of my forearm and squeezing. She maintains her gaze into my eyes as her pinch becomes painfully tight.
The emerald of Madeline’s eyes makes her pinch feel like pure magic. I’m not sure if I want her to let go, but she finally does.
“Any doubts left?” Madeline’s eyes reflect her laughter, but she doesn’t even start to smile.
She looks so fucking hot.
“Plenty.”
I smile, but Madeline just stays cool. It drives me fucking crazy.
How do I feel like this about someone I barely know, whose name I’ve only just learned?
My go-to theory is that I’m dealing with fallout from my marriage in ways that I may never understand.
But it doesn’t feel like that. Not at fucking all. It feels so, well…real.
“Pinch me again,” I request, fighting a grin.
Seriousness reenters Madeline’s eyes as she grazes her thumb and forefinger against my arm for the briefest moment. Then the sparkle comes back into her stare.
I have to try not to laugh, not to smile. I can’t tell you the last time I was in that position. Maybe never.
“I need a drink,” Madeline exclaims, just a bit awkwardly. It’s charming as shit.
“Good news: there’s a bar not twenty feet from where we’re standing.”
Shit, I can do better than that.
But right now, I fucking can’t. I’m almost fucking stuttering.
This is more than just fallout. I really hope it is.
Either ignoring what I said or taking action on it, Madeline is already walking to the bar.
She’s walking across the sand, her stylishly lopsided, tropical-print skirt swaying with her determined steps.
I follow directly behind. The sand is crunching under my shoes, but I’ve never cared less about it.
The bartender, an older guy who looks like he founded and built this entire resort himself, immediately gives Madeline his full attention when she squares up to the bar.
I’m still behind her, and with her back to me, Madeline looks unapproachable somehow.
I feel fucking sheepish, which is new territory―like everything else these past few days. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore.
“Lava Lava,” Madeline dictates to the bartender. He turns around and gets to work.
“Another drink I’ve never heard of. Is that like kava kava? I guess it does relax you.”
That’s my speech while I slink onto the seat next to Madeline’s. I immediately start going through everything that’s wrong with it in my head. Madeline just kind of nods as the bartender starts running the blender.
“A blender drink,” I add, staying simpler this time.
“Yeah, my blender at home is screwed. Just another thing I’m indulging in here: blended drinks, fresh fruit.”
“Where’s home?” For all I know, she lives a mile away.
The bartender is quick with Madeline’s plastic cup full of red and white swirled, icy whatever the fuck it is.
“It’s mostly fruit, but they didn’t give me the big pineapple wedge this time. What gives, Ethan?”
Yeah, it’s a bit outright fucking startling to hear Madeline say my name. I can’t explain why exactly.
“If you want a pineapple, I can get that for you. I can make that my personal mission right now.”
Madeline sips through her straw.
“Oh, that’s fucking good, though.”
“Should I get one?”
Madeline takes another sip.
“I don’t know, if you like things that are fucking good.”
“Good enough for me.”
I order the fruit-blasted icy drink. We sip our Lava Lavas as night overtakes the islands.
“I appreciate someone who likes a lot of fruit in their poison,” she tells me.
“I like whatever you like,” I return.
Madeline chuckles into her drink. I don’t know if it’s my goddamn fucking cheesiness, or if she actually enjoyed that.
And I don’t care. I’m fixed on her, and she seems fine with my gaze as she drinks casually.
“You can’t be here by yourself,” she informs me.
“That’s news to me.”
I’m torn between the urge to tell her everything and the need to hold back about my pitiful circumstances.
No. She doesn’t need to know that, and no one wants to hear about that crap.
“Do you live here?” I semi-ask, knowing that it’s the second time I’ve asked basically the same damn question, and she’s probably getting bored as fuck.
“Do you?”
“Touché.”
I hope she gets what’s implied—that I don’t want to answer, either.
Madeline seems to get something, because her eyes are meeting mine again.
“You’re gonna be finished with that drink soon,” is what I say for some fucking reason.
“I’m only halfway through.”
I don’t dare look away to check her cup. “I’ll take your word for it, but order whatever you want next.”
“You own this place! I knew it!”
I point to the bartender, who�
��s serving someone else, with a mock sigh.
“No, you’re thinking of that guy. I just stay here on what’s supposed to be my honeymoon.”
I let it slip out, and Madeline just picks up her drink and takes the straw gently between her fingers for another sip.
“I’m supposed to be here for something like that.” I feel Madeline’s tone change for the first time.
“I think I’m witnessing a rare iteration of serious Madeline. Do tell.”
Madeline shrugs, of fucking course. “Two-week vacation, my first one in fucking years...anyway, I was getting tired of going with my friends to bars and clubs and all that crap.”
“Tired of drinking?”
Madeline kills the last of her drink before answering. “Oh, fuck no! Just wanted to drink somewhere else...with the same friends, but different people, or something.”
Madeline absentmindedly picks up her empty cup and puts it back down.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t believe what?” Madeline glares at me, legitimately annoyed.
“Serious Madeline, indeed. I mean I don’t believe you have trouble meeting people.”
For the second time at the bar, Madeline makes earnest eye contact. “Are you really trying to give me the same compliment I gave you earlier?”
“If I enjoy something, I like to show my appreciation in kind.”
“Good to know you’re the mutual kinda guy. Come up with your own lines, though.”
We order another round, Madeline demanding pineapple wedges. What the bartender ends up serving is an entire chopped pineapple on a plate.
“I’ll just say it: people who’ve never had pineapple in Hawaii haven’t really had pineapple,” I declare while taking a big bite of fruit―the first food I’ve had in over a day.
“The mass market ones are from here, I don’t think they’re anything special. Fresher, though. They don’t ripen after picking.”
It looks like Madeline enjoys her pineapple more than she lets on after taking a bite.
“Fresher. Exactly. It can’t not make a difference.”
Madeline proceeds to take in about a third of her fresh drink through the straw.
“What-fucking-ever.”
“There’s no reason not to appreciate some tropical goddamn fruit.”
I sip my own drink, and Madeline actually fucking laughs for real.
“I hope we can do better than that tonight,” she fires back.
I put down the fruit wedge and see Madeline smiling meekly at her drink.
“Your call. Everything’s better in Hawaii.”
Madeline does her famous shrug.
“Eh, we’ll see about that.”
With only part of a slice of pineapple in my stomach over 24-plus hours, it doesn’t take many rounds to get me back to the same unsteadiness.
And then Madeline’s leading me onto the beach, towards the ocean.
“You think you’re gonna get me with this again? I’m down one set of clothes already.”
“You’re complaining about losing clothes, Pineapple Man? What the fuck did you come to Hawaii for?”
It’s like she didn’t take my flippant honeymoon comment seriously.
“Maybe a few romantic walks on the beach…but not too many nights sleeping under the stars.”
I look up at the night sky, and holy shit, there are a lot of fucking stars visible.
I look back at Madeline, but she’s staring up at the sky herself.
“There’s the Milky Way. Can’t see that shit from the city.”
I want to ask what city, but I don’t.
“It’s nice to look at, but I prefer sleeping indoors.”
“Even tonight?”
We’ve both stopped now. Madeline moves in closer.
“Sleeping or not, I’d like to end up back in my suite at one point.”
Madeline’s eyes widen. “A room’s not good enough for you? I want to see what a suite looks like here.”
“That can be arranged,” I respond calmly. “That can be so very fucking arranged.”
Ethan
Madeline and I are falling into sync more and more as we trot back to the main hotel, through the lobby, into the elevator―we already have a quiet connection, which is a good fucking sign for things to come.
“You better be telling the truth about this suite, mister.”
Madeline’s wearing a farcically pouty face, her plump lips jutting out, her ruby-red lipstick like an unquenchable fire in the midst of the pale, milky heaven of her face.
Is she really trying to be funny with that? Her face is turning angry now, with the same jokiness.
“Or what?”
Madeline slowly closes the distance between us as the elevator slowly clambers up to the penthouse floor.
“Or this kiss will be the end of it.”
I have what I’m led to believe is the largest, most expensive, and generally just the best fucking suite in the resort, and possibly the state, but just in case Madeline’s threat of leaving things with a single kiss comes to pass, I throw myself into it.
My lips meet the pillowy paradise of hers softly at first, and I pull away at a slow pace, lingering on her lower lips as I feel her breath softly.
Now I’m close enough to Madeline to look down and see her eyes, that glowing emerald color which fills me with blistering desire every fucking time.
Madeline’s left hand is on my back, and she’s starting to grip me hard, grabbing my shirt and a bit of muscle.
“Not a kiss like that, a kiss like this.”
Madeline grabs my head with both hands, and I receive the message as quickly as I can by meeting her in a frenzied flood of freshly unfettered yearning. Her tongue shoots up past my lips, and a marvelous weakness overtakes me for a second―I don’t know if it’s the continued intoxication from fruity drinks or a new kind of extreme pseudo-honeymoon passion I’m feeling, but I’m happy to take it either way.
After we let the kiss evolve and fade naturally, I relish the sensation of Madeline’s hands traveling over my backside, working their way lower and lower as her verdant eyes pierce through me. I slowly caress the small of her back, getting a sense of the very top of the curvature of her ass.
Since I’ve mostly been focused on her eyes during our drinking sessions/dates, another wave of inebriated, lust-drunk elation passes through me as I squeeze her superbly well-rounded ass.
I sense the strong turn from passion-drunk to passion-driven as the elevator door opens.
The thrill of Madeline holding my arm softly and leading me across the warm sands of the beach was like a small but unflagging flame.
Madeline digging into my forearm with vicelike intensity and dragging me down the hall is like the unstoppable, explosive advent of a brand-fucking-new universe.
I don’t see an end in sight, not one within human comprehension. This is all I know, and all I want to know, really.
“Do you know where the door is?” I ask to keep myself grounded in the moment.
“I can tell!”
Her voice rings through like a snarky, angelic siren-song, one that could lull me to shipwreck any goddamn time it wanted. In this unexpected moment, as time is in turn slowing down with anticipated ecstasy and speeding up along with my pulse, it’s leading a stumbling path, along with me, down the carpeted hotel hallway.
We’re reeling along in tandem by the time we reach the main door.
“I hope you have a card or something.”
I take in Madeline’s eyes, sparkling with laughter at her own half-formed joke, for another tiny moment as I fumble for the keycard in my wallet.
“I wouldn’t lose the key to my happiness.”
With that I find the magnetic card and hold it up in triumph.
“My happiness, too, I hope.”
“I am a mutual kind of guy,” I say with a smirk.
Madeline’s expression is suddenly oozing enough smoky sultriness to ignite the whole damn hallway
. It’s enough to nearly turn me into a useless pile of jelly, and I turn away to at least finish the task at hand of opening the door.
Madeline lightly leans up against my arm while I insert the card into the top of the lock. The sensation of the outline of her perfectly-formed tits, just the front of them, radiates from my arm throughout my being as I watch the light on the door turn green.
I don’t want to waste another fucking second, so I turn to Madeline while opening the door. She keeps leaning into me, even after I move my arm to wrap it around her, so her tits are pressing hard against me as we dissolve into another zealous kiss.
Our innocently tipsy stumbling down the hall has transformed into a dance of ravenous passion into the suite. Our lips stay decisively locked, our arms remain tightly folded around each other as we spin in jagged circles across the floor.
Say what you will about instinct because even in our blind staggering, we end up right outside the door from the living room to the bedroom when we finally pull away from each other for a breath.
Madeline looks up and contemplates me for a hot moment, but the calm interlude ends as her hands begin drifting up and down my ass, migrating slowly around to the front of my pants.
I’ve got both cheeks of her ass resolutely in my grip, luxuriating in the feel of them in my palms.
Then we stop entirely to look at each other in silent bliss once more, to take a breath before diving head first into the deep end.
“I hope the suite is everything you were hoping for,” I quip.
Madeline takes a quick glance around.
“It’s not bad so far. Lots of promise. Let’s see how things go.”
Staying in sync, we entwine ourselves into an even hungrier kiss, our tongues getting down to business as we teeter through the bedroom.
Standing by the bed, we stop for another breath. My cock is bulging, throbbing, straining against the meager fabric that makes up the front of my pants. Usually, my plan at this point would be to make sure that Madeline gets off at least once, maybe several times, before we resume.
But Madeline continues to buck trends by slowly sinking to her knees, her hands softly running down the sides of my shirt until she grabs hold of my belt.
Madeline fixes her bright green stare at me as she moves both hands towards my belt buckle at a fucking glacial pace. As much as I’m looking forward to that moment―so soon yet so far―when my cock gets the chance to bust out of its cotton confinement, I’m mainly thinking about how I’m going to throw every fiber of my being into giving Madeline the best fucking night of her life.