by SE Hall
I’m no Romeo, more one-night stands under my belt than I’ll ever admit and more than capable of tawdry, lust-filled meaningless fucks as the next guy, but Jocelyn Craig…
From the moment I saw her, really saw her, she screamed ‘forever or nothing.’ I can’t even think about the former, so holding her, stroking her hair as her stories get softer, voice sleepier with each yawn, and the brief lapse of willpower, it’ll have to do.
For tonight at least.
I WAKE UP SHIVERING, the early morning mist off the water too chilly for this girl. A sturdy, muscular arm nestles me in closer, responding to my needs even in his sleep, and I look over at the peaceful, perfectly-sculpted face of the noble man holding me, a surge of warmth encapsulating me. I burrow down further into Bryce’s arms, his cozy body and the blanket, exhaling a blissful breath.
Feeling safe under the shroud of his slumber, I allow my eyes to roam in feast, faintly tracing each distinct crevice, dent… and scar—an all but vanished line on his abdomen, small and grown back together nicely. I wonder…
“Good morning.” His throaty greeting startles me; my face blushes red, as in ‘caught the same handed.’
“Morning.” I cringe, burying said enflamed face into the crook of his shoulder. “Sorry, I was just-”
“Feeling me up while I slept?” He chuckles. “I think there’s laws against that.” And with a kiss to my temple, I know I’m forgiven.
“What’s your scar from?” I blurt out. Smooth, very delicate way to work it into conversation, Jocelyn.
He rolls, taking me with him, so we lie on our sides, face to face. He toys with my hair, tenderly brushing it off my forehead, a strand tucked behind the ear; anything to avoid eye contact. “My brother needed a kidney, so I gave him one.”
“Oh,” I say with no infliction whatsoever, stunned and impressed into monotone taken—abackness. “That’s very selfless of you. I assume it worked?”
“Yeah, somewhat. Been perfect to have a pancreas, or part of one, to go with it, but I couldn’t get approved to give both.”
“What’s wrong with your brother? I mean, not wrong, but what’d-”
“I know what you mean,” he cuts me off with a smile. “Type I Diabetes.” Unexpectedly, he climbs off the hammock, careful to hold it steady so I don’t go flying out. “You hungry? I’ll make breakfast.”
I accept his extended hands, my feet finding solid ground, and return the smile up at him. “Sure, but I’ll help.”
My curiosity is sparked, but I don’t press for more information on an obvious sensitive subject. I don’t have any siblings, no concept of such love or bond, but his own is clear and admirable.
Hand in hand we walk towards the cabin under the early-morning, amethyst sky, both quiet until we’re inside. “You mind if I take a quick shower? Then I’ll make you a gourmet meal, no help.” He flashes me that liquefying smirk I couldn’t resist if I tried.
“Of course,” I reply, “last door on the left; towels should be in the linen cabinet.”
“Thanks.” He kisses me chastely, not quick enough though—him snagging his phone from his bag and hastily shoving it in his pocket doesn’t escape me.
Who’s he going to call from the shower? And why does it bother me like Hades’ hottest flame?
“Be out in a jif,” he calls over his shoulder as he strides toward the bathroom.
A jif? Oh yeah—nervous talk—Bryce Griggs doesn’t use words like “jif.”
“‘Kay,” I respond sweetly, reminded I should probably check my own phone, and head to my bags for a change of clothes anyway.
The cotton sundress and pink lace boy shorts are easily found, but my phone… everything searched and it’s nowhere. I realize I must’ve left it at home, but I’m not too worried, because the only person I want to talk to is right down the hall. Grabbing my clothes, I make my way to the other full-size bathroom, thinking a nice hot shower does sound pretty damn good.
Once inside, I opt to leave the door unlocked, just cause, and turn the water on to heat up while I strip down. Even over the noise of the spray, I can pick up bits and pieces of his muffled conversation through the vent above me. See, the thing about it being my cabin is—I know what rooms provide ventilation espionage from what other rooms.
It’s not actually spying—I do, in fact, need to pee and take a shower myself.
“Dad,” I hear him say and smile to myself, relieved. It’s sweet of him to check in on his parents, but in the middle of a romantic weekend? Strange.
My ears perk up, yet I do actually get in the shower, scrub my body and shampoo my hair, but still hear it. He asks to speak to his mom, and after a pause, goes through the usual regimen any mother puts one through—he’s good, eating well, job going great, etc.
Then, even stifled, the shift in his voice is blaring. Something about boxes arriving or not and a… pump? No idea where to even start guessing what that could be about, I don’t worry too much. Regardless of what’s in boxes or needs pumped, the call is to his parents, so with my mind at ease, I happily return my focus to showering, shaving my legs to silky, touchable smoothness and give other special areas a little extra consideration.
Hopping out, I dry off, step into my panties, and slide the dress over my head with a cheerful hum. A quick blow dry and light makeup application later, I emerge from the bathroom at the same time as Bryce, meeting head-on in the hallway.
He forgot to take his clothes with him, donned in only a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist. Lucky beads of water cling to his magnificent torso and slowly slide down to the terry cloth not hitched over the dents of his oblique muscles. How I suddenly wish the stealthy ventilation system was actually hidden peepholes… can’t think of what I wouldn’t give to have a private showing of that shower.
“H—hey,” I stammer, probably sounding as gawkily stupid as I feel.
He simpers, turning his head and rubbing a hand over his mouth, failing to cover the cocky grin. “Forgot my clothes.”
“I see that. I’ll just,” I point to the kitchen, “go start breakfast. Take your time.”
I retrieve all of the necessary ingredients from the fridge and set them on the counter as he appears in loose cargo shorts—loose enough to show the CK band of his black briefs—oh yeah, so much better… if I was blind.
Hot and bothered, I may slam down the spatula in my hand, gaining his full-out, delightful laugh. “Whazza matter, gorgeous?” He slips behind me, looping his arms around my waist. “I told you I’d do the cooking. Is that it, hmmm?” he asks rhetorically into the goose-bumped valley of my neck, where I can feel his taunting grin.
“Don’t play games you’re not prepared to lose, Mr. Griggs,” I quip saucily, painting on a façade of nonchalance, squirming out and around him to work on our meal.
“That’s a challenge I’ll be happy to accept, lady.” He pops bread into the toaster and starts pouring two glasses of orange juice at the same time I flip on the coffee maker. “So, what do you want to do today?”
“Anything you want, but tonight, I run the show. I’ve got something special planned for us. Eggs?” I look over my shoulder and ask, to which he nods. “Scrambled alright?”
“Unless you want one of my signature omelets I planned on making,” he winks.
“Well, by all means.” I lift one brow and theatrically hand over the spatula, stepping aside to make room for him. “I’ll just go sit down and look pretty, Emeril.”
“Yeah,” he catches me by the waist, “you do that.”
Finally dousing a bit of my inferno, he kisses me, tender and soft—the idealistic ‘good morning’ I’ve been waiting for. “Very well,” I murmur, sashaying away, extra pizazz to my hips since I can feel him watching, I take a seat at the table, hiking one leg up to rest my chin on my knee, allowing one spaghetti strap to idly fall off my shoulder.
He knows that I know; my panties are telling him good morning in this position, but I did warn the man about games, which I’m
finding I adore playing with him—flirty, light, and invigorating. I’ve never flirted; well, not since I was about fifteen, right around the time I truly lost interest in Hunter… and realized he didn’t have a playful, carefree bone in his body.
Bryce—every bit as contemplative, intelligent, and assessing—merges it perfectly with a sense of ease. He walks in the room, and I swear the weight on my shoulder lifts, the sun or lights get brighter, and my cheeks begin to ache with my permanent smile.
I will definitely have to watch that at the office.
After breakfast has been eaten and cleaned up, he claps his hands, beaming at me. “Swimming. That’s what I pick.”
“Race ya there,” I snicker, darting towards the bedroom I moved our clothes into, tossing his bag in the hall.
Let the games begin.
Somehow, he beats me down to the water—imagine that. With steeled armor, I keep my face stoic, my gait and candor unfazed, as I approach, despite the urge to snicker at his bulged-out eyes and jaw dropped into the ocean.
And yeah, I noticed his hand dip below the surface to adjust himself; doesn’t always shrink in cold water it would seem.
His head jerks left, right, then back at me as his eyes narrow to accusatory slits. “What’re you thinking, Trouble? Public beach,” he sputters.
Doe-eyed innocence, my lips twist cleverly. “Not for two miles either direction it isn’t. Besides, what’s the problem?” Surely it’s not my string-bikini bottoms and lack of a top?
If you told anyone, even Lys who’s known me forever, they’d bet on hell freezing over twice before believing I’m capable of such audacious, brazen antics, but I’m embracing it, rejoicing in the Jocelyn he brings out. Alive; seeing clearly, smelling flowers miles away, hearing the faintest of sounds — like I just started partaking in, and enjoying, the world that’s surrounded me my whole life.
His mouth curves upward at the corner, a twinkle in his eyes reflecting off the water as he beckons me to him with a sexy wriggle of his finger.
“Moi?” I mouth, pointing to myself. My whole body’s buzzing, sexy satisfaction razoring through me as he slowly nods. “Alright,” I huff in feigned inconvenience.
I walk into the water as he walks out, hoisting me up as we meet, wrapping my legs around his waist for me.
“You’ll be my end, Jocelyn Craig,” he says, almost demurely, almost a frown, heading us backward into the deeper water.
“The ending’s supposed to be the best part.” I smile, leaning in to rest my forehead on his. “Do I win the game?”
He glances down at my breasts—nipples hardened from the cool water, his tongue lazily tracing his bottom lip. “I’m afraid you just might.”
I COULD’VE STAYED in the water with her forever. All morning, and well into the afternoon, we’d taunted, tantalized, and tested one another—a constant tug-of-war, both thinking and wanting the same thing, neither stepping over the arbitrary line in surrender.
Jocelyn topless, gorgeous and almost more than I could resist, I’m proud to say the rest of our suits stayed on; her immaculate, large yet perky breasts given sole, and still not enough, attention. A whole day of suckling those sweet mounds, filling my roaming hands perfectly, rose-colored nipples pebbling hard and hot for each flick of my tongue or nip of my teeth didn’t near leave me gorged. My appetite for her is infinite, I’m a starving man at an endless buffet when she’s in my arms.
But as her skin—shiny and bronzed like a new penny—began to pink up under the blazing sun, I regrettably talked her into going inside. I didn’t want her to burn and be miserable the rest of our weekend; and where I found the strength to end the flirty wrestling, waves causing accidental touches here and there upon each other’s bodies, I’ll never know.
We’d enjoyed a light lunch of sandwiches, eaten while laid back on the couch and watched “Sommersby”—yes, she talked me into it. Somewhere in the middle of our debate over whether or not he’d made the right choice, she’d fallen asleep, which is where she is now—purring like a kitten, stretched out on her stomach between my legs, head on my chest, hands tucked under my back.
As badly as I ache to touch her, I don’t risk waking her, settling for resting my face on the top of her head, tousled hair fragrant of saltwater and something citrus, placing intermittent kisses when the enticement becomes unbearable.
“Bryce,” an angelic voice enters my dream. “Time to wake up; I’ve got plans for you.”
“Mhmm,” I mumble groggily, resisting, as a wistful but succulent kiss on my lips fully wakes me. Opening my eyes, a golden pair radiating with loving, anxious zest peer down at me, hair similar in color falling down around her ethereal face.
She’s mystifying, and I’m screwed. Reluctant to acknowledge how submersed I already am, stubborn and obstinate my two most prominent qualities, I’m also a rationalist... there’s no way back from this. And any further efforts to fight it, delude myself into believing I’ll come out of this unscathed or unattached, would be a colossal waste of time. Caught firmly in her trap, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to escape, and damn near positive I’d never want to.
“You’re the boss.” I grin, my voice still thick with sleep. “I’m up.”
“Are your eyes closed?” she asks for the tenth time thus far in our trek, her excitement bubbling over.
Not all the way, she’s driving my truck, in the dark, to who knows where, her feet barely reaching the pedals. So yeah, I’m stealing a peek of survival here and there, I confess…but not to her.
“Uh huh,” I grimace.
“Just a few more minutes, keep ‘em closed. You want me to turn on the radio?”
“No, no,” I exclaim nimbly, last thing I want is for her to have any sort of distraction. “You do know I’m not familiar with this area, babe, so I probably coulda kept my eyes open.”
“I considered that, babe,” her emphasis not mocking, rather lined with cheerfulness. I hadn’t realized the endearment slipped out, but hearing she liked it, I do too. “But once we come up on it, you’d definitely see the surprise, so better to close ‘em now,” she giggles.
Less than ten minutes later, we come to a stop and I hear her shift into park. “We’re here, but don’t open them yet! I’ll come around to get you,” she instructs.
A chauvinist I’m not, and relinquishing the driver’s seat of my truck was one thing, but her walking around at night by herself—me not even watching—is a whole other ball game. “Jocelyn?” I yell, set on giving her five seconds to respond before I take helm of this whole operation.
“Right here,” she says, my door opened, her hand gripping mine. “Okay, get out, eyes closed! I’ll lead you. Trust me?”
Alarmingly fast and unfamiliar, the answer forms in my head, rolls down and out of my mouth thoughtfully. “Yeah, J, I do.”
“Good.” I feel a kiss, leaning in for more, which I’m denied.
“I’ll lead you with this hand,” she squeezes the one she’s already holding. “Can you carry this in your other?” A handle of some sort is placed in my left hand and I grip down.
“Yeah, I got it.”
She releases her hold on me and I hear a click, the door behind me shut, then her fingers are again weaved with mine. “Alright, let’s go. Don’t worry, I got you,” she simpers lightly; what a fool I must look, blind and fumbling for sure footing behind her.
My other senses kick into overdrive as a plethora of noises bombard me, those I can decipher being the hoots and croaks of night creatures, the rustle of leaves and branches blowing in the night’s breeze, and the gravel crunching beneath our steps. Salt penetrates the aroma and taste of each deep breath I inhale, letting me know we’re still close to the coast. “J,” I growl a warning.
“Shh, we’re almost done.” There’s metal scraping, then the eerie creak of a heavy door? “Duck your head and follow me closely. Now don’t freak out, but you’re going to climb one-hundred-ninety-nine steps. Match mine, one at a time.”
W
hat the fuck? We’re inside somewhere, something... the door, our voices now echoing off the walls. Where exactly is this intriguing little seductress taking me?
Exactly one-hundred-ninety-nine well-guided, talked through stairs later, I hear the five most blessed words ever spoken. “You can open them now.”
Boy do I, my curiosity starving for answers and... I audibly gasp. It’s astonishing, and really high up. A streak of white light flashes, offering a stunning view of the vast body of endless water in front of us. “Where are we?” I husk out, dazzled and senses all still a bit muddled.
“This,” she replies softly, cloaked in the shadows of the cozy space, “is Cape May Lighthouse—my secret, special place.” She lays the flashlight I heard click on the ground, our only light inside, and takes the picnic basket I was unknowingly toting from me. I watch as she fluffs out a blanket and spreads it on the floor, then drops down to her knees and stretches out her hand to me. I join her, sacrificing the breathtaking view for an exceptionally better one.
“I used to tell my parents I was running to the store or meeting friends, but instead, I’d come here. Figured out a way inside by about seventeen,” she chuckles softly. “Before that, I had to join the crowds during the day, but that was simply unacceptable—an only child, sharing has never been my strong suit. So, I configured a way in, just me and my place.”
“I can see why; it’s incredible.”
“This lighthouse was built in 1859, the lamp, or beam of light, became automated in 1946. The first two versions they built crumbled into the ocean, where they still lay buried today. But not this one,” she sighs, as though with personal pride, “this one stands strong.”
I stare at her incredulously, soaking up every word, as she digs in the basket, producing two flutes and a bottle of champagne. “Will you do the honors?” She hands me the bubbly, and never leaving the sanctity of her gaze, I pop it open, grinning at her surprised squeal. Filling the glasses, we then clink them together in a silent toast and each take a healthy drink.