I start to pull away, but his eyes laugh as they meet mine in the lamplight, giving him away. He strokes my hair, kisses my breasts.
“That’s fine, no biggie,” I play along, “I just hope Good Nights lives up to its name tonight.”
“Oh, Sweetness,” he growls. He’s so irresistible like this. He pushes me down onto the bed, lowering his arms just a little, our lips inches apart. “You’ll be walking funny tomorrow but begging for a sixth star.”
I start to laugh, but he covers my mouth with his, his eyes full of desire and intent. He lowers his body to mine slowly, his warm chest touching my breasts, then backs off. What a tease! He lowers and kisses me, then pulls away slightly, lowers and kisses again until I can’t take anymore, and I’m wrapping my legs around him, pulling him closer, begging him for more with my eyes, my pelvis, my entire body.
When he’s deep inside me and we’re rocking together as one, I moan out loud, clawing his back with my nails. He’s primitive, but he touches me in all the right places. It’s fiery, raw, beautiful. This is the best sex I’ve ever had. How have I been missing out on this feeling my whole life?
The sensations rise like waves at high tide, culminating to a peak, until neither of us can take any more. We surf to the shore together, calling each other’s names and several curse words. When we fall to our backs, spent, I feel wetness on my right cheek, but can’t tell if the tears are mine or Tripp’s. I get my answer when he turns his head to look at me, his eyes moist, a smile across his face.
“You are beyond beautiful,” he says, and I drift into deep, blissful sleep.
Twenty-four
Tripp
Hannah is still asleep when my eyes open to the early morning light. I sit up slowly and watch her while she dreams. Her rosebud lips are pursed like a small, innocent newborn; her long eyelashes flutter like a butterfly’s wings in the breeze. She’s my Snow White, pale and pristine, asleep in a field of flowers.
OHoogahhhh!
OHooogahhhhhh!
Blimey! She snores. And loudly!
So, maybe not like a butterfly, or a princess. Definitely not silent.
I pull on my boxers and jeans, which I find on the floor among our pile of tossed clothes, then stand and listen to her for another moment, trying to recall what other noises I’ve come across in my life that are akin to this alarming new Hannah sound. I finally get it as I start down the stairs. She sounds like two teenagers with air horns, competing for attention at a football game. And the sound my first car made when it stalled at stop signs.
‘Hello, Master Luke.” Jughead squawks when he sees me, and then he chortles. I wouldn’t think he has any clue what the bloody names he’s calling us mean, except there’s that drawn-out guffaw he always makes at the end! We may have a maniacal dictator here, disguised in a macaw costume.
“No Jughead,” I say in a low whisper, with hopes that he didn’t already wake Hannah. “Don’t you know by now? My name is Tripp.”
“Get a grip, Tripp.” There’s that guffaw again.
“I don’t mind if I don’t. I’m perfectly content sitting on cloud nine right now.” I feed him a cracker, and then I start whistling an old tune Dad taught me. I’m not sure why it came to mind now, but I’m moved with the memory of sitting on Dad’s lap in his office, back when he was content. “There’ll be mango soon, buddy, hang in there. Gotta go make eggs for my gal.”
“You’re our only hope.”
I shake my head but can’t shake my smile. He’s somehow morphed from a cursing child macaw into a movie-obsessed tween. We need to get him a girlfriend—keep him occupied and out of trouble.
I head to the kitchen, noticing how bright and sunny it is in each room. The dining area looks completely different, and I can’t help but think about serving Hannah breakfast here soon. I feel a spring in my steps; what a beautiful day to be alive. I spread a little oil around the frying pan on the stove, then open the fridge to find that it’s nearly empty. Thankfully, two eggs remain, and I think there are about a half dozen of my crumpets left. I could show Hannah how to make them. We’ll have to grab a few supplies at the corner store this afternoon.
“Hi, you.”
Hannah strolls into the kitchen wearing just a white t-shirt and panties, her long legs and slender bum seducing me with every step. Her puffy eyes and tousled hair remind me of every single move we made under those sheets last night. I’ve heard of bad hair days, but I think this is what women call “a disaster.” Tousled at the top, sticking out like she jammed her fingers in a socket before coming down for tea. I want to wrap it and her around me and take her back to bed.
“Sweetness. Good morning.” I kiss her softly and hand her a cup of piping hot tea.
“You’re spoiling me. It’s going to be a hard decision.” She leans back against the kitchen counter and blows on her tea. I notice her breasts are like perfectly round tennis balls, her nipples hard in that t-shirt she’s wearing. Wait, isn’t that my t-shirt?
“Decision?” I can’t quite concentrate on what she is saying, now that I realize she’s wearing a white lace thong under my shirt.
“Yea,” she sighs. “I checked my phone just now. The bridge has reopened and flights are open too.”
I flip the eggs with a spatula, put them on simmer, change my crestfallen expression to one she won’t be able to read, and turn around.
“You’re leaving?”
“I don’t want to, Tripp.” She looks sad, but also a little panicked. “I just… I don’t know… how long can we play house? Really? I need to get back to reality, find a new job, try to sell my old place.”
“This is reality, Sweetness. Just because it’s doing us both some good doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
Hannah sips her tea, puts it down, and wraps her arms around me. I’m relieved for the physical contact from her, but utterly confused why she’s pulling away emotionally.
“I know, but, I used to have my own television show, and now, I’m nothing.”
“You aren’t nothing to me. You’re everything.” I pull her in close and kiss her tenderly.
“Oh, Tripp,” she says, pulling away. “I love you. I do. But we’re living in a bubble here on this island. It’s just not practical. Maybe I can come back on the Good Nights refund when I land a new TV show, and things are sorted back home. The app’s date and time are still frozen to the day and hour I arrived here, but they sent me a form letter in the direct messages, and I received it. I guess they sent it to all of their customers. We’re getting a full refund and our next stay is free.”
I feel like a knife has gone straight through my heart. Twice. “What’s so wrong with a bubble? We’ve been far from slacking. We’ve been doing some good for others, and we can keep doing that together. We’ve done more in a few days than some people do all of their lives.”
“I agree. I know. It’s just, Jill told me there may be this LA gig… she said I have a chance to revive my career… she’s my best friend. I’m torn…”
“L.A.?” I pull back and look into her eyes. “You had a wild and wonderful idea to make a documentary. It’s as anti-L.A. as it goes. Be brave, Han. Make the thing. Spend the summer with me. I spoke with the owner this morning. He says he isn’t planning on coming back…”
“The whole summer…” She sighs as her lips curl up into a slight smile. Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere.
“Yes, can you imagine?” I give her a gentle squeeze. “Last night, we said we loved each other. Can’t we explore ‘us’ a while longer?”
“I still can’t believe how fast this has happened to us. I mean, I feel it too… but… how?”
“How?”
“How did this happen?”
“I don’t bloody know! You stormed into my life, true to your name, with an angry bird in your hand. How could I not take notice of you?” Hannah’s eyes grow wide,
and her expression changes. I see love.
“Let’s put aside the fact that I’m an ornithologist and that seemed a bit like divine intervention. Or the fact that you’re clever, independent, and you want to help all creatures, even petulant birds, grumpy Brit buggers, and teenagers who speak another language. You’re also the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. How could I not fall in love with you?
I can feel Hannah’s knees buckle under her, so I tighten my grip and turn her so her back is against the counter.
“What if this doesn’t work out?” she asks, her voice quivering. She exhales deeply before saying anything more. “I mean, I have to go back to Canada, and you live in forking Oxford. I’ve never been, don’t even know what it looks like, and you’re going to go back home too, and probably break my heart. Or what if it’s me who disappoints you? I know you never thought you’d find love again. What if I’m not what you want?”
That’s enough. Enough overthinking for one morning. I swiftly grab her around her waist and lift her onto the counter.
“What if you stop throwing a wobbly, and I kiss all those worries away?”
For the first time this morning, I hear her melodic laugh, and it calms me.
“Counter sex is so underrated,” I say. “The granite stuff, that’s cold, but the older models; this smooth, thick maple butcher block that we’ve got going here? Yea baby, that’s the stuff wet dreams are made of.”
“Uh,” she smirks at me, “so then, you’ve been experiencing counter sex alone?” I notice we’re nearly eye-level now.
“No, Numpty Gal!” I chuckle. “No, I was being poetic. You’re the writer—thought you’d like that.”
“Would you just shut up and do me?”
“I would be happy to oblige.” I grab hold of the counter with one hand and stroke her lovely bare thighs with the other as our lips come together.
Our kisses are even more powerful than last night. So powerful, I’m afraid I’ll lose my balance, and she’ll come tumbling down with me. I hold on to her tighter, but I’m not worried about a few bruises in the name of love.
If this is our last day together, we need to make some memories to take home with us.
Twenty-five
Tripp
There are white, foamy bath bubbles everywhere. In her hair, on our arms and legs, overflowing onto the floor. It’s a beautiful mess.
After we exhausted the kitchen counter, I carried Hannah upstairs to the roomy four-poster bed. I didn’t once check a clock, but I knew when our morning of lovemaking had turned to early afternoon. I could tell by the soft, soulful light flowing down and around Hannah’s ginger hair and pale skin. It shone through the white sheers in such a hallowed way, it reminded me of sunlight coming through a cathedral’s stained-glass windows. I sighed with deep contentment as I curled into her body. If these holy hours with Hannah were akin to attending church, well, then I’d just made up for missing a decade’s worth of confessional.
“A penny for your thoughts?” I smile at Hannah’s choice of expression and sink further down under the bubbly froth, my head resting comfortably between her breasts. She has been spending too much time with this Brit, and it’s rubbing off on her language, but too much time is never enough. I slowly rub her calves with my soapy hands, then pull her legs gently up and around my knees. She’s wrapped around me like a big red Christmas bow. My toes just touch the edge of the soaker tub, and it’s deep enough to cover the both of us with suds and water. I don’t want to leave. I will shrivel up in this hot water, but I shall die a happy man.
“I was thinking how I’ve never taken a bubble bath before, and that I could quite get used to this.”
“You’ve never taken a bath?” I can’t see her face, but she sounds incredulous.
“I’ve taken baths, my mum made me do so, of course, but not long, lingering bubble baths, and never one with another person.”
“Another first for us, then. We need to call Guinness World Records and record these achievements.” She chuckles.
“I’m not calling anyone, all day, and possibly not a soul on this Earth ever again.” I take her hand and start to give it a gentle massage with my thumb. I read that hand massages are important for people who type a lot. “Bea is working, and the flood waters have receded, but we can check in on her tomorrow. We have this afternoon and evening all to ourselves.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. This hand thing you’re doing and our alone time.”
“You like that?”
“Yea, I love it. So sensual. No one’s ever done it for me before.”
“Has anyone given you a nickname?” I rub her knuckles.
“Besides Hani, which I hate? Not really. I liked it when you called me Sweetness.”
I feel myself blush, recalling the heat of our bodies coming together for the first time last night. Combined with the steam lifting off the water, I’m feeling somewhat light-headed. “I wasn’t thinking much when I came up with that, if you recall…”
“So then, it was organic. Unforced. I like that. I think you need a pet name.”
“Oh no! No bloody pet name for me!”
“Well, I can take Numpty Gal... even though I know it’s an insult.”
“It is, and it isn’t,” I say, stroking her forearm. “I tend to show affection to those I love through insults. It’s my heritage.”
“Oh yes, that cold British heart. Showing affection with insults. My gramps did that. He called me Dum-Dum.”
“Dum-Dum?” I laugh.
“Yes, and I loved it. He even wrote me a poem in my autograph book when I was five:
“‘When I sit down,
“I often get numb bum,
“and when I get numb bum,
“I think of my Dum-Dum!’”
“Oh, that is clever. Your gramps was funny.”
“And Granny was a darling with an infectious chuckle. I miss them.” She sighs, and I feel her back sinking further down into the water. I sink along with her.
“Well then, in their honor, Numpty Gal it is,” I say. “You know, the first day we met, I called you Princess in my mind, but you’re much more than that. You’ve led a spoiled life, yes, but you recognize it, and you give back. You’re a treat. In fact,” I begin kissing her fingers, overdoing it for the comedy. “You’re so delicious… I should call you sweet cakes.”
“Ew!” She sits up a little and throws me off balance.
“Crumpet?” I try again. She’s laughing now, and it’s making my whole chest shake under the suds.
“Fairy cake?” I’m kidding, and she knows it.
“Um, no. No thanks. Sweetness. That’s good. But I’m definitely calling you Grumpet.”
“Yea, yea… no nicknames for me.”
“Oh, so it doesn’t go both ways?
“Both ways? Oh, we could do it all the ways, if you want.”
She starts throwing suds at me, narrowly missing my eyes. I slowly turn around on my knees and retaliate, splashing some water on her, along with the suds.
“Stop!” she says amid a fit of giggles. “We’re making a mess!” Despite her pleas for me to stop, she keeps splashing me until I grab her hands and kiss her, hard. Our bubble fight is soon forgotten.
We’re wrapped in the cozy white waffle robes James left hanging in the en-suite bathroom, sitting in the sunshine of the bedroom balcony, listening to the chirping field crickets and softly cooing stock doves. I feel like we’re on a cruise ship in a roomy first-class cabin. We can see the deep blue edges of the ocean just beyond the coniferous trees out front. After days of high winds and rain, I could do without the rocking of the ship, so this view on solid ground, from the balcony, is perfect. We’ve made spicy Chai tea and toast to add to this feast for our five senses.
“Will you stay the summer?” I blurt it out, seeing no reason to preten
d this isn’t important to me.
Hannah looks at me. “I don’t know Tripp. I don’t know. I mean, I got this idea to write a documentary about this island, to try to force the French government to revitalize the homes along the shore, so they can use them for tourism. That way, the visitors to your Aviary would have a low-budget place to stay.”
She’s brilliant. “Tourism can spoil an island, but if we keep it under careful watch, it could help the people living here, yes. I’ve already hired an environmentalist for my project, to keep it all in check. I hadn’t thought about where all the visitors would stay.”
“Not everyone can afford a mansion on a hill.” She smiles and points out two ferryboats crossing each other’s paths. They’re back in working order.
“True. The cottages would be perfect. They’d keep people from simply camping in the forest, although, I’m trying to set up restrictions anyway.” I haven’t had time to tell her yet how I need Oxford’s help to assure our special forest becomes a protected area. It’s going to take years, but I’ll build the open Aviary on the edge, where we parked our car, and apply for environmental protection for the rest of the forest. If I find the Skinks, that will certainly help move the process along.
“Maybe there’s a way you could be involved in fixing the cottages up, too. I loved what you did for Béa.”
“The sweeping? The flowers in the vase? I don’t know, I may have picked her goldenrod! I’m not up to speed on my French wildflowers.” She’s blowing on her tea again. I can’t get enough of that.
“They looked beautiful. You’re beautiful. I’ll help you out with the documentary. Please, stay with me here.”
She looks at me for a second, then exhales, grinning. “Okay, I’ll do it. Let’s do it. I’ll write the documentary, but I need to go back in a couple weeks to get my old house sold and grab a few more clothes and…”
I pull an imaginary, futuristic visor from off the top of my head, down over my eyes. “Clothes? Where we’re going, we don’t need clothes.”
Good Nights Page 10