Wanderlust Page 9

  "Do you want me to spank you?"

  Yes. She pushed on his shoulders and grinned.

  He squeezed her ass with one hand and gripped her waist with the other, all underneath her dress. He tethered her to his body. "You like all of it." His words escaped near her chest.

  "Maybe." She stroked a thumb over his heart. "I like this. I want to know who you are."

  "You do know me," he said as Annie confirmed his admission with her eyes. "We talked for hours last night."

  "I did most of the talking.” About herself, about stuff. Favorite foods, drinks, places she’d been, favorite books, her mother. No ex-girlfriends or ex-boyfriends talk — okay, maybe a little about her prior relationships. No talk of his heartbreaks. Only hers. No mad loves or Constance Prescott. "You listened."

  "I'm a good listener."

  "Yeah … well, I want to listen too."

  "It takes time. Give me time."

  "Mmmm." Time. What time? He’d said time was a bitch.

  "What do you want to know about me?" He pressed his palm over her damp underwear and touched her clit through the material with his thumb. She released a fabulous breath. "A free pass. Anything. Right now."

  She grabbed his forearm, but it didn't stop him from circling her as she groaned. "Your middle name."

  As he stopped for a second, Annie thought she must've shocked him with her simple, sincere request.

  "My middle name is most unusual." He bit her nipple through the dress.

  "Cal," Annie whispered, pushing him away at his shoulders, but her defiance only caused him to pull her body into him more.

  "It's my mother’s maiden name. Warner."

  Annie slid her hands behind his neck and pushed fingers into his hair.

  He nuzzled his face into her chest and kept a hand under her dress, on her clit, the other on her ass cheek.

  "Don't you want to know mine?" she moaned, holding his face against her breasts as she rode his hand.

  "Your what?" he joked as he popped his head up.

  Annie inched away, shoved him, and lifted a knee toward his groin, pretending she was going to nudge him.

  "Yes, please." He laughed, pushing her knee away. "What is your middle name?"

  "It's Rebekah." She grinned while bringing her legs to either side of his chair until she straddled him from her standing position. She wanted to rub the whole of her body over the entire steel block of him. Cal seemed to be in agreement. He looked as if he was going to bend her over and fuck her against the desk. Desk sex...

  "Annie … Rebekah … Baxter," he said with beautiful intention while moving a hand under her dress again, sliding his fingers past her panties, up and down her folds, and then inside her.

  She twitched, bit her lip, and whimpered.

  "You like that?"

  "You're not winning today." She arched her back.

  "No?"

  "No. I have another question."

  He slid his fingers out.

  She deflated. Her face scrunched up in pain.

  He put the same two fingers at her mouth and dotted her lips with the taste of her arousal. She licked them, then pulled them into her mouth and sucked until he made his own delicious sounds.

  "Fuck if I can get any work done today,” he groaned, closing his eyes. “What's your question?"

  "You bought a photograph?"

  "What?" He opened his eyes.

  "Pfeiffer Beach." The one he’d stared at, peered at, and longed for at the opening.

  "Rosa…" Cal pinched the corners of his eyes.

  "Don't be upset. She thought I knew."

  She paused, wanting to hear the story from him, hoping he could tell her something, anything. Then, his phone rang … again.

  Cal glanced at the number. "Persistent bastard. I have to take it this time."

  Moving to stand behind him, she began to massage her fingernails into his scalp, and then she leaned down and whispered in his ear. "I'm happy you bought the picture." She kissed his cheek as he answered the call.

  Annie remained behind him, hands on his shoulders, lips on his neck. She kissed him slowly, tenderly, and repeatedly. He put his glasses on and scribbled a few notes. He held the first up near the side of his face while attempting to push away her meddling lips.

  Snatching the sticky note out of his hand, she smirked and pinched his waist.

  He squirmed a little as he peeled a second piece of tiny yellow paper off the pad and held it up in her eyeline.

  The moment she grabbed it — shocked he’d spelled her middle name right when most people would’ve spelled it Rebecca — another appeared, a third.

  As she nibbled on his ear, he tried to swat her lips away as if she were a bee.

  He couldn’t concentrate. How adorable. She had the upper hand.

  Chin resting on his shoulder, she slid a palm down the front of his body, toward his pants, while smiling and then whispering, "I'll have you tonight," in his ear as she touched him. "On my knees." She pressed her fingers hard against his crotch. "I want you to fuck my mouth the way you promised."

  His body stiffened, and she felt another wonderful part of him beginning to stiffen too. He wouldn’t even look at her now. Giggling at his adorable aggravation, Annie stood upright without making a sound, backed away, and put her palms up in surrender.

  Cal shook his head.

  Something in the green of his eyes caused her to remember the gifts. Shit. Inside her backpack, nestled at the bottom, out of sight and mind, were two small, white boxes, each tied with a red bow. She’d bought the gifts in the city, but they weren't unique-to-New-York presents. They were unique to him and well thought out.

  As Annie placed the boxes on his desk, he glanced at her quickly, not sure what to make of her, the boxes, or the handwriting on each.

  Cal looked over at Annie again just in time to catch her exit. Strangely, he no longer felt the need to take care of his pressing business. He no longer felt the need to pacify the persistent bastard on the line. But he persisted with the persistent bastard and made the mistake of opening the presents as he tucked the phone under his neck.

  He untied the bow to box number one, opened the lid, and read the small handwritten note inside.

  His eyes roamed. He couldn’t imagine what he would find.

  Underneath the tissue paper was a small, round container of surfboard wax.

  Leaning against the seat, he scrubbed a palm over his chin as he twirled the jar and stared at the words on it, attempting in vain to continue listening to the caller.

  Another note sat atop the crinkled paper of the second gift.

  Wrapped in tissue paper was a small, round, old-fashioned mirror with a handle.

  With the phone tucked between shoulder and ear and a man on the line making unimportant sounds, Cal floated out of his body. He tried to clear his throat, but it felt sticky, sap-like. No words came. No thoughts. And yes, he was often quiet, but right now, he was simply without words.

  The man on the phone noticed.

  "Yes, yes, I'm here," Cal finally said, managing to clear his throat. But he really wasn't there. Or here. God. He really wasn't anywhere. Did he know anything?

  While looking at his reflection, Cal attempted to conceal his emotions — and failed. He had no choice but to abruptly end the call. His normal, cool control had vanished. He was beside himself. Above himself. He was suspended.

  Everything Annie stood for became apparent in this single moment in time. Everything she meant to him became crystal clear.

  He sank into the chair and rubbed his chin repeatedly. His vulnerability was a yoke begging to be pulled. He saw all of it in the fucking mirror. The expression on his face — worth a million dollars.

  And it scared the hell out of him.

  He set the truth-telling oval down — face down — and stood. His fingers dug into the skin at the nape of his neck.

  He wanted a drink.

  No. He needed a drink.

  Since when had he be
come so dependent on alcohol?

  Like a lion, he paced back and forth in front of the bed, maybe for a minute, maybe longer. Days passed, his eyes wide as he stared at the floor.

  Annie did know him. He knew that. Crack of the bat, she knew him, but Annie wanted to know him?

  Did she need him?

  The pleading looks she’d given him in the bedroom — what she offered and seemed to sacrifice in the sheets — wasn't without merit or truth or strength. The I need you, Cal wasn't a ruse, a taunt, or merely a powerful incentive. The I need you meant she needed more than a good, hard fuck. Hadn't he always known that about her? He couldn't deny it now. Any of it.

  Denial was over.

  The time they had to spend together was real.

  Weeks of what should’ve been an endless summer.

  Cal exited the bedroom and stood just outside the door, his eyes transfixed in thought, the need for a drink forgotten, replaced by his need for Annie.

  Rosa turned and saw him standing there like a statue that had just received devastating news.

  "Where’s Annie?" he asked, his voice booming.

  "She just left. Is everything alright?" Rosa walked toward him, concern etched in her brow.

  Without responding, Cal turned, went to the front door, and opened it.

  A Toyota, engine running, was parked several feet away on the street. Annie stood at the open rear passenger door, prepared to take her seat, but before she did, she glanced to her right, looked up, and noticed Cal.

  He peeked through the entry gate, gripping the bars.

  Imprisoned.

  Messy, splotchy, and colorful emotions wet his face, splattering his features as though a child had painted his vulnerability with their fingers.

  He was beautiful.

  Eyes beaming across the distance separating them, Annie gazed at him the way she always did — reading him, peeling back skin.

  Cal thought Annie's eyes were amazing.

  They held him.

  Begged him.

  He wanted to go to her, but couldn't. Why? He was stuck behind the stupid gate to the courtyard. The longer he waited … the urgency faded, replaced by suffocation.

  Although fully clothed, he felt naked, nude and motionless, feeling like he’d been heated up in a brick oven, then dropped into a frozen lake.

  The change in temperature could kill a man.

  He’d already died a thousand times looking into Annie’s eyes.

  She was the sun, the earth, the moon.

  Fuck him for not being what she needed, for not being able to fucking move. She knew him. Well, did she know he would fail? Did she know he would leave? Did she know she was the strength he couldn't bring himself to rely upon? Did she know he had a sick mother? Did she have the patience to put up with his astronomical bullshit?

  The two of them broke eye contact. The live wire of energy between them fizzled, creating sparks on the ground.

  The driver cleared his throat. "You ready, miss?"

  Annie almost choked on her next words. "Yes, yes, I'm ready."

  Ready for what?

  The future.

  The end of summer.

  As the car pulled onto the street, Annie flicked her gaze once more to the prisoner behind the gate — without releasing tears, but unable stop the thinking…

  The gifts had to have reached his heart.

  How much longer could she hide her own feelings? She wasn't a hider. A runner maybe, but not a hider. Rosa had said he’d waited for her. What did that mean? Had she been waiting too? Did she believe in kismet, reason, purpose? He’d bought Pfeiffer Beach. His mother had Alzheimer's and needed him.

  I need him. A man.

  How about that?

  For the first time ever, she needed a man. Was it okay to need someone? Rosa had needed George.

  Could anyone truly imagine how Annie felt? Had anyone besides Rosa tried? Even Tabitha? Did anyone use their imagination anymore? Faces buried in phones, minds onto the next thing. ADHD. Anxiety. Depression. Pills. Alcohol. All imagination stealers, downers. Machines did the imagining. Electronic escape mechanisms sucked away reality.

  She needed hands to hold, to skim the entire length of her body and caress it, to put a finger up to the lips of bullshit and silence it.

  No one had ever affected her the way Cal did. Near of far, he was a magnetic pull which couldn’t be explained. Every time she merely imagined his touch, it gave her shivers. And it still seemed ridiculous because she hardly knew him.

  But she did.

  He didn't like coffee. He loved orange juice.

  He ran to stay healthy. To feel good. To chase blues or mean reds. He ran to think, to compartmentalize, and to organize. He needed to run. Had to.

  He loved music. It calmed him and comforted him the way nothing else could.

  He was fluent in Spanish and in the language of her body.

  He loved shrimp any way it was prepared. He liked marmalade jam and scrambled eggs.

  He smelled like ocean and sand and a bright, white towel.

  He pinched his neck, his nose, or eyes when he worried or tensed.

  He needed to fuck all his feelings away, or he needed to absolutely fuck every feeling he’d ever owned into her body — each thought and emotion he couldn't say.

  The tips of his fingers spoke sonnets while she listened.

  He had an eye for art, and he collected things which not only appealed to those perspicacious eyes but things which spoke to his heart.

  He opened doors.

  You do know me, he had said. Apparently, she did. Fuck plans, right, Cal? She hadn’t come to Miami in search of a man or a plan, other than the one to take photographs.

  She’d come there to be with friends, to find a comfort she’d misplaced — the one stolen the previous May.

  It was too late for thinking now.

  She’d already dipped her finger into his ocean.

  She was an automatic member of his club, welcomed without preamble or ceremony. Initiated with a wink, a handshake, a fuck, and a good cry.

  She wouldn't cry right now, though. Not in the back of the Toyota.

  She would rest, regroup, edit. And then she would go to him later tonight as he’d asked and try her best to be what they’d agreed upon.

  The summer.

  Plenty more weeks of summer, right?

  Could she manage it? Could she hide all the love bubbling out the center of her fuck-the-depression-feel-something-you-are-not-numb-don't-take-pills-cry-for-your-brother-understand-your-father-and-mother-it's-not-just-the-summer-love-Cal heart?

  She would have to try because he wouldn't acquiesce to any fool’s declaration of love. He needed someone who meant what they said and followed through.

  The no-plan plan had changed.

  Annie had let Cal into her wounded heart.

  She’d fallen into him. Sailed into his skeptical, wee-bit-open chest. Into his eyes, his protection, his hands. She’d fallen into his ocean. Climbed his tree. And now she needed to exercise patience.

  But for how long?

  She tapped her fingernails on the edge of the car’s windowsill and counted out the remaining days of summer.

  I begin where you end

  never sex

  only sex

  only stars

  folded inside clouds

  protected for eternity

  where nothing can touch them

  or me

  where blood becomes remedy

  touch becomes ascension

  I float

  on love we refute

  The Bridge and the Bleeding

  a means of connection

  aguish or pain or sympathy

  spreading through something gradually

  Annie arrived at Cal's, sweat beading over her upper lip and wetting her thighs, with a brown paper bag full of fresh groceries on a Saturday night in mid-August.

  More than two months had passed since they’d first laid eyes on one anothe
r, and despite the heat invading the dusk falling over Miami, the summer was coming to a close.

  Kids were starting school. Vacation was over. Annie’s display at the gallery would end in a few weeks, and Cal’s apartment lease would expire in September.

  But they went along as always, ignoring questions that needed to be asked. She tried to push the impending conversation of summer’s end far from her mind as she turned the knob and pushed open Cal’s front door.

  With her attention on cooking Cal a meal for the first time, Annie entered, made her way to the kitchen, and set the bag on the counter.

  Feet bare, Cal descended the staircase, wearing his metal-rimmed glasses, dark blue jeans, and a white polo shirt. He’d probably just finished placing the needle on a record.

  "Stand by Me" blared.

  As Annie peered at him, she wondered, despite what they’d said that night on the beach — no talking of what-ifs ever — why or how they’d managed to avoid any type of meaningful relationship conversation. She couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that the evening was not going to go well.

  She couldn’t do this.

  She had to do this.

  Her strength became wrapped up in the words of the old song.

  Focus on dinner, on the music, and breathe.

  But she could barely focus on anything. After weeks of bedding him, looking into his eyes, talking and sharing meals with him — Cal Warner Prescott still made her knees weak.

  He was beautiful. Quiet and stealth. Flying under the radar and making a crash landing into the valves of her heart.

  The expression on his face was inscrutable, though. And before she knew it, he’d stepped into her space, smelling like soap and wine. He must’ve just showered, and a bottle of something light and golden looked half-finished on the table next to his laptop and folders.

  "I thought you said you weren't working today." She eyed his stuff, then him.

  He touched her waist, trailed his nose across her jawline, and inhaled. "When did you get here?"

  Had anything changed? He still diverted conversation with the flick of his tongue via kissing or word choice. In this case, his tongue was at her ear. She squirmed, and then she bent — weak in those knees — melting like butter.