Restored Dreams: more romance for the over 40 (#sexysilverfoxes) Page 3

  “Do you want me to go?” Her quick question comes out small, hesitant and edging. No, absolutely not, I want to respond, but I hold back the truth. She bites her lip again, and I tug at the tender flesh with my thumb, lingering on the plumpness of the bottom curve a second longer than necessary before releasing her.

  “No, we’re good.” I said we could work it out, and I plan to keep my promise. Maybe she’ll at least have dinner with me and let me explain myself from years ago. Not gonna happen, buddy.

  But then I see her eyes roam my body, taking in my naked chest. I take a deep breath and watch her eyes expand as my pecs heave. Is she checking me out? A flicker of hope sparks within me, and my lip curls. It’s a nice feeling to have someone scan my skin like she is.

  Another hair blows across her face, sticking to her lips, and the pad of my fingertip can’t resist. I swipe the strand against her cheek and tuck it behind her ear, holding it in place. My fingers linger.

  “I must look a mess.” Her face pinks, and I want to trace the dawning color on her skin.

  “You look beautiful, Lily pad.” The truth escapes me, but I’m being honest. She looks incredible. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes shift away. She chews at her lip. Please let me kiss you.

  “Well, enjoy your surf,” she mutters, tugging her head free from my fingers and tipping it toward my board. She ignores my compliment.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, my heart dropping at her rejection. She brushes past me, continuing in the direction of the house. I’m torn between following her like my heart begs of me and running for the rolling waves. The ocean seems like a safer choice. If I follow Lily, I can’t be held responsible for the things I want to do. A douse of deep water should deflate the hard-on in my shorts and restore my thoughts to reality. Lily Warren will never want me again.

  6

  You’re hot

  [Lily]

  I can’t seem to get away from him fast enough. He has no idea what he’s done to me. His tender fingers curling around my ear, tickling the side of my neck. His touch exploding everywhere across my skin. Thank goodness for the bright sunshine and the possibility of rosy cheeks from the heat to cover up the blush creeping over my face.

  Scampering up the beach, I refuse to look back at him. I recall our conversation before he went out last night. Could I be any more awkward, giving him a texting code and a free pass to bring some skank back to the house? If I had to listen to Brut grunting and groaning with someone else in the next room, I’d die. Don’t wait up, he’d announced. Around ten, I gave up on what I was doing—waiting for him. I wanted to kick myself because I should have known better. Who am I kidding, though? Brut wouldn’t need to bring someone here. He probably picked up some chick at the local bar and went back to her place. How cliché. Yet why wouldn’t he? Better yet, who wouldn’t be attracted to him? Breathtaking to view, flirting like a master, and with steady employment to boot—he’s a trifecta for the win.

  My feet can’t move fast enough over the sand as I replay each word of our recent exchange. I’m not certain I liked his tone when he asked me where I was this morning. An innocent walk to clear my mind after a restless night of sleep is none of his business. Still…

  “I thought you left. Maybe reconsidered staying.” The comment startled me.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I hate that I asked, sounding so desperate for him to say no. I don’t know why he’d want me to stay. I don’t know why I decided to stay other than convincing myself I deserved this vacation as much as he did and determining I could handle sharing the house. Still, there was an urgency in his voice. What did he think I’d been doing? I fought a smile by biting my lip. His eyes had followed the motion before his thumb pressed at my tender skin to release it.

  “No, we’re good.”

  So good, I thought as my eyes wandered Brut’s physique. The stacked-book abs. A smattering of white hair on his chest to match that on his head. Not a drop of ink on him. Bright orange board shorts with a blue floral design hung low on his hips. A darker trail of hair led lower, hinting at what lay beneath his dipped waistband. My eyes snapped up with the thought, but the smirk on his face let me know I’d been caught.

  Yummy, my heart drooled, but I quickly mopped up the spittle. The beating organ has gotten me in trouble before in regards to this man, and I promised myself never again with Brut Paige. Been there, done that. Only I didn’t ever do him. Someone else did him before he got to me. My shoulders sag with the sudden memory, and I squint out at the rolling waves, the ebb and flow reminding me of my wavering emotions for this man.

  “You look beautiful, Lily pad.” Did he want to kiss me after the compliment? What a foolish thought. His words made me melt a little, but then a look of uncomfortable uncertainty crossed his face. Pulling back, I had to put some distance between us. He stood just a little too close.

  Did he want to kiss me? I question again, but I’m so stupid with my thoughts. There’s no way Brut would be attracted to me after all these years, if for no other reason than Chopper. I’ve met his son, now twenty-two years old. He’s the perfect reminder of Brut’s indiscretion—a constant reflection of him and her.

  The memories wrestled sleep from me last night, but I refuse to allow them to be my nightmare again. Awake and restless early this morning, I decided to get out of bed at the break of dawn and take advantage of every second of my vacation—Brut or no Brut. Except now, exhaustion taps on my shoulder, and I sense a nap is in order even though it is only midmorning. After rinsing off my shells in the kitchen sink, I change into my bathing suit and return to the beach for a little sunshine snoozing.

  + + +

  “You’re burning.” The warning startles me awake although I instantly recognize the rugged male voice. He’s been haunting my daydreams since the moment we parted this morning. The baseball cap I wore to shade my face has fallen off somewhere. The high afternoon sun illuminates the outline of a masculine body. I don’t need to see him directly to know it’s Brut. Slowly, he crouches beside me as I lie on a lounger.

  When I had returned to the beach, I searched for Brut on the waves, but he wasn’t recognizable from this distance. I cursed myself for seeking him out, but he’d gotten under my skin with his soft touches and sweet words. Not to mention his nearness. Standing in my space messed with my head, and I try to rid my thoughts of him. Instead, I focus on the multitude of people bobbing on boards, lulled by the roll of the ocean before occasionally standing and riding the waves. Surfers make surfing look effortless and graceful, and I wonder if I could learn. I never want to use my age as an excuse for not trying new things.

  “You’re turning pink,” Brut teases. “Like that cupcake.” His head nods, gesturing toward my tattoo, a giant pink and purple frosted delicacy covering most of my right hip. The ink permanently marks me as proof that I did it—I opened the bakery I promised myself I would have one day.

  With the way Brut looks at me, I become hyperaware of the bikini I’m wearing and how my skin is exposed for his viewing. His eyes roam over my hip as if he’s licking up the inked icing, ready to take a bite of the maraschino cherry topping the masterpiece. His appraisal is refreshing but also unnerving. I take care of myself, but I’m still self-conscious enough to be uncertain about wearing two pieces of skimpy material. I bought the baby blue bikini, assuming a vacation where I had my own section of beach would be private enough for me to wear something risqué.

  My arms curl over my waist as Brut’s eyes travel up to my shoulders.

  “Here, allow me.” At some point, Brut had picked up the bottle of sunscreen, and he slathers his hands with the creamy white lotion. He hitches his leg behind me, wrapping his body behind mine. I scoot forward enough for his legs to straddle either side of my thighs. We’re tight—my back sensitive to the nearness of his chest. The heat between us is more than just the sunshine above. My skin prickles again. Brut is so close to me.

  Warm liquid hits my shoulders along with firm fingers, and he rubs the l
ines of my upper back. Thick thumbs join to caress up the nape of my neck, and my head lolls forward. Palms caress the side of my neck and lower to stroke over my shoulder blades. He rubs in soothing circles, increasing the pressure until he comes to the band of my bikini crossing the middle of my back. His thumbs dip in equal measure under the tie and gently swipe away from my spine to my sides. His touch leads to the edge of each breast, and I stiffen, warring with myself not to give in to the pleasure of his hands on me. I shouldn’t turn this into some fantasy of him untying the bikini strings, slipping those firm hands forward, and forcefully cupping each of my heavy breasts. Too late. I’m a hormonal mess near this man, and the pleasure of his palms feels so good against my skin. His nearness feels too good, and I mentally moan.

  Brut freezes, and I realize the sound escaped. He pauses as if reality hits him, and he has realized too late what he’s actually doing—he’s touching me. His hands still on my skin.

  “I really wish I knew your sounds.” The words tickle the back of my neck, and I shiver as he speaks into the hollow dip at the base of my skull. A thick knuckle brushes at the wisps of hair loose from my pigtails along my nape, and then he blows at the fluttery strands. I tremble again. He’s teasing me, or is he flirting?

  “I think I’m good,” I lie, willing away my daydream and ignoring his comment. My sounds, as he calls them, are embarrassing. And while I don’t want his fingers to rest, he needs to stop massaging me because a problem develops at a lower part of my body. My core pulses, and I sense the wetness. Hot mess from application of sunscreen. I’m ridiculous. Even worse is the second fantasy I conjure up where he slips his fingers down low, dipping into the bottom piece of my suit to relieve the rapidly growing ache. I close my eyes as if this will wipe away my imagination, which has leaped into overdrive.

  The tension returns, and despite Brut’s closeness, a distance slowly chisels between us.

  “I think I’ll shower,” Brut says, his voice another tickle to my sensitive skin, and I nod without vocally responding. He shifts and removes his body from behind me. I hate the loss I sense, the ache growing out of control between my legs, and the knowledge Brut is who I want to relieve it.

  My body shifts as I prepare to watch him walk away. I can almost feel my core cry out to him: don’t go. Don’t leave me to another night of wonder—wondering if you’ll meet someone, wondering if you’ll touch her like I want you to touch me.

  My eyes fall to his chest where sea salt has dried on his skin, circling his nipples, and mixing with his chest hair. My mouth waters. Images of warm water and suds sliding down his naked body fill my mind, and I blink. He catches me staring, and his lips crook in a knowing grin, lighting up his tan face. He’s caught me again. He hesitates a moment, his eyes twinkling, flashing forward an ancient memory. He used to look at me this way. Then he surprises me.

  “I’m going out for dinner again. Want to join me?”

  My heart skips a double beat, pattering like a two-step line dance. I swipe at my forehead, brushing back loose tendrils of hair. I’ve never officially been on a date with Brut—an out to dinner kind of date. I so badly want to say yes, but for some reason, I say, “I brought groceries but thank you.”

  His smirky expression dissolves. The smile brightening the edge of his jaw turns to clouds. He nods, his grin weakening.

  “I understand,” he says as his form blocks the sun, casting him in a shadow, and I can’t help but consider the irony. Once upon a time, Brut had been sunshine for me, but something—no, someone—got in the way.

  7

  A bottle of truth

  [Brut]

  “I understand.”

  I do. Asking her out to dinner is a stupid move. She isn’t interested, and I know all the reasons why. My mouth got ahead of my thoughts and blurted out the invitation. I’ve thought of nothing else but her all day. I spent most of the morning surfing, and then the afternoon avoiding, but my mind circled through a loop of positions—namely pleasure fulfilling positions—that I shouldn’t have imagined with Lily. Her revealing shirt this morning riddled my brain, along with images of her nakedness from the shower. My eyes wandered the beach, hoping to spot her throughout the day, but the distance was too great. Then I see her in this tiny two-piece, accentuating her athletic form, perky breasts, and the damn tempting tattoo.

  I’m a mess around this woman, especially with all the skin she keeps exposing to me.

  I need to leave before I beg her to go to dinner. I eat alone often enough, so it isn’t an anomaly, but I was hoping for a little company, especially with her. Last night, I left as soon as I could after the whole sex-text code fiasco. But when someone approached me at the bar, I didn’t even think twice. The answer was immediate—no thank you; I’m taken. The lie had come easy enough because my heart held the truth. I was taken by Lily, once again.

  Another bar. Another night alone. I order a burger, but I hardly eat it. With all the energy I expounded during the day, I should be starving, and I am, for a certain someone. Twisting my cool beer between warm fingers, I drown under the too loud noise around me. The sun lowers in the sky but hasn’t set, and I decide I’d rather be on the quiet of the beach than wallowing here under the pretense of waiting for someone. I’ve waited long enough. With that, I slap two twenties on the wooden bar top and head back to the house.

  “What is that smell?” I blurt as I walk through the side entrance. Fragrant spices assault my nose, and my mouth instantly waters.

  “Just a little something I whipped up,” Lily says, smiling sheepishly. She’s sitting on one of the stools by the kitchen island with a book in one hand and a fork in the other. She looks relaxed, and in her element as she props her elbow against the counter. The tension in her face from earlier seems washed clean. A vision flashes of her sitting in my kitchen but knowing how run-down it appears compared to this place, I scribble away the idea.

  “Of course, you did. You cook for a living. It smells amazing.” Whatever she made looks heavenly and too healthy with lots of vegetables. Her smile lowers a little, and I sense I’ve said something wrong.

  “Actually, I bake.” I’m about to say, same thing, when I notice her head lower. What did I say? I don’t move, and the tension trickles between us. Her fork pushes around her dinner.

  “Would you like some?” Her head lifts, and her eyes soften as she asks, but I can’t read her. Damn it. Is she only being polite, or does she want me to stay? I rub my stomach, exaggerating the lie I’m about to spew.

  “Thanks, but I’m full. I think I’ll head outside for a bit.” She smiles weakly in response, and I take a deep breath as I cross the living room, rushing for the glass doors leading to the deck. I can’t escape fast enough. I kick off my flip-flops as I hit the wooden planks, drudging through the cool evening sand until I reach midway between the back steps and the foamy white edge of the shore. Plopping into the sand, I cross my ankles, lift my knees, and rest my arms loosely around them. I stare at the waves softly lapping at the wet sand. A lick and a retreat. The imagery brings me comfort and agitation. An energy ripples under my skin, and I’d like to think I don’t recognize it, but I do.

  When I first met Lily, I felt this way. It’s funny how time passes, yet you can be projected backward in an instant. A look. A glance. A scent. Something triggers you, and you fly into the past, dusting off a memory suddenly so crystal clear it overwhelms you. Lily shouldn’t have been in our shop way back when. I don’t even remember why she was there. She didn’t own a car that needed repairs, but there she was with miles of hair, a long, loose skirt, and a revealing tank top. She was too young for me, but my heart skipped a beat when she looked up at me all innocent and sultry. A subtle curve to her rosy lips and a shy dip of her lids. My dick jolts with the recalled vision, just as it did all those years ago.

  “May I join you?” The softness of her voice invades the memory, and for a moment, I think I’ve projected the sound into my thoughts. Then I look over my shoulder to find he
r staring down at me with a beer and a hard lemonade pinched within her fingers. My breath hitches just as it did with the first sighting. My God, she’s even more beautiful with age. She’s lost a little of the roundness she had as a teenager. Her face is more angular. Not that she was ever flabby, but she’s just more fit.

  “Of course,” I say. Letting my legs fall, I slide them forward in the sand and cross them again at the ankle. She hands me a beer.

  “Heineken?” I hadn’t stocked the fridge. In fact, I still hadn’t even thought of groceries or pleasantries, like beer. A protein bar I found in my bag was the breakfast of champions this morning.

  “I remember.” The quiet in those words hits me in the heart as she folds herself down to the sand. She’s wearing another athletic-style dress in a bright pattern. The top is cut like a bikini again. Damn if I don’t want to rub my nose through the crease between her breasts and then bite the peak of her nipple through the athletic fabric. Down boy, I warn.

  “You remember my favorite beer?” The thought startles me. She simply nods, not looking at me as she takes a sip of her hard lemonade. I watch the roll of her throat as she swallows, and I swallow involuntarily, my mouth filling with moisture as I long to lean over and kiss under her jaw.

  “Thanks.” I choke and cough to muddle the blunder. Her smile grows at my weak recovery. “It’s been a long time.” The comment sounds just as weak as my cough, so this time, I chuckle to cover my awkwardness.

  She responds instantly, her voice somber as she says, “Almost twenty-two years actually.” The words sound hollow like when she spoke in the kitchen. As though I’m an idiot and I’m missing something. And I am. Her timing is accurate, however. Chopper is almost twenty-two, and his birth coincides with our distance.

  “That’s a long time,” I repeat, keeping my eyes on the side of her face as she stares out at the darkening sky over the lulling waves.