Restored Dreams: more romance for the over 40 (#sexysilverfoxes) Page 5

  “It already is okay,” I offer because it is. Life moved on. Brut got Chopper. I have my bakery. Brad is gone. Lauren too.

  “Really? Are you really all good, Lily?”

  I want to say I am, but the truth is, I could be better. I’m perfectly happy with Because Cupcakes, and I’m living a dream with my small business. Life is good, but it isn’t perfect. I’m still missing what I yearned for at nineteen. Love. Marriage. A baby.

  “Lily pad.” His voice is so low it blends with the breeze, begging me for something I can’t read.

  “Don’t kiss me,” I blurt, sucking back a breath as I curse myself. Why would I say this? As if he wants to. The truth is I don’t trust myself if his lips touch mine. I’ll take too much from a man never willing to give in to me. His body shifts, and of their own volition, my knees spread, opening my thighs for him to slip between them. He’s balancing on his elbows, still sweeping back my hair with each toss of the evening air.

  “I can’t,” I say although I don’t know what I’m denying. I only know if he kisses me, I’ll combust. So he nods once and presses up on his hands like a push-up over me. He’s prepping to stand only the motion shifts his lower half forward and something hard, long, and firm thrusts at my center.

  I moan, my head tipping back, sand mixing in my hair as the tip of him taps at the beat strumming my core.

  “Lil?” he questions, and I’m too mortified to speak. He knows where we connect. He knows what he’s done to me. So, he repeats.

  My hands dig in the sand as my knees fall farther open. I’m willing him to get off me and begging him to stay in the same breath as my eyes close. His hips roll, and he spears me again. Clothing protects us from going any further, but I’m flung back in time to grinding on Brut on the leather couch in the office of his garage. The memory mixes with a fantasy of him taking me on this sand, and before I know it, I’m pressing back at him, hands on his quivering biceps, nails digging into skin.

  Holy shit.

  The world dissolves into a million grains of pebbly stone. I’m one with the sand underneath me, sifting, shifting, drifting.

  Slumping back into the grainy ground, I feel my heart race as I take in a jagged breath. My head lolls to the side. I can’t face him. I can’t believe what I’ve done. Fully clothed, I might add. Within record time.

  “Lily pad.” The question in my name along with the hint of smug pride nearly brings me to tears. My eyes prickle, and my head swings back to face him. I don’t even fully form the words get up before he kneels back from my glare. My legs are still spread on either side of him, and I awkwardly sit up, my knees trembling as I try to bring them together.

  Brut towers upward and reaches for my hands. I want to tell him not to touch me. I need him to step back because his presence overwhelms me. His aura. His scent. Not to mention, I’m so thoroughly embarrassed. The way my legs rattle, though, I know I can’t stand on my own, so begrudgingly, I accept his warm fingers. Once upright, he continues to hold my hands, rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles.

  “Brut, I…” I begin, tugging back as he holds firm.

  “Lil…” he starts, but I free one hand and raise it palm up to him.

  “Just…just stay right there.” He releases my other hand, and I back up slowly, speaking to him like a rabid animal about to attack. Good boy, stay. Please, don’t come near me. I want a sinkhole to open and just suck me in. My undies are soaked, and I don’t allow myself to look down at his zipper region, afraid to see he’s still hard, afraid to see he didn’t come. My lids lazily blink, and I take another hesitant, humiliated step backward.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter. Brut steps forward, his mouth opening to speak, and that’s my cue. I turn on shaky feet and sprint for the house, relieved when he doesn’t follow me.

  9

  Buckets are for collecting rare things

  [Lily]

  The next morning, I find a kid’s yellow plastic pail on the counter with a Post-it note: Fill me. Inside are the shells he put in his pocket yesterday. I cover my lips with my fingers as I grin, fighting back memories of the night before. I came so hard I saw stars, and he gives me a bucket.

  Brut bought me a bucket to collect seashells. I squeal inside, warming at the sweet gesture. Picking up the pail, I cross the living room and exit the double doors for the fresh air and a new day. I’m hoping not to see Brut because I’m still too embarrassed over what happened and how I reacted to him. I’m almost to the foamy sea on the sand when I catch something out of the corner of my eye. Brut is running toward me, bare chested. His shirt dangles from his shorts as he slows to a jog when he nears me.

  “Seashell collecting?” He stops short before me, his lips curving into a full smile. I’m blinded for a moment. The white scruff, the whiter teeth, and the sheen of sweat on his brow. He’s too sexy for his own good.

  I hold up the bucket in response. “Thank you. This was very sweet.” My eyes meet his but quickly divert to his feet. The moment is more than awkward, and a restless quiver ripples up my skin. Only too bad, the trembling stops between my thighs, recalling the sensation of last night. My eyes shift up to the center of his jogging shorts and away. I’m caught in the moment of look-don’t-look and eventually close my eyes to recover before I state the obvious.

  “Morning wood?” What the?! “Morning jog, I mean. Morning jog!”

  Brut’s lips crook with humor, and I’m silently praying for the sea to swallow me. Good Lawd, Lily. He watches me as he scrubs at the back of his neck.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Had a few things on my mind.” His smile grows, and it’s a hint he’s been thinking about the same thing as me—about last night. “Mind if I join you?”

  His asking startles me, and before I can think, I’m shaking my head at his offering. “I’d like that.”

  Brut kicks off his shoes, and with a strong throw, he tosses them toward the deck steps. We fall in step next to one another without speaking. Beach sounds surround us—the breeze, the squawk of seagulls, the ocean lapping at the shore—and it’s strangely peaceful and not awkward to stroll with him. I stop occasionally when I find a perfect shell. Eventually, Brut peers into my bucket after I do this a few times, and asks, “Why are you only picking up those?”

  I peer into the bucket to see each shell is complete: no cracks, no chips. Also, most of them are white or speckled with lighter colors.

  “I want them to be perfect,” I say, proud of my discoveries and envisioning them in a jar in my bakery. I’m testing out some summer flavors, and it would fun if I could replicate a seashell candy as a garnish. I’ve been working with salty caramel and chocolate lately; my latest concoction titled Salty Summer Nights.

  Brut bends at the waist and lifts a shell between two fingers. “But the imperfect ones tell a better story.” He holds a broken piece in his hand, gray and tattered. I’m stumped by his comment, contemplating what he means—does he think I’m imperfect or is he referring to himself—and then I notice something about the shell. I take the piece from his fingers and force his hand to open, palm upward. Then I lay the chip on his skin.

  “You’ve found a heart-shaped one. It’s a hidden heart.” My head snaps up to his eyes, but he’s looking at what he holds in his hand. His brow pinches in question. “A hidden heart is when you find something in nature shaped like a heart. A rock, a formation in the sidewalk, the curve of bark on a tree.”

  Brut looks up at me. His lip curls.

  “A heart-shaped shell is a rare find.” I speak as if he’s just made the greatest discovery known to mankind.

  “Does this mean I hold your heart in the palm of my hand?” He’s humoring me, his eyes twinkling.

  “Not my heart. A hidden heart,” I mock.

  “Rare find? Same thing,” he mutters, closing his fingers around the shell and slipping it in his pocket. “I think I’ll keep this one. Don’t want to mess up your perfect collection.”

  “Suit yourself,” I tease, but something in my stomach flu
tters. We continue walking, and two men pass who mutter, “Good morning.”

  We greet them as well.

  “You can stop drooling,” Brut snarks, a teasing lilt to his voice but also a hint of something deeper. He swipes at the corner of his mouth in mockery.

  “I wasn’t drooling,” I defend, but it was hard to miss the toned bodies of either male specimen—lean and smooth, tanned and grooved in all the right places.

  “They’re gay anyway,” Brut adds, and I twist to look over my shoulder. It’s more a double take at their physique than a perusal of their sexuality. However, when I glance back, one walks backward, smiling at me. He winks with a chin tip.

  “They are not,” I refute. Feeling the man’s eyes on my backside, I fight a grin, knowing I’m being watched. “At least one of them likes women. He’s checking me out.”

  Brut stumbles in the sand and spins to look back at the two men.

  “Don’t look,” I admonish, and he twists back in my direction.

  “How do you know he wasn’t checking me out?” Brut nods, his head bobbing as though he’s proud to one-up me. I stop and slip the bucket handle over my wrist.

  “How would that work with three men?” I’m making a circle with the fingers of my right hand and aiming my left index for the hole while my middle finger sticks out…

  “Stop.” Brut laughs, reaching for my hands and dragging one away from the other. He’s bent over chuckling at the serious expression on my face as I try to decipher the mechanics. “Just no. No threesome.”

  “Not your thing?” I tease, and Brut straightens, his hands still holding mine.

  “Never into sharing.” The declaration spirals around us, and my mind immediately races to Lauren. We shared Brut although I didn’t do it willingly.

  “Lily pad.” As if reading my mind, Brut draws me back. He strokes firm thumbs over my knuckles, pulling me back to the present. Dropping one hand, he begins walking, and I follow his lead as he entwines his fingers with mine. His fingers are warm, and I like the comfort they give me after thoughts of Lauren. After only a minute or two of connection, Brut looks down at our joined hands and releases me as though my touch burns. It’s another reminder of how I felt all those years ago. I wasn’t the one he wanted most.

  10

  Surfer girl

  [Brut]

  Dammit. I lost her. Something in what I said pulled her away from me for a moment, her cheerful expression pinching in pain. Saying her name, I hoped to draw her back to me. The breeze blows, and as her hair slips loose, she twists her head to free it from her face. When she returns to my direction, she grins, noting she’s returned from wherever she went in her head.

  We walk forward a step or two, and then I notice I’m still holding her hand. Her fingers are delicate yet warm, and I like the way they curl with mine. We fit, Lily and I, and I’ve missed her. The thought reminds me I’m moving too fast. The orgasm last night. Holding hands now. I don’t want to let go, but it seems like too much. We need to talk.

  “So, about las—”

  “Was a mistake,” she interjects, cutting off my start. I stop walking.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I offer, scratching at the back of my neck. My face pinches at the directness of her rejection.

  Was I startled by what happened? Absolutely.

  Was I surprised she got off so fast? Definitely.

  Would I take it back? Not a fucking chance in hell.

  “I don’t know what happened.” She lowers her head, aiming her eyes for her feet. I glance down to see her toes digging in the wet sand. Cupping her chin, I force her face upward. I don’t like her looking away from me

  “I do,” I say, my grin growing, hoping to tease the tension away. Lily closes her eyes, again trying to cut herself off from me. I gently tighten my grip on her chin. “I liked it, Lily pad.”

  The comment reminds me of one of our firsts together. Her mouth on me, sucking me dry despite her inexperience. Presently, her face pinks deeper than the sunshine heat on her skin.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she offers, eyes still shut, her voice soft. I don’t want her to be, and I’m about to say as much when her eyes snap open.

  “It won’t happen again,” she says with finality in her tone and a head nod for added emphasis. My mouth falls open, ready to tell her how much I want it to happen again when she adds, “I think I’d like to learn to surf.”

  Any man knows a change of subject from a woman means the conversation is dead, and most men might see this is as a godsend, but I don’t want Lily thinking our moment on the sand was a mistake. I refuse to see it as anything other than a sign she is still attracted to me in some way, and God knows I’m attracted to her. But I won’t force her.

  I tell myself to stop touching her, only I cannot seem to pull back my hand. I’m no longer cupping her chin but stroking the side of her face. My fingers feel a magnetic pull to her, always reaching for her and wanting to touch her in some manner. Brush her hair behind her ear. Cup her chin in my palm. Stroke down her neck. Her skin is so soft, and she smells so good. Tropical. Fruity. New. I want more of her. I want her under me again. I want a second chance.

  There’s a million reasons why I can’t have one, why I shouldn’t even consider asking for one. Forefront in my mind has been the Brad guy and all she laid on me last night. I’d like to bury him alive for what he did to her, and without needing more details, I need to know she’s really healed from all that happened to her. Thoughts of Brad remind me I will not force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. Being with me again is obviously something she sees as not happening.

  “So, you want to surf?” I swallow down the rejection I feel and the questions I want to ask and allow her this moment to distract us.

  “I’d like to learn, yes.” Her lips twist as she squints in the direction of the surfers bouncing on the waves.

  “I guess we could find you an instructor…” I hesitate. “Or I could teach you?” The offer simply spills out, and for a moment, I think this is a great idea. Then I pause. This is a horrible idea. This means more of Lily on display. I’m already having a hard enough time keeping my hands off her. Speaking of hard, her bikini from yesterday nearly killed me on the beach. All that exposed skin. A news report would read: “Death by heart attack from the sight of a beautiful woman skimpily clad.” I don’t trust myself.

  “You would do that?” Her question laced with cheerful hope catches me off guard. I’d do anything for you, Lily pad, I want to reply but clench my teeth to hold back the confession.

  “Of course.” The terse answer sounds strained, and her face flinches, but I haven’t removed my hand from her face. A fingertip strokes down her cheek to her lips, tracing over the curve of the bottom one. “I’d like to teach you.”

  “I’m ready to learn,” she replies, her voice lowering, adding fuel to the heat already burning inside me.

  When I first met Lily, she was so innocent. I obviously didn’t know all the other stuff, but without knowing herself, she was sultry, sexy, and completely unaware of the temptation of her body. She sauntered into our garage one day, and I was a goner. Instant attraction combined with her eagerness, and that was it for me. Close the book.

  “Then I’ll instruct.” My voice croaks, rusty, and rough. There is so much I’d love to teach her now and so much I’d like to learn from her. Her playful grin reminds me surfing is on the docket—not the sexual fantasies building in my mind. Though surfing with Lily is going to add to the bank of self-pleasuring images.

  + + +

  “Fuck,” I groan. I’ve shown Lily how to paddle out on the board and then rest until the timing feels right. We are in a little inlet, a bay of sorts, where the waves aren’t as rugged as the outer ocean but perfect for learning to surf. With Lily’s athletic build, she’s agile, just as I sensed she would be. She hops up easily. Knees bent. Body shifted forward. Arms outstretched. She surfs.

  She’s a natural, and I love the sound of her squeal
s as she becomes more confident with each attempt.

  Until she falls off.

  She’s under for a moment too long, and I flip from my board, searching the sea for her. I find her legs under the water, treading the waves. Her hands cup under her armpits, arms crossed over her chest. She should be using her arms to support her, and I curse with fear. She must be hurt. Popping out of the water mere inches in front of her, she screams at the surprise. The next thing I know, she’s against my chest and her legs have locked around my hips. I struggle at first because the added weight throws me off balance, but my hand comes to her lower back.

  “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?”

  She shakes her head in the crook of my neck, muttering something I can’t distinguish. Her lips tickle my skin, and I shiver despite her heat. I’m trying to paddle us forward, boards drifting off beside us as they are tethered to each of our ankles respectively.

  “Lily, tell me what happened.” I’m still panicking she hit something although we are deep enough for the water to break her fall.

  “I lost my top.” The comment halts my one-armed swim, and I slip my hand upward to find her back is bare…of everything. I can’t help the chuckle as I warned her surfing in a bikini was risky. She didn’t own a wet suit and refused to let me buy her one at the board rental shop. I told her she should at least get a sun-resistant T-shirt, but she didn’t listen to me.

  The seriousness of the situation slowly dawns on me.

  She’s bare on top and pressing into me.

  Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of the sharp peaks of her nipples poking my chest. I stop dragging us forward when my feet can touch the sandy bottom, keeping us covered by water up to my shoulders. My eyes drift, trying to catch a glimpse of the swells teasing me. Karma is a bitch, I think, as Lily didn’t heed my warning, but then I realize Karma is fucking with me.

  “Where did it go?” I ask, my voice raspy from the knowledge she’s naked. And against me. And naked. In my arms.