A Stranger on the Beach. Michele Campbell

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СКАЧАТЬ with the thought of what would happen next.

      “That’s incredible,” he said.

      “Just wait. Sunset’s so beautiful, it’ll make you cry.”

      We lived a perfect day together watching the colors wash across the ceiling. From the fresh light of early morning through the beaming radiance of noon, through the gathering of shadows as the day waned, our fingers intertwined. He raised my hand to his lips and turned it over, kissing my wrist, then my palm, slowly, lingeringly. The brush of his lips against the skin of my hand made me dizzy, and I thought, It’s been too long. And, Why shouldn’t I? And, I deserve this. At sunset, rapturous colors—pinks and lavenders, ochers and golds—cascaded across the ceiling accompanied by soft music and the sound of lapping waves. The round, red orb of the sun was beginning to touch the water. As we watched it sink into the waves, he moved his right leg until it rested between my two, and I knew then it would happen. I paused the display at the moment the sun disappeared into the water, then looked into Aidan’s eyes. His face was bathed in the spectral glow, his eyes dark with lust.

      “Isn’t it magic?” I whispered.

      “You’re magic,” he said.

      The line was corny, but I ate it up. He pulled me toward him and took my face in his hands. I was conscious of my own heartbeat, of this singular moment in time. In bed with a complete stranger, I could forget who I was. I could become a different woman. My lips parted. He kissed me, and I kissed back harder. His tongue tasted sweet and tangy, of limes and vodka. He pulled my head back, kissing me with such fury that it was almost a bite, then moved his mouth to my neck, my ears. I thought, I’ll have marks in the morning, and I loved the thought of that. My insides turned to mush, and I arched my back, quivering with need, pressing into him until I felt the bulge in his pants. I moaned and reached down for his belt buckle. No hesitation, no shame. I wanted him that badly.

      He grabbed me and pulled me on top of him, so I was straddling him. His eyes were locked on my face, the pupils dark, as he grabbed me by the butt and pressed himself against me through our clothes. I rocked and squirmed, aching with need.

      “Is this what you want?” he whispered.

      “Yes.”

      “What do you want me to do to you? Say it.”

      “I want you to fuck me.”

      “Say please.”

      “Please.”

      “Strip for me first,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Go ahead. Start with the shirt.”

      I leaned back and undid the top button of my filmy blouse, taking my time going down the row of buttons, loving the way his eyes were glued to my fingers. I let the blouse slip from my shoulders, luxuriating in the tickle of the fabric against my bare skin. Every sensation was heightened. I’d worn my sexiest bra tonight—sheer, push-up, black. I must’ve been planning ahead, without fully realizing it, or admitting it to myself. My breasts swelled out of it now like an invitation. He reached out and yanked the bra lower, so my nipples showed, and made this primitive grunting sound at the sight of them. I thought I would faint.

      He pulled me toward him. His mouth found my breasts, and he grazed them with his teeth, first one, then the other. I was panting with pleasure. Then he grabbed my waist and flipped me, so he was on top. He hovered there, the front of his jeans tented with his hard-on, as I writhed. To be wanted like this, by this gorgeous guy—I was swooning. My eyes closed, and my head swam.

      “Look at me,” he commanded, as he grabbed my arms and pinned them to the bed.

      I opened my eyes. He let go and took a step back, yanking his pants down and his shirt over his head. Then he ripped my jeans and panties off and stared down at me. Instead of plunging into me then and there like I expected—like I wanted, needed—he got down on his knees. He leaned forward and blew softly on the sensitive spot between my legs, and I shuddered with desire. He moved higher up, kissing my abdomen, then my navel, his lips caressing, his tongue licking and teasing as he moved slowly back down. My legs went rigid, and drunken, rapturous tears leaked from my eyes. Then he slipped two fingers inside me, and I moaned in bliss.

      “Mmm, so wet,” he said, as his fingers moved slowly in and out.

      By the time I finally felt his tongue down there, I was panting and bathed in sweat. My hands grasped the duvet, and I screamed at him not to stop. He took his time, and I cried out, shuddering, as the orgasm washed over me in intense waves. Then he stood up and grabbed me by the ankles, yanking my legs toward his shoulders, and plunging into me hard, stroking in and out with perfect control. I cried out with every thrust, holding on to his arms, mesmerized. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had sex like this. Maybe I never had. Just when it was about to become too much, when I was about to beg him to stop, he started groaning. He bucked and twisted, gripping my thighs, and collapsed against me.

      I was so happy I laughed. His skin was warm and slick with sweat. I breathed in the musky scent of sex, closed my eyes, and sighed. The perfect one-night stand, to distract me from my marriage troubles.

      “That was great. Thank you,” I said.

      “I love you,” he whispered, as he kissed my neck.

      My eyes flew open.

12

      I woke in semidarkness to feel the room spinning and vomit rising in my throat. Aidan had flung his arm across my chest as he slept, pinning me to the bed. I threw it off and ran to the bathroom, where I spent the next five minutes on my knees on the cold tile floor, heaving into the toilet. When I was finished, I went to the sink and rinsed my mouth. I’d woken up hungover more than once in recent days, after drinking myself senseless to forget Jason’s betrayal. But this was the mother of all hangovers. My skin was clammy, my legs were shaking, and my whole body ached. There was a throbbing behind my left eye so bad it felt like someone had plunged an icepick in there. I gulped down some Advil, drank an entire glass of water, then stood completely still, waiting to see if they would stay down. When it seemed likely I wasn’t going to hurl again, I took a deep breath, and only then did I realize how much I reeked. Of sex.

      The gravity of the situation hit home. I’d picked up the local bartender and brought him to my house, to my bed, for a one-night stand, and everybody in the bar saw me do it. I barely knew this man, and he was still here, fast asleep and snoring. I wished to God this hadn’t happened. But it had, and now I had to face him—in my bedroom. At least I wasn’t worried that he was dangerous. But the shame of it made me feel like jumping out of my skin. Ugh, I wanted him gone, out. I wanted to take a shower, talk to my daughter on the phone, drink a cup of tea, pretend everything was normal and that I hadn’t just violated every rule of decent behavior that my Italian Catholic mother raised me with. I wanted to get rid of this guy—now.

      Wait. Did he say he loved me last night?

      The thought was crazy. I must’ve hallucinated it in a drunken stupor.

      Okay, deep breath. I’d wake Aidan up and ask him to leave. Simple. No problem. Working in that bar, I imagined he was the king of the casual hookup, going home with a different woman every night. He wouldn’t expect breakfast and sweet nothings. Not even a kiss goodbye. Just a pat on the butt, a thank-you, maybe a cup of coffee in a to-go mug if he was on his way somewhere.

      I could handle that.

      Wait. СКАЧАТЬ