Chasing Peace (9 page)

“Uh ... aaaaagh ... augh ... augh....” Strange words flood
unbidden from my throat as I am torn from all that I know, hurled over the edge
and holding tight to Boston as if my life depends on it. I am falling into a
massive crevasse, everything solid and stable in my life crumbling into
uncertainty as air swirls on skin hot and steamy.

My eyes squeeze tight, back arching and toes flexing as wave
after wave assaults me. I’m rigid as if in rigor while my fingers grasp at
Boston, flexing at his shoulders in tandem with other muscles flexing and
grasping at his cock. I calm but only slightly before I’m assaulted again,
tumbling. I alternate between weightless falling and agonizing collision while
Boston pounds into me, pushing and demanding everything from me.

I respond with everything I have to give as Boston pummels
me, faster and abandoned until he jerks and spasms, grunting along with the
keening sounds now coming from me.

As the frenzy subsides, I float, drifting about like an
autumn leaf coming down from above on a still day. Boston’s weight pins me down
yet I’m weightless as if life is effortless and I can go on like this forever,
but I cannot.

All too soon the moisture on my skin becomes too cold, the
heat from Boston’s body overwhelming, his weight suffocating, yet not nearly as
heavy as the content euphoria I’d never felt before. I feel like I’ve been to
battle and returned to tell a glorious tale.

What have I done? The voices in my head admonish.

This is supposed to be casual, yet roiling emotions batter
me. My heart rate picks up. My respiration comes in gasps as I struggle to make
sense of how I feel, and I’m no longer talking about Boston’s cock wedged
between my thighs.

I’d compromised again. I’d vowed avoidance until intrigue
set it. Then I promised to enjoy, but keep it casual. Now I know I’d lied to
myself, one of those little tales we tell ourselves so we can justify what we
really want, so we can rationalize our behavior.

“
How am I going to fix this?
” I wonder.

* * *

I’d been here before. The déjà vu tells me so. It’s warm
outside and I’m driving with the windows down. My old car is frosty despite the
heat. It’s dark, but the streetlights cast a yellow glow and my headlights are
bright.

Something about this night stands out. I’m on my way home
from work. It could have been any night, but it’s not and I can’t remember why
this night is so important. It’s late, but not too late, maybe midnight. I spy
police lights up ahead, the telltale blue flashing, but out of sync with the
red. I can’t reach them.

There aren’t any other cars on the road except me and the
flashing lights. They keep moving, just out of reach. With every hill or bend
in the road, I expect to come across an accident. I can see them flashing, but
I never get any closer.

I wake up at the hospital. I’m cold. The lights are bright
and the people solemn. They know something that I don’t and I’m struggling to
understand. A nurse arrives with a blanket as if a blanket might bring me
warmth. I try to clutch it tight with the fingers of one hand, but I can’t hold
it close enough to keep in the heat. My arms won’t move, one weighed down and
heavy, the other tethered. The blanket hangs from my shoulders, doesn’t help at
all, or maybe it’s holding in the cold.

Dread lurks riding hard against my frantic mind. I race
to find out what happened, seeking answers to unasked questions and trying to
fit the puzzle together. My path is bright and sterile, endless hallways
honeycomb one into the next. It’s a hospital, but everyone’s gone. I don’t know
where I’m going and I’m sure I never want to get there, but I persevere. My
legs churn, my arms pump, my lungs ache. My head explodes with the effort. The
more I struggle, the more futile.

I’m too late, but it doesn’t matter because I’m sinking.
My feet are too heavy, my knees too weak. I need to get to Emma, but I can’t
take another step. I have to move, but the gravity is too much. It weighs me
down, pressing on my shoulders, my belly, the back of my neck.

In only moments I go from racing to still, questions to
understanding. I can’t fix this. I was too late before I began, my only hope,
to turn back the clock and try again, only earlier, but I can’t go back, I can
never go back.

Now that I know, the floor can’t hold me. I grab at the
light and rage into the darkness as I dissolve, falling through the cracks,
becoming darkness too.

* * *

I’m pinned in place when I wake up. My first impulse is to
struggle, but I don’t. It feels secure rather than restraining, calming instead
of upsetting. I’m in my apartment. This is my bed, my duvet and my clock, which
displays a measly five-twelve. Looking to the window, I see dim light beginning
to seep in around and through the slats in the blinds. It’s morning, but it’s
early.

I wiggle just a bit to roll over, but I can’t, restrained by
arms holding me close. It’s Boston. I recognize the hands I’d watched dancing
on piano keys like a hummingbird buzzing between flowers. He smells like warmth
and citrus, a scent uniquely his, but why is he in my bed?

Lying still, I let it all come back while luxuriating in the
quiet warmth of early morning, the security of the body pressed tightly to my
back. My head is on my pillow, my neck on his bicep. His arm beneath me doesn’t
wrap around. Instead it rests like a fire hose unrolled across my bed. The
other arm is wrapped tight around me, his elbow at my hip, fingers splayed
across my stomach, just below my breasts, the duvet not quite covering us.

I can feel the heat radiating at my back, his shoulders
slightly above mine, his chest and belly skimming my back, his hips cradling
me. He has an erection too. I can feel it through the blanket pressing
intimately, nudging. I’ve slept with men and am not surprised by this almost
biological response, but I’m inordinately pleased. It shouldn’t matter. It
might mean very little, but I smile still.

The dream had come like a demon that feeds on the dark. It
usually wakes me, dragging me into the darkness, making me a creature of the night.
Last night did not follow the same path.

Boston knows I am awake. I smile to myself as his arms
tighten around me almost imperceptibly. Whether I moved or not, I’ll never
know.

“Are you awake?” I’m not sure why I asked.

“Ummm Hmmm. It’s early. You should go back to sleep.”

His breath skates across my ear, ruffling my hair and
sending a shiver through me.

“It’s morning. I’m awake.”

“Ummm Hmmm.” His fingers trace lazy swirls across my belly. “But
you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

My cheeks flame in mortification. “I guess … we were … up a
little late,” I stutter. My eyes drift away from him in embarrassment.

“You were dreaming too.”

“Oh that.” The dream is never good, but for some reason I’m
relieved he’s not commenting on my morality. “I went right back to sleep
though, so I’m good.”

“Sleep some more. I have to go.”

I murmur an incoherent response, already floating back into
the oblivion that is sleep, the sleep of the innocent, but I’m no innocent. The
breath across my ear stops. I feel his lips against my temple. I’m losing
awareness and the ability to object. “Mmmm,” I hum, reveling in his gentle
handling.

When I wake again, I have my apartment to myself. I feel
like my life is new and good and bright and realization that Emma is gone never
sets in. I have something else on my mind. Instead of thinking what might have
been, I imagine what might be.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“Hmmm?” I mutter, not really paying attention. I’m on the
futon, reclining against Boston, fatigue from the day draining away as I melt
into him.

I haven’t pulled out the blanket and pillows yet so we’re
officially relaxing on the sofa. I showered the work off my body and changed
into yoga pants and a tee. He hung his jacket over my desk chair. His shoes and
socks are missing, his shirt sleeves rolled almost to the elbow. My fuzzy-sock
feet rest on the coffee table right next to his bare feet. It’s so domestic.

“I’m wondering why my mom stopped by.”

“To say hello?”

“It’s never that simple with my mom. She usually wants
something.”

“To say hello?”

I chuckle at that. “Yeah, but she’s not drinking. She’s
predictable when she’s drinking I’m not sure what to think when she’s not.”
Boston’s hands stroke up and down my arms making me mellow and I confess, “She’s
an alcoholic.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, right?”

“What about your dad?”

“I never knew him and my mom claims she doesn’t either. She
was drunk at the time.”

“That’s tough.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I could do whatever I wanted growing up
and no one cared.”

“I know what that’s like and it’s not all that great.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I can’t tell you how many times I cleaned
her up and put her to bed before I left for school. I guess I spent my
childhood praying she’d stop drinking, until I gave up.”

“If only it were that easy.”

“Yeah, right? I dumped out her booze once or twice, but then
she’d buy more. I figured out pretty quick that if I swiped some of her money
when she was drunk, I could buy food before she spent it all on brandy, except
when she was married.”

“Was that better or worse?”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” I wiggle to roll
away and Boston’s arms tighten a bit holding me almost sprawled across his
chest. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“You know I grew up with the proverbial mom and dad and white
picket fence and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Yeah.” I don’t believe him. “I’d have given anything to
have a mom and dad and a nice normal suburban house.”

Boston doesn’t protest or pretend that his childhood was
better or worse than mine, or laugh at my childish dream. He cups my cheek,
kisses the tip of my nose and tilts my face toward his until our eyes meet. It’s
always so much more difficult to talk when his eyes search my soul, digging
deep and pulling out emotions I don’t even recognize as mine.

He kisses my lips, not passionate, but not a quick peck
either. “I saw you at the hotel when I left after my audition. You caught my
eye and I didn’t know why.

I slapped my palm against his shoulder. “Maybe it’s the same
reason other guys notice me, ya think?”

“That’s exactly what I thought at first but then later, when
you took a swing at me, I saw pain in your eyes and loneliness. I know what it’s
like to be alone and I wanted to make those feelings go away.”

“It’s not like I’m a puppy who needs to be loved or a damsel
in search of a knight in shining armor.” I roll away and this time he lets me
go. “Want something to drink?” My eyes well up as I get to my feet. I can’t
tell you what Boston might have seen in me, but his description is exactly how
I’ve felt since Emma died, maybe even before then.

“I’m fine Sterling.”

I fill a glass at the kitchen sink but only sip at the
water, struggling to swallow past the lump in my throat. He doesn’t push me,
instead waiting for me to come back.

When I finally have my composure, I sit down at the opposite
end of the futon.

“Put your feet up here. I’ll rub them.” I lift first one
foot and then the other, suspicious that he might want to continue our
conversation. “I bet your feet get tired standing behind the bar all night.”

I stroke the back of my hand and apply a little pressure
while asking, “Don’t your hands get tired too?” A sharp crack adds an
exclamation point to my question.

“Nah. Pushing keys is easy work,” he says, ignoring the
sound of my wrist.

My fuzzy socks with red and white stripes like Raggedy Ann’s
stockings rest in his lap. Starting with one foot, he slides his thumbs up the
bottom from heel to toes, pressing just hard enough.

“Mmm.” I moan. “You’re right. My feet do get tired.”

Relaxing into the pillow behind me, I luxuriate in the
sensations. His strong hands ooze across and around my feet, stroking and
soothing.

“I still wonder what she wanted tonight.” I can’t believe I
said it. I didn’t want to talk about my mother any longer.

“Sometimes it helps to put yourself in her shoes, to
consider what she might be thinking. Either that or you can ask her about it.”

“Mmmm.” I’m not sure if that’s in response to the his
suggestion or the foot massage, but I’d lost all concentration the moment Boston’s
hands moved from my feet to my ankles and calves. They skim up my calves under
the loose legs on my pants, their warmth making me shiver. His palms come back
to cup my ankles stroking upward, over and over. His fingers tickle across my
skin, palms creating friction. He stops at my knees.

“Mmmm.” My head drops back onto the pillow behind me. I am
melting and rigid at the same time, soft clay in his hands moving as he shapes
me, an urgency for more pushing back, not quite a compulsion, but getting
close. I’m spinning out of control at the slightest touch and I don’t want to
fight it.

Boston moves up my body, his hands grazing my thighs, and
then framing my hips, outside my pants now. “You’re not falling asleep on me
are you?”

My eyelids flicker open, if only to prove I’m present in
this moment and then I’m lost in his gaze. My eyes give him access to all that
lies beneath. He can see my secrets, not the details, but the haunting
insecurity, nagging uncertainty, and obsessive doubt.

I know who I am and I have no idea how to change. I tried
becoming someone else and failed miserably. Boston doesn’t turn away. Instead
he smiles, his chin near my navel, elbows on either side of my hips, chest
wedged between my thighs, so close, but not quite touching. There is clarity in
his smile, confidence and calm.

“You’re sure now?” He’s waiting for me.

“Yes. I’m sure.” I give myself permission to enjoy him, to
enjoy this moment. My hands hover over his shoulders, wanting to pull him up
toward me, but waiting, interested in his current position even more.

Boston’s fingers clench into the soft curves at my hips as
his head drops to me, breathing through my pants. His breath is cool at first
as it flicks at me through the moist fabric dividing us and then steamy as he
plasters his mouth against me, hot air scalding nerve endings raw with need.

“My pants, they’re ...” I struggle against him.

“Relax Sterling. We have plenty of time.” Boston is calm as
he nudges me, his nose sinking into the one fold accessible through my pants,
his lips going lower. His hands circle my hips, grasping my ass and snugging me
closer, his lips nipping and demanding in spite of the fabric barrier.

I don’t want to move him and instead try to move my pants,
my hands at my hips, pushing down. Boston’s head pops up. He grins with a
sparkle in his eye, but instead of returning to his task, his eyes bore into
mine, drilling into me. He watches me, trying to understand me as his tongue
traces a thin line across the now bare skin of my lower belly. I shiver under
his gaze as his tongue etches a trail from just above the curls peeking over
the fabric where my pants now rest, to my belly button where he stops for a
quick dip.

He continues on as I slide my pants lower, but he never goes
back. My yoga pants and panties are trapped at my thighs, Boston’s body and my
splayed legs preventing further movement. It doesn’t matter. I’m distracted
again. He has pushed my shirt up in advance of his tongue with hands wrapped
around my ribs, thumbs now teasing the underside of my breasts.

Abandoning my pants, I grab at my tee, sweeping it over my
head. Boston’s tongue blazes a wavering path between my breasts, his head
tipping right and then left to brush his cheeks against first one breast and
then the other. The evening growth along his jaw is scratchy and thrilling.

His tongue slides to my collarbone, dipping into the hollow
where my neck meets my body. It skates sideways to pay homage to the other side
before skimming upward once again. Boston zigzags up my throat and over my chin
where he pauses, our eyes snagging, his forehead now resting against mine.

There’s danger here, but I’m no longer guarded. I’m certain
now. I want to see inside of him the way he sees inside me. I curl my fingers
around his neck, pulling his mouth to mine and our lips sip, tasting
experimentally. He tastes earthy and sweet. So that’s how I taste. I pull back,
surprised by the novelty, although I should have realized. Boston rears up,
giving me space, letting me decide. I move toward him and he helps, pulling me
close and lifting me. I am no longer lying back. We are both on our knees,
meeting on level ground. He has one palm flat on my back, fingers spread,
pressing me tight to his chest. His other hand strokes against my cheek; his
fingers curl into my hair. His mouth is hot on mine, lips slanting, tongue
teasing before delving in. I answer with a fervor I’d never felt before.

My palms move from behind his neck, my fingers clumsy as I
work at the buttons on his shirt. Finally free I tug it down, pulling his hands
away as I peel the shirt from his arms and lean in. The heat of his chest burns
into my breasts, scorching my erect nipples.

I want to feel every inch of him, my fingers teasing the
rippling muscles across his back before coming around to explore the ridges
across his front. I marvel as his muscles jump and tense beneath my exploring
fingers. Boston’s hands are at my breast catching a nipple between his
forefinger and thumb. His palms press into my flesh, pulling and squeezing to
the tip where he rolls and pinches my nipple. He wrenches his mouth from mine,
his head dropping to my other breast. I gasp, my breath trapped in my throat
when he draws my nipple deep into his mouth as if looking for sustenance.

My heart races, a thousand beats per minute pumping liquid
fire through my veins, from his mouth at my breast to my soaking wet crease and
back again.

His cock presses against my belly, distending the front of
his pants. I want more. My fingers shift to his buckle, working it loose as he
teases my nipples and fondles my breasts generating heat within me as if he’s
building a fire. The button comes free easily, but the zipper encounters
resistance. Boston groans sending vibrations from his mouth humming against my
nipple as he tries to help. I slip two fingers behind the zipper to protect him
as I gently ease it down the length of his cock.

Finally free, I push his pants and boxer briefs down to his
knees, his cock tapping my belly as it bobs between us.

Boston shoves my pants down further, lifting me to his chest
as we struggle to pull them over my knees. I straighten one leg and then the
other, my pants legs turning inside out as he peels them away. I slide down his
chest, coming to rest on my knees. I realize that his cock is trapped between
my legs. He groans at the downward angle and shifts to find relief.

“Oooh.” It comes out high-pitched and startled. His cock is
wedged between my folds and slides against my clit with the slightest motion. I
pull Boston’s mouth back to mine, lifting myself slightly and groaning again as
he slides against my clit. “I need you,” I breathe against his lips, my words
pitched with urgency. “Love me. Love me please.”

Boston eases me back on the futon, holding my hips tight and
maintaining contact between his cock and my crotch. My shoulders land first and
I wrap my leg around his waist. The futon is still folded in the seating
position, trapping my other leg between Boston’s hip and the futon back.

As my ass settles, his cock drags through me again, the head
catching, making furrows, or maybe he did it on purpose because he is poised in
position all in one quick maneuver. I flex my leg, pulling him toward me. I am
slick and my breath is marooned in my throat as his tip slips into me.

“Hold on baby.” He’d let me go, rummaging in his pants and
coming up with a foil packet.

I groan as he pulls away and I hurry him along, my fingers
helping to smooth the condom in place. Then we’re ready.

Boston positions his cock at my entrance. Our eyes meet, me
reclining as he kneels between my legs. His cock surges forward, my fingers
clenching into his arms. He’s sleek and I am slippery and he rams home, sinking
into place, the fullness causing pressure all the way to my belly and chest.

He’s not moving, remaining still, plugged into me. My chest
is tight, my breathing shallow, the edge of bliss is glistening and beckoning,
enticing me to the other side and we’ve only just begun. This is more than the
artful dance of romance. We connect deep down inside, where my secrets are stashed.
I’m certain he can see into my soul and I want to see into his, but I try not
to look. Flirting with forever and always is dangerous and I’m a coward. I
close my eyes.

He kisses me then, lips clinging and lilting like music. He
begins to move. It’s a rhythmic blending of us. I strain to match him, tilting
my hips and lifting myself to him in spite of our awkward positions. I hover as
if in purgatory, wanting but not deserving, getting and feeling guilty until
Boston pounds into me matching my urgency. I’m desperate for fulfillment; every
cell in my body blossoming with desire as waves of sensation begin to crest,
threatening to overwhelm me. He rams home, plunging in and out. I rise up to
meet every pounding, smacking thrust.