Bess
Saturday and part of Sunday flew by in a whirlwind of taking runs with Lane along the beach, eating leisurely brunches together at the local diner, sharing a candlelit dinner in a tiny tucked-away Italian joint, and walking along the shoreline, stealing kisses any chance we had. There was something about Lane that both put me at ease and also unsettled me.
I think it was his eyes. They were confusing, often saying something different than the rest of him. His gorgeous baby blues were mostly open and honest, but every so often they would darken with something secret. A small shade of hesitation, a concern or worry would transform his eyes, and I would stare deep into them, trying to understand what it was or where it came from.
Like the first day I spotted him all buttoned up in his suit in the WildFlower restaurant waiting for a table, it was as if he was in some kind of weird trance where he was wrestling with inner demons. Which was strange, because to the casual onlooker, it didn’t appear that he had any problems, any demons.
Of course, I was the last person to think everything was always rosy. Looks could be deceiving. If you went to an AA meeting, you wouldn’t believe the normal-looking people there who struggled with addiction.
So it bothered me, this knowledge that there was something not quite right with him; I just didn’t know what.
It was usually during those odd moments when Lane would change the subject or come up with something I had to see. The steps where Versace was murdered, the gym on the beach with all the muscle heads, the funky pedal taxis with advertising hanging from the sides, and my favorite distraction—the hammock swing in the courtyard of the Dylan where we both climbed in and swung gently from side to side while holding hands.
With my head nestled in the crook of his neck, Lane asked, “Wouldn’t it be great to do this year round?” while kissing the top of my head, making his way around to nibble on my ear.
I couldn’t see his eyes, so I had no idea if their blue was burning bright like the sky or if they were clouded with some dark emotion.
“I think so,” I said, “but this isn’t real. At least, not for me. I have a routine, which is how I survive. I go to work, walk my dog, spend time on my quiet piece of the mountain, and go to meetings. I don’t think that translates into life here.”
It was Sunday afternoon, and the shadows were drawing long. My room beckoned to me, the satiny sheets calling my name. But not just my name. Lane’s too. We had had another earth-shattering make-out session at my door the night before, and I felt the frustration when Lane made his way back down the hall, leaving my panties soaked and my heart racing.
But now we were in the hammock, swaying in the breeze, and I wanted to make love to Lane more than I ever wanted to catch any buzz. The only thing stopping me was that I was leaving soon, and the reality of me coming back, let alone staying for good, was nonexistent.
“I know,” he said, and pulled me closer. “But this is fun, more than fun. I like having you here, and I never spend time like this with anyone.”
He kept making reference to this over the weekend. He never spent whole days with anyone. He never invited anyone to Florida for a weekend. He worked all the time, only making time for the occasional dinner or social event with a woman.
“It is fun,” I said softly, “but you have to know. I came with a piece of paper tucked in my pocket with an AA meeting time and location scribbled on it.”
“I don’t care about that,” he whispered, then dropped a foot outside the hammock and swung it, picking up a little speed in our swaying.
I closed my eyes, somewhere between being lulled to sleep and feeling myself spiral out of control. “You’ve been so kind. Not drinking at dinner and all. It’s not necessary. I’m not falling off the wagon anytime soon, but this life wouldn’t be for me. The high energy that envelops this place is not for me. Not long term, I’m afraid. That’s my reality.”
Then out of nowhere, Lane asked, “What if I am? What if I’m for you long term?”
I tried to twist out of the hammock, but he held on tight.
“I can’t think like that, Lane. When I left rehab, I thought I would never get involved. That it would be my dog and me forever, and then when you first invited me to dinner, I questioned that, which led to something so stupid—”
“What?” he interrupted.
“Well, I got involved with my sponsor. It was foolish, and he caught me in a weak moment. Maybe my weakest since sobering up. Could have even been the time when I reached for an illegal pick-me-up. The feeling of being alone, the isolation, it was choking me, and my sponsor made me feel that I didn’t have to be alone. And then you kissed me in the staff hallway on Christmas, and I was destroyed.”
He pulled my face back toward his, twisting my neck, but I didn’t care. “I could kill this fucker,” he joked when he released my lips.
“It’s fine, Lane. It’s fine.” I said it twice, once for him and another time for myself. “I got my head on straight and found a new support person, but the reality is that I live in the middle of the woods for a reason, and you live here for another. I don’t think I can change for anyone.”
“Well, who said anything about you changing?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer.
Lane flipped us out of the hammock and onto the ground, going first and taking the brunt of the fall, pulling me in for more kisses.
We were a sight rolling around on the grass of the Dylan, lips and bodies locked, holding on for dear life, not caring one bit about the ridiculous public display of affection we were putting on for the whole world to see.
And then Lane whispered for my ears only, “Can we go to your room, Bess?” He leaned back and observed my reaction, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“Yes,” I said, and he lifted me in his arms and ran to the elevator.
We fell onto the bed in a mad scramble of hormones, grabbing at each other like teenagers, kissing and licking every available inch of skin until Lane froze for a moment and closed his eyes, then murmured, “Let’s slow this down.”
Disappointment made me frown. I didn’t want to slow anything, and I certainly didn’t like the direction he was heading.
He rolled off of the bed and walked over to the mini bar, which was no ordinary mini bar, considering he’d set me up in a two-bedroom suite swanky enough for celebrities. I think Madonna stayed in this room at one point.
After changing into pajamas the first night, I had padded through the room, enjoying the feel of my feet sinking into the lush rugs, when there was a knock on my door from room service. The waiter pushed in a room service cart, then removed anything alcoholic from the bar and replaced it with sparkling cider and artsy, designer bottled water, along with specially chosen snacks. There were bright lemons and limes in small bowls, and dark roasted almonds and chocolate-covered cherries in jars. I’d smiled to myself at the thoughtfulness that went into the gesture.
As Lane returned to the bed carrying two glasses of the bubbly cider, I watched his approach. My blood simmered, my body boiling over with passion like a pot of pasta left on high. Happy we weren’t slowing anything too much, I pretended to be content.
He set his knee on the bed next to where I was sitting and handed me a glass, saying “Cheers” as he lightly clinked his against mine. Lane drained his glass while I was in the middle of my first sip, then dropped his delicate flute to the carpet and grabbed mine, leaning over and rolling it on the floor where it collided gently with his.
So much for slowing things . . . thank God.
At Lane’s gentle nudge, I slid up the bed until my head rested on one of the oversized down pillows. He crawled up right after me, landing softly on top of me, using his leg to spread mine open. My shorts were riding up my legs and my panties were getting twisted, but I couldn’t have cared less. I wanted friction. And more of it. Squirming underneath Lane, I found a spot where we were aligned perfectly, his hardness rubbing my hot spot.
He closed his eyes for a moment with a groan before saying, “Bess, you are incredible. I can’t believe I’ve kept my hands off of you for this long.”
He lifted the hem of my tank and kissed along my stomach, driving straight through my cleavage before circling each of my breasts with his tongue. He covered one nipple with his mouth as he tugged at the other with his hand.
A shiver ran through me and I threw back my head, calling out his name, my voice hoarse with need. I might as well have been tapping a vein and shooting up, because even as I begged for more with my body, my mind knew this was an addiction I wouldn’t survive.
Desperate for him, I reached down and slid my hands over his ass, a very well-defined ass. We ground against each other until it was no longer enough, and I fumbled with Lane’s pants zipper as he tugged at the waist of my shorts. It became a race to the finish line as piece by piece, our clothing joined the empty glasses on the floor.
When our clothes were gone he inched down, heading south until his hot breath fanned over my belly button, but he didn’t stop there. He slid a finger and then two inside me, and seconds later, his tongue came to put pressure where I needed it most.
This time, I was the one who moaned. Like a dam released, wetness seeped out of me. I was so hot and turned on in ways I’d never experienced naturally, I couldn’t even be worried about making a damp mess on the fancy bed.
My orgasm tore through me like a five-alarm fire, and I floated off to somewhere I didn’t recognize. It was an island of bliss, a place where I’d never been on Molly or coke, a destination that a steady diet of alcohol and pot would never transport me to.
Exhilarated, I never wanted to leave. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to pack my bags and permanently move to this unknown zip code.
Lane’s gentle stroking brought me back to Florida, to the hotel and the present. His fingers glided in and out of me, coaxing out every tremor and wave of sensation that rocked my body. I looked down to find him watching me intently, his hooded eyes intensely blue from his own desire.
“Gorgeous,” he said in a low voice. “So fucking stunning that I did that to you, Bess, and I watched the whole thing like it was in slow motion.”
Then he shifted and pulled his fingers out, and my body immediately felt hollow, aching for something more. When he licked his fingers, his eyes darkening with excitement, my belly and other parts clenched at the sight. I was so turned on—I’d never felt this range of emotions without the help of something pharmaceutical.
And then his mouth was on mine and he tasted like me, but better because it was mixed with him. I reached down and wrapped my hand around him, drawing in a sharp breath. He was big. And wide. And so hard.
His length twitched in my hand, reaching for my center, and I guided him there without a second thought. He pushed inside and started to slowly glide in and out of me. Once again my head rolled back, and his tongue lapped my exposed neck.
I was back to my island, reveling in the sensations as Lane took long, slow strokes in and out of me, when he suddenly pulled out completely.
“Shit,” he said.
Startled, I lifted my head and squeaked out, “What?”
“I didn’t put on any protection.”
“Oh. Well, do you have some?”
He inhaled deeply, then said, “Yeah, I’m just freaked. I’ve never done that before.”
“Sorry, I forgot to ask. We both had our eyes on the prize.” I wriggled a little beneath him, stroking my hand down his back to the dimples above his ass, and felt a tremble run through him. Knowing I could have that effect on him made me feel like I was soaring, which was another unrecognizable high.
A cool draft swept over me and I shivered as Lane reached down to his pants and grabbed a condom, ripping it open and putting it on as fast as humanly possible.
With him deep inside me again, I was no longer chilled. The heat began to build once again, and Lane picked up speed. I wrapped my legs around his back and held him tight as he rocked in and out of me, his balls tickling my ass.
When his finger came down to put pressure right where I needed it, I came apart and he followed right behind me. Blown to bits, I took time to visit my new favorite island destination known as orgasm by Lane, before he pulled out, threw the condom away, and pulled me in tight.