Chapter 3
David was up and out early. Getting that promotion had made the world spin his way, for a while at least. I hoped the good mood would last. He was easier to live with when he wasn’t mad at me all the time.
I wasn’t keen on the idea of a party, but it was something that was expected. I looked forward to these little soirées with the enthusiasm of someone going for root canal.
I cleaned up the kitchen just in case anyone decided to drop in for coffee, then finished off the notes I’d started last night. I wasn’t entirely happy with the necessity of asking Sebastian for his help, but I suspected he’d get a kick out of my idea for an article.
When I’d cornered the laptop and intimidated it into crawling into action, I updated my résumé. It certainly looked a lot better than last time I’d had to do this. Now I had solid experience under my belt, sort of; not as much perhaps as many women my age, but enough—I hoped. I also knew that the fact of my being a military wife garnered enough cachet to get me through the door. Civilians were always intrigued by the idea of a world within a world: nearby, but closed.
I called the phone company and they agreed that I’d be hooked up by Friday; they were usually pretty good at attending to military folk. It made them feel patriotic.
Having ticked off all my chores but one, I was now faced with the tricky prospect of contacting Sebastian without raising his hopes—or getting him into more trouble with his parents. I had no idea how I was going to do that. But, unwittingly, Donna Vorstadt was kind enough to help me out.
The phone rang, loud and demanding.
“Hello?”
“Hi Caroline, it’s Donna. I just thought I’d ask, if you’re not too busy unpacking; some of the girls and I usually get together on a Monday afternoon and have coffee … chew the fat. I was wondering if you’d like to join us? You’ll know some of them: Penny Bishop, Estelle Hunter, Margarite Schiner.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Donna, but I’m just up to my ears in jobs. I have to call the phone company to get DSL; David is on my case about that. And I have a thousand and one things to do. Did he mention we’re having a few friends over for drinks a week from this Saturday? About 7 PM. Maybe we could catch up then. And coffee another time—for sure.”
She accepted my excuses with good humor and said she was looking forward to Saturday. We hung up on good terms after she gave me Estelle’s number, obviously surprised by my request. Donna was easy company—I was beginning to feel she was a woman I could like.
Estelle, however, was something else altogether.
I started to dial her number and, to my surprise and chagrin, I felt a nervous knot in my stomach. Oh, for crying out loud. You’re a woman of 30! I really didn’t like having to ask her for help.
Irritated, I dialed the number.
“Hunter residence. May I help you?”
Sebastian’s voice was cool and polite. I was so surprised, I couldn’t speak immediately. I’d assumed he’d be at school.
“Hello?” he said again.
“Hi, Sebastian…it’s Caroline,” I stuttered.
Over the phone I heard him take a sudden, sharp breath.
“Caroline, hi! How are you?”
“Good, thanks. I was expecting to reach your mother…”
“I had a free period—and I’m graduating on Thursday anyway,” he reminded me.
“Oh, well, as luck would have it…I wondered if you could help me—with an article I’m writing?”
“Sure, anything!”
I tried to ignore the obvious delight in his voice.
“Well, when we were talking at the barbecue the other day, you mentioned that your friend’s dad surfed—I think you said his name was Ches? Well, I wondered if you could give me his number; I’d like to speak to him.”
There was a short pause.
“You want to speak to Ches?”
He sounded hurt.
“Well, I really wanted to talk to Ches’s dad,” I said hurriedly. “I’m writing an article about Base personnel who go surfing. I thought it would make a great piece for City Beat.”
“Oh, right.” He sounded ridiculously relieved. “Sure, I can get you that. We were going to hang out at the beach this afternoon. There’s a swell coming in off the Pacific that looks awesome. Mitch was going to ride with us. You want to come, too?”
“Mitch?”
“That’s Ches’s dad. He’s a Staff Sergeant.”
“Well, that would be great. What time were you going to go?”
“About 3:45 PM. We could pick you up?”
“Um…are you going to Point Loma again?”
“Maybe…we were going to sort of drive around till we found the best break.”
Oh, well…
“In that case, yes, I’d love a ride. Are you sure it’ll be okay with Mitch and your friends?”
“Sure!”
He answered so quickly I couldn’t help a small chuckle escaping. “Well, okay, but I’d feel happier if I could talk to Mitch first.”
With some reluctance that had me smiling to myself, Sebastian gave me his friend’s number and confirmed three times that he’d see me after school at 3:45 PM.
I hung up, still smiling. Then I redialed for Sergeant Peters. A woman answered.
“Hi there, Peters’ residence.”
“Oh, good morning. My name is Caroline Wilson—I’m Commander David Wilson’s wife. I was wondering if I could talk to Sergeant Peters.”
“Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Wilson. This is Shirley Peters. I’m afraid Mitch isn’t available at present. May I take a message?”
“Yes, thank you. This will probably sound a little odd, but I understand Mitch is taking the boys surfing this afternoon and I wondered if I could tag along.”
She hesitated long enough to let me know that this sounded more than just a little odd. I rushed to fill in the blanks for her.
“It’s just that I used to write some stories for the local paper back east,” I said, exaggerating slightly, “and I hoped to try and do the same here—I thought an article on Base personnel who go surfing would be interesting. I was hoping your husband could give me some tips.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure that Mitch will be just fine about that, Mrs. Wilson.”
She still sounded surprised and I knew why—officers’ wives didn’t have much to do with the families of the enlisted ranks. A distinction that had always rather offended me.
In the end, we agreed that Mitch would call me if there was a problem, otherwise I was to be ready to go at 3:45 PM.
“Um, Mrs. Wilson, that van is pretty old; the boys use it for all their surf stuff. It’s got half the beach in there. Well, I wouldn’t want you to ruin any of your clothes.”
I was touched by her thoughtfulness.
“Thank you, Mrs. Peters. I’ll wear an old beach dress then. Thank you so much.”
After that, I felt full of energy, delighted with how the day was panning out. I drove over to the library, got online to check up on the local surf spots, and also to find out a bit more about what kind of stories City Beat ran.
I just had time to stop by the Kwik Shop to stock up on groceries for supper and, as an afterthought, picked up a dozen focaccia rolls before running home to change into my old, yellow sundress and pick up my notebook.
I filled the rolls with pastrami, lettuce and tomatoes, and was finishing wrapping them up in kitchen paper and loading them into a cardboard box when I heard a horn honk outside. I grabbed my camera and notebook, swiped a bottle of pressé from the refrigerator and scooted out to meet my surf Svengalis.
Sebastian had already leapt out of the van, smiling hugely.
“Hi, Caroline!”
He looked so thrilled to see me; I didn’t have the heart to be cool.
“Hello, Sebastian. Could you help me with this? I brought some sandwiches for you and your friends.”
“Wow, thanks!”
He tucked the box under one arm and opened the passenger door. “This is Mitch, um, Staff Sergeant Peters.”
Mitch Peters was a thick-set man of medium height with the trademark Marine buzz-cut. “Mrs. Wilson, pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, call me Caroline, please. You’re doing me the favor. I really appreciate you letting me crash your surf safari.”
He smiled and his face immediately relaxed. “No problem, Caroline. It’ll make these beach bums mind their manners. Right, boys?”
Then he introduced me to his son Ches, Sebastian’s friend, whom I recognized from a few days back; Bill, Mitch’s buddy; and another boy they called Fido, for some reason.
I sat in the front, sandwiched between Mitch and Bill, and the boys crowded into the back of the van among a motley collection of surfboards, body boards, wetsuits, and strange, shiny tshirts that I was told were rash vests.
“To stop the wetsuits rubbing around the neck and under the arms when you’re paddling out,” explained Mitch. “We won’t need them today—the water at this time of year is around 63oF.”
I made a note of that and snapped a quick photo of the back of the van with all the boys pulling faces and flipping the bird.
“Caroline brought food,” Sebastian announced happily.
They must have all been starving because the rolls evaporated like water in the desert, and the pressé was passed around between them. I was sure I could have brought twice as much food, and it would have disappeared the same way.
We drove across the spectacular Coronado Bridge, then headed south, stopping occasionally for a surf check.
Mitch explained that they were looking for a steady swell and offshore breeze to hold up the waves; the best conditions for producing long, workable rides.
In the end, Mitch pulled up at the side of the road near Cays Park and the boys spilled out of the back, their reckless enthusiasm catching. Mitch and Bill were somewhat more circumspect, but I couldn’t tell whether that was because of their seniority, or because I was inhibiting them from the whole male-bonding ritual.
“Just forget I’m here,” I added, somewhat helplessly. “I’ll just watch and soak up the vibe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bill, smiling at me, as he tugged off his t-shirt to reveal a barrel chest, thickly coated with reddish-brown hair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sebastian scowl at him, yanking off his own t-shirt. His skin was the same beautiful, golden color that I remembered, but I’d not noticed before how well muscled he was. All those hours of surfing had left him with long, lithe muscles, and a marvelously toned body. In fact all of them were in great shape. I wondered if I should get into surfing, although 63oF didn’t sound that warm to me.
Mitch handed Sebastian a garish red and yellow board, smiling kindly. It was then I remembered that Sebastian’s own father had destroyed the blue surfboard I’d first seen him with.
I took some more snaps as they posed for the camera, and then watched as they sprinted into the water and paddled out beyond where the waves were breaking. I knew from my half-hour of research that this was called the line-up. They sat there, a gaudy flock, waiting for their wave. As the swell approached, they all started paddling, their arms stroking through the sea, the green water lifting them up; they raced down the shoulder of the wave, so graceful, so powerful. It took my breath away to watch them. Then, inevitably, the wave broke and they all dived off in different directions, bobbing to the surface seconds later.
After I’d watched for a while, Sebastian caught a wave that carried him into the beach, and he jogged over to join me, flicking his hair out of his eyes, skin glistening.
“You finished already?”
“I thought it might help if I explained some more—for your article.”
“That would be great—it all looks kind of the same to me.”
He laughed lightly. “Not really. See, Mitch is using a long board with a rounded nose. He can work the smaller waves with that, and do some hippy shit like hang ten. Ches is riding a short board, so he can slash across the wave, catch some air and do the more radical stuff.”
I had no idea what he’d just said to me—it was like learning a foreign language, but for some reason his words made me smile.
“What sort of board do you have—have you borrowed?”
“This is a short board, a thruster; same as Ches and Fido. See how fast they’re going there? You can’t do that on a long board.”
I began to see what Sebastian meant about the surfing styles as he patiently pointed out the differences, then named and described the different maneuvers. I made copious notes and was pretty sure I could turn this into a workable article.
“How many guys on the Base surf?”
“Quite a lot: once you’ve got your board, the ocean is free. You can be an individual out here—you know, different from military stuff.”
I got what he meant immediately: there were no rules out here, no regulations, no one barking orders at you.
“Well, there are some rules,” Sebastian said, seriously. “Firstly, you don’t drop in and steal someone’s wave. That’s bad etiquette. The guy who takes off first—that’s his wave.”
“And the second?”
“You go help anyone in trouble.”
Obvious, when you think about it.
“Sebastian, don’t let me keep you from your friends; I’m quite happy to sit here and watch.”
He shook his head and looked at me intently.
“I can surf anytime; I’d rather be here with you.”
I stared down at my notepad, unsure what to say, but absolutely certain that if I looked up I’d be caught in the net of his blue-green gaze. But I also needed to be clear.
“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Sebastian. I’m a married woman. It makes me…uncomfortable.”
I still hadn’t been able to look up. I dug my toes further into the sand, as if burying one small part of my body could hide me from him.
“I really like you, Caroline,” he said softly.
I felt his hand touch my arm; he was trembling.
I had to look up. His face held such an expression of longing, mixed with anxiety. I slid my sunglasses from my hair to cover my face and stood up, abruptly.
Walking along the beach and breathing deeply helped restore some of my stolen equilibrium.
Why the hell did he have such an effect on me?
But I knew why: I was attracted to him. He was beautiful and sweet and kind—and he liked me. I had no idea why. I mean, I was nothing special—just an insipid, boring woman who lived down the road from him. What on earth was there to interest someone like him?
Why had he touched me like that? He said he liked me—what did that mean? What did he want?
I was irritated with myself as I stalked up the beach. It was beyond ridiculous. I was beyond ridiculous.
For fuck’s sake. He’s just a kid. Write your damned article and you won’t see him again.
The thoughts were a warning siren blaring through my skull.
I was relieved when Mitch paddled toward the shore. I made certain I asked him endless questions, about surfing being so resolutely nonmilitary and a way for Base personnel to relax. I wasn’t giving anyone else a chance to talk to me—certainly not Sebastian.
“Well, the thing is, Caroline, there’s just no point to surfing,” said Mitch thoughtfully. “It isn’t like skiing; you can’t use it for anything. You might get military skiers like they have in those Nordic countries, but the military doesn’t have any use for surfing. Plus there’s a certain kind of rebelliousness to surfers. Call it individualism or what you will, but some people sure don’t like it.”
“Donald Hunter?” I said quietly.
Mitch’s eyes narrowed and he looked around quickly to make sure Sebastian couldn’t overhear him.
“He’d be on the list,” he said shortly.
I knew better than to pursue that line of questioning.
I glanced at my watch and realized with horror that it was already 6 PM. I couldn’t believe how the time had flown. David would be on his way home; he wouldn’t be pleased to find an empty house. With a sinking feeling I realized that he’d also loathe the fact that I’d been spending time with a non-commissioned officer. He felt it reflected badly on him in some way.
“You okay, Caroline?” said Mitch. “You look kinda worried.”
He was too observant.
“Oh, not really. I just realized how late it had gotten. Enjoying myself too much.” I gave him a weak smile. He understood me instantly.
“We’ll get you home, on the double,” he said good-naturedly.
He yelled toward the ocean, parade-ground loud, and gave the time-honored timeout signal.
Ches was the last to surf in, complaining bitterly that he just wanted to catch one more wave.
“We’ve got to get Mrs. Wilson home,” said Mitch, looking pointedly at his son.
The look and his tone was enough.
We walked back to the van together, Sebastian unnaturally quiet, while the rest analyzed the afternoon’s surf, talking about tubes, green rooms and wipe outs. I turned my back while they peeled off their surf-shorts and dried themselves with old beach towels, pulling on tshirts and jeans for the drive back.
I could barely listen to their cheerful banter, tension filling me up like an overflowing drain. I did manage to pull myself together enough to ask Mitch if he would read through my article once I’d written it.
“Oh no!” he shook his head laughing. “I don’t do words, Caroline, not reading and writing words. You should ask one of the boys—that’s more their thing.”
“Sebastian will do it,” said Ches, throwing a teasing look at his friend.
Fido snickered quietly while Sebastian scowled.
“Okay with you, Seb?” asked Mitch, restoring order swiftly.
“Sure,” said Sebastian quietly. “Whenever you like, Caroline.”
I felt bad, he looked so miserable; but better like this than…I couldn’t bring myself to think of the alternative.
Twenty minutes later Mitch dropped me off. I raised my hand in a small wave and sprinted to the house. The small burst of speed didn’t make any difference because David’s Camaro was already parked in the driveway.
I fished in my beach purse for the key and tentatively unlocked the door.
“Caroline?”
Who else?
“Hello, David. Sorry I’m late getting home.”
He was waiting for me at the kitchen table. He didn’t look happy—irritation rolled off him in waves.
“Where have you been? Your car was parked out front.”
“Sergeant Peters gave me a ride; he was helping me out with an article I’m writing for City Beat.”
“Peters? Which one is he?”
“Um, he lives out on Murray Ridge. He’s a Staff Sergeant. His wife is Shirley.”
“You know I don’t like you mixing with the noncoms, Caroline,” he said, with finality. “When will you understand that it undermines my authority if my wife hobnobs with the enlisted men—and their wives?”
“I’m sorry, David, but he really was very helpful. He…”
“I’m not interested in your excuses, Caroline.”
I felt the control on my temper starting to slip.
“I’m not making excuses. I’m very grateful for Staff Sergeant Peters’ help today.”
A chilly silence descended.
“I’ll go make supper,” I muttered.
“Don’t bother,” he said sharply. “While you were absent, I made other arrangements. I’m meeting one of my colleagues in the mess. Don’t wait up.”
He strode out of the house and I heard the Camaro screech down the road.
I knew what this meant: David was going on one of his rare drinking binges. He’d probably be falling out of a taxi at two in the morning, breathing his beery fumes in my face.
I was glad when he went, but I knew I’d have to face his wrath at some point.
I tried to settle down and type up my notes, but the yawning absence of his disapproving presence made me restless.
It was starting to get dark, with stars appearing in the east. I dug a coat from the closet, pulled on some sneakers and headed out for a walk.
I took a circular route, wandering toward the park, when I realized that it might not be the most sensible place to be as darkness approached. I looked across and could see a man sitting on one of the benches, his sweatshirt hood pulled over his head.
I was alert but not overly worried: not yet. The quickest way home was to walk past. I debated whether this was the smart thing to do and, in the end, decided that as he wasn’t looking at me, I’d risk the most direct route.
As I got closer I realized the silent figure was Sebastian. What was he doing out here by himself? I almost walked past. I really didn’t need another uncomfortable encounter with him. I had enough on my plate dealing with David’s petulance. But he looked so alone, that I decided to risk a quick word and make sure he was okay. I wondered if he’d had another fight with his father. I hoped it wasn’t because of me again. Or, rather, because of the surfing.
“Sebastian?”
His head jerked up and he looked directly at me before dropping his eyes to the ground.
I gasped. He had a bruise across one cheek, and his lower lip was split.
“Oh, my God! Are you all right?”
What a dumb question: any fool could see he wasn’t all right.
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer, but hunched his shoulders and carried on staring at the ground, as if the answer would spring from between the scraggy blades of grass.
Without any conscious decision, I raised my hand and lifted his head carefully.
He jerked his face away. “Don’t look at me,” he whispered.
“Did your father do this to you?”
He nodded, and a slow burning anger began to build in me.
“Sebastian, let me see. I want to make sure you’re not hurt too badly.”
“I’m okay,” he said in a hollow voice. “I’ve been hurt worse than this.”
The pain in his voice was more than I could bear.
I stroked his face and felt tears beneath my fingertips.
“Don’t cry, Sebastian. It’ll be okay.”
I didn’t feel any force behind my words; we both knew they were empty.
I walked around to stand in front of him. Finally he looked up and met my eyes.
“Come back to the house. I’ll fix you up and drive you home. Okay?”
My words seemed to sink in slowly. He stared for a moment longer, then stood up.
He walked as if dazed, in silence, unseeing. Twice I had to stop him before he plowed into the road at an intersection. His behavior was starting to get me really worried.
When we finally got back, the house was dark. I was intensely grateful for David’s continuing absence; I was certain he would have insisted on phoning Sebastian’s parents had he been there—and no way would anything good result from that.
I opened the door, switching on lights as I went and led him into the kitchen. I pulled out a chair and, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down.
I had to ferret around several drawers before I could remember where I’d put the antiseptic cream. More urgently, I needed a cloth to fill with ice to try and take down some of the swelling. I smashed the ice tray on the counter and saw Sebastian jump.
“Oh, sorry!” I said softly. He still didn’t speak.
Gently, I placed the ice pack against his cheek and lifted his hand for him to hold it in place.
I pulled down the hood of his sweatshirt and an involuntary gasp escaped. Someone—Donald, I guessed—had hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s hair.
“Your father?”
He nodded, his eyes flicking to mine briefly, then away.
Fury coursed through me.
“Because of the surfing?”
He closed his eyes and nodded again.
“Because of me?” I said, my voice a whisper.
His eyes blinked open. “No, it would have happened anyway. I’d already planned to go out with Ches and Mitch today. It’s not your fault…”
But it felt like my fault—I felt guilty.
“Do you want me to fix it for you?”
He didn’t seem to understand my question.
“Do you want me to turn it into a buzz-cut?”
It was the only viable option, short of shaving his head completely.
“Okay.”
I led him upstairs, through the bedroom and into our bathroom, pulling out a chair for him to sit facing the mirror.
“I don’t want to look at myself,” he said, angling the chair away so he couldn’t see his reflection.
David’s shaver was in the cupboard. I’d trimmed up his crew cut many times and for once I was grateful that I could perform this simple task well.
The buzzing sound filled the small room as I ran the shaver over Sebastian’s head. His sun-bleached hair fell to the floor in unhappy clumps. When I’d finished I took my towel and dusted away the small hairs frosting his face and neck.
He looked older, harder, and I didn’t know if this was simply the result of his new haircut or something resolving inside him.
“All done,” I said hoarsely, unshed tears making my voice rough.
His head sank to his chest as if a great weight pulled it down. I was desperately tempted to run my fingers over his short, soft hair, to soothe him in some way.
“It’ll be okay,” I murmured, pathetically.
He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. “Will it?”
“Yes. When you leave home. You won’t have to see him again—either of them.”
He nodded slowly, as if the thought were difficult to process.
“Would you like me to get the ice?” I said gently.
He shook his head.
“Let me look.”
Gently, I lifted his chin so I could examine his cheek; the bruise was coming through darkly but his swollen lip was looking better.
Then he laid his hand over mine and I felt the shock of his touch surge through me.
“Please don’t,” I whispered. But there was no force behind my words.
He stood, still holding my hand.
“I love you, Caroline.”
He spoke softly but the words were clear, spoken without expectation and with little hope. His eyes were wide with anxiety and I could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the sweatshirt.
Whether it was these simple words, or the look on his face, his vulnerability, or my weakness, I couldn’t say.
I lifted my empty hand and stroked his cheek, then ran my fingers over the fine bristles of his hair and around to the back of his neck, pulling his head toward me.
His lips were warm and soft and a small whimper escaped me as he increased the pressure against mine.
Tentatively I let my tongue explore, gently probing his split lip, and he opened his mouth gratefully. I felt his tongue enter and desire swept through me, fanned from small flames into a raging forest fire, greedy and unstoppable. I gripped his neck with my free hand and slid my fingers from his cheek, down his throat, to his chest.
His hands hovered over my waist, and then locked themselves around me, pulling me tight, closing me in.
Every piece of my carefully constructed restraint was washed away in the flood of unfamiliar sensations.
Abruptly, I pulled back from him, my heart thundering, caged by my ribs. Fear reflected itself in his eyes and his arms hung rejected at his sides.
Could I have stopped at that point? Perhaps. A very weak, stillborn perhaps.
I was married, yes, but it wasn’t much of a marriage. Everything I did or said seemed to irritate David—his habitual expression was a frown of sour discontent, a tone of annoyance whenever he spoke to me—perhaps even dislike. If there had once been love between us, it was long gone.
Uncertain of so many things about myself, about my life, I knew that I wanted Sebastian. I wanted him very badly.
My hands fastened around the hem of his sweatshirt, my intention clear. Amazement flickered across his face, followed by a heated passion that I’d never seen, never experienced before.
He raised his arms willingly and I pulled the sweatshirt over his head, letting it drop where it may.
His white t-shirt hugged his chest snugly, and I indulged in a moment of sheer pleasure, feeling his muscles through the fabric beneath my bold fingers.
I let my hand drift down to the material’s edge and gently skated my fingers over the smooth, warm skin of his stomach.
He inhaled deeply and rested his hands on my upper arms, his eyes wide and wondering.
I retraced my route upwards, this time my fingers tented under the t–shirt, enjoying the ripple of muscles and the undulations of his now shallow breathing.
I stroked his skin, my eyes still fixed on his, then let my hand steal downwards toward the waistband of his jeans. My fingers drifted around the edge and a shiver ran through him.
Taking a step back, I seized the hem of his t–shirt and ripped it upwards, pulling it over his head, and kneading it in my hands before dropping it to the floor.
I took a deep breath as I allowed my eyes to drink him in; his youth, his beauty, the desire flaring in his eyes. I reached out and hooked one hand into a belt loop and let the other trace the outline of his erection, so evident through the denim.
He swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, I took a step forward so my breasts brushed his chest.
One hand reached up to his bruised cheek, the other an adventurer in a foreign land, continued stroking him.
Tentatively, his hands crept around my waist, so gently that they barely touched me. I pulled his face down and kissed him again. And this time he kissed me back more urgently, his tongue driving into my mouth, and I felt his hands tightening around me. Encouraged, I slipped my hand inside his jeans, and his body tensed. I could feel his heat; his nakedness beneath the denim was doubly arousing. He moaned, a long drawn out sigh of desire.
“Undo my zipper,” I ordered quietly.
Fumbling slightly, he pulled down the zipper of my dress. I shrugged my shoulders, watching with distant surprise as it fluttered to the floor.
For the length of a heartbeat, Sebastian paused, and then he stepped toward me again, his hands moving from my hips to my waist, then hovering uncertainly over my breasts.
“Yes. Touch me.”
I threaded my fingers through his and slowly lifted his right hand to my breast, moving in a slow circle, showing him what pleased me, letting him explore my body as I shivered beneath his touch. The sensation of flesh on flesh.
He curled his left hand behind me, slowly drifting upwards, then pressed the palm flat against my spine, his right hand now cupping my breast. He kissed me again. My own heart rate escalated and I was aware that my whole being was responding to his touch.
“Kick off your shoes. I want to undress you.”
He hesitated briefly, allowing the instruction to soak into his flooded brain, then he toed off his sneakers. His feet were beautifully bare.
I pulled him toward me again and undid the button on his jeans. His eyes were huge, gazing at me with unmistakable lust. I didn’t dare stop to analyze how I felt. Boldly, I unzipped his jeans and pushed the denim off his hips. I surprised him by sinking down to pull the material from his legs.
His erection was freed, and I was surprised and slightly appalled. He was so much bigger than David. I’d never been with another man before or since my marriage; I was disconcerted, knowing that Sebastian was counting on me to continue taking the lead.
I ran my careful hands up his calves, behind his knees, over and between his thighs, then let my fingers drift through his pubic hair, stroking his erection softly. It was really kind of beautiful—soft and silky on the outside, but firm, too. I’d never wanted to spend time looking at David that way: this was different. Sebastian seemed so vulnerable standing there, trusting me. I continued stroking him, gently massaging him, rubbing my fingers along his tip.
His entire body quivered, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
I stood up and undid my bra as he watched me with stunned disbelief. I took a deep breath, then hooked my fingers into my panties, pulling them off my hips and stepping out of them.
For a moment, time seemed to billow outwards as we stood and stared at each other, drinking in our nakedness.
I held out my hand and Sebastian took a step toward me. Suddenly, it was as if a switch had been flicked on inside him and he wrapped his body around me—his hands on my breasts, my shoulders, my buttocks, my thighs; his tongue in my mouth, on my neck, between my breasts; overwhelming me everywhere.
I grabbed hold of him almost violently, pushing my fingers hard against his length; I heard his breath hiss through his teeth.
I pulled his erection once again, my fingers wrapped firmly around his sweet skin. He exploded suddenly, his body shuddering. I felt the dampness on my thigh and looked down to see the pale, creamy fluid.
A familiar feeling of disappointment trickled through me. But the look on his face halted my thoughts.
Crushed by the weight of further humiliation, he shattered, falling to the floor, weeping brokenly.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
He heaved out the words again and again, his face hidden in his hands.
“No, don’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s okay,” I whispered, stroking the soft, golden skin of his back.
How many times had I said those words before without meaning them? Until now.
I sank to the floor and held him in my arms, rocking him to and fro, crooning wordlessly as his sobs wracked him.
Eventually he stilled but refused to look at me.
“Sebastian, it’s okay.”
There was no response.
“Sebastian. Look at me.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered again, his face turned away.
I wasn’t sure what to do, how to show him that it didn’t matter; or, at least, that I didn’t think any less of him because of what had happened, or rather, not happened.
I pulled one hand away from his tear-stained face.
“Come on.”
He finally looked at me, utterly bewildered.
Gently, I tugged his hand.
“Come.”