Cassidy

 

Whatever I thought it would be like to kiss a woman, it’s all been blown to bits with two nights of Brynn straddling my lap on the couch while we devour each other’s mouths, our bodies pressed close and our breath mingling.

She belongs to me in ways now that I couldn’t possibly fathom. She owns a part of me that is already gone—that I can never, ever reclaim again.

Exploring the sweet, soft recesses of her mouth while her fingers curl into my scalp, I have claimed her and surrendered to her at once.

Everything is Brynn.

And I am addicted to everything.

She is air. And water. Smiles and soft sighs as she falls asleep in my arms. She is heat and warmth. She is promise and hope. She is normalcy and company and my temporary talisman against loneliness. She moves like the air or the dark, surrounding me, inside me, of the world and yet belonging intimately and particularly to me. She is everything I want that I can’t have, more and more necessary for survival, which means it will destroy me when I let her go. I know this. And yet, I cannot slow down or take less.

I love her.

I will love her until the sky falls.

Until the sun and moon fail to rise.

Until Katahdin crumbles.

I will love her forever.

She grins at me over her shoulder as she collects eggs from the girls, and though I am milking Annie, it occurs to me to leap over the stool I’m sitting on and grab her around the waist, hauling her against my body to kiss her until she’s limp and sighing. When she smiles, even I, damned from my very conception, cursed from the cradle, feel my heart soar. That’s how it is with angels, I’m learning. I bet the devil couldn’t stay away if he tried.

I watch her.

I memorize her.

I drink her in—the way her dark hair caresses her cheek until she sweeps it behind her ear . . . the way her eyes sparkle when she peeks up at me and giggles . . . the way her breasts rise and fall with every breath she takes. Her bare feet crackle softly on the hay that covers the hard wooden floor of the barn, and I am drawn even to them, in love with them, jealous of them, hating them a little because they will take her away from me.

Except I can’t hate her or anything about her.

I would die to keep one of those toes safe.

My broken Brynn, in pieces when I found her, seems to be more and more whole every day, and I fall harder and deeper for this sweet, gentle woman every moment I spend with her.

“What?”

“Huh?” I mutter, grinning at her because I am a man in love, foolish with tenderness, unable to help himself.

“You’re just staring at me like crazy.”

I tug on Annie’s teat, and a stream of milk spits into my metal bucket.

“Maybe ’cause I’m crazy about you, angel.”

She freezes, and her eyes widen as she stares at me. “You are?”

I give her a look. “You know I am.”

“Then why can’t we . . .?”

She is about to ask me why our days together must be finite, but she catches herself before the words leave her mouth.

Over the past two days, my Brynn has more than once wanted to push our agreed-on boundaries to include a discussion of our feelings for each other or an extension on our time together, but she has stopped herself every time.

I clench my jaw, telling myself that I shouldn’t lead her on with statements like “I’m crazy about you,” no matter how right they feel falling from my lips. We have agreed to a physical relationship with each other. Nothing else.

“Are you still . . . going to the store tomorrow?” she asks, her cheeks pinkening as she finds an egg under Stacey and places it gingerly in the wire basket.

The store.

The store, where I will buy a box of condoms for the rest of our time together.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice tight as I stand up abruptly, eliciting an annoyed “mahhh” from Annie.

Sex.

Aside from Brynn, it’s all I think about lately.

When we finally untangle our fully clothed bodies from each other every night, heading to our separate rooms, my body aches for hers so painfully, I’ve had to get myself off outside under a freezing-cold midnight shower. It barely helps though. My entire being is a magnet drawn to hers, and nothing will feed the hunger until I am buried inside her.

Twice since The Sandlot, I’ve looked at the pictures in my magazines, not to appease my longing or slake my thirst, but because I want to be sure I understand what to do.

I can’t lie, I’m nervous about my lack of experience, and the bounty of hers. I can’t promise that I’ll be smooth when we finally make love, but damn it, I want to get it as right as possible. For her. And, frankly, for me. So that when she compares me with other men, years and years from now, I will have some small chance of holding my own in her memories.

It’s wrong, I know.

But I am desperate that she remember me.

Sometimes it’s the only thought that gives me strength when contemplating my lonely future—that after the time we’ve spent together, I will always be a part of her.

“You know,” she says, her voice warm and flirtatious as she leans her elbows on the split rail that separates Annie’s stall from the girls’ coop. “We should have a picnic at the pond today.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, a smile, possibly a little forced, brightening her beautiful face. “Doesn’t that sound nice? Sunshine? Warm day? Soft blanket? Willing woman?”

Willing woman.

She’s going to kill me.

I put my hands on the rail, on either side of her elbows. “Do you swim, Miz Cadogan?”

“Swim? Of course!”

“You been complainin’ about your hair for a few days now,” I say, so close to her that I could drop my lips to hers. “How about you let me wash it?”

She gasps, her eyes widening. “Cass, I’d give anything.”

“Anything?” I grind out.

“Anything, but . . .” Her lips close, but lightly, and she tilts her head. “Don’t you see? Everything’s already yours.”

Kill me. Dead.

I reach for her cheeks, cupping her face as I find her lips with mine.

It’s not that I’m used to the taste and texture of them, but she is familiar to me now, and I sink into the feeling of her, irritated by the fence between us. Instinctively, I want to feel the heat of her body pressed against mine as my tongue tangles with hers. She moans, and the sound shoots straight to my groin, where my pecker swells with a rush of blood, hardening in my jeans. I try to pull her closer but can’t, and finally I break off the kiss out of frustration.

“The pond,” I pant.

She nods, her green eyes black.

“The pond.”

***

As we walk through the meadow, to the pond, holding hands, I think about what I found in the back of my closet while looking for the swim trunks I haven’t used in years.

It’s a camera—my mother’s old Polaroid—and it has three pictures left inside.

I put it in the bottom of a bag holding a blanket, two towels, and a bottle of shampoo, and now I’m wondering how smart an idea that was. I mean, of course I want a picture of Brynn, but will that picture drive me to madness once she’s gone? Wouldn’t it be better just to live on faded memories?

“Your mom was smaller than me.”

The sun is high in the sky, and the tall grasses sway in a lazy afternoon breeze as Brynn looks up at me.

“Huh?” I glance down at her, wearing my mother’s old navy blue bathing suit and a pair of denim shorts. The stretchy material strains over her breasts, dipping so low, it barely covers her nipples. It’s a good thing we’re all alone out here, I think, because what’s under that suit is mine, and I wouldn’t want another man ogling her.

“Up top,” says Brynn, patting her chest with her free palm. “She was smaller than me.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “She was tiny.”

“Was she sick for a long time?”

I think back to the way she kept to her bed more and more, always tired, that worried look in her eyes increasing as the months went on. “For about a year. It went fast.”

“Did you take care of her?”

“Gramp and I both did.”

“She never stayed at a hospital?”

“No. She went to a doctor toward the end, but it was too late to do much for her by then.”

“Cancer, right?”

I nod.

“How did your dad—”

“Almost there,” I say, cutting her off. “Did I mention I found a camera?”

“What? A camera? You did?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, squeezing her hand, grateful her attention’s been diverted. “An old Polaroid.”

“Ha! They’re back in style now, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Teens love them. They’re smaller now and come in all different colors, but yeah, they’re really popular. Everything old becomes new again, doesn’t it?”

I wouldn’t know. Everything old just . . . is.

“There’s not much film left in it,” I say.

“Enough for a selfie?”

“A . . . selfie?”

“You know!” she says, grinning up at me. “We put our cheeks together, hold the camera away from our faces, smile, and click. Voilà!”

“A selfie,” I say, nodding now that I understand. “Yeah. I guess we do. There are three pictures left.”

“One of Cass, one of Brynn, one selfie,” she says in a singsong voice.

Brynn has a pretty voice. Once or twice, while I was playing the Beatles on Gramp’s old guitar, she’d hum along, and I tried to sing softer so I could hear her.

“We could have a campfire tomorrow night,” I suggest. “I’ll get out my guitar.”

“Sounds good.”

“Will you sing?”

She nods. “If you play the Beatles, I will.”

“Then I’ll play the Beatles,” I say as we clear the woods and find ourselves at Harrington Pond. “Why don’t we spread out the blanket on your rock?”

“My rock?” she says, smiling up at me, squinting her eyes at the sun.

I kiss her sweet lips, once, twice, three times before kissing the tip of her nose. “Brynn’s Rock.”

“Brynn’s Cass,” she murmurs, her voice husky, her lips moving against my cheek.

The two simple words make something inside me clench hard, and it’s almost painful, like a swift kick to the gut.

Not for long.

Not for long.

“Yeah,” I mumble. I drop her hand and walk through the tall grass, over to the large, flat rock. I spread out Mama’s favorite red plaid wool blanket. “Want to have lunch first?”

She lifts the picnic basket and hands it to me. “No.”

“Not hungry?”

“Since you mentioned washing my hair this morning, I can barely think about anything else. Please . . .” She sighs with longing, and my pecker jumps in my swim trunks.

“Yeah,” I say, turning back to the bag to take out the shampoo. “Let’s wash it.”

When I turn around, she’s pulling Mama’s shorts down her creamy white legs. She steps out of them and throws them to me. “Last one in is a rotten egg!”

Giggling, she runs into the pond, jumping in and submerging her head almost immediately, though I know it’s got to be cold. Glacier-made ponds in northern Maine are rarely warm, even in July. When her head bobs up, she’s gasping, but still laughing. I reach behind my neck and tug my T-shirt over my head, then, holding the bottle of shampoo in my hand, I jump from the rock into the pond. It’s cold as heck, but refreshing on such a sunny day, and I rise to the surface laughing, just like Brynn.

From where we are, still relatively close to the shore, we can both stand. I hold up the bottle. “Ready?”

Droplets of water cling to her lashes as she walks toward me. “Bottom’s squishy.”

Turning away, she backs up against me, no doubt feeling the push of my erection in her back. I can’t help feeling turned-on. She’s practically naked, and I’m about to touch her.

“Oh,” she hums, her voice merry as she rubs her bottom against me. “Someone’s not very affected by the cold.”

I clench my jaw, put one hand on her shoulder to make her stop. “You want your hair washed or not?”

She giggles again, taking a step forward so I’m no longer fondling her back with my jutting length. “Yes, Cassidy. I want my hair washed.”

I pour shampoo into my hand, tuck the bottle under my arm, then reach for her scalp, working the soap into a small lather. She leans her head back, moaning softly. I put another handful of soap into my palms and rub it into her hair, taking care to pull it through the strands, gently digging my fingers into her scalp and behind her ears.

“Casssssss,” she hums, her eyes closed, her face drinking in the sun.

I pull the bottle from under my arm and toss it onto the shore, then I go back to work gathering her dark hair in my hands and massaging her scalp with my fingers.

“Mmmm,” she sighs, the soft moan of pleasure competing with a gentle ripple of water and the summer song of the cicadas.

I lean down close to her ear and murmur, “Time to rinse.”

She leans back, her neck straining, and I guide her head into the water, running my fingers through the clean hair from her forehead to the tips then back again.

There’s something incredibly intimate about servicing her like this, knowing that her gasps and moans of pleasure are because of me—that I am bringing that sort of satisfaction to her. Knowing that I can pleasure her makes me feel a little godlike, frankly, because she is my angel, the closest thing to Heaven I have ever encountered.

The last of the soap floats away, and she leans up slowly, finally standing in front of me, her back to my chest. I watch, holding my breath, as she skims her hands up to her shoulders. She hooks her fingers under the straps of the bathing suit, then slides them down her arms, over her elbows, pulling her hands through the openings, first one, then the other. The suit is peeled down to her waist, hidden under the water, leaving her back naked to me.

She reaches behind, feeling through the water to find my hands at my sides. Taking them in hers, she steps back, her lower back flush against my throbbing erection. My breath catches as she leans her head on my chest, then raises my hands to her breasts, covering her flesh with my palms. Her nipples are hard, like little pebbles covered in velvet, and I move my hands experimentally, cupping the soft, wet mounds of sweet flesh as she closes her eyes and exhales on a soft moan.

Her breath is ragged and choppy as she reaches up with one arm to pull my head down to hers, but when she leans up and our lips connect, she steals all my breath to fill her lungs. Turning slowly in my arms until her chest presses against mine, she kisses me hungrily. I slide my hands down her wet skin, over the bunched up fabric of her bathing suit to her backside, lifting her up. As she does on the couch every night, she straddles my waist, locking her feet above my hip bone and cradling my hard length between her thighs. The stiff points of her naked breasts rub against my chest as she winds her arms around my neck and holds on.

My penis throbs between us, pressure building as she arches against me, moving her hips rhythmically against my arousal, the silken slide of her warm, wet tongue unbelievably erotic against mine. Every nerve ending in my body is firing as this sweet woman moans into my mouth, and suddenly I can’t hold back anymore. I let go.

My orgasm rocks through my body, making me growl in release as I clasp her against me, as ribbons of my hot release jet from my body in spurts, gathering in my swim trunks. I am shuddering against her even as I hold her, and she nuzzles my face tenderly.

“Good?” she asks softly.

“So good,” I answer, the last of my shudders fading. I open my eyes to find her smiling at me.

“Sleep in my bed tonight?” she asks.

I shake my head. If anything, what just happened is proof that I have zero control around her. I won’t risk it. I can’t.

“Tomorrow.”

She unclasps her feet from my waist and lowers them back to the pond bottom, looking up at me, her green eyes deep and lovely, if a little disappointed.

“Thank you for washing my hair.”

“Thank you for . . .”

My eyes drop to her breasts, and though I peeked at them a couple of weeks ago, now I stare at them hungrily, with permission, without shame. They are full and pert, with pink nipples that beckon to me. I want to taste them, to kiss them like I do her lips. Lowering my head, I cup the right breast, plumping it between my hands, then dip my lips to taste her.

Her skin is warm from the sun, but cool from the lake, and the already hardened nipple puckers between my lips. I lave it with my tongue, letting instinct take over as she plunges her hands into my hair, drawing me closer with a gasp and groan. Swirling my tongue around the erect bud, I run my thumb back and forth over its twin before skimming my lips across her chest and sucking it into my mouth too.

“Cass,” she cries softly.

I experiment with a little more pressure, sucking greedily, and she whimpers sharply, pushing my head away. I rest my forehead in the curve of her neck, opening my eyes, not certain if I’ve done something wrong.

“No more,” she murmurs, out of breath, her pulse hammering in her throat. She forces my head up and kisses my lips, then speaks against them. “It can be . . . too much.”

“Bad?” I whisper, frozen, worried that I might have hurt her.

“No, love. Wonderful,” she says, drawing back to look up at me. Her lips are puffy from kissing, and her eyes are dilated and wide. I don’t know if she’s ever looked so beautiful. “But I want more.”

Ah. This I understand.

“Tomorrow?” I say.

“Tomorrow.” With a nod of her head, she gestures to our blanket on the rock as she pulls up the straps of the bathing suit, covering herself. “Hungry?”

Always, Brynn. Always.

As though reading my mind, she shakes her head and grins at me like I’m being naughty. I’ve never experienced this sort of flirting before, and I laugh at her expression because I love it.

She takes my hand and pulls me back to shore.

And I follow.