Page 6 of Restored Dreams

“You look beautiful, Lily pad.” Did he want to kiss me after the compliment? What a foolish thought. His words made me melt a little, but then a look of uncomfortable uncertainty crossed his face. Pulling back, I had to put some distance between us. He stood just a little too close.

Did he want to kiss me? I question again, but I’m so stupid with my thoughts. There’s no way Brut would be attracted to me after all these years, if for no other reason than Chopper. I’ve met his son, now twenty-two years old. He’s the perfect reminder of Brut’s indiscretion—a constant reflection of him and her.

The memories wrestled sleep from me last night, but I refuse to allow them to be my nightmare again. Awake and restless early this morning, I decided to get out of bed at the break of dawn and take advantage of every second of my vacation—Brut or no Brut. Except now, exhaustion taps on my shoulder, and I sense a nap is in order even though it is only midmorning. After rinsing off my shells in the kitchen sink, I change into my bathing suit and return to the beach for a little sunshine snoozing.

+ + +

“You’re burning.” The warning startles me awake although I instantly recognize the rugged male voice. He’s been haunting my daydreams since the moment we parted this morning. The baseball cap I wore to shade my face has fallen off somewhere. The high afternoon sun illuminates the outline of a masculine body. I don’t need to see him directly to know it’s Brut. Slowly, he crouches beside me as I lie on a lounger.

When I had returned to the beach, I searched for Brut on the waves, but he wasn’t recognizable from this distance. I cursed myself for seeking him out, but he’d gotten under my skin with his soft touches and sweet words. Not to mention his nearness. Standing in my space messed with my head, and I try to rid my thoughts of him. Instead, I focus on the multitude of people bobbing on boards, lulled by the roll of the ocean before occasionally standing and riding the waves. Surfers make surfing look effortless and graceful, and I wonder if I could learn. I never want to use my age as an excuse for not trying new things.

“You’re turning pink,” Brut teases. “Like that cupcake.” His head nods, gesturing toward my tattoo, a giant pink and purple frosted delicacy covering most of my right hip. The ink permanently marks me as proof that I did it—I opened the bakery I promised myself I would have one day.

With the way Brut looks at me, I become hyperaware of the bikini I’m wearing and how my skin is exposed for his viewing. His eyes roam over my hip as if he’s licking up the inked icing, ready to take a bite of the maraschino cherry topping the masterpiece. His appraisal is refreshing but also unnerving. I take care of myself, but I’m still self-conscious enough to be uncertain about wearing two pieces of skimpy material. I bought the baby blue bikini, assuming a vacation where I had my own section of beach would be private enough for me to wear something risqué.

My arms curl over my waist as Brut’s eyes travel up to my shoulders.

“Here, allow me.” At some point, Brut had picked up the bottle of sunscreen, and he slathers his hands with the creamy white lotion. He hitches his leg behind me, wrapping his body behind mine. I scoot forward enough for his legs to straddle either side of my thighs. We’re tight—my back sensitive to the nearness of his chest. The heat between us is more than just the sunshine above. My skin prickles again. Brut is so close to me.

Warm liquid hits my shoulders along with firm fingers, and he rubs the lines of my upper back. Thick thumbs join to caress up the nape of my neck, and my head lolls forward. Palms caress the side of my neck and lower to stroke over my shoulder blades. He rubs in soothing circles, increasing the pressure until he comes to the band of my bikini crossing the middle of my back. His thumbs dip in equal measure under the tie and gently swipe away from my spine to my sides. His touch leads to the edge of each breast, and I stiffen, warring with myself not to give in to the pleasure of his hands on me. I shouldn’t turn this into some fantasy of him untying the bikini strings, slipping those firm hands forward, and forcefully cupping each of my heavy breasts. Too late. I’m a hormonal mess near this man, and the pleasure of his palms feels so good against my skin. His nearness feels too good, and I mentally moan.

Brut freezes, and I realize the sound escaped. He pauses as if reality hits him, and he has realized too late what he’s actually doing—he’s touching me. His hands still on my skin.

“I really wish I knew your sounds.” The words tickle the back of my neck, and I shiver as he speaks into the hollow dip at the base of my skull. A thick knuckle brushes at the wisps of hair loose from my pigtails along my nape, and then he blows at the fluttery strands. I tremble again. He’s teasing me, or is he flirting?

“I think I’m good,” I lie, willing away my daydream and ignoring his comment. My sounds, as he calls them, are embarrassing. And while I don’t want his fingers to rest, he needs to stop massaging me because a problem develops at a lower part of my body. My core pulses, and I sense the wetness. Hot mess from application of sunscreen. I’m ridiculous. Even worse is the second fantasy I conjure up where he slips his fingers down low, dipping into the bottom piece of my suit to relieve the rapidly growing ache. I close my eyes as if this will wipe away my imagination, which has leaped into overdrive.

The tension returns, and despite Brut’s closeness, a distance slowly chisels between us.

“I think I’ll shower,” Brut says, his voice another tickle to my sensitive skin, and I nod without vocally responding. He shifts and removes his body from behind me. I hate the loss I sense, the ache growing out of control between my legs, and the knowledge Brut is who I want to relieve it.

My body shifts as I prepare to watch him walk away. I can almost feel my core cry out to him: don’t go. Don’t leave me to another night of wonder—wondering if you’ll meet someone, wondering if you’ll touch her like I want you to touch me.

My eyes fall to his chest where sea salt has dried on his skin, circling his nipples, and mixing with his chest hair. My mouth waters. Images of warm water and suds sliding down his naked body fill my mind, and I blink. He catches me staring, and his lips crook in a knowing grin, lighting up his tan face. He’s caught me again. He hesitates a moment, his eyes twinkling, flashing forward an ancient memory. He used to look at me this way. Then he surprises me.

“I’m going out for dinner again. Want to join me?”

My heart skips a double beat, pattering like a two-step line dance. I swipe at my forehead, brushing back loose tendrils of hair. I’ve never officially been on a date with Brut—an out to dinner kind of date. I so badly want to say yes, but for some reason, I say, “I brought groceries but thank you.”

His smirky expression dissolves. The smile brightening the edge of his jaw turns to clouds. He nods, his grin weakening.

“I understand,” he says as his form blocks the sun, casting him in a shadow, and I can’t help but consider the irony. Once upon a time, Brut had been sunshine for me, but something—no, someone—got in the way.

7

A bottle of truth

[Brut]

“I understand.”

I do. Asking her out to dinner is a stupid move. She isn’t interested, and I know all the reasons why. My mouth got ahead of my thoughts and blurted out the invitation. I’ve thought of nothing else but her all day. I spent most of the morning surfing, and then the afternoon avoiding, but my mind circled through a loop of positions—namely pleasure fulfilling positions—that I shouldn’t have imagined with Lily. Her revealing shirt this morning riddled my brain, along with images of her nakedness from the shower. My eyes wandered the beach, hoping to spot her throughout the day, but the distance was too great. Then I see her in this tiny two-piece, accentuating her athletic form, perky breasts, and the damn tempting tattoo.

I’m a mess around this woman, especially with all the skin she keeps exposing to me.

I need to leave before I beg her to go to dinner. I eat alone often enough, so it isn’t an anomaly, but I was hoping for a little company, especially with her. Last night, I left as soon as I could after the whole sex-text code fiasco. But when someone approached me at the bar, I didn’t even think twice. The answer was immediate—no thank you; I’m taken. The lie had come easy enough because my heart held the truth. I was taken by Lily, once again.

Another bar. Another night alone. I order a burger, but I hardly eat it. With all the energy I expounded during the day, I should be starving, and I am, for a certain someone. Twisting my cool beer between warm fingers, I drown under the too loud noise around me. The sun lowers in the sky but hasn’t set, and I decide I’d rather be on the quiet of the beach than wallowing here under the pretense of waiting for someone. I’ve waited long enough. With that, I slap two twenties on the wooden bar top and head back to the house.