Page 20 of Parentmoon

Quickly, I pull back from the opaque wall, wondering if someone really could see me despite the texturing. Maybe at night, the outline of a body or shadow or movement can be noted, but in this early evening light, the wall is too dense.

Ignoring the lingering vibration of need just under my skin, I shampoo and wash. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex with someone. My imagination is never compensation for the real thing. The feel of someone’s weight over me. The touch of another’s hands on intimate places. The press of a kiss on my lips, on my skin, on my sex. None of these things have happened in years.

Drying off, my flesh pebbles, still sensitive and yearning for more. Leaning my back against the cool tile, I press between my thighs again, rubbing the coarse terrycloth over sensitive folds. Within seconds, I’m silently gasping again, guilty of pleasuring myself with thoughts of a man I shouldn’t be thinking about.

Dallas Cole is not for me. Nor am I for him.

Still, I wonder what it would feel like to let loose.

Just once, to give in.

Just once, to be reckless.

Just once, to go a little wild.

Chapter 6

When I exit the house, Dallas hasn’t returned. Many people linger at the outdoor bar near the main pool before dinner is called and another drink is in order to calm my nerves. For a brief moment, the orgasms I’d given myself feel like they are written on my skin for all to read. More disturbing is the thought Dallas might recognize I took care of myself while imagining him between my legs, on his knees, lapping at me.

To my surprise, Dallas is not near the pool or at the bar. Has he gone off with someone? I hate the too-quick thought. Distrust feels like it’s been etched into my being. After Craig cheated on me, twice, conclusion jumping became like an Olympic sport in my head. The assumption brings up a new lingering concern. I don’t want Dallas to be with someone else. He can be the player he always is somewhere else, but not in front of me. Not while we are in such close proximity.

Then again, we’re only sharing space. We haven’t been in the house together for longer than the hours we slept last night.

“Another rum punch, please, Mario,” I order as I take a seat at the counter, prepared to overcompensate his tip because of my earlier rudeness.

While the bar has an enclosed portion, the stool I take is on the exterior, under the shade of a thatched canopy and nearby palm trees. Artie is no longer in sight, but his brother Ira plops down beside me. He’s quieter than his younger sibling. Wearing an untucked polo-style shirt and khaki shorts, he’s only slightly more pulled together than his brother. He isn’t as full as Artie, nor does he have as much hair which thins near his forehead. At breakfast, I’d learned Ira is recently divorced and adjusting to a new normal. The juggle of children between two homes. The coordination of schedules when both parents remain involved but separate.

I’d been there. Fortunately, Michael lived with me as a teen. He’d stay occasionally with his father when it was convenient for Craig to be a dad. Which meant mainly at holidays, a week each summer for a vacation with my former in-laws, and a once-in-a-while weekend. Craig liked to appear like a doting parent to his family members, but he wasn’t. It was always a crapshoot whether he’d show for Michael’s school activities or sporting events. I was Michael’s biggest cheerleader.

“How was the dive today?” I ask as an attempt to engage in conversation. Ira isn’t a braggart like Artie and his description of the fish he saw and the reef itself fills the time.

Eventually, dinner is called, and people make their way to the dining area. Ira excuses himself to find his brother.

As I lower a foot to stand, a hand presses at the base of my back.

“Thought I told you not to get in trouble today.”

Dallas’s voice startles me, and I stumble from the stool, catching myself against the bar. My breath hitches as I take him in wearing a dark T-shirt and another pair of linen pants. These are sand-colored, hanging loose and low on his hips. He’s barefoot again and he glances down at my sandals. Crouching down, he lifts my ankle. Faltering for balance, I reach for the stool behind me as Dallas unstraps my shoe. He does the same to the other one and stands, knees cracking as he comes to his full height. My sandals are hooked over his fingers.

“You don’t need these, darlin’. Loosen up.”

He has no idea how loose I am. Three rum punches and two self-induced orgasms, and I’m ready for a nap, but my stomach rumbles. Taking my hand, Dallas leads me to dinner. When we find ourselves assigned to a table with Artie and Ira, I swear Dallas groans. A father and son also join us.

For my part, dinner conversation is a strain. I don’t fish. I don’t scuba dive. I’m not a world traveler and no one wants to discuss the state of medical care or hospitals in the United States. After another series of name-drops and location-plops from Artie, and several failed attempts to draw Ira into the discussion, I’m small-talked out.

On the other hand, Dallas is a paragon of conversation, easily speaking with everyone present. While not exactly leaving me out of discussions, he also doesn’t draw me into them. Instead, his eyes narrow every time I turn in either Artie or Ira’s direction. He quickly looks away when I catch him watching me and then engages someone else at the table in a discussion about fish.

After dinner, we walk back to the house in silence. The palm trees wave. The ocean softly claps, and the moon is like a spotlight in the sky. The atmosphere sets the stage for romance, if I were here for such a thing.

My heart aches at all that Michael and Keli are missing.

Once inside the house, the sharp snick of the closed sliding glass door is like the lock on a heavy gate. I spin to face Dallas whose edgy expression is hard to read but his words are brutally clear. “Have something you want to tell me, darlin’?”

“Me?” My brows lift. His back remains to the glass doors while I stand before him.

He slips his hands in his pockets and he sheepishly dips his head. “You’ve been flirting with those brothers all night.”

“Artie and Ira? Discussing tarpon and the Bermuda triangle is hardly flirting.” I don’t think I said more than ten words with nothing of note to contribute to the dinner conversation.