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Carina
It's as though I’m seeing everything for the first time.
I always knew where we lived was special. From what my grandfather told us, when he chose to leave his former life after his prison sentence, he wanted to get as far away as he could.
He wanted solitude more than anything.
What he got was that, but so much more. It’s honestly magic here. I’m appreciating it in a new way since this pressure has been released and I kissed him and found out he’s been battling back the same feelings for me as I have for him.
I don’t care that we are three decades apart in age. I don’t care that everyone will think it’s wrong and he’s a sick man. I. Don’t. Care.
Lust will do that to a girl.
I’ve learned that a thousand times reading my books.
The sun broke over the mountains and across the lake on an unusually warm day for this time of year. I lay awake most of the night, wondering if he would come to me, praying he would, but running over all the reasons, he shouldn’t.
I got dressed early and made my way to the barn and fed the reindeer. Talked out my anxious feelings with Leonardo sitting on the wooden wall of his stall while he ate. He offered no words of wisdom but a usual sense of comfort with his wide brown eyes and nods of his head.
At breakfast, Lucy ate her eggs and battled with Mama about more of the party plans while Papa and I touched feet under the table like teenagers.
His eyes seem bluer today. His scent more intoxicating. I picked out a red striped sweater with matching tights and a white knit skirt to wear after I got back from the barn, hoping to look like a gift he couldn’t resist unwrapping.
With one special alternation to the tights.
After we ate, Lucy paraded off toward the auditorium for some lone practice time while Mama cleared the table, grousing about how to get the catering company to follow her lasagna recipe to the letter and that the Lambrusco that was delivered was the wrong year.
A silent peace seemed to fall over me as Papa slipped his hand under my skirt as we walked to the living room, sliding his fingers into the slit I’d cut in my tights, hoping for a moment just like this.
“Easy access and wet. My wet, beautiful dirty girl.”
“Yes, for you, Papa.”
“Good girl.” Those words make me feel suddenly shy as he heads toward the back door. “I’ll be back. I need to burn off some tension.”
His manner is soft but more distant than last night, and there’s the nagging thought that what we did was a mistake.
After all, he lived here for years before Lucy and I showed up and he’s never made mention of having any women in his life.
I’m sure he’s lonely and maybe, oh God, maybe it was all just a weak moment. Too many years alone for a man without… comfort.
“Fuck,” I hiss, running my fingers through my hair, gripping the back of my head as I clench my inner muscles, begging for the explosive relief he gave me last night.
I drop into the massive leather chair next to the window tugging the red velvet pillow against my chest, watching him throw the ax over his head, then down, split wood flying around his feet over and over.
Before long, he’s stripped out of his shirt, the winter sun shimmering on his salt and pepper chest hair, the sweat glimmering on his rich olive skin.
I’m mesmerized. I vaguely hear Mama singing in Italian to her scratchy Pavarotti record as I drift into the fantasy of feeling that hard length he rubbed against me last night pushing into my body. Taking him inside of me and bringing us together in a way that can’t be undone.
* * *
A half-hour later,I’m squirming and wiggling in the chair after making a hasty trip to the restroom to try to rub out the ache that’s turned manic as I watched him chop log after log.
After.
Log.
But, it didn’t work.
