Deliciously Obedient (8 page)

Hands
would have to do.

Her
breath came in ragged swallows as she tried to continue speaking.
“I…oh, that’s nice. What about…oh, God.” One hand found the
waistband of her pants, and his mind paused. Logistics. How would
they…? How could they…?

“
What
if someone finds us?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked as she writhed
from his touch.

“
No
one knows about this area. People avoid it because of the poison
ivy.”

Oh,
fuck. “Ivy? You know I’m allergic, right?”

“
All
that twisting and contorting earlier that you bitched about? That was
me steering you clear of it.” She cupped his bulge. “Do you
really want to talk about poison ivy right now?”

“
No.”
The itch he needed to scratch was very different.

“
Good.”
Lydia took the upper hand here, skilled and swift as she unbuttoned
his pants with an expertise that impressed him, then straddled him,
her own pants unbuttoned but not yet pulled down.

“
You
ready to freeze your ass off?” Like a cellist playing a solo of
notes so low the vibration could still his heart, Lydia’s voice
went to a sultry place that tugged at the root of him, centered and
in perfect pitch.

She
wasn’t kidding—as her strong, icy fingers snaked under his pants
at his hipbones and yanked his boxer briefs down, his ass was greeted
with the shock of freezing, dry leaves, that crackling sound either
the crunch of the woodland debris beneath them or his now-released
cock breaking in two from the cold.

“
Oh,
look! The North Pole,” she said, staring at his tight erection.

“
It’s
about to become a melted Popsicle if you don’t climb on it,” he
hissed, his own hands scrambling for her waistband; he wanted to
thrust into her warmth as fast as possible. His ass clenched in
reaction to the chill as she rose up, lifting one leg over him, and
slid one creamy leg out of her pants.

And
then, sweet mercy, she just took him right on in.
Home
.

I’m
home.

The
ceiling of empty tree branches, reaching for each other high in the
sky, coupled with more than a few tall pines that creaked and groaned
in the quiet morning diverted his attention for a split second from
the gorgeous creature now riding him, his pole perfectly north now
and buried nicely in her.

“
I’ve
been a naughty girl,” she whispered in his ear, bending over him,
hiking her hips up just enough to make an inch of him exposed to the
cold air, his own breath hitching.

The
waves rolled and crashed a few score yard off shore, turning to
gentle ripples that lapped at the ragged shore. Soothing and
engrossing, it made for a soundtrack he didn’t anticipate,
stretching time out in the repeated motion of the tide. He took her
mouth with his and ran his hands under her layers, finding those
abundant breasts again, wanting to taste them, wanting to pull out of
her and savor her, to find ecstasy in her clit, her scent, to make
the world go away and pinpoint to nothing more than shared sensation.

But
it was too damn cold for that.

She
rose up and her movements took on the urgency he’d come to
recognize in her, his own release right there and ready, the burst of
warmth and need as she flooded their coupling with hot juices and
fevered grinding against his cock so welcome he burst into a grin
watching her.

Home
.

After
three weeks of near-daily sea kayaking, Mike had developed the
closest thing to a routine that he ever planned to have on vacation.
Every morning he woke when his body wanted, and every evening he fell
asleep when his mind let him. The in-between was his to invent as the
day unrolled, lazy and free.

But
sea kayaking was in there somewhere, a welcome retreat from his own
head and from socializing on the campground. Out on the water, his
body propelling him through the water via the torque and flow of his
own arms’, shoulders’ and waist’s effort, he could just
be
.

And
being
was fairly new to him.

Too
bad he had to be alone.

The
alcove he’d found last week beckoned to him now, a place to pull up
to shore and just sit and watch the ocean. Sometimes he’d run
aground and rest on an exposed tree root, staring at the tiny waves
as the ocean’s pattern changed. Other times he just paused here,
the trees grown out and over the little inlet, giving the spot the
feel of a canopied treasure, tucked away for fairies and gnomes. Such
childhood thoughts were so foreign to him, but they came easily here
at the campground.

So
much came easily.

And,
this morning, it appeared someone was coming quite easily, for as
Mike turned the small corner to the left to go into the little
lagoon-like formation, he was greeted by the sight of two lovers
going at it at the water’s edge, a smattering of tiny pine saplings
their only cover.

Whoa
.

He
started to paddle backwards; why begrudge anyone their privacy for an
intimate moment? The woman’s fluid, sensual movements as she rode
her guy were entrancing, and Mike felt himself responding to the
scene unfolding before him. If he hesitated for a few seconds before
extracting himself from the intimacy of it all, would that be such a
sin? After all, nature in all its forms should be appreciated, right?

The
woman’s back was to him, long, flowing hair matted with brown and
yellow leaves, her shoulders broad and strong, covered in the
ubiquitous flannel shirts that everyone in Maine wore this time of
year. A quick glance down at his own chest made him chuckle. He’d
joined them.

“
Bespoke
or be naked”—that guy didn’t exist any more. Thank God.

Her
arms reached down to the very lucky man she was fucking, joints
catlike and appreciative. A rush of heat took him over—much needed
in the chilly fall air, but forging an ache in parts below as he
thought of Lydia.

Lydia.

Lydia?
With a turn of her head and a moan he swore he’d recognize
anywhere, he thought he must be deceiving himself.
You’re
out of your fucking mind, Mike
, he chided.

But
it’s her parents’ campground.

“
Oh,
Jeremy,” the woman’s voice said, choking with passion.

Holy
shit.

Nope.
Not deceiving himself.

He
was watching the woman he loved make love to his best friend.

Other
men would have turned away the second he came upon the scene. Yet
other men would turn away this very moment. Still more men would rush
to shore, storm up the small beach, rip her off Jeremy and beat the
ever-loving shit out of his best friend with his own ripped-off cock.

And
while Mike had a fleeting moment of feeling like all of those men,
the man he truly was simply watched.

And
learned.

And
appreciated.

Watching
Jeremy make love to a woman he himself had made love to wasn’t
exactly new. There’d been Dana most recently, and there was a
flowing sense of reasonableness and knowing in all their intimate
relations. The rush of watching Dana receive pleasure from both of
them, of knowing she was thoroughly and openly given whatever she
needed, was something he couldn’t explain in words. It just
was
.
Having Jeremy as the third—that the two men would find one woman
not to share, but to
please
—was as much a part of his
sexuality as having a cock and balls.

He
was just that way.

Jealousy
was saved for men who stepped in and tried to take what was his.
Lydia wasn’t his—and never really had been. One bad decision had
led to a domino topple of unimaginable proportions, and he’d asked
Jeremy to look out for Lydia in Iceland, knowing full well the
implications of what that might mean.

Now
it was staring him in the face.

Or,
rather, he was staring at its back and legs, hearing the groans of
release and Lydia’s restrained screams as she bucked against
Jeremy, his legs pulled up and used as leverage to thrust up into
her, the sight of the two of them so electrifying and grounding that
he could only watch.

Not
react.

As
they finished and hurried to pull their clothes back on, giggling as
lovers do, he paddled backward enough to hide. Lydia’s face was
animated and radiant, while Jeremy was joking and tender. Their
interactions were natural and loving. If he didn’t know how new
their relationship was, he’d have assumed they had been a couple
for a long time, more settled than they were.

Watching
them make love hadn’t upset him.

That
thought did, though. Jeremy was finding something with Lydia that
Mike had touched, but never had the opportunity to explore. And now…

What
now?

A
strong wave set Mike’s kayak up in a rhythmic pattern in the choppy
waters, giving him a choice: fight the waves, or steel his core and
go with the flow until the wave subsided. The Michael Bournham of the
past ten years was a fighter.

But
now?

Which
Mike was he?

Lydia
watched her third consecutive episode of
Whose Line Is It Anyway?
with her father on one side of her, snuggled into Jeremy’s side
under a quilt her great-grandma had made, her sides aching from
laughing so hard. The morning’s wild sex—twice in an hour—was a
glowing memory, and after two lattes made on her dad’s new machine,
they’d settled in to watch the show at Pete’s urging.

“
This
one! This is the skit I think you two should lead for the talent
show,” he said, pointing to some interaction involving invented
superheroes, requiring the improv actor to continue a skit in the
character of ridiculous, made-up superheroes.

“
Overcaffeinated
Man!” Lydia shouted.

“
The
Stamplicking Kid,” Pete added.

“
No
one licks stamps any more,” Jeremy said, perplexed. “They’re
all stickers.”

“
He’s
got a point, Dad,” Lydia said in response to Pete’s sad face.

“
Okay,
how about the Amish Buggy Whipmaker Kid?” Pete grunted.

“
Captain
Barnraiser!” Jeremy took a Superman pose and stroked an imaginary
beard. That got her dad to laugh, and gave Lydia a second to pause
and take it all in.

Life
was good.

Mike
.
Every time she felt comfortable with Jeremy, or pushed away the chaos
of the last month or two, his name popped into her head. It used to
be
Matt
, her subconscious still at work sorting the deception
out. Now, though, her brain seemed to have finally integrated that
Mike
was
Matt.