To Kiss You Again

To Kiss You Again

An Erotic Romance

By

Brandie Buckwine

Published by Brandie Buckwine

Copyright ©2012 Brandie Buckwine

Previously published as
The Ghost of Love Past

Cover by author Ellison James -
http://www.ellisonjames.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of Brandie Buckwine.

Part I

The sting of a paper cut rouses me from my book. I inspect my leg and see dots of blood lining up like well-trained soldiers. Carla swats me again with her island brochure, this time, with the smooth face.

“He’s staring at you again.”

“For that, you have to draw blood?” I pull my knees up, moving my legs beyond her reach, and dab at the blood with my finger. From my prone position on the bench, I tilt my head, just a little, and peer from the corner of my eye. The newspaper decoy doesn’t fool me, even if I can hear him turn the page every few minutes. From the moment Carla and I board the ferry and claim our bench on deck, his stare burns into my consciousness, the weight of his attention affecting every action and every thought. Even my book can’t keep me occupied for longer than it takes to read the same sentence four or five times, its message well beyond my scattered thoughts.

“I can see your underwear,” she says. I bring my knees together. “Now that guy over there can see.”

The back of the bench is grimy from salt and soot, and after I pull myself to a sitting position, my hand is grimy too. A quick look around assures me no one saw my underwear, not even my admirer across the way. Behind his sunglasses, I know he still watches. Not as bold as he, I steal glances when I can. The light breeze tosses his hair across chiseled features. I imagine his eyes are dark, deep pools. I imagine a lot of things about him that may or may not be true. One minute he’s a brooding, silent type – his heart broken one too many times, afraid to trust again, until I change his mind. The next, he’s a light hearted, fun-loving guy – one who takes pleasure where he finds it, and today, he’s found me.

“I’m gonna go get a coffee. You want one?”

“I’ll go with you.” I stand and smooth my dress down my sides. Still, he watches.

“You can’t. Someone has to stay with our stuff.”

In a moment of brazenness, I approach the reader. “Will you watch our bags for a couple of minutes?” His newspaper is American.

“Sure.” His voice is smooth and deep, like velvet, yet reveals a hint of surprise, and … anticipation? The shoulder strap of my dress slips down my arm. When I slide my hand up to right it, the corners of his mouth twitch – probably imperceptible to someone who isn’t watching closely.

Carla pulls at my arm. “Come on.” I follow her across the deck, but the feel of his gaze stays with me until we step into the ship’s main cabin.

“You’re not allowed to hook up on the boat.”

“It’s not a hook-up. It’s a fantasy, and you’re welcome to find your own.” The look on her face tells me she gets the message, but it still bugs her. Her jealousy always astounds me.

We order iced coffees and I ask for a bottle of water. Carla raises her brow. “His was empty.” I smile, and she shakes her head. Back on deck, I hand him the water and offer my thanks. The timbre of his voice gives nothing away. It occurs to me to strike up a conversation, but I choose to keep the fantasy alive and return to my seat.

Our game of peek-a-boo continues until sunset. At one point, he reclines on his bench, using his bag for a pillow, and I fear I’ve lost his attention. Soon, he rolls to his side, and I know he’s watching again. A group of retro-hippies play guitar and sing across the deck, and Carla joins them. I pull my sunglasses from my knapsack and join my watcher in the game.

Though it is hot, he wears jeans and a button-down, blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It clings to his body in places. I stare and imagine pulling the fabric away. I blow across his skin to cool him. When I close my eyes, I can hear him suck in his breath, see his nipples pebble under my cooling breeze. I sniff the air to scent him, but the aroma of sunscreen is too strong for my imagination to overcome.

A bead of sweat trails from my brow, into my eye. The piercing sting has me yanking off my shades and dabbing my eye. Salt on my fingers makes it worse, so I lean over and use the hem of my dress to soak up my tears. When I can blink without the burn, I raise back up to find him sitting once more, his arms stretched wide across the back of his bench. One hand holds his sunglasses and he gifts me a bright smile, one backed by the intensity of his gaze. My hunch about his eyes is correct — they are dark, and full of mirth. His full-toothed grin flatters me, but then, once I think about it, I realize I probably flashed my tits, and maybe my crotch too, when I leaned over to tend my eye. This morning’s last minute wardrobe change — my original choice of dress had a built-in bodice — left me braless. The rush of blood to my cheeks is instant. I quickly don my sunglasses again and feign ignorance.

Instinctively, I know I’ve lost the air of mystery and aloofness I so carefully cultivated through the afternoon. In return for his smile, I give him my back and conk out on the bench.

~

The ship’s dinner bell wakes me. Carla sits at my feet, playing with her phone. My arm is asleep and bears the grooves left by the slats of the bench.

“Hey, sleepy head.”

The opposite bench is empty, but his luggage remains. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back,” she assures me.

“Who?” It sounds stupid, even to me.

“Said he wanted to explore the ship.”

“You talked to him?” How did I sleep through that?

“He asked me to watch his stuff, though we could barely hear each other over your snoring.”

The numbness in my arm is replaced by sharp pricklies. I shake it vigorously. By the time the sun slips under the horizon, he is back and Carla naps. When he smiles, I pretend not to notice. Why? Why am I afraid to act on my urges? The truth scares me. I know the answer. Because the fantasy is safe. In the fantasy, no one disappoints and no one gets hurt. The fantasy can live forever, while the reality can be a devastating blow, from which it might take months, years to recover. My first love left me paralyzed. I was in art school before I risked my heart again, and even then, I held back.

His eyes follow me as I head for the snack-bar inside the ship. “What do you want?” the attendant asks with a thick accent. The question, while expected, rattles me. I want the man who has occupied my vivid imagination all day. The man whose essence calls to me, beckoning me to take a chance. “Miss, what do you want?”

“Dio biras,” I decide.

He slaps the counter with both hands. “Malista. Diobiras.”

Before I exit, I stop and take a deep, calming breath. Though I purchased the extra beer, my raw nerves still threaten mutiny, arguing with my conscience to back out while there is still time – time to escape certain disaster. An audible swallow pushes my doubts away. When I emerge from the cabin, I slip behind him, unnoticed, with a beer in each hand. The ship’s lights are now on, and combined with the purple and orange of the sky, everything looks…peachy. I reach the railing and look over the side to the dark sea passing far below. My pulse is pounding, threatening to drown out the sound of the ferry and the displaced water. What if he doesn’t look for me? Doesn’t miss me? What if I end up standing here, alone, drinking two beers in the fading light?

The hair on the back of my neck rises and I know he’s found me. Beside me, he too leans against the railing. My head is ringing with excitement and fear, but I manage to hand him the extra beer. He takes it and smiles, but it’s not the same, cocky smile from earlier. This smile is shy, and I can see he is also vulnerable, nervous.

I’m glad. I didn’t figure him for a player. With nothing to hide them, his eyes tell a tale. He is curious about me, and maybe he’s created his own fantasy and also worries the reality won’t be as good. With no words, he taps his bottle to my own and we gaze out, over the sea. I want to look at him again, but I won’t. Not yet. For now, I will get used to my body’s response to his closeness. My pulse still races, but the panic is gone.

For a long time, no words pass between us. It’s like we are getting acquainted in a spatial and spiritual way. How much is real and how much is imagined, I don’t know, but I feel we are connected on an alternate level — maybe physical, too, because my body aches to touch him. As though reading my mind, he inches closer until our elbows meet on the railing. The touch sparks off a chain-reaction of electrical impulses throughout my body, each urging me to act. Touch. More. My brain is flooded by a chemical release. Probably pheromones. I can literally feel the vibes I’m sending out, and when I dare to look at him, he is flushed and staring at me, eyes wide. We both swallow and breathe. I turn to face the looming darkness once again. Beyond my fear, there is comfort. This is where I’m meant to be, with him.

“It’s a beautiful night,” I remark to clear my mind.

“More so than any other.” He smiles and I blush.

“One of a kind.” Lame, but anything better eludes me.

We begin to talk, but not about ourselves and our lives. He tells me about the stars and constellations. “Greek mythology explains the rising and setting of the stars as Atlas spinning a dome housing the stars. As he turns, the constellations travel across the sky, rising in the east and setting in the west.”

Though I am familiar with mythology, I am enthralled. It occurs to me that the reason for my interest has more to do with watching him speak and less with the explanation, but I listen like a child hearing a bedtime story. One, or both, of us has moved closer because now we are touching from elbow to shoulder.

“Do you see that group of stars over there?” he asks, pointing south. His finger traces an outline against the sky.

“Scorpio?”

He smiles. “Yes, Scorpio. Do you know the story behind it?” His face only inches from mine, he brushes my hair with his finger tips, and tucks it behind my ear. Gooseflesh spreads across my skin.

“I know that the scorpion killed Orion because he claimed he would kill all the animals.” Can he hear the beat of my heart in my voice? I swallow hard and the sound echoes through my head.

“There is another story that says Orion fled to the sea to escape Scorpion, and he swam to the island of Delos to meet his lover, Artemis. But Apollo was angry with Artemis, and challenged her to a duel of hunting skills. The challenge was to shoot an object in the sea that approached the island. Artemis won, but what she shot was her lover, Orion, coming to find her.”

“Greek gods are horrible, vindictive, mean spirited.” I stare into his eyes. “I like your story better.”

“I do too.” I glance at his mouth. Its shape is perfect. As though in slow motion, his tongue peeks out and moistens his delectable lips. I wet my own in response, and all I can think of is what it would feel like to have those lips attached to mine. “Where are you and your friend headed?”

I tell him our destination is the next stop on the Greek island hopper’s route. I can feel the thud of my heart drop clear to my toes when he tells me his trip will take him several islands away. In unison, we turn back to the dark sea and nurse our beers. My head tells me to go back to Carla, get out while I still can. What is the point in continuing this little play? Yes, it’s fun, but is it worth days spent wishing there could have been more? I want to leave, but his touch against my arm is like glue, holding me to the spot.

My lovely stranger drops his bottle to the deck and pulls me into his arms, locking me in a desperate embrace. My own bottle falls from my hand and they both roll into the scupper. I push at his shoulders.

“Don’t.” His dark eyes pull at me, even as I try to squirm free. “It’s not worth it.”

“Not worth it?” The stutter of my heart is unmistakable as his lips brush across mine. I am lost. “How can this not be worth it?” He commits to the kiss, his lips gently tugging at mine, his tongue teasing them, pleading for admittance. By the time I allow the contact, I’m a little dizzy. It’s like no kiss I’ve ever known.

My hands move to fist the front of his shirt and pull him close. We stay like that for what could be hours – I don’t know. All I
do
know is that I’ve found a bit of heaven, and I swear no force in the world could pull me away. Wrapped tightly in his arms, his hard-on presses against my abdomen. I can’t stop the tickle inside, and my panties grow wet.