Page 42 of Licks

His searing glance had tingles erupting across my skin. “Definitely later. For now we need to go through my mother’s journal and search for more clues.” I needed to regroup. Find my feet. Reorder my upside-down world by putting on some clothes and creating emotional armor.

August

After a quick snack of cheese and fruit, Gwen and I relocated to her plaid couch, her mother’s diary and an awkward silence between us. It wasn’t okay. I wasn’t okay. My Monday morning flight meant we only had a day and a bit. The timeline was akin to torture. We hadn’t mentioned my departure date again. We hadn’t said much of anything. The prospect had new lyrics looping through my mind: cruel fate, wicked ways, oceans apart.

I had commitments in Germany and France, unbreakable contracts, weeks and months scheduled on the road. But this wasn’t the beginning of the end. I wouldn’t let it be. I simply had to make a plan and figure things out. Think long-term.

Still, she was freaking out, shutting down in increments.

Which meant beginning with the small stuff, here and now, was important. Making use of all our seconds. “When did you start surfing?” I needed to learn everything I could about Gwen Hamilton.

She glanced up from the worn journal. “Sorry?”

I nodded to the board taking up the opposite wall. “Surfing, I don’t remember you wanting to try it.” Or skydiving. Or mountain biking. Gwen had always been athletic, running track and acing gym class, but she’d never been an adrenaline junkie.

Keeping the journal open, she leaned her shoulder into the couch. “During college, my third summer off, I was bartending at night but needed as much cash as possible. A daytime job renting surfboards came up, and I got bit by the bug. The job allowed me free lessons and equipment use.”

Watching her navigating a wave, water dripping down her toned body, hair slicked back would be quite the sight. “The only time I surfed involved me sucking back buckets of sea water.”

Her attention darted to my mouth. Her pupils flared, as though mention of inhaling the ocean was akin to dirty talk. “Learning is rough.”

“Have you ever taught?”

“I prefer the rush of riding.” Her gaze dropped lower, to my groin. She nibbled her lower lip.

Was she picturing riding me? A shot of lust accompanied that visual. Although making love to her had been unreal, I hadn’t explored the lean lines of her body, kissed my way up her strong thighs. I suppressed my groan. “Maybe you could teach me some time.”

Although too turned on for my own good, I did mean the surfing. I wanted to enjoy a lazy Sunday walking the streets with Gwen, fall into a small lunch spot, lie in the grass while she read and I wrote music, learn to surf with her, sleep next to her, wake with her. Collect all our seconds, turning each into an eternity.

She stopped the lip nibbling. She might have stopped breathing, too. “Sure,” she said. It took a moment to realize she’d answered my surfing question, but it had been a distracted sure. A we don’t have a future sure.

I really fucking hated that sure.

She returned to analyzing the diary. I kept analyzing her: the full bottom lip I’d had between my teeth, the swell of her breasts in her fitted white tank top. She had beautiful breasts, small yet lush with tight pink nipples I hadn’t gotten to feast on, since I hadn’t removed her bra.

She slid her jaw to the side as she read a section carefully. I didn’t remember her doing that when we’d studied together, and I would know. I’d spent most of those hours like this, watching her, picturing her hands on my body, tugging down my jeans. My mouth on her.

We were close enough that I could reach forward and run my fingers through her wavy hair. I followed my instinct. I couldn’t keep away.

Air rasped through her teeth. “That’s distracting.”

“You’re distracting.”

“You know what I mean.” But she didn’t pull back. She leaned toward me.

My sweet Possum. “These are my seconds, honey. I need to touch you. And I’ll figure out the rest with us. Please don’t worry.”

Already, I’d been poring over my schedule in my mind, blocking out times I’d return to San Francisco. Weeks I could fly Gwen to Europe. I’d plan it out, make it foolproof. She wouldn’t have to do a thing but say yes. Instead of fighting me further, she turned her face into my hand and kissed my palm. Not an agreement, exactly, but the tender move nearly split me in two.

We stayed like that awhile: her flipping through her mother’s journal, my hand in her hair, my heart playing an unsteady bass line.

Suddenly, she sat straighter. She lifted a flimsy cocktail napkin from inside the book. “She mentions a bar a few times, a place a guy used to take her. I think it’s the same guy who watched her dance, but she never mentions his name.”

“Considering she hid the journal in a defaced bible, I’m guessing she was worried it would be riffled through. Her parents weren’t exactly lenient.”

Gwen had snuck into my room the night she’d searched out her grandparents. She hadn’t cried or ranted, but she’d picked her nails until they’d bled and had asked if she could sleep over. I’d watched her breathing softly the entire night.

She closed the book and held the napkin gingerly. “By the sounds of things, this guy knew the owner of the bar or a bartender, had no issues getting my mother served without her ID. Mary Hamilton liked her Long Island Iced Tea.”