The Seacrest (31 page)

Leaning down, she kissed my lips tentatively, gently, barely touching them. Her hands held my wrists down on the bed for the first few minutes, until I couldn’t stand not to touch her, not for another minute. She kissed me gently, slowly flicking the tip of her tongue against mine.

I groaned. “You’re killing me.”

She laughed, releasing my wrists. “That’s the idea. Anticipation, Finn. It’s almost better than the real thing.”

I grinned. “I doubt it. I’m all anticipated-out, Lib.” Lifting her shirt, I circled my thumbs lightly around her nipples, then gently cupped her breasts and crushed my lips to them, kissing and licking them, causing her to moan.

Again, my body responded with incredible vigor, trying to escape its prison of fabric. She chuckled, but a bit more breathless this time. “Patience, my love.” She patted me there, then straddled me, although I still wore the boxers and wanted to shed them so badly I could barely stand to wait.

I caught her face between my hands and kissed her softly, deepening the contact as the seconds passed. She reached behind to massage my back, then wrapped her legs around me, pressing her body into my aching hardness.

I lifted her and swung us both over to lie on the bed. She lay on the pillows and I faced her, her legs still clamped my waist. I kissed her, long and deep. She let me go long enough for me to shuck my boxers, then sat up for me to lift the tee shirt up and over her head. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.

I stared at her dark lashes, pretty mouth, her supple curvy body that I’d come to love, unable to believe we’d finally reached a point where we didn’t have to hide, to hurry, to wish it would last. “You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” I said. “And I don’t care if that sounds corny. It’s true.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “Finn.”

“Uhnt-uh, none of that. This is a time to celebrate.” I wiped the tear with my fingers, then laid her back on the pillow and kissed the spot, traveling down her cheek to her neck, her collarbone, her arms, and eventually her breasts. She arched up against me, her breath coming faster now.

“Patience, my dear,” I teased. “Anticipation, remember?”

She laid back and stuck her tongue out at me, but her eyes remained full of need. “Fine.”

Caressing her breasts with one hand and her behind with the other, I wandered lower and lower, kissing her belly, her thighs, and finally pressed my lips between her legs.

Hands twining through my hair, she lifted her pelvis to me, moaning softly. “Finn.” Her belly quivered beneath my touch as I traced my fingers down to her most female area, gently slipping them inside while I sent her into paroxysms with my lips and tongue.

Fifteen minutes later, she pushed my head away. “Please. Finn. Now.”

My organ strained forward with a mind of its own, reaching for her soft tissue and in seconds, I sank to the hilt inside her. She moved against me rhythmically, fully relaxed now, completely alive. She seemed to have abandoned the years of guilt and anger and hurt and let herself go, all pretenses dropped away, all teasing and playfulness spent. With arched back, biting her lower lip, she inhaled deep, sharp breaths, holding them, releasing, and finally exploding in cries of delight as she rode the waves of pleasure. I held back, not letting myself go yet, and in another few minutes I’d built her back to the peak and she came again.

Only then did I give myself permission to focus on my own needs. Rolling her over to her knees, I pulled out and again re-entered her from behind, pushing so deeply into her I felt her shudder once more. Now it was impossible to stop the surging tide. She clamped onto me, rocking on her knees, while I leaned my body into hers, kneading her breasts that hung down plump and soft beneath her. Rearing up in agonizing delicious pleasure, I exploded inside her. A distant part of my brain hoped we’d created a child from this passion.

I nearly collapsed on top of her, and with embarrassment, I felt myself tearing up from the sheer beauty of the experience. We fell to the bed, with Libby spooned before me, and when I finally caught my breath, I laughed for the joy of it.

She laughed, too, and our mutual reaction to the intense pleasure bubbled between us. I hugged her, kissed the back of her neck, and stroked her hair. She held one of my hands, tightly, rubbing her thumb up and down against the skin of my palm.

“I’m never letting you go,” she said.

I kissed the back of her neck. “Thank God.”

With a sly smile, she turned to glance over her shoulder. “Do you think it’ll always be this good?”

I squeezed her to me. “Maybe for the first forty years. Once I’m an old geezer, you might have to feed me one of those little blue pills every so often.”

She giggled and reached around to feel me. What was once rock hard now had softened, but I knew it wouldn’t take much to get it back. With Libby, I felt I could go all night.

I drifted off to sleep—although it was only six in the evening—and I think she did, too, for when I awoke to the sound of the door chimes an hour later, we still lay together on the bed. She had draped one long leg over me and rested her head on my chest. I gently disengaged myself, pulling on a fresh pair of shorts from the bureau.

“Huh?” she said, as if responding to a question.

“Nothing, hon. Just sleep. It’s the doorbell.”

She squinted one eye open and sat up. “What time is it? And who the heck would be ringing your doorbell?”

“Good question,” I said. “I think it’s around six or seven. But nobody ever comes here.”

She jumped up and quickly dressed. “Oh, no. I hope it’s not my father. Maybe he’s had another attack. I turned off my cell phone before we…”

I almost panicked. “Oh, crud. I did, too.” I thumbed on my phone but didn’t see any missed messages.

The bell chimed again. Ace barked from downstairs where he’d settled with a bone on his rug before we went upstairs together.

“Come on,” I said, slipping into a shirt and jeans. “Let’s see who it is.”

She took my hand and we walked together to the front door, both still barefoot. Her beautiful hair was messy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide with expectation. I loved every part of her, and told her so.

I pulled open the door and stopped dead, staring at the figure before me. Ace snuffled at his feet and hands.

A wave of disbelief washed over me, and I felt dizzy for a moment as the past converged with the present.

My brother stood on the porch in a ragged pair of jeans, torn tee shirt, and worn leather jacket. His head hung low and eyes seemed haunted. In his hand, he held a helmet and a bulging backpack slung from his shoulder. Behind him in the driveway, a motorcycle leaned on its stand.

I stepped forward, the enormity of the impossible situation seeping through me like melting wax.
“Jax?”

He was no more than fifteen or sixteen, with unruly dark hair and big haunted eyes. He looked at me with puzzlement. “Um. No. I’m Cody. I think…I mean, I think you’re my father.”

Libby had been stunned as well, for this child looked the spitting image of my brother when he was the same age. In a flash I realized he must be Jax’s son—maybe one of the three children he sired that summer when I met Libby.

I held out my hand. “Cody, I’m Finn, Jax’s brother. I guess that makes me your uncle, huh?”

He blinked back tears. “Where’s my father?”

There was no easy way to say it. I told him what had happened, right out there on the porch, with the peepers starting their September songs in the woods near the barn. I also told him how much he looked like his father.

We sat down on the porch steps beside him. Ace licked the boy’s hands, apparently already accepting him into the fold. We gave him time to assimilate the fact that the father he’d come to find was gone. He took it pretty hard.

But he seemed a strong boy, for he eventually accepted the facts with grace. “So, you live here now, Finn?”

I nodded. “I do. It was our family home, you know? Your father left it to me.”

He glanced at Libby. “You live here, too?”

She smiled. “I will soon. We’re getting married.”

Before long, we all sat at the kitchen table, eating reheated chili that Fritzi had given me the week before, along with her homemade cornbread. The boy was starving, and we soon discovered that he’d been on the road since early morning, having traveled all the way from New Jersey with only a tank of gas and no money for food.

Cody scarfed down two bowls of chili and drained three tall glasses of milk. “The social workers will be after me soon. I’m in a lot of trouble.”

He told us how he’d run away from a succession of foster homes after his teenaged mother gave him up for adoption.  The original couple who’d adopted him split up, and he’d been abandoned to the system. He’d been on the run ever since, getting caught, getting reassigned, running away.

I stood and walked behind him, placing one hand on his shoulder. “You look
so
much like your dad. And you know what? He was
always
in trouble. It followed him everywhere.” I smiled so he wouldn’t think I was criticizing either one of them. “We had a hard time keeping up with Jax. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Stealing. Smoking. Girls.” I chuckled. “But he sure could make me laugh. He was so funny.”

He turned in his seat and looked up at me. “Really?”

“Really.” I crouched beside his chair and locked eyes with him. “Would they let you stay with us, Cody? You’re my blood. And frankly, I have no family left, aside from you and Libby.”

Cody swallowed hard, as if he’d been afraid to ask the same question. “They said if I could find family who wanted me, I could stay with them.”

“Would you like to stay?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure.” The boy’s eyes welled with tears. “But…you don’t even know me,” he stammered. “I’m a real handful, so they tell me.”

“Can’t be any worse than your father,” I said, standing up again. I pulled him to his feet and faced him in that kitchen designed for kids and family and laughter. I realized this was just the start of it all. The family would grow from here.

“Son,” I said, catching his darting eyes with mine. “Look at me. You
are
family. That’s all that matters.”

Libby joined us, slipping an arm around both of us. “You’re home now, Cody.”

“Libby’s right,” I echoed her words. “You’re home.” I hugged them both close.

And in that instant, in that big, beautiful farmhouse, standing between the walls I’d scuffled and tumbled around with my brother, surrounded by acres of blueberries and the sound of the swelling seas, I knew I’d forgiven Jax. I’d forgiven him for all of it, and now I would take care of his son.

“You like blueberries?” I asked. “Come on.” I led him toward the back door. “Let us show you the farm.”

Libby slid her arm through Cody’s and I did the same on the other side. With Ace bounding beside us, we walked past the barn, said hello to the horses, and meandered toward the fields that Jax and I had worked in for so many years. I’d teach this boy the business. And one day, if he liked it, maybe it would be his.

After all, isn’t that what family’s all about?

— The End —

Afterword

I’ve never written a love story, per se.

Oh, sure, I include plenty of love—even unrequited love—in my three mystery series. But I’ve been thinking for quite some time that it would be refreshing to stray for a while from murders and villains and chase scenes into a new world populated with people who suffer for love, who learn and grow as they evolve, and who ultimately prove that love never dies.

Granted, there are plenty of secrets revealed in
The Seacrest
, and you might even think of it a bit like the old story,
Rebecca
, by Daphne Du Maurier, which is set by the sea and includes mysteries galore. But I’m calling this one a love story, pure and simple. I hope you agree.

This past summer, my wife, daughter, grandson, and I spent the last week in June in Brewster, Mass, on lovely Cape Cod, along with our two dogs, Balto and Amber. We hadn’t been there in nine long years, and I’d been craving it for what seemed like forever.

We spent the week walking three times a day on the beach, swimming, hiking in the woods, and simply enjoying the simple pleasure of ice cream after dinner, crispy fried onion rings at Kate’s, and the charm of the village stores.

I apologize for any liberties I’ve taken in the town of Brewster, including the invention of the cemetery by the cliffs – and I hope you local folks don’t mind!

The scents and sounds of the sea have called to me long after we left, and writing this book has been almost comforting, allowing me to stay near the ocean long after we’ve returned to the bountiful beauty of the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York.

Thanks for reading, and remember, sometimes love won’t die…

Aaron Paul Lazar

www.lazarbooks.com

About the Author

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. A multi award-winning author of three addictive mystery series, writing guides, and more, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, SANCTUARY (2014) and VIRTUOSO (2014). You may contact him at [email protected].

Twilight Times Books by multi-award winning author Aaron Lazar:

LEGARDE MYSTERIES

DOUBLE FORTÉ
(print, eBook,
audio book
)

UPSTAGED
(print, eBook,
audio book
)  

TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON
(print, eBook,
audio book
)

MAZURKA
(print, eBook,
audio book
)

FIRESONG
(print, eBook,
audio book
)

DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU
(print, eBook, audio book)