Untouched: A Cedar Cove Novella Part 3

"Brit!" I roar, not turning. Juliet is scrambling to pull her s.h.i.+rt back up, cheeks burning red.

"Sorry!" I can hear the laughter in Brit's voice. "I didn't know you had, uh, company."

I'm still panting, blood roaring in my ears, but I manage to get my hard-on under control and turn. My sister is standing with her hands on her hips: five foot and fifteen years of trouble.

I sigh. "Brit, this is Juliet." I reach for her, to rea.s.sure her it's ok, but she ducks away from me across the porch, not meeting my eyes.

"Hi." Brit narrows her eyes as she takes in Juliet. I can tell what she's thinking, I've never brought a girl home before. We don't have people over. Ever. It's an unspoken rule of the house, a way for us to contain the damage. Contain mom.

Juliet doesn't reply, she just mumbles, staring at the ground. "I, um, should go." She finally blurts, then takes off for the door.

She leaves without looking at me, without saying goodbye. I feel a bitter wave of disappointment crash through me.

I f.u.c.ked it up.

Just like I always do. I drove her away. I had her in my arms, and I ravaged her like some f.u.c.king animal. Oh G.o.d, she must hate me now.

"Emerson." I look back. Brit is watching me with a concerned look on her face. "Em, are you ok? I'm sorry I barged in," she adds quickly. "But the door was open, and--"

"It's not your fault." I tell her gruffly. The words catching my throat, and I stride inside, slamming the door behind me.

The fault is mine. It's always mine.

JULIET.

He kissed me.

No, Emerson didn't just kiss me, he consumed me. He devoured me. And I couldn't get enough.

I lay in bed all night awake, replaying the kiss over and over in my mind. The feel of his body, rock hard against me, the relentless sweet plunge of his tongue in my mouth. I s.h.i.+ver, heat pooling through my body, my skin p.r.i.c.kling with awareness just at the thought of him.

It's too hot in here, I can't breathe.

That's because he took your breath away.

I leap up, crossing to the window and open it wide. The night air is cool and refres.h.i.+ng, but it's still not enough to soothe me. My whole body feels swollen, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s aching, my thighs tight. I strip off my oversize T and slip back between the sheets, naked under the cool cotton. I feel it slide against my body, cool where his hands had been so hot, and my stomach trembles all over again.

G.o.d, but that man can kiss.

I lay back, eyes shut, remembering the look in his eyes when he reached for me, the dark intensity that turned me molten inside. Even now, I feel a shock of electricity spark down my body, imagining him right here under the covers next to me. His touch. His lips. His hands...

And then I remember the expression on his sister's face when she found us together, and the rush of shame is so bad I have to roll under my pillows and silently scream with embarra.s.sment.

What the h.e.l.l was I thinking? I'd known the guy all of eight hours, and I was this close to pulling him down on the hard wooden porch and giving him my virginity right then and there, to h.e.l.l with the consequences. What must he think of me? Nothing good, that's for sure: he didn't even try to come after me, or get my number, or even ask to see me again.

And why would he? A small voice of doubt whispers. I was crazy. I was possessed. I was acting like a stranger, like some girl I didn't even know.

My thoughts whirl around my head all night, but as I finally drift into sleep, I realize the strangest part of the whole thing, why despite all my insecurities and disbelief, I feel a warm glow bathe my whole body. Because the truth is I didn't feel like a different person. When I was holding Emerson, kissing him, aching for his touch... I've never felt more like myself. Juliet. The girl inside of me.

I was free.

When I wake the next morning, Emerson's kisses feel like a dream. A dangerous, tempting dream. I push the lingering memories away and leap out of bed, determined that despite my moment of total madness last night, I'm not going to fall to pieces over this guy-no matter how drop-dead gorgeous he is, or how his kisses undo me. I'm not going to spend the rest of my summer obsessing over him like some lovesick puppy, riding by his house, or hanging out in town panting for just one glance.

I could be just another in a long line of summer kisses; one of the millions of girls a guy like that must have waiting. I don't know what he wants from me, and I sure as h.e.l.l don't know what I want from him.

Except to kiss him until the world ends.

I spend the next few days ignoring the voice in my head whispering his name, and throw myself into summer activities with mom instead. If she thinks it's strange that I suddenly want to hang out with her, she doesn't say it. She happily takes us off fruit picking, and driving out to the beach, and browsing the tourist stores in the beach towns nearby. Whatever free time is left, I spend in the tiny photography studio, setting up my materials and developing my first rolls of film. I focus on the tasks in front of me, pretending like it's not Emerson's face I see drifting to me in the dark, quiet room, or his arms I imagine sliding around me; his lips brus.h.i.+ng against my neck...

"Tomatoes?"

My mom's voice cuts through my flashback. I spin around. We're at the small grocery store in town, picking up supplies for Dad and Carina's welcome dinner. I wanted to tell her, the food wouldn't be worth the effort; as long as there's a full bottle of scotch, he'll be happy. But mom seemed so excited, and I knew I could use the distraction from Emerson.

Some distraction. Here I am daydreaming about him in the middle of the produce aisle.

I blink back to the present. "What?" I ask, trying to remember what she said.

"Tomatoes," mom says again. "For a salad, or maybe a sauce." Her face lights up. "That's perfect, I can teach you how to make my marinara. Won't that be fun? I'll get the pasta, you find fresh basil, and oregano too."

She disappears down the aisle before I can protest, so I slowly push the cart on. I send up a silent prayer that Dad and Carina don't stop at a restaurant on the way into town; too many of mom's special dinners have sat, going cold, as they breeze late in with bags of takeout.

I maneuver the cart around a corner. There's a clash of metal as it hits one coming from the other direction.

"Sorry!" I apologize, and look up - straight into the blue constellations I've barely finished day-dreaming about.

"Emerson!" My voice comes out a high-pitched squeak, and I cringe from embarra.s.sment at the sound. Way to go, Juliet. Casual! "So, umm, hi."

"Hi." Emerson stares at me, frozen by a canned goods display.

Silence.

Everything from the other night rushes back again, but this time, it's stronger than ever because he's right here. In front of me. The hands that held me so close, the lips that demanded everything I was all too willing to give. I can't look away, but I can't think of a single thing to say. My mind is blank, heart racing, and all I can do is stare up at his gorgeous face and remember our kiss.

The kiss.

"I.." Say something! Don't just stand there like an idiot. I look desperately around, and zone in on the contents of his shopping cart. "Captain Crunch!" I exclaim loudly.

Emerson looks startled. "What?"

"The cereal. I like it too." I babble. "I have it with orange juice, sometimes, instead of milk. I know it sounds weird but, it's actually kind of great..."

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

"Oh, yeah." Emerson glances down. "It's for my sister. Brit. You met her when..."

He trails off, but I know what he's thinking. When I was halfway to giving him my virginity on his back porch.

Emerson clears his throat. He looks pained, awkward as h.e.l.l. Like he wants to be anywhere but here.

My heart drops as I realize the truth: he doesn't have a thing to say to me. In fact, he probably can't wait to get away.

d.a.m.n! Why didn't I see, the reason he didn't come after me, or try to track me down at all. To him, it was just a kiss. h.e.l.l, he's probably made out with dozens of girls, right there in that exact same spot.

I'm nothing special. It didn't mean a thing. I feel tears sting the back of my throat. Behind him, I see my mom. I quickly steer my cart around him.

"I've got to go. Umm, bye." I speed away as fast as I can.

"Who was that?" Mom looks past me.

"n.o.body!" I exclaim. "I just ran into him with my cart. Did you get the pasta? Good, let's go."

As I steer her away, I can't help but glance back for Emerson. But he's gone. Deep inside, I feel an ache of disappointment. Call it hope, or maybe just foolish day-dreaming, but I felt like that kiss was the beginning of something.

I turn back, and tighten my grip on the shopping cart, telling myself it doesn't matter, it never could have worked anyway.

You'd think I'd be able to lie just fine, with a family like mine, but it turns out, I can't. Not when I'm lying to myself.

"Ugh, I'm so bored." Carina flops beside me on the back porch and pulls out her phone. She taps away at the keys, ignoring the gorgeous beach spread out in front of us, the sea gra.s.ses rippling in the evening breeze. "There's like, nothing to do here."

"You could go into town," I suggest, putting my book aside. "Or take a walk."

Carina fixes me with a look. "Seriously? Whatever. We don't even get cable TV. I'm going to demand we get it installed, I can't believe mom thinks she can keep us here all summer like this."

"You didn't have to come." I reply, already annoyed by her whining. Ever since the car pulled up, she's done nothing but b.i.t.c.h about the house (too small), the town (too dead), and the "like, criminal" lack of AC and decent cell reception.

Carina flips back her glossy blonde hair and rolls her eyes. "Please, mom practically begged. You know what she's like, it's so pathetic."

"Now, now," my dad's voice comes, amused, as he strolls out onto the porch, carrying a bottle of wine. He's wearing a rumpled Oxford s.h.i.+rt, open at the neck, and a pair of his threadbare corduroy pants. "I'm sure your mother has a whole program of fascinating activities planned. She wouldn't drag us out here for no good reason now, would she?"

Carina giggles at the sarcasm in his voice, but I just feel a twist of betrayal. He always does this, cutting her down, making snide, witty comments about her when she's not around. Carina doesn't seem to realize, and I've long since given up trying to defend her, so I look away, out at the ocean horizon.

Dad pulls up a rocker and opens the wine. "Jeanette?" he calls, without getting up. "Gla.s.ses, if you will."

"I can get them," I start to get to my feet, but he waves me back, and a moment later, mom appears with two wine-gla.s.ses. She pa.s.ses them over, out of breath.

"Dinner will be ready in just a second," she tells him, waiting for approval, but he just pours wine into one of the gla.s.ses and holds it out to me.

"Honey?" My mom speaks up, looking concerned. "Do you think we should...?"

"They serve wine to children all the time in Europe," Dad replies dismissively.

"It's OK," I interrupt quickly. "I don't want it."

Carina rolls her eyes again and s.n.a.t.c.hes the gla.s.s. "Honestly, mom. Grow up. I drink all the time at college." She takes a long sip.

Mom gives a nervous laugh. "You're right, sweetie, of course." She pauses another moment in the doorway, then heads back into the kitchen.

I watch dad pour himself a gla.s.s-all the way to the brim-then set the bottle down. Not on the table, but on the stool beside his chair. Within reach.

Suddenly, I feel an ache in my chest so strong, I have to move. Get up, get away, do something.

I leap up. "I'm going to take a walk."

"Where?" Carina snorts.

"Just down the beach." I pull on my battered Converse sneakers and grab my camera from beside my chair. "I'm not hungry, so don't hold dinner for me. I'll be back later."

Carina shrugs, and dad barely looks up from his book, so I quickly head down the steps to the beach and stride away. The expanse of sand is cool and empty; I put my hands in my pockets and hunch my shoulders against the ocean breeze. I dig my feet into the sand with every step, feeling the burn in my thighs, and focusing everything I have on the mantra running through my mind.

It's just the summer. Your last summer. You can make it.

I walk a mile along the beach at least, lost in thought until I see the faint flicker of a campfire further down the sh.o.r.e. A couple of trucks are pulled up on the sand, tailgates down, and people are gathered nearby, dark outlines against the pink-streaked sunset sky.

I head closer, curious. As I approach, I hear music playing, a song I love. 'Use Somebody' by the Kings of Leon. The party is around my age or older, couples and groups drinking beer, hanging out. It looks like a fun time, but I hesitate on the edge of the crowd. I'm not the kind of girl who can just march into a group of strangers and make friends. Besides, I've still got this heavy ache in my chest, all these thoughts whirling in my mind.

Then my heart skips. I see him. Emerson. He's over by one of the trucks, drinking beer, laughing at something one of the other guys has said. He's wearing jeans and a dark hoodie, but even in the fading light, I can recognize those broad shoulders and the angle of his jaw; the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck.

I remember what Emerson's hair felt like under my fingertips. A s.h.i.+ver runs through me.

He looks up.

I freeze, unable to look away. The music drifts out into the night, wistful chords on the wind. About wanting someone, feeling so apart from the rest of the world. The moment stretches between us, unbearably tense. Part of me wants to turn and run back to the house, but the other part... It wants to run right to him. Into his arms.

Then he breaks away from his friends, and slowly walks towards me.

"Hey. Again." I gulp, nervous, as he comes to a stop a few feet away from me. His expression is inscrutable, eyes burning into me. "I promise, I'm not stalking you. I was just, walking. I saw the fire, and..." I gulp, lost for words.

How can he do this: make me forget everything but the s.e.xy curve of his lips? I stare at them, my stomach twisting into knots as I wait for a response.

Emerson finally clears his throat. "I'm sorry." he says in a low, throaty voice that sends sparks shooting down my body.

"For what?" I pause, confused.

"What happened, the other day," he explains. He looks away, shoulders hunched. "I didn't know what to say to you, in the store. I was out of line. I should never have..." he swallows, glancing back at me. For a moment, his face is unguarded, vulnerable. Ashamed. "I'll understand if you don't want to see me again," he adds quickly, looking at the ground again. "I just wanted to come over and say... Well, I'm sorry. You deserve better than getting mauled by a f.u.c.k-up like me."

He meets my eyes again, full of regret. Then he turns and walks away.

Confusion crashes through me. He's the one who's sorry?

"Wait!" I call, and start after him. Emerson doesn't slow, so I grab his arm and pull him around to face me. "What are you talking about?" I demand, "You're not a f.u.c.k up, and you didn't maul me. Why would you say that?"