Sommer Marsden's Blog, page 115

pretty things...

Contains my story "Racing to the Altar". Tons of other fabulous writers in here, too. My brain has seized up on me and I've got one foot out the door. But there's more info on Alison Tyler's blog!

Contains my story "One More Night". Again, the fierce lineup has gone right out of my brain. But there are lots of good stories in here. Trust me! :) XOXO Sommer

Wanderlust part 28 "I've seen worse men than you"

falling. by ~anjart on deviantART

Not much to say this morning. Not entirely in a good mood, heh. Definitely not chatty. Thunderstorms are due, and I have a date with a big ass book that needs proofing. I am on the neverending proofing train, I think.

Have a good one, lovelies.

XOXO
Sommer
p.s. but p.s. we have cracked over 35K so yay that :) We started this journey about a month ago. Can you freaking believe that?

Wanderlust
part 28
by Sommer Marsden

I watched the emotions on his face run the gamut. He didn't let me go, he just held me there as if I were an unwilling listener to his confession. I was willing but I let him bind me within the cage of his fingers and I didn't fight it.

"For the longest time, I didn't sleep," he said, the heat in his voice had lowered to a simmer. "Because every time I slept—" He shook his head and looked off. Hearing something maybe I could not. Sounds from a whole other lifetime.

"Every time you slept?" I breathed. It was a struggle to talk but I managed. My heart continued to race. My mind doubted he would hurt me—knew he would not, in fact. My body still wasn't sure. Anxiety coursed through me like cold, dirty water and I reminded myself it was instinct.

I didn't have to fear Johnny unless I chose to.

"Every time I slept…he died again," he said. His eyes, a dark storm-blue now thanks to his emotions, found me and I saw how shiny they were.

My throat, the part that still remained open, felt tight. I curled my fingers over him again, feeling his cock respond. He looked angry. Begrudging me the power I had over him and his body. Mine was great as his at this moment in time, despite the tableau you might see should you look at us.

He tightened his grip on my neck a little and I smiled. "Go on. Do it," I said again. "This is the knife edge for you, Johnny. Do you want to run your fingers over it?"

He was in a position to hurt someone again. He might not love me, but he cared about me, that much I knew. This was where he saw what I saw—a good fucking man. A tainted, broken, fractured man who hid from the darkness in his past. But a good man all the same.

I rubbed him with the tip of my fingers and sucked in a thin sip of air. He kept his fingers curled around my neck but leaned in to kiss me.

"Yes," I said against his lips and he grunted.

I parted my lips so he could taste my tongue. I took each slippery thrust as he kissed me. His hands stayed, pinning me there, while he worked his buckle and his fly one handed. "Push them down," he said, meaning my pants.

I tried, both hands were free, but my fingers tingled from lack of air and fear. I had just enough air to be safe, but enough was restricted that I could feel the surreal floaty feeling of disconnect. He opened his palm for a moment, pushed with me and my jeans puddle around my ankles. Sweeping my panties down, he knifed his hand up the insdie of my thigh, pausing just enough to test me. To see if I was wet. It was a perfunctory, clinical prod and it turned me on. He was too intent to finesse me and I liked that.

The hand was back, the great sweet gusts of air gone and his mouth returned to bear down on mine. "Open your legs, Aurelia."

I parted, let them fall open. All of me was bare to him. He quite literally had my life in his hands and we both knew it. I was tall and curvy. I was not a small woman, but compared to him I was a fucking ballerina.

With his free hand he danced the silky tip of his cock along my soaked hole. He penetrated me only to his cock free of me completely and play the now-wet head over the swollen knot of my clit. I almost came.

White lightning sizzled in my peripheral vision—visible only to me. My ears were ringing.

He kissed me again and bit my lower lip so my heart jumped and my blood leapt. "I'm the farthest thing from a good man that you will find Aurelia Blake."

I leveled my gaze at him, forcing him to look at me. I woudn't back down. "I've seen worse men than you. I've seen men who have broken and destroyed and never lost a moment's sleep."

He thrust into me hard, almost like he wanted to hurt me. Maybe he did. It stole my breath and my words hitched. But he was in me, filling me, stretching me. That one big hand anchoring my hip, the other my neck and he stared down at me—into me—as he started to move.

There was so much in that stare. Love, hate, respect, trust, suspicion, anger, fear—all of it capered over his thuggish features as he fucked me.

I curled one leg up around his trim hip. I stared right back at him—giving him back what he was giving me. He looked almost confused and when my body grew unbearably tight and my cunt filled with a searing heat, I begged him. When all I could think of and want and anticipate was coming for him, I begged.

"God, kiss me, Johnny," I said. And there was the plea that perhaps he'd been waiting for. The weakness. The need.

But I gave it to him anyway, because for the first time ever—for me, at least—this was not a game. This was something real. I wasn't sure what it was, but whatever it was, it was authentic. And I wouldn't fuck it up with mind games and one-upmanship and bullshit.

He kissed me and he fucked me and he squeezed my throat just a hair harder as his movements became more aggressive and he banged into me hard, my head hitting the wall. He pushed his lips to my ear and clasped my ass with his free hand and growled, "Come with me, Really."

And I did. I made myself as tight as I could and when he lost his hold—when he broke and surrendered to his body—I let myself go too. I fell back into it. Trusting him to fucking catch me. To leave me enough air. To not fuck me up any more than I was.

For me, this was what the falling was like.

STAY TUNED...

stuck in my head

It's not uncommon--in fact, it's very common--for me to get songs stuck in my head. What is as rare as hens' teeth is me waking with one pre-stuck that has no reason to be there. Saturday morning I woke with Tommy James & The Shondells in my brain. If you read today's chunk of Wanderlust, you see the song made it in. Either way, it's still rolling around in there. So I'm posting it. Maybe that'll exorcise it to make room for the next song...

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust part 27 "Do it"

Good morning, good morning. Oh, who am I kidding. Is it time for my nap yet? ;) Today's ended up being a rather long bit. About twice the normal. It really is becoming hard for me to stave off the flow of this story. But for some reason I like only knowing a bit before you, dear reader, what's going to happen.

So, however you see it: good, bad or ugly. Here's part 27. Now, off I go for more coffee. I have a proofing date with some zombies today.

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust
part 27
by Sommer Marsden

And this is where I was out of my element. Jackson would have simply begged forgiveness regardless of who was at fault. The ex who had come before would have left and stayed gone for days in a fit of childish anger. The other men—the dalliances, as my father called them—were disposable.

But watching Johnny go. Hearing his big boots out on the gravel drive, hearing the Chevy turn over and pull out without me. Fuck, hearing the deafening silence of the empty cabin, created a hole in my gut that was both painful and numb.

"That was brilliant," I said to myself

I poured more coffee and studied what looked to be the beginnings of breakfast that he had pulled out and set on the counter. An hour ticked by and I busied myself but slowly and methodically—almost like some ritual to a god who could bring him back—put all those things away one by one. There was more bread, more cheese, a few eggs. I put them all back and held my breath waiting for the door to open.

The cabin stayed chilled and finally, when I felt as if I had punished myself enough, I guess, I went and pulled the golden colored curtain over it. It was a heavy lined curtain—a proper curtain, my mother would have felt—and it did a decent job of stifling the constant trickle of cold November air.

It was November already, when did that happen?

The cable was fuzzy but working and I busied myself by watching shows about ghost hunters, monster hunters and then the start of a really bad movie about worms made of ice from outer space.

"No Ohio today," I said.

My head was pounding, my gut was sick. I ached all over. My breath was frozen in my lungs. He hadn't returned. Was he coming back? Should I call someone? I could call my father, Jackson, my friend Bren…

"And here you are running to someone because you don't have anyone. What the fuck is so scary about being alone, Really? Especially when you don't like anyone for the most part."

That made me laugh and the laughter made me cry and morning slipped into pre-afternoon.

He wasn't coming back.

I sank into it. I embraced that stark fear and sprawled on the sofa with my head back and my heart pounding a thick dull beat. I studied the skylight from here. The loft seemed so far away and yet the skylight seemed so close. Gray light filtered in and I wondered if that was all this trip was going to be. Not an escape from the fucked up life of yesterday but putting my foot in my mouth, food, sleeping, fear and open road. Nothing more than a less repressed daily routine.

"And fucking. Don't forget the fucking."

On the TV music was playing but I was too heavy—inside and out—to focus my attention.

Children behave. That's what they say when we're together…

I hummed along for a second, my eye lids slamming shut only for me to pry them back open. I didn't want to sleep. No matter what a good escape it would be from the stupid thing I had just done.

The wind blew and the movie started and my stomach rumbled but I didn't feed it. I shut my eyes, counting minutes. He would come back. He would totally come back. He was a good man.

*****

Something was trying to get in the cabin. Some thing that had claws and scraped them, scratching horror movie sounds that put my hackles up. I tried to open my eyes and then that dull ache in my gut reminded me that I was alone.

Maybe I didn't want to open my eyes. I could lie here at its mercy. The thing with teeth and claws that was trying to get in.

A cracking sound and my body went tense. A grunt and my stomach sizzled with fear.

Jesus, Really. When did you become such a pussy?

Finally, I cracked one eye, my body tight with the urge to flee. What I saw was the broad back of one Johnny Rose as he set a new piece of glass in the pane and proceeded to seal the edges.

"Good nap?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

I snorted. "You're sorry? I think you have that backwards."

"Yep," he said, still not looking at me. "You're right. You really needed to be thrown around for calling me a good man. How dare you?"

He was taut. All of him. he looked carved of stone and angry. He looked hurt and vulnerable. He looked like a man who wanted to punch and kiss and explode into a thousand little points of light. He was turmoil in man form and my heart cramped because I felt I had done that.

He had taken me from my flat line existence and I had stomped on his heart.

Fuck.

"I should have thought."

"You didn't mean anything bad by it."

He stooped to sweep bits of glass into a dust pan and then he dumped it in the big green garbage bag. I saw the bandage on his hand, dotted with dried blood—a brownish rust color that gave my guilt power. "How's your hand?"

"Hurts but it's fine. I was lucky. No glass stayed in the wounds. The only thing I really damaged was my pride."

I smiled. "I know that feeling."

He still wouldn't look at me. It hurt. "Will you turn around?"

"No," he said.

"Johnny—"

"Shut up," he said, softly. And not unkindly. "I can only do this one way. Got it?"

I nodded, realized he couldn't see me and said, "Yes."

"I used to have anger issues." He chuckled as he swept up some more glass.

"I think you usually keep your cool pretty we—"

"Really," he sighed and I shut up.

"I had and…interesting…childhood. Not a lot of guidance growing up. All the excused anyone could throw around. But I met Angie and we fell in love and she sort of mellowed me out. She used to say I anchored her and she made me float."

I wasn't proud of it, but I felt a stab of jealousy for this woman I had not met. It was completely stupid and irrational, but there it was.

"So once upon a time, I loved her and she loved me and we had a baby." He worked, trailing a rag along the window pane to clean the edges. The day had turned gray outside. It was easily early afternoon.

"David." I said it without thinking.

He simply nodded and dropped the rag in the trash bag. "David. And David turned into a little boy. A three year old little boy with his mother's dark blonde hair and my eyes. And he had the best laugh ever," he said, his voice hitching a bit.

"What happened?"

"So there we are, a little family. But Angie won't marry me. She says I'm not ready. I still have stuff to work through. And what do we need a piece of paper for anyway."

That dreaded piece of paper. I nodded, not saying a word.

"I asked her. On her birthday. I asked her again. We were going out to dinner and I asked her before we left the house." He shook his head, back tracked. "We were going to that place Sirloin because it had these amazing stained glass windows and a popcorn machine and David fucking loved that place."

I waited, dread making my gut and my limbs heavy. I wanted to leave—run from whatever it was he was about to reveal.

"She said no. Again. It was my own damn fault. I think some part of me thought if I put her on the spot before we left she'd say yes. As if that would satisfy me. But she said no."

My throat was thick and tingly with emotion—unshed tears I was doing my damndest to hold in. I didn't want him to see me cry and I didn't want to piss him off by crying for him.

"And we were in traffic. And some asshole—" He put his head down, took a breath. Then his head popped up and though I couldn't see his face, he had the air of a man steeling himself for some truth. "Some asshole cut me off and then stops. He stops suddenly in heavy traffic to make a left and I was pissed. I was hurt. Christ, I was fucking broken hearted, Really. And I shot around him just as someone was turning out of another street and they T-boned us and I was going fast. They were going fast. It all happened so fucking fast."

A rogue tears slipped free of my eye and I tried to blot it away. It embarrassed me that I could hurt so bad over this. This thing that wasn't my life. But it did. It made my anger over Jackson and my poor little rich girl bullshit seem so very trite.

But there's more to you than that. I shook the thought off, trying so hard to do damage control and failing. Because a steady stream of tears were now rushing out of me and my throat felt so tight I feared I wouldn't be able to draw a breath.

"David was—it was fast, at least," he said. His voice had dropped, his shoulders too. "He was in the worst part of the car. The impact was the greatest there. Angie was thrown partially free, but got tangled in the windshield. She lived two days."

Ah, no need for jealousy, Aurelia the nasty little voice in my head said and I hated myself for that thought.

"And you—"

He turned to me, his face somehow feral. A slow simmer of anger so intense I could barely comprehend it boiled under his skin. Distorted his features. Made me fear him just a little bit.

"I got this," he said and pointed to that scar that fascinated me so. The bark of laughter that burst out of him was both ugly and painful to hear. "This is what I got."

Finally, I found my legs and I stood, moving toward him even as he put his hands up to warn me off. I didn't listen, I pushed up against him, almost clawing at him. Now I was crying freely and thought it shamed me for some reason to do it, I did it anyway.

"But that could happen to any of us. At any time," I blurted.

I put my hands to his face and he took his bigger ones, pushing me away. "Don't make excuses for me, Really," he growled.

"It's Russian Roulette," I said. "That could happen to anyone at any time. It's just the way the world—"

He tried to put a distance between us. I could see how pissed he was. How locked in that memory. "Stop," he said.

"I mean, it could happen to me tomorrow or to anybody. Any time."

"Really." There was warning in his voice.

I barreled on, wanting to soothe all that pain I had just witnessed. "But you're still a good man, Johnny," I said.

His face flushed, his eyes narrowed. I saw the flex of his fingers and the clench of his jaw and some small part of me warned me off. Told me to stop.

"Don't." He tried to turn away. But I was having none of it. I had not fixed a god damn thing for years, but I—Aurelia the great—was going to fix this now. All this hurt. All this anger. The self-loathing and the grief. Because apparently I was fucking magic.

Stupid.

"You are a good man," I said, pushing my face toward him so he had to see me. Had to hear me.

He wrapped his hand around my throat. He pushed me back. He pinned me to the wall and cut off enough of my air that I could see little fairy lights in the periphery of my vision. He looked irate. He looked volatile. He looked dangerous.

He squeezed just a bit and said, "I said don't."

I saw it all there in that instant. That urge to fight, to punch, to rage at the unfairness of it all. I had felt every single thing I saw flicker across his face. I had felt the urge to express each insecurity, each sin, every indignity. I had felt what I saw on him and my heart broke for him.

"Good man," I said, poking the bear. Stoking the fire. Instigating.

"Really." His voice was menace and warning. A storm rolling in with the power to break and destroy.

His fingers curled against my throat again and I felt the dizziness set in, the floor seemed to tilt under my feet. I moved my hands blindly to find him. Fingers tangling in his tee shirt, sliding lower. I found him and felt him harden under my fingers. I found him warm. His body seemed to both leap to meet my touch and flinch from it.

He squeezed again and I let my hand linger on him. "Do it," I managed to say. "Go on. Do it."

STAY TUNED...

my sunday in pictures...

I was up but his fatness was not. He only rallied when we yelled food! Have you felt that comfortable lately? I sure as hell haven't.
3 kids (mine and an extra), 1 man, lots of cinnamon rolls...
total destruction. post feeding frenzy...
This is why I love him so, he loves me so. Still. I know because when Spring springs stuff like this randomly appears for me...

I've decided to reread some of my favorite books this year. I used to reread books all the time. Then the internet showed up and screwed me up! LOL. So my current reread--good for when I want to read but my brain is still crimped up from writing or editing and I can't absorb new stuff--is IT by Stephen King. *shiver* Pennywise (O_O)
And my I'm-done-for-the-day-now-I-can-indulge book is Saskia Walker's Rampant. Someone give me a fan. Ice? A hose?

XOXO
Sommer
p.s. There is no picture of me sprawled on the sofa watching The Bone Collector on AMC.

Wanderlust part 26 "a good man"

Here I am! I totally lied, I told you I did that ;) Anyway, all is quiet on the household front, I slept for shite, this part was done, so what the hell right? Behold. Part 26 ;)

Check out my new header! Willsin Rowe so totally rocks, yes?

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust
part 26
by Sommer Marsden

It was short and sweet and hot, that coupling. We made the most of it, but I was tired and he was tired and we both gave ourselves over to the orgasms with sluttish ease.

I found him in the morning making strong coffee and swallowing some pain relievers.

"How you feeling, slugger?" I grinned.

He caught me up, turned me swiftly and delivered a sharp smack to my ass even as he chuckled in my ear. "How are you feeling?" he countered.

"Horny now."

My coffee was handed to me just the way I liked it. Two sugars, real cream, in a big mug. "We can take care of that."

I sat on one of the small stools under the counter. I hadn't even seen them the day before. They matched the wood of the countertops. I liked the idea of that—things hidden in plain sight. Blending into the background so you didn't notice them at first. I perched there. "So what's today?"

"Clothes and Ohio of you want. We can stay or we can go."

"Darling you've got to let me know," I sang off key and he shook his head. I could see the stubble rising up impudently through his scalp.

"So what do you want to do? One more night here or onward ho?"

"Who you calling a 'ho?" I teased. Then, "It's up to you big daddy." It slipped out. I meant it like a I'd call him boss man or chief or captain. One of those stupid endearments that people toss about—usually, one man to another. But in this case, one thoughtless woman to a man.

His face closed down on me. One moment he was smiling and open, the next I could not read even a flicker of emotion on his face. I had an urge to trace the scar above his eye. It couldn't hurt. He was already angry. Which made the scar glow white against his flushed skin—made it stand out to me like a white flag waving under a red sky.

"Johnny. I didn't mean it like—"

"It's fine, Really," he said and turned his back to me.

Shit. I rushed to him, pushed my back to the counter and leaned over to look into his face. The way I was contorted, he had to look at me. "I meant it…I mean, I didn't mean that. I meant it like I'd call you big man or boss or whatever. I meant it as a joke," I finished weakly.

"I didn't tell you that for you to be pithy with it, Really."

"But I wasn't."

His lips pressed together and his jaw was tight. Then I got pissed. Another lovely habit of mine. Hurting someone or saying the wrong thing made me feel stupid and inept. Feeling stupid and inept frustrated me. When I felt frustrated I got angry. When I got angry I said more stupid shit.

It was a vicious circle, truly.

"I mean, come on, Johnny," I barreled on. Shut up, Really. Just shut the fuck up…

Softly he said, "Move."

I grabbed his big arm in both of my hands, feeling the true potential of those muscles under my fingers. Rage flew through me—like some big-winged, self-destructive creature. I was angry at me, but it was Johnny who would take the brunt of it. "I mean it's not like you actually killed your son. You're just being—"

He was moving me then. His hands on my elbows, he turned me and hustled me back like a bouncer in a crowded bar when a fight breaks out. "You need to shut your mouth, Really."

"It's not like you could do that," I rushed on. I was both digging my own grave and trying to claw my way out at the same time. I could see the fall-out from my words but I could also hear my mouth going. I was still talking. Why? Why the fuck was I still talking.

"You couldn't," I said breathless, because he was still moving me. Pushing me forward like a human tide. "Your'e a good man," I said.

He pushed me. Hard. I hit the sofa with my full weight and it grunted under me, sliding back a few inches on the wide planked wooden floor. I was grateful for a split second of sanity that Johnny Rose did not take to beating on his women, or I would be in a world of hurt, I thought. I'd seen the likes of that before and had no interest in being faced with the business end of a fist.

"Shut up." He hissed it, low and feral in dangerous. The pitch of his voice set my teeth on edge, made my blood run cold.

I gasped. I tried to patch up the gaping wound I had just created. "You're a good man," I said again.

"You don't know shit about me, Aurelia. A good man is the last thing you should be calling me."

"You are," I whispered. "I know you are. You're a good man. You've been good to me."

I saw him cock his fist, I saw him draw back. I saw it all in slow motion the way I saw his face flicker with pleasure when he came or the way when he touched my lower back a touch that lasted an instant seemed to last a year.

At the last moment, he turned and put his fist through the small garden window to the left of the hearth. The glass tinkled and shattered and jingled merrily and I screamed and he made a noise like he was dying. Wind was sucked into the cabin and the temperature dropped. I was already cold, though. Surprise and fear had sucked the warmth from me.

In the midst of it all, I hurt for him. I felt guilt, too. I had done this. I had pushed him to a point where all he felt was pain.

He pulled his hand free and kept his back to me. I could see his head hanging down and his body working with a fine tremor. A paradox, he looked so massive and yet so fragile. Blood was trailing down his wrist, trickling into the cuff of his shirt. I couldn't see how badly he was hurt or if it was even possibly very, very bad. All I saw was his broad back retreating and his feet moving across the throw rug by the kitchen nook.

I barely heard him over my pounding heart. "I'll be back. I have to go to the hardware store to replace that."

And then he was gone.

STAY TUNED...

food porn

Mmm. Some of the loot the man and I gathered today. We ended up not only going to the Italian deli but then shooting over to the German deli. Below is some of Zeke's coffee, balsamic sauce, German mustard, Pitzelles (sp???), CHOCOLATE COVERED ESPRESSO BEANS!!! (yes, I've had several), and some kind of German sausage that I cannot remember the name of and could not spell even if I could remember... And duh. I was on this expedition so, wine...
And then we walked the wiener and hit the health food store and I got some of my favorite GF goodies...


Now someone roll me toward the sofa. I am stuffed...and we still have company coming (o_O)
XOXO
Sommer
p.s. tacky, yes, but I was too lazy to peel the price tags off all that shit.
p.p.s. those espresso beans are to die for but not even close to being as good as some that Willsin Rowe sent me from his motherland...I have wet dreams about *those* espresso beans.

Wanderlust Part 25 "a river of very unpleasant dreams"

Happy Saturday, all! I have one foot out the door to take the man to a specialty deli. As you can imagine he is yelling at me to hurry up already. Blogger has been a bugger (heh) but let's see if this works for me.

This is probably it for me until Monday since we are having overnight guests tonight. Hope your weekend is rockin'!

XOXO
Sommer

Wanderlust
part 25
by Sommer Marsden


I'd never seen such a big man cry before. He didn't do it the way one would suspect, an angry crying, begrudging his own body its grief. It was more of a folding in on himself. He somehow appeared smaller and more vulnerable to me, and I didn't argue the point. We could work out semantics later. I simply dropped back onto the mattress, holding onto him tight so he had no option but to fall with me.

He crashed into me, containing his strength, I could tell. But the pain in him was too big to be muffled. For the first time since we met, the kinetic sexual energy between us abated, and all I wanted to do for Johnny Rose was hold him.

So I did.

I held his head to my chest and somewhere in that tangle I wrapped my leg around his leg. We fell asleep that way, the rain's pounding echoing the turmoil inside the small cabin. I let my fingers play over his scalp as I drifted off.

Boys in boxes, dead mothers, broken bones and pain, I dreamed of it all. All the toxic soup of the past few days swirled together in my sleeping brain and I bobbed along on a river of very unpleasant dreams.

At some point my mother said to me, "I had it coming" and I screamed at her which made my gut ache and my heart break.

I dreamed of small boys in brightly colored sneakers locked in dark places and I dreamed of broken hearted men waiting for me to return to a place I was pretty sure I never wanted to see again.

And when some faceless voice said "It's all your fault, you know, Aurelia. You simply never managed to be anything of worth" a great unstoppable sob ripped out of me. So loud and so real it woke me up.

I was soaked and Johnny was hushing me. Stroking hair off my forehead with gentle fingers. Something cool kissed my forehead and I felt the bristle of a cheap washcloth over my skin. "Hush, Snowflake. It's okay. You've just been dreaming a little."

"You're drunk," I blurted.

"Not anymore," he chuckled. "But thanks for reminding me. Sit up, now."

I did as told and he gently pulled the wet tee over my head. I instantly started to shiver from the difference in temperature. My body, slickered in cold sweat, exposed to the rain-chilled cabin. The fire down below had gone out long ago and not even a demonic glow lit the cabin. Just the ghostly green glow of the alarm clock and a bit of ambient light from the moon outside.

"It stopped raining."

"It did." He used the washcloth and the dry side of my tee to wipe my body dry. Cold sweat is a fucker and it always leaves me feeling sick and exhausted. That was how I felt. Sick and exhausted and embarrassed to boot.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

His lips found my shoulder, kissed it. "For what?"

"For this? For…"

"Weakness?"

I felt that punched feeling in my gut and nodded. "Yes."

"Weren't you just telling me that it was just being human."

"But—"

"That's just what you tell others, not yourself?"

"Is this therapy?" I snorted, trying to put him off topic.

"Isn't fucking always therapy?"

That shut me up. I put my arms up when he told me to and he slid a new soft tee down over my head. He pressed something into my hand and I realized it was a hair elastic. I quickly braided my hair into one big sloppy braid and tied it off.

"Come on, Aurelia. It's my turn to hold you."

I curled in and let him hold me, pressing my ear to the pounding signal of his heart. He was alive. I was alive. We were on the road. My old life, the stifling life, was behind me for the moment and if I ever chose to return to it—if—I could change the way it played out.

The thought was both energizing and terrifying. For a second, I could not draw a breath but his hand settled possessively on my hip and I found the air.

I fitted the length of myself to him and when he kissed my head, I turned my face, turning the kiss into something more than chaste.

"You don't have to fuck me to make me feel better."

"You don't have to fuck me to make me feel better," I countered.

And then he was removing the shirt he had just slipped over my head. I pushed him back. "I'm fucking you, remember?"

He laughed, it touched something in me, making me wetter than I was. Making me want him that much more. I straddled his lean hips, feeling—more than seeing—him under my legs, under my hands. I ran my fingers along the taut terrain of his chest, squeezed his biceps, felt the hardening length of his cock between my legs.

When I leaned over him to kiss him, he grasped my braid in his hand, holding me tight so he could assault my mouth with his. I sighed against his neck, moved my body so my pussy ground against him. This was all so languid and intimate and slow. It was like fucking underwater and I smiled in the dark.

I parted myself and slid the head of his cock along my slick opening without pushing down enough to let him in. I heard his breathing amp up, felt the ragged gallop of his heartbeat under my palm where I braced myself.

"Put me in you, Really," he said.

"No," I said, testing him.

I rocked my hips from side to side, adding friction and kissing him harder. I pressed my breasts to his chest and felt the heat that baked off of him in waves. I had been so cold and damp just moments before and now I felt feverish.

"Put me in you, Really," he said again, his voice darker. His mood had sharp angles and edges that I could sense.

"No," I said, pressing my lips against his ear. Licking the curved edge of his lobe, I rolled my hips so my pussy pressed to his cock and my body pinned him to the bed. I sat up just a bit, but he still held my hair. He was trapped under me, held down by my weight and my want.

Johnny tugged my braid and I gasped. He used it like a leash to reel me in so that I was right up close to him again. "Put me in, Really. Please," he said. This time he was pressing his lips to my ear. He was whispering his words right into my mind.

It was the please I had been trying for. He thought he'd shown me trust before, and in a way he had. But asking me for something. Asking me with kind words and a soft voice. That was real trust to Johnny, I thought. And now that he'd given it to me, I could move forward.

I pushed the tip of him to me again—wet, I was so fucking wet—and lowered myself onto him. Those big hands of his claiming my hips as he filled me. His body pressing every secret buried spot I needed. I heard him say my name in a way I'd never heard before as I started to move.

STAY TUNED...
see you Monday and yes, photo credit is me. :)

Wanderlust part 24 "Sometimes I'm weak."

Happy Friday, readers. :) No apologies, no worries, no picking and no fretting. I have to tell this story as it comes.

I had a mini nervous breakdown yesterday worried that I had taken a turn folks didn't like. Then I realized, the story is what it is. I hope you're still along for the ride! Now I must row off to take the eldest to school. Having a bit of rain here today! Eep!

XOXO
Sommer
p.s. I will do my best to post this weekend, but no promises. It's looking manic.

Wanderlust
part 24
by Sommer Marsden

He really wasn't playing fair with me. He sent me back past the kitchen, down a small hall paneled in wood to a small bathroom. But the shower worked and the water was hot and the shampoo in there smelled sweet.

"Putting clothes on the toilet," he said from the doorway.

"Why don't you come in?" I poked my head out. He looked tired and after his reveal, he looked a bit hollow.

"Maybe in the morning, for right now enjoy. I'll make us some food."

I tried not to let my feelings be hurt. I failed. "He's human, Really. He told you something big and now it's in his head. Let it go."

I finished up, dressed in a pair of his sweats, rolled at the ankle and cinched to the max, the black sweater—I started this whole journey in—and some socks. I found him in the little kitchen.

"You look cute," he said and I heard a touch of the alcohol in his voice. He was buzzed.

"I look like a hobo," I snorted. "Seriously, dude, I need clothes."

Johnny nodded, his eyes shiny. Tears or booze? "Done. We'll go early."

I picked at the plate of food he'd made. Torn chunks of bread, olive oil for dipping, olives, salami, cheese, apple slices. "Nice. There's more to you than meets the eye, eh? Nice pick platter."

"Pick platter?" He poured out wine and I almost asked him if he should have any. But I shut up. Johnny Rose was a big boy. He didn't need me analyzing his alcohol intake.

"It's what my mother always called it." The lump that always showed up in my throat when I spoke of her made an appearance. "A pick platter. You pick at it before dinner or at a party."

"Called it?" he asked, softly.

"She died a few years ago. I miss her." That was all.

"I'm sure," he said, but said no more. He didn't commiserate or open up or any of the things he would have done had this been a movie. "Hey!" he said. "Guess what's on?"

"What?"

"The Godfather. Want to watch?"

The fire was still going but it had died down a bit. It had a beautiful hellish quality to it. I let him tug me to the sofa, balancing the platter in one hand. I snagged a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese and then curled against him at his urging. Marlon Brando talked about favors and family and I nibbled while Johnny drank.

Somewhere in there, I fell asleep, my eyes too heavy from the travel, the worry and the ta-kill-ya. Pressing my face to his chest and listening to a mix of soundtrack and his pulse, I let myself slip into sleep. For the first time in ages, I actually embraced slumber.

I barely woke to the sound of thunder—odd in the winter in these parts—and then heavy rain. He was doing that fireman's carry again, but this time we were going to the loft. I don't know why it, but I feigned sleep. Not letting on that the movement had wakened me. He was a bit weavy as we traveled up and I realized he was drunk.

Drunk or not, he put me on the bed gently, like I was made of glass. My heart twisted at the recognition of tenderness from big bad Johnny Rose. He smoothed my hair and tucked me under the blankets before pulling them up and over my shoulder.

I waited for him to climb in next to me. Expecting him to. It would be silly for him—after all we'd been through—to sleep elsewhere. But he turned his back to me, sat on the edge of the bed and did nothing.

I waited, watching him, and then I realized I was moving just a bit. A tiny shake and shimmy of the bed and when I focused my eyes in the darkness, really struggled to see, I could see the nearly imperceptible shake of his shoulders.

He was crying.

Frozen, I barely breathed. What did I do? What did a person do when someone so big and strong and seemingly invincible came unlaced. And in such a silent, private way. Did I go back to sleep? Did I just pretend to be unconscious and wait? Letting him suffer alone seemed so cruel, and yet he had damn near forbidden me to even express sympathy.

There was a hollowness in the pit of my stomach that ached like a sickness. After a few seconds, it became unbearable. The close proximity of his pain, seeing someone who was so fucking impenetrable be so beaten down was stifling.

I put my hand on his back. Just that. I pressed my palm to the middle of his back and tried to let him feel that I was sorry at the very least.

He stopped, his breath hitching for a second. Then he cleared his throat and said simply "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For waking you."

"It's okay." I wanted to tell him I was sorry for him, for how he felt, but I bit my tongue and waited.

He went stiff and I could tell he was trying to push it all way. There was a tone of urgency about him, as if he thought he could tuck his pain back in its secret hiding place and make himself presentable for me.

I crawled to him, got up on my knees behind him, pressing my chest to his back and wrapping my arms around his. I put my chin on his shoulder and just stayed that way, the rain pounding out an angry rhythm on the cabin's roof. The roof was so close I expected to get wet. But the sound was nice, comforting in an acoustic way.

"Tell me," I said.

He would or he wouldn't.

"It was my fault," he said. I felt a tremble work through all of him. "And I can usually keep it…away," he continued, his already deep voice thick with emotion. "But sometimes…" He shook his head angrily.

"Sometimes you're human?"

"Sometimes I'm weak."

"If I were crying for my mother, would you call me weak?" I whispered.

"Of course not."

"So you're the only one who is not allowed your pain and grief."

"I don't get to grieve him," he said, his voice dropping lower. A coldness in it that set my teeth on edge. But I held onto him anyway, I was not letting him go.

I got cocky in my ability to help and listen. Ballsy in my self-appointed roll as confessor and therapist. "Oh yeah? And why not?"

"Because it's my fault he's dead, Really." Another small sound—some broken sound—slipped out of him then and that tremble took up all through him. A mountain of a man suffering an earthquake of emotion.

"When you lose a child, when you lose anyone, it's natural to want to blame yourse—"

He turned on me, grabbing my upper arms in a death grip, setting me back from him a bit. His face was hard, his voice harder. "No, Really. I don't just blame myself because I feel bad. I blame myself because it is my fault. I killed my son."

STAY TUNED...

Wanderlust part 23 "Ta-Kill-Yah"

And here we are on this fine, fine Thursday, folks. Is it bed time yet? I feel like I could do with a few more hours of beauty sleep. Instead I'll post part 23. It's a bit longer than the norm. I hope no one minds.

I'll cop to writing ahead at this point. The story is getting away with my brain. And we are within kissing distance of 30K already. If you can believe that.

Today is looking like a good day to walk his fatness. There's talk of a 70 degree day. That's cool, but no hotter! Any hotter than that and I get irate. ;)

Enough rambling. Off you go...

Wanderlust
part 23
by Sommer Marsden

Guilt had gotten into me, insinuating itself into my joints and my bones like smoke. I couldn't not make the call.

"Really come home," he said.

My heart broke a little and I sighed, running a hand through my rain damp hair. "No. Jackson I called to tell you that you deserve better. You deserve better than me." My throat was clogging with the tears I refused to shed. Why was this whole freedom process turning me into such a motherfucking girl?

How about just a human? One with feelings.

"Don't be stupid, Aurelia. Just come home. We'll talk. We can fi—"

"We can't fix it," I said. "There's nothing to fix. I don't love you, Jack," I said. He rarely let me call him Jack. He said it reminded him of horror movies with axes and old hotels. "I mean I love you. I think you're great. I think you would make a wonderful husband to a girl who loved you like that. Who really appreciated you."

"You're being silly, Really. You appreciate me."

"Do I? Are my many affairs and caustic attitude how I show my appreciation of you?"

He was silent. I could picture him, brooding and pacing the apartment. "We can make it—"

"You can't make something out of nothing. Not really, Jackson. We can't make this a marriage. I want you to file for divorce. I want you to do what you need to do and when I call you tell me what I need to do. Who I need to talk to. Whatever will make it easier for you, I'll do it. Whatever you need, I'll do."

"I need you to come home, babe," he said. Jackson had always been happy just to have me. Insanely, he did not care about the terms. That made him both a saint and a lunatic.

"That's the one thing I will not do," I said. "We'll talk soon. You think it over."

I hung up before he could say anything and headed back to the ladies room.

*****

"Tequila." Johnny slammed the bottle down and I eyed it with the same hesitation I'd show a snake.

"Um…I call it ta-kill-ya. And for a reason."

"Just a few."

"A half."

"Lightweight."

"Pusher!" I returned.

We both laughed softly as I spun in a circle to take in the cabin. My father had a cabin. A "hunting" shack that was considered a luxury home to most folks. This cabin was more what I pictured when I thought of a hunting shack. One floor—one big room, really—and a loft. A small kitchenette that opened into the main room where there was a fireplace and a small alcove that served as a very informal dining room.

The steps that led to the loft were warped and crooked and gorgeous, in my opinion. Above a railing ran along the loft and I could barely see the foot of a big bed up there. A dresser, a chair, a lamp. I couldn't wait to stretch out up there and watch the sky through the small skylight I could see.

Johnny poured two shots. There had been dishes including shot glasses, but no food barring the dozen or so cans in the pantry.

We'd stopped at the local shopping center, me grabbing a bit of food and toothpaste. I'd been reminded not to buy anything with artificial color. To which I'd given a playful salute and had received a not too playful smack on the ass for my efforts. Johnny had hit the liquor store and emerged with not just that bottle of wine, but a bottle of really nice tequila.

"Come on, Really, man up," he said and slid the shot to me.

I snorted, listening to the somehow hypnotic sound of the rain on the roof. "Did you just tell me to man up?"

"I did. I'll even build you a fire if you do the shot."

"Too many and they make me sick," I warned.

"Don't take too many," he advised and raised his shot glass to me. I clinked with him and we both sucked down the cool fire of tequila.

"Now about that fire," I muttered, sputtering just a bit. Smooth, Aurelia, very smooth… "I could use some warming up. Wearing the same clothes over and over is fucking with my fashion esteem. And I'm cold."

"We'll stop in the morning for new duds if you need them."

"Duds? What are you, a cowboy?"

He moved past me, seeming bigger while in motion than when standing still. It was sort of like having a train coming at me. He touched my belly for an instant as he passed and I remembered his promise of me being dessert. I also remembered—guiltily—my sneaked call to home.

It only took him a few minutes to build that fire and by then I'd poured two more shots, the first one having created a pleasant warmth in my gut. "Ready?"

"I thought you didn't like it."

"I didn't say that. It doesn't like me sometimes."

We toasted, did the shots, slammed the glasses on the breakfast bar. "Who'd you call."

I swallowed hard and studied him. He knew I'd done something, lying made no sense. "I called Jackson and told him to start divorce proceedings. He deserves better than me."

"No one deserves better than you, Snowflake, if you love them back. You simply don't. You're not the problem. It's them match up that's the problem."

"You're pretty wise for a wanderer who does odd jobs and won't tell me shit about himself."

"What do you want to know?"

This time he poured the shot. I felt bold and gutsy but not stupid as I downed the pale liquid. I would not use my first shot to ask about the box. That is what he expected. I don't like being predictable.

I took off the bomber jacket and dropped it. I curled his flannel shirt around me—tight to my body like a wrap and shivered. "What's your middle name?"

He gaped at me and drank his tequila. "Turner."

"Family name?" I smiled.

"Christ, what else could it be, yeah?"

I laughed now—a slightly buzzed giggle laced with real laughter. I probably should have eaten more if we were going to do the college drinking thing.

"Anything else?"

"Nope," I said. I was lying, we both knew it, but there it was.

I stood in front of the fire and poked it with the iron tool. "Who owns this place?"

"A friend from high school. His family owned it and then all of them died in a plane trip to Florida for vacation."

"My god," I said. "That's awful. Your friend survived?"

"He'd stayed home because of a girl. A girl he liked. He wanted to take her to a concert and decided that impressing her and being with her trumped fun and sun and nearly naked beach bunnies. That crush of his saved his ass."

"Did he end up with the girl, at least?"

"Nope. But he is happily married now with two point three children and a dog."

"Point three?"

"His wife has a bun in the oven."

I remembered his sudden and frightening rage at my pregnancy joke but said nothing. I wanted to embrace the calm and peace we had at the moment.

"That's nice."

Fire danced, orange and yellow in the hearth and when his arms wrapped around my waist, I leaned back against him. My heart was thrumming wildly, I wanted to fuck him all over again, but the air—the mood—in the cabin was different. There was a chance for discovery here and I'm nothing if not nosy.

"I'm sorry again for going all caveman on your ass back there," he said against my neck. Before I could answer, his teeth nipped at me, stirring lust and heat in my groin.

"It's okay."

"Not really, but you're good to play along that it is."

"It would be insane to assume that we'd make it three thousand miles plus and never have an argument. Or a misunderstanding, I added."

"But still." He dropped to his knees behind me and my eyes drifted shut.

"I'm not mad," I breathed. For some reason I wanted to reassure him. I wanted us to be cool.

He turned me and I let him, he undid my jeans and I let him. He peeled them down and dragged my panties down too and I let him. "Spread your legs a little, Snowflake. I'm ready for that dessert."

My knees were watery and I swore I was going to fall on my ass, but I did it. I parted my legs just a bit until he had his tongue pressed to me, tasting me. Thick, strong fingers wormed into my pussy and started to thrust gently as he lapped at me. "You are sweet, did you know that?"

I said nothing. What was there to say without sounding stupid or crazy or drunk.

"You taste sweet but when you come you're a little spicy. I like it."

He thrust his tongue into my opening along with his fingers and then painted the rigid tip of his tongue over my clit. Flattening his tongue he slid it from pussy to the hood of my clit and back down again. All the while, he thrust with those substantial fingers so that I couldn't catch my breath or find a balance.

"I'm—"

"I know. I can taste it. Come for me, Really."

With one hand I steadied myself against the stone fireplace. I held on so I didn't fall because I felt like I was drifting. Floating above the ground instead of standing on it. When I came, he cupped my ass with one hand to help me find a balance, his other fingers still buried knuckle deep in my cunt.

When I stood straight he started to stand, but instead moved his shoulder into my belly and picked me up in a fireman's carry.

"What?" I gasped.

"Sofa."

"Bed?" I asked.

"Too far," he said and put me on the sofa. I was on my knees, my chest pressed to the back cushions, my arms draped over the back of the sofa. It stood in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace and behind me I could see rain dotted windows that showed a gray day fading to blue.

"Spread your legs, Really," he grunted, moving in behind me. He pushed his fingers back into my cunt, curled them so my juices flowed all over again, my body echoing the orgasm I'd just had.

He was in me then, a slippery thrust and then a rocking motion. All of me filled by him, moved by him and it felt like held by him. I had never felt safer for some odd reason.

It didn't take much. His arms came over my arms and grasped my hands, fingers intertwined. His mouth settled on the nape of my neck, making my skin tingle and prickle with energy. His chest smashed to my back and he thrust into me deeply as I kept my hips back and my ass a bit high. When he came he said "baby" instead of "Really" and for some reason that made me come again.

It was small and sudden and sweet, that orgasm.

Teeth clenched my earlobe and I laughed. "Ow."

"Liar. Not ow." He found my nipples and pinched. "Your nipples got hard, so if it was ow, it was a good one."

"Fine, be that way," I teased.

We both fell back, watching the fire instead of the TV that sat dead and silent two feet to the right.

"What's in the box, Johnny?" I asked. I didn't know why it was so important. It just was.

He stood and walked away from him, his naked body so good to look at. Power and masculinity and energy in a big, tall package of muscle.

I didn't think he would answer. I thought he was angry. But he poured two more shots and came back to me, dropping to the sofa. There was an afghan along the back of the sofa and I covered us.

"My son,' he said.

I blinked, an irrational surge of fear moving through me at first. But I knew damn well that box was not big enough for a kid or even a part of a kid. It was no bigger than a cigar box.

"Pictures of my son. He's dead," Johnny said.

"Oh, I—"

"Don't say you're sorry," he said. "No offense, but I hate that shit."

I shut my mouth, nodded. I knew the feeling. When my mother died I wanted to punch every person that said "I'm sorry." Including my dad. I had to respect Johnny's feelings.

"Okay," I said because I had nothing else to say. "So you're married?"

I would be fine with it if he were.

"No. Never was. I was supposed to be but then David died and that was that."

That was that.

"It's not uncommon," I said, urging myself to shut the fuck up.

"I know. The loss of a child is too great for a relationship and all that shit." He drank his drink and I drank mine.

"And—"

"That's enough for now, Really," he said. He shut his eyes but pulled me in against him just as I was starting to feel alienated. He tucked his jaw along the top of my head and I draped the afghan a little higher on us. "That's enough for now, okay? Now you know about my big secret box. I told you. Which means I trust you. Do you understand that?"

I nodded.

I understood.

STAY TUNED
photo credit me...