I Married a Master(81)
Author: Melanie Marchande

A sob welled in my throat. I felt stupid, so stupid, for believing what my mother had told me. I knew all she wanted to do was protect me, but she’d torn me away from the one promising friendship of my childhood.

Suddenly, it all made sense. The connection we felt back then, the way he could always make me smile, just with a glance. The way we understood each other without having to speak. We’d both become different people – but really, nothing had changed at all. The way I felt about him now, and the way I felt about him then, suddenly mingled in a tidal wave of feelings that threatened to pull me under.

"There was a monsoon that night," he said, softly.

"I remember." I nodded, trying to swallow the thickness in my throat. "Washed away everything we built."

"I was here every year after that," he said. "But I could never find you again. By the time I was old enough to figure out how to start asking questions, I realized I didn’t know anything about you. Were you here on vacation? Were you one of the townies’ kids? I had no idea. And you grew up…your face changed…"

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I let my hands unclench by my sides. "How long have you known?"

He half-shrugged, his hand still clasped around the back of my neck. "I didn’t remember, at first. I’ll admit that. Not as clearly as you did. But when you told your story, it brought something back. I had to do some digging. I came back here, that weekend I was ‘away on business.’ I had to see for myself, and make sure my memory wasn’t playing tricks on me. As soon as I saw this tree, it all came rushing back."

Somehow, I’d completely forgotten about the tree. Our fake names carved there, one on top of the other, as if they were waiting for a plus sign and an outline of a heart. But it hadn’t been like that – not back then.

"Something’s missing," I said, softly. Wondering if he’d understand.

His face broke into a lopsided grin. "I was hoping you’d say that."

Releasing me, he turned towards the tree, reaching into his pocket for something. I swallowed hard and watched as he unfolded the little pocketknife, and the blade glinted in the moonlight.

Carefully, painstakingly, he carved the little plus sign that signified our connection. Then came the heart, a big swooping design, slightly lopsided. Slightly imperfect.

Just right.

I giggled, stepping close to his side as he put the knife away. "I think you might need to see a cardiologist, dear."

"Fuck you." His arm slid around my waist. "Go ahead, you try to carve a decent heart with a twenty-year-old pocketknife. I’ll be waiting."

My arms circled around him, silently, just holding him and feeling his body pressed against mine. Deep inside, there was a peace that hadn’t been there before. A sense of calm. Belonging. I hadn’t been rejected, all those years ago.

I didn’t know what that meant for the future, but it brought closure to my past.

"I thought that was a pretty good gesture," he said, softly. A little teasingly. "Don’t I even get a kiss?"

My whole body thrummed. "I want to," I admitted. "But if I kiss you now, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop."

"Oh, Mrs. Chase." His lips brushed against my temple, hot breath giving me goosebumps all over. "Didn’t you notice how empty the beach was? I’ve had it closed for a private event. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s going to be here, all night." His hand slid down a little lower, to cup my ass. "Just us."

I laughed. "You closed the beach? Oh, the billionaire’s kids must be pissed."

"They’ll get over it," he said, spinning me around so that we were pressed together, face to face. "Someday, they’ll understand."

Swallowing hard, I glanced at the tree. "Right here?" The idea excited me, and I was almost afraid to admit it. "Would that be horribly wrong?"

"Why?" His fingers travelled up my back, coming to fiddle with the clasp on my dress. "Here is perfect. Less sand. I don’t know if you’ve had beach sex before, but…"

"We were just kids, last time." I swallowed hard. "This place…"

"Yeah, but now we’re all grown up." He stepped back a little, letting my unfastened dress sag, threatening to fall and exposes my breasts, but not quite. His eyes raked up and down my body. "And how."

Giggling, I made a show of holding up the fabric to preserve my dignity. "Okay, now you’re making it weird."

"This place is ours," he said, his eyes heavy-lidded as he swooped in to kiss me. Well – almost kiss me. He stopped just millimeters from my lips, to murmur. "It belongs to us. The memory. And we can do whatever we want with it. I know you don’t want to lose the innocence from back then. It’s not going anywhere. It’ll always be like that, no matter what happens now." His hand grasped my hip, firmly. "Let’s make some new memories. Ones we won’t tell the grandkids about."

It was a joke. Just a joke, a thoughtless little innuendo that absolutely didn’t mean a damn thing about his intentions for the future. I knew that. But when he said it, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill at the idea he might actually want to start a family with me.

That he wanted this for real. Not just for show.

He kissed me, and all thoughts scattered. I clasped my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life as my knees buckled against him. I had no resistance left. Nothing. I just wanted him to touch me, and I wanted to spend a little longer pretending.

We sank to the ground, somehow, the delicious bulk of his body holding me down. The thrill of that sensation hadn’t lost any of its newness, and I moaned into his mouth, trying to lose myself in the moment. Wanting to. But there was another, stronger desire that was threatening to overwhelm me, and I needed to know. Even if the answer would break my heart.

His hand was sliding up my thigh, under my skirt. I froze, then squirmed away. His hand stopped and slowly withdrew.

As I struggled to prop myself up on my elbows, he pulled back, letting me up. Confusion and lust warred in his expression, and I felt terrible.

"I can’t do this." Tears shimmered in my eyes, and I felt a horrible knot of guilt in my chest. But I had to stop. I couldn’t keep pretending. "I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Ben. I thought I could, but I couldn’t."

He stared at me, and I could almost see the gears trying to turn in his lust-clouded brain. "Can’t do what?" he asked, finally.

"I can’t keep pretending." The tears were spilling down my cheeks, and I hated it, hated my weakness. "I don’t know what we’re doing here, Ben, and it’s killing me."

For a split second, he looked confused. Then he laughed.