station and stops at a sign. The general location looks familiar. I saw this all in my research on Martha’s Vineyard. I identify the Flying Horses—which houses the oldest carousel in America—on Oak Bluffs Avenue and the tip of Circuit Avenue. The Campsite is not too far from here.
Belmont honks and the passing Jeep returns the beep. Instead of taking his hand off my lap, he lifts the one off the steering wheel to wave at the man in the white pickup. Soon he turns left into a famous community of gingerbread houses.
“Is this where we’re going?” I ask, intrigued by the colors.
“Yep,” he replies as he parallel parks, using one hand to navigate between two small cars without breaking a sweat.
“Impressive,” I remark, grinning at him.
He leans across the seat, and I let him kiss me. Every time his tongue touches mine, my heart rate increases. His kisses are never casual; they’re laced with passion and desire. My back straightens, and my chest puffs up as he pulls me toward him. He sucks on my chin and jawbone until he slides his warm, wet tongue down my neck. A moan escapes me. He’s made me ready for whatever he wants to do to me next.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he whispers thickly.
Each gingerbread house is painted in a different color. Pink, blue, green, orange, red—you name it and it’s probably splashed on one of those cottages. I feel as if we’re traipsing through a neighborhood in a Brothers Grimm tale. Many have flowerbeds of tulips planted in front of the wraparound porches or sitting in flowerboxes on the rails. And then there are the domed bay windows that open to quaint balconies built into the gables. Frankly, I’m charmed by the entire spectacle.
Belmont takes my hand. He leads me up the dusty road and to a mint green cottage. He unlocks the door with one of his many keys.
“We’re going in here?” I ask, surprised.
“Yep.”
My awe is quelled as soon as we’re inside. The entire ground floor is vacant. “There’s nothing here,” I say.
“We’re going upstairs,” he replies.
Belmont takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to a room with a bed, two big armchairs in front of a dome-topped bay door with a square table between them, and a ceiling that’s so low Belmont can reach up to touch it.
“Give me a second.” He gets on his hands and knees to dig under the bed. He says I’m sexy, but he’s the sexy one. No one has ever made tan slacks and a light blue V-neck T-shirt look so appealing. And he’s wearing a pair of white, blue and orange tri-colored designer sneakers on his feet. He’s so well put-together, and it’s a turn on.
“Got it!” he says victoriously and pulls out the game of checkers.
I’m still mesmerized by his sexy physique when he stands and takes the box to the table. He sits in one of the chairs and arranges the pieces on the board.
“You’re red. I’m black,” he says.
“Is that because red’s for girls?” I ask, grinning.
“Exactly.” He smiles back. “How did you know?”
“I have a brother.”
“Oh, one of your father’s sons? I thought you weren’t close?”
“No, I’m talking about my older brother.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Where does he live?”
This is the hard part. My legs grow weak, and I sit down in front of the red pieces.
“He doesn’t live anywhere. He’s dead.” I keep my eyes pinned to the board.
I feel Belmont’s reaction in his pause. “I’m sorry. I can see how hard it is for you to talk about it.”
I nod as my eyes water and sinuses constrict. I clear my throat to keep my voice from cracking in case he asks me another question about Daniel.
“This isn’t going to work,” Belmont claims.
The next thing I know, he takes my hands and lifts me to my feet. We shuffle around the table and he yanks my body against his. His tongue is deep in my mouth. Every part of him is rock hard: his thighs, his chest, his
Belmont honks and the passing Jeep returns the beep. Instead of taking his hand off my lap, he lifts the one off the steering wheel to wave at the man in the white pickup. Soon he turns left into a famous community of gingerbread houses.
“Is this where we’re going?” I ask, intrigued by the colors.
“Yep,” he replies as he parallel parks, using one hand to navigate between two small cars without breaking a sweat.
“Impressive,” I remark, grinning at him.
He leans across the seat, and I let him kiss me. Every time his tongue touches mine, my heart rate increases. His kisses are never casual; they’re laced with passion and desire. My back straightens, and my chest puffs up as he pulls me toward him. He sucks on my chin and jawbone until he slides his warm, wet tongue down my neck. A moan escapes me. He’s made me ready for whatever he wants to do to me next.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he whispers thickly.
Each gingerbread house is painted in a different color. Pink, blue, green, orange, red—you name it and it’s probably splashed on one of those cottages. I feel as if we’re traipsing through a neighborhood in a Brothers Grimm tale. Many have flowerbeds of tulips planted in front of the wraparound porches or sitting in flowerboxes on the rails. And then there are the domed bay windows that open to quaint balconies built into the gables. Frankly, I’m charmed by the entire spectacle.
Belmont takes my hand. He leads me up the dusty road and to a mint green cottage. He unlocks the door with one of his many keys.
“We’re going in here?” I ask, surprised.
“Yep.”
My awe is quelled as soon as we’re inside. The entire ground floor is vacant. “There’s nothing here,” I say.
“We’re going upstairs,” he replies.
Belmont takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to a room with a bed, two big armchairs in front of a dome-topped bay door with a square table between them, and a ceiling that’s so low Belmont can reach up to touch it.
“Give me a second.” He gets on his hands and knees to dig under the bed. He says I’m sexy, but he’s the sexy one. No one has ever made tan slacks and a light blue V-neck T-shirt look so appealing. And he’s wearing a pair of white, blue and orange tri-colored designer sneakers on his feet. He’s so well put-together, and it’s a turn on.
“Got it!” he says victoriously and pulls out the game of checkers.
I’m still mesmerized by his sexy physique when he stands and takes the box to the table. He sits in one of the chairs and arranges the pieces on the board.
“You’re red. I’m black,” he says.
“Is that because red’s for girls?” I ask, grinning.
“Exactly.” He smiles back. “How did you know?”
“I have a brother.”
“Oh, one of your father’s sons? I thought you weren’t close?”
“No, I’m talking about my older brother.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Where does he live?”
This is the hard part. My legs grow weak, and I sit down in front of the red pieces.
“He doesn’t live anywhere. He’s dead.” I keep my eyes pinned to the board.
I feel Belmont’s reaction in his pause. “I’m sorry. I can see how hard it is for you to talk about it.”
I nod as my eyes water and sinuses constrict. I clear my throat to keep my voice from cracking in case he asks me another question about Daniel.
“This isn’t going to work,” Belmont claims.
The next thing I know, he takes my hands and lifts me to my feet. We shuffle around the table and he yanks my body against his. His tongue is deep in my mouth. Every part of him is rock hard: his thighs, his chest, his
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