FARTHER: An Erotic Romance by Jorja Tabu Read online

That was the first time I cried on the phone to Trish, wracked with sobs. I hadn’t really known him, hadn’t loved him—yet. I suspected that given the time, I would’ve found myself comfortable, happy, with the slut-loving soldier that taught me to accept the truth about my life. It hadn’t been so bad, when he’d been in it, supporting the glamorous image my column did—not because he bought the propaganda, but because he genuinely loved a girl who loved to fuck as much as I did.

  She hadn’t asked questions. She hadn’t completely understood, then. It was Spain, my last article, that really made my future evident to us both.

  It was Spain that proved to me that I’d run the course of adventure. My health was breaking down, and I had to accept that the cancer would kill me if I didn’t treat it—completely. No running around Europe. No bullshit interviews. No more Tramp Rampage. Immediately.

  As I thought over these things in my new apartment in my old hometown, putting away the plates and left-overs from dinner, I noticed, for the thousandth time, the way my body had changed. My curves were wasted, my tan sallowed by the chemo. Even my hair hadn’t grown back yet, but I knew, this time, the cancer was really gone. It had been the only companion I had left, the only devotee of my body still interested once my breast had been removed. My editor hadn’t wanted to admit it, but we both knew, given my rabid online presence, someone would notice I wasn’t sexy any more. After Spain, he’d let me smoothly resign, disappear back into the electronic void as if I’d never existed at all.

  It was better that way. But it stung, the loss of my fame, my body a traitor. My exile in my hometown, complete with shaming my parents. No one ever explained that the prodigal son came home because he was sick, as well as humiliated. As well as lonely.

  I put my dishes away, preparing for a lonely night. But I tried to remind myself that I had chosen this life; I had seen and done more than almost anyone, as Trish was fond of reminding me. My only regret…My only regret is that I couldn’t have done it with the one person I had ever truly loved.

  Michael.

  It’s alright, I consoled myself, putting the last dish away. I’m a writer. My imagination can’t be dulled by any change in fate. I can spend all my dreams with him, and in them I can be young, unfettered, an explorer with him. He can be my everyone, we can go anywhere.

  It didn’t keep the tears away, but it made them leave a little sooner. I cleaned myself up, thanked god for my kind parents, and got ready for bed.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  4.

  Barcelona, Spain. Lucy Landers, Explorer Extraordinaire here, reporting for duty. Or booty, as the case may be.

  I didn’t come to Barcelona with a plan. I came with a desperate desire to consume the work of Gaudi, Picasso, to loiter in Montserrat and lounge at Sitges. At the last, of course, I fulfilled my obligatory--albeit, incredible—fantasy (and booty duty). Lounging topless on the wide sand, surrounded by medieval castles and the pristine flesh of a thousand flawless Europeans, he came to me. I didn’t realize he was speaking to me, at first.

  Because, of course, I hadn’t done any research and I hadn’t known on arrival that the people in this region almost religiously avoided Spanish in favor of the local vernacular, Catalan. And so, when this gorgeous, dark skinned, black eyed god strolled up to me on the beach, pelting me with freezing drops of salt water as he took in my bare breasts, brazenly pale and naturally large, I didn’t understand what he said.

  And then he got to the important part. “Lucy?” He quirked his lush mouth into a careful smile. “Lucy Landers?” He even rolled the ‘r.’

  “Yes,” I said, eager to shake his hand; his skin was the color of mellowed bronze, his eyes ringed with lush black lashes. His abs rippled as he sat down next to me on the sand, letting his long, tan legs spread out before leaning back on muscular arms. “Such a pleasure,” I said, smiling. The sun had turned my skin a rosy shade, and he appreciatively looked me up and down. My pubic hair had been neatly waxed, and my lips felt bare and dangerous in the scant suit, the wind from the sea giving me occasional goosebumps. He noticed and laid a warm palm on my thigh. Brazen. But he looked at me with kindness, and an impish smile. Who could’ve resisted those luscious lips?

  Certainly not this sexplorer.

  Which was the next word he said to me, and told me for sure his intentions. He let his warm hand linger on my thigh, willing me to understand his wordless communication as his eyes locked on mine. It was impossible to look away; he had the face of an exquisite male model, fresh off the runway in Milan. His gaze was hypnotic. Not to mention, I noticed that he packed an extraordinary amount of flesh inside his tight, European bathing suit. When he reached out to me to take my hand, I was glad to go with him into the sea.

  With no words between us, the only language we had was physical. He gently pulled me to the water, towing me past the break, knee deep. I was cold, so fresh out of the sun, and felt my nipples grow hard in my tight suit; he saw them, and licked his plush mouth as I watched. It made me regretful there wasn’t somewhere nearby I could let them work their way across my body, but I had to be patient. Not my finest quality. What I should’ve guessed is that he had no interest in waiting for somewhere discreet; he had better ideas about how to get to know each other.

  He drew me to him in the knee high water and gently scooped me into his arms. I clung to his neck, shrieking and kicking my feet as he walked deeper into the gentle waves, the blue sparkling water as lovely as the cloudless sky above us. His instantaneous erection plumbed my back as he slowly lowered me towards the water, both of us laughing with glee, sounding for all the world like children just meeting for the first time, delighted with new experience. And of course, that’s really what I was, in a way.

  As I stood on my feet, he steadied me, holding my shoulders and letting my hair stick to his wet skin. He smelled delicious, like the wind on Madrid I’d smelled so briefly, and the delightful fresh scent of salt. I tuned towards him, my hands on his shoulders, and nuzzled his chest with my nose, breathing him in. His hands pulled me close.

  His cock was there, between us, now pressed against my belly. I let my hands trace his undisguised musculature, feathering towards his belly , crossing it, finally reaching the edge of his shorts. When this happened, I looked up at him to ask permission. My eyes said everything, and so did his. I slipped my fingers inside of his shorts and squeezed the long cock I found there, begging to be let out.

  He gasped, then abruptly picked me up, his arms wrapping under my ass and my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Carrying me further out, where there was no one nearby, he kneaded the skin of my ass with long, muscular fingers. I pressed my hot center against his cock, knowing the heat there was like a beacon amidst all the cool water around us. He responded with another gasp, and then locked his lips to mine, kissing me fiercely among the gentle swells.

  His fingers slid to the bikini tie at the back, and then around. He evidently decided it was easier to simply pop my breasts free of their top by pushing the triangles aside, and he was right; my breasts practically exploded out of my top, and his beautiful lips worked slowly down my thorat and then brought me just to sea level, so he could easily fit one in his hungry mouth. His lips tugged on my nipples, giving me shivers of anticipation. I felt the beginning heat inside of me that told me I would not last; the gentle rhythm of the sea moved him languidly against me, our bodies clanging together. Finally I couldn’t take it—I had to have him. I reached down and wrestled his cock free, and undid the ties on one side of my bikini. Anyone with snorkel gear could see me if they were looking, but we were far out in the ocean, and I didn’t care, I had to have him.

  The salt water made me light as a feather, and he neatly swung my body over his cock, posed to pierce my ready cunt. I felt the tip of his cock push past my outer folds, gently probing, his mouth still working on my breasts, and I closed my eyes. Finally, a wave swelled and he responded to the gravity, sinking in to my pussy, both of us crying out. Hi
s beautiful dark eyes read my face, making sure I desired it, and then, his need rewarded with my pleading expression, he let the waves move me up and down on his long cock, gently stroking me, in and out, his luscious lips covering my face with kisses.

  “Oh god,” I moaned, not caring if anyone heard. He gently nipped my neck, and then picked up speed. My personal volcano responded, my fat clit rubbing mercilessly against him. We met again and again, over and over, our bodies rewarding us with waves of pleasure to match the timing of the sea around us. When he finally came, I’d finished three times, and he kissed me, soulfully, and gently lead me back to my towel once we’d reattached all my accoutrement.

  “Love you, Lucy Landers,” he said simply, kissing my forehead.

  So that is how I would like you all to remember your faithful sexploerer-never shying away from scorchingly sexy encounters, needing no quarter in the war on boring sex and stuffiness. Let the record show I was faithful in my duty, and I adore you all. Be good at being bad.

  Forever yours,

  Lucy Landers

  But that hadn’t been all that happened, of course; I’d lost so much weight that the sea was too rough for me to stand on my own, and the beautiful Spanish boy held me, gently letting me rock back in forth in the waves, for hours. He had seen more than lust in my eyes. He had seen sickness, and loneliness, and shame. But most of all, the sickness. Cancer is not pretty. It is not sexy. And he knew that, but loved me still, as so many of my finest fans probably would.

  But there are not as many of those, I think, as guys looking for a read to jerk it to while they’re in the bathroom sitting on the john before work. The wives and kids scurrying around them, banging on the door. Forget the Sunday paper--they had laptops now, and they were jerking it to my dirty adventures, and they couldn’t jerk it to me and my cancer. I knew that, even as the beautiful Spanish boy rocked me in the ocean. The encounter, mild as it was, left me exhausted, and I couldn’t leave my hotel room for the remainder of my trip.

  It had been a final salvo for my right breast, however. That was the real traitor, the doctors said, and they’d been right. Here I was, finally free of the beast, but missing something substantial.

  My breast. My sexuality. My identity.

  Smalltown, USA. Famous no more (infamous? Whatever). Poor Trish had been the one crying when I’d finally returned, moving into the small apartment on the edge of town, just needing to be somewhere I was loved. And there were three folks here that did—my loving mother and father, and her.

  She insisted there were four. But so much for that.

  I wondered who might be at the door this late and pulled my robe tight around me. Maybe Trish had come by; the kids would be in bed at this hour, after all. But when I opened the door, that’s not who was standing there.

  It was a man—a ridiculously handsome man, his chin clefted, five o’clock shadow growing across his perfect jawline like a well-wrangled cloud. His eyes took me in, the almost feline arch of his brow over the deepset eyes giving him a naturally serious expression. He was so beautiful it made my heart hurt.

  Michael.

  He’d always called me pilgrim, even when we were little. As we’d aged, it’d taken on a more significant meaning. “Welcome home, pilgrim.” He shyly tucked his head, the only acknowledgement in his demeanor that we hadn’t spoken since we were eighteen. When I’d broken his heart.

  “Michael,” I breathed. It was all I could say. I didn’t want him to see me like this—hadn't expected to have to endure his eyes, taking in my ruined form. My decisions, plain as day, between us like a veil. But he met my eyes and smiled.

  “You gonna let me in, or what?” He hadn’t lost the hometown twang. Or his adorable smile. I hesitated. “I know, Luce,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving me. “I know you’re not feeling too great, but I had to see you. C’mon. Let an old cowboy get a cup of coffee.”

  I couldn’t resist that smile, and he knew it. I opened the door with a sigh, fighting the smile on my own face but feeling it take me over anyway.

  “Thanks,” he said, the shyness stealing over him once more as he brushed past me.

  I couldn’t help it—when our bodies touched ever so slightly, the contact point of my breasts and his chest jolted me like an electrical current. I’d underestimated his effect on me, and the width of my doorway. We were both shocked still for a second.

  “Sorry,” he quickly said, and I waved my hand awkwardly. Great. This was starting out perfectly.

  As I watched his lean form stroll through the hall to the kitchen, I scolded myself. What did I need to start, exactly? Hadn’t I been ending things left and right since he and I ended way back when? His hips sauntered perfectly, the swell of his ass unmistakable under loose fitting jeans. He hadn’t aged a day from the eyes down; only the laugh lines surrounding them told me he’d changed at all.

  And then there was me. My hair rudely blunt cut short, just returning to something approaching normalcy after chemo. My frame wrecked, thin and brittle.

  My missing breast. He had to have noticed when we touched.

  Well, at least that was over with. If he’d actually been thinking anything about late night nookie with an old sweetheart, her missing nipple probably chased that idea right out of his head.

  I sighed.

  So no more worrying about that.

  Michael had already put on a kettle when I got into the kitchen. I couldn’t keep up with him, and I was exhausted, so I let him do the work. “Thank you,” I said, knowing the tea was for me. He remembered. It was sweet. He set up the coffeepot and got it going, then took a seat opposite me ant the small table in the center of the room.

  It was the most quintessentially non-romantic setting I’d ever seen. I smiled to myself.

  “What?” He watched me, his handsome face taking in my every move. A rancher’s eyes watch for details in the weather, in the wind—in everything. He missed nothing. I need to remember that, too.

  “I was just looking at us, in my mind.“ I told him, and sighed. “We’re not where I thought we’d be,” I said slowly, still aware of his eyes upon me. He smiled too.

  “I thought we’d have three kids by now,” he said bluntly. “And maybe you’d be running the paper. But things don’t always turn out like you expect, I guess.” His warm smile tried to show me he wasn’t hurt. It almost worked.

  “I‘m not good enough to have had your kids,“ I said, opting to be just as blunt. “I was busy discovering myself, and frankly, now I know myself so well I feel comfortable saying that.” To my surprise, he laughed.

  “Yeah, you’ve had an adventurous life, Luce,” he said slowly, once he was finally done chuckling. “But you know, a good mom should really have lived. That way she can never be tricked once her kids start growing older, wanting to get into nonsense.”

  “Nonsense, huh,” I said, rolling my eyes. “So my column was a bunch of nonsense?” I met his gaze, and he didn’t flinch.

  “No,” he said softly, refusing to look away. “But I did tend towards nonsense, myself. Running around, acting the fool.”

  “You were the good one,” I reminded him. “Everybody knew it was Johnny that was prone to nonsense.”

  “Well, maybe I was just a little better at not getting caught,” Mike chuckled again, his gaze even and unflinching. “I was the older brother. It was my job to pull him back out of the trouble I kept getting him into.”

  “Yeah right,” I scoffed, politely taking a drink of tea after I realized how rude I was being. Did I actually have any right to act as though I still knew him? I knew what he’d thought when we were younger, in love, and I threw it all away… So, probably not. “Okay,” I said after a second, taking in his penetrating gaze, “tell me a story about how wild you were, and we’ll decide whether or not it’s comparable to the Tramp Rampage.” He gave me a look, and then laughed so hard the china on the table rattled. I grinned. “Trish’s copyright,” I said when he’d settled down. “Not mine.”
/>   “Trish is an unsung genius,” he muttered, then took a swig of coffee before he looked at me again. “She called my string of one night stands my Vegas Number.” We laughed again. “You singing your Vegas Number down at Bucky’s tonight, Mike? She’d ask, and we’d all laugh.” He grinned. “I can’t beat your locale changes, but I probably got you on sheer numbers.”

  “Oh, get out,” I said softly, and he just smiled. His smile was like a full moon over the dark sea, enchanting and soft and fully of promising mysteries. I looked down at my tea.

  “But that wasn’t nonsense,” he said more seriously as he watched me. “That was just me getting over the fact that the woman I loved didn’t seem interested in the kind of life I’d chosen to lead, and I’d probably never see her again. A little thing like that will make a man take comfort in the sorriest of things.” I looked up at him, and his solemn expression wasn’t blaming, or angry; he looked as though he’d come to this line of thought through hard lessons. “That’s grief. Not nonsense.”