The Naked Fisherman by Jewel E. Ann
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was one night.I should have stuffed my face and gone to sleep in a food coma. Instead, I skipped dinner and went for a run. Then I did an hour of yoga.
Shower.
Crossword puzzles.
Bible.
Prayer.
More prayer.
Ear to the upstairs door, listening for any sign of Fisher.
More prayer.
I went all in, asking for forgiveness for my thoughts and for putting Fisher’s penis in my mouth. Did God get a lot of penis prayers? It seemed unlikely. Maybe guys with STDs praying for a quick recovery and promising to return to celibacy.
I didn’t promise celibacy because technically, I was still celibate. Or so I told myself.
A little before one in the morning, I took my restless self to the screened-in porch, wearing a tee and white panties. Blanket in hand.
Reaching for the light switch, I accidentally hit another switch and strings of globe lights illuminated the porch. I didn’t know they were there. How did I miss them?
It was … enchanting.
I grinned. My first grin since Fisher left me for Tiffany and jazz music. Curling up in the corner of the patio sectional, I took a deep breath of the chilly night’s air and closed my eyes. That was all it took for my mind to settle and sleep to find me.
At some point, my eyes fluttered open, a weird feeling that someone was there.
Fisher …
He stood next to me, watching me sleep.
“What time is it?” I squinted my eyes.
“Two.”
“Where’s Rory?” I rubbed one eye.
“She stayed at Rose’s place to sober up.”
I nodded and yawned.
“Why are you sleeping out here?” he asked.
“Because I couldn’t sleep inside.”
“Why?” He toed off his shoes.
“I …” I lifted a shoulder, feeling embarrassed about my terrible thoughts. “I don’t know.”
He sat at the end of the sofa, stretching his legs out, swallowing the entire length. “Come here,” he whispered.
I gave his request a moment’s pause before crawling toward him with my blanket. Settling my body between his legs and over his chest, I nuzzled my face into his neck.
He still smelled like pine and soap. And not her.
I so desperately wanted to ask him if he did anything with her. Held her hand. Kissed her. Promised her another date. But I didn’t because I was enveloped in his arms in the middle of the night beneath the glow of several dozen globe lights, and it was pretty perfect.
A few minutes later, Fisher sat up partway, taking me with him, guiding my legs to straddle his midsection. He held the most contemplative expression on his face. I wanted to solve it like one of my puzzles, looking for clues in his eyes, the part of his lips, or his hand brushing the hair away from my face before caressing his knuckles down my neck.
I closed my eyes, reveling in the moment, in the way he made me feel like I was flying. Free of everything that kept me from finding myself, my voice, my place in the world.
When I opened my eyes, he feathered his other hand along my cheek, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. The night air was no comparison to the way Fisher’s touch elicited an endless emergence of goose bumps along my skin.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
His gaze followed the trail of his hand along my skin for another breath or two before he gave me those intense eyes of his. “I’m apologizing.”
From earlier that week …
The car dealership. The park. His extreme extra.
Sorry meant nothing if that kind of touch was his way of apologizing. My soul felt it.
“Fisher?” I whispered.
He seemed mesmerized with my lips—his thumb ghosting along them, eyes drifting from mine to his thumb.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
The hint of a grin moved his mouth. “I was thinking about it.”
My hand curled around his wrist, pulling his hand from my mouth as I leaned in a few inches and grinned while my lips brushed along his. “You think too much.”
We kissed.
We let our hands explore each other’s bodies.
We made out … the first time I actually made out with a guy.
No sex.
No orgasms.
Just lots of kissing and touching.
Eventually, our hands stilled, our bodies entwined, and our lips eased apart as we fell asleep.
In the morning, I woke first, lifting my head from his chest. One of his hands rested on top of mine pressed to his chest next to my head. His other hand … it was resting on my butt … on the inside of my panties. I wasn’t sure when it laid claim to that spot, but I kinda liked it.
That was a lie.
I kinda loved it.
If I was going to Hell, I wanted to go there with Fisher’s hands all over me, his lips on mine, and his dirty words in my ear.
“Good morning, Ed.” Rory’s voice sent me into major panic mode as she greeted the neighbor on her way around to the basement. To us!
“Oh my gosh!” I whisper yelled. “Get up!” I tugged on Fisher’s arm.
He squinted, not entirely awake.
“Rory’s coming! GET UP!” Had I whispered any louder, she would have heard me.
Fisher stumbled getting up. I pushed him with all my strength toward the door.
“Go! Hurry!”
“Christ, woman … I’m going already.” He walked like a drunk man with his shirt unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder and his hair matted in back.
As soon as he made it to the stairs, I rushed back to the porch.
“Look who’s up early,” Rory said in a cheery voice as I grabbed the blanket and kicked Fisher’s sneakers under the sofa.
“Yeah, I uh … slept out here last night. When I discovered the lights, I couldn’t resist.”
She opened the door to the porch instead of going in through the main door. “Oh, yeah. I should have told you. I guess I figured you’d see them and look for the switch.”
I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders. “So … did you have fun?” I sat back down on the sofa while she took a seat in the rocker.
“We had a great time. When you’re older, we’ll have to go to all the clubs. There are some really great ones around here. If …” Her nose wrinkled. She sometimes forgot that I spent the previous three years with my grandparents in a very conservative home and school. “If you’re comfortable with it or you want to.” Her pained expression softened into the mom I once knew, the face of unconditional love.
The face of absolute comfort. She was my safe place. I was never a daddy’s girl, despite my interest in his job and his hobby. I idolized my mom, and I didn’t think she ever really knew.
“I want you to be whoever you need to be to feel comfortable in your own skin. I want you to never feel the need to fit in or follow others if it’s not who you are. Okay?”
Right there. That was my mom.
Pressing my lips together, I nodded slowly. And I almost, almost told her that my path had crossed with Fisher’s path.
Collided.
Crashed.
And I wasn’t sure I’d ever find my own way again because I loved him. More than that … despite my battered and prodded ego … I liked who I was with him, even if it made no sense. Even if I’d never tell him that.
Did love have to make sense?
“So the club was fun?”
She nodded. “Yes. One of our favorites was playing.”
“And Tiffany and Fisher … did they hit it off?”
“Yeah, I think so. They have a lot in common. They chatted it up during the breaks and at the bar we went to after the jazz club. She’s definitely interested in him, but I haven’t had the chance to talk to him yet. I’d like to see him find someone. I know he has the eternal heart of a bachelor, but Fisher deserves more.”
I wanted to be that more.
