Fifty First Times

“I thought I’d find you here.”

I stiffen at the voice, certain that my need for her has pushed me over the edge into aural hallucinations. But when I turn to look over my shoulder, there she is. She’s in a bright red ski jacket and beanie that do amazing things for her jet-black hair and dark, Native American complexion.

She’s beautiful, so beautiful, and for long seconds I can do nothing but stare at her.

“Dyani.”

“Gage.” She smirks at me, but I can see the temper simmering in her eyes. But then, it’s always been like that. No matter what expression she plasters on her face, I’ve always been able to tell how she really feels by staring into her jet-black gaze.

“What are you doing here?” I scramble up from the boulder where I’ve been sitting.

“I think that’s my line, isn’t it?” She crosses the area between us, her well-worn boots crunching on the snow. “I looked for you in town. Thought you’d be celebrating your first big win.”

“How’d you know?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy, and maybe I am. Right now I can’t say anything for certain except that seeing her again has turned me inside out. “I was there.”

“You were?”

“You thought you would come back to compete in Taos and I wouldn’t be there?” She shakes her head like she’s disappointed in me. Or worse, like she doesn’t know me anymore. Which I can understand. Most days, I don’t even know myself.  “Where else would I be, Gage?”

“I didn’t think—“

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? You never think!” She’s in my face now, and even the appearance of tranquility is gone. Her eyes are blazing, her cheeks flushed pink and her breathing—her breathing is all over the place. And I am going to burn in hell because, even though it’s been three years since I walked away, all I can think about is touching her rapidly rising and falling breasts.

I want to pull her into my arms, to kiss her and hold her and lick her and touch her until the last three years disappear. Until everything disappears but her and me and how it feels when we’re together.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I am. So fucking sorry. I didn’t want to leave you—“

“Don’t.” She lays her gloved fingers on my lips, stops me mid-sentence. Even after all this time, sparks of electricity shoot through me at the touch.

“But—“

“Is that why you never called? Why you didn’t come see me when you got into town two days ago? Because you thought I was mad at you for leaving?”

I pull her hand away from my mouth, then squeeze it tightly in my own. “Aren’t you?”

“Why? You left because he would have killed you if you stayed. Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve been grateful, every day, that you got out? That you’re alive? That you’re safe? That your father will never be able to hurt you again?”

I can’t take it anymore. Not being with her has been killing me, and now that she’s here, in front of me, all I want is to feel her against me one more time.

Reaching out, I pull Dyani into my arms. Her wicked, wonderful body curls against me like it’s been three minutes instead of three years, and she holds me at least as tightly as I’m holding her.

“I missed you,” I tell her, my face buried in her long, silky hair. She still smells like ginger and snow and freshly cut pine trees. The scent, combined with the sweet relief of holding her again, nearly brings me to my knees. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.”

She presses kisses—soft as the snowflakes that are even now coming down around us– to my jaw, my eyes, my chapped and burning lips.   It feels so good—she feels so good—that when she starts to step away, I can’t let her go. Instead, I lock her to me and slowly, oh so slowly, lower my mouth to hers.

Part of me expects her to reject me even now. To fight my kiss and all the memories burning between us. God knows I deserve it. But she doesn’t. Not even close.

Instead, her arms lock around my neck and she presses herself even more tightly against me. And then we’re kissing, kissing, kissing, and it’s just like it always was—flash and fire and pleasure so extreme it’s like a kind of pain.

I run my tongue over her lips, desperate to taste her again. Even more desperate to be inside her any way that I can. She opens right away, and then I’m pulling her lower lip between my teeth, nibbling on it in the way that used to drive her crazy.

She moans, her fingers clenching in the blonde hair peeking out the bottom of my own beanie. I dart inside her then, my tongue stroking over and around and under her own. She tastes like she smells, like fresh, clean powder and sharply sweet ginger. I want more, so much more. I want everything.