Chapter 26
“That’s, um, good news,” he murmurs in my ear.
And then he’s kissing my neck—little velvet kisses that send electric shock waves through my veins. I let out heated, audible sighs as my body melts into pleasure.
I try really hard not to think too much.
And for better or worse, something about Matthew Cordray makes that easier than usual—particularly, it seems, when there’s kissing and bodily contact involved.
For a moment, I’m trying to fight how good it feels, trying to examine: Is this what I want?
Should I let it happen again? Is going with the flow making a measured decision, or is it just . .. letting go?
But all the questions fall away the longer he kisses my neck, the more I feel how hard he is behind me. They fall away and I simply ... surrender.
When one of his hands glides up my torso, coming to cup the underside of my breast, I rasp, “Would you like to go inside?”
And he says, “Not especially.” Which shocks me to death until he adds suggestively, “It’s nice out here .”
Oh. I see now. I bite my lip as his hands continue to roam and graze, and surrender or not, I hear myself tossing out a perhaps unnecessary tidbit of honesty. “I’ve never had sex outside.”
“In your whole life?”
Is that odd? I wonder but don’t ask. I guess it comes back to the fact that sex, for me, has never been the hot, urgent thing it seems to be for many people. Until right now maybe. I’m struggling to think. “I’ve lived in the city since I was twenty, so yes, not in my whole life.”
“We need to change that.” His fingertips are skimming their way down my outer thigh now, toward the hem of my dress, as he bunches the fabric in his hand.
Somehow I manage to inquire, “Wh-what’s so great about it?”
“Tell me that breeze doesn’t feel good on your skin, on your legs.”
“It does,” I admit. But it’s not just the breeze that feels good. It’s his fingertips, grazing upward now, under my dress.
“Tell me those stars aren’t takin’ your breath away.”
“They are.” But it’s certainly something more than the stars making my breath catch.
Though I see what he means—in that moment, the night air and the millions of stars shining down on us enhance every sensation, every touch, every beat of my heart, as we both go quiet and I give myself over completely to what’s happening.
The outdoor air on my flesh feels like an extra way he’s touching me as his hand finds its way between my legs.
He doesn’t hesitate to slip his fingertips inside the elastic of my panties, and I gasp as he reaches the sweet spot.
Part of me wonders if I should be doing something more than all this sighing and gasping.
Usually I ... take part, maybe even take a little too much control.
The other night with him, I got on top; I made myself responsible for my own orgasm, as feminist chicks have been taught to do since the sexual revolution of the last century.
And yet, just now I’m not sure I need to take control or responsibility—Matt seems to be doing pretty good at this on his own.
Soon enough, he’s lowering my panties, and I’m wriggling free of them, aware of the breeze touching places that are usually covered. And then his pants are open and I’m using my hands to brace myself against the post as he pushes into me from behind.
Apparently there are stages to surrender, because I thought I was surrendering a few minutes ago, but the deeper we get into this and the more he moves inside me, the more surrender comes.
The rhythm of his fingers sends me toppling into oblivion just before he reaches that point himself.
My legs give out, but he holds me up—yet we still collapse slowly to our knees.
It feels animalistic again as he slumps a big hug around me.
The moon shines down on us and it’s a moment of brutal, honest realness.
A moment when I would perhaps usually slink off to the bathroom to avoid all that—but I can’t figure out how to do that right now.
I’m on the verge of feeling awkward when he says low in my ear, “That was nice.”
I suffer the impulse to make a joke he won’t get: Just nice doesn’t speak very highly of the event. But I know by “nice” he means really, really good. And hot. And sweet. And spectacular. And maybe that doesn’t have to be awkward. So I just say, “Yeah, it was.”
I get another kiss on the neck in response.
When we’re standing up again, pulling our clothes back into place, Matt says with a half smile, “I know you want me to go, but can I at least get a kiss goodnight this time?”
I think everything over quickly and go with the easiest response at this moment: more surrender. “You can stay if you want.”
He laughs a little. “Does that mean ... hang out here on the porch, or can I come in?”
The answer leaves me in barely more than a whisper. “You can come in.”
As we enter the shadowy bedroom, he nods shortly toward the bedside table and says in a low, acknowledging voice, “Growlington.”
It makes me laugh.
“I hope he knows there’s a new sheriff in town.”
“He doesn’t mind,” I say. “It’s not like that between us.”
“Good to hear. I wouldn’t wanna get mauled.”
And with that, we turn back the fluffy white covers and crawl into bed, curling up together on a cloud.
He falls asleep quickly and I envy how comfortable he is.
Always, it seems, no matter what’s happening.
What I love, and what I hate, at the very same time, is how different this feels than any other connection I’ve had with a man before.
Maybe it’s just where I am right now, both geographically and in my life.
Everything about the past year has stripped me bare, forced me to see how much I’m not in control of the things that happen to me.
And most of that has been pretty awful. But some of the parts here, some of the parts with Matt, have been the opposite.
Still the central issue remains. I’m leaving in a month. And even if I wasn’t, what do Police Chief Matthew Cordray and I really have in common? Some unexpected chemistry. Some unexpected ease. Some unexpected mutual appreciation. And scars. But we live in two different worlds.
Maybe it’s a mistake to let him stay. A mistake to let myself get that comfortable, the way he is.
And yet, when he snuggles a little closer, I lean into it. Because it feels good. He feels good. Not just his body, all of him.
Stop thinking. Stop thinking and sleep. Let it be like Mabel’s clouds—just float and don’t let anything else matter but the floating, but the comfort of the now.
August rolls into the Kentucky mountains like a breezy dream.
Sunny days that are long and hot but not oppressive feel like summer perfection to me.
I am assured by Matt that this lack of humidity isn’t normal for August, and everyone from Grace to the crowd at the Last Chance can’t stop talking about what a nice stretch of weather it is.
Those weeks bring more cookouts with Matt and Grace, more watermelons and fruit salads, and I even make another strawberry poke cake, just without the flag design this time.
They bring sweet morning walks around the lake and glasses of wine with Jo while we watch Socks play in the field, where the giant mimosa still holds on to a last few wispy pink blooms. They bring nights in Matt’s arms that stay as hot and sweet as the first times.
They bring phone calls from Sydney where “When are you coming home?” turns into “Don’t rush it,” after I tell her I’m sleeping with the police chief.
She says, “I miss you, but you need good sex more than I need a manicure buddy.” She and Jayden are still going strong, and she promises we’ll all get together when I do come home—she wants me to get to know him, and it’s getting serious.
“And I’ve informed him that once you’re back, I’ll need some major Jessica time to make up for missing the whole summer. ”
They bring more snapdragons and sunshine, more sunsets and moonlight, more tomatoes from Mr. Freeman, and more pie from the Last Chance Café.
They are actually days more busy than lazy, though—those hours I used to struggle to fill continue to be gobbled up by work on the lost and found.
A few more new items arrive at the post office, but not many.
Instead, as I requested, people tag me in their own posts about things they’ve found and I share them.
In even better news, a great-grandchild of the WWII pilot came forward to claim the album of clippings and pictures, and the owner of the newly arrived locket was located—it was lost on vacation, and the woman who owned it was thrilled to get it back as it was a gift from her late mother.
My social media pages are blowing up with astronomical new numbers due to the news exposure throughout the Midwest. And by mid-August an even more immense change results from all those news outlets sharing the story about the Lost and Found lost and found: tourists!
Jo and Conrad begin seeing their weekend visitors increase substantially, and they even get a few day-trippers out looking for an off-the-beaten-path place to do some wine tasting on weekdays.
Weekend business is on the rise at the Last Chance, too. When I stop in for a ham and cheese one day on the way back from Brandywine, Melva comes out from the kitchen to tell me about it. I’ve never seen her smile so wide. “I’ll need another waitress on weekends if this keeps up,” she says.
That’s when Joy Lynn delivers my lunch and even she’s smiling—a rare sight indeed. “Best tips I ever got,” she announces. “Actually gonna be able to pay the bills this month.”
“Yep, things around here might just be lookin’ up,” Melva remarks as she makes her way back to the kitchen.
Even as I sit there eating, a young couple comes in for lunch, and I overhear them in the booth behind me telling Joy Lynn that they’ve just visited the winery. “Cute little town,” the girl says. “We heard about it on the news.”