I was surrounded by their past, love letters strewn around me in a whirlwind. It was a condition of my mother's will. I had to spend a night in their lighthouse. I had to read his letters. I had to learn. I didn't need the inheritance; I was perfectly fine without the money. I was also fine without a lighthouse that I'd never known existed. But there I was, caught up in a torrid romance that wasn't mine, mourning a woman I barely knew.
More light than I'd expected streaked through the windows, though now it was tinged with dusk. I'd been reading for hours. She was the good girl from a prominent family. He was the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, her Anthony. He wrote with such passion. It was almost a comfort to know someone loved her once, before she married my bastard of a father. I blushed when he wrote of her flawless skin. The lure of her ruby mouth. The innocence of her untouched flesh. It wasn't untouched by him. She came to him here at the lighthouse. He was it's keeper. Though I blushed as I read of his memories of their first night as lovers, it stirred me in a way I couldn't deny. I had never been viewed with such desire or touched with such passion. I desperately longed to be.
The sun had long since set. I'd fixed a modest meal in the tiny, utilitarian kitchen and settled in with my pile of letters. This one. This last one brought color to my cheeks. I had to forget that it was my mother he kissed. Held. Fucked. It was just a woman he compared to white silk, that brought him more passion than he could contain. My mind drifted and I wondered what it would be like, what his hands would feel like on my skin. His mouth. His dick. His body planked over mine as he filled me. The letters drifted from my hands. My hands drifted over my body.
I felt him here in his long ago home, his presence fresh like pine needles beneath my feet. I felt his big hands cradle mine as they slid over my stomach and dipped beneath my silky blue pajamas. With my eyes closed I felt his lips press to mine, his tounge sweeping between them like a memory. I closed my eyes tighter, shutting out the wrongness. I let our hands wander over my breasts, teasing my nipples to stiff peaks, bringing a moan from my lips only to be captured by his. Trembling fingertips trailed over my smooth flesh, doing into my own moisture. I heard him. I heard him moan. I felt his breath against my shoulder. His weightless touch. I opened my eyes to his shadow, to my mother's memory. My breath caught, but he stole it. My fingers were no longer mine. My hips bucked when he touched me. Feather light, imaginary strokes made me shudder. Whispers I couldn't understand left me straining to hear him in the darkness. I want bare enough. Blue fabric spilled to the floor as my naked body called him, thighs spread to the chilled air. I wanted him, his phantom touch. His passion. My fingers worked, two sliding inside me as I bucked and screamed his name. Lips brushed my cheek. The air grew warmer. I was left gasping, alone.
The morning brought the sounds of waves crashing. I lay naked beneath a sheet, my pajamas in a heap on the floor amongst my mother's sacred past. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. I knew her now.
I smiled and melted into my new home.
