Girls Playing With Fire 3

by Marissa Blush

  “I could use the help, but your clothes… Oh my God, you came here from work?” I asked, realizing that he must have left his office when Diane called him.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “The place was almost empty anyway.”

  A shadow passed over his features for a brief moment. People left work early the Friday before Valentine’s Day. Not him. If not for this incident, he’d still be at the office.

  Maybe he had a late-night date. I didn’t know anything about his relationship status. It served me right to change the subject whenever Diane was trying to talk about him.

  “Don’t you have other plans for the evening?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “More work,” he said. “But that will be there on Monday, too. How come you’re here?”

  “Homesick,” I lied.

  He looked at me unconvinced. I didn’t like it. He could tell when I was lying and I felt bad about it. But I didn’t want to tell him that I had no one to share Valentine’s Day with, and I was in no mood to look for someone at some silly party. What could I do to get the warm smile back?

  He looked down at his clothes. “You have a point. I’d ruin them when we clean up. Can you find me some clothes to wear?”

  “Not my dad’s,” I said immediately.

  They were pretty much the same size, but the idea of him wearing dad’s clothes bothered me, to say the least. As much as I wished it was otherwise, I would never see Mr. Sinclair other than an insanely hot man I wanted to have sex with.

  It took him a few seconds to realize the cause of my abrupt refusal.

  “Oh. I didn’t think… If I still lived next door, I’d go and change.”

  He didn’t live next door anymore, and he didn’t sound happy about it. Since the divorce, he had moved into an apartment in town, close to his law firm. As much as I tried not to let Diane talk about him, some details managed to sneak into our conversations. I even knew how his new bedroom looked, because Diane had given me the whole tour of the apartment during one of our frequent video calls.

  On any other occasion, I’d feel bad for reminding him of something that saddened him. Today, I was using all my brain power to fight the urge to say aloud that he could strip down to his underwear if he wanted to help me.

  “I’ll go find you something,” I said instead.

  He caught my arm and stopped me. He shook his head slowly, but his gaze remained fixed on mine when he spoke.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t wear your father’s clothes.”

  The way he said it made plain that he acknowledged the change in our relationship. Like me, he might wish it was different, but he understood that I’d never look at him as just Diane’s dad again.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I said wishing with all my heart that he would.

  For once, I was counting on his ability to tell when I was lying. He hadn’t let go of my arm, and he hadn’t looked away from me.

  “I have some gym clothes in the car,” he said. “They’ll do.”

  My heart swelled with gratitude, relief and something that should not have been there. Hope. The smile on his face was from the Christmas collection. It was close to the one he wore when he was watching Danny or Diane unwrap their presents. He was happy to see that I was happy.

  “Ok,” I said, and my voice cracked even on that simple word.

  House chores had never been my favorite activity, but this was a whole other thing. I was going to get down and dirty with Mr. Sinclair. Literally, this time, but who knew?

  Chapter 3 – Pizza and a Movie

  We were almost done clearing up the kitchen when the plumber arrived. I let him deal with the guy. He would surely do a better job than me. I used the time to think of a way to get him to stay once the job was done. I didn’t want him to leave just yet.

  My hands shook when I fixed up my makeup. I never wore much, but I still seemed to have more mascara on my cheeks than on my eyelashes. I cleaned it up and reapplied it, and chose a nearly invisible lip gloss. After we got the water running, I’d have to shower anyway.

  My stomach growled and, as delicious as cereals with soda had been for dinner and breakfast, I needed real food. Cooking was out of the question. Defeated, I ordered pizza. One with my favorite ingredients, and one with his.

  When I got back downstairs, the plumber was already leaving, accompanied by Mr. Sinclair.

  “All done?” I asked.

  They both turned their heads toward me, but only the plumber spoke.

  “Everything’s fixed. Have a good evening, Mrs. Richmond.”

  Mrs? I darted a look at “Mr. Richmond” and his slightly absent stare changed my mind about straightening up the misunderstanding.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You too.”

  Now that we had water again, I had no doubt that “Mr. Richmond” wanted to take a shower to get rid of the sweat and grime. All I had to do was to get him to have it here, instead of back at his place.

  Since my thinking process was always better with coffee, I went into the kitchen while he accompanied the plumber out of our house. The coffee machine had been spared the deluge. It started to purr immediately and soon the scent of fresh coffee wafted through the room just in time to greet his arrival.

  “I told them on the phone I was Jonathan or they wouldn’t have given me any information.”

  “It’s ok. I was worried they might not come at all since it’s outside regular working hours and the situation was contained. I don’t want to imagine what I’d do without water all weekend.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Sunday evening.”

  I poured him a cup of coffee.

  “You’d have to stay with friends,” he said. “Is this decaf?”

  “Yes. Sugar?”

  He started. I wondered if he picked up on the lie about the decaf or if he wondered if I called him sugar or offered him sugar. There was a sweetness about Paul Sinclair that he didn’t often display. I was as attracted to his sweetness as I was fascinated by his quiet strength.

  “Two.”

  “None of my friends are around,” I said, bringing him the sugar and a teaspoon. “This weekend wasn’t exactly planned.”

  He fixed his coffee, but he didn’t sit down. I pushed my cup toward him.

  “Two, please.”

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. He put two teaspoons of sugar in my cup and stirred.

  “You could’ve called me,” he said without looking at me.

  “Are we friends?”

  He’d been comfortable in our kitchen earlier, while we were cleaning it. Now, his whole posture screamed uneasiness. He wanted to leave.

  “Sarah-”

  “Can you stay a little longer?” I interrupted him.

  “I should go,” he finished as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “Just to watch a movie. I’m kind of freaked out.”

  He was shaking his head.

  “Please. You can choose what we watch.”

  “I don’t mind a little horror on Valentine’s Day,” he said, and, after a brief pause, he added, “but I shouldn’t stay.”

  I hanged on to that hesitation.

  “I already ordered pizza. It should be here by the time you get out of the shower. You can leave after we eat.”

  “Shower?”

  I looked him up and down, pretending to be revolted by his appearance.

  “Yeah, I mean… you’re kind of grimy. You can’t change back into your nice office clothes and you’ll ruin your car seat if you drive like this.”

  “You thought of everything, haven’t you?” he said wryly.

  He had no idea! He’d be appalled if he knew all the dirty thoughts I had about him. I was sure he had guessed some of them, just as I was sure he knew why I wanted him to stay. I didn’t care, as long as he didn’t say you know why I can’t stay.

  “Ok,” he said, breaking the silence.

/>   I nodded.

  “You know where the master bathroom is, right? You’ll find there anything you need.”

  In the meantime, I was going to try to break my personal record for a quick shower in the small bathroom next to my bedroom. I wanted to be clean and pretty by the time he got out of the shower. He finished his coffee and left the kitchen without a word.

  I checked the progress of the pizza delivery on the app. Twenty minutes. I could make it.

  Twenty-three minutes later I was opening the front door with my hair in a towel, wearing nothing but a thin summer dress. There would be no panties tonight. I took the boxes to the kitchen and set them on the table. It occurred to me that I hadn’t checked the oven. I was curious to see the state of my culinary experiment.

  The turkey breast looked seriously edible. Cold, of course, but it resembled the image accompanying the recipe.

  “Looks good.”

  He was standing a few steps behind me, looking at the tray in my hands. I took a mental snapshot of him, dressed in his office clothes, but barefoot. The trousers of his expensive suit had a perfect crease. His short hair was neatly combed. Even his shirt looked crisp, despite the having the first three buttons open. No tie, no jacket and a clear five o’clock shadow. I was not going to forget this image for a long time.

  “Not sure if it’s done inside.”

  “Let’s see,” he said.

  I shook my head, setting the tray on the counter. I didn’t want to find out that I had nearly burned down the kitchen for something that didn’t even taste good.

  “Nah. Pizza is better.”

  He ignored me and got a plate and cutlery from the cupboard. He transferred the turkey breast, then cut a couple of slices. The sections looked like the pictures, too. I took one with my fingers and bit into it. It was cold and dry, so I put the rest of it back, then licked my fingers out of habit.

  He took the other slice and ate it all.

  “It’s good,” he said. “It would probably be even better if it wasn’t so cold.”

  “The recipe included a garlic herb sauce. I really don’t feel like trying to make the sauce. Or to clean up the kitchen again.”

  He cut another slice and took it to the table, where he opened the pizza boxes.

  “Which one is mine?”

  I pointed to the one marked TCGCZ. He didn’t say anything after seeing the thin crust, grilled chicken and zucchini pizza. He couldn’t have been surprised I knew his tastes.

  We ate in silence. Although I was ravenous, I slowed down as much as I could. He hadn’t agreed to staying to watch a movie, and I was afraid that as soon as we finished our meal, he’d want to leave.

  “What movie are we watching?” he asked.

  I brightened up instantly when I heard the question.

  “My plan was to finish the Halloween series today, but after the, you know, incident, I’d like to switch to the Psycho franchise. Anyway, as I promised, you can pick the movie.”

  “Psycho sounds fine.”

  “Glad you think so. I got the Blu-ray a few weeks ago and I’ve been dying to see it.”

  My hunger seemed to have morphed into sheer joy. Now that I knew he wanted to stay, I barely made myself finish the first pizza slice.

  “Shall we?” he said, closing the lid to the box after eating less than a third.

  He went to the sink to wash his hands. I followed his example and our fingers touched under the water stream.

  “If we had Chicago style pizza, we wouldn’t have needed to wash,” I said, tearing a square of paper towel to wipe my hands.

  He followed my example. “I didn’t mind. The pizza was good.”

  We didn’t comment on the fact that we both left most of it untouched. I didn’t quite dare to hope that the evening would go the way I so desperately wanted it to go. I let him go into the living room alone, took a couple of water bottles from the fridge and followed him.

  The living room couch was large, but he had chosen a place near its center, in front of the tv. I sat down as close to him as I dared.

  He took one of the bottles from me. “Thanks.”

  “I know how much you like to stay hydrated,” I said, watching out of the corner of my eye as he took a sip.

  Watching him drink water aroused me. Was this a fetish? It didn’t happen with anyone else.

  The movie drew me in, despite my oh-so-obvious plan of using the pretext of jump-scares to get close to him. I realized that I sat literally on the edge of the couch, leaning toward the screen, as if I wanted to sneak into the movie.

  “This is so good,” I said more than once during the first half hour of the film.

  “Is this something you’d like to do?”

  The question took me out of the movie. I turned around to see if he was serious. He was laid back, with his arms extended, resting on the back of the couch.

  “Lure young women into my mom’s motel and kill them?”

  His rich laughter confused and thrilled me. Such a pity he didn’t laugh more often. I had played up my confusion for comedic reasons, but I hadn’t expected him to be so amused. When he noticed I really didn’t understand the question, he explained.

  “I meant do you want to work in movies.”

  “Ooooh,” I said, feeling silly for not getting it. “Never thought about it. What could I do? Matte paintings?”

  Now that I said it aloud, it didn’t sound like a bad idea at all. I went to art school to improve my craft and explore what else was out there. Why not cinema? I turned my attention back to the film, but the idea of painting landscapes or fantastic locations for movies got stuck in my mind.

  I sat down more casually, leaning into the soft backrest, determined to avoid falling under the spell of the movie again. I could watch it any time I wanted. Being in the same room as him was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss.

  Maybe this time I wouldn’t have to work so hard at convincing him. When I was contemplating how to make my move, I felt his hand in my hair. Just a light touch at first, almost by accident. Then he wrapped a lock of my hair around his finger. Not even Hitchcock’s masterpiece could compete with that.

  My breath caught in my throat. Could it be so easy? I wanted to lean into his touch, but all too soon, he removed his hand.

  Chapter 4 – On the Living Room Couch

  I gathered my feet under me on the couch, and turned to face him. My heart beat as fast as it had when I did the same thing last summer. I leaned over and kissed him. He stilled for a moment. I felt his hands on my shoulders and expected him to push me away like that night. Instead, he opened his mouth and his arms slid around me. He pulled me closer, on top of him, deepening the kiss. I was on top, but he was the one in control.

  When we stopped for breath, he threaded his fingers through my hair and held my head still, a few inches away, studying me.

  “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

  “What do you think?”

  The frustrated reply got away from me. After everything, how could he ask? There I was, climbing all over him and he thought I had any doubts about what I wanted.

  “I think neither of us is drunk now.”

  His measured voice had only the appearance of calm. Behind it, I heard guilt. He still felt guilty.

  “I wasn’t drunk,” I assured him. “Neither time.”

  “You saw mistletoe that wasn’t there.”

  That was true. I had kissed him at the party imagining he stood under the mistletoe. Apparently, it had been CGI, champagne-generated illusion. But when we ran into each other a couple of hours later, I had completely sobered up.

  “I slept it off by the time-”

  “Why do you run afterward?” he interrupted me.

  “Do we have to talk about it now?”

  He paused for a long time, still holding my head, looking intently into my eyes. I didn’t have the strength to tell him that I ran because I didn’t want to hear
him recant what happened between us.

  A deep sadness twang in his voice when he answered.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “I’m not going to run away this time,” I promised.

  Since we were at my house, I didn’t have a choice. This time, whatever he had to say to me after we had sex, I’d have to listen to it, even if it broke my heart.

  He let go of my head and slid off the couch. He got on his knees and swiveled me, arranging my legs so that he was between them. I sat up, reaching for his belt but he pushed me back gently. He looked down where my dress rode up my thighs, almost uncovering my pussy. He placed his hands on the either side of my body, gripping the couch as if he didn’t want to allow himself to act on his desire.

  I tugged at the hem of my dress, as I had that night. Just like then, he stared. I opened my pussy lips with my left hand and slid the middle finger of my right hand along the wet slit. His breathing grew more labored. He was gripping the couch so hard that his knuckles were white. I drew tiny circles over my clit, then, as the pressure built up inside me, I slid my finger down to my entrance. I dipped it inside, coating it with my juices, then trailed it up again.

  He snatched my hand and put my wet finger in his mouth. He closed his dreamy green eyes, savoring the taste. My pussy throbbed, aching to be touched, to be filled. When I caressed his hair with my free hand, he half-opened his eyes. He released my hand, and bowed his head. His strong hands pressed down on my thighs, spreading them wide, opening me completely. His lips only brushed over mine at first, then, suddenly, his mouth was open and the onslaught of sensations overwhelmed me.

  I wished I could look at him, but my eyes closed without my consent. All that was left was the feel of his tongue, lapping at my clit, trailing up and down between my puffy lips, diving into my depths. I writhed under his touches, arching up to get more of him, clutching at his hair, pushing his head down.

  He kept me on the edge, postponing my release by changes of speed and pressure. He alternated licking and sucking, breaking my path to orgasm dozens of times until he finally allowed me to come.

  When I was done, he straightened up. I reached with shaking hands for his belt.