by Cach, Lisa
“I’m not so sure.”
“Grace, your mommy is kooky. Kooky!” I kissed the little girl on top of her head and handed her back to Carolyn. “I’d better go keep an eye on him.”
She put her hand on my arm. “Ian may be exciting, but that’s not really the type of excitement I’d wish for you. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. I’ll save myself for Kevin, I promise!”
She laughed and waved me away. “See you tomorrow night! And dress up! I want Kevin to see how pretty you really are.”
“For the last time, I’m not going! We’ll meet some other time!” But even as I said it I had the feeling that I was going to end up at the party. Somehow Ian was going to talk me into it.
Chapter Six
“Oh, my God,” I moaned in ecstasy. “What are you doing to me?”
“Feeding you as you deserve to be fed,” Ian said, serving me another section of Dungeness crab that had been roasted in a rich butter sauce flavored with herbs, red pepper, and orange juice. “Do you know that all you had left in your refrigerator was a half-eaten packet of soy sausages, one pickle floating in brine, and nonfat cheese?”
“I needed to go shopping. And the pickle belongs to Lauren.” I was too engrossed in sucking dripping butter sauce and succulent crabmeat off my fingers to be offended by his disapproval of my pantry. I took a piece of crusty French bread and dabbed at the flavorful mess on my plate. Ian had also made a salad of field greens with a tarragon vinaigrette, and there were chocolate pots de crème waiting for dessert. Heaven.
“Soy sausages are a crime against cuisine. And people say the British are the ones who serve bad food! At least we know our sausages.”
“Sausages,” I said, giggling, and took another sip of the crisp pinot grigio he’d bought to go with dinner. It was a vast improvement over the Two Buck Chuck I usually bought at Trader Joe’s.
He raised a brow. “Sausages, yes. What’s so funny about sausages?”
“Men are obsessed with them. Every man loves his sausage!”
Ian looked at me askance, as if unsure of my meaning. “Well, er…”
I realized the possible misinterpretation of my words, and started to laugh. “No, I didn’t mean that! I only meant that men like them more than women do.”
He widened his eyes in mock shock.
Still laughing, I waved my hands at him as if to blow away such a thought. “And it’s the word. ‘Sausages!’ It makes me laugh. Something about the sound.”
“Sausages?”
I giggled.
“You’re an easy drunk, aren’t you?” he asked, smiling.
“I’m not drunk. I’m naturally silly.”
He laughed. “You are drunk.”
I shook my head, smiling, knowing that at most I was a wee bit tipsy. It was the pleasant evening that had lowered my guard and let my normal goofy self show through. Although Ian had been in charge of dinner, I’d helped by chopping and dicing and whisking, and setting the table. It had made for a lovely hour of working together, free of the mutual “you’re doing it wrong!” tension I’d experienced with other men.
Come to think of it, except for forbidding me to jump the Jeep over the opening drawbridge and lodging protests—quite reasonable that he should, really—about my driving on the sidewalk, Ian hadn’t commented on my driving, either. He didn’t tell me to give more time between signaling and changing lanes, or advise me to use my rearview mirror more. He didn’t suggest that he himself should take over the driving.
Not a bad guy, Ian.
I dug the last bit of crabmeat out of a claw and dropped the empty shell on top of the rest of the crab’s remains in a big bowl on the center of the table. “I can’t eat another bite,” I said, and sighed in contentment.
“Shall we wait on dessert?”
I nodded, and together we cleared the table and cleaned up the worst of the mess.
Ian opened a second bottle of the wine and filled clean glasses, and in silent consent we retired to the living room. The futon was back in its couch form, and I sat down at the end closest to the dark fireplace, leaving for Ian the padded rocking chair that was the best seat in the house.
“Does the fireplace work?” he asked.
I nodded. “But I almost never use it. It’s pretty and cozy once it gets going, but it’s such a lot of work.”
“Do you have wood?”
“There’s a stack in the backyard.”
It was all he needed to know. Ten minutes later a fire was crackling happily, sending heat and an amber glow into the room. He found the sound system, tuned the radio to a station playing Christmas carols, and turned the volume down low. The first flutter of a nervous tremor went through me as he then started turning off all the lights in the room. He left a single dim table lamp lit in the corner, then ignored the vacant rocking chair and sat down beside me, his weight making the cheap futon creak, his body beside me large and warm. He stretched his arm over the back of the futon, his fingertips draping down to brush my shoulder.
Half-lit room. Wine. Fire. Quiet music. Couch. The classic setup for a smooth slide from conversation to kissing to petting and to that moment when he drew back with a question in his eyes, wanting to know if tonight meant sex.
My mind leaped ahead to that final question, and my nervousness grew. I didn’t know what the answer was in the real world. In fantasy, I was willing to do just about anything with him, including hanging upside down from a chandelier and singing “You Are My Sunshine” while he took me from behind.
In reality, I didn’t know if I could do so much as bare my breast to a man I’d known only one day. He was too unfamiliar: I trusted him only with that same doglike trust I had in anyone who was friendly toward me. I didn’t know his intentions beyond physical gratification; I didn’t know how hurt or how angry with myself I’d be if he patted me on the thigh afterward, said, “Thanks, babe,” and left.
But oh, he did smell so very good. And I did so want to lay my hand against that broad chest, then let it slide down to the crotch of his pants, feeling the stiff folds of the bunched fabric and wondering if the bulge under my palm was just his zipper forced upward into an arch, or something far more interesting. My eyes fell to that bulge, and I tried to imagine what he looked like when naked and aroused.
He lightly, almost absentmindedly stroked my shoulder. I felt a shiver run down my body and straight to my loins, all my attention focusing on those slight, careless movements of his fingertips.
I’d been wrong so many times today about Ian’s attraction to me. If he wanted me, I wished he’d say it in clear English. I parted my lips to ask point-blank, but cowardice held back the words. “We forgot to stop at the Space Needle,” I said instead.
“‘Forgot’?”
“I didn’t skip it on purpose,” I said in something approaching the truth.
“I have two more days here. We’re going to the top of the Space Needle on one of them.”
“Mmm.” I nodded as if I were only humoring him.
“You’re a little devil, Tessa,” he said, reaching over with his other hand and tickling my stomach.
Laughing, I contracted around his touch as if I were a house cat taken by surprise, batting at his arm and pulling up my legs, curling into a ball as his fingers kept at me. His other arm came down over my shoulders and he pulled me toward him, the better to keep torturing me. Still laughing, I found myself falling into his lap. “Stop, stop!” I pleaded. “I’m full of dinner!”
He stopped and held me in an embrace across his chest as I caught my breath. “A little devil, but a ticklish one,” he said, smiling.
I grinned, still breathing heavily from my laughter and struggles. The grin turned to a small shriek as I felt his supporting arm give way, and I slid down onto his lap, my head and shoulders across his thighs. I put my bare feet on the arm of the futon, a zing of anticipation coursing through me as I lay vulnerable before him.
Ian
stroked my hair back from my face and then ran his fingertips through my hair, setting shivers of pleasure sparking along my scalp. “Purr,” I said. “Purr, purr.”
He smiled and tangled his hand in my hair, wrapping a thick lock of it around his palm. He tugged gently, the sensation strangely pleasurable even as it sent the faintest touch of fear through me. If he wanted, he could hold me trapped by my hair. He could keep me at his mercy while he explored me as he wished.
My nipples tightened.
His other hand lighted on my belly, two fingertips touching the sliver of bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. They brushed over that soft bit of flesh, stroking along the hem of my T-shirt, playing there, teasing as he traced a route across my torso and down my side. My nerve endings tingled with expectation, my breasts and my sex urging him onward. Enough with the belly! Go up! Go down! Get to the good parts!
He pushed up the fabric enough to lay his whole warm hand against me. He rubbed me gently, then slid his hand up to the edge of my rib cage, running his thumb along it, his fingers a few short inches from my breast. His thumb slid up under the center of my bra, pressing against my sternum and barely touching the sides of my breasts. The movement forced my contoured bra to slide over my breasts, creating a caress all its own. He slid his thumb up and down, still firm against my sternum, arousing me in a manner I had never known was possible.
His other hand still tangled in my hair, he raised my head and bent his own down. I watched wide-eyed as his face came closer, then could watch no longer and closed my eyes, waiting for the touch of his lips against mine.
I felt the warmth of his breath, and then the soft brush of his lips against mine. His kissed me again, featherlight, a sliding touch of his lips. His hand on my ribs went down to my waist, curved around it, then slipped behind me and went down my jeans. At the same time, his lips came more firmly down on mine, moving to part them slightly and then, taking the edge of my lower lip between his, nipping at it, sliding it between the caress of his own lips and massaging its fullness with the tip of his tongue.
His hand on my buttock stroked me, then moved down yet lower, barely finding space within the confines of my jeans to go down to where his fingertip could barely touch the edge of my heat and dampness. His kiss grew more vigorous, playing more quickly on my lips, his hand behind my head holding me more firmly. I kissed him back, my own lips embracing his by turn, copying him by stroking their smooth length with the tip of my tongue.
His fingertip below stroked over my opening. I moaned into his mouth.
He brought his hand out of my jeans and slid it up my back, unhooking my bra with a dexterous twist of his fingers. Then he was shifting on the futon, lowering me down onto it as he stretched out on top of me, releasing my hair and holding up his weight with a knee and elbow. The top of one thigh was against my sex, tempting me to rub against it.
His lips still on mine, his hand slid up my chest and under the free-floating bra, the warm roughness of his palm against my breast making me shiver in pleasure. He explored the shape of it, tracing an outline of the base and a swirling path up toward the peak, stopping just short of the waiting pinnacle.
“I want to see you,” he said, and tugged lightly at my shirt. I raised my arms and let him pull it and my bra off me. I lay back down beneath him and was glad to be half-naked. Glad to have him see me and touch me, as White Christmas played softly on the radio and the fire crackled and popped.
He raised himself high enough that he could see me, his eyes gazing upon my breasts until I began again to feel vulnerable, the slight drafts of the room touching upon my skin. “They’re beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed as if he were in a church. “Perfect.”
He looked me in the eye then, locking gazes with me for a long moment. “You’re beautiful. You’re like a woman in a Renaissance painting.”
He must have seen my self-conscious doubt, because he touched the side of my face and went on: “Beautiful pale skin. Beautiful dark eyes. Beautiful long hair. And your body has the proportions of a work of art. You are beautiful, Tessa.”
“No,” I said softly.
“I’ll prove it to you.” He slid down my body and lowered his mouth to my breast, taking my nipple into the damp warmth and playing it with his tongue. I arched beneath him, my hand going to the back of his head, his tongue catching my body between a tickle and a bolt of sheer sexual pleasure. I wanted him to stop, and wanted him to go harder and faster.
He seemed to know he was torturing me, flicking his tongue against me and then with a long suck letting my nipple slide from his lips. It was dark pink and tight, the wetness upon it making it feel even chillier as it pointed upward, feeling suddenly alone in the dim darkness. His mouth moved to my other breast to repeat the treatment.
His hand moved down my side to the top of my jeans, following the waistband around to the center front. He lifted off me enough that he could reach between us and flick open the button, then unzip me.
My wiser, more cautious self came awake, distracted from the pleasure of what he was doing to my breast. My heartbeat quickened, a spurt of fear contaminating my pleasure. Too fast, he’s going too fast, I’m not ready for sex…
His hand slid into the top of my jeans and to my hip, cupping it and then forcing my jeans down a few inches.
“Ian,” I said, touching his cheek and making him look up at me. “Wait, there are questions we—”
I was interrupted by the muffled, pulsing tones of a ringing cell phone, brr-rrr-rrr! It sounded like it was coming from his leather jacket, hanging over one of the chairs in the kitchen.
His hand stopped pushing down my jeans, but his thumb stroked my skin as he asked, “Questions?”
Brrr-rrr-rrr!
“I think that’s your phone.”
“It can wait. Which questions?”
Brrr-rrr-rrr!
“You know, the health questions we have to ask,” I said, as the ringing of the phone started draining away what was left of my sexual excitement. And the question about whether I’m ready to do this at all, I added silently.
“I’m all right. Clean bill of health,” he said.
Brrr-rrr-rrr!
“Me too.” I grimaced as the phone kept ringing. “Are you sure you shouldn’t get that? It might be important.”
“Voice mail will pick it up.”
I waited for the next ring, and it didn’t come. “Ian, I’m not ready for this.”
“I have protection, if you want to go that far,” he said, misunderstanding me. “But what I was planning on doing was just for your enjoyment. No risk.” He smiled.
I felt a melting sensation in my loins. Did he mean he was going to go down on me? Oh, God, yes, let that be it! The thought of those lips and that warm mouth and tongue working the same magic down below as he’d done for my lips and breasts was bringing me halfway to orgasm.
Brrr-rrr-rrr! Brrr-rrr-rrr!
“Aagh!” I cried. “It’s making me crazy! Please, just answer it!”
He looked at me with a question in his eyes, then climbed off me and went to fetch his phone.
I sat up, found my T-shirt and pulled it on, then made a dash for the bathroom. If he was going south, I wanted to be sure that I was fresh and clean.
As I washed up I could hear his voice out in the kitchen, deep and businesslike, the tones different from the ones he’d used when we talked together. He sounded almost like another person. The conversation went on, and then his voice started getting closer to the bathroom. I got myself squared away and opened the door just as he was about to knock.
“Tessa, do you have a fax machine?” he asked, the mouthpiece of the phone held against his chest.
I shook my head. “Not here.” I had one in my office at the university, but that was no help to him now.
“Damn. Is there a twenty-four-hour place where I can receive a fax?”
“Kinko’s. There’s one a few blocks away.”
“Thanks.” He lifted the phone
back to his ear. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”
“Work?” I asked when he hung up. I’d done the time zone math, and guessed it was morning in Britain.
“Yes.” He seemed agitated. Distracted.
“It’s okay; you can go get your fax,” I said lightly, trying not to sound disappointed. I felt it, though; felt the letdown and the sudden loneliness.
He frowned at me, then put his hands on my shoulders.
“No, it’s not all right. I started something and I intend to finish it. You deserve to have it finished.”
I made a face. “It sounds like a chore.”
He stepped closer to me and slid his hands up my neck, tilting my face so that he could bend his down close. “I want to finish,” he said a hair’s breadth from my lips. “I want to feel you against my mouth.” He laid his lips against mine and used his tongue to paint a slow caress across the seam of my lips. With another stroke of his tongue he parted my lips and coaxed open my mouth, delving inside to rub against my tongue, telling me clearly what it was he would do to me down below.
My legs went weak and my sex pulsed.
He broke the kiss and looked at me. “You’ll wait up for me?” he asked.
It took a minute for me to understand that he was still going out. “Uh… yeah.” My mind regained a trace of rationality. “Don’t I need to drive you?”
“It’s only a few blocks, I thought you said?”
I nodded.
“I’ll walk.”
“I’ll go with you.”
He shook his head. “No, stay here by the fire. I want to think of you here, waiting for me.”
How could I argue with that? “Okay,” I said helplessly, and gave him directions to Kinko’s. Even if he was back in twenty minutes, it was going to feel like an eternity.
Chapter Seven
After forty-five minutes, Ian still hadn’t returned. I’d used the time to frantically search through my underwear drawer for something pretty. The only sexy item I had was the thong, so I’d swapped my granny panties for it and now was suffering the annoyance of a string up my crack.
