Reach Out and Touch Someone

by Pearl Jones

  She gnawed one finger, absently. The taste of him flooded her mouth.

  "Coffee? Where?"

  She pointed; he left. And left her alone to try to think past throbbing desire, rising need. By the time he returned, she thought she knew how to start—though part of her wished he would just pick her up and kiss her hard enough to shake each and every carefully scripted word out of her head.

  "Okay, you know that friend clause of yours?"

  He nodded over his coffee mug.

  Good God, I think I'm jealous of porcelain. She shook her head sharply, trying to derail that train of thought. “Thing is, you're right about needing it; we don't trust people we've just met. Usually, there's a whole vetting process, talking to mutual acquaintances and judging behaviors and a pretty efficient grass-roots background check. Doesn't work quite so well in the city as in smaller communities, but still, a woman who wants to can find out a fair amount about a man.” His brow raised inquiringly. “Or vice versa, of course. And then there's dating, or getting to know the guy in some other way, and lots of little impressions and observations that get integrated and evaluated and judged. You know, does he smile at babies or open doors or smoke or have Sunday brunch with his mother or kiss well?"

  She flushed; she hadn't meant to say that. But he'd lowered the cup as she spoke, and his lower lip was wet with steam, and it looked so delectable, and all the careful sentences she'd constructed flew from her mind, leaving only simple honesty: “It's too damn soon for me to know I want to sleep with you more than I've ever wanted anything on earth!"

  "Sleep.” It wasn't quite a question. “Honey, if all you want is a nap, I'll go buy you a teddy bear. I don't think I have the strength to lie down with you and keep my hands to myself."

  Had he hesitated over “hands"? Damn, he's just ... yummy. “I meant—” she felt her cheeks heat, and tried not to think about how she must look “—to have sex with you."

  "Sex?” That was, most definitely, a request for information. With a hint of disapproval in the undertone, and much more than a hint in the thinned lips.

  She ran her hands through her hair, patted it back into place, finger-combed it again. “The phrase of your choice denoting physical intimacy and incredible mutual pleasure."

  "Ah.” The mug hid half his face for a moment as he drank, but then he set it aside and rose. “Intimacy.” His voice was a purr, low and soft and deep. “You don't believe in love at first sight? No soulmates recognizing one another, no knowing beyond knowing?"

  "I believe in what I can see and hear and smell and taste and feel. The rest I leave to Carrie-Anne.” Who, granted, had great intuition and luck beyond belief, and who had brought her friend and partner more success than any amount of planning and hard work could reasonably explain. But the work is still required, and she needs me almost as much as I need her, to handle the everyday things.

  What would Carrie-Anne say about this? No question, really; she would wonder why they weren't rolling around on the carpet already. Oh, God.

  "'See and hear and smell and taste and feel,'” Muir repeated. “All right.” He reached out and took Jackie's chin, very gently, in his hand. His fingers reached beyond her temples; she thought she might faint from sheer desire. “Look at me. What do you see?"

  "I...” The sexiest tree ever born. Only, trees weren't, exactly; they were sprouted. And he wasn't a tree anyway, she knew that. He was just a very large, very sturdy, very sexy man. A man I don't know, no matter how I feel. She looked, really looked, at everything. The soft chamois shirt, worn at the inside of his left cuff though still dark and unstained. The hand, resting by his side, almost still but for the index finger, tapping in time with—her pulse? He was clean-shaven, but there was a shadow beneath the skin; she wondered how long it would be before the bristles emerged. Down past the neck she'd admired earlier, the shadowed ledges of his collarbones, the gentle swell of his chest that barely rose with his breath, the stomach, impressively flat even as his diaphragm lifted on the inhalation, nearly hollowed when he breathed out. He let her go, stepping back so she could take in the full view. She dared not let her gaze linger at his crotch, knew she wouldn't look past it if she reached that point, so raised her eyes to his and spoke. “Well, you don't have any mint in your teeth. You don't smoke, and if you ever did, it was more than a couple of years ago."

  His expression invited her to go on; his stance was relaxed. His belt was interesting, not the usual thrown-in-with-some-purchase thing, but what looked like hand-tooled leather, old enough to be supple and gleaming with polish, but scuffed beneath that. “You care about things.” Evident in more than the belt, really, certainly clear from his actions. “You appreciate quality.” It took an effort, but she managed to look down to sturdy, well-broken-in footgear, then back up the long columns of his legs, lingering on the bulge this time—not easily distracted, is he?—admiring all the hints of muscles beneath the chinos, the slow, soft motion of muscles beneath his shirt as he breathed. “Yoga, you said that. Discipline, and patience.” His face again, still smiling gently. “Intelligence. Humor."

  "What do you hear?"

  That was easier. “Your breathing. Your clothes brushing your skin. I heard your heartbeat earlier, when you—when we were closer."

  "Smell?"

  "Oh, God.” She had to close her eyes against a rush of longing. “Coffee. Your cologne.” Me, and I'm sure you do, too. “Plastic.” He didn't say a word, but she knew he was waiting for something. “You. Like the sea."

  His eyes widened, and he brushed his thumb across her lips. She didn't think, but simply reacted to his touch, opening her lips and sucking the digit. “Taste,” he whispered. She didn't bother with words herself, too busy tasting him. Besides, he was too complex for mere words—coffee still, and fruit-sweet, and salt, and heat and promise and the echo of his cologne, or was that smell impinging on taste? No matter.

  She mewled as he pulled his hand away, and blinked to refocus her eyes so she could look the question at him.

  "You need ... time. Time to be at peace in your mind. I'm trying very hard to remember that.” There was no smile on his face now, no dancing light in his eyes; she thought she had never seen anyone so solemn who was not also sad, or afraid. There was no fear in him, no sorrow, but he was perfectly, absolutely serious as he said, “I'll wait as long as you need, I promise you. But I'm not as strong as I thought."

  "Strong?"

  "Never knew my knees could go weak before."

  "Oh.” Oh. “I did that to you?"

  "You do."

  She didn't understand that, though she liked the way it sounded, and so she simply drank in the sight of him, almost still but for his breathing—which had changed. Before, he'd been breathing like an athlete, the rise not in his chest but his belly, slow, deep breaths. Now his chest moved; he was breathing shallowly, quickly, almost panting. I do that to him.

  Why does that make him sexier? Her fantasies had always been of strong men. Does it take strength not to hide that? Silly. What did it matter why she liked it? She did. “How?"

  "How, what?"

  Ah. There was the smile, slow as syrup and just as lickable. Her tongue flicked out to trace her lips, where the taste of him no longer rested. “How do I do that?"

  His laugh this time was like thunder in the distance. Promising. “Honey, you just do.” Weak legs or not, he managed the few steps to cross the distance between them, bending to place the softest of kisses at the corner of her mouth. “And I'm happy as hell to have met you."

  She didn't really understand he was leaving until he reached for the door. “Wait!"

  "I told you, as long as you need."

  "No. Damn it, no. Do not walk out that door."

  He stared at her for a long minute, and then nodded—at what, she was not entirely sure. “I have to get some tools from the truck. You do want your phone fixed, don't you?"

  The only tool you need right now is attached. She didn't say it, couldn't say it, an
d watched him walk away. A lovely sight, but still disturbing. Watching him return was much better, even with the careful lack of expression on his face.

  His back a little stiff, he passed by her to go back to the phone he'd earlier taken apart; he hooked something into its guts, pressed a few keys, and it finally deigned to spit out her messages. She wasn't as excited as she knew she should have been, but managed to smile approval when he looked up. The messages were welcome, if only for their distraction value.

  Work. Touchy man-egos are not my area of expertise. He's going to wait. Okay, fine. For what? “To be at peace in your mind"? What in hell does that mean?

  Work. Unravel the mystery of man later, when you can think past the taste of him.

  She had seldom been so grateful to administrivia, or so little interested in the oddities of her clients. Still, it was at least more satisfying than beating her head against the wall of man's incomprehensibility. Not what I want to do with that bit of man-wall! Fell him like the tree he is, now ... What a lovely crash he'd make.

  Do trees bruise?

  The first few messages were outdated; she had dealt with them via e-mail. There were a couple of queries from potential new clients, one of which she sighed over, figuring the chance lost, two others she thought might be salvageable with some quick verbal footwork. Such an image! And then came one from Carrie-Anne, that made her blush and him chuckle: “Don't forget, hon, goddesses need love, too! And there's something to be said for getting one's divine ashes hauled."

  "Dear God in Heaven, she didn't."

  "She did,” Muir said, chuckling still. “But that's Carrie all over. So, what do you goddesses actually do?"

  "We're facilitators. Guides through the maze of local government, adjusters of multiple schedules and contracts, whatever people need to get from dream to reality—in a business sense. The ultra-rich have personal assistants, and typical working folks don't need much facilitating except for wedding planners and home remodeling; we cover the mid-points."

  "Oh."

  "Not much help, eh?"

  "Actually, it was. Well, at least I think I understand the messages, now. Carrie's good at this?"

  "Carrie-Anne's brilliant. Between that ‘never a stranger but always a friend’ attitude and her memory, she's just never at a loss."

  Muir nodded, that same fatuous grin on his face that memories of Carrie-Anne called from everyone. But he didn't reminisce for long. “And you?"

  "Oh, I do nuts-and-bolts stuff."

  "For which you need your phone. Right. Let it never be said that I can't take a hint."

  He turned back to his tools before she could answer that remark. Not that she had any idea what she would have said.

  The transfer of codes and addresses went fairly well, until they got to the stored messages—at which point everything froze up again. He cursed a bit, his eyes dark as the sea at midnight, then went to the yoga mat and sat, staring at nothing. “Contemplating the universe,” Carrie-Anne called it when she did it. Or sometimes, “Emptying the cup of the mind.” Letting go of whatever bothered her, or troubled her, letting sorrow and pain and anger wash away.

  It wasn't a technique Jackie had mastered in her occasional half-reluctant forays into meditation, but she wasn't at all surprised to find that the walking redwood had. She could practically see calm rising with his every breath, imagined him pulling it up like Wool stockings. No, long-johns. Proper woodsman's gear, those. Jackie watched, wondering if the smile on her face looked as silly as it felt. But, damn, he's just so cute. He bent and contorted and somehow ended up in a handstand of sorts. And so flexible. Yum.

  "Sorry.” He spoke slowly, but didn't seem unduly strained by his odd pose. “It hasn't been an easy few days, and you're—” he flipped out of his stand, circled, and ended up standing “—incredible, but not at all what I expected on a service call. I'll stop acting odd now, and finish that flash-over."

  She thought of her own response to stress: anger, headache, sulking, throwing things. A minor spot of gymnastics seemed far healthier to her. Not for the first time, she realized that her partner was far happier than she was. This time, though, she followed the thought a little further, and realized she could simply reach for what she wanted, if she had the strength.

  It wouldn't need to be much of a stretch, either, not for what she wanted just then; there he was, in the same room and everything. And in need of a little comforting, by the shadows darkening that blue gaze.

  Comfort him? Is that what you want to do?

  Yes. Not all she wanted, not nearly, but yes. Strange to feel so about a man she'd only just met, but there it was.

  Strange, too, that someone so supremely at home in his own skin could worry what anyone thought, especially someone he'd only just met. What she thought. Well, she could take care of that in only a sentence or two. Just take a breath and speak. You've been doing it all your life. A few little words, and those shadows would be gone.

  "You're not odd,” she said after a pause that felt half an eon long. “Well, not too, not objectionably. Not for me.” The shadows still lingered. She tried again. “Hey, remember who my friends are? Trust me, by my standards, you're not particularly odd at all."

  He smiled at that, but she got the feeling he didn't believe her. His eyes were still dark, the blue of a coming storm. All right, then. If words don't work ... She paced across the room to him, deliberately; not rushing, not dawdling, not trying for any seductive hip-swivel or shake but simply walking directly to him. If he breathed at all, she could neither see nor hear it, but his chin tilted down, almost as though he were trying to protect himself. She had to go on tip-toe to kiss him.

  His lips were cool, and soft, and still for a heart-stopping moment, and then he very gently returned the kiss.

  And the damned phone rang.

  "Let the machine get it,” she told him, but he'd already picked up, giving the firm's name and his own like any trained receptionist. She held out her hand and he placed the receiver in it, letting his fingers trail along her wrist in an unspoken promise.

  She'd never been so tempted to simply hang up on a caller. And, oh, how she wished she had when she heard the voice! Les was a faithful client, but a demanding one, who seemed to think his paying all his bills on time entitled him to the ear of whichever goddess at any hour of the day or night. Jackie bared her teeth and pulled her desk chair to her—not making any special effort to miss Muir with the wheels.

  He just nodded and reached out a hand for her cell phone.

  By the time Les finally wore down, she was more tired than anything. When a coffee cup appeared in the air before her, she took it; cold water helped, though not much. Belatedly, she directed a smile toward the bearer of the drink.

  "Poor thing; you're asleep on your feet."

  Such a lovely rumble. Like a tree if it talked.

  "And dreaming,” the rumble said. And then she was floating through the air, with branches cradling her, and then she was flat, and warm. And everything was dark.

  Chapter Two

  "What?” Jackie jerked as she woke, her surroundings briefly unfamiliar but resolving after a frightening second into her office as seen from floor-level. She was on the yoga mat, a blanket draped over her, and the warm, resilient pillow on which her head rested was—a man's lap!?

  Muir. My redwood. She inhaled the spicy musk, and her eyes slowly closed again. Safe. Home.

  Wait, home? Carrie-Anne was always saying Jackie spent too much time at work, but it had never felt like this before! Oh. Right. “Um. How did I get here?"

  "You fell asleep. I didn't want to just leave you at your desk. Or leave you here alone. So.” He levered himself out from beneath her with what seemed to her to be completely needless haste, rising to stand halfway across the room, arms crossed tightly, hands gripping his elbows.

  Jackie blinked. He looked ... bashful? Not an emotion I'd have thought a tree could have. “Did I say anything weird?"

  "Depends on
your yardstick. Is it okay that I stayed? Do you want me to go now?"

  "I don't know.” She yawned. “Give me a minute.” She went to the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth, took stock of herself. That brief—she hoped—nap hadn't done much for her hair, but aside from that, she looked much like she felt: warm and almost glowing, more rested than she could remember ever having been.

  His voice whispered in her mind, husky and thrilling: “If all you want is a nap, I'll go buy you a teddy bear.” And still he'd stayed, guarded her sleep. Waited for her. Patient and generous and kind...

  No. A tree's bad enough, no need to turn him into some wood-and-plaster saint. He enjoyed it, or he wouldn't have done it. Or he wants something.

  Well, obviously that. He'd said as much, and his body had done its own proclaiming earlier. But this, whatever the hell this was, it wasn't just about that. About sex. Or he'd have taken her invitation that afternoon, instead of going back to work on the damnable phone.

  Right. He wants something. Fine. He also wants you. So, here's a question: what do you want?

  Did she want him to leave, “her” redwood?

  It'd be easier.

  But not nearly as interesting.

  Would it be fair?

  Fair? What had that to do with anything? She pictured him, the state he'd been in earlier, pants straining to contain him, him straining to contain himself even as he promised to wait for her to find “peace in mind,” whatever he meant by that—but that was hours ago; surely he wasn't still at such peak need. Besides, men can take care of themselves.

  As can women, if the only goal is climax. What about the non-physical aspects? The less physical ones, anyway. Did he feel like she did, that there was some connection, or at least the possibility of one? Well, yes, from some of the things he'd said and done, she thought he did. Or that he was interested in forging one, at any rate. Was that the same? Did it matter?

  If she told him to leave, would he spend the night wondering what he had done wrong? He would go, she had no doubt of that. Did she want him to?