Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  My brain is in absolute turmoil. I hear a quiet moan and I realize it came from me. With my lips parted, he slips his tongue softly inside, licking and exploring my mouth with expert strokes. He’s an exceptional kisser.

  And as though he’s reading my growing arousal just right, he deepens the kiss, fitting me tightly against his body, and gripping my hip securely. He feels firm from head to toe, every muscle taut, and the heat he generates draws me to him even closer.

  When I feel his erection harden between us, every nerve ending in my body is ignited. This impossibly beautiful man wants me. Badly.

  Suddenly, it’s as if we’re on fire, and the air around us is thick with desire. I allow myself to do what I’ve been dying to do for some time–I run my hands up into his hair, pulling on the soft strands. He groans low in his throat, wrapping one arm firmly around my body, and pressing himself fully into my upper thigh. It feels as though something wild has been released between us, and I have no desire to put it back inside the quiet place it came from.

  He pulls away slightly, just enough to run his lips across my jaw, and down my neck, nipping and sucking as he goes. I feel the coarseness of his stubble on my throat, and he soothes the burn with soft licks of his tongue. It’s reflex alone that drives me to tug on his hair a little harder.

  He returns to my mouth for a hungry kiss that is more like raw need than practiced nuance. I wrap my arms around him, feeling the taught muscles in his back, before pulling his hips forward and pressing his length between my legs, exactly where I feel the ache most acutely. He spreads his hand across my ass, and reciprocates the action, increasing the delicious friction.

  We’re not in a private place–anyone could follow the same path from the hotel, and stumble upon us. But I seem to have lost all self-control, unable to tear myself away.

  Suddenly, he pulls back, breathing heavily. “Jesus, Sarah.”

  I’m panting like I just ran a marathon. “I know.” I watch him, looking for any trace of regret in his expression, but find none. “I think it was all that talk about dinoflagellates.”

  He cracks a smile. “It gets me hard every time.”

  “Thank God we have that in common. I’ve met so many guys who could not get it up for marine plankton.”

  He studies me for a moment, smiling. “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

  It isn’t really a question; but, then, there isn’t much question that I’ll say yes.

  “We can go out or I can cook. Your choice.”

  “You cook?”

  “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

  §

  It’s late and I’m shivering, though as much from my nerves as from the ocean breeze. We collect my bag from the valet and Danny walks me back to where my car is parked, very close to his own. The lot is dimly lit, but his 4Runner appears to be in pristine condition. I have a momentary pang of embarrassment that, by comparison, my car looks like it’s from the Dark Ages. He eyes it, too, for several seconds.

  “Text me when you get home.” His gaze is unwavering. “Don’t forget.”

  “Okay.”

  He takes me into his arms once again and gives me a deep, lush kiss, warm enough to fend off the evening chill. “See you tomorrow, sweetness,” he murmurs against my lips.

  I pull back fractionally, secure that in the darkness, he can’t see me glow with the endearment. “Sweetness, huh?”

  A crooked smile grows on his face as he stares down into mine. “That puts you in excellent company, you know; Walter Payton was called sweetness.”

  “A football player?”

  He laughs. “Not just any football player; arguably the greatest running back in the history of the NFL.”

  Now I laugh. “You’re such a man.”

  He lifts his hand from my hip to brush a mass of wind-swept hair back behind my shoulder, and a look of genuine affection replaces the humor.

  “And you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You make me feel happy every time I’m with you.”

  That frank simplicity steals my breath. “Well,” I finally respond a little thickly, “sweetness it is, then.”

  Chapter 7

  Sarah

  “SO YOU LIKE HIM?”

  Selene and I are lying on my bed on Saturday morning, catching up on the last couple of days.

  Taking a deep breath, I admit, “I do. He’s pretty hard not to like.”

  “I Googled him, by the way. Did you know he’s won national teaching awards? Plural?”

  “I didn’t. But I can say from firsthand experience, he deserves it.”

  “Well, if I had had a science teacher who looked like that, I might have chosen a very different career path.”

  I laugh. “I know. And you’d expect a guy like that to be an asshole or a player, but he doesn’t seem to be.”

  Selene obviously can’t offer an opinion on that, having only ever met him in passing, but she seems to sense a bit of hesitation on my part. She knows my history with both types.

  “And he obviously likes you,” she says encouragingly.

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  “A summer romance with an older man could be hot. And it’s about time you got out there again. But tell him this for me–”

  I already know what’s coming. I start to protest, but she holds her hand up to silence me.

  “Tell him that if he pulls any shit, I will personally put his balls in a specimen jar.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your newfound interest in science.”

  Selene smiles. “Okay then, if you’re finally going on a hot date, we need to find you something absolutely irresistible to wear. And I don’t think we’ll find it in there,” she says motioning to my closet.

  Selene’s family has a lot of money. They rented her a two-bedroom apartment near campus so that there was room for them to stay when they visited. But when my relationship with my ex, John, went south, and I needed to move out in a hurry, she wouldn’t hear of my going anywhere but her place. She said her parents preferred staying at a hotel, anyway. It was lucky for me; I was literally homeless.

  Her closet houses enough clothing for a crowd of women. And for our entire friendship, she has insisted on dressing me up for special occasions. I stopped arguing about it long ago; it just wasn’t worth the effort.

  She emerges carrying three options: One dress so short I’m not a hundred percent certain it is a dress; one blouse/skirt combo that, on her lithe figure would be stunning, but on my more curvy body would look like something out of Maxim; and a third option that I think is perfect. It’s a red, slim-fitting halter-style dress that shows enough leg to be sexy, but doesn’t come off as slutty, and highlights my C-cups without side boob or excessive cleavage. With my summer tan, the color is very flattering. I love it. She pairs the dress with iridescent strappy heels, and gold and diamond drop earrings.

  “I’m not borrowing the earrings.” They look way too expensive, and something I’d never be able to afford to replace if I lost one.

  “Bullshit, they’re costume. And they make the outfit, anyway.”

  I don’t believe they’re costume. But they do make the outfit.

  “I’m thinking hair down, smoky eyes and a soft nude shade on your lips. Oh, and we’ll tuck these into your purse, just in case.” She holds up a couple of condoms, and wiggles her eyebrows, then laughs at my blush.

  “And no schoolmarm underwear,” she calls after me as I head off to the shower.

  §

  Though Dan offered to pick me up, I insisted on meeting him at his house. The neighborhood he lives in is nice, but not overly affluent as much of Palo Alto can be. Trees line the street on both sides, creating a canopy effect that is beautiful and quaint. Each house is well kept and, as expected, Dan’s is no exception.

  It’s a beige ranch-style home with a stacked-stone façade and wide front steps. The lawn is freshly mowed, and the beds in front and along side the walkway are filled with a variety of shrubs a
nd perennials. It’s welcoming. And he clearly takes pride in its appearance.

  As I approach the beautiful dark wood front door, it swings open and Dan appears in the entrance. He’s dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, untucked over dark jeans. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s wearing loafers. He looks casual and scrumptious, and he greets me with an irrepressible grin. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to seeing him smile.

  As I approach the door, he assesses my outfit and his expression morphs into what I can only describe as carnal appreciation. He reaches for me, pulling me into his arms, and pressing his mouth to mine.

  “You look unbelievable,” he murmurs against my lips. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

  I’ve never in my life felt so appreciated by a man. It’s not that I haven’t had other men give me compliments, but somehow, I never felt the sincerity behind their words as I do with Dan. With him, it’s all in his eyes. His compliments are readily apparent without his ever having to speak a word, and I’m quickly realizing that his attention is addictive.

  As he kisses me on the front stoop, I feel a heavy weight settle on my foot. I look down to find a toothy face, smiling and snuffling back in my direction. I burst out laughing.

  “And this is Ralphie.” Dan shakes his head in playful disgust. “He’s a bit of a Lothario.”

  I bend to scratch the English bulldog on his head, and find myself covered in eager kisses.

  Taking my hand, Dan offers to show me around, with Ralphie enthusiastically in tow. The floor plan of the house is open and bright, and I’m astonished by the extensive millwork in every room–thick, beautiful crown and base moldings painted a bright white, an ornate mantle piece surrounding the living room fireplace, and elaborate woodworking around every door and window.

  Everywhere in view, the floors are dark wood, and the walls are a warm coffee color. The living room has windows that are almost floor-to-ceiling, bathing the room in natural light, and, centered in the space, is a large suede sofa with two coordinating armchairs. The place has a distinctly masculine feel, but with sumptuous rugs, pillows and accessories, it doesn’t feel like a typical bachelor pad. It feels like a home. And one he obviously cares very much about.

  He leads me room to room, pointing out various details and things that he’s particularly proud of. When we reach his bedroom, I try not to stare at the giant dark wood bed with its crisp white sheets and steel grey comforter. My apparently lascivious brain goes immediately to wondering what those sheets would feel like up close. In my mind’s eye, I wrap them around my naked body, feeling the drag across my nipples, and inhaling the musky scent of his sweat. When I glance in his direction, he’s watching me intensely, the desire between us bared to the point of breathlessness, and a hot flush sweeps over every inch of my flesh.

  This is real.

  He seems to read my thoughts exactly and takes my hand, treading carefully on this new ground we’re breaking. Without a word, we leave the bedroom. And in our departure, we leave behind every unspoken word, every secret desire, every unnamed emotion, and retreat back to the relative safety of the hallway.

  §

  I’m absolutely floored by the amount of work that he’s put into the place.

  “How long have you owned it?” I ask him as we walk.

  “About ten years. I bought it with some inheritance right after I finished my master’s. It was a good investment, and it gave me something to throw myself into. I spent nearly all my free time renovating the house for about two years.”

  “Did you do all of this work yourself?”

  “Mostly,” he answers, swelling with pride. “I didn’t do the plumbing or electrical, but pretty much everything else.”

  We round the corner into a beautiful modern chef’s kitchen. I’m amazed by the quality and attention to detail. Plus, whatever he’s cooking smells incredible.

  “And you knew how to do all this?”

  “Not really,” he admits, chuckling. “I read a bunch, took some classes, made lots of mistakes. But I wasn’t in a rush to finish. I liked it–liked working with my hands, and being able to see what I accomplished every day. And it turned out exactly the way I wanted.”

  “I’m so impressed.”

  “You haven’t seen the best part.”

  I want to stop and take a good look around the kitchen, with its black stone countertops and stainless steel appliances, but my eyes are immediately drawn to a large sliding glass doors and beyond it, the most stunning yard I have ever seen.

  We step through the door onto the used brick patio, complete with a built-in barbecue, and tons of comfortable seating. But the star of the show is a lush landscape of greenery and multi-colored flowers. There are huge Japanese maple trees that look like they have been there for decades. On the fence that lines the yard, grow bougainvillea, jasmine and potato vines, offering privacy and fragrance. There are shrubs in a dozen or more varieties, most I wouldn’t be able to identify, except several hydrangea bushes, crammed with flowers. There are roses and lilies and loads of potted plants scattered around. It’s like stepping into an oasis. I love the house, but if I lived here, I’m not sure I’d ever leave the yard.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Dan, it’s gorgeous. How on earth do you have time to maintain this?”

  “I don’t. I hire someone who’s really more of an artist than a landscaper. And it’s worth every penny.” He surveys the yard for a several counts. “My mom was a serious gardener; I always thought she would have felt right at home here.”

  Anyone who cared to notice would be able to hear the dull ache that lies beneath those words. But only someone who has been through a loss like that would be able to recognize the sense of betrayal there–that shocking reverberation that accompanies your discovery that the world/God/the universe is not so benevolent as you thought it was, and not what you thought you were promised. You move on, but you never quite get over that.

  I want to reach out and touch him, to offer some sort of acknowledgement. But my hesitation costs me the opportunity.

  “Shall we cook?” he asks, his natural exuberance returning.

  §

  “What are you making?” I ask him as he pours two glasses of wine, and pushes one in my direction.

  “You mean ‘we?’”

  “Okay, what are we making?”

  “Pasta from scratch. I’ve taken the liberty of making the sauce already. Come taste.”

  He lifts the lid to a pot, and dips a spoon inside. Raising it to his lips, he blows. I find that I can’t pull my eyes from his mouth, watching him with a sudden urgent desire to have that mouth pressed to any part of my body.

  He tastes the sauce, his tongue slipping out to catch a stray drop. Then, as though he can read my mind, he wraps his arm around my waist and kisses me deeply, letting me experience the savory spiciness of the marinara sauce combined with the warm deliciousness of his lips. I kiss him back with equal fervor, and press my body against his.

  He moans low in his throat, and then pulls back, playfully pinching my ass.

  “You’re going to make me want to order pizza.” His mouth widens into a broad, megawatt smile.

  In my current state, I’d be fine with a fistful of crackers if it meant we could get back to the kissing. I think my mouth opens and closes a couple of times before I manage to get out, “Can I do something?”

  “Yes.” He’s clearly amused by my sudden lack of composure. “You can work on the salad while I start to make the dough for the pasta. Grab whatever ingredients you like out of the fridge.”

  His refrigerator is unreal–stocked so full it’s disorienting. He’s just one person, but there’s enough food in here to feed an army. “Is there a football team coming to dinner?”

  He laughs. “No, just me. I cook a lot.”

  “When do you have time?”

  I’m beginning to feel genuinely bad about myself at this point. I eat cereal more than I care to admit, and my fridge
is so sparsely stocked that even if I got a wild hair to cook, eggs might be the most extravagant meal I could pull together on a moment’s notice.

  “Mostly on the weekends. I tend to cook for the week and freeze things.”

  “That sounds very…sensible.” Mature. Organized. Sexy.

  He walks over to a well-supplied cupboard to the right of the cooktop, and pulls out flour and salt.

  “When I was growing up, my mom was obsessive about fresh food. It wasn’t that she was a health nut–we had homemade cookies and cakes and whatnot–but she wanted us to eat real food, not packaged. I guess some of that stuck with me, although I’m nowhere near the cook she was.”

  I take in all of this information greedily. It’s fascinating, actually. Seeing him here in his home–in his element–so many things make sense that didn’t before. I’d always thought of him as a stereotypical bachelor, but now I think that assessment is wrong. He’s someone who lost his home base, just like I did, and has done everything possible to get it back. To find his center. My heart swells a little for him.

  “Do you cook?” He glances up at me again as he mixes ingredients for the dough.

  “I used to do most of cooking for me and my brother, but his tastes were pretty limited. Since I’ve been at school, most of my cooking involves the barbecue. I do bake sometimes, though.”

  “Key lime pie?” he asks with apparent hopefulness.

  “You like key lime pie?”

  He nods eagerly. “You can make it for me when I come to dinner at your place.”

  §

  Watching him knead the dough turns out to be very distracting. Every muscle in his upper body contracts with the movement, and his strong hands work the ingredients into a supple white mound. Gah…Why is it that everything he does turns to sex in my mind?