by Theresa Weir
“I'll get you a towel.” She shoved everything she was carrying into his hands.
He heard her clunking away toward the bathroom, saw the light come on, then go off.
Then she was back. “I came through here earlier, and you must have been dreaming. You were moaning and thrashing around. I almost woke you up to see if you were okay.”
A dream? Oh, yeah. Now he remembered. Oh, wow. No wonder he'd come awake with the covers twisted around him. No wonder he'd come awake with a hard-on that hurt all the way to his brain.
Apparently her eyes had adjusted to the dark because she was moving through the room like a cat. When she reached the back door, she stopped and he ran into her. “Aren't you going to get a coat?”
“No. It’s not far.”
She laughed, still wound up from the afternoon's news. “You have to at least get something on your feet.”
He wiggled his toes, realizing he was wearing nothing but the boxers. She was probably right. He handed all of the paraphernalia to her. Then he went all the way back through the house to the front door, running into the wall twice, bumping into Hallie, who just groaned her dog groan, before returning to where Claire waited at the door. He dropped his boots to the floor and stuck his feet inside, not bothering to tie the laces.
“Lookie here,” he muttered in his best country accent. “I’ve done gone hillbilly.”
She laughed and flicked on the deck light. They stepped outside into the chill night, their breath coming out a vapor in front of their faces. “We could get really hot, then run outside naked and roll around in the snow like they do in Alaska or someplace cold,” Claire said, hurrying to the building that housed the sauna.
He might just need to roll around in the snow. It would be better than a cold shower. “Sweden. I think they do that in Sweden. And Finland. And Russia.” He didn’t think he needed to remind her that this was someplace cold.
Inside the sauna, with Dylan standing a foot behind her, Claire dropped her coat and kicked off her boots until she stood in front of him wearing nothing but one of her little string panty things, a bra, and her goofy hat.
He had this quick, snapshot image before she picked up a towel, wrapped it around herself, then grabbed everything he was holding and took a seat on the opposite side of the room.
“Are you going to sit down?” She frowned, looking suddenly concerned. “Are you feeling okay? If you aren’t, a sauna wouldn’t be good for you. “
“I’m okay.” He stepped out of his boots and sat down, leaving a good couple of feet between them.
“I’ve had this wine around for a long time. My grandmother used to make homemade wine. Did I ever tell you that?”
She was still buzzing, still running on pure adrenaline, while he was stunned, stupefied.
From somewhere, maybe it had been folded inside a towel, she pulled out a bottle opener and began fumbling around, trying to screw it in the cork.
“Here.” He took it from her, screwed it in, then popped the cork from the bottle. “Are you sure we’re supposed to be doing this? I don’t know anything about saunas, but drinking alcohol in one doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“We won’t stay long. Oh, I forgot glasses. I can’t believe I forgot glasses.”
“That’s okay. Here— You first.” He handed the bottle to her. She took a drink, then passed it back. He took a drink. And then another.
“Elderberry wine,” Claire said, taking the bottle from him and lifting it back to her lips. “Grandma made elderberry wine, dandelion wine, and blueberry wine.”
They continued to pass it back and forth. Before they knew it, the bottle was empty, and Dylan was sweating buckets.
"'Did I ever tell you I don’t usually drink? Oh, I tried to drown my sorrows when Anton left, but I just ended up hugging the toilet bowel. They say there’s nothing worse than a champagne hangover, but a beer hangover’s pretty damn bad, let me tell you.
“You have to watch out for this homebrew,” she continued. “It sneaks up on you. It has a higher alcohol content than the stuff you get at the store.”
“I hate to spoil your party,” Dylan said, “but I'm going to have to get out of here.”
“Too hot?”
“Yeah.”
She was quiet a moment, long enough for Dylan to wonder what she was cooking up. It didn't take him long to find out.
“Let's go roll around in the snow, then we can come back inside.”
He didn't answer.
“Come on. It'll be fun.” She was already on her feet, dropping her towel to the floor. She grabbed his hand, pulling him up after her.
What else could he do but follow her out into the night, into the cold, cold night?
Steam rose from their hot bodies as soon as they stepped outside. With Claire still holding his hand, they ran through the snow, then threw themselves into a deep bank.
It felt good. After the smothering, feverish heat of the sauna, it felt so damn good. Kind of the way Dylan had always imagined snow would feel. Like a cool embrace on a hot day.
The light from the back door was enough for Dylan to see Claire lying beside him, acting like she was swimming the backstroke. He picked up a handful of snow and threw it at her, hitting her full in the face.
She screamed, picked up a handful of snow herself, and attacked, diving on top of him, rubbing the snow in his face, laughing.
He grabbed her by both arms and rolled with her, over and over, stopping with her beneath him, her face half-covered with snow, her goofy hat lying a few feet away. He reached up and grabbed her hat, sticking it back on top of her head so it was perched there, lopsided, kind of leaning over one eye.
“I don't want you to catch cold,” he said, smiling down at her.
She laughed.
She had a laugh that sent him into a tilt, that sent little darts of electricity through his veins, all the way to his heart.
“You are unbelievable.” How was it that he had found her? And why now, when his life had become so fallow? He leaned down and licked some snow off her face, sliding his tongue over her cheek. Her laughter quickly faded. Her smiling mouth changed to that of open surprise. He bent his head again, and closed his mouth, first over her top lip, then the bottom, gently sucking off the snow and wetness.
There was a lingering sweetness there, a hint of the taste that he'd find if he were to go deeper into her.
“W-What are you doing?” she asked.
“Tasting you.”
“I didn't think you thought of me like that.”
“I changed my mind.”
Her eyes, with their snow-kissed wetness, widened. “You have?”
He kissed the wet tip of her nose. It was cold. A tremor ran through her.
“Let's go back in the sauna,” he said, moving off her, putting out a hand to help her up.
This time, when they stepped inside, the sauna felt as good to Dylan as the cold had felt just minutes ago.
Claire poured water over the hot coals. They sizzled. Steam rose. She picked up the towel she'd dropped earlier, wrapping it around her shoulders. Her earlier boldness had left her. Dylan realized that she suddenly felt shy, maybe self-conscious.
“Do you want to know what I was dreaming about earlier? When you walked through the living room?”
“Yes. Tell me. I love to hear about dreams.”
“You.”
“Me?” She asked it in a tone that held a sort of hopeful disbelief.
“We were doing things.”
She had been staring at the vicinity of his chest. Now she looked up. She swallowed. “Oh?” It was a soft whisper. An inquisitive whisper. “What kind of things?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“I was hoping that maybe instead of telling me, you could ... you know ...” She made an airy gesture with one hand. Then she smiled up at him with some of her earlier bravado. “Show me?”
“Let's see.” He looked toward the wooden ceiling. “If I reme
mber right, I was sitting down. And you—” As he backed up he took her by the waist, pulling her with him. He sat down on the bench. “You were facing me.” He pulled her closer.
“Like this?”
She straddled his thighs with her legs and sat down.
He cupped the sweet curves of her bottom, left exposed by her tiny panties, and pulled her closer. “Of course we were both naked.”
“Oh. Yes.”
She put her hands to his shoulders. Her towel slid away. Her breasts were mounded above the softness of her low-cut bra, her nipples peeking out above the fabric like pink velvet.
“Wait. In my dream, you weren’t wearing this silly-ass hat.”
He pulled it from her head and dropped it beside them on the bench. Then he bent his head and placed his mouth first over one soft nipple, then the other. Her hands left his shoulders to dig her fingers into his hair. She began to move against him ever so slightly. He lifted his head and reached behind her to unhook her bra, sliding it down her arms and dropping it somewhere beside them, all the while watching her as she looked back at him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes.
“In my dream, I was inside you.”
He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, quickly finding her hot wetness. He stroked her, watching her head go back, watching her eyes close. “We were sweating, just the way we are now.” He watched a trail of sweat trickle between her breasts. He bent his head and licked it, savoring the saltiness of her soft skin. He continued to stroke her. “And you were tight. And you were so hot. We were both on fire, both burning up.”
She began making little keening sounds, sounds that told him she was winding up.
“Please, Dylan. Do something. Do it now.” She reached between them, quickly finding him through the slit in his boxer shorts, making a soft sound of appreciation as she freed him.
He had a sudden intrusive thought. “Claire, are you drunk?”
His question brought about a groggy reply, pulling her back from whatever kind of heaven people went to under such circumstances. “Drunk?”
“As in too drunk to make this kind of decision?”
“No. Absolutely not.” She sounded close to panic. “Don't you dare change your mind on me. Don't you dare start trying to think for me. Or second-guess me.”
“That's all I wanted to know.”
With that, he lifted her onto him, sliding deep into her sweetness, at first just savoring the feel of her around him, at first just savoring her, savoring Claire. “Oh, Claire. You feel so good. So damn good.”
He felt her hand on his cheek, lifting his face to hers. “Now will you kiss me?”
And he realized he'd never kissed her. Not a real kiss.
He moved his mouth over hers, sucking, kissing one part of her mouth at a time. He slipped his tongue deep inside, feeling the rough edge of her teeth, tasting the sweetness of the wine. She moaned. And then she pulled away to grasp the back of the wooden bench. She moved over him, using her knees as a lever to deepen the penetration.
She took him on a wild ride. It was like being on a roller coaster, and the car you were in was moving steadily up, higher and higher, and you knew it was just beginning, you knew things were going to change. And then suddenly there was the darkness, pitch black. And you went hurtling down so fast that there was no time to think about what was happening, all you could do was hang on.
He finally came back down, awareness slowly creeping in.
Claire was draped over him, her body limp and spent, her wet hair and sticking to his neck. They were both drenched in perspiration.
“Claire.” Was she asleep?
“Claire.”
She mumbled something against his neck, and rolled her head around a little. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I can’t move,” she muttered, one arm dropping beside her.
She was drunk. Drunk on her ass.
“Claire. Come on.”
He managed to wake her enough to lift her away from him and sit her on the bench where she immediately fell back to sleep, kind of collapsing head first onto the bench, her feet still on the floor.
He stood in front of her, grabbed her by both arms, and pulled her to her feet. Once she was upright, he draped both of her arms over his shoulders, and proceeded to walk backward toward the door.
At first, her feet just stayed where they were.
“Claire. Come on. Walk. One foot in front of the other. That’s the ticket. There you go. Now we’re going out the door. You’re going to have to step up. Then step down. Thatta girl. There you go.”
Cold air hit his back. He pulled air into his lungs, his sluggish brain immediately feeling clearer. Son of a bitch. She was going to be pissed at him. Come morning, she was going to hate him.
He wanted to drop down in the snow, but while Claire was still upright and semiconscious, he thought he’d better just get her to the house, get her to bed.
The frigid air seemed to have a slightly reviving effect on her. Suddenly she stood up a little straighter. She looked toward the house, kind of squinting her eyes. “That my house?”
“Yeah, that’s your house.”
“Looks funny. Kind of swirly.”
She was going to hate him. “’That’s because you’re kind of swirly.”
“I am?" She laughed.
Suddenly she put a hand to her chest. “Am I naked?"' she asked, in shocked surprise, her spine straightening once more.
“Almost.”
How in the hell had she gone from just feeling a little giddy, to drunk on her ass? One minute she'd just seemed like somebody who’d had a couple of drinks.
“Why’m I naked? More to the point, why’m I naked outside?”
“I’m trying to take care of that outside problem right now." This was a nightmare. Or some frat-house dream.
She wagged a finger at him. “I know what you want. You want to”—she leaned close, then whispered very loudly—“have sex with me.”
She took a staggering step. He caught her. “Come on, Claire.”
Somehow he managed to get her into the house, kicking the door closed behind them. He half carried, half dragged her to the bedroom, dropping her across the bed. Her eyes were closed.
He shifted her around so her head was on the pillow, and her feet were where they should be. Then he pulled the quilts out from under her legs and covered her up.
“The bed’s spinning,” she said, throwing one leg out from under the covers and planting a foot on the floor. “If I put my foot on the floor, maybe it will stop spinning.” She put an arm across her face. “Turn off the light. The light is hurting my eyes.”
He turned off the light, then stood near the doorway, wondering what to do. He had his answer fairly quickly.
“Sick. Gonna be sick.”
She threw back the covers, both of her feet hitting the floor at the same time. Her radar was excellent. She charged directly for the bathroom, never hesitating, never once staggering or taking the wrong turn. He followed the all-too-familiar sounds. He flicked on the light to see Claire, kneeling in front of the toilet, both hands on the rim, wet hair hanging on both sides of her face, naked except for a pair of thong underwear.
And he thought, this must be love. There she was. He’d probably never see her in a more humiliating situation, and yet he wasn’t repulsed. And he wasn't disgusted. Instead he felt, well, he didn't think that honored was exactly the word for it, but it was as close as he could get. And he felt this kind of sweet affection that took him totally by surprise.
He grabbed her housecoat off the hook on the bathroom door and put it over her shoulders. Then he threaded her arms through it, one at a time. He smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. “Done?”
She nodded.
“Want a drink of water?”
She shook her head.
“Want to get back in bed?”
She nodded.
He helped her up, then led her to the bed where he tucked
her in all over again, noting the paleness of her skin, the purple smudges under her closed eyes, the way her lashes made a shadow on her cheeks.
I think I’m in love.
She’s gonna kill me in the morning.
Chapter 20
Claire moaned and rolled over in bed, hugging the pillow tighter. That didn’t help. She moaned and rolled the other direction, wrapping the pillow around her swollen head.
Oh God. She felt horrible. Horrible.
Sunlight knifed its way through the window, shouting at her, screaming at her to get up. With her head feeling the size of a watermelon, she swung her legs to the side of the bed and slowly sat up. Bad idea. She lowered herself back down, missing the pillow completely to lie staring up at the ceiling. Her skin felt too tight for her body, her brain too big for her skull.
Thanks, Granny.
That had been some potent batch of elderberry wine.
What she needed was a shower. A shower helped everything.
She sat up again, pulling impatiently at the bathrobe that was twisted around her middle. Carefully, she got to her feet, and then moved very, very slowly in the direction of the bathroom, noting through a blur of agony that the house was quiet, that there was no sign of Dylan. Good. She didn’t want him seeing her in this shape, didn’t want him laughing in her face, telling her she should know better than to let herself get so stinking drunk that she ended up with the mother of all hangovers.
Poison. That’s what alcohol was. Poison. She was just damn lucky she hadn’t died.
The shower wasn’t really a shower. It was actually a claw-foot tub that had been converted into a shower by hanging two white curtains on a curved rod. Claire separated the curtains and sat on the cold edge of the tub while adjusting the water temperature. She turned on the showerhead, stepped into the tub, and closed the curtain.
And she stood there.
And stood there, her eyes closed, her head tilted back, water soaking her hair, creeping in between each strand to sizzle when it hit her scalp.
Wonder how many brain cells I lost last night. Hundreds. No, that wasn’t nearly enough. Millions. A million, billion, trillion.
The shower wasn’t helping. She still felt like she’d been hit by a train. She couldn’t remain upright another second.
