Afternoon Delight

by Anne Calhoun

  “In a different way, yes.”

  He took the plate and fork from her hand, cut the remaining section into thirds, and offered her a bite. She opened her mouth, then closed her lips around the fork. Excellent quality cocoa, she thought at the back of her mind, then firmly set it aside to sink into the moment. His dark blue eyes, the way the streetlights caught the silver in his stubble, the fine lines more visible in the stark shadows. The strength of his thighs under hers, the heat of his erection against her sex. The sheer delight of chocolate on her tongue.

  “Not bad, but it’s not the cake, either,” he said, and handed her the plate back.

  She gave him a frowning glare, mostly mock, as she fed him the second-to-last piece. The last piece, the biggest, the softest melting-chocolate center, she scooped onto the fork, brought to his mouth, then leaned forward and stole it right off the tines.

  “Hey,” he yelped, then sat up and kissed her, but she kept her lips firmly closed and entertained him with her best array of fake-orgasmic noises. He rolled her onto her back, kissing her breathless, nibbling at her lips, delicately licking the seam, but she gave him nothing at all until she’d swallowed. Then she opened her mouth, licked her way into his mouth, trading kiss for kiss until the taste of chocolate was just another sensory assault, along with the scent of the city on his skin, the rasp of his beard against her cheeks and chin, the play of his muscles under his shirt, the slide of his hair between her fingers, the weight of his body on hers, one thigh between hers. He braced his toes against the bed and used the leverage to grind his erection against her hip. It was sweet and dirty and hot, sex and spice and dark chocolate, and a man she knew she shouldn’t fall for.

  Except she could. She could. So easily. She wasn’t going back to the way she used to be. With Tim, in Manhattan, she was becoming a different version of herself.

  “You cheated,” he growled.

  She laughed. “I did.”

  “I ought to make you pay for that,” he said, and braced himself on his elbow. His deft fingers flicked open the buttons closing her eyelet blouse, then tugged loose the bow that tightened the fabric under her breasts. He bent and licked his way down her throat, making her arch, then continued to the swell of her breasts, keeping his touch to the exposed skin. Her nipples hardened to tight peaks under her basic microfiber bra, chafing a little as she wriggled under him.

  “Tim, please,” she said.

  His breath ghosted warm and damp over her nipples, then he lifted his head and finished unbuttoning her blouse. He bent to her ribs, tracing them with his tongue before kissing his way past her navel to the waistband of her jeans.

  “What do you want?”

  “If I tell you, you won’t give it to me.”

  A rough chuckle. “And this way you might get it by accident.”

  Not very likely. “It’s a strategy.”

  “Maybe I’m a magnanimous winner.”

  It was her turn to laugh, but even to her own ears there was a different note to the sound. She knew what she wanted, and she wanted it pretty badly, but Tim wouldn’t. Tim would want the challenge, the power play, the dynamic that hinged not on emotions but rather on distractions. It was in his tone, still teasing, still playing the game they’d started out playing. His fingers lingered at the top button of her jeans as he looked at her. “Try me.”

  “I want your skin against mine. I want you inside me. I want it to last.”

  I want authentic. I want real. I want you.

  His expression went blank. For a split second she thought he would make a joke out of it, because that’s what he did. He made jokes, turned and twisted things into funny and light and ridiculous. His fingers traced her ribs, repetitive, automatic motions, walking that fine line between touch and tickle. She found herself tightening in anticipation.

  Then his touch lightened. “I can do that,” he said.

  She reached up and cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb over his golden beard, then his lower lip. He looked down at her, his eyes hidden by the streetlight that gilded his hair. She stayed with the moment, the uncertainty, the vulnerability in it, until she knew what to do next.

  She brought her thumb to her mouth and licked the pad, then returned it to Tim’s lips. Face still unreadable, he touched the tip of his tongue to her thumb, then nipped at it. Gentle, slow, but still a nip, a reminder of the male’s strength and prerogative now held at bay for her pleasure.

  “Come here,” she said.

  He bent and set his lips on hers, the kiss so uncertain, it nearly broke her heart. It was like he didn’t have any idea how to do this without a game or a challenge, a winner and a loser. She slid her hand around to the nape of his neck, threading her fingers into the soft strands. His hand stayed at her waist, his thumb stroking the soft skin there, grinding himself in her body. She didn’t rush him, didn’t guide him, just let the kissing simmer into a new and different desire until the grabby instinct surged to the surface again.

  His hand went to the front catch of her bra. He flicked it open, skated his open palm over each breast to reveal the skin, a movement that brushed rough palm over the most sensitive flesh. She gasped, lifted, closed her eyes. He did it again, again, until her nipples were tight, hot, aching, and she was rolling under his touch.

  He caught one nipple between thumb and forefinger and kissed his way down her throat to the other. The contrast between rough skin and silky tongue made her moan. A low rumble powered his breath onto her skin, and she tightened her fingers in his hair. Craving skin of her own to touch, she tugged his shirt free from his jeans and delved inside. With her eyes closed she had to work from touch. A hip. Muscles shifting under skin. She curved her fingers around his buttock, tightening the pressure of his jeans against his cock. He groaned and rolled his hips against hers. She spread her legs a little wider, he settled between them, and the temperature in the room shot up ten degrees.

  “Off,” she pleaded. “Clothes. Off.”

  He sat back and went to work on her button and zipper, stopping only when she shoved his shirt off his shoulders and tugged the cuffs over his wrists. After some wriggling that made the bed squeak in protest she was naked and on her knees in front of him, attacking his zipper. His cock bobbed free, distracting her from her task. She stroked it, squeezed, before he muttered, “Focus, darlin’.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said, and worked his jeans down to the point where he had to sprawl to shove off jeans, underwear, socks, and shoes in one pile.

  He stretched out, half beside her and half on top of her. With a bone-deep exhalation she gave in to the sensation: weight and heat and the sheer delicious delight of being naked with a man.

  “Like that?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” she said. Her hands roamed his back, tracing the bumps of his spine, the hollows at the top of his backside, the firm curves. His cock slid against her hip, sweat and precome making her skin slippery. The movement, so close to where she wanted it, triggered a rush of desire.

  “Inside,” she said. “Please. Tim. Inside me.”

  He found a condom in one of the drawers in the bookcases surrounding the Murphy bed, rolled it on, and positioned himself between her legs. Hands on his hips, she looked up at him, wanting to watch his face as he glided into her.

  She couldn’t see it. Positioned above her as he was, backlit by the streetlights, face harsh angles and shadows, she couldn’t tell whether he was with her or not, so she turned to other senses. His skin was hot to the touch, sweat breaking, a fine tremor in his shoulders and upper arms. His breathing had an edge to it, guttural, not sharp.

  But she couldn’t see his eyes to discern whether this was passion or stress.

  Then his cock found her slick folds and he was inside, gliding in to the hilt. A soft cry forced its way from the back of her throat, not from pain but from the cascade of sensation radiating from her core.

  “Jesus,” he gasped.

  “I wanted this,” she whispered. “I wanted this so badly
.”

  He dropped to his elbows and groaned into her ear. But she didn’t stop to decipher it because she had what she wanted, his body pressed against hers, chest to her breasts, his hard abdomen to her softer stomach, his hips against her inner thighs. She drew her knees up and rubbed her feet against the backs of his thighs, then undulated under him for the sheer pleasure of feeling all his planes and angles against her softer flesh as he settled deeper inside her.

  “Jesus,” he said again, and this time it was closer to prayer.

  Swamped by animal instinct, she lifted her head and scraped her teeth over his collarbone. His hand burrowed into her hair, cupping the back of her head. For a long moment their hearts pounded out of sync; she could feel her own against her breastbone and see his pulse at the base of his throat. Then he pulled out and slid back in.

  Slowly. Just like she’d asked for. She gave a choked little cry he read perfectly, setting a patient rhythm she never thought he’d be capable of. Then she stopped thinking at all, surrendering to the heat twining through her. It coiled out from her core, tendriling around her hips and down her thighs to her toes, up her ribs to wrap around her breastbone, her collarbone, her spine, her skull. Without conscious thought she released her death grip on the nape of his neck and worked her arms under his to flatten her palms at the base of his spine.

  “Oh oh oh,” she breathed. Her skin tingled, release surging just under the surface. Tim slid a hand under her hips, tilting her up, sliding deep, flinging her out into the void. From far away she heard a cry tear from her throat, disappearing into the concussive tidal waves sweeping through her.

  Tim went rigid above her, tightening with his own pulsing release. When she came back into her body he was trembling, aftershocks burning their way out through his major muscle groups.

  “Oh, God,” she said. The incredulous tone of her voice made her laugh. She patted his hip, savoring the slow surrender of his body as he sank from tense to relaxed. His head hung beside hers, cheek to cheek, and his breath gusted hot and steady against her shoulder.

  “Yeah.” He disengaged their bodies and slumped to one side.

  “That was . . .” Wickedly hot. Tight chemistry. The best sex I’ve ever had.

  “Yeah.” He draped one arm across his eyes. She looked at him, watched his fingers twitch randomly.

  All right, then.

  “I should go,” she said, and sat up. “It’s not that late, just after nine.”

  She ducked into the bathroom, cleaned up, and tamed her hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She dressed quickly, then scuffed into her clogs.

  “Thanks for tonight,” she said. “I had a great time.” She’d be thinking about it on the subway ride to Brooklyn, all dreamy-eyed like a girl. Dinner, walking through a spring night in Manhattan, absorbing sex. She was back in the land of the living. Aunt Joan would be proud of her.

  “I thought of something that’s uniquely New York,” he said without moving the arm that covered his eyes.

  She blinked. “What? Oh. The challenge,” she said.

  “Unless you want to back out.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. I . . . wasn’t thinking about it yet, what with the crazy awesome sex we just had.”

  She got the sense his smile was involuntary. “Yeah,” he said again. “It was pretty good.”

  “Pretty good? You’re a hard man to impress, Tim Cannon.”

  “It’s also crazy awesome when we both have something at stake.”

  The conversation was oddly forced, and therefore jarring. Even earlier in the night it would have made more sense than it did now, after . . . oh. “What makes you think something wasn’t at stake?” she asked quietly.

  He said nothing.

  “I’ll text you. Good night, Tim,” she said, and let herself out of the apartment.

  ***

  The train hurtled into the tunnel under the river, headed for Brooklyn. Sitting under the fluorescent lights as the car swayed, Sarah found her mind wandering to the summer she’d learned to make crème brûlée. There was a specific temperature necessary to cook the sugar on top of crème brûlée. The line between cooked and burned was a fine one, and it took a careful eye to stay on this side of the line. One too many passes with the torch and the dessert was scorched.

  She shook off the nerves and watched for her stop. After the last two years, it was impossible for her to get burned. She’d watched her beloved aunt fight cancer, surrender, and die. A simple, casual spring affair couldn’t possibly lay her low.

  Chapter Seven

  He should have recognized a professional’s touch. In his world there was classroom training and on-the-job training. Sarah’s few details about taking care of her dying aunt confirmed what he’d suspected when she cleaned up his stitches: Like him, she had the deft touch of someone who’d learned compassion and gentleness on a beloved family member’s body. But unlike him, she was letting the experience slowly simmer inside her, letting it change her for the better.

  The question startled both of them. That much was obvious. He hadn’t known he was going to ask it until the words were out of his mouth. He blamed the city he loved for lowering his guard. Taking her to his favorite places, remembering who he used to be in the process, opened gaps in his defenses. Some of his best years had been at the Yorkville station, working with the firehouses on the Upper East Side. He still had friends in that neighborhood, had been skimming the customers spilling from bars on Second Avenue for guys he used to work with. That night with Sarah wasn’t about speed. It was about slowly getting to know someone—and letting her get to know him in return.

  He’d been a jackass, too, bringing up the competition to end their evening together. He didn’t want to end things, just get the stakes back where they were supposed to be, in the purely physical realm. Except he was fooling himself if he thought even the purely physical didn’t carry a big risk.

  The thing was . . . it was supposed to be simple. She wasn’t asking for much. No gymnastics, no trying to read the Kama Sutra and contort himself into the ape pose. No demands for an expensive dinner (she’d make a better one) or flowers or candy (they weren’t dating) or his time (she had a life of her own). All she wanted was his skin against hers and a pace that matched human experience, not a modern, frenetic, distracted, I’m-thinking-about-work-you’re-wondering-who-texted post-date fuck.

  Simple enough, on the surface. The reality was anything but.

  The building was a big one, covering half a city block, so he and Casey had witnesses from the elevator to the open door at the end of the hall. He hoisted the trauma bag higher on his shoulder and quickened his pace. Casey broke into a trot behind him, close enough to Tim that the loose equipment bag smacked his calf with each step.

  The housekeeper was waiting at the door, wringing her hands, eyes anxious. She pointed at the bathroom. They shed their bags, straightened him out on the floor. On his own, Casey did the assessment. Breathing, no pulse, unconscious. Without a word Casey yanked the Automated External Defibrillator from the bag and attached it to the patient’s chest.

  “Clear,” Tim snapped as he switched on the AED and hit the button. Casey scrambled up onto the toilet, eager to break contact with the victim.

  “V-fib,” Casey said, peering over Tim’s shoulder at the readout.

  “Clear,” Tim said again, and Casey pulled away.

  The housekeeper hovered in the door, her hand over her mouth, judging by the muffled prayers in Spanish. The shock tightened the vic’s muscles, but nothing as dramatic at the arching contortions shows on TV. Tim watched the AED for a pulse, recording in the back of his brain the sight of Casey perched on the toilet like a wide-eyed blue vulture.

  ABCs. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Air goes in and out, blood goes round and round. He wasn’t avoiding anything. Every day he dealt with the most basic elements of life. Simple enough, when Sarah wasn’t.

  “He’s got a pulse,” Tim said. “Let’s go.”


  Casey hopped off the toilet, fitted the mask over the man’s mouth, and squeezed. Tim shouldered past the housekeeper into the living room, where the gurney waited, along with two cops who’d answered the call. Between the four of them they got the man strapped to the gurney, the housekeeper’s explanation of reporting for work, opening the door, finding him on the bathroom floor a sound track to the sounds of the job.

  They bumped and thumped down five flights of stairs and out the front door to the bus. “Stay with him,” Tim said, and swung up into the driver’s seat.

  They dropped the victim at the hospital. On the way back to the station he threw together a quick Internet search on Sarah’s full name, soup, her aunt’s name. Her blog was the first hit. The most recent entry announced her plan to move to New York and thanked everyone for their condolences on Aunt Joan’s death. He skimmed the comments section of the actual obituary: note after note from people who were friends, relatives, or total strangers, all touched by the story she’d told of the journey from diagnosis to death.

  Older entries were a mixture of updates on Joan’s health and comments on what Sarah was cooking. Hospice care, increased pain medications, weight loss, hair loss. Recipes. Joan wants the old standbys now, the recipes she remembers from childhood. I bought a meaty ham bone and made my grandmother’s recipe from scratch. Aunt Joan said the house smelled like her mother’s house. She had a whole bowl and some homemade bread today, and sends everyone her love.

  There was a picture of a crazy quilt and sunshine draped over an emaciated woman wearing a soft hat—black, with a skull and crossbones knitted into the fabric; someone had a wicked sense of humor—holding a bowl of soup and smiling determinedly for the camera. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, then jerked against the harness when Casey braked to a halt in the bay.

  He closed the browser window and swung out of the bus. The Internet search helped. She’d been through a rough time, and she wanted to get back to the way she had been. He could help her do that, because the way she used to be fit perfectly with the man he was now. Her past was his present. She wanted casual, no responsibilities, no obligations. She wanted to forget. She wanted a challenge, to feel alive again, and no wonder.