by P. G. Forte
Claire was looking at me strangely when I finished talking. “That is a very romantic story.”
“You think so?”
“Mm-hm. And it’s a beautiful car.”
Well, that part I agreed with. “It is. It’s a classic. Beautiful, elegant, it can’t ever really go out of style. And it handles... well, like I always knew it would.” Suddenly, I remembered that she wasn’t feeling well. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone on so long. You must be bored.”
Claire shook her head. “Not a bit. And don’t be sorry. I asked, remember?” Then she flashed that wonderful smile at me again. “Why don’t we get going now?”
I nodded, feeling just a little sorry because this was a moment I knew wouldn’t likely come again. It would have been nice to stretch it out a little longer.
If only she were feeling better. If only I’d thought to pack a picnic, a blanket, a bottle of wine. But, given the circumstances--really not a good idea. I’d started the car when I remembered, “I still don’t know where you live.”
“That’s all right,” she said as she re-fastened her seatbelt. “I don’t want to go there anyway.”
My eyebrows rose. “Well, then, where are we going?”
Her hands stilled on the buckle. She looked at me questioningly. “I thought... your house. No?”
“My house?”
She nodded. “Mm-hm. You know, the one you said you helped design? I’m intrigued. I’d really like to see it.”
“But... that’s... that’s all the way out in Topanga Canyon.” Surely she didn’t expect me to drive all the way out there, then back here, then back out there again? All in one night? Or was she so drunk the idea seemed reasonable?
Claire’s lips quirked. “I know where it is. Is there a problem?”
I sighed. That would be a Yes on the drunk question, wouldn’t it? “Look, Claire, that’s a little far for a joy ride, don’t you think?” I hinted, as gently as I could.
“Weren’t you planning on going home tonight anyway?”
“Yes. Once. But not... not two or three times.” Not that the idea of spending all that time alone with her wasn’t heavenly but... well, no, damn it, this was not quite what I’d had in mind. “I know I said the drive back into town only takes a matter of minutes but, even so, those minutes do add up. And I’ve driven out there and back once tonight already. Besides, it’s getting a little late. Wouldn’t you rather I just take you home now?”
Claire was staring at me fixedly, as though attempting to puzzle something out. Finally, “Michael, I thought you understood? When I asked you to take me home I meant I wanted to spend the night with you.”
This time, I knew for certain I was hearing things. I shook my head, hoping to clear it. “Spend the night?”
She nodded. “With you. Yes. Is something wrong?”
The only thing wrong was the way the blood had left my skull, headed straight for my dick. Somehow, I’d have thought that would make my brain feel clearer, but it didn’t. “Just--Jesus, how much did you have to drink back there anyhow?”
Laughing, Claire slipped her seatbelt off again. She leaned in close and lifted one of her hands to frame my face. Her fingers felt as cool as they had before; but this was even better than before because this time she was touching me on purpose. Her eyes were dark, her smile was sultry and her voice and her words were something out of a dream. “You’re a very sweet man, Mike. You shouldn’t sell yourself short.” Then she kissed me.
For a moment, I think I forgot who either of us was. We were simply Man and Woman and nothing had ever felt more right. Her lips were soft, her scent was sweet and everything male in me responded. Mine. Fierce and insistent, the instinct to claim her, to take her as my own--now, tonight, forever--overrode everything else.
I kissed her back, tugging her hard against me, my tongue coaxing hers into play. Touching everything I could get my hands on, I practically tore the material of her dress as I sought for the zipper. Then my hands registered the feel of the sequined gown they were coasting over--the same glimmering garment I’d been trying, all evening, not to stare at. Suddenly, I remembered where I was and who I was with.
“Claire. Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I...”
She opened her eyes. Something dark flickered in their depths--heat and passion and something else. Alarm, maybe?
“Wow.” Her voice emerged hoarse and breathless. “Mike. You really shouldn’t sell yourself short.”
A relieved laugh burst from my lips. I’d been half expecting her to slap me, never mind that she’d started it. “I think that ‘wow’ just made my night. Thank you.” I took a deep breath. Resting my forehead against hers, I forced myself to take control. “But, please tell me where you live so I can drive you home.”
“What?” Claire pulled away from me. “I already told you. I don’t want to go there.”
I nodded. “I know you did. But, come on, you’ve been drinking. Even if I thought you actually meant it, I still can’t take advantage of you like this.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” She shook her head, gazing at me in disbelief. “So I’ve been drinking, Mike. So what? It’s not exactly the first time that’s happened you know. And, besides, isn’t that really the reason most people drink to begin with? So they can loosen up, release their inhibitions, forget about the rules they don’t want to follow?”
“Sleep with people they wouldn’t otherwise in a million years?”
“That too.” Laughter sparkled suddenly in her eyes. “Which is not always a bad thing, you know. And, besides...” Leaning in, she ran one hand up my chest. Her lips were only inches from mine; her voice husky and low. “I want you. If you’re trying to imply that’s only because I’m drunk, it’s not true.”
My heart was hammering in my chest. If I wanted to remain sane, I needed some space. Now. I pushed her away a little. “Claire. Stop kidding around. You know it’s true.”
“It’s not! Not even a little.”
“Oh, it isn’t? Really? I’ve known you for months. How come this is the first time it’s come up then?”
“Well, I mean,” Grinning, she peeked up at me through her lashes. “I don’t always sleep with everyone I meet within minutes of meeting them either, you know. Besides... a million years, Mike? That’s a really long time.”
“I know how long it is.” And I figured it was maybe half as long as it was gonna take me to forget that kiss. Or to stop wanting to kiss her again. Right now. But, want it or not, it wasn’t going to happen.
A petulant frown creased Claire’s brow. “You can’t possibly believe I’m so drunk I don’t know what I’m doing? Or do you think I’m gonna wake up tomorrow morning and wonder, what the hell was I thinking last night?”
That was exactly what I thought. I felt my jaw clench. “You might.”
She shook her head. “I won’t”
“Your address,” I repeated stubbornly.
Uttering an exasperated sigh, Claire collapsed against the car door. Arms folded, she glared at me. “You know, Mike, a little hesitation is endearing, too much feels like rejection. No woman likes that. And I can assure you I’m not anywhere near as drunk as I’d have to be to forget about this. Is that really what you want me to remember when I wake up tomorrow morning? That I asked you to take me to bed and you turned me down? Because I can promise you, I’m not gonna like it any better then.”
“Claire, I am not turning you down. I wouldn’t ever do that.”
“Oh, you’re not?”
“No! I--I... shit.” What the hell was I saying? Of course I was turning her down. What the fuck was wrong with me?
I couldn’t believe this conversation. And, as bad as the one I was having with her, it had nothing on the internal one I had going on with myself. It was like one of those old cartoons, where I had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other; both urging me on, both sounding incredibly convincing. Only one of them could be right and, as usual, that would be the one telling you w
hat you didn’t want to hear.
“Look, I don’t want you waking up tomorrow and remembering I took advantage of you while you were drunk.” That would be the worst. I was pretty sure that would be worse than any of the alternatives. Wouldn’t it?
“Why don’t we let me worry about how I’m going to feel about things in the morning, hmm?” Claire arched an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to give in.
I said nothing.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she fumed. “It’s just sex, Mike. It’s fun. It feels good. It’s supposed to be enjoyable. If you’re looking for something you can feel guilty about, I suggest you run a few stop signs on the way home.”
“Claire...”
She shook her head sadly, shoulders sagging, and I could tell I’d finally worn her down. Winning had never left me feeling so shitty. But I was wrong. She wasn’t done. Not quite yet.
Taking a deep breath, Claire raised her head and fixed me with a steely gaze. Her voice, when she spoke, was clear, quiet, sad. But not the voice of someone who was intoxicated. Not even a little. “There have been a few things in my life I’ve regretted doing, Mike. If I live long enough, I’m sure there’ll be more. Sleeping with you tonight would not have been one of them. Can you say the same, if you turn me down?”
And, no, God help me, I couldn’t say that. Without another word, I put the car in gear and floored the gas. What else was there to say, after all?
“Now, that’s more like it,” Claire murmured happily, settling back in her seat and snapping her seatbelt back into place.
A man can only withstand so much temptation. And, when the choice is one of being damned if you do, damned if you don’t, well, that’s really not much of a choice now, is it?
Chapter Three
Claire
The air in the canyon was warm, fragrant; drier and grittier than the air in town had been, but clearer, too, and what looked like a billion stars were shining overhead.
“Well, here we are,” Mike announced as he pulled into his drive. I couldn’t decide if he sounded nervous or excited or both. His house was small, just as he’d described it, but it looked cozy. Even in the dark, I could see that the grounds were impeccably kept.
As I opened the car door the smell of lemons and moss greeted me, along with the fainter scents of bay laurel and chaparral. Mike was out of the car ahead of me. Before I’d put so much as a foot on the ground, he was right there, extending a hand to help me out. I smiled at him as I stood, coming to my feet with only scant inches between us. I thought that would have been a great time for him to kiss me again, in the soft air and the starlight, but he didn’t. He just reached around me to push the door shut, then put his hand on my back and guided me up the path toward the house. Frankly, I was a little disappointed.
That kiss we’d shared in the car had seemed nothing short of amazing and I was eager for a repeat. But, maybe I’d been imagining things? Maybe I’d been looking for something--an excuse to continue in the face of his reluctance, a reason to convince him, or maybe to convince us both, that this was a good idea, that we wouldn’t just be wasting our time tonight.
He’d certainly seemed eager enough--then. But now? Now he seemed distant, remote, and I’d had more than enough of that in my last marriage. Of course, it could be he was just tired. But, on a night when I was hoping for heat or, failing that, a little warmth; at a time when I longed for the honest passion of an honest man, it struck the wrong note entirely.
A couple of steps led up to the front entry. Two wide, porcelain bowls, jade green and filled with water, stood at the top, delicate water lilies floating inside. The double doors of the front entry, also jade green, were unadorned, save for the round windows in each one. Made of thick, wavy discs of blown glass forming concentric rings, they looked like water that had frozen in mid-ripple.
Mike unlocked the door and pushed it open. “After you,” he murmured.
I smiled as I slipped past him into the house, but said nothing.
Inside, the house was a comfortable, timeless blending of old and new. Hardwood floors in the living room, wooden vigas on the ceiling, a distressed-brick fireplace that seemed to take up one entire wall. Mission Oak furniture. A Mondrian-style carpet. Arts and Crafts lampshades.
A set of whimsical, wrought-iron fireplace tools graced the hearth, their spiral design echoed in the iron pot rack that hung above the stove. The terracotta kitchen floor wore the kind of shiny, rich patina that only comes with age and care. An earthenware water jug sat atop the mosaic tiled counter and next to it, a heavy tumbler of Mexican glass. Beyond that was the dining room: Danish teak beneath a copper and mica chandelier.
The back wall, which faced the softly burbling creek, was mostly louvered glass. With all its narrow frosted panes angled open, as they were now, it was like a solid wall of night. Through it, all the sounds and smells that rose on the evening air flowed, unchecked, into the house.
“It’s lovely,” I murmured politely. It was lovely, and unusual and different, but I hadn’t really come here for the house.
“Thank you,” Mike replied, making no move to join me. He’d tossed his jacket over the back of the couch when we entered, but after that, he’d seemed to be almost frozen in place, moving just enough to keep me in sight. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked at last.
Seriously? “Uh, no,” I said, trying hard not to laugh. “I think I’m okay for now.” He already thought I was drunk, didn’t he? He must be more nervous than I thought, if he was offering me more. Or maybe he was looking to get me completely plastered?
“Coffee? Tea? Something to eat, then? Cheese and crackers, perhaps? Or...”
“Nothing. Thanks.”
I continued exploring. Berber carpeting in the bedroom. More glass. Another fireplace--this one framed in river rock. The bed was a huge four-poster; walnut and wrought iron.
“I can see you really have a thing for iron,” I observed, turning toward the doorway where Mike was propping up the doorframe. “Another passion?”
He shrugged. “Not really. There’s an artist--up near Pismo. I was at a fair... oh, several years ago now... I saw his work and... well, I was redecorating, anyway, so...” His voice trailed away. We stared at each other with the length of the room between us.
Finally, he dropped his gaze. “Help me out, Claire. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do here.”
Well, at least he was honest. And wasn’t that what I said I wanted? I felt my lips quirk. “Well... you could start by kissing me again.”
I think I was expecting him to hesitate, maybe even argue with me again. But he didn’t. He was across the room in an instant, caging my face between his hands, lowering his mouth to mine.
Oh, yes. I hadn’t been mistaken. Mike’s kiss was a heady mix of persuasion and demand. Gentle yet insistent with a deliciously dominant edge--something that had been missing from most of my relationships, ever since my third husband--an abusive sonofabitch if there ever was one--had taught me to fear strong men.
This was just what I wanted, just what I’d been hoping for--for so long I’d almost given up on ever finding it. I leaned into him eagerly, flattening my hands on his chest, content to follow his lead, giving him free rein with my mouth and with anything else he cared to try for.
After a long, luscious moment, Mike lifted his head, then appeared to change his mind. His fingers tightened on my face again and he kissed me twice more, very quickly. “God, Claire.” His voice, husky and even deeper than usual, rumbled out of his chest. “Are you really serious about this?”
I sighed contentedly. “About what?”
“About this. Us. Tonight. Everything.”
Still? “Oh, Mike.” Shaking my head, I pushed away from him, took a few steps back, unzipped my dress and let it fall to the ground. I kicked it aside. Heat flared in his eyes.
“Does this answer your question?” I asked as I stood before him, hands on my hips, wearing only a few scraps of lace--panties, bra, gar
ter belt--stockings and heels.
He swallowed hard and nodded. “I guess so.”
“Good.” Smiling, I stepped back into his arms. He grabbed me as soon as I came within reach, pulling me close. The look on his face, just before I kissed him, was one of unabashed relief.
Finally, I thought as I felt his hesitation dissolve; as he speared both hands into my hair, wrestling with the clip that held it in place finally freeing it to tumble loose around my shoulders. Then, with one hand firmly cupping the back of my head, the other one framing my face, he slanted my head to the side and took control again.
My skin tingled as his fingers trailed down my cheek, my throat, my chest. My nipples beaded hard and tight in anticipation of his touch. I pressed myself closer. But he ignored the invitation. His hand curved only briefly around my breast and continued onward; gliding warmly over my ribs, to my hip; sliding over my butt to grasp the top of my thigh. He lifted my leg and wrapped it around his waist. Then he slipped his fingers beneath the flimsy lace of my panties to pet my slit. He teased my clit, brushing lightly all around it, circling, circling, circling, coming tantalizingly close, and then moving away.
As his fingers probed my opening, a rush of fluid from my pussy coated his hand. I could feel my own slickness in the silken gliding of his fingers as he continued his exploration; moving even further back now, to tease my anus. I rocked my hips against the motion of his hand, eager for more; shuddering as my sex suddenly spasmed. The leg I was standing on trembled and Mike adjusted his hold on me, trapping me ever more tightly against him, curtailing my movements--and sending another tremor rocketing through me.
