by Tara Wylde
“Can I—”
“There’s a—”
“Sorry,” he says. “You first.” He’s dishing up the mushrooms with a long pair of tongs. I’d have been burning my fingers, doing the snatch-and-toss thing.
“Oh, I was just going to ask if you needed help with anything.”
He looks around, and waves his tongs at one of the cabinets. “You could rinse out a couple of wine glasses. Last time I came up here, it’d been a while, and I ended up enjoying half a glass of dust with my Cabernet.
“Mmm, dust mites!” I grab the glasses, and set about my chore, while he sets up the kitchen table. I’m charmed by the fact that he puts out a tablecloth, and what looks like some pretty nice silverware. He even lights a candle. It’s homey. Comforting. Can’t remember the last time I had a meal that didn’t come out of a box. Vince didn’t cook, and I’m usually too tired after work.
Soon, we’re seated across from one another. He raises his glass. “To boring summer jobs!”
“Boring summer jobs!”
We clink. I’m about to dig into my omelet, when I remember: “Hey, this might sound weird, but...don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Forbes magazine, maybe?”
Maybe? I tilt my head, trying to picture him on the cover of Forbes, surrounded by blurbs and headlines. It’s not a familiar mental image, but…. “Nothing else comes to mind. That must be it. When were you in there?”
“Few times now. Latest was, hmm...January, I think? They did a little profile.” He swirls his wine around in his glass, looking at me over the rim. “You look sort of familiar, too, though. Do you have a boat?”
“Nope.”
“Vacation in Scotland?”
“Not in the last twenty years.”
Sam leans forward a little. His eyes go dark and intense, like he’s about to tell a secret. “OK—this might be a bit out there, but...did you ever get tripped over by a guy walking backwards with four flutes of champagne at a Boston Pops concert?”
I nearly choke on my wine. “No, entertaining as that might’ve been!”
“I’m going to figure this out,” he says. He prods at the air with his fork. “If I’ve ever so much as stolen your cab at the airport, I’m going to—I’m going to hunt down that memory, and bring you its head for your mantel.” He spears a mushroom. I bite back a snicker.
“Do you steal cabs at the airport?” I ask.
“‘Course not!”
“That’s a relief. Not sure I could break bread with a low-down, dirty cab stealer.”
“I fly a lot,” he says. “Nothing worse than coming off a long, cramped flight, and having to wait for a cab.”
“So, you travel a lot, you’ve been in Forbes multiple times, and we’ve established that you’re not a celebrity chef. What do you do?”
“Professional nerd.” He winks, and takes a bite of his omelet.
“Guess that makes two of us. Only, I’ve never been in a magazine that wasn’t the dry, academic sort.” I try the omelet, myself. Tastes even better than it looks. I’m starting to think Sam’s missed his calling.
“Nothing quite so highbrow here,” he says. “We started out making parody games—Final Vantasy, that was ours, the one where you’re saving the world in a VW bus. Call of Booty, too, with the pirates, the...well, you probably wouldn’t have played that. It was pretty stupid. But now, we develop toys and media properties, specifically with an eye to movie tie-ins.”
“So, you’re the ones flooding Hollywood with alien sharks and flying green gophers?”
Sam grins, somewhere between sheepish and proud. “That’d be us.”
“You ever have a cameo in one of those movies?”
He shakes his head. “Not me.”
Damn. That’s not it either, then.
Our late supper goes by in a slightly winey haze. Sam’s got a wry sense of humor that keeps sneaking up on me, making me laugh louder than might be strictly ladylike. He keeps suggesting sillier and sillier ways we might’ve met, and while the truth stays a mystery, we’re both practically falling out of our chairs by the time we’ve cleaned our plates. We drift back to the living room, nudging each other, still giggling. Boone’s scampering around our feet. I’m torn between hoping we don’t trip over him, and hoping we do, so we end up tangled together on the floor.
Instead, we wind up on one of the pillowy couches I noticed earlier. It’s every bit as comfortable as it looks. I sink into it. It’s like being cuddled by a cloud.
“This is the best couch I’ve ever sat on.”
“It better be, after the fun I had hauling it up the mountain.” He gazes at the rain streaking down the window. “I lived here for a while after college. Made my first game on that laptop—” He gestures at an ancient, chunky laptop, perched on a footstool. “—sitting on this couch. Boone was about this big.” Sam holds his hands about a breadbox-width apart.
I look at Boone, really taking him in. He’s definitely not a puppy anymore. Can’t have been for a while. “How old is he now?”
“Thirteen.” Sam leans down to give Boone’s head a fond tousle. “You’re an old man, aren’t you? So old! So old!”
Boone snuffles.
I sink even deeper into the couch, closing my eyes. When I open them, Sam’s looking at me like he’s just answered the $64,000 Question.
“I know where I know you from,” he says.
43
Sam
It hits me like a ton of bricks. One minute, I’m rubbing Boone’s gray muzzle, wondering where the years went, and the next—
“I know where I know you from.”
Sarah blinks. “Oh?” Her forehead crinkles. “Not anywhere bad, I hope?”
“No. I mean, yeah—but nothing you did.”
She sits up straighter. “This I’ve got to hear.”
“Wow. It’s—this is pretty out there. Where to start?” I reach into my pocket, and pull out a Milk Bone. Boone lets me balance it on his snout, and waits till I give him the thumbs-up, before he flips it into the air and catches it in his mouth. I scritch at his chest. “Let’s see—it was three days before Christmas, two years ago. You probably don’t remember, but you gave me a pack of Kleenex in front of a huge wall of jellyfish.”
“What?”
“OK—let me start at the beginning. I was having the worst day, just...unbelievably bad. It was….” I pinch the bridge of my nose. This isn’t the best memory.
“Right from the get-go, nothing went right. I ripped my sleeve on a door handle. Only had enough butter for half a slice of toast. And then, I checked the traffic report, and the guy was like...don’t even bother. So I ended up getting on the bus with Boone. And...when we got off at the dog park, some ass on a bike mowed him down.”
“Shit! Sorry—that’s awful!”
“Yeah.” I slip Boone another treat. He offers a paw to shake. “Poor little guy—he had a broken leg, and I had no idea what else might be wrong. I was holding him, trying to flag down a cab, but, well, you can imagine how thrilled the average cabbie is at the thought of a bloody, crying dog in his back seat.”
“Like the backs of cabs don’t see worse.”
“Right? So, I finally snag a ride, and he drives me halfway across town, pretending he only knows this one vet—and I don’t even care about the money; I just need to get there, already!”
Boone puts his chin on my knee. He hates when I get upset. I scratch behind his ears: it’s cool, buddy. I’m cool.
“Anyway, the vet’s very nice, very reassuring—Boone’s going to be fine, but I’ve got a few hours to kill while he’s in surgery. I don’t want to go home, so I see the aquarium’s nearby, and think, why not?”
“Oh, yeah!” I can practically see the lightbulb blink on over Sarah’s head. “I do remember that day! You’re the guy who spilled coffee down his front, in front of the jellyfish tank!”
“The lid came off!”
“Hate that so much.”
“Worst possibl
e timing for it, too. I mean, there I was thinking, yeah; this is good—check me out, holding it together!—and, whoosh. Coffee geyser.” I pat her hand. “Then, you were there, holding out a pack of tissues, saying—”
“—Happens to me, all the time!”
“Exactly! And then you just smiled, and walked off. Any other day, I’d have tried for your number, but….”
“Bigger things on your mind.”
“And now, you show up at my cabin, the first night I’ve spent here in months, and even remember me!” I reach for her hand again, and this time I squeeze. “I’ve never believe in fate, but this is...quite a coincidence.”
Sarah turns her hand over and clasps mine. “A good coincidence, though. Not one of those awkward ones, where you cut someone off in traffic, and later, they’re doing your job interview.”
“Oh, hate those ones.” The moment seems right, and I’m just working up the nerve to kiss her, when another peal of thunder rolls practically overhead this time. The lights sputter and die. I hear Boone scramble behind the couch.
“Guess we can’t Netflix and chill,” she says, a little shakily.
I think I might be blushing. Good thing it’s dark. “That’s...not what that means.”
“Oh, yeah?” Now, there’s a teasing note to her voice.
“You knew that.”
“I knew that.”
“Let me—uh, let me grab us some candles.”
I am absolutely not nervous. In no way am I stalling for time, while I collect my composure. And...and, if she’s serious about getting frisky, I’d like to be able to see her.
Fortunately, the fire hasn’t died out, and I don’t break my neck rounding us up an assortment of tapers and candleholders. On a hunch, I check on my cell phone, as well: no bars, as expected, but it powers on fine. Inspired, I slip it into my pocket.
While Sarah arranges the candles around the living room, I scroll through the music on my phone. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for, and when she turns around, I hold out my hand. “Want to dance?” The music kicks in—Por una Cabeza—a little tinny over the phone speaker.
“A tango? Wouldn’t say no.” She takes my hand, and I spin her experimentally. She follows my lead with grace. I pull her close, and her cheek grazes mine. I whirl her away, and she arches her back just so. I dip her, and she bends like a willow bough.
She glides through the steps like she was born to them. Pretty soon, I’m not sure whether I’m guiding her, or she’s kindly letting me think I am. Her feet hardly seem to touch the floor. I quit worrying about stepping on her toes: she’ll never let me.
“You’re amazing at this.” We’re so close, our lips almost brush.
She twirls away. “It’s in the blood.”
“Oh?” There’s not an inch between us. I can feel her heart racing.
“My parents live for ballroom dancing. Still compete as a couple. Might’ve picked up a few tricks....” She hooks her leg around my waist, and leans way back. When I pull her back up, she’s flushed and breathless. Her hair’s all tousled around her face.
The music picks up. Her hand cups my cheek. For a moment, I’m sure she’s going to kiss me. But her fingers trail away like a caress, and suddenly we’re back to back. The music’s still playing, but instead of spinning her back out, I turn around and run my hands down her sides. They come to rest at her waist.
She turns around slowly. Her hands find their way to my shoulders. Her eyes shine in the candlelight. Neither of us moves. The music gallops off without us. I barely notice. Sarah has my full attention, especially when her hand finally moves. Her fingers spread out across my chest. I feel her nails, just a little, digging in through my shirt. She has an interesting manicure: red tips, instead of the standard white. Didn’t notice that before—but now, I can’t look anywhere else. An image of vicious little claws raking down my back fills my mind, and my breath catches in my throat.
That’s when she kisses me. Or I kiss her. She presses her whole body against mine. The buttons on her dress are big and square and sharp. I’m not sure whether she has kind of a dangerous edge, or it’s all in my head.
Please don’t be all in my head!
She nips my lower lip. The sting is all I need: I growl low in my throat, and hoist her into my arms. For a second, I wonder if it’d be entirely inappropriate to throw her on the couch—then, her whisper tickles my ear: do it. It’s almost a moan. And for the first time since I arrived, I’m here. In the moment.
No second thoughts.
I do it.
44
Sarah
Sam is on me in an instant. I give his collar a good yank. His arms buckle, and he collapses on top of me. His weight is just the right side of crushing—enough to pin me firmly on my back without knocking the breath out of me. I wrap my legs around him. His cock’s hard, already, and so is the rest of him: I can feel taut muscles rippling under his clothes, as I grip on tight.
He’s biting at my ear, little hungry pecks that have me begging for more. When he licks a long line down my throat, and breathes on the wet skin, I feel it all the way down my side, a tingle that starts below my earlobe, and ends at my toes. “That’s it—that’s good!”
I want him even closer. It’s been a weird, tense night. All that nervous energy has to go somewhere, and Sam seems to feel the same way. I tug his shirt free of his pants, and plunge my hands underneath. He groans when my nails prick his shoulder blades, shudders when I rake them down his ribs.
When I ghost my palms over the newly sensitive skin, he thrusts against me, like he just can’t help himself. His hand’s at my throat—when did that get there?—and he’s not choking me, but I feel a terrible thrill knowing he could. His cufflinks come loose, and I can see the corded strength of his forearm, where his sleeve’s fallen open.
I need that shirt off him.
He’s way ahead of me: his hand’s crept from my throat to my collar, and he’s working at the buttons of my dress. It’s taking far too long.
“Rip it off.”
He hooks a finger under the first button. “Oh, really?” He flashes a teasing grin. “What’ll the cops think, when they find you curled up on my couch—“ He jerks at the button. It goes flying. “—wearing my clothes—“ Two more buttons skitter across the floor. “—smelling like my shampoo—“ He grabs a fistful of fabric, and yanks. I feel cool night air all the way to my thighs. “—with that crazy sex hair, like....” He ruffles my hair. “Mmm. Just like that?”
“They’ll think we—“ Oh, that’s distracting, the way he’s tracing the contours of my breasts through my bra. He flicks at my nipple, and I forget what I was going to say. “We’re adults. They can—yes!—again, like that!—they can think what they want.”
By this time, I’ve freed him from his tie. By the time he’s found the clasp of my bra, his shirt’s on the floor. I rear up and bite his chest, just above the right nipple. He growls again, and thrusts a hand into my hair, right at the base of my neck. He makes a fist, and twists. It tugs, rather than hurts, and I love the sensation of being at his mercy.
“Come up here,” I tell him, and he does, almost straddling my face. His fly’s already half-unzipped. I push his pants down his thighs. The black silk briefs he’s wearing underneath do nothing to hide his impressive bulge. I nuzzle at it, through the fabric, working my lips up and down the length. Can’t wait to get my lips around that. I mouth at the head, tasting the salt of his pre-cum already.
He’s got both hands in my hair now, alternating between stroking and pulling. I’ll definitely get sex hair, at this rate. I definitely don’t care.
I dip a finger under the waistband of his briefs, just grazing the tip of his cock. It twitches and jumps. His whole body tenses. My other hand explores his torso, tracing the firm swell of his pecs, the hard lines of his abs. Sam’s breathing hard, sweating lightly. I nip the crest of his hip, and work down from there, lapping and kissing. When he starts to relax, I grip his thi
gh hard enough that my nails sink in. His cock swells and throbs against my cheek.
Time to get a look at that thing.
I divest him of his underwear nice and slow, like I’m unwrapping a present. And I’m not disappointed: he’s long and thick, and decidedly ready for action.
I kind of want him to give me a show before I swallow him: cradle my head in his hand, while he jerks off in front of my face. But the desire to taste wins out, and I take his length in my hand, and trace my lips with the tip, like I’m putting on lipstick. I pull back just enough to smile up at him, with his juices gleaming on my lips. He’s looking back at me with something like awe. Perfect.
When I finally take him into my mouth, I think he almost comes right there: he goes rigid all over and bites his lip. I give his ass a good pinch, and squeeze the base of his cock to keep him in check. When I’m sure he’s got himself under control, I start to flutter my tongue around his head. I lap at the slit, and trace every contour, till he’s thrusting his hips, desperate to bury himself in my mouth.
I take him slow, dragging out the torture. He jerks and spasms in my mouth, as my lips glide down, inch by inch. His hands twitch in my hair, like it’s all he can do to keep from pulling me down.
“You’re...you’re....” He doesn’t get any further than that. I choose that moment to moan lightly, so my lips vibrate on his shaft. “Ah!”
There’s a sudden, huge noise: a crack so loud it feels like it’s happening inside my head; the tinkle of shattered glass. I jump back with a yelp. Sam yanks his pants up, and jumps between me and the window. It’s gone—the window’s gone, and I can’t see anything but darkness, on the other side.
“Where’s your dog?” I know it’s Vince; I know we’re in the worst kind of danger, but somehow, all I can think about is the dog. He was right here, but now, he’s— ”Sam—Sam, where’s your dog?”
“Ran off with my shirt twenty minutes ago.” He reaches back and squeezes my knee. “Get behind something—something solid.”
I pull the tattered remnants of my dress around me, and dart behind the woodstove. It’s an old cast-iron one, built to last. By the time I gather the courage to peek out, Sam’s pressed to the wall by the blasted-out window, rifle at the ready. When he sees me looking, he makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger: all good!
