by J. J. Murray
“Sa langue est si chaude!” Hope cried. “Je veux qu’il aille plus bas! Réveillez-vous, là-bas!”
Dylan’s head shot out of the covers. “Did you . . .”
Hope felt him readier than ready, his penis all lined up and ready for entry, but she felt nothing, even when she wrapped her legs around his hips and grabbed his sexy derriere. “No, not yet. I’m so sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am.” More freaking tears! Maybe if I transplant my tear ducts down there!
Dylan spun to his left and pulled Hope on top of him, rubbing her back. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, shh, Hope.” He kissed her forehead and nosed through her hair. “I was only supposed to warm you up anyway, right?”
“But you were right there, and I wanted you inside me, and . . .”
“Shh, Hope, it’s okay,” Dylan whispered, holding her close. “I’ll be fine. I’m excited because it’s been a while for me, but I can wait a while more, and I’m not amazed that I’m ready again. Your body is amazing.”
Hope dried her tears on his chest. “I hope I didn’t give you frostbite.”
“You didn’t.” He flattened his hands on her back. “You’re starting to feel hot.”
“It’s just your warmth reflecting off me.” And my frustration boiling to the surface.
“No, it’s not,” Dylan said. “Your back is hot, and your stomach was so warm. It was even smoking when I was strumming it.”
“It was probably the curry goat.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I felt your heat all over, from your stomach to your long, smooth legs to your sexy derriere. I could explore you all night.” He caressed her hair. “Are you sleepy?”
“A little.”
“Then sleep.” He kissed her forehead. “Keep me warm.”
Right. My frigid body keeping his steaming-hot body warm. He was nice to say so, though. “Dylan?”
“Yes, Hope?”
“Don’t leave me.” Hope felt strong arms pressing her close. “Please stay.”
“I won’t leave you. Sleep, Hope. Dream about your beach house.”
Hope closed her eyes and snuggled her head into Dylan’s chest. “Merci beaucoup, mon homme le plus patient. Thank you for being so patient with me.”
“And you are my patient,” Dylan whispered, “and as your doctor, I order you to sleep and dream.”
“I’ll try.”
“Are you on the beach?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Are you wearing a skimpy bikini?”
I shouldn’t be doing this, but... “I’m not wearing anything at all . . .” She felt something stirring under her.
“Hope, please put something on.”
“It’s my dream.” She slid a hand lower until she found what was stirring, and it grew harder in her hand. “Shall I continue my dream?”
“It will be a short one,” Dylan whispered.
She squeezed him gently and heard Dylan sigh. “I’m sweating in the sunlight, and we’re the only two people on the beach.”
Dylan groaned.
“Are you going to curse again?” Hope asked.
“Probably,” Dylan said.
She kissed his nipples and gripped him tightly. “Go right ahead. I owe my neighbors some noise. My hand isn’t too rough, is it?”
“No. Tell me more about the beach . . .”
I love a man who loves fantasies. She moved down his chest to his stomach, working him with both of her hands. “You see me standing in the water. You come up behind me. I back my sexy derriere into you, and we begin to—”
Dylan Healy cursed paint off the small apartment’s walls, and for a moment, the only sounds Hope heard were his.
She crawled up his body. “You didn’t let me finish my dream.”
“You can continue it tomorrow night, right?” he asked.
More tears. These are okay. He’s staying another night. “It’s going to be a long dream.”
“Maybe you’ll never finish it.”
She buried her head of hair into his neck. “Merci, mon chevalier doux.”
Thank you, my gentle knight.
Hope glided off to sleep, holding a man who found her sexy just as she was, and the two of them strolled hand in hand in the sun on the beach in her dreams until dawn.
OCTOBER 17
Only 68 more shopping days until Christmas . . .
Chapter 15
Hope rolled over and looked at the clock.
The fuzzy red numbers told her it was either eight-something or three-something, and the lack of heat beside told her she was alone.
She scrambled to her nightstand and found her glasses, putting them on and looking at the washroom door. It was open, and no one was in the shower trying to sing the Canadian national anthem or “Downtown.”
The kitchen was empty.
There was no tall Irishman anywhere.
She only saw Whack on the futon licking a paw.
“Where’d he go?” she whispered.
Whack blinked at her.
“Where did Dylan go?” she asked.
Whack purred.
Vixen!
Dylan’s gone? He said he wouldn’t leave. Why didn’t I feel the bed move when he got up? I know I was tired, but...
She squinted and saw a piece of paper stuck in the crack of the door.
He left me a note. Okay, right. He had to go. He had to mail all those cards. The post office closes at noon on Saturdays. That’s where he is. He’s working. He’s working for me. He’s making money for my beach house. Okay, calm down.
She pulled back the covers and looked at her mostly naked body. I don’t even remember losing my bra and shirt. I’m glad he left me with my socks. She shivered and sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest. She drew it off the bed in front of her and wrapped it around her shoulders, and then she stepped out of bed onto the cold floor. She took two steps and felt the quilt pulling at one of her fingers. She peered at her hand and saw four decent fingernails and one broken, jagged one.
When did that happen? I must have broken it on his back. That’s never happened before. I hope I didn’t cut him.
She shuffled to the door, the cold air biting at her toes, and tugged at the piece of paper near the doorknob. Opening it, she read:
Off to get groceries. Stay warm! PS: You purr when you sleep. :–) D.
He’s . . . Yes. That makes sense. I need groceries. I haven’t bought them in weeks.
He’s going to feed me.
Again.
She slid to her wardrobe and put on her University of Alberta sweatpants, a clean T-shirt, and a black knit toque before brushing her teeth and washing her face, the icy water chilling her nose and cheeks.
I need to wash my hair, but it’s so cold! She checked her stock of DreadHead Dread Soap and found she had four bottles left. Maybe tonight, and maybe I can get Dylan to help me, but right now . . .
Back to bed.
Once under the covers, she stared at the ceiling. It’s just a beam today. What do you know about that?
She looked at the light streaming in through her windows. More beams. Sunbeams are the best beams.
She closed her eyes.
I hope he doesn’t go to Key Food. It’s right around the corner, but that place is a mess. The cleanup on aisle three I tripped over four weeks ago getting Whack her food was still there two weeks later, and some of the stock boys and managers are freaks, sexually harassing customers and the cashiers. Hmm. They never harassed me. Maybe I’m just jealous. If he did shop there, I am checking every label for an expiration date.
She shivered, and goose bumps appeared on her arms as she replayed the night before. I still should be basking in his warmth. He stayed all night. Odell never did that, and Dylan didn’t get as frustrated as I was. He responded when I wanted him to, unlike someone else I used to know who didn’t care that I wasn’t there yet. So patient, so tender. He likes my stomach, and he’s going to fill my stomach. I hope my libido wakes up soon. I miss that
wild, careless, aching feeling.
She glanced at the clock. Nine something. Hmm. I don’t normally sleep this late on a Saturday. This is actually kind of nice. Snuggly warm in the bed on a Saturday morning. This is—
She sat up and threw the covers away from her. “I have to be at work by ten!”
Goose bumps sneaked up her legs.
She yanked the covers back over her. I am not leaving this nice, toasty warm bed. I’m going to call in sick. I am sick. I just have never seen a doctor to get the diagnosis.
She reached for the phone, the only phone she had, the one attached to the kitchen wall twenty feet away. This is silly. I have long arms, but seriously . . . “Whack, bring me the phone.”
Whack didn’t move.
Hope shook her head, kicked her legs out from under the covers, and ran to the kitchen, dialing Thrifty. I hope Kiki didn’t stay out too late last night. I’m sure she and On-Gee had a long night, too. Justin will be useless. After ten rings, she heard a beep: “Justin, this is Hope. I will not be coming in today. I have a bad . . . stomachache. I will see you all Monday morning. Bye.” She returned the receiver to its cradle and tore back to the bed, pulling the covers over her head. Well, I do have a stomachache, but it’s not from food. It’s from lack of food.
Why am I so freaking cold? Dylan said I was hot last night. Maybe too much of me evaporated into the night air or something.
She heard a buzz.
I am never going to get warm today.
She again wore the quilt over her shoulders and went to her intercom box. “Yes?”
“Yeah, I got a delivery of calories for Miss Warren,” Dylan said. “Can you buzz me in?”
Hope smiled. “How many calories?”
“A gazillion.”
That’s a lot. “Can you break a twenty?”
“Come on, Hope. It’s cold out here.”
She buzzed him in and then checked the thermostat. Why’s it set on sixty-six? She turned it up. I never change the thermostat. Maybe Dylan did.
After a single knock, Hope opened the door and watched Dylan carry six bags and a huge box of groceries from St. John’s Marketplace to the kitchen table.
“Good morning,” Dylan said, kissing her cheek and pointing to the bed. “Go back to bed.”
“You need help putting all this away.” And I won’t have to check any expiration dates.
Dylan swept her off her feet and carried her back to the bed. “I’ll figure it out. Get under the covers.”
Hope propped up her pillow first, then got in. “Did you turn down the thermostat?”
He nodded, settling the covers on her. “It was too hot. You put off a lot of heat.”
She grabbed his elbow. “It wasn’t my heat.”
He winked. “Yes, it was.”
“Can I at least help you cook?” Hope asked, tugging on his elbow.
“Not today,” Dylan said. “Let me spoil you.”
Hope pulled him down and kissed his nose. “You already have.”
“Get used to it,” he said, and he returned to the kitchen.
Hope watched Dylan putting away the groceries, most of them filling previously empty cupboards. She salivated at the big bags of potato chips. Mmm, grease. She smiled at the ice cream going into her freezer. Yes! She sighed at the Pop-Tarts. Eh. Butter tarts would be better. She marveled at all the different kinds of cheese and deli meat, the two loaves of bread, eggs, bacon, ground beef, pork chops, real butter, sour cream, potatoes, green peppers, onions, oranges, apples—and a ten-pack of Twix candy bars! Oh, my sweet tooth is dancing!
Hope turned on some music, the festive notes of “Let It Snow” crackling from the clock radio’s little speaker. “We haven’t even had Halloween yet!”
Dylan located a large frying pan in the metal drawer under the stove. “Oh, the spirit of Christmas never really ends. It’s always there, just under the surface, waiting to rear its red-and-green face.” He put the pan on the largest eye. “And it’s cold enough to snow outside. I’ll bet someone called in a request.”
Who requests snow in Brooklyn in October? Hope switched to another station and heard a commercial for a “two-day half-off pre-Halloween Christmas sales extravaganza!” Are they kidding? She snapped off the radio. “Bah, humbug.”
“You’re no Scrooge,” Dylan said. “Not with a name like ‘Hope.’ ” He smiled. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” he sang.
“Stop, please stop!”
“Come on,” Dylan said. “This is breakfast and a show.”
“Then sing a Halloween song at least,” Hope said.
Dylan’s rendition of “Thriller,” complete with some horrible dancing, had Hope nearly on the floor laughing.
Whack said nothing.
“Just cook for me, okay?” Hope asked.
Dylan raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Hope watched half a stick of butter go into the pan followed by six eggs, each cracked perfectly. This man is a pro. While the eggs cooked, Dylan chopped up green peppers and onions and opened a pack of sharp cheddar cheese. Ah, the fabled western omelet. “Where’s the ham?”
Dylan pointed to himself and added the peppers, onions, and cheese to the pan, expertly folding the congealing egg mixture in half.
“When are you going to cook yours?” Hope asked.
He picked up the pan and slid the omelet onto a plate. Grabbing a fork from a drawer and a napkin from a cupboard, he carried the plate to Hope. He put the plate in her lap, slipped the fork into her hand, and tucked the napkin into the collar of her T-shirt. “Enjoy.” He turned to go.
“We’re splitting this, right?” Hope asked.
“No,” Dylan said, and he returned to the stove.
Hope looked at the mound of yellow, cheesy goodness staring up at her. “I can’t possibly finish this.”
Dylan cracked some more eggs. “You’ll hurt Chef Dylan’s feelings if you don’t.”
She took a bite. This is good. She took a bigger bite. Just what I need. Fat and cholesterol. She took an even bigger bite. I can’t believe I’m this hungry.
Dylan brought his omelet to the bed and sat.
“Hey, your omelet is smaller than mine,” Hope said.
“Only three eggs,” he said, taking a healthy bite. “I have to watch my weight while I’m watching yours.”
Hope dropped her fork on the plate. “I’m full.”
Dylan looked at her nearly empty plate. “Really?”
She picked up her fork. “No. It’s a skinny joke.”
“Sounds like a line of cards,” he said.
“It will be a thin line,” Hope said, “but it will bring us fat profits.” She shoveled the last bite into her mouth. “I am really full this time.”
Dylan set his plate on the nightstand and pulled back the covers. He lifted her T-shirt and began massaging her stomach with his fingers. “I think we can make a little more room.”
Hope writhed. “Stop, it tickles.”
Dylan shook his head. “Then I shall use my tongue.”
“What?”
In moments, Dylan was back under the covers, and Hope felt the drawstring loosen on her sweatpants.
Breakfast and a workout. That doesn’t tickle. It tingles, but that’s all it’s doing. I should be swimming down there. Come on, body. Wake up down there! We should be rolling around on this bed with Dylan. There should be omelet stains on the walls. I should be paying back my neighbors with some freaky French shouting.
Hope stared across the room at Whack. Nothing. I feel the pressure, feel the motion, feel a tiny little tingle, but nothing else. You have got to be kidding! I should be juteux just from thinking about a man doing this to me. I should be screaming loud enough to break the windows.
Dylan came up for air. “Anything?”
“A tingle,” Hope said.
“A tingle is good, isn’t it?” he asked.
Hope nodded.
“Not a jingle?” he
asked.
“A tingle, not a jingle.” She sighed. “You might as well finish your omelet.” Since you’re not going to finish me.
He squeezed her hands. “We’re making progress, though, right?”
Hope nodded. You are. I’m not.
He looked at the clock. “Don’t you usually work on Saturdays?”
“I called in sick.” I’m only heartsick now. “Shouldn’t you be at the post office? Don’t they close at noon?”
“Are you kicking me out?” Dylan asked.
I need a good, long cry, and I don’t want an audience. I may even put Whack out in the hallway. “You have business to attend to, partner.”
“I suppose.” He stood. “Before I go, I want you to promise me something.”
“Okay.”
“Promise that you will rest and burn no calories,” he said.
Does weeping burn calories? It probably does. “I promise.”
“Good.” Dylan yawned and stretched his back. “You are an extremely entertaining sleeper.”
Hope propped her pillow on the headboard. “I am?”
“In addition to purring, you whisper in your sleep.”
She scooted back to the pillow. “In French or in English?”
“A little of both,” he said. “It’s quite sexy. You said something like ‘donnez-moi plus.’ What’s that mean?”
Even my dream self is horny. “It means ‘give me more.’ I was probably eating something.”
Dylan flopped onto the floor and put on his shoes. “I will return with lunch. If you get hungry, eat ice cream, and I expect you to eat out of the carton. No portion control for you at any time from now on.”
“How long will you be gone?” I am already missing him, and my heart hurts. I know he’ll be back, but it still hurts.
“I have to get another ink cartridge, print out more labels, stuff a bunch of envelopes, and then stand in line to buy more stamps . . .” He put on his jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He bent down. “I expect you to be well rested. Do not do the dishes or clean up the mess in the kitchen. I’ll do that when I get back.”
I hadn’t planned to. “I won’t, but you’ll need dish soap.”