“Can I take your coat?” she asked.
He slid it off his back around one arm so that his chest stuck out for a delicious half second. And then his arm was free, everything looking firm under his tight dress shirt.
“You look so nice,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, shrugging. “Well, I’m just wearing another of my boring dress shirts. You should see my closet: it’s like a Möbius strip.”
“Men are so lucky. Pants, shirt, tie, and you’re good to go. Nothing even has to match.”
“Come on, I wear coats and cardigans occasionally. That takes a lot of thought.”
They both stood there next to the Monet prints, staring at each other dumbly as the small-talk swirled around them. As it grew more and more inane, Clara finally remembered that she was hosting a dinner. “You want a drink first? We can sit and relax a bit if you want. And I’ve got some hors d’oeuvres, er, appetizers.”
He followed her into the living room. “Geez, I hope you haven’t gone through too much trouble. Smells amazing in here, by the way.”
“I cheated with the appetizers.” She winced. “Frozen puff pastries.”
“Clara, I’m living in a hotel. All I have is a microwave.”
“Phew . . . Good. The bar is set low.”
“As low as frozen burritos can take a man.”
Clara laughed, and then looked around for Molly. Where did she run off to?
“Actually Clara, next time we should cook together. Even better, I’ll cook. You can just sit over there and get drunk or something.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“No, I actually really miss being in a kitchen. Cooking is great for stress relief.”
She was yet to feel any relief, rushing to get dinner finished on time, though she imagined there were other ways. “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “You’re right.”
Clara had him sit on the sofa while she slipped into the kitchen for some wine. She was unscrewing the cork when she felt his hands on the small of her back. It electrified her spine, spinning her around to face him. She wanted to say something funny, but he was already kissing her, pressing her back against the counter. Her hands almost trembled as they reached up to feel the back of his head, his freshly short hair feeling good under her fingers. Their lips met and she reveled in his taste, before she broke away with a mischievous grin.
“Helping with the appetizer?” she asked.
He nodded, then reached his arms around and past her body, to the counter where he worked the cork out of the bottle. His arm muscles flexed against her back until everything released and relaxed at the satisfying plunk of the cork. A moment later he was pouring out the glasses blindly, his eyes glued to hers.
“Thanks for having me,” he said, as they clinked their glasses.
She took a sip and then led him back to the living room, stopping at the foot of the stairs to call Molly’s name. “Sometimes she can be shy, if you can believe it,” she said to Sam. She laughed. “I know that wasn’t the case when you met her, but . . . She’s in a constant state of flux. Her mood has a lot to do with how much she’s slept and how long ago she’s eaten. I don’t know if it’s just her age, but she changes like the weather. Sunshine to storm clouds and then back again, all in a single episode of Gilmore Girls.” Clara looked up the stairs again, listening to those soft footsteps come closer until Molly finally emerged at the top of the stairs. She smiled in a cute yet slightly deranged fashion at Sam. Well, if nothing else, dinner would be interesting.
Sam had been great with Molly all through dinner, not necessarily overdoing it with conversation or direct attention, but always seeming to stay engaged and in tune with Molly’s needs— whether they be for her to be left alone, or him to lend an ear to one of her jokes about some children’s show that he’d never heard of, or the simplest little help like when she had dropped her napkin. He’d done it all effortlessly. Gladly, even. It warmed Clara’s heart to see it. She wasn’t sure how it would go, having him over like this so early. While Molly wasn’t exactly gushing at Sam’s attention the way she did, there was a very pragmatic—no, realistic affinity. Considering the way Molly usually reacted to adults she didn’t know, it was practically a ringing endorsement. Sam had the right approach, something that could even work long-term. A marathon, not a sprint.
He and Clara, on the other hand, had gone from a jog to sprinter’s pace in roughly forty-eight hours, which she was enjoying immensely. However, instead of a finish line, there was a brick wall—his eventual departure for Washington. While she was all for self-preservation, she couldn’t help herself with keeping up their white-hot pace. She was running blind. But running happy.
Molly, on the other hand, had become not so happy when, after dinner, the evening slipped into grownup time.
“Can’t I watch it?” Molly asked, almost singing her plea to stick around with the grownups and watch whatever movie they’d be watching.
“It’s a grownup movie,” Clara said, loading the dishwasher. “You won’t like it.”
From the sink, his hands in soapy water, Sam whispered, “Is it really grownup?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
“Pleeease,” said Molly. “Can I watch it if there’s no swearing in it?”
“There’s swearing in it.”
“Awwww!”
“Molly.”
“I’ll plug my ears,” Molly said, padding into the kitchen.
“Why don’t you plug into your tablet?” Clara said, fully aware of how horrible of a parent she’d become. A briber. “I’ll download another game for you.”
Molly stayed quiet at that, perhaps thinking it over. And then Clara felt her little arms hugging around her waist.
“Did you come in here to help with the dishes?” Clara asked. “That’s so nice of you.”
Molly didn’t say anything.
“I’ve got an idea,” Sam said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “What if we all played a game?”
Molly gasped.
Clara turned to see a suddenly very pleased-looking little girl. “What do you say, Molly? You want to pick a game for us to play?”
Molly gasped again, and then ran out of the room—presumably in the direction of an antique treasure chest full of board games.
“You keep scoring points with her,” Clara said quietly to Sam.
He shrugged. “I’m actually just in the mood for a board game.”
“Sure you are.” Clara chuckled as she spun around, using her hip to fully close the dishwasher door.
“Oooh.” Sam smiled. “I like that move.”
“There’s plenty more.”
Sam’s eyebrows perked up. “Oh?”
“Uh-huh.” She walked slowly toward him, rocking those hips he’d liked so much. But then Sam’s head snapped away toward the living room.
“I got Quirky, Guess Who, Whoot Owl . . . And Sorrrry!” Molly smiled proudly as she stacked a bunch of the boxes onto the counter.
Sam looked back to Clara and laughed. “Sorry?”
9
Sam
Molly’s exuberance for shitty board games was refreshing, as was her excitement for life in general. He’d almost forgotten about that kind of naïveté. That part of him, especially the professor of him, had almost been frozen over completely. Being exposed to a little ray of sunshine couldn’t hurt things.
They had played Sorry! for almost a half hour, and Molly, to Clara’s outward dismay, seemed to become more hyper as the game wore on. The little girl had left her shell and showed more of herself through a few turns of Sorry! than she had all through dinner. And, as Sam imagined, so did he. It was fun.
The energy was still high enough after the game that Molly seemed to ride it like a wave, offering another round of pleading to stay up and watch the movie. And again, to Clara’s immense eye roll, Sam had declared that there was indeed no swearing in the movie—as far he could tell from the warning labels, anyway.
In any event, Sam deice
d to smooth things over with a pot of popcorn. Old-fashioned style with just oil and kernels in a stainless steel soup pot. Butter melting on the side. Save for the sound of the subsequent crunching, it kept everyone quiet. But when their popcorn dessert came to a close, there seemed to be nothing left to entertain Molly—especially not the movie, a romantic comedy that seemed to miss the mark on both counts. It was hardly entertaining for Sam, let alone an eight-year-old staying up past her bedtime and past her bowl of popcorn.
Very shortly after, Molly’s head had slumped back against the sofa and she was snoring. Loudly. Sam wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard a little person do that quite so loudly. Clara, who undoubtedly had heard it all, had taken it as a sign to finally put her little rascal to bed. She carried her away, limp and sleeping. Ten minutes later, it was just the two of them, along with the terrible movie.
“Thanks for being such a good sport,” she said, snuggling back into him on the sofa.
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“Well, I’m having a great time,” he said. “There’s never been any . . . effort.”
“You’ve been so good to her tonight.”
“I didn’t even have to try.” He wrapped an arm around her. “She’s great.”
“She likes you.”
“Good.” Sam felt lips at his neck, a warm little peck.
“I like you,” she said, still at his neck.
“How do you like this movie?”
“I don’t.”
Sam laid his other hand on her thigh, stroking down, petting. “Should I turn it off?”
“No,” she said.
“We’ll leave it on, then.”
She kissed his neck again. “Yeah.”
“For the sound.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Sam ran his hand upward, slowly, while her mouth sucked gently under his chin. His hand rose even higher until he felt the warmth of her core through her jeans. God, she was already so aroused and he’d barely started touching her. She sighed hard against his bare skin, the air tickling him, melting him. She was melting, too, her body against his and heaving with a shaky breath, warming his skin until he felt flushed and crazy. But then she pulled his hand away from her, getting up from the sofa and walking out of the room. “Wait.”
It was only in her absence that he noticed how hard he was, his cock threatening to punch right through the thin fabric of his dress pants. When did that happen? She had a way of arousing his attention at even the slightest look of bedroom eyes, the most glancing of touches. God, even just the thought of her sometimes.
Sam squirmed and adjusted himself, settling back just before she returned with a nice, heavy, wool blanket. It felt instantly good, draping over and hiding their bodies, hiding whatever those bodies were doing. Now, under the cover of darkness, his hand was free to return. Free to slowly unbutton, unzip, loosen, and slip in. Clara was free to help, guiding his hand over her wet panties, pressing his hand on just the right spot as her legs spread open under the blanket.
Above sea level, the movie played on. Its comedic first quarter had ended, and now it was time for the love story to develop. Usually, Sam would tend to check out at this stage, waiting for the first-meet formalities to be sufficiently set up, waiting, like any man, for the plot to return. But tonight was a different story. Especially below the blanket. Underneath its darkness and warmth, he felt like he’d never want to see a plot ever again. Life, the movie, and his Washington obligations could all go away forever as long as he was entangled in this delicious embrace with Clara. He needed nothing else, especially any more of the usual introspective narration.
“Oh,” she whispered, “You’re so big.” Her hand had been stroking him through his boxer briefs, her squeezes giving him more excuses to reach his full potential. She suddenly sped up progress, slipping her hand inside his waistband and wrapping her hand around him, moving slowly along his length.
Sam tried to stifle the groan, but that would be the only thing he’d try restraining. He leaned back and closed his eyes while she took full control of him, gripping his cock with a certain roughness that made him brace himself, his hips rotating up, thrusting up into her hand, ready for whatever she intended to do to him.
“Does that feel good?” she whispered.
Sam could only let out a little sigh. Her hand moved faster and his sigh turned into moans.
“Shh.”
God, it was like they were teenagers again, hiding their fun behind a bedroom door or underneath the soundtrack of some arbitrary movie. He felt like a high-schooler, obsessed with nothing else but sneaking in as much “studying” as possible, and he loved every minute of it. He felt just like a horny eighteen-year-old, too, as if the blanket had transported him back in time. The only problem was that he’d somehow forgotten how to keep stealthy and quiet about it. But how in the hell could he? This was no fumbling high school girl he was studying with. He was with a woman now. And her touch was devastating.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“What?”
He opened his eyes and chuckled a little. “Okay, okay.” He drew her hand away and held it away while he caught his breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, God, nothing. That’s the problem.”
She laughed and said, “What?”
He didn’t want to explain it to her, how close he’d come to making a mess of her hand and her blanket, and most likely the whole damned living room. Instead, he leaned forward and brought his mouth against hers. His lips tangled with hers, resuming their study session. Their tongues met as he thrust forward into her mouth, and it was time for Sam to repay her generosity, and to maybe bring her to a similar brink of destruction. His hand snuck back inside her panties, brushing against her core. God, she was so wet! The feel of her arousal just for him made him grow impossibly harder again in his pants, but this was for her. It was her turn now to break away from the kiss and lean her head back. Her turn to go limp as their movie played on uselessly. The film had no audience now. It might have even ended, for all he knew. The only thing Sam could hear was her little gasps each time his fingers entered her core, curled and slipped out, each roll of his wrist making her body stiffen and tremble against him.
“Mmm . . .” She started whispering it so quietly, like the sound of someone dreaming of sex. It was distant and drugged-sounding.
“Shh,” he echoed.
Her head rolled against his neck again, her warm face sucking there, licking, and then biting as Sam worked his fingers harder into her.
Her trembling grew and Sam could feel it through the whole sofa now. He knew they were finally getting somewhere in their studies. Biology 101, his biology wanting to mix with hers so badly. Could they do that here? Under this blanket? In this living room? He slipped inside her again, adding another finger and Clara jerked, almost biting down on his neck, before groaning loudly as her core pulsed around his fingers. He kept stroking her—in and out—pressing the palm of his hand against her clit, until the contractions finally ceased and she felt limp against him. She was so fucking sexy, even just standing there, but watching her come undone beneath his hand? He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. So arousing. He wanted his cock inside her next, more than he wanted his next breath.
It must have been on her mind, too—what was currently left of her mind—as she lay backward on the couch, pulling him down on top of her, her body opening up for him. Her mouth grew fiercer at his neck, his lips, and then just ravaging all over his face. Sam’s eyes drifted closed as his hands found her breasts, and the world disappeared again.
Until he felt two hands at his chest pushing off, her body jumping away from his and sitting stiffly upright, panting, her head cocked toward the hallway.
“What is it?” he whispered.
She kept listening for something, her legs closed.
“Clara? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Fuck, had he gone too fast?
S
he swatted at him. “Shhh!”
Sam moved himself backward slowly, and quietly fixed up his pants. Assuming the worst case scenario—they’d woken the slumbering eight-year-old, sleep-deprived demon—he focused on detaching himself from the heat of just a moment ago, zipping up his pants, careful not to rattle the buckle of his belt. When he’d done his best to compose and dress himself properly, he glanced over to Clara, who now turned to him, red-faced and a little shiny, still glowing with passion, and embarrassment.
“Did you hear something?” Sam asked, no longer having to whisper. They were only just watching a movie.
Clara was smiling and fixing her own pants now. “Sorry, I think I just . . .”
“It’s okay.”
“I just can’t have her find us . . . I thought I heard something.” She finished with her pants, pulled her shirt down, and then grabbed the remote, lowering the volume. She arched her head again toward the stairway, listening.
“We can just cuddle,” Sam said. He couldn’t see her face, but she was laughing and shaking her head. “You don’t want to cuddle?”
Clara sat back against him. “You know what I want to do.”
“Eat popcorn and watch this movie?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Right.”
Sam looked at the screen. He didn’t recognize anyone or anything that was happening. Was it even the same movie?
“You did that on purpose,” she said, speaking normally now. “Didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“Bringing such a boring movie . . . We didn’t have a chance.”
“Next time we should just forget the movie altogether.”
She laughed. “It was prop, wasn’t it? An excuse?”
“An illusion of respectability.”
“So let’s forget all that,” Clara said. “We need to keep it real.”
“I’d love to.”
“But we’ll probably have to do it somewhere else.” She was touching him again. Her hand was innocently playing with his shirt, rolling her finger in it. “Things got really crazy, really fast.”
Dark Threat - A DARC Ops Christmas Novel Page 6