Dangerous Desires

by Tia Siren

  I think I could fall for her.

  Vince is breathing loudly, in a way that feels passive-aggressive.

  “This is the most uncomfortably romantic thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say, hoping she’ll focus on the romantic part, not the uncomfortable part.

  She chuckles. “We’ll be dining out on this story for years.”

  We’ll be. I like it.

  Vince stays mostly quiet, even when our chat drifts distinctly into the realm of sweet nothings. He can’t seem to hold back the occasional scoff or Jesus H. Christ, but I don’t follow through on my duct tape threat. The idea of Sarah seeing me do something like that, even to a jerk like Vince, doesn’t appeal.

  It’s about half an hour later, when I spot flashlights outside. Someone’s coming up the path. I’m not worried: there are two possibilities here. Either Vince brought the world’s least stealthy SEAL team by way of backup, or it’s the cops.

  I reach out with my foot, and nudge Sarah’s ankle. “Looks like rescue has arrived.”

  8

  Sarah

  The cops bundle Vince off pretty fast, and even return my phone, salvaged from my battered car. Turns out my parents did call, when midnight came and went, and I was nowhere to be seen. Dispatch said they had a car in the area. Didn’t take much searching to turn up Vince’s truck, still running at the foot of the driveway, and my rental car beyond, all beat to hell.

  I accept a ride home—doesn’t seem right somehow to put off reassuring my parents I’m alive and well. But I’m back up the mountain the next day at Sam’s invitation. The hasty hug goodbye we shared, under the cops’ watchful eye, didn’t seem a fitting end to our midnight adventure. So when I woke up to a text floating the idea of a late lunch, I didn’t hesitate.

  The place looks much friendlier in the daylight. The same cabin that reminded me of Baba Yaga’s hut, looming over me in the dark, now seems modern and inviting, all artfully weathered logs and picture windows. Boone’s in the yard, dancing around the root of a towering pine, barking at something in the branches. Sam’s on the side porch, putting the finishing touches on a new window.

  “Good as new,” he says, when he sees me coming.

  “That’s a relief!” I steel myself, and make the offer, though the repairs to that rental car are about to clean me out. “I’d be glad to chip in....”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t even think of it. I already had some spare panes—we get all kinds of crazy weather up here. Hail and all.”

  Phew.

  I join him on the porch. “The walk up here is gorgeous. I can just picture it in summer, everything in bloom....”

  “Including the mosquitoes, unfortunately.” He winks. “Winter’s my favorite. There’s an old field past those trees with a pond at the end. Gramps cleared it out to keep goats. Only, the goats never quite materialized, so every winter we’d go sledding on the hill, skating on the pond. Best memories ever.”

  Familiar ones, for me. “My parents have a pond like that, too. Haven’t skated in years, though.”

  “We could go, over the Christmas holiday.” He gets a sudden look of panic on his face, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. “I mean—you do come up for the holidays, right? I just—I assumed—”

  I nod, before he can babble himself right out of the idea. “I’d love to.”

  He relaxes at that, but there’s still a certain tension in the air. Unfinished business from last night. I can tell he’s thinking about it, too. Vince barged in at the worst possible moment, and I’m dying to find out what would’ve happened next, but...it’s different now. Last night, we had a million excuses to go for it—adrenaline, no electricity, a vague sense of danger—but today, it’d feel like...choosing something. Starting something.

  I think I want to.

  I know I do.

  Boone comes whuffing up the steps, and immediately tangles himself around both of our legs. Quite an accomplishment for such a small, squat dog. Sam grabs me for balance, and I grab him back. We end up staggering inside, arm in arm, laughing.

  “I see your little friend’s none the worse for wear.”

  He goes red, and glances at his crotch.

  I burst out laughing. “Your dog, silly!”

  “Oh—oh, right! I mean, I wasn’t...I didn’t—“ He’s blushing to the tips of his ears. “Well, that was...inappropriate.”

  “The whole saving my life thing earns you a couple of free passes.” I give his arm a fond squeeze. “I’m absolutely not laughing at you right now.”

  “I swear, I don’t normally have such a one-track mind. Usually, it’s more like...two tracks. No—three. The sex track, the work track, and the worrying about things that’ll never happen track.”

  “Like...how you’d survive the zombie apocalypse?”

  He plasters on a mock-serious expression. “Oh, I’ve a number of contingencies in place in the event of...of undead Armageddon. Most likely, though, I’d bag up my canned goods, couple of good books, and head for Dad’s hunting cabin. It’s on an island in the middle of a lake, so unless there were zombie birds, I’d be golden.”

  “Canada for me,” I admit. “They’d be all slow and frozen—the zombies, I mean—and I’d saunter by in my fluffy parka, like ‘not today, dead-head.’”

  “Not today, dead-head.” He shakes his head, smiling. “I love that you think about these things.”

  “My mind might have the same three tracks.”

  “Good to know.” Sam leads the way into the kitchen. In the light of day, it looks a lot more old-fashioned than the rest of the house. Modern touches have been added—granite countertops, stainless steel fixtures—but there’s an old pulley-controlled drying rack suspended from the ceiling, and the walls are nearly black with age. One of the windows, the smallest one, directly above the sink, offers a hazy view of the yard, through stained and rippled glass.

  He catches me looking. “This was one of the original rooms, when Gramps first built the place. This, and the living room, though the stove was pretty much all I kept through there.”

  “You added the rest yourself?”

  “Well, me and Dad, and a team of builders—but, sure! I’ll take the credit.”

  “You should put it in Architectural Digest.”

  “September 2015. Made the cover and everything.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” He pulls a face. “Had to drag half my furniture into the yard, and bring in stuff from my office. Seems my idea of comfort clashed with their idea of elegance.”

  “I knew those photoshoots had to be fake! No one’s, like, pantsless, drinking their morning coffee on a spotless white couch, under a single lily-shaped arc lamp.”

  He shudders. “My couches probably have more coffee in their cushions than stuffing. Anything white...bad idea.”

  We laugh at that, but neither of us says anything else, and the elephant creeps back into the room. I’m not brazen enough to address it head-on. What would I even say? Hey, Vince sure ruined our moment. Want to pick up where we left off? Nope. Can’t say that.

  “How about a tour?”

  Oh, bless him! “That’d be perfect!” A little overenthusiastic? I think so. I clear my throat, and try a rather less shrill “Lead the way.”

  He does, mercifully turning his back before I turn completely pink.

  9

  Sam

  I wasn’t going to say the tour thing. I really wasn’t. But there was a silence, so of course I had to fill it with the goofiest, most obvious thing possible. Did I just come off cheesy, or have I crossed into full-blown creep territory? Oh, god, she looks like a deer in the headlights. Her voice has gone high and fake-cheerful, like...like when you’re ignoring a fart at a dinner party. Please pass the salt. No, I don’t smell that.

  Can I just tell her I’m not expecting her to jump into bed with me, because of last night?

  No. No, I cannot.

  I hate the way social rules designed to make life less aw
kward, like not saying whatever pops into your head, have the opposite effect half the time.

  I catch myself telling her, at great length, about the massive spider I found in one of the ferns in the sunroom, and resolve to get it together. “So, uh...I caught it in the only glass I had, big enough to fit all its legs, and tossed it out that window,” I finish.

  Sarah gives the fern a stern look, like she’s daring another spider to pop out. “You’re braver than I am,” she says. “I’d have dropped a book on it, and...left it there forever. People would come over, and I’d be all ‘That book? Part of the decor!’ Might even nail it to the floor.”

  We make our way upstairs, stopping to mock Dad’s tragic and only attempt at taxidermy, a lopsided pheasant guarding the landing. My bedroom door’s open, and she peeks in.

  “Can I go in?”

  “Let’s see...dirty socks in the hamper? Check. Bed sort of made? Sort of check. Be my guest.”

  And here we are. In my room. Guess you never quite grow out of that dizzy, nervous girl-in-my-bedroom feeling, because, yep. There it is.

  She’s checking out all the dorky stuff she probably couldn’t see last night by candlelight: a shelf full of action figures, one from each movie I’ve had a hand in; a Biker Mice from Mars poster; the guitar I never learned to play. I don’t have an excuse for any of that stuff, beyond I liked it, so I’m relieved when her attention shifts to the big bay window.

  “That’s got to be the most cushions ever piled onto one window seat,” she says. Her back’s to me, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “I love how comfortable your place is.”

  “Is ‘comfortable’ code for ‘messy’?”

  “No! No, I mean...some people, you go over to their house, and it’s like no one even lives there. Like, you walk in the door, and the hallway’s empty, except for this tiny end-table, under a tiny mirror...with a bonsai on it.”

  “No...an orchid.”

  She laughs. “You get it! And there’s never a dish in the sink, or a cardigan over a chair, or a dog hair on anything—“

  “—and you’re afraid to sit anywhere—“

  “—and you kind of want to swing by unannounced some time, catch them not using a coaster.”

  “Or open every closet door, till you find the one with the giant tide of crap behind it—‘cause you know it’s there.” I walk up behind her. She doesn’t move away: . pProbably a good sign? She’s looking out the window at the trees marching up the mountain. Halfway up, they get lost in a bank of low-lying clouds. I like this time of year.

  “I like a place that feels lived-in,” she says. “Where you can walk in and get a sense of the person.”

  Was that...a seal of approval, for my pillow pile and nerd paraphernalia? I feel the sudden urge to hug her, so I do. She sighs and leans into me when I slide my arms around her from behind. I’m wondering whether it would be too forward if I kissed the tip of her ear, when she puts her hands over mine and clasps them tight.

  Definitely an approving gesture.

  In case I wasn’t already convinced, she starts moving my hands for me. I let her guide one down over the gentle curve of her belly, and back up the line of her hip. The other, she raises to her mouth, so she can kiss each fingertip, and then the palm. This soft, sensual side of her is awakening my cock. It stiffens as she shifts against me. Her dress is thin and silky, and I can feel every lush contour underneath.

  This time, when I start undoing her buttons, she lets me take it slow. She moves against me, very deliberately, the friction of her ass on my cock driving me wild. By the time her dress is pooling on the floor, I’m rock-hard, eager as a teenager...especially when I see what she’s wearing underneath.

  I run my fingers over her pale pink bustier, tracing the raised velvet rose-and-thorn pattern, the white silk ribbons holding it together at the front. Sarah trembles, and directs my free hand to the matching panties. I play with the ruffles down the sides, savoring the contrast between crisp lace and soft velvet.

  She pulls away, and bends over the window seat, elbows resting on the pillows. Her back arches. The sight of her round ass so temptingly presented to me stokes the fire in my loins. I move both hands to the waistband of her panties, and hesitate. “Almost too pretty to take off....”

  “You don’t leave the wrapper on the present.” Sarah does a little wiggle, that sends any resistance I had out the window. Her panties and my jeans are discarded in an instant, and I’m molding my body to hers, relishing the skin-to-skin contact.

  She’s soft and yielding, and so responsive, rewarding me with hungry little moans and sighs as I kiss a long line down her spine. When I slip one hand between her thighs, I can feel she’s every bit as into this as I am, slick and wet, warm to the touch.

  I tease her, barely grazing her inner lips with the tip of one finger, carefully avoiding her clit, circling away when she tries to shift me to the spot.

  “Mm....” Sarah reaches back and tries to put her hand over mine again. This time, I bat it away. She yelps and groans, and a little shiver goes through her.

  “Hmm...what could you possibly want?” I brush the back of my hand up one thigh, and down the other. I dip the tip of one finger inside her, just enough to feel her tighten around me, and pull it out. She squirms again, and this time, I follow her slit to the apex, and press my fingers to her clit. When I feel it twitch, I start to move, now clockwise, now up and down; soft, then firm, till she’s melting in my arms.

  I pull her flush against me, and turn her to face the mirror so she can see herself, lips parted, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast and hard. At first, she watches my fingers, entranced, but as her gasps and moans reach a crescendo, she fits her hand over mine and presses it firmly against her. She bucks against me, once, twice, and I can feel her cum, body tensing, clit throbbing. The look on her face is beautiful: eyes distant and dreamy, barely open; lips curved up at the corners in an angelic smile.

  I take a moment to savor her satisfied expression, before I lift her gently and set her down on the pillows. She spreads her legs invitingly, and smiles. “You got a...?”

  I retrieve my jeans from the floor, and dig through the pockets, till I find what I’m looking for. When I look back at her, she’s barely holding back a smirk.

  “Confident, huh?”

  “Hey! I always carry condoms in my pockets!”

  “And I always wear my lucky bustier.” Sarah pulls lazily at the bows holding it closed, one after another. The garment falls open. Her tits are round and perky underneath. I lean down and kiss each one. She plucks the condom from my hand, and I hear the wrapper tear. An instant later, she’s rolling it smoothly onto my dick. She does it by touch, never even looking down.

  I need to be inside her, right now.

  She laces her arms around my neck, and pulls me on top of her. Somehow, we end up stretched out along the window seat, cradled by the cushions. I take a moment to admire the way the dappled shadows of the trees play across her breasts, before I thrust inside. Sarah hooks one leg around my waist, hanging on tight. She grips the back of my neck, and I feel those red-tipped nails again, digging in just below my hairline. It makes my cock throb, and I snap my hips again harder, alternating between hard, punishing thrusts, and quick rotations of my hips that grind the base of my cock against her sensitive clit.

  Sarah matches my rhythm, meeting every thrust, every wriggle. Her teeth tug at my earlobe, nip at my neck. Her warm breath tickles my skin. Her thighs grip me tight; her hands never leave my skin. Makes me feel...wanted.

  I want to draw out the moment, make it stretch till the sun goes down. But when she runs the sharp heel of one shoe down the back of my thigh, just hard enough to pink the skin, I know the end is near.

  “Close—I’m close—“

  “Me, too....” Sarah arches against me, bucks with wild abandon. She tightens hard around me, as her pleasure peaks again. Her heel digs in, almost too hard, and the pain lets me hold out just long enough to let her r
ide it out on my cock. As soon as she relaxes, and her foot slides away, I follow her over the edge, shouting something that might be her name, or might be incoherent nonsense: . I’m too far-gone to care.

  We take our time, coming down from the high. Her body fits naturally against mine, and she practically purrs when I start combing my fingers through her hair.

  “You know,” I say, “this was what I missed most, after last night’s interruption.”

  “Not the orgasm?” Her hand finds mine again. She hooks our little fingers together.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong—that’d would have been nice, too, but...I can give myself an orgasm. Bit harder to spoon myself.”

  “I don’t know—you could sort of...pull your knee to your chest, pretend it’s another person?”

  “Oh, that’s sad!”

  “Yeah...sounded less tragic in my head.” She shifts just enough to give me a lazy kiss, which leads to another, and another. Before I know it, the shadows are starting to lengthen. Dimly, it occurs to me that my invitation was for lunch.

  “I’m the worst host,” I say. “Didn’t even feed you before I’m....”

  “Eating me alive?”

  “Hey, I didn’t do that!” I give her ear a little nibble. “Not yet, anyway. Maybe after dinner.”

  “Mm....” She stretches against me like she’s thinking about getting up, but not quite ready to leave the comfort of our little cushion-nest. “Guess you’d better feed the dog, as well.”

  “Think I did that...some time. Earlier.” I pull her a little closer. “Need one of those timer things, like when you go on vacation, and it feeds your dog every few hours.”

  “Not sure that actually exists,” says Sarah. She finally extracts herself from my embrace. I groan. With the sun rapidly vanishing below the horizon, it’s getting kind of chilly. The idea of a hot dinner, followed by a leisurely dessert, suddenly sounds pretty damn perfect.