But if I continue this letter in this vein, I will become too distracted to continue writing. I am already agitated and in a state of such arousal from the mental picture of enjoying your beautiful body that I cannot sit still. The need engendered in me by the thought of enjoying your womanly treasure, and bringing you sweet pleasure, is burning through me and demanding satisfaction. I am torturing myself by writing these things to you, creating such vivid pictures in my head, when you are four hours away from me and I cannot do anything about it.
So let me turn to other matters...if I can concentrate. I successfully completed all my errands, plus housekeeping and laundry, in enough time to put in a couple of hours tinkering with the other joy of my life, that ’47 Plymouth.
I really do get a kick out of working on that car! It’s a true labor of love, a joy to work on despite the fact that the work at times is tedious, at times frustrating, and it requires getting into some of the damnedest positions. (Well, so does sex, and that’s a joy too...damn, there I go again, back to talking about sex. When you’re around, even if only electronically, it seems hard to get away from the subject.)
Have you plans for the evening? Maybe I shouldn’t take up too much of your time with a long letter, and make you tight for time if you’re running out to do something fun. Or staying in to do something fun. Well, speaking of plans, I have company coming at 8:00, myself, so I guess I’d better gulp down some dinner and make myself presentable. I was hungry to talk to you and sat down at my computer before I even showered after working on the car. I’m a grungy mess. Better go do something about it.
I’ll “see” you in the morning.
Yours,
Max
Kari’s right hand sporadically clicked the mouse to move the text up the screen through the letter as she read it. There was so much to react to in his letter. Of course, her pleasure button—her whole treasure trove, as Max had called it—was throbbing and thrumming in reaction to his letter. But there were parts for her head to react to, too.
For one thing, he had implied that he was in as agitatedly horny a state as she now found herself. And he had said he had plans for the evening. He was expecting company.
Were his plans simply to get together with a buddy or two and play video games or watch football on the tube? Or perhaps he had a pool table in his basement? For that matter, she didn’t actually know if he even liked video games or played pool.)
Or did he have a date? Was some woman coming over, some woman who would get the benefit of the head of steam he had built up over her? Some woman who would get to enjoy in reality the lovemaking Kari could only imagine?
That line of thinking was too uncomfortable. At one time she was becoming both more sexually needful and more upset at the prospect of sharing Max with some other woman. Whatever sexual steam he had built up, it belonged to her! The condition he now found himself in had been engendered by thoughts of her, and only she should have the benefit of it.
Too, she was jealous of what came after. The cuddling, the caressing, the intimacy of two entwined bodies snuggling in the afterglow. The exchanged soft murmurs of appreciation, the confidences exchanged in the post-sex aura of extra closeness.
Would the woman—if indeed there was one—spend the night? Would she make Max breakfast? Or would Max, rising in the early dawn, silently pad down to the kitchen, leaving her to sleep, and produce breakfast for two, cooked clatter-free, with only the curling aroma of bacon and the sizzle of it as it crisped up in the skillet to reach and possibly waken the sleeping form on the bed?
Kari’s racing brain crashed free of that train of thought in a hurry. While it had stopped the escalating spiral of unsatisfiable rising passion, it was agitating her in its own way...a most unpleasant way. She turned back to Max’s letter. There were so many tidbits in it to pounce on, to feast on—and to think about.
“...the other joy of my life,” he had said, referring to the old car he was rebuilding. The other joy? Was he implying she was the first joy? Or did some different, unnamed pleasure hold that singular honor?
“I will lavish you with physical love,” he had said. But she wanted more than just physical love. That too, yes, but her passions were more than just sexual. She craved affection, romance, caring, closeness. He seemed prepared to give her more, give her what she needed. But could she be sure? Oh, what if she was barking up the wrong tree?
She was new at this online thing. Electronic friendships—she was building up a few of those—electronic sexuality, electronic courtship, electronic romance. The Information Highway had as many potholes as any other. She didn’t want to fall into one. And she was navigating without a map.
Then there was the paragraph where he asked if she had plans for the evening. He seemed interested...was he concerned, worried, envious? She hoped so, as she picked at her lemon chicken in a decidedly less enthusiastic manner than the taste deserved. It was growing cold on the plate, and still only half eaten. Kari Crandall eating with a less than voracious appetite? This email thing certainly had wrought spectacular changes in her life...or at any rate, Max had.
Good evening, Max,
I had a great day at Larrimore headquarters, following a morning in which I accomplished
She did the electronic equivalent of tearing up the page and began over.
Good evening, Max,
Your stirring words touch deep places in me and arouse me to passions that toss me like a gale tosses a ship.
No, too cliché. Once again, she destroyed what she had written. And began again.
Good evening, Max,
Your words speak to my body as if my most female parts had ears and could hear you speak directly to them. I tingle in places I never even knew existed. I resonate to your written voice. I only wish I was hearing the real thing.
You ask about my plans for tonight. They do not include you, except electronically, so at best it will be an imperfect evening. I wish they would hurry up and invent a modem through which we could teleport ourselves instead of just transmitting mere words. If our words can transmit our thoughts, why can’t we transmit ourselves to each other in some way? Imagine me popping out of your computer monitor this minute!
I had a good day, yes. I accomplished all my chores, got to Larrimore’s campaign headquarters, met those of my fellow volunteers who were there at the time, and agreed to several assignments of “grunge work.” It will feel good to know I’m doing something to make a difference, even if it’s just stuffing envelopes. Not that Chris Badley is the worst politician on wheels, but Larrimore is, by far, the better candidate. (Our incumbent mayor, a disaster, is fortunately not running again.)
What are your plans for tomorrow? I’m volunteering again, but don’t know what my assignment is yet.
Tell me about your house. Have you lived there long? What does it look like? I don’t even know if you own or rent. Tell me about yourself. You’ve said you’re a stockbroker, but I don’t know much more than that. Do you come from a large family? Small family? From around here or across the continent? I don’t even know if you’ve ever been married before. Tell me as much about yourself as you’d care to...and then save the rest for when we get together...which I hope will be soon.
Tell me, too, what your favorite dinner is, so I can cook it when you come to visit.
Yours,
Kari
She sent the letter on its way without rereading it. If there were any typos, he’d figure them out. There was still a bit of chicken and rice and salad left. The salad was supposed to be cold, but the chicken and rice weren’t supposed to be, yet were.
Gulping them down distractedly, Kari mentally patted herself on the back for the way she’d neatly dealt with his question about her plans for the evening. Which, actually, primarily involved watching the video of her cousin’s wedding. After the fiasco with Glenn, she’d become so upset about the whole prospect of going to the wedding—and so embarrassed about having to show up without an escort—that she’d pl
eaded a virus and stayed home. But Max knew nothing of the brouhaha with Glenn, nor was she ready to tell him.
If she was going to curl up and watch the video, she wanted something good in the way of dessert while she was watching. The neighborhood bakery was open late. With visions of fudge and nuts cavorting through her brain, she locked up the house, leaving the computer running. Lately, when she shut it down, she felt like she was shutting Max out. She knew it was irrational, illogical. After all, his letters couldn’t get through till she logged on to her email program anyhow. Merely leaving the machine turned on didn’t give him access to her; it wasn’t like a phone. Still, these days she sometimes left the machine up and running all the same.
A chill hit her when she walked out the door into the darkened evening. The wind had picked up, and it was brisk and nippy. She had simply thrown her jacket over her shoulders. Now she slipped her arms properly into the sleeves. Max’s arms would warm me up nicely, she thought.
Dry leaves scudded down the driveway, one brushing her ankle as it skittered past her. She absent-mindedly rubbed that ankle against the other one. A half moon gauzily shone above her. Is it half full or half empty? she thought, chuckling at the absurdity. Whatever it is, it’s the same moon that’s shining on Max...somewhere. I wonder what he’s doing right now. A myriad of stars spread out in a sparkling ceiling, twinkling crisply in the chill. It’ll be winter before long, at this rate.
At the bakery, Kari couldn’t decide between Chocoholic’s Ecstasy Supreme and Double Fudge Fantasy. So she bought a portion of each, cradling them as she carried them back to the car. A black cat crossed in front of her as she scurried, hunched up against the wind, which had picked up. But, despite the chill, she stopped to pet the fuzzy creature. “Halloween will be here soon. Your holiday,” she said to the black animal. “And then Election Day.” That inescapably drew her thoughts back to the Larrimore campaign. I wonder what Jeff will have me doing tomorrow.
She got into her car and drove home. She was tempted to run to the computer, log onto the online service, and see if Max had answered her email, but she dissuaded herself from doing it. He’d said he had plans for the evening, and he hadn’t said that those plans were answering email!
Checking her watch, she saw it was 7:30. Maybe she’d answer some snail mail, pay some bills, tidy up her desk. Surely the video wouldn’t take all evening. She rationed herself one dessert for now and the other for during the video.
Max crept into her correspondence. She found herself telling two out-of-state friends—why did people have to move?!—with whom she still corresponded the old-fashioned way about her new affaire du coeur. Then she turned to paying bills. Ugh! Although clearing them up and knowing they were taken care of was always a relief.
By the time the pile of bills was gone, so was a goodly chunk of the money in her account. The first serving of dessert was long gone, too, and Kari decided on a bubble bath before the video. She ran the tap, pouring the scented bubble liquid under the running water, inhaling the fragrance as it rose from the steamy water.
In a frivolous mood, she selected a sensuous-looking peignoir to wear for the rest of the evening, disrobed, and stepped into the tub. She washed lavishly, practically caressing her body as she soaped it, lying back in the tub and luxuriating in the bubbles. Gypsy music slunk up the stairs and curled around the corner from the living room, where she’d put on a CD before getting into the tub. The violin cried. In an emotional mood, Kari nearly cried with it.
Her heart was filled with longings, and the music intensified them. She wanted so much, none of it unreasonable, yet so much of it less easily attainable for a woman of larger proportions.
Having met Max, who so far seemed to exemplify so much of what she wanted in a man, it seemed her wishes might finally come true. Yet that very possibility made her longings all the stronger instead of quieting them. And the strings on the violin seemed to resonate in tune with something deep inside her.
After drying off, Kari lavished herself with dusting powder, slipped into the peignoir, and returned to the living room, turning the gypsy music off so she could watch the wedding tape. While scarfing up the fudge treat, she lay back on the sofa, snuggled among the throw pillows, watching her cousin get married and wishing it was her.
She could picture herself in that dress. But I’d pick something with a different kind of lace. She could feel the veil surrounding her face. I’d choose a longer one than Allison did. She’d be so happy her feet would barely touch the floor, thrilled to be starting this new phase of her life. And who’s the man waiting for me at the altar? She couldn’t quite make out his face. Was it Max?
She finished the fudge concoction, put the plate on the coffee table, and reached for the tissues she’d carried in from the bedroom. Weddings always made her cry...especially when they weren’t hers.
Chapter 5
Kari slept with the window cracked open despite the chill. Many mornings this time of year, she woke up earlier than she needed to because the room had gotten cold and the heat wasn’t on. But a warm front moved in Saturday night, and by Sunday morning, the weather outside—and the house’s interior—was warmer than it had been the night before.
Half-waking, Kari stretched luxuriantly, threw an arm out from under the covers, felt the comfortable temperature of the room, and rolled over. When she awakened again it was 8:30. She had meant to get up earlier—she had a full day ahead of her—but the absence of sunlight streaming in the window had lulled her into thinking it must be earlier than it was.
She peered out between the blinds, which were open partway to let the air in. The sky was leaden with only occasional breaks in the heavy overcast. Kari hoped it wasn’t going to rain. She assumed her assignment for the Larrimore campaign involved handing out flyers again, something less than fun in the rain.
She dressed, made breakfast, and hurried to the computer. Logging on, she found several pieces of email waiting. Naturally, she opened Max’s first.
My dear,
It’s 6 AM. I’m off to jog as soon as I write and send this...but before I go get my exercise for the day, let me answer your questions.
My plans for today? Read the Sunday paper cover to cover, play chess with a friend, tinker with my car some more if there’s time.
My house? It’s yellow and white, two stories, three bedrooms. I grew up here. My mom died a few years ago and my dad moved to Arizona, deeding the house over to me. (My brother—my only sibling—didn’t want it. He lives in Idaho on a ranch. And I guess that answers all your questions about my family, too, in one fell swoop—or is that one swell foop?)
No, I’ve never been married before. Engaged, yes. And you? And tell me about your family, too. And your house. And any pets. (I have a cat, Pandora, who gets into everything.)
Well, if I go on at much more length, I’ll have nothing left to say when we finally meet face-to-face. So, since I’m all dressed for jogging, let me get going. I’ll see you here later.
Yours,
Max
Nothing about what he’d done last night. Rats! And that tantalizing tidbit about a prior engagement—why did he have to be so terse about it? Didn’t he know Kari would want to know more about it? Like how long ago, why he didn’t marry the woman, whether she lived nearby and he still ran into her, and all that other important stuff.
The idea that they’d have nothing to say when they met face-to-face was preposterous...though of course he probably was being facetious. And the fact he hadn’t said who was coming over to play chess with him...had that been a deliberate omission? Was it a woman?
Chiding herself for paranoia, Kari finished her breakfast, which she’d been eating as she read, and composed a reply to him. She was somewhat lengthier than he’d been, but she kept her nagging worries out of the letter, not asking who he was playing chess with, nor even asking for details of the engagement. They certainly would have something to talk about when they finally got together in person.
&nb
sp; Pouring another cup of coffee, she returned to the computer and answered the rest of her email, then retrieved the Sunday paper from the azaleas and settled into her comfy, big chair. It was time to catch up on the news of the world at large now that she’d caught up on the news of her own little sphere.
The weather forecast was for mostly cloudy with a chance of showers, and unseasonably warm. Beyond that, the news was the usual mélange of battles, crimes, and disasters...the stuff that makes newspapers sell...plus all the extra features that get thrown in on Sunday.
She decided she didn’t have time for the crossword, and was pleased. There had been many Sundays when the puzzle was the highlight of her day. It was nice—practically an accomplishment—that she wouldn’t have time for it at all today!
Kari still hadn’t finished the paper by quarter-to-one, but she put it aside to go to Larrimore’s headquarters. Jeff was talking on the phone and scribbling on a piece of paper. His perpetual grin was damped down. Kari wondered what was amiss.
Standing quietly at the long table that was doubling as a desk for the duration, Kari gleaned the information that Jeff couldn’t find quite a few boxes of campaign flyers. “But they were here when I left last night,” Jeff exploded into the phone. “Who locked up last night? Were you the last one out the door? Well, who was? Were the flyers still here when you left? Well, dammit, they’ve got to be somewhere!”
Kari went over to grab a cup of coffee from the big electric pot. When she returned to the long table, Jeff was off the phone. “I don’t know if we’re dealing with incompetence or worse,” he said, running his hand distractedly through his already-disheveled hair. “But I guess there’s nothing more I can do now. We have some flyers. We’ll make do with what we’ve got. Eileen?” And he turned to another volunteer nearby. “See what you can find out about those flyers. Kari and I are going out to the flea market.”
MacGregor, Cynthia - An Appetite for Passion (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 4