by Kit Smart
I set up the dog bed beside the fireplace in the living room, and grin as the German Shepherd heaves a great sigh of relief, and flopping himself down, promptly passes out. Must’ve been some run. I think as I cross into the kitchen where Owen is busy at the counter presumably, from the smells, preparing breakfast.
Fingers crossed that pancakes are somehow involved.
I make certain not to blindside him as I enter the kitchen proper. I know he saw me, heard me come in—I was deliberately noisy from the moment I set foot on his driveway—but that doesn’t mean he’s not distracted, or simply hasn’t been tracking me.
Only when he turns his head toward me, to acknowledge my presence, do I make my way forward along the counter toward him. I had intended to kiss him, but feeling unexpectedly shy under his gaze, I survey the stovetop instead. Bacon, sausages, hash-browns, sautéed onions and mushrooms, eggs, and miracle of miracles—pancakes. You have been busy. I reach out to nab a piece of cooked bacon from a plate beside stove only to be intercepted by his hand on my wrist. “I believe—” he sets the spatula aside, and slides that hand along my waist to the small of my back which he then uses to pull me against him. “—that it is customary, to kiss the cook before eating.” Taking the piece of bacon out of my hand, he begins to lift it toward his mouth.
The motion galvanizes me to move past my peculiar moment of shyness and make a grab for his bacon thieving hand. “That’s mine.” I tell him.
He looks down at me, grins. “If you want it, you know what to do.” He challenges.
“Oh yeah?” Fighting back the urge to grin, I raise myself up on my toes as if I’m going to kiss him.
“Yeah.” I feel his hand tighten compulsively on my back as he attempts to push me more fully against him, and, eyes on my lips, he lowers his mouth to mine.
I let my lips rest against his, unmoving, for heartbeat, before opening them and pulling his lower lip between mine. Deliberately drawing out the process, I suck his lower lip toward me until I elicit a deep groan from him—one that I can feel running along the places where my body is pressed against his.
When I feel the sound against my mouth, I take his lip between my teeth, and give it a sharp nip. Take that bacon thief.
He starts, and I take the opportunity to pull my mouth back, and snatch the bacon out of his hand.
Because the loss of contact would be terrible for both of us, I do not step away from him as I take a bite of the bacon, and I am, therefore, in the perfect position to enjoy the stunned expression on his face as he blinks down at me.
I wait, taking a second bite of the bacon as I do so, even though I’m not quite certain what I’m waiting for, or what kind of reaction I want.
When he smiles, it’s my turn to be stunned. I’ve never seen him smile like this; so wholeheartedly; so completely that even his eyes are lit up with amusement, and a feeling very much like déjà vu strikes me as I have the impression once again that I’m looking at a much younger, much more carefree version of him. You’re a bit buried under everything aren’t you?
“I may have to make a habit of standing between you and your bacon.”
I pop the remaining bit of bacon into my mouth before I dignify that with a response “What kind of man would stand between a woman and her bacon?” I raise my best, most imperious eyebrow at him.
He laughs. “The kind who likes to be kissed.”
I don’t know why, but that kind of devastates me ,and I can’t get anything past my throat except for a rather inadequate “Hmmm….”
I make a mental note to take every opportunity to kiss him. Can’t let a man like this go around all un-kissed.
Something on the stove demands his attention, and I start to shift away as he reaches for the spatula.
He adjusts his hand on my back a but, but he refuses to let me move. “Stay.” He looks down at me. “Please.”
I cease my attempts to move away from him, stay where I am until he finishes what he’s doing and turns his attention back toward me. “Would it be okay, if I stood behind you—put my arms around your waist?” I use the same tone that I would use to request a cup of coffee because I don’t want to make a big issue of it. It’s not, in fact, a big issue, for me actually, and I want to communicate that.
His face is unreadable as he studies me. Unreadable is better than offended.
“It’s okay if it’s not okay—I won’t be offended or anything.” I add thinking that maybe he is reluctant to refuse my request.
“It’s not that—” his face starts to relax “I’m okay with you standing behind me. I suppose I’m just a little surprised that you’re asking—that you know to ask.”
“You’ve been very open about your PTSD. It’s been incorporated into our cover story.” You do realize that right?
He runs his free hand over his face. “I know.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I guess, I just didn’t expected it to translate —”
“Translate?”
“Translate—” he frowns with annoyance at his inability to find the right word. “Translate to us—this—” pulling his hand off his face, he indicates the cabin at large. “Life outside the cover story. “
It’s my turn to frown. “Did you expect that I would take in all of the information you provided and ignore it?” I know for a fact you’ve seen my resume. Unless you didn’t actually read it, you know I have a background in Psychology, albeit a minor one. Also, I’m not a horse’s ass. So….?
“No—” He says slowly. “I suppose, as stupid as it sounds, I was just kind of hoping that the things I said; that you might think that the things that I said were just part of the cover story.”
I take that in, consider it and fail to come up with anything conclusive. “Are they?”
“No.”
“Then why —”
“I was hoping we could just have a normal relationship. I don’t want you to have to make accommodations for it—for me.”
That hits me hard, and I find myself having to suck in a slow deep breath to avoid reacting to it. “You’re not as comfortable with it is you act, are you?”
He grimaces a bit, and I have the impression that it is directed more at himself than at anything I’ve said. “No. That’s not it. At work, in public, it’s fine—I know how to do that. It’s just, in private, in a relationship… Can I say that? That this is a relationship?” He waits for my nod before he continues. “I’m not that comfortable with it.”
“Why not?” I ask the only question I can ask.
“PTSD—It’s a relationship killer.” He busies himself at the stove as he says it and that more than anything alerts me to the importance of the moment.
Test time Seri. I slide myself under his arm, along his flank until I am resting against his back. Despite his attention to the pans on the stove, I can feel that he has stopped breathing and it terrifies me a bit. Please don’t let me say the wrong thing.
I keep my tone light as I slide my hands along his waist to his belly. Breathe Owen. “I suspect that if you can have PTSD, I can, not be stupid about it.” I use my palms to rub the tense muscles of his abdomen as I press a kiss to his spine. “Although, in all fairness, I have to confess that I can actually be quite stupid at times.” Breathe.
I wait, counting his heartbeats as I do so.
His lungs expand. He breathes. “I’ve yet to see you be stupid Seri.”
I feel my lips curve into a smile that is one hundred percent relief. “Don’t worry. There’s time.”
I feel his rumble of laughter before I hear it, and reward him with another kiss between the shoulder blades.
In response, he covers one of my hands with his where it presses against his abdomen. “I like this.” He says quietly.
“Yeah?” I drop my forehead to his back at the humbling confession.
“Yeah.”
I rub my forehead against his back. “Do you like it enough to give me another piece of bacon?”
I stay where I am; let the rumbling
and vibrations run through me as he laughs.
This is perfect.
Seri
When everything is ready and on the table, Owen sets two plates side by side and gestures for me to precede him onto the banquet that runs along the back of the table.
For a few minutes, we busy ourselves filling our plates.
I am in the midst of rolling up a pancake when I feel him slide a leg underneath mine. Thinking that he doesn’t have enough room, I make to shift over, but he stymies that motion with a hand on my thighs. “No, don’t move.” He tells me when I look up at him questioningly. “Not away. Just—” He uses his hand to apply a soft, guiding pressure along the side of my thigh and I suddenly understand that he wants me to put my legs in his lap.
There is nothing in me that objects to any part of my body being in his lap so, I swing my legs up obediently.
Immediately, he wraps his left arm around my knees, and holds them against his chest.
“You’re very tactile.” I comment as I reach for my fork.
He gives me one of his sideways looks and spears a mushroom. “Yes. Do you mind?”
“Nope. I am all for it. Especially, if it also involves breakfast.” Picking up the pancake, I take a big bite of hot, sweet, satisfying goodness. Bliss. “This is amazing.”I tell him in between bites. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
I watch as he slices his sausages into precise little pieces and moves them aside with his knife. “We—my family—had a cook. I used to help her make my dinner in the evenings.” Bringing a piece of sausage to his mouth, he chews it methodically and swallows it before continuing. “Then, when I moved out on my own, I got more interested in it.”
Following his lead, I slice off a piece of sausage and pair it with a piece of mushroom. When the food hits my mouth I groan in utter satisfaction. “You do realize that I am never going to let you escape from me now that I know you can cook like this right?”
That earns me a laugh. “You’re remarkably easy to please.”
“There are many who would disagree with you.” I warn him.
He turns to look at me and I am mesmerized by the light in his eyes. “Then they’re fools.” He says simply.
Seri
The third time Owen yawns, I take the dish towel from his hands and set it aside. “Go have a nap.” I tell him. “I’ll finish up here.”
He doesn’t move.
“Really,” I tell him thinking he may feel guilty about abandoning me to the dishes. “It’s okay, go. There’s not much left to do here.”
He slides his hands into his pockets, drops his gaze to my collarbone. “Do you want to be alone?” He asks slowly.
Huh? “No.” Even with his head tilted downward, he is tall enough that I can see him close his eyes. The reaction—the intensity of the reaction—is severe enough that I search my brain for answers.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was never a special focus of mine during my psych degree, so it takes me a few seconds to figure out that he thinks I’m sending him away and that that is most likely triggering some abandonment issues. I need to read up.
“I’m not sending you away.” I take the direct approach because I don’t see any benefit of subtlety here. “You’re tired,” I feel myself relax as I watch something like relief push the tension out of his body. “Go take a nap.”
He swears, almost entirely under his breath, but I catch it. “Sorry.” He says. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
He shifts back on his heels, looks up at me. “I don’t mean to be—don’t want to be—so needy.” He grimaces. “Or, so difficult.” The grimace morphs into a humorless smile. “I know it’s not very attractive.”
You are struggling this morning aren’t you? “I don’t have any complaints about your attractiveness.” I run my gaze up and down his body with the ridiculous, open leer in the hopes of earning a real smile from him.
It almost works. I don’t get a real smile, but the tension in his face dissipates somewhat. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He returns.
It comes up flat, but it was an attempt at humor, and in the interests of turning the mood, I pick it up. “Not so bad myself?!” Stepping forward, I put my hands on his shoulders and slide them along the tight muscles of his traps until they cup his neck.
Catching his eye, I use my index fingers to caress the sensitive corners of his jaw in a deliberate reminder of the night before. “You’re a real sweet talker aren’t you Chief?”
As I had intended, he melts into the contact and I feel his hands on my waist as his arms come around me. He stares into my eyes, as though searching for something and, I let him. I’m not sending you away. I think at him. Believe it.
“Go have a nap, if you want.” I tell him softly when his eyes have stilled, and I feel like he can hear it again. “You’re tired.” Lifting myself up on my toes, I plant an affectionate kiss to his chin. “I’ll wait.”
“If I want?”He repeats, trying it out slowly as though testing a thought in the process of forming.
“If you want.” I nod, press another kiss to his chin. “Do what you want.”
He runs one of his hands up along my spine to the delicious place between my shoulder blades where the warmth and the pressure feel just right. “And if I wanted to lay down with you?” He sweeps his hands up and down my shoulder blades in long gentle strokes and I shiver. “Would that be all right?”
“Would that be—?” I struggle to focus on the topic at hand as I melt a little under the motion of his hands.
He smiles in amusement.”All right.” He repeats. “Can you come lay down with me Seri? Just —” he takes a deep breath. “Lay with me for a bit —I don’t know if I can sleep, but, I’d like to lay down with you for a bit.”
Seri
Despite his uncertainties about being able to sleep; Owen starts to doze almost the instant we get situated on his bed.
I study his closed eyelids with amusement. “Whatever you got up to last week, sure did a number on your biorhythms huh?”
“Whatever I got up to?” His lips curve into a smile as he slides his leg over mine and pulls me closer against him. “You’re going to have to believe me about the time travel thing eventually Seri.”
I roll my eyes despite the fact that he can’t see me. “Not my area of responsibility Chief.” I tell him. “I’m just here for the cover story, and the project management stuff remember?” I snuggle deeper into him as I feel my own eyes start to drift shut. Guess I could use a nap as well. “You can keep your super-secret, wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, classified, magic, stuff to yourself.”
I feel his chest rumble as he laughs. “And here I was thinking that you might enjoy waking up to some of my super-secret, wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, classified, magic stuff.”
“Mhfh.” I am so close to drifting off, that it is a struggle to reply. “I seriously hope that you are not implying that you are possessed of some sort of sexual technique that results in time travel.
“Only one way to find out.” He rumbles.
“Seriously?”
I am just about gone when I feel him press a kiss against the top of my head. “Just so you know, I like making love a lot. So, if you’re going to be with me,” I can hear in his voice that he’s close to dropping off as well, and I am suddenly bothered—in that distant way you can be bothered by something when you’re on the verge of sleep—that I may never hear the end of his sentence.
He’s silent for so long that I nudge him with my head. “Be with you,” I try to prompt but it comes out a garbled, incoherent mess.
“If you’re going to be with me,” He repeats. “You’d better be prepared to make love a lot.”
“Yesh.” That sounds wrong and I try to reform the word, but sleep takes me before I can reopen my mouth.
The last thing I feel before I drop off is the rumble of his laughter.
16
Seri
Monday mornin
gs are the devil for everyone.
I am no exception to this rule.
Except that this Monday morning I am.
For the ten minutes it takes me to walk in the door of my office, get Geronimo situated in his dog bed beside the sofa, put the kettle on and start up my computer, I am rocking Monday morning.
I am well rested, feeling good about things between me and Owen and still thrumming from the way he kissed me good morning before sliding down my body to kiss me good morning.
Sex makes everything better. Even Monday mornings.
My rocking good Monday morning comes to an end the moment I sit down at my computer with my cup of tea and notice that I have one hundred and sixty-seven emails.
One hundred and sixty-seven unopened emails.
If this were my personal computer, my personal email accounts that wouldn’t concern me. Everybody and their dog, has at least one hundred and sixty-seven unopened emails. Even the most diligent email answerer on the planet can’t keep up with the amount of spam that relentlessly trickles into a person’s mailbox overnight.
But this, this is my work account.
The one that I only use for specific work-related stuff.
The one that is less than a month old.
And one hundred and sixty-seven unopened emails, over a weekend, is bad news. Especially after the events of last Friday night.
Picking up my teacup, I take a deep, fortifying sip of tea and click on my email icon.
A quick scan of the email titles confirms my belief that this is bad, so I pick up my teacup for another sip. Tea solves everything.