by Tiana Laveen
It looked much larger in print.
Something about the stack of freshly printed off-white pages got his blood flowing, titillated him in just the right way. This was the bittersweet proof of a manuscript worked to the bone, read a thousand times and toiled over until the wee hours of the morning. The final leg of the race, after having spent months neck deep in concentration, so much so, his social life suffered miserably. Though he was grateful Emerald kept busy, too, with her own responsibilities. This helped him not feel so guilty for neglecting her.
After he’d printed off the final page and sent an email to his agent, an all too familiar coolness drifted about the office.
The aroma of cigars he didn’t smoke filled the room, then disappeared as quickly as he’d picked up the scent. He hoped Peter was pleased; in time, he was certain he would be. Regardless, this was his duty, an attempt to right a wrong. The book was exactly 358 sheets long, double-spaced in Times New Roman size 12 font and the paper was still warm to the touch.
He stood from his seat after sitting for so long, and his bones cracked as he stretched. His eyes strained and his brain begged for coffee. As he rounded the desk, he took a glance at his computer, taking note of the unopened email he’d received from his ex-wife. He’d been having a good morning and didn’t want one of her notoriously snarky impositions or terse words to jolt him out of it. They’d not spoken in forever, so he couldn’t fathom what she possibly desired to discuss, and mostly didn’t care.
Shuffling off to the percolating coffee pot in the kitchen, he grabbed his favorite bright yellow coffee mug—a silly little thing which read ‘URINE SAMPLES’ in italicized white font across it—and filled the thing to the rim. Leaning against his counter, he imagined fixing a couple of slices of toast slathered with strawberry jam and butter, then taking a leisurely walk around town. Meanwhile, he’d work on his goal of hiring a personal assistant per his agent’s urgings, and summon the strength for his late afternoon radio interview with some big shot radio personality from Miami he was too prideful to admit he’d never heard of.
As he shifted pressure from one foot to the other, the edge of the counter hit his lower back in an awkward way, but he was simply too tired to readjust. Sip after sip, he begged for mercy, the magic moment when he’d feel himself come alive once again. His eyes grew heavy, and nothing worked to wake him up, not even the rays of light that shone through the window behind him, promising some warmer weather for the day.
“Huuuhh?” He stood straight, placing the mug down onto the counter, when the doorbell chimed. Before his mind could tell his ears what the deal was, it chimed once again. “Who is here at this hour!” he barked, not in question, but in a demanding tone. He stormed towards the front door, finally invigorated and with an axe to grind. As he swung the door open, his tight, stiff muscles relaxed at the sight of her.
“I can tell by your expression that you don’t remember saying we were going out to breakfast today.”
Emerald crossed her arms, her lips twisted up in that way he was all too familiar with. There she stood, her attitude half cocked, wearing a raspberry swing coat with large pearly buttons, black pants that swayed against her ankles, ballerina flats, and a magenta skull cap pulled down onto her head, shrouding her eyebrows and pressing her hair firmly to her face. Glimmers of small golden hoops hanging from her ears caressed her cheeks and her delicate, matching gold necklace peeked timidly from beneath a half tucked collar.
“I remembered.” He glared at her as she slung her large charcoal gray purse over her shoulder.
“You’re lying.”
“So. What’s it to ya?” He smirked.
“I’m not here to sell girl scout cookies, you know?” She looked about the place and dramatically rolled her eyes. Her weight made the porch moan, as sparse as she was. “Can I come inside or are you going to keep eyeballing me like I’m one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“I wouldn’t have even opened the door then,” he mumbled, stepping aside and allowing her to walk past him. Her sweet perfume hit the air like a sprinkling of floral ice. The scent caught him right in the chest, made him sigh and throw a roving eye to his inner, primitive self. Slamming the door behind them, he made his way back to the kitchen, leaving her in the foyer where she took the liberty of thumbing through a selection of his magazine subscriptions that lay on the table. “I was drinking some coffee. I’ll finish it. You want some?” He pointed straight ahead as if she didn’t recall where his pantry was.
“Nope, I’m good.”
“Let me take a quick shower and get dressed after this. I promise it won’t take me but a second.”
“Mmmm hmmm.” She remained in the foyer area, and all he could hear was the turning of the pages. “I’m going to steal your perfume samples!” she yelled, words followed by a tearing sound, the zipper of her purse opening and closing, then more page turning.
“How dare you!” he yelled back, gripping his coffee mug. “I was saving those up for Christmas gifts!”
“Could you imagine?” She burst out laughing. “I bet someone, somewhere has given these away as gifts, too. I guess it’s the thought that counts. So, where are we going? I have a taste for a good waffle.”
He briefly peered out the window behind him and took a sip of his coffee. “How about that place called Paisley’s? Neither of us have been there yet. I was told it’s pretty good.”
“Yeah, that sounds like an idea.”
He couldn’t see her, but he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Placing his mug back down onto the counter, he took a few steps forward, but nothing was there. Well, nothing to the naked eye. Returning to the kitchen counter, Sloan took a final swallow of his drink, placed the empty mug in the sink, and made his way to the stairs. She stood to his left, her nose still in the magazine, her fingers moving fast and furious as she flipped through his latest edition of Consumer Reports.
“Hurry up. I’m hungry.”
He didn’t miss the smirk on her face. Dashing up the steps, he made his way into his master bathroom. After disrobing, he caught his reflection in the mirror and made a mental note to trim his beard. After stepping into the shower enclosure, he fell into a spell of peace as the water flowed over his flesh. He let it run through his hair, then pushed the wet strands away from his face.
Grabbing a bottle of Pert shampoo, he squeezed a dollop into his palm and worked it through his hair, then rinsed and repeated while belting the lyrics of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ ‘Dani California’. He lathered himself all over, rinsed off, and stepped out onto the plush sage green bath rug. His wet toes sank into the fibers as he slipped a towel from the nearby rack and made haste to dry himself. Once finished, Sloan brushed his teeth, then picked up his clippers and shaped up his facial hair. He splashed on a bit of aftershave and cologne, applied his Speed Stick deodorant, and checked himself out. Green eyes smiled back at him from the mirror, crinkling at the corners. But…was it him, or was it someone else?
Back in his bedroom, he found Emerald lying on her stomach across his sloppily made bed, ankles crossed in the air as she turned the pages of a novel she’d likely plucked off his bookshelf. He took note of her shoes sitting by the bed. Leaning against his wall, he grabbed his white lighter with the silver embellishment that he’d purchased in Puerto Rico, pulled a cigarette out of a pack he had on the nearby dresser, and lit the damn thing. His eyes narrowed upon her as he took in the sight through the hazy cloud of smoke.
“I thought we were goin’ to breakfast,” he murmured, the cigarette seesawing out his lips as he spoke.
“We are. I was just waiting for you… figured I’d read a little.” She turned another page, her attention still on the book.
“You know we aren’t going to breakfast now. Lunch? Yeah… but not breakfast.”
She slowly lifted her head, showcasing a lazy smile. “And why would you say that?”
“ ’Cause you came up into the mouth of the beast.” He blew out some smoke.
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“Your bedroom is the mouth of the beast? Hard to tell with that whoopee cushion over there.” She pointed to the silly gag gift that presently ‘decorated’ a wicker chair.
He tugged at his towel and let the damn thing drop. He then rushed to her, causing a feminine scream to radiate from her core.
“What in the world! Sloan!”
She gripped his book, trying to stay the course, but failed miserably. With an ankle in each hand, he flipped her onto her back, causing her to lose grip of the novel when it tumbled to the floor in a thud. Hand on her chest, he pressed her into the mattress and shoved her legs open, completely messing up the bed sheets. Her protests came out weak, like tea left steeping for a mere second. Fingers explored and touched, tugged and pushed, while curse words inked the air, damned it with ersatz angry outbursts.
“We have to go! What do you think you’re doing?”
He gripped her pants and panties at the same exact time and shoved them down her long, gorgeous legs.
“What’s it look like?” he asked, before tossing them to the floor. “Having breakfast…” He swooped low between her thighs, flicked his tongue against her warm, wet slit, and held tight to her bucking hips as she fell against his mouth like an ocean tide. Pressing his palm onto her lower stomach, he gently massaged that area, while he tasted in and around her delicate feminine folds. The noises she made turned him on to the point that his dick practically drilled a hole in the bunched sheets beneath his weight.
Running his other hand up, over her blouse in soothing motions, he delivered more pressure to her clit, circling in on it, drawing it into his mouth. With a twirl of his tongue, he brought forth her dam, opening the floodgates that filled his mouth with her thankfulness, her body twitching and dancing about in a rhythm.
Once he was good and full and she’d settled beneath him, he climbed up her body, leaving a trail of kisses along the way. Sliding his hand between their bodies, he gripped the base of his cock, aiming straight for her zone, only to be circumvented at the pass. Staring deep into his eyes, she set a firm hand on his shoulder and shoved him back, having him roll onto his side. While gliding down his body, soft and womanly, like satin sheets, her touch gently tingling down his chest, she looked up at him, hunger in her eyes as she meandered closer to his stomach. His abs clenched when she reached his dark sprawl of pubic hair, and he cried out when an all-consuming wet heat engulfed his rigid cock. He sighed as he watched his dick slowly disappear, inch by beautiful inch, into her mouth. Gripping the back of her head, looping her hair around his fist, he pumped his hips, letting her draw in, then released him. Again and again she took him, deep throating his length until his balls grazed her chin. Her eyes glossed over as she struggled, yet seemed determined to break him down, make him cry out.
Her desire was granted when he screamed her name. With a moan, she freed him; the popping sound echoed as his cock bobbed against her lower lip. Unable to take much more, he reached down and pulled her up by the waist, getting her to eye level. Raising her leg high, he positioned himself alongside her and entered her, the feeling so good their moans merged and wrapped around each other. Salty sweat trickled into his mouth as he pumped in and out of her. Linking their free hands, he raised them above their heads, the fingers dancing together, while their gazes locked, and they fell deeper and deeper in love… Neither dared to blink as desires became one, and every wish granted belonged to both of them.
“I love you!” Releasing her palm, he grabbed her ass, pulling her closer into him, determined to make her feel all of him.
“I love you too, Sloan.”
Cool air tickled his scalp from her light, free and fanciful play through his tresses. He rolled her away from their side by side position, flat onto her back, her legs over his shoulders and his hands roaming up and down her thigh—and fucked her hard. He rocked his pelvis, increasing his pace and going deeper… so deep, she gasped and pressed her head into the sheets, eyes closed tight. Her body shook against him, while love poured out of him. Moving his hips in a circular motion, he brushed against her clit at each pass. He would not let her go, would not relinquish the sight of her. She stiffened when an orgasm rocked her. Releasing her ankles, he slowed his pace and placed soft kisses along the side of her neck.
“That felt incredible…” she whispered on a breath, opening her eyes and staring, dazed, at the ceiling.
He replied with only a smile. Pushing himself up on his palms, his body drove him to the finish line, when his heart broke free and raced within his chest, the beat pulsating in his eardrums. Moving to slide his hands underneath her, he forced her to take every demanding thrust as a guttural groan emitted from his core. A smooth, velvety warmth enclosed him as she wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging and holding on—but to him, she simply wasn’t close enough. Taking a fistful of her hair, he kissed her hard as his cock released its load inside her. His throat felt hoarse from his strained grunts and sighs. Muscles tightened, jaw clenched, eyes closed, he fell apart. On a final thrust, he moaned, cupped her cheeks, and kissed her again.
They lay there entangled, wrapped in each other’s shadow, dancing in each other’s light. Seconds turned to minutes.
Gently, she cupped his chin and looked into his eyes. “That was real nice, and you’re so damn cute, but not as attractive as a freshly prepared Belgian waffle with pecan syrup. Get up. It’s time to go.”
They burst out laughing, but then he squelched her banter with another kiss. His body, weak but happy, sang with pleasure from head to toe.
She’s the first chapter of my new life. I can’t wait to read what else she has in store…
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A Labor of Love
One week later…
Like cement hitting the vast ocean, Sloan’s weight as he tossed and turned made his titanic bed, dressed in deep wine sheets, dip and judder like alcohol in a tipping glass. Emerald suddenly felt seasick and woozy. She pulled the sheets around her body, clustering them over her shoulders, when a chill filled the air. Again.
She’d gotten accustomed to it; expected it, actually. Another colossal wave of movement arrived, this one making her body bounce like some tiny ball in a boat. Leaning to her right, she pulled the metal beaded string on the lamp. The room glowed with a warm yellow light. Sloan winced and shrouded his blinking eyes with a limp hand.
“Turn it off.” His voice dragged, like his tongue weighed a hundred pounds.
“Sloan, what’s going on? You’ve been tossing and turning all night.”
On a sigh, he sat up, his forearm draped across his forehead and his mouth hanging open in a ridiculous sort of way. It was obvious he was only half awake, but he’d just gotten half asleep in the first place and his frustration was more than apparent. The sheets fell from his body, exposing his bare chest, the collar bones glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He had exhaustion written all over him.
“Something has been bothering me. I push it out of my mind, but then it comes back.”
“What?” she asked, her interest piqued.
“Well, when I was doing research for the book, I ran across a blueprint of this house from when it was first built. In the office there was another cubby, like a small door. I’ve been down there many times trying to find it, and there’s nothing… absolutely nothin’, Emerald. I guess it got closed up and painted over, if it even ever existed at all.”
“Did you tap the walls?”
He frowned. “Of course I did.”
“I’m asking because regardless of it being covered, if it was ever there, there has to be a weakness still in the structure.”
“What are you talking about?” He yawned noisily.
“Once you hollow a material out, such as a wall or floor, whether it is for a window, door, or even a closet, there will be a difference that can’t be completely hidden.”
“Of course you can!” He laughed smugly. “Ask any contractor or builder.”
“Wrong. No amount
of spackle, wood, or even beams will change that fact. Now listen, it can be made sound, it can be even stronger than the surrounding areas, but rarely would it be completely equal in density, an exact match to the original materials or porosity. It’s almost impossible.”
“And you know this from furniture restoration?”
“No—dentistry. Cavities in particular… Imagine it like a garden, see?” She scooted closer to him. “What if you dug a hole in the soil of that little garden, then refilled it with fresh dirt. Sure, it would be covered. You may even be able to disguise it so well that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice it had been disturbed in the first place, but there are telltale signs—one being that the soil has been recently excavated, that the new soil placed inside of the hole does not match the exact properties of the dirt that was there, say, the previous year, and the insects, weeds, and plant life in general, or lack thereof, would tell you the timeline of when all of this happened, especially if you knew exactly what to look for.”
She sat there staring at him, taking note of his obvious irritation with her being in the know—male pride at its best. She enjoyed every second of it, and the smile on her face wouldn’t be coming off anytime soon.
“Well, hooty hooty hooooo! Look at Ms. Smarty Pants!” He pursed his lips, while she rolled her eyes and widened her grin. “Tell me, horticulturalist St. Claire.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his brows all bunched up, his feathers ruffled, which amused her even more. “How would that help me find the spot though? Because I’ve looked and knocked, and I didn’t see any evidence of it existing. All of this information is fine and dandy, but it does little for truly getting to the bottom of this, because I’m no forensic scientist and you’re not in charge of Habitat for Humanity.”
“Look, don’t get mad at me, Sloan.” She pointed in his face, dared herself to not thump him on the nose. “If anyone should be pissed off, it should be me, Moby Dick!”
“…Aaaaand my fiancé calling me Moby Dick is supposed to be an insult, how?” He moved his brows up and down like Groucho Marx, annoying the hell out of her.