Sex Drive

by Susan Lyons

  Soon he was engrossed in proofing the galleys for Gale Force. The galleys were his last chance to catch mistakes, so he always concentrated hard on them. He might write superficial crap, but damned if he was going to let any inconsistencies or typos slide by if he could help it.

  He was in the middle of Chapter 2 when Theresa exclaimed, “Oh my God, you’re Damien Black!”

  Startled, he jerked, then turned to her, a finger to his lips. “Sshh. People are asleep.” Well damn, he’d thought she’d be out for another couple hours. Now, here she was awake, and she’d figured out his identity.

  She had shoved the sleep mask to the top of her forehead and was glaring at him. Her face, illuminated by his seat light, was a study in embarrassment and horror.

  “Writer of superficial crap.” He held up his hand like a kid at roll call. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

  “I…I…”

  “Don’t know what to say?” he teased.

  “I’m so embarrassed.” Her voice was low now. “I had no idea, in the bookstore. But that’s why you looked familiar; I’d seen your photo before.” Then she scowled. “You knew I didn’t know, and you let me keep on thinking—Oooh! And that’s why Carmen was so—Oh, you really are slimy.” Her voice had risen again as her annoyance built.

  “Sshh,” he repeated, getting ticked off himself. “So, what was I supposed to say? Hello, I’m the guy who writes those books you think are so glib and superficial?”

  “You let me…I thought…”

  “Okay, maybe it was a little scummy not to tell you who I was before we, uh, fooled around. But I wanted you to give me a chance. I figured, if you knew I was the writer you hated, that’d prejudice you against me.”

  Her eyes were still narrowed. “I didn’t say I hated your books. I read one and it wasn’t bad. Just…”

  “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

  “What you did wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.”

  “What? Letting you get to know me before you judged me?” He struggled to keep his voice low, but damn it, this was one of his hot buttons. “Let me tell you, I’m damn tired of people making assumptions about me just because I’m ‘that writer.’”

  As he spoke, her gaze had gone from angry to troubled. Her eyes softened with comprehension and maybe sympathy. “I always hated it when everyone saw me as ‘the brainiac’ and didn’t get to know me.”

  “Besides, you did know my name. Carmen addressed me as Mr. Black and I told you my name was Day.”

  “You told me it was Chinese,” she protested.

  “Nope. You told me it was Chinese. I didn’t correct you.”

  “You’re not the most principled person in the world, are you?” But the rancor had mostly died from her voice. Then she frowned. “Wait a minute, I thought you were part Aboriginal Australian. Isn’t that the hype? That you write about an Aboriginal police officer?”

  “That’s another quarter of my ancestry, through my mom’s mother.” He twisted around in his seat and shoved up the sleeve of his T-shirt to display the tatt on his other arm. It was his own totem, done in the x-ray style of Aboriginal art, showing the skeleton and internal organs.

  She stared at his arm, then reached out to trace the design. “An eagle?”

  “Sea eagle.” Her soft touch sent whispers of arousal through him, reminding him of the intimacies they’d shared, and he shivered.

  She jerked back her hand and focused on his face. “A Chinese dragon on one arm. A Chinese grandmother. You’re born in the year of the dragon, yes?”

  He nodded, feeling a smile begin. No one would ever call Theresa stupid.

  “And a sea eagle. Your totem animal? Your mother saw a sea eagle when she first felt you move in her womb?”

  Another nod. “Yeah. I got the tatts when I was fifteen, getting in touch with my roots.”

  “Hmm. You were young to be making a decision like that. Bet you didn’t ask your parents.” Absentmindedly, she pulled the sleep mask off her head and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “No. They yelled a lot. Told me I was an idiot and I’d live to regret it.”

  “Did you?”

  Damien shook his head firmly. He wasn’t a guy who communed with the spirits the way his protagonist Kalti did, but all the same those tatts had become a part of him, as much as his hands and his creativity.

  The prof’s gaze had softened, so he dared ask, “Can you accept the fact that, even if you think my writing stinks, I’m not such a bad guy?”

  Her lips twitched. “I never said ‘stinks.’ You’re exaggerating.”

  “Theresa?” Now he dared to reach over, tug the blanket free of her forearm, and run his fingers gently over her soft skin. “We made a connection. Don’t blow it over something, uh—” He broke off before he could say “silly.”

  “I don’t like being deceived.”

  He thought about her ex and winced. “I know. I’m sorry for that. It won’t happen again.”

  “Well…” She shrugged. “I guess I can see your point. About not wanting me to prejudge you.”

  “Friends again?” he wheedled, running his hand down to press the back of hers.

  Her hand twitched, then slowly she turned it over and interlocked her fingers with his. “I guess. Though maybe we should keep away from the subject of your writing.”

  “Sounds wise.” Except, had the writer been born who could resist reading bad reviews? Or asking the reviewer what the hell was wrong with her taste?

  Theresa’s hand was so warm and soft in his. This was the perfect opportunity to turn off his seat light, cuddle up, and initiate some more sex play. “So, is it just my novels or do you think all fiction is superficial?”

  Her hand tensed and she huffed out a breath. “Day. Damien? I don’t want to fight.”

  He raised his free hand in a protest, a vow. “No fighting. Just satisfy my curiosity.”

  After a long pause, she said, “I don’t read much fiction. I don’t see the point to it.”

  “Yeah? What do you do for entertainment? TV or movies? Music?”

  “Uh, I listen to some music, but only as background when I’m reading journals or working. I watch the occasional documentary or news program. And I travel, doing research and attending conferences.”

  “Listen to yourself. I ask you about entertainment and you tell me about work.”

  She pulled her hand free and her chin lifted. “I told you. All work, no play.”

  The woman must have a genius IQ to have hopped through all that schooling like a kangaroo on amphetamines, so how had she managed to miss the fact that her parents had done a real number on her? He grabbed her hand back and squeezed it, even though she didn’t respond. At the moment he was more interested in her life than her views on his books. “Let’s try this from another angle. What gives you the most pleasure in life?”

  “Uh…I guess…teaching. Seeing students get fired up.” Now she turned toward him. “It’s amazing how many Australians—like people in other countries that were colonized—don’t understand their own history, especially as it relates to indigenous people. And they don’t realize that government funding and policies are doing so little to help. Even after taking a class or two, most still don’t really grasp it, but each year there are a few. I know they’re going to be more responsible citizens, maybe even work to improve things.”

  “That’s great.” He’d been raised in a “white” middle-class household, but those drops of Aboriginal blood had sensitized him to the fact that Australia’s indigenous people had got, and were still getting, a raw deal.

  “Your books…” Her voice was low. She’d looked away from him, biting her bottom lip.

  Right, that’s how this had started out. “Yes?”

  “I only read one and it was more than a year ago, so maybe I’m not being fair, but you don’t seem to take on the issues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your police officer is a full-blooded Aboriginal Australian. He’
s got some kind of mystical, spiritual connection with mythical beings. Right?”

  “Yes. With his totem and with ancestor spirits from the Dreamtime. Although some would argue they aren’t mythical.”

  She nodded. “True. Anyhow, I gather your protagonist always solves the crime, and it’s a struggle for him to hide the involvement of the spirits.”

  “Right.” It sounded formulaic, but what the hell, most successful mystery series depended on some kind of tried-and-true blueprint.

  “And he has trouble with the other police officers and his superiors because he’s secretive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not because he’s Aboriginal per se.”

  “How’d’ya mean?”

  “Discrimination, Damien. Indigenous Australians frequently face discrimination—in terms of education, health care, housing, and in the workplace.”

  “I know that.” And Kalti Brown did deal with some, but it was never a big part of the story. “When people read fiction they’re looking for escape, not nasty realities.”

  She did that chuckle-snort thing again. “Serial killers and annihilation of bad guys by ancestor spirits are fine to read about, but prejudice against Indigenous Australians is too nasty?”

  He hated it when people got on his case about what he chose to write. Thank God for his agent and editor. They said every writer attracted criticism, and the more successful he got, the more there’d be. They told him to never fall into the trap of thinking he had to justify his writing to anyone. His only job was to produce the next fantastic book.

  Now, here he was, justifying. His own damn fault. The prof had suggested they not discuss his writing. “One’s entertainment. The other is social criticism. Preaching to the reader.”

  “What’s wrong with a little preaching? People need to hear the facts. Lots of Australians act like ostriches, thinking the government has everything under control. Avoiding the truth.”

  He didn’t avoid it in his books, just didn’t belabor it. “Then teachers like you can educate them.” Each person chose their career and he’d found a great one. He didn’t appreciate being hassled about it.

  “You’re one-quarter Aboriginal Australian. You have a totem on your arm. You should care about this.”

  “I do. But…Look, it’s not like I grew up Aboriginal. My grandfather died in an accident when I was a baby, and my Aboriginal grandmother went back to her family. They lived in the country and we never visited them. The Chinese side, by the way, lives in New Zealand. My parents were both pale enough they could pass as white and that’s what they did. They raised me as a white kid.”

  “And yet you got that tattoo. And your mother told you about your totem animal.”

  He sighed. “My mother said they were at the beach, and this sea eagle swooped down just as she felt me move for the first time. She didn’t say anything about totems. Then, when I was fifteen, I ran away from home. I felt like I didn’t really know who I was, with this whole hidden side to the family. I found my Aboriginal grandmother and her people, and went to visit them. They taught me some things, like about totems and the Dreamtime.”

  “You identified enough with them to get the tattoo, and you’ve never had it removed. And author hype emphasizes your Aboriginal roots. That’s how I heard about your books.”

  “Yeah, well, that was my publisher’s and agent’s idea. A hook when the first book came out. Aboriginal writer with Aboriginal hero.” He grimaced. “I wasn’t so keen on it myself. And it pissed my entire family off.”

  “Really? I guess if your parents had raised you as white…”

  “Yeah, they didn’t want the Aboriginal association. And my Aboriginal granny and other relatives were mad because they thought I was exploiting them and what they taught me.”

  She was silent.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Is that what you think?”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip again, then her hand squeezed his. “My guess is, no. I think you just wanted to write a good story.”

  “Too right.” Damn, if this almost-stranger who didn’t even like his writing could understand that, why couldn’t his grandmother and her kin? “Thanks.”

  She studied his face and he saw shadows shifting in her multicolored eyes. Seemed to him like there was something else she wanted to say. Instead she just squeezed his hand again. “Maybe this is a good time to change the subject. What should I call you, Day or Damien?”

  “Whichever you like.”

  “Damien, I think.” Her lips curved. “That is, when I’m not calling you sweetie.”

  That grin reminded him of something. “You still haven’t told me what you do for fun.”

  Her eyes widened. She was quiet for a few seconds, then she gave a small smile, showing that appealing touch of vulnerability. “To be honest, this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

  Touched, he curved his palm along the side of her face. “It’s the most fun I’ve had, too.”

  She went from vulnerable to skeptical in an instant. “Give me a break. You can’t expect me to believe that. I’m sure you’ve had better—” Her voice had been rising and she broke off, then continued in a whisper. “Better sex—real sex—with a dozen women in the last year.”

  Yeah, he’d had plenty of real sex. But, there’d been something particularly erotic about fooling around with Theresa in the darkened plane. Besides…“It’s not only about the sex. It’s everything. The silly wedding dresses, the way you talk to yourself, those billabong eyes—”

  “Those what?” she interrupted. “Did you say billabong eyes?”

  “Yeah. They make me think of a pool of blue water reflecting the red cliffs overhanging it, the green leaves of gum trees rustling in a warm breeze.” He broke off, disconcerted at the words that had come out of his mouth. It was one thing to write this kind of shit in his books—and the truth was, it didn’t come easy for him—but it was something else to say it to a woman. “It’s a compliment, honest.”

  Her lips curved. “And a poetic one. Hey, you could be a writer.”

  He smiled back. “Anyhow, on the subject of fun. You’re interesting, different, challenging. Being with you is fun.”

  “Yes.” She ducked her head, flushed. “That’s what I meant, too. Not just the uh, almost-sex, but being with you. Even when we disagree.” She darted a look through her lashes, eyes twinkling. “Looking at you’s no hardship either, sweetie.”

  “Back at you, sugar.”

  She raised her head. “You make me feel female.”

  “News flash.” He touched her unconfined breast through her top, felt the nipple harden. “You are.”

  “I don’t normally feel that way. I’m the professor. You know, gender neutral.”

  “You may be a prof, but you’re most definitely not gender neutral.” His cock wouldn’t respond this way to anyone who was less than 100 percent woman.

  “Short hair, no makeup, tailored clothes, always wear pants. Always working.”

  He shook his head, then ran his fingers through her hair, separating the silky auburn strands. “Sexy hair that shows off your long neck and pretty ears.” He rimmed an ear with his index finger and felt her tremble. “Perfect features, billabong eyes, rosy lips.” His fingers traced down her face to rest on her very kissable lips. “Why the hell would you need makeup?”

  Her mouth curved under his touch.

  “Tailored clothes? Yeah, have to say, I’d like to see you in a skirt.” He dropped his hand to her shoulder, caressed it, then drifted his fingers down her arm. “This top is good, though. Shows off those nice shoulders and arms, and the V-neck is classy. Low enough to give a guy ideas, but not so low that it’s tacky.”

  “I—”

  “Hold on, I’m not finished.” Threading his fingers through hers again, he continued. “As for always working, well…Sometimes you’re critiquing wedding dresses—or novels. Sometimes you’re squabbling with your sisters, and sometimes you’re doing your little sister a ve
ry big favor.”

  He clicked off his seat light and, in the sudden darkness, tugged her hand toward him. “And sometimes you’re turning me on something fierce.” He pressed their joined hands over his erection, which jumped eagerly.

  “I do like doing that.” Her voice caught, then she gave a husky giggle. “Touching you turns me on.”

  “Hate to think it was one-sided.”

  She stroked him through his jeans. “Want to get under the blanket again?”

  “You know what I really want? I want to get into you.”

  There was a pause. Damn, had he been too crude?

  “I’d like that, too.”

  Tentatively, he said, “There’s always the loo. It’s not romantic, but it’s private.”

  “Could we sneak in there without anyone seeing?”

  “Everyone’s asleep. Course we can.”

  “Really?” Her hand clutched him tight through his jeans.

  Oh yeah, Theresa was turned on, too. She only thought she was a stuffy professor.

  “I’ll go first, make sure no one’s watching. If the coast is clear, I’ll leave the door open a crack and you’ll see the light.” He removed her hand, adjusted his swollen package inside his jeans, and headed up the aisle.

  No one else was stirring in the business class cabin.

  He eased open the door of the loo and glanced inside. Yeah, it was an airplane john, but it was clean and neat. Hoping Theresa wouldn’t lose her nerve, he stepped inside and slid the door partway shut. Then he took a paper towel and wiped drops of water from the sink and counter.

  A few seconds later, the door moved and she was there, squeezing in. Damn, there wasn’t much space. Neither of them was huge—him at six foot and her at maybe five six—but they weren’t tiny, either.

  He shifted one way to close the door behind her just as she moved in the same direction, and she stomped on his foot. Hurriedly she stepped back, only to lose her balance and crack her elbow against the sink. “Ouch.” She rubbed it. “Funny bone.” Even in this ugly artificial light, her eyes sparkled with laughter.

  “This isn’t supposed to be funny,” he grumbled in a teasing tone, finally managing to close and lock the door. “It’s supposed to be sexy.”