The Plan

by Qwen Salsbury

  But at the end of the day, I’m a practical gal.

  He’s practically the sexiest thing I have ever encountered, and I am going to practically do whatever I practically can for as long as he is willing.

  He reaches the top of the red line.

  I want him to cross it.

  “Mmmm,” I hear myself say. “I bet your lips would make everything feel better.”

  With my words, he bows his head against me. His grip tightens around my waist.

  “Isn’t there something in your way?” My voice sounds suddenly lower to my own ears.

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  Oh, my…why is this actually working?

  “What do you need to do? Want? Tell me.” Slowly, I run a hand though his hair again and again.

  “I need…to take off your clothes. I want…I want to…” he breathes into me.

  I run my hand up under his jaw. “Want what?” My voice is low, slow. “Tell me.”

  His hand at my thigh moves up and twists around my panties. “I want to take these off and spread you open and taste you and tongue you and feel you come apart.”

  Gah. Thoroughly outlined. Well done, Canon.

  I wrap a hand around the one he has at my waistband and encourage him to pull down. His other hand slides around to help, and I move my hands out of his way.

  The panties fall into the ever-growing pile. I feel his breath. He kisses and slides his palms up my sides.

  There is probably something I should say now to keep this little scene going, but I’m rather focused on not doing a header onto the sofa.

  He presses his lips to my inner thigh, his breath swirls inward, and I pull his hair reflexively. He angles and does it again before he speaks. “Let me take you to bed.” I think my ears trick me into hearing a “please.”

  The light hairs along his arm graze my palm as I travel from shoulder to forearm to hand. My fingers drag over his lifeline to reach his fingers, their tips. I curl and hold his fingers, and they curl into mine. Though I wish he would put himself out there, pull me, I pull him and step toward the bedroom, and I feel him shift and rise to follow me.

  A half-naked Alaric Canon is following me to his bed. Forget buckling knees or not doing a header, this…this is a bona fide miracle.

  I’m afraid to breathe. Afraid to upset whatever astrological alignment has set this in motion. Wherever you are, dear butterfly, keep flapping your chaotic wings. Flap them. Flap them like your little life depends upon it…or at least my little death.

  Save for moonlight filtered through the curtain, the bedroom is dark. His feet pad along the carpet behind me.

  Next to the bed, I stop; I need to turn and face him. Face this.

  I’m not able to make myself turn.

  I reach back behind me and find him. Stretching until I feel his arms, then sliding down them until I can feel his wrists and hold them.

  I can’t get over the feel of his skin on mine. Warm. Smooth. Real.

  I pull forward, and he steps flush against me, his every breath pushing against my spine. My hands travel to cover his, palm to back, and I place one on my abdomen and hold it there while I guide the other beneath the front of my shirt and drag it up my body until it brushes under the swell of my breast.

  His breaths burn my neck. I press his hands into my flesh, then leave them there as I arch back and bring my arms around his shoulders and bend until I feel his hands stir. He twists to cup my breast as his lower thumb traces where my thigh ends and the rest of me begins.

  As if I think he’s asking needlessly for permission, I grant it. “Yes.”

  If I thought we were flush before, I was wrong. He pulls me against him, into him. Palms my breasts.

  Yeah, just palms. I’m not big enough for his whole hand. Few would be. His hands are big. Huge.

  Big hands include long fingers, a fact of which I’m reminded when the cupping between my legs turns to delving.

  Oh, yeah, well, hey now…there. Right there. Oh, please—keep going…or there…up there. Yeah, that works, too…Jesus, I…whoa…I guess there works too…I concede, you know better than…more…holy…wow…All those times my knees threatened to give, to stop supporting me, they weren’t crying wolf; I would collapse if I didn’t have my fingers entwined behind his neck.

  I need to lie down. Before I fall down.

  I break away and sit back on the bed, and he seems almost worried, but I pull him to me and he drops and hits the floor and ends up looking up at me, hands roaming my skin.

  Beautiful. He is gloriously, scandalously, incandescently beautiful.

  I want to hold him.

  And never let go.

  It scares me.

  Get back on task. I find a word. “Now.”

  He descends into the shadows.

  Oh. Okay, so that is what we’re doing. I can barely see his outline. Um, all right. I bless the darkness and hope it hides whatever shows on my face.

  “This is not something I have ever been into,” I hear myself say. That is a bit too real. A trip down a memory lane of lame lovers. Wow, over-share much? I know I need to cover my slip. Distract him. “Convince me.” I pull his hair without reason. It spurs him.

  Oh, holy night…I have been wondering about this. A niggling. Rooting around in my brain. Why would he need pushing? Act like he needs it? The concern has been there, but I have not wanted to consider it. It would be unfair to have such a pretty package and nothing inside. To look like a sex god but be sans skill set.

  Not. An. Issue.

  I don’t know exactly what he’s doing down there, and I don’t really care just so long as he keeps doing it for a long, long time and—

  Then he adds fingers into the mix. Where was I…what was I thinking?

  Each pass and pull works together to remove and erase the fumbling of past visitors who should now, in whatever clouded corner they inhabit, hang their heads in collective shame. Adam with his kitten licks. Paul rubbing out a fire.

  My feet on his lower back. Hands in his hair. I trace his eyes.

  Now I’m fucking writhing. Writhing! I have zero idea of the logistics of what he is doing, and I think I’ve given up trying to figure it out. Just for all the peonies in Pennsylvania let him keep doing it, and I will endeavor to stay focused on that and pay no heed to how I’m beginning to tear apart at the seams.

  Because I am. I’m going to lose it and start saying some pretty embarrassing, revealing things.

  Like exactly who I have pictured when sealing the deal solo for the past year.

  One hint.

  I want to stay staid. In control.

  When my hips start to surge forward, I force them back, deep into the mattress. I want to pull his hair and grind against his face and hope he has learned to breathe through his ears. I force my hands to the sheets, nails into the mattress.

  It is a losing battle.

  Then I am lost. I’m shouting and moaning and maybe channeling sounds I haven’t uttered since sophomore year Latin class. Salve o magister…Is est Olympus quod abyssus…

  The Latin word for male genitalia eludes me…

  …it might be genitalia…

  My breath remains gasps. He looks at me, eyes sparkling in the window light.

  I want to kiss him.

  But I don’t.

  That doesn’t seem to be what we do.

  My hand touches his face. The reverence he seemed to give me yesterday, I return to him.

  I notice he is not still. Rocking. Rutting into the mattress.

  I peel my shirt off, lean back on my elbows, and point to my chest. “Here.”

  His pants go away, and he moves over me, and I try not to be too damned obvious in my perusal—that is the polite word for it—as I devour him with my eyes.

  He sits back on his heels, straddles my chest.

  That’s where his eyes are fixed anyway.

  My tits.

  He studies. His shadowed face looks nearly pained.

  I ho
ld his hand and bring it over where his gaze has frozen. “Hold me.” As the words leave me, his hand envelopes, thumb easing across, teasing to a point.

  I try to calm my breathing. Run my index finger down my sternum.

  “Paint me.”

  He growls, throws his head back, and strokes his length.

  While he works, his head still back and one hand anchored to me, I roam his contours, his sinews. His thighs tense. I trace their definition. His hips and hand work in tandem, pulse and surge and simulate.

  I want to, try to, feel all of him. Everywhere and all. Memorize his V. Wrap my hands around his waist, feel a hint of hipbone push into my grasp.

  Ragged breaths. Sheen on skin. Everything about him has taken on an edge of feral, harsh focus…save where he holds my breast.

  My lips are on his body before I realize I’ve moved and they run along his chest, teeth nip along the lower curve under his ribs, wrap my arms around him, fingers travel up his back, his muscles moving beneath my hands. He rocks and pushes and propels ever closer to completion, knuckles banging against me, silk teasing my throat.

  “You are so close…I want it.” My words echo in the tight space between us.

  Sounds leave him in notes of strain and relief. It hits against me. Spurts. Trails. Hot.

  I’m overwhelmed. Euphoric. And it was not even about me. My head rests against him, rocked with his heaving breaths, and he sags against me, drapes over me, chin at the back of my head, heart beating near my ear.

  It is the strangest and best hug of my life. I never want to move.

  Close. I have never felt so connected to anyone.

  Joined without joining. Intensity.

  Intense and real.

  But not. Not real.

  I need to get away.

  In the shower, I scrub away what we did. He was still on his knees when I slid out from under him. When I pulled away.

  The sofa bed sheets are cool.

  I have no dreams.

  3:10 a.m.

  * Stealth: Is a bitch to bladders.

  AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE, I tiptoe to the bathroom. Turn the knob. Close the door silently. Not even a click. Realize I was holding my breath.

  Every brush of my feet is like thunder. And now, after my successful endeavor to reach the bathroom undetected, just how do I plan on peeing without him hearing me?

  Oh, grow up. It’s a basic human function. It’s no big deal. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

  I turn the faucet on full blast. Congratulations, I’m a genius.

  Afterward, I open the door and walk full-on into rock hard abs.

  “You okay?” His voice is gravelly, confused. “Did you run a bath?”

  Congratulations, I’m a goober.

  “I’m fine,” I say and duck around his body, trying not to inhale too much of his warm, sleepy scent.

  “Didn’t mean to disturb you,” I splutter. I can’t get under my covers fast enough.

  He’s quiet, motionless for a moment as I clamber onto the sofa. Then, he sounds almost apologetic. “I…I guess I didn’t realize what a light sleeper I have become.” He turns away. “Good night…again.”

  Day of Employment:

  382

  6:00 a.m.

  * Location: Hallway outside room.

  * Earbuds: Pandora radio. White noise.

  I’M STILL BREATHING HEAVILY from my unscheduled visit to the fitness center.

  The hotel door opens quietly for me. Pointless.

  He’s sitting on the end of the sofa.

  I can’t see his face.

  “I thought you’d left.” He doesn’t look at me.

  “I…I’m not leaving,” I say. I don’t know what else to say.

  He nods and rises and walks to me. Our hands bump. Then twist. Then hold.

  Squeeze, tighter. Then apart. The bedroom door clicks.

  In the shower, I consider not shaving. Maybe stubble will help me keep myself in check.

  It’s all a bit more than I bargained for. That may be okay. I still feel out of sorts.

  Out of control. How did I get so out of control?

  I will fake it. Control.

  It is a plan.

  I am still contemplating the merits of Fake Control Plan 4782 while I dress.

  I slide on black stockings and heels. Black panties. My bra doesn’t cooperate.

  My arm is bent back and arguing with the hook and eye when I feel him behind me.

  His fingers brush my back. He fastens the fabric together. Runs a finger under a strap, untwisting it as he moves up my back to my shoulder.

  “Thank you.” My voice is soft.

  He says nothing. I feel his lips against my hair.

  Never mind. I think I’m no longer a fan of plans.

  7:03 a.m.

  * Breakfast: Most interesting eggs ever.

  I AM STARING AT MY PLATE. He’s in a tie.

  I don’t even know what to say. Uneasy. Almost…maybe…scared? I don’t know if it is because he is so imposing elsewhere, or that I had him on a pedestal, or that this simply feels…different.

  I remind myself I’m acting different than myself in every way.

  I pack his things. The weather is turning. I hand him his coat. We leave.

  I can feel him watching me. It’s warm. Not unwelcome.

  There’s nothing I can think to say that will transition us.

  Then he spares me the awkward move from night to day.

  “Write up a temporary transfer proposal of Sean Becket to oversee our warehouse build,” he says in the hall.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rebecca needs a progress report.” In the elevator.

  “I will send it by end-of-day.”

  “Ms. Fralin has set up a dinner meeting with me tonight.” In the car.

  Oh. Lovely. “What would you like for me to do while you’re at dinner, Mr. Canon?”

  He switches lanes. “Wear whatever outfit goes with those black lace shoes and sit to my left.”

  I can’t help but smile. His eyes flicker to mine. The corner of his mouth turns up just slightly, then he refocuses on traffic.

  Incoming text: Just checking on you. You okay?—Rebecca

  Reply: Fine. How’s the betting?

  Incoming Text: Bert will be so disappointed. He had down that Canon would eat you alive by last night.

  Note to self: Never bet against Bert.

  1:51 p.m.

  * Location: Break room.

  * Task: Fetching drinks. Arf.

  CLICKS SOUND OUT BEHIND ME.

  “Alaric tells me I need to change the reservations because we will have the pleasure of your company at our dinner this evening.”

  “Yes, Ms. Fralin,” I say without turning around. “That is what he told me as well.”

  I stack cans and cups, pour coffee. Her nails tap the counter.

  “Have you made any headway with your little foreign accounts pet project?”

  “Not yet.” The relentless patronization grates at me, my words are clipped.

  “Perhaps tonight would be a good opportunity.”

  “That would have to be cleared with Mr. Canon.”

  “Of course, of course. Though…” I stir in sweetener. She sounds like saccharin. “LaCygne is the best man for working side-by-side on that particular project. That’s his area, and he has the most flexible schedule. He might even be available on short notice.”

  “Again, whatever Mr. Canon says—”

  “You do,” she finishes for me. “I can tell. You’re quite the dutiful one, are not you? He says ‘jump,’ you say ‘how high,’ and if he says ‘bend over’—”

  “I need to get back,” I snap and walk past her.

  “He’s so focused.” Her voice, shrill, echoes in the room behind me. “Last trip, he made time for fun.”

  My steps falter. Fun. I sincerely doubt he did any such thing. A vision of Canon wearing Mickey Mouse ears and holding balloons pops into my head.

 
Then, I recall his absence when she showed up the other day. But he has said every hour is critical. He doesn’t waste time. A date would be a waste.

  He couldn’t get that time back from her. Unless ol’ TARDIS tits can also time travel.

  Not asking him questions has never been harder.

  I just wanted him to notice me. This has been so much more.

  I don’t know what to do with all the “much.”

  Real? Convenient? Why do I care? Oh.

  Oh. I do care.

  I am going to ask him. Tonight, after dinner, I am going to ask him.

  Maybe this is one plan that will not go awry. The others have sorta bordered on best laid.

  I will probably berate myself all afternoon for letting Fralin get to me.

  The atmosphere back in the conference room is oppressive. Claustrophobic. There are too many people and too many independent conversations being carried on.

  11: Number of times Diana Fralin has found a reason to touch Canon during this meeting.

  I suppose it’s too late to say I’m not counting.

  “Ms. Baker?” His voice breaks my concentration. Not good. Should have been concentrating on his voice. “The printouts?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Here they are.” I dig out the papers. Fralin smirks and wraps her hand around Canon’s to tilt the words toward her. He moves and sets the report out in front of her as his eyes turn up to me.

  Don’t mind me.

  I’ll just be over here. Enjoying a nice round of self-flagellation.

  6:10 p.m.

  * Location: Hotel bathroom.

  * Clothes: Rebecca’s black skirt. Clara’s taupe, drape blouse. My never-worn taupe heels with black lace overlay. Unknown owner’s citrine earrings.

  * Hair: Up, twist.

  * Makeup: Earth tones.

  * Reflection: Not me.

  “WE NEED TO LEAVE,” Canon says from behind the door.

  “Yes, s—” I say, stopping myself. In the main room, he’s messing with his tie in the mirror.