“Sometimes,” I said.
“Not often,” he corrected.
Dammit, he’d heard the prevarication. And double dammit, that audacious, ever-present blush creeped up again. “Correct,” I whispered.
He stopped rubbing. “Why are you ashamed?”
Men ask the stupidest questions. “I’m not.”
“You sound defensive.” He ran a hand up and down my arm. “There’s no shame in liking sex. Or not liking it.”
“I like sex,” I blurted out. “A lot.” Your refinement knows no bounds, Christine.
“That’s a start.”
“I’m not ashamed. At least, I don’t think I’m ashamed. I’m just… embarrassed.” Which was pretty much the same thing, semantically speaking. I was going to blow this thing before it even got started.
“Your pleasure is yours alone,” he said. “What you do with it is entirely within your control.”
He was saying all the right things. I was doomed.
“Okay,” I said.
“Did you like the foot rub?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’d like to touch me?”
It was safe to assume he didn’t necessarily need the foot rub reciprocated. “Where?”
He adjusted himself to lay down next to me, placing my hands on his chest. “Anywhere you want.”
I undid the first few buttons of his shirt. “Is this okay?”
He closed his eyes as I slipped my hand inside, feeling his heartbeat against my fingers. “You’ll know if it’s not,” he said quietly.
Wow. All this with just my hand. I imagined what I could do to him with the rest of my body.
He had a decent amount of hair on his torso. I caught the lingering scent of his cologne, traced the outline of his muscle. This man and his numerous parts could occupy me for hours. I unbuttoned the rest of his shirt. “Take this off.”
“Bossy,” he said, but eased out of the shirt and tossed it to the floor. “I like that.”
“We’re not doing that intern thing,” I murmured, and leaned in to kiss his neck. “I have standards.”
“Doesn’t matter to me as long as I meet them.”
I nuzzled my nose against the soft fuzz of his chest, then let one of my hands drift down his abdomen, past his belt, toward his thigh. His body was warm. Very warm. I walked my fingers slowly toward other, warmer places. Places that were definitely not soft.
“You do things to me,” he said. “You barely have to touch me and I feel it.”
Firm, erect things, apparently. “I want—” My mouth was dry and my voice caught, so I licked my lips and tried again. “I want to touch you some more.”
He kissed me. “Do what you want.”
“I want—” Why was it so hard for me to breathe? I cupped the outline of him in my hand. “I want to touch you there.”
“Where?” he whispered, then kissed me before I could respond. “You can say it. It doesn’t hurt to use the word.”
Wasn’t dancing around the language enough? I knew I couldn’t say penis; that was far too patrician. Dick reminded me of all those Nixon jokes Caroline had made, and I did not want to think about her during a time like this. Cock always made me think of unruly poultry. If I said member I’d probably extinguish any spark of attraction he had for me. Although I was doing my best to kill the mood regardless.
“None of the words sound right,” I said.
He groaned as I flexed my hand. I’d forgotten where it was. “Then don’t use words at all. Just keep doing that.”
Unruly poultry carried the day. I unzipped his pants and pulled him out. My, he was spectacular. Not too big, not too small. Perfectly average and perfectly beautiful. “What if I say cock? Does that work?”
He groaned again as I gently trailed a fingernail up and down his length. “Anything fucking works. Jesus.”
I’d gotten a mani-pedi the day before and had chosen a brilliant, flashy, indescribably shameless shade of red. Guess it was time to find out if there really was a femme fatale inside me. I used two nails, index and middle finger, and teased him again. “Like this? This works?”
He grunted. I had him at a loss for words. Good. Maybe we could stop off at third base before heading for home. Unless… “If I finish this, how long do I have to wait before we finally do the deed?”
He had enough self-awareness to look insulted. “Jack me off and I’ll be ready again whenever you need me to be.”
Was that a challenge or a promise? Seemed pretty presumptuous for a forty-one-year-old man to make such an assertion about his recovery time. Then again, I fully embraced the opportunity to find out whether he was blowing smoke or speaking accurately. Enough with the nails. I gripped him firmly, taking a chance. The few men I’d been with seemed to enjoy a little roughness in a hand job, since they often—ahem—handled themselves in the same way when there wasn’t a warm and willing woman around.
I was pondering deep thoughts about penis manipulation while jerking off my boyfriend. Perhaps this was proof I was turning the corner?
He wrapped his fist around mine. “Tighter,” he growled. “Like that.”
After that, words didn’t seem necessary. There was a certain vulnerability in the intimacy of sex, whether foreplay or otherwise. He’d laid himself bare for me, and there was something incredibly sexy about a shirtless man on his side, his most sensitive areas exposed, face to face with a fully clothed me, whispering profanities and urging me on as I brought him closer to the edge. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, smiling at me.
“Make me come,” he said.
Oh god. I leaned into his lips as he let go, spurting onto my blouse. It wasn’t until he stilled my hand that I realized I hadn’t stopped my rhythm, nor had I ceased kissing him in various locations and was now making sounds of my own that were quite unladylike.
Alexander took a breath. “Holy shit, you’d better let me return the favor. And buy you a new blouse. Jesus.”
Touching him turned me on more than it should have. “I want you to touch me too. And we should probably remove this article of clothing you just marked as your own.”
“Mine,” he agreed, his nimble fingers already halfway down the row of buttons on my thoroughly corrupted blouse.
An efficiency expert. There were worse qualities in a sexual partner. As long as he took time when necessary, I wouldn’t complain. I slid my arms out of the sleeves, letting the shirt slip to the floor.
Alexander kissed my cheek, his fingers tugging at the waist of my skirt. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what you don’t want. I want to make you feel good.”
I pulled him on top of me. “I think the two of us getting undressed is a good start.”
He nipped at my jawline. “I can’t wait to see where we finish.”
Neither could I.
*****
After having sex for the first time in over two years, with a man who did things to me that I’d forgotten were possible, I did what any self-respecting woman would do: I slunk into the master bathroom with a sheet draped around me like a Roman toga, in order to call my best friend at two in the morning.
I didn’t give her a lead-in. There were few reasons I would call so late. I got to the point as soon as she answered. “I had sex,” I whispered, right before it occurred to me that perhaps I should have made sure it was Caroline on the other line.
“Wonderful news!” She clapped. Actually clapped. I heard rustling in the background. “Jack, Chrissy let Alex ring her bell.”
I wanted to hang up. So badly. Let her stew for as long as both of us could stand it until I could call back in a day or two and harangue her. But it served me right. If I was going to rouse her in the middle of the night, I had to expect that her husband would be nearby.
I made sure the door was locked. “Punky, please. I don’t have you on speakerphone or anything but he might manage to hear your dulcet tones through the walls.”
“Where are you?”
“In
the master bath.”
“He made you sleep in the bathroom? I’ve misjudged him. Chrissy, you can do better.”
I must have roused her from a particularly deep sleep. I’d normally consider such a remark cheeky, but it was most likely a product of fatigue. The guilt I assumed I’d feel for waking her up hadn’t manifested though, which meant my recent licentious conduct was clouding my judgment.
“I came in here to call you,” I said.
“Oh. That makes sense. So, how was it?”
“It was good. Or I thought it was good. What if he didn’t think it was good?”
“Did he say anything afterward?”
“He mumbled something that sounded affectionate then rolled over and went to sleep.”
“That’s promising.”
“Is it?”
“Seriously, it is. The mark of good sex for men is immediate slumber. At least, in my experience.”
I prayed she wouldn’t go into specifics. “I’ll hoist another championship belt then.”
“So… I don’t care about size or shape or any of that stuff unless you really want to share details, and I’m really hoping you don’t, but I feel morally obligated to confirm that his hand game is on point. As long as he knew what to do with his hands or you think you can teach him what to do with his hands, you’re all good.”
I tried not to flush, then realized it didn’t much matter since I was sitting on a bathroom floor in my new sex partner’s house and she couldn’t see me anyway. Any shame I felt seemed moot. “His hands are just fine.” As is his tongue.
“Are they aesthetically pleasing? Nothing beats a good man hand.”
I made a mental note never to look at Jack’s hands ever again. “Yes, they’re quite fetching.”
“So, the sex was good, you enjoyed yourself, he enjoyed himself so much that he knocked himself out. What’s with the phone call?”
“What do I do when he wakes up?”
“I assume you’ll go at it again. Right? Or am I wrong?”
I’d heard worse ideas. “I don’t mean that. I bet he’ll sleep through the night.”
“Damn, Chrissy. You must have done him right.”
I’d take that roundabout compliment, even if it didn’t come from Alexander. “What do I do when he wakes up?” I repeated.
“Kiss him? That’s what I’d do.”
“After that.”
“Well, as I see it, you’ve got two options. First, you need to decide if he’s earned a reward, and it sounds like he has. Second, do you consider your homemaking skills a reward or a punishment?”
“You’re really not helping.”
“Then why did you call me?”
I didn’t have a lot of other options, but she had a point. “I trust you to give me good advice. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”
“An omelet isn’t a bad idea. You can’t screw that up too badly. Or toast. You’re okay at toast. Or, I don’t know, sneak out and buy some lox and bagels and convince him that you did it all yourself.”
“I highly doubt I can convince him that I’ve got skills on par with the deli down the street.”
“Then play it by ear. Trust me, he’s not expecting you to make him breakfast. You’re at his house. All the pressure is on him, except for, you know, the constant societal expectations thrust upon women when it comes to our comportment in and out of the bedroom.”
Trust Caroline to find a way to saddle me with yet another thing to obsess over while pretending to sleep. “It’s scary. And different.”
Her voice softened. “Of course it is. But it sounds like you’re doing all right. Chrissy, you don’t need my advice. You want me to reinforce your instincts, which are almost always correct. Go get some sleep. Also, I would like to sleep.”
Judging from the rhythmic swishing noises I heard in the background and the slight little breath she let out, I suspected sleep was not going to be on her agenda for at least a little bit longer. “Go be with your husband,” I said.
“Mmm. Thanks for the dispensation. Chrissy says it’s okay for us to have sex now,” she told Jack.
“Good night, Christine. My kindest personal regards on… getting laid.” I heard Jack’s voice from a short distance, a bit muffled and inappropriately deep, right before another sound of indeterminate origin and a dropped call.
Chapter 12
It didn’t matter how well my dating life was going, I wasn’t going to disrupt my schedule for any man. My twice-weekly visits with Caroline remained on the calendar, even if I had to make a little more effort to organize myself better.
Oddly, Jack answered the door when I arrived. “Doing double duty as butler?” I asked.
“Call me Jeeves,” he said.
“Where’s Caroline?” She couldn’t have forgotten I was coming.
“She’s in her office.” He hesitated. “She’s had a day. I think she’s painting.”
That didn’t sound good. “Therapy or something else?”
“I’ll let her tell you. It’s nothing bad.”
“Then why do you have that gallon of turpentine in your hand?”
He patted me on the back. “Never hurts to be prepared. Sometimes when she gets too expressive, drop sheets can’t contain her and she risks ruining the carpet.”
I took the turpentine from him. “I’ll go find her.”
The paint remover wasn’t necessary, as she was sitting at her desk when I arrived. I could still see traces of phthalo blue on her hands, though, and an unfinished canvas in the corner.
“Taking a break?” I asked.
She looked up. “I only speak when the muse has something to say. She talked for a while and then shut the hell up, so…”
I sat down in one of the executive chairs across from her. “What’s going on? Your husband was rather nebulous when he told me where to find you.”
“Check it out.” She handed me a folder. “Filed as of this morning.”
One glance at the contents and I was speechless. Caroline Joan Gerard and John Montgomery McIntyre, Plaintiffs, versus the United States of America, Defendants.
“You sued the government?” I finally said.
“Smart and literate you are, young Chrissy.”
“Does Roger know about this?”
“I assume the President has been made aware of our filing, yes.”
“Did you tell him first?”
Caroline massaged her temples. “We were advised not to inform anyone, including you, until it was officially in the system, but I gave his chief of staff a heads up this morning. I didn’t want him to be blindsided. Roger’s not the Defendant but he kind of is because he’s in charge now. Needless to say, he might not be returning any of my texts anytime soon.”
Suing the government had its complications, especially if you’d rather vigorously campaigned for the person in charge of said government during the previous election cycle. Which Caroline had done in spite of her earnest effort to keep a low post-revolution profile. All of a sudden, her unwillingness to serve in Bailey’s Cabinet made a lot more sense. “Why?”
“Why do you think? It’s a Bivens action. Well, it’s a little more than that since we’re challenging some pretty well-established precedent regarding whether certain branches of the federal government have immunity for their acts.”
Simply stated, a civil rights lawsuit. “I know what it is. I want you and Jack to have justice. But you already went to the ICC.” The matter at The Hague was still pending, but it encompassed a good deal of what had happened to them, particularly Caroline.
“International intervention doesn’t cover all of our bases. We’re in uncharted territory here, I know, but that’s precisely why the filing is necessary.”
“But why take it federal?” An unbearable thought occurred to me. “You’re not having money issues, are you?”
Caroline didn’t speak at first, but I noticed her taking in her surroundings, thinking carefully before answering. Yes, she and Jack had
renovated their suburban Philadelphia estate after coming back from California, but it still had plenty of gaudily apportioned details. She’d done her best to incorporate the comfortable hominess of their house in Maryland into what was now their primary residence, but residue of her husband’s earlier life as a wealthy playboy remained. Except in this room, which Jack had converted into a private oasis for his wife, complete with sports memorabilia, pictures of family and friends, Congressional and other service awards, and all the books and painting supplies she required.
“We are not,” she said. “And that’s not why we filed.”
“Moral reasons?”
“To a certain extent, yes. Principles only take you so far. There’s more to it.” She idly flipped through a stack of papers on her desk. “We’d settle for a dollar if it accomplished what we wanted, but unfortunately I think financial reparations are required.”
“Are you worried about public reaction?” I asked. Caroline, the consummate pragmatist, had never bothered with approval ratings while in Congress but would never want her intent to be misinterpreted.
“It’s a concern. After all, there are plenty of conspiracy theorists out there who think Jack and I essentially got away with murdering the best thing to ever happen to the United States of America.”
One of many reasons I stayed far, far away from the darker corners of the web and rarely checked my Twitter and Facebook notifications. “Is this why you did that Vanity Fair layout?” They’d shunned most media coverage since they returned to the States, and when Caroline told me they’d granted the interview request, it caught me a little off guard.
“To a degree,” she said. “It was equal parts puff piece and don’t you dare fuck with us, so I think we achieved what we were going for.”
It was a single article in a sea of likely criticism, albeit a very comprehensive one. “What about political fallout?”
“I don’t think the Dems will care, do you? Aside from Roger being miffed at me for a bit.” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “You’re worried about the GOP.”
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