by Tara Wylde
“No...an orchid.”
She laughs. “You get it! And there’s never a dish in the sink, or a cardigan over a chair, or a dog hair on anything—“
“—and you’re afraid to sit anywhere—“
“—and you kind of want to swing by unannounced some time, catch them not using a coaster.”
“Or open every closet door, till you find the one with the giant tide of crap behind it—‘cause you know it’s there.” I walk up behind her. She doesn’t move away. Probably a good sign? She’s looking out the window at the trees marching up the mountain. Halfway up, they get lost in a bank of low-lying clouds. I like this time of year.
“I like a place that feels lived-in,” she says. “Where you can walk in and get a sense of the person.”
Was that...a seal of approval, for my pillow pile and nerd paraphernalia? I feel the sudden urge to hug her, so I do. She sighs and leans into me when I slide my arms around her from behind. I’m wondering whether it would be too forward if I kissed the tip of her ear, when she puts her hands over mine and clasps them tight.
Definitely an approving gesture.
In case I wasn’t already convinced, she starts moving my hands for me. I let her guide one down over the gentle curve of her belly, and back up the line of her hip. The other, she raises to her mouth, so she can kiss each fingertip, and then the palm. This soft, sensual side of her is awakening my cock. It stiffens as she shifts against me. Her dress is thin and silky, and I can feel every lush contour underneath.
This time, when I start undoing her buttons, she lets me take it slow. She moves against me, very deliberately, the friction of her ass on my cock driving me wild. By the time her dress is pooling on the floor, I’m rock-hard, eager as a teenager...especially when I see what she’s wearing underneath.
I run my fingers over her pale pink bustier, tracing the raised velvet rose-and-thorn pattern, the white silk ribbons holding it together at the front. Sarah trembles, and directs my free hand to the matching panties. I play with the ruffles down the sides, savoring the contrast between crisp lace and soft velvet.
She pulls away, and bends over the window seat, elbows resting on the pillows. Her back arches. The sight of her round ass so temptingly presented to me stokes the fire in my loins. I move both hands to the waistband of her panties, and hesitate. “Almost too pretty to take off....”
“You don’t leave the wrapper on the present.” Sarah does a little wiggle that sends any resistance I had out the window. Her panties and my jeans are discarded in an instant, and I’m molding my body to hers, relishing the skin-to-skin contact.
She’s soft and yielding, and so responsive, rewarding me with hungry little moans and sighs as I kiss a long line down her spine. When I slip one hand between her thighs, I can feel she’s every bit as into this as I am, slick and wet, warm to the touch.
I tease her, barely grazing her inner lips with the tip of one finger, carefully avoiding her clit, circling away when she tries to shift me to the spot.
“Mm....” Sarah reaches back and tries to put her hand over mine again. This time, I bat it away. She yelps and groans, and a little shiver goes through her.
“Hmm...what could you possibly want?” I brush the back of my hand up one thigh, and down the other. I dip the tip of one finger inside her, just enough to feel her tighten around me, and pull it out. She squirms again, and this time, I follow her slit to the apex, and press my fingers to her clit. When I feel it twitch, I start to move, now clockwise, now up and down; soft, then firm, till she’s melting in my arms.
I pull her flush against me, and turn her to face the mirror so she can see herself, lips parted, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast and hard. At first, she watches my fingers, entranced, but as her gasps and moans reach a crescendo, she fits her hand over mine and presses it firmly against her. She bucks against me, once, twice, and I can feel her come, body tensing, clit throbbing. The look on her face is beautiful: eyes distant and dreamy, barely open; lips curved up at the corners in an angelic smile.
I take a moment to savor her satisfied expression, before I lift her gently and set her down on the pillows. She spreads her legs invitingly, and smiles. “You got a...?”
I retrieve my jeans from the floor, and dig through the pockets, till I find what I’m looking for. When I look back at her, she’s barely holding back a smirk.
“Confident, huh?”
“Hey! I always carry condoms in my pockets!”
“And I always wear my lucky bustier.” Sarah pulls lazily at the bows holding it closed, one after another. The garment falls open. Her tits are round and perky underneath. I lean down and kiss each one. She plucks the condom from my hand, and I hear the wrapper tear. An instant later, she’s rolling it smoothly onto my dick. She does it by touch, never even looking down.
I need to be inside her, right now.
She laces her arms around my neck, and pulls me on top of her. Somehow, we end up stretched out along the window seat, cradled by the cushions. I take a moment to admire the way the dappled shadows of the trees play across her breasts, before I thrust inside. Sarah hooks one leg around my waist, hanging on tight. She grips the back of my neck, and I feel those red-tipped nails again, digging in just below my hairline. It makes my cock throb, and I snap my hips again harder, alternating between hard, punishing thrusts, and quick rotations of my hips that grind the base of my cock against her sensitive clit.
Sarah matches my rhythm, meeting every thrust, every wriggle. Her teeth tug at my earlobe, nip at my neck. Her warm breath tickles my skin. Her thighs grip me tight; her hands never leave my skin. Makes me feel...wanted.
I want to draw out the moment, make it stretch till the sun goes down. But when she runs the sharp heel of one shoe down the back of my thigh, just hard enough to pink the skin, I know the end is near.
“Close—I’m close—“
“Me, too....” Sarah arches against me, bucks with wild abandon. She tightens hard around me, as her pleasure peaks again. Her heel digs in, almost too hard, and the pain lets me hold out just long enough to let her ride it out on my cock. As soon as she relaxes, and her foot slides away, I follow her over the edge, shouting something that might be her name, or might be incoherent nonsense. I’m too far gone to care.
We take our time, coming down from the high. Her body fits naturally against mine, and she practically purrs when I start combing my fingers through her hair.
“You know,” I say, “this was what I missed most, after last night’s interruption.”
“Not the orgasm?” Her hand finds mine again. She hooks our little fingers together.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong—that would have been nice, too, but...I can give myself an orgasm. Bit harder to spoon myself.”
“I don’t know—you could sort of...pull your knee to your chest, pretend it’s another person?”
“Oh, that’s sad!”
“Yeah...sounded less tragic in my head.” She shifts just enough to give me a lazy kiss, which leads to another, and another. Before I know it, the shadows are starting to lengthen. Dimly, it occurs to me that my invitation was for lunch.
“I’m the worst host,” I say. “Didn’t even feed you before I’m....”
“Eating me alive?”
“Hey, I didn’t do that!” I give her ear a little nibble. “Not yet, anyway. Maybe after dinner.”
“Mm....” She stretches against me like she’s thinking about getting up, but not quite ready to leave the comfort of our little cushion-nest. “Guess you’d better feed the dog, as well.”
“Think I did that...some time. Earlier.” I pull her a little closer. “Need one of those timer things, like when you go on vacation, and it feeds your dog every few hours.”
“Not sure that actually exists,” says Sarah. She finally extracts herself from my embrace. I groan. With the sun rapidly vanishing below the horizon, it’s getting kind of chilly. The idea of a hot dinner, followed by a leisurely dessert, suddenly s
ounds pretty damn perfect.
Maybe breakfast in bed, as well.
I feel lucky.
48
Epilogue (Sarah)
One Year Later
I arrive first.
The jellyfish are exactly as I remember them: ghostly and weird, almost glowing in the low light. I wonder if these are the same ones, from when we first met—how long do jellyfish live? Aren’t there some that can technically last forever? Not the most romantic symbol of the everlasting, I’ve got to say. Not sure the engagement jellyfish will ever be a thing.
It’s been a year since our cabin adventure; almost three, since our paths first crossed. It feels fitting to reunite here. I thought about bringing us both coffee, but that felt too much like tempting fate. Plus, you’re not really supposed to have it in here.
I’ve been thrumming with excitement since yesterday. Barely closed my eyes, the whole twenty-two hours between Melbourne and here. Think I drove my seatmate crazy, with my fidgeting. Must’ve checked my flight tracker app a million times, played a million rounds of Candy Crush. Anyone would’ve thought I’d been away three years, not three months.
And now, I’m here, and it’s time, and every second’s stretching to eternity. The jellyfish are taunting me, with their mindless serenity. In a minute, I’ll—
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
My heart leaps.
“Sam!”
“Sarah!”
I pull him in for a hug. He spins me around, heedless of the looks we’re getting.
“Missed you so much,” I murmur, in his ear.
“You look great, though.” He sets me down, and gives me the old once-over. “Never seen you this tan.”
“Oh, it was hotter than a crematorium over there! We were all burning alive, running around in these ridiculous Indiana Jones hats, drowning ourselves in sunscreen.”
Sam gives me a considering look. “You’d make a hot Indiana Jones. That boss of yours, on the other hand....”
I laugh. “Oh, he was miserable. Threatening to transfer to Antarctica, till the bitter end.”
“You’d look hot in a fur-lined parka, too.”
“Been a bit lonely, have you?”
Sam gives me his best puppy-dog eyes. Must’ve picked that up from Boone. The translucent shadow of a jellyfish ruins the effect by swimming across his face. I opt not to make fun of that, in favor of bigger things. Better things.
“I come bearing good news,” I tell him.
“Hmm, let me guess...you’ve tamed yourself a dingo?”
“Ha-ha. Better.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Not that good!”
He taps at his chin, making a show of deep thought. “You’re home for the rest of the year?”
I smile. Can’t help myself. “How about the rest of forever?”
“Really?” Sam’s holding back a grin, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Say you’re not pulling my leg right now. If you’re pulling my leg—”
“Accepted a year-round teaching position last week.”
“Oh, yes!” He sweeps me into another hug, so long and so tight a nearby granny clears her throat at us. I give him an extra squeeze, and a little grind, just to spite her. Nothing, no one can ruin this moment. “So, this means—“
I nod. “We can finally move in together.”
“I feel like we already have,” he says. “Your dog...is very hairy. My cleaning lady stopped me on the way out the door yesterday to let me know I had an entire second dog static-clinging to my ass.”
“That’ll happen.” I steal a quick kiss. “Thanks for looking after him. He and Boone still getting along?”
“Inseparable.”
We wander through the aquarium, checking out the fish. We’ve been meaning to do this since we met, but with his job and mine, there’s never quite been time. That’s why we decided to meet here instead of at the airport. I should be tired from my long and sleepless flight, but I feel like I’m floating. There’s something surreal about the soft glow of the tanks, the silent drama of the fish.
A huge turtle swims by on its side. I stop to watch. The markings on its shell remind me of sunlight on the seabed, all waving lines and ripples.
When I turn away from the turtle, I catch Sam watching me, all pensive. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“So, I was thinking, instead of one of us moving in with the other, we could, y’know....” He glances at the turtle. “Look for a house together? Something between your work and mine? Something that’d be ours?
I very much like that idea. I do a quick survey of the room, to make sure the disapproving granny isn’t trailing us, and treat him to a very non-aquarium-appropriate kiss.
“My next movie,” he gasps, when we break apart—“The Naughty Professor.”
“That...sounds more porn than sci-fi.”
“It could be....” Sam tips me an exaggerated wink. I reach out and mess up his hair. Haven’t had a chance to do that for a while.
By mutual accord, we take the scenic route home. Sam takes us through this neighborhood and that, pointing out houses he likes. I’m relieved, but not surprised, to find that he goes for the classics over the McMansions: comfortable places. Places you could live your life, raise your family, make your memories.
Wait—is that what we’re doing?
Did he just—?
“I know I haven’t officially asked you yet,” he says, as though reading my mind. “But it’s been a year, and, I mean...we’re pretty much deliriously happy, right?”
I nod. There’s suddenly...something in my eye. Something that’s also catching in my throat.
“So, you’ll be Mrs. Lee? Professor Lee? Dr. Lee?”
“Any of the above,” I manage, still blinking back tears.
This is shaping up to be the best day.
The afternoon’s starting to fade into evening. It occurs to me that we’re literally riding off into the sunset—only, instead of this being the end, like in a movie, it’s the start of something new. A lifetime of dreams and adventures and Christmases at the cabin.
Couldn’t have pictured it, the first time we met, or even the second, but now, I can’t imagine any other future.
Part III
Keeping Her
On the run?
Check.
Sleeping with the enemy?
Check.
Yeah, things got a little messed up.
Everybody deserves a second chance.
And this is mine.
$150,000 to dig up dirt on some billionaire CEO?
Easy money.
Until I walk into the boardroom and see Chance’s gorgeous face.
But there’s no smile on that chiselled jawline.
Not for me.
Not for the girl who broke his heart.
Now I’m not just the girl who left him.
I’m the woman trying to take his company, too.
He’ll do anything to save it.
Even me…
49
1. SARA
I wake up to the sound of an air horn blaring in my ear, and the taste of used cat litter in my mouth.
I vaguely remember being at the Toad & Turtle with Grace. Shots. Cosmos. Dancing with some guy with a man-bun. His hand roaming around under my shirt.
My clumsy, hung-over attempt to grab the iPhone from my bedside table sends it crashing to the floor, where it lands on the hardwood with a sickening clack. The initial stab of panic subsides when I remember the screen was already cracked to shit anyway.
The thing lies teasingly close to my fingertips as I reach for it from the bed. Fuck. My throbbing head is telling me I really don’t want to lift it from the pillow unless this is a life-or-death emergency that can’t be ignored. Why the hell did I make an air horn my ringtone?
Oh yeah: because every call I get could be a life or death emergency that can’t be ignored.
My fingers finally close around the mobile and carry it
up to the ear that’s not muffled by my pillow. Somehow my thumb finds the answer button.
“Sara Bishop,” I mutter. “This better be good.”
“No, Ms. Bishop,” says the man on the other end of the line. “You better be good, or you won’t be getting a six-figure paycheck for a month’s work. Is that clear?”
Suddenly my eyes are wide open. Did he just say six figures? For a month’s work?
I lurch forward in my bed, prompting a wave of protest from both my head and my stomach, and cover the phone with my hand as I clear last night’s bottle of Stolichnaya from my throat.
“I’m very sorry,” I say in my most professional tone. Thank God he can’t actually see me right now. “I thought you were one of my employees. They have strict instructions not to disturb me while I’m on a case.”
In reality, I don’t have any employees. The only “associate” in Bishop & Associates is my sister, Grace, and she was just as blitzed as I was last night.
“Well, you’re going to drop that case,” says the voice, “because my driver will be meeting you in the lobby of your building in about thirty minutes. Got it?”
I glance at my watch – it’s 7:00 a.m. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, phoning me up in the middle of the night and giving me orders?
“Pardon me,” I say with a touch of coldness. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“My name is Quentin Pearce, and if you don’t tell me who I am in the next ten seconds, I’m hanging up and moving on to the next name in the phone directory.”
A jolt of adrenaline runs through me, and with it comes a throb in my poor head. Anyone who doesn’t know the name Quentin Pearce must be completely unplugged from the business world: he’s the financial rock star who came out of nowhere and built Wall Street’s largest private equity firm out of the ashes of the 2008 market meltdown.
Suddenly, the six-figure offer becomes all too real – Pearce probably spends more than that on shoes in a year. And he’s not known for his patience.