For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  Her hold on him shifted, both hands clasped around the nape of his neck. She stirred against him, rubbing her cloth-covered hot core over his sheltered erection. It sent sparks up along his spine and he sucked air between his teeth.

  “Did I hurt your arm?” she said and halted nibbling a trail to his ear. “Did I dig into the scar tissue?”

  “No.” Head shaking, he set her on her feet on the first step, which put them nearly eye-to-eye and brought him back from the brink. “My arm’s fine, but—”

  She was breathing as heavily as he was. “What? Tell me. Please tell me.”

  ”I’m not sure I have any condoms. There may be an old one in the powder room or an even older one upstairs. You want to take a chance with expired rubber, or do you want to wait?”

  “Do you want to wait?”

  John bent at the knees and scooped her into his arms. “Handiwork it is,” he said, climbing the steps, turning the small corner near the front door and taking the next staircase two treads at a time.

  “Hello, ugly pink chair!” she said when he reached the landing where they’d fooled around earlier.

  “Goodbye, ugly pink chair!” In two strides he was in his bedroom. He hit the light switch with his elbow and half a second later fell on top of her. The bed bounced. She dragged his sweatshirt over his head and his mouth found hers. Their tongues tangled. The damp heat between her legs pressed into his thigh and she moved against it. His hands shook as he shoved up the rugby jersey that belonged to him, but the shaking stopped when he touched her breasts, and she shivered, cold—cold or as hilariously turned on as he was. Her nipples were hard little marbles.

  Urgent, every touch, every movement was a heightened-sense memory of earlier. An impatient noise vibrated in her throat, she pawed at the waist of his jeans, tried to drag them off by jerking on the back pockets. After a moment, she gave up and simply shoved her hand inside his pants and shorts. His breath hitched. He rolled sideways and gracelessly burrowed fingers into her thin cotton panties. Hot. Wet. Slick. She moaned into his mouth and squeeze-slid-squeezed the shaft of his penis, and he moaned even louder.

  “So much better,” she murmured. “You do it so much better than I do.”

  He moved from her lips to one of her hard little nipples. “I think I disagree,” he said hoarsely, nipple between his teeth. “Your technique is more … oh wow … refined than when I do it myself.”

  “Ohhh, you get the right angle, John, and I don’t have to pretend … mmm … and you smell so good.”

  “Are we …” he panted, “talking about the same thing?”

  “I don’t know, ahhhre we?”

  “Remind me why … why we can’t be … naked.”

  Her free hand cupped his testicles. “You want to stop and take off your clothes now?”

  “Holy mother of … oh, no, Queenie, just go, go. Go.”

  “And you keep doing tha-tha-tha … t.”

  It was hands and mouths and sweat and bare chest to bared breasts until John drew away from her lips to look down into her lavender hair-framed face. He saw it happen. For a suspended fraction her eyes widened and she flashed, sparked into his touch, melted and quivered into his fingers on a series of little broken breaths. He watched her come, and it was his own undoing. “Willa,” he said. Then his head fell back and every nerve ending in his body jolted with the same crackling electric pleasure.

  Twitching, shuddering, hands wet and sticky, they both started to laugh.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “Holy, holy shit. I love that you didn’t stop and ask for directions.”

  John swallowed and caught his breath, his heart still hammering away. “I have to confess. It’s also not my first time in the backseat with a girl.”

  ”Yeah, that’s what it’s like, a couple of kids in the backseat, only without anyone’s foot hitting the car’s horn or knocking off the gear shift knob.” Her breathing began to slow.

  “The gear shift knob?”

  Willa licked her lips. “It was a very small car with a very small backseat. Should we have the sexual history talk now or later?”

  “Seven. One was my ex-wife. Always took precautions. Always.”

  “Three. I hope you’ll be four.”

  “Four is my lucky number. Precautions?”

  “Yes. So seven, huh?”

  “You think seven’s excessive?”

  “No, but would you’ve thought it excessive if I’d said seven?”

  “Queenie, I’m all for giving women the vote, equality for pay, and sexual parity.”

  “That’s very progressive of you. How old were you for your first?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “And she was?”

  “Seventeen. You?”

  “A spinsterish twenty-four.”

  “And he was?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Cougar. Ow!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I scratch you?” Willa extracted her hands from his damp pants.

  “I take it back,” John said, chuckling, slipping free from her undies. He turned slightly and grinned before he kissed her. Hard. “Was there much of an age difference between you and Miles?” he said at her mouth.

  Willa brushed her lips across his and moved to snuggle her check against his bare shoulder. She ran a finger over abraded scar tissue that ran up his left arm. She liked the roughened texture of his skin. “Five years. What about you and … Marie … Maureen?”

  “Maureen. Six months. How about you and the second guy?”

  “Miles was the second guy.”

  “Oookay. And number three?”

  Willa groaned and ceased snuggling. “Number three. Number three was… God, grief can make you do some things that are pretty out of character, things you’d never … you know what? I don’t want to talk about number three.”

  “Why not? Was he married? Was he some random guy you picked up in a New Mexican restaurant after he changed your flat? Is he som—”

  “I don’t want to talk about number three. I don’t want to spoil this drowsy and weirdly perfect moment of afterglow. I want to cuddle.”

  “Now you want to cuddle? I said it before. Baby, I’m your man.”

  She laughed, kissed his neck and then yawned. “You’re almost as amusing as Bugs Bunny.”

  He pressed against her. “What’s up, Doc?” Sniff sniff sniff.

  “Oh? Are you ready to climb into the back seat again?”

  “Let me slip into something more comfortable first, like a fresh pair of nonderpants.” John kissed her and then climbed off the bed. “Back in two minutes,” he said and headed into the master bathroom.

  After discarding his jeans, he rummaged around in the vanity, searching for a condom he knew wasn’t there. He gave up, undaunted and eager to resume manual labor. When he’d returned, cleaned and naked, Queenie had been just as enthusiastic and like-minded. The rugby jersey and her undies were on the floor. She’d crawled beneath the covers. Her shoulders were bare, lavender hair fanned out around her head. There was a small smile on her lips.

  But she was snoring, very softly.

  18

  The first thing Willa noticed was that her panties were missing. There was a squishy feather pillow beneath her face. The bedclothes smelled of Earl Grey Tea, of John, of peanut butter.

  Peanut butter?

  The scent of peanut butter was peculiar, but unlike the first time she woke up in his bed, this time she remembered everything that had happened the night before: Dominic, her hair, Alicia, the car, the FBI confession … the hot hands, the heavy breathing. Then there’d been that other confession, the admission of feelings.

  Despite the fact that nothing had changed the danger for Dominic, despite the fact that she had a meeting scheduled with Oscar, and gaping holes in her plan, Willa couldn’t wait to start the day. It was utterly illogical, but she felt … euphoric … optimistic, indestructible, and fearless. Fear had been trounced by love. Soundly.

  S
he rolled over to snuggle into John, to kiss him, to soak up more of the powerful conviction he radiated, only she discovered she was alone. Well, almost alone. On the pillow beside her was a single Nutter Butter cookie tied with a red ribbon.

  Laughing, she sat up, reached for the little golden treat, and found there was also a peanut butter sandwich on the bedside table. There was a note beneath the plate too. She drew the blue sheet of paper from the dish and read John’s neat printing.

  Like the Love Theme from The Poseidon Adventure (the Gene Hackman version, not the shitty Kurt Russell one) says, “There’s got to be a morning after.” Welcome to ours.

  I had to take my mother to mass and donuts, but I am hoping (providing you have the time, of course) we could meet later for lunch (providing you have time), or dinner (providing you have time), or for a quick (notice how I said ‘quick’ and not ‘quickie?’) coffee, or anything you want. I’d very much like to see you again, fully dressed and/or completely naked (providing you have time and I supply appropriate protection). Call me. I’d call you but I don’t have your number.

  Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I had mine. I hope you like yours. There’s coffee downstairs.

  Love (yes, that’s what I wrote),

  John

  P.S. I taped up the lights on your car. Get them fixed or be fined by the law.

  Willa kissed the cookie. She smiled the whole time she ate the sticky peanut butter sandwich.

  Forty minutes later, she’d dressed in the cranberry wool suit she wore when she’d first encountered Uncle John Tilbrook. It had turned cold, as cold as the morning they’d first met, but Willa didn’t feel the chill. She was still smiling when she arrived at J.E.H. Research & Development behind Dawn’s Delights Bakery and the Los Alamos Chamber of Commerce.

  It may have been Sunday, but an investigation didn’t get a day of rest. Oscar was a punctual man. He’d said he’d be there at ‘nine ay em sharp’ and Willa knew he’d walk through the door at nine o’clock exactly. She was ten minutes early. Agent Mitchell had been even earlier.

  Dressed casually in jeans and a sky-blue button down, he opened the door from inside. “Hey.”

  Considering the tightrope act that loomed ahead of her, there should have been butterflies the size of elephants trampling through her stomach, but she crossed the threshold and stepped into an office that smelled like a giant glazed doughnut. “Good morning Tom,” she said, as bubbly as a kid at Disneyland.

  “You’re mighty cheerful today. Wh… wh…” his word collapsed, the wh morphed into an elongated, “uuhhh … your … uh …color… uh…” His lips twitched when he pressed them together.

  Willa didn’t stop smiling. She knew he’d been startled by the color of her hair, which, after three more dish soap shampoos in the shower, was an insipid shade of lilac.

  “Mrrhph, Aaant Hssstn,” Agent Adams rose from the conference table, his mouth full of Hostess Sno-ball. Confetti bits of pink coconut littered the front of his dark jacket. “Smtn kem f’yoo ytdy.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Then he made a face. “Wwa d’ll aapn nyr hr?”

  “You want to repeat that, Agent Adams?” Willa swept away some shredded coconut and put her big purse on the table. She had a seat on the edge.

  Agent Mitchell crossed his arms and shook his head at the junior agent. “I think he said, ‘Morning, Agent Heston, something in gangsta gibberish, and I’m guessing the last part was, ‘what the hell happened to your hair’.”

  Leaning back, feet swinging, she said, “Okay, come on, let’s get it out of the way. And be nice.”

  The two men looked at each other and then spoke at the same time.

  “Uh … it’s a bold choice and…”

  “Day-am, you’re C-4 fine and aw, yeah…”

  “…honey, it makes you look ten year younger.”

  “…wit’ a booty like dat who cares about hay-er!”

  “Honey?” Willa stopped swinging her feet. “Honey?” She slipped off the table’s edge, head cocked to one side, hands on her hips. “Did you call me, honey, Agent Mitchell?”

  Mitchell pursed his lips. “Yes.”

  “Nice touch.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sniff-laughing like John, Willa pulled files from her bag and placed them on the table. “Did you review what I sent you yesterday?”

  Both men nodded. Agent Mitchell took a seat and woke his laptop. “You sure about Dichter and Grafton? You want to take things in that direction?” he said as he scanned the report she’d emailed.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I think I agree.”

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s a for now attached to that agreement?”

  “Always in motion is the investigation,” Agent Adams piped up.

  Willa tried not the chuckle at the junior agent’s dead-on Yoda impersonation, but failed. “What about Kinsale and Dokowski? What were their thoughts?”

  “They’ll tell you the same thing when they get back from picking up doughnuts and coffee.” Adams had a cardboard box in his hands. “You know, maybe we should get a coffee maker in here and save us all some money, save the government some money.” Adams held out the package. “This came for you yesterday, honey.”

  Willa looked up at him, flatly, arms crossed.

  “Jesus, Jerry,” Mitchell muttered, head shaking again.

  “This came for you, Willa … Agent Heston … I mean, ma’am. It weighs about two pounds. You want me to open it?” Agent Adams licked at the corners of his mouth. “It’s from Godiva.”

  “Godiva?” she said. Mitchell watched a halo of glee pop over Agent Heston’s head.

  “Yeah, you know the luxury chocolate maker?”

  She was smiling so broadly Mitchell thought her face was going to burst when she said, “I know who you mean. Where’s the knife we used for cake the other day?”

  “It’s still got cake on it.” Adams said and pointed to the dried out cake crumbs and frosting on top of a filing box.

  “You boys are such slobs.”

  Amused, Mitchell took the parcel from his partner and placed it on the table. “Wipe the drool off your chin, Jerry.” He produced a pocketknife. In three short slices he had the flaps of the package open. There was an envelope that sat atop protective wrap inside. He passed the envelope to Willa. She reached out to take it, and her hand shook with excitement. He wondered why the hell he was so happy that damn detective had sent her candy.

  Her fingers fumbled extricating the card, and she handed it back. “I can’t get it… I can’t… You read it, Tom.”

  While Adams withdrew a gold box from a bigger insulated box, Mitchell pulled a matching card from a creamy paper sheath. He cleared the irritation from his throat before he began reading. “My dear Dr Heston,” Wow, how original “May you find as much delight in this heavenly chocolate” seriously Velveeta cheesy “as I do in your sweet company. With love,” My stage name is Detective Dickhead “Donald.” Donald?

  For a moment, no one said a word. Adams dropped the gold box on the tabletop. “Farley sent you nearly two hundred bucks worth of candy,” he said.

  “Farley sent me nearly two hundred bucks worth of candy?” she repeated.

  “Farley sent you nearly two hundred bucks worth of candy!” Mitchell said, laughing, suddenly relieved the chocolate hadn’t been a present from the cop.

  “You’re not gonna tell me to throw this out, are you?” Adams poked at the ribbon tied around the gold. Worry crinkled his brow.

  She looked from one man to the other. Her smile had faded; the halo of glee had dimmed. “What the hell do I have to do? Why won’t this guy take no for an answer?”

  Adams shrugged.

  “Because you’re so damned appealing,” Mitchell said without thinking, and she looked at him and blinked. Twice. He didn’t miss the expression on her face. It said, very clearly, ‘Oh, no, not you too.’

  Or maybe it was oh, please save me.

  Shit. It coul
d have been either one.

  “Sometimes you’ve got to be harsh with a dude, like, brutal. Hey,” Adams tapped the lid, “would it be okay if I open this? Just to make sure, you know, it’s really chocolate and not a dirty bomb or something?”

  “Right, Jerry,” Mitchell said. “Farley’s chocolate box is a dirty bomb.”

  She squeezed the bridge of her nose for a second. “Oh, yeah, that thing’s a dirty bomb, so you go right ahead and enjoy the flavor explosion, Agent Adams.”

  The younger man was into the candy before she’d even finished speaking.

  “I’ll have a word with Farley, Willa.”

  With a huff, she brushed aside a lock of her hair, which he thought was still pretty, despite its weird purplish hue. Christ, her hair could be American cheese orange and she’d still be lovely.

  “Thanks, but no, Tom,” she said. “We don’t want to step on any toes here. There are a few ways to handle this. Option A: I can wear the attention, receive his gifts and run the risk of having my ass pinched again. Option B: I can be nice and appreciative and ask him to ease off for now. Or C: I can be a de-nadding, heartbreaking bitch and create friction and a possible lack of teamwork.”

  “Again? Farley pinched your ass?” Indignation twisted Adam’s pimply face and chocolate splotched his teeth. He stood up straight, shoulders back, fists clenched. His voice dropped an octave. “That contravenes federal law, Title Seven of the 1964 Civil Rights Act prohibiting sexual harassment in the workplace. You want me to taser that son of a bitch?”

  Even though he felt it too, Mitchell snorted at his partner’s sudden tough-guy posturing. The little suck-up was probably channeling Iron Man or Wolverine or some comic book superhero dear to his heart.

  “Title seven of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, Agent Adams you’re a walking Wikipedia page,” she said, laughing.