The Fall Girl

by T. B. Markinson

  “You sure?”

  “I’m positive. How about I give Mia her bath while you finish up dinner?” I motioned to her glass of wine on the counter. “You deserve some time after the day you had.” Swooping Mia into my arms, I headed for the oak spiral staircase.

  “You’re sweet.” Claire blew me a kiss.

  I hadn’t mentioned to Claire how dire the finances were at work. Both Cora and I had put a substantial amount of money into the business, and while I wasn’t about to suggest we sell our four-bedroom, tri-level house and move in with my folks or Claire’s, I was petrified of the ever-present wolf at the door.

  It probably hadn’t been the best idea to buy the home during MDD’s start-up phase, but when the house hit the market, we both fell in love with it. The previous owners, an older couple who was friends with Claire’s parents, had let it go, which explained the bargain price and the amount of work we had to put into it to make it suit our family of four. Maybe Darrell could move in and pay rent. Shit, things were bad if that thought popped into my head. He was great with both kids, though.

  ***

  Darrell had gone home, and the kids were asleep in their rooms. Ensconced in the cozy reading chair tucked into the corner of the vaulted wood-paneled master suite, the panorama of the aspens and pine trees dotting the rim of the lake in the fading light captured my interest and soothed my mind. Until Claire, freshly showered, entered the bedroom.

  “If I remember, last night, you wanted me to prove to you how much I missed you.” I eyed Claire hungrily. The door to the private deck off our room was open, and a cool breeze rustled her robe, igniting the fire below even more.

  She beckoned with a finger. I snapped shut Beware the Trolls, a book Cora had recently recommended, placed it on the small reading pile stacked on the outdated blue-green carpet, and stood.

  “I think that rings a bell.” Claire pushed me onto the side of the log-frame bed, a Nicholls family heirloom. Her eyes smoldered with anticipation. Not wanting to waste time, she disrobed and climbed on top of me. “Go on. Prove it Ms. Cavendish.”

  “You won’t be able to call me that for long.” I traced a finger down her front.

  Claire set to work unzipping my navy Gap sweatshirt and raising my T-shirt to expose my flesh. “What? Miss? Or Cavendish?”

  “JJ Nicholls,” I pronounced her last name with relish. “Has a nice ring to it, doncha think?” My hands kneaded her ass cheeks.

  Claire was busy undoing the belt on my jeans. She skimmed a finger along my bare stomach, breathing life into a shiver of enthusiasm. “I love that I still have this effect on you.”

  “I think I love it more.” I pulled Claire down for a kiss, while rolling her onto her back. Jettisoning the sweatshirt, I asked, “Now where were we last night before Mia interrupted?”

  Claire squinted, calling forth the memory, and then peeked at her nipple.

  “That’s right. I was doing this.” I licked her nipple.

  “You rubbed it first, with your thumb.”

  “Like this?” I circled it.

  “But you never got around to the other one.” She glanced forlornly at the neglected body part.

  “That lapse will be rectified immediately.” I concentrated on her left nipple, hardening it in my mouth.

  Claire moaned. “Oh yes, it missed you very much.”

  “Where else?”

  “Everywhere. Every part of my body has missed you.”

  I kissed her collarbone, working a delightfully roundabout way to her lips. “You sure you have the energy for a total body exploration after the day you had?”

  “I’m game if you are.”

  I cocked my head toward the baby monitor and only heard Mia’s sleeping sounds.

  “Oh, I’m always game.” I slipped my shirt off and deposited it on the floor.

  “Let me help.” Claire sat up and unhooked my teal bra, kissing my neck as she slid the straps over my shoulders. “Jeans and panties, please.” Her please sounded more like a demand than a request.

  I hopped up. “Yes, ma’am!” I saluted and set to work shedding my remaining articles of clothing, feeling giddy like a naughty teenager.

  A noise on the baby monitor caught my attention, and my shoulders sagged.

  Claire pulled one of my arms. “Don’t worry. That’s her new thing.”

  “What?”

  “She makes this mumbling sound in her sleep.”

  I peered at the grainy image on the video screen. Sure enough, Mia was still zonked out with her rainbow plush monkey, a gift from Ian, via Darrell.

  Claire sat at the side of the bed and pulled me onto her lap, with my legs straddling her.

  “There, now you’re my prisoner,” she said.

  “Prisoner, huh? More like sex slave.” I brushed a tuft of auburn hair off her cheek.

  “Complaints will be dealt with harshly.” She quirked a commanding eyebrow.

  “Such as?”

  “Kiss me.”

  “Oh, please, miss, not that,” I mimicked the voice of a British servant.

  Claire yanked my mouth to hers. Our lips touched softly before she deepened the kiss. Her tongue penetrated my mouth with gusto, and a moan escaped from me. She threaded her fingers through the few inches of hair on the back of my head, an indication I was in dire need of a haircut. Her other hand roamed over my bare skin, making me forget my crazy schedule that didn’t allow me time to pop in to see my stylist.

  I let out another moan.

  She flicked my nipple with a finger.

  My hands gripped her back, wanting—needing—to be as close as possible. “I missed you so much.”

  “Me too,” she whispered in my ear. “This is where you belong, always.”

  “On your lap?”

  Her fingers parted my lips, which were already dripping. “Are you complaining? I thought I was clear about punishments.”

  “God, fucking punish me. Punish me hard.”

  A finger drove in, and I gasped. Claire silenced me with another hungry kiss. While her tongue devoured my mouth, her finger, followed by another, hammered in and out. We had only been apart for the day, but it felt like a lifetime. It was quickly transforming into an urgent need to show me how much I was wanted in our bed.

  My legs tightened around her, and my head lolled back. Claire had one strong arm wrapped around me, steadying me on her legs. She buried her face in my cleavage.

  I started to spasm.

  Claire pulled her fingers upward, expertly triggering my G-spot.

  My upper body lunged forward into her nakedness as if my skin wanted to swim in hers. I raked her back with my nails, and Claire let out a victorious growl.

  She shoved her fingers in as far as she could with an upward stroke. That was the final spark needed for my internal engine as the touch urged the release of a spreading heated sensation that brought me to a higher plane. My entire body trembled in her lap before my arms and head collapsed into her waiting embrace.

  “You did miss me,” I said through ragged breaths.

  Breathing just as hard, she came back with, “The moment you stepped out the door this morning.”

  We didn’t speak for several minutes. I stayed on her lap, my arms tightly wrapped around her, with my head huddled into her neck. Our gulping breaths were synchronized. Sexual afterglow had never felt more sublime.

  “Are you tired?” she asked.

  “No. Just recovering. Did you want to go to sleep?” I rolled off her lap onto my back.

  “Hell no,” she growled. “I want you to fuck my brains out. You have no idea how much I need you right now.”

  Her craving obliterated all traces of exhaustion. It wasn’t graceful, but I maneuvered Claire onto her back and climbed on top. My hip separated her legs and rubbed against her wetness. Claire’s legs wrapped around me tightly, and she tugged on my bottom lip, pulling it down toward my chin.

  “Prove you misse
d me. I dare you.” Her piercing stare mesmerized me.

  My mouth explored her neck, breasts, and stomach. Even though I was dying for a taste, I wasn’t in a rush to reach the final destination. There had been a significant gap between the first and second time we made love. So now, what was five, ten, or twenty minutes before making her come?

  While Claire’s gyrating body urged me to one particular spot, I also sensed from the soft moans and accelerated intakes of air she was enjoying the journey.

  I reached her alluring patch and burrowed my nose in the wonderfully coarse hair, inhaling her musky want to be fucked scent as if I’d been starved for an eternity, blunting everything else from my mind. Drops glistened on her thighs like individual commands to satisfy her yearning for us to be as one.

  In that moment, nothing existed but Claire and me. Only our love for each other mattered. The night of our college graduation was the first time I discovered the wonder of making love to the person I was meant to be with. When she walked out and I flew out of Colorado the very next day for a six-month break that morphed into more than a two-decade absence, I lost a piece of myself. It wasn’t until we reunited that I became whole again.

  I sighed and peered up into Claire’s brimming sapphire eyes. Without words, I told her I loved her, and she conveyed she understood. She probably didn’t know exactly what I was thinking, but she grasped the overwhelming power of my emotions.

  Claire’s arm stretched out, and she softly raked a hand through my hair. “I love you.”

  I held her hand and kissed her fingertips, one at a time. She closed her eyes. One of her fingers found its way into my mouth. Claire squeezed her eyes even more.

  It was time.

  Her clit was visibly thrumming, and her lips glistened with nectar.

  My tongue parted her folds. A sharp, excited intake of breath escaped Claire when I flicked her clit. Every time I made love to her, that happened, and it was the most satisfying sound. One that I thirsted for and replayed in my mind.

  Claire’s pelvic thrust pleaded for me to enter. Two fingers easily slid inside. Her muscles contracted around them, forcing a moan out of me.

  I circled her bud, slowly, savoring her in my mouth.

  “Oh, God!” She fisted my hair.

  I increased the intensity, and soon she was begging for more.

  My slickened fingers urgently slid in and out.

  Claire’s body began to shake.

  My tongue concentrated on the epicenter of the impending quake that would rattle both of our worlds. When I took her engorged sex into my mouth, Claire bolted upright, holding my head in place with both hands.

  “Yes! Yes!” she exclaimed.

  ***

  Afterward, I lay in Claire’s arms, nearing sleep.

  She prodded me awake with a question. “Will you really change your last name once we’re married?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of it. I’ve always known you as JJ Cavendish.” She pronounced my name in a TV presenter voice.

  “What about Claire Cavendish?”

  Her body tensed. “Not sure that has the same flair as Claire Nicholls.”

  “I agree. I’ve always loved your last name. Rolls off the tongue.”

  “And your tongue enjoys the finer things in life.” She placed a finger against my lips.

  I rolled my eyes playfully. “I won’t be able to change my last name professionally, especially now that the MDD site refers to it, but I don’t see why I can’t adopt your name in our private lives. It’d be nice to have the same last name as both of our children.” I propped my head up on bent elbow. “We’ll be the Nicholls family. I can picture the welcome mat on the doorstep. Let me talk to a lawyer and see what all is involved.”

  She cupped my face. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “You’re easily amazed, luckily.”

  “Ha! No one has ever said that about me before.”

  “Really? What have people told you?” I wrapped my free arm over her toned stomach.

  “Through the newspaper grapevine—”

  “You mean Brenda. How is she getting along at Mile High News?”

  “Pretty well, considering she lost Darrell, me, and you in less than a year.”

  “True, but she did become publisher because of it.”

  “She never wanted to be but couldn’t say no when asked to take over. You’re trying to distract me. Where was I? That’s right, according to Busybody Brenda, as you like to call her”—she tapped two fingers against my forehead—“most coworkers, present and past, think I’m dedicated, smart, but a cold fish, nonetheless. And my exes, I think most of them would call me a selfish bitch.” She hitched a shoulder as if saying “What can I do?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe that. Never in a million years would I put those words together.”

  “Not even when I walked out on you, not once but twice?” She held two fingers in front of my face as if I didn’t understand the significance of her words.

  I laughed, folding her fingers down with my hand. “When you put it that way.” I leaned down and softly kissed her lips. “No. Just meant I had to get my shit together, twice.”

  “Is your shit together now?” She ran a finger down the side of my face.

  I braced myself over her with my arms. “At the moment, yes.”

  My impending meeting with Cora and her mystery guest popped into my mind. And then there was the issue of finances and Claire’s desire to permanently stay home. No, JJ, this wasn’t the time.

  “There’s the cloud.” She covered my eyes with her hands as if trying to suck out the worry. “Are things that bad at work?”

  I sighed.

  “What can I do to help?”

  I flicked a lock of hair off her cheek. “Invest a billion or so.” Not that we needed that much, but the actual amount of at least five million seemed just as out of reach. And that only included the capital for this year. In order to grow, we’d need twice that in the following twelve months.

  “I’ll get right on that. I did like the flying cat contest today. I voted for the ginger ninja.”

  “Journalism at its best.”

  “It’ll take time for MDD to get its sea legs.” Her unsure smile made me feel like an asshole. She’d already had a bad day. There was no need to hint at my troubles. She eased me into her arms, holding me close.

  “I ran into that producer in Hollywood.” I traced the outline of her right areola with the pad of my forefinger.

  “The one who wants to buy the movie rights to your life? Cora’s Hollywood insider?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I thought you were opposed to selling out to the highest bidder.”

  “Technically, I did it once when I signed with a publisher.”

  “And you’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “Not completely. It allowed us to put a down payment on this place, a home we all love. Even Darrell.”

  “Be nice. He’s—” She squeezed her arms tighter around me.

  “Ian’s father, I know. And one of your friends.”

  “It’s a relief now that Darrell and I don’t work together anymore. We can talk like normal human beings again.”

  “Do you think he needs a job?”

  “You thinking of hiring him?”

  I shrugged. “He has a ton of connections.”

  “Good Lord, you and Cora must be in way over your heads if you’re considering hiring the man you once fired. An action that drove us apart, I might add.”

  I flinched but didn’t address that last part. “As the editor of Mile High News, he sucked. But, back in the day, Darrell was the shiz in the newspaper world. We could use a brain like his.” I propped my head up. “Do you think he would be interested?”

  “To work for MDD?” She chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t know. Digital media really isn’t his
thing.”

  “You know, when Arianna Huffington started HuffPo, she enlisted Arthur Schlesinger Jr. to write for her. He immediately understood the power of blogging and asked if he could fax her his blogs.”

  Claire’s full-throated laugh made me smile. “If you mention that to Darrell, he’ll sign on in a heartbeat. Of course, he’ll latch on to the fax idea. Even e-mail makes him jittery.”

  “Not a problem. That’s why we have Avery—”

  “To do everything while you and Cora fly all over the country wooing investors, journalists, advertisers, and whoever else Cora has in her rolodex.”

  I kissed her passionately to silence her, but the emotions took over. Breaking away, struggling for air, I said, “Keep teasing. It’s working.”

  She eyed my thighs. “I can see the I need you inside me shine.” Claire pulled my mouth to hers for round two.

  Chapter Eight

  The motel located outside of Denver was much seedier than I’d bargained for.

  I marched up to the front desk and was promptly ignored by the clerk, who looked like he’d been wearing the same clothes since last month. I cleared my throat to get his attention. His beady eyes flickered to mine briefly and returned to the hardcover novel on loan from a library. Flashing lights from a patrol car in the parking lot bathed the room with intermittent blue, red, and white.

  I rang the chrome bell on the counter five times before he snapped, “What?”

  “I need a room.”

  He sighed, clicked some keys on the computer, and sighed again. “Name?”

  “Booker,” I said. “Jean Booker.”

  He slapped a piece of paper down on the counter. “Fill and sign.”

  I complied, not supplying an ounce of truth on the form.

  “I’ll need a credit card in case there are any damages.”

  “Of course.” I yanked out a Visa card for Jean Booker. “Can I pay for the room in cash?”

  He nodded as if they only accepted cash and the credit card request was a ruse to make the client feel like they were staying in a legitimate establishment. He did run the card through the machine, though.

  I waltzed out of the lobby with a room key—an actual room key, not a room card that slid through a reader.