It’s rare to catch Clara off guard. I have done nicely.
She gapes at me like a fish. A guppy. “I thought you’d tell me you met someone, or that the SOB needed them and you actually gave them to him. Or that maybe after a year of lusting after the man, you’d snapped one night and just had your way with him once.” She folds her arms. Indignant. “Once.”
The unpacking process always outlasts my patience. Cities are built in less time.
As we finish, amidst a stream of bubbly expletives from Clara that decry how “keeping your best friend out of the loop is big bullshit,” she announces she’s going to her room and that tomorrow I owe her both a manicure and, as she puts it, “a detailed account of all the damned pipe laying” that she vehemently maintains I should have already told her about. By her estimation, I was supposed to shag, hose off, and promptly Skype from the mountaintops.
I really don’t know what to say. I’m on the verge of the bomb drop that we are actually together, an item, involved, when my phone rings. It’s him.
“Hello?” I hold my finger up to Clara, letting her know I have every intention of full disclosure and that we’re not done here.
“Hello.”
Pause. Okay. Blink. Blink.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Everything is in order.”
You bet your firm, beautiful ass it is; I had everything set up.
I try to think of why he would be calling me already. There seems to be only one conclusion. I smile at Clara in apology and excuse myself.
“Alaric, I miss you.”
I can practically hear his smile. “Good.”
And whatever felt like it was stretched thin, like it might’ve broken when he pulled away in the car, is back.
Everything feels warm and welcome and home again. I sit and play with one of Clara’s throw pillows while he and I talk about everything and nothing.
8:10 p.m.
“EMMA! CAN YOU GET THE DOOR? That should be my pizza.” Clara is painting her toes, which she always seems to be doing whenever her food is delivered. I think she may have a delivery driver phobia.
Grumbling, I point out to her we are a bit too old for pizza this late at night, and she is cruel for tempting me so. I scuff my way to the door in fuzzy slippers and sweats. “Coming!”
I’m ready to shove the wad of her cash at the driver when I open the door and suddenly decide we need to order pizza more often.
“You really eat this?” Alaric is standing in his overcoat and holding the box more like one would a football than a pizza pie. He follows me in and makes a face when I open the lid. Then I make a face.
Hawaiian. Not my favorite.
“No, not this kind.” I shut the lid. “You can have my share.” Actually, please, please do. My grin is salacious.
He hangs his coat in the hall, shoes by the door. We’re a “no shoe” house.
He sprawls out on the sofa, arms stretched across the expanse of the back. Freshly showered, hair still wet.
Sleeves rolled up. Relaxed and stuffy at once.
Clara, after having waited long enough for a driver to have safely left the premises, shows up.
“Oh, you must be him. I’m Clara, the roommate.” She says him with a fair amount of disdain, but extends her hand anyway.
Alaric’s eyes flicker to me, but he moves and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Clara. I’m Alaric, the ‘him.’”
The conversation is somewhat stilted while they eat, and I contemplate who first thought hot tomato sauce and fruit would taste good together. Perhaps the same type of person who first looked at a cow’s udder and thought, “Gee, I am rather thirsty…”
Clara leaves, a bit warmer with Alaric, and I make a mental note to thank her for being gracious as I have done very little explaining at this point.
“I know it is getting late,” he begins, “but would you like to go for a ride?”
Not if you mean in a car…
“Do you need to go?” I place my hand on his leg.
“Not particularly. I just…” he says, shifting on the sofa. “I came here to see you. I got used to you being around.”
I smile at him and kiss his jawline. He didn’t shave this evening.
I breathe him in. He smells like want.
“Emma, I didn’t come here with any expectations,” he whispers near my ear.
He shifts again under my touch. Only then do I realize my hand has drifted to the top of his thigh. Down into heat. He grows.
My head shakes softly.
Run my nose down his throat.
Breath changes. Pulse quickens.
The sofa squeaks under us. Leather and denim and skin.
His hands close around my waist, almost encircle. Held.
His shirt untucked, my fingers run a path through light hairs.
His tongue knows my lips, greets them. Wraps around my tongue and pulls me into him.
“You are a dozen feet from your bedroom, Em—use it!” Clara yells from down the hall.
We do.
Clothes on the chair. The floor. The foot of the bed.
Two hands entwined. Landing at our sides. Our fingers knot above our heads.
Other hands explore. Visit and remember and trace and learn and memorize. Commit.
I touch his hip. Finger pads and grasp behind. He moans and shifts into me.
He likes when I grab his ass.
Lucky, lucky me.
Pull him to me. He rocks, our mouths together, his heated head presses into my stomach, then between my legs, then finds inside.
Oh, God, his breath is so harsh. He rocks into me. Squeezes my hand. Pulls me closer. Presses.
My thigh is over his hip now, calf against his cheek.
I feel it flex and tighten and move. And move. And move.
I shift and angle and slide. He’s there. Again and again. Hit and meet and press against that spot until I shake. Then scream down his throat. Then shake some more.
Shove him over and take him in all the way. Feel the change. The length. All.
His neck arches, head into the pillow, eyes behind closed lids.
Our hands still clasp near his head. He kisses me and opens his eyes to watch me ride.
Hands on face. Then neck.
Nails down his chest. Light.
I shove my hand under his waist and move more. Faster.
He slams up, meets me. Again. Hits what might be a new place. His.
Rasp and pant and sweat and more. I want more and I want all.
He strains, near roars, and I know he’s close. We have gotten there. Arrived.
“Yes,” I breathe. “In me. I want to feel.” I bend near his ear, keep the pace. He paws at me, keeps me close. “It’s mine.” I blink away the words. Too much. Is it?
He grabs my face, fingers in my hair, wrists under my chin, practically yanks me in.
“Yes.” His voice hoarse, low.
And it’s in me and mine.
We should shower. We don’t. We sleep. Together. Complete.
2:47 a.m.
*
Bed
: About half as warm as it was mere moments ago.
“ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE TO GO? Your clothes would be okay just this once.” I yawn into the pillow that now smells like Alaric and pull it close.
The zipper makes a series of quick clicks. “I know you are not suggesting I wear jeans to the office.” He sounds both teasing and aghast.
I want to pout, and I want him to stay. I am not proud of either. I may feel needy.
“No, you’re right.”
“Of course.” He’s dressed and tucks the blanket around me. “I hardly think waltzing into work in jeans for the first time coincides with our goals. We’re going for low-key.” He kisses me goodbye quickly. “That is what I assured the board yesterday.”
I nod. I was not really expecting him to stay. Just a thought. A snuggly thought.
It turns out, Alaric Canon is not the greatest of snugglers. Shocking, I realize.