Chapter Seven
Tom didn’t have the same fine motor skills in his left hand. He prodded the largest splinter of wood wedged in his right bicep with a sewing needle from a Four Seasons’s hotel convenience kit. It had a piece of blue thread tied through it and that’s the only reason he hadn’t already lost his prized surgical instrument in the living room carpet.
He’d only managed to break the smallest of the splinters out of his arm. There were dozens more. He could leave them and they’d work their way to the surface eventually, but they could become infected no matter how much rubbing alcohol he dabbed them with. He didn’t want to chance that, but his only other option was to keep carving inexpert holes in himself or go to a clinic where a nurse would do a better job of it.
Showering didn’t help, but it washed away the rest of the soil and dirt that’d covered him, showed what was bruised and gashed from what was filth. Nothing needed stitching and the bruises weren’t overly sore to poke.
The whiskey helped, if only because it was the best part of a god-awful day.
If he’d been paying attention, he’d have known it’d rained heavily overnight, he’d have noticed that part of the track was saturated. He’d have watched where he put his feet or turned back, stayed away from the edge, taken a different trail.
Taking a tumble as the track broke up would’ve been acceptable if he’d had his thoughts directed against the conversation he needed to have about his promotion. Everyone knew it was coming and the waiting was destabilizing. Tom wanted a public acknowledgment he was taking over from Harry Hardiman, if only to settle the gossip. It was good business sense, but that didn’t make him insensitive about broaching it. If it looked like an inappropriate grab for power it would be more difficult to ward off any unpleasant backstabbing.
He’d wanted to plan that conversation while he hiked and emerge from the trail with his thoughts organized, contingencies planned, spend an hour or two in the office while no one was around working on a first-hundred-days program so he was ready and could demonstrate it.
Instead, not a single footfall came unaccompanied by thoughts of Flick. How she sounded, smelled, felt on his lips, in his lap and as she chased her orgasm on his hand.
That determined madness in her eyes, the way she shook with the effort, the pleasure, the softening of her features as she came down.
She was wild and beautiful and he’d been a fool for letting things get extreme. A fool for walking away from making her come all night. It’d be understandable if she left, because he’d treated her like she was the remains of a good meal gone bad and thrown out.
There were a dozen different ways he could’ve handled what happened last night that didn’t set him up as spectator, a holier-than-thou judge of her behavior. He’d detached himself like it’d meant nothing and he couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d shut down on him, lights out, music off.
He dropped the needle again and lost sight of it.
He could’ve broken a leg, his shoulder.
His neck.
He’d gone down hard when the trail gave way and would’ve fallen farther had the tree not stopped him. It was a difficult climb out, and by the time he reported the slide to the ranger’s station and got back to his car, he was more angry than winded.
He hadn’t been that badly distracted by a woman since his early twenties and then it had been women in general and the magic of ready sex on tap. Flick had been more than ready, but the distraction of her might’ve killed him.
For once he’d hoped there was a sign she was home. A bag or a brush, a pair of shoes, a tangle of power cords, or a book left out. A bra tossed over the lampshade in a fuck-you gesture would’ve been perfect. Her bedroom door was closed and there was no response when he called out. She’d have answered, even if she wanted to carve his eyes out with a hair fork. He was the petulant one.
Another mouthful of whiskey. He looked out of the balcony doors at the last of the sun, clouds gathered, heavy and dark; it was going to rain again. Spider-Man and keys under pots. Flick didn’t always tell you what she was thinking. He might not have been able to cope if she did. Her honesty had a brutal quality about it that most people left for their rivals.
He spied the blue thread and found the needle, and moved the operation to the kitchen counter where the lighting was stronger. He was poking at his arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball when she came in.
“Oh hell, what happened to you?”
“Argument with a tree.”
She put her purse on the hall table and came toward him. “Tree won?”
“I’d call it a tie.” He was shirtless, shoeless, wearing old sweatpants, and no doubt the bruise on his cheek was starting to take on rainbow color now. His eye might go black.
She took all that in and said, “Victory looks like a beat-down on you.”
“Sometimes that’s the way it goes.”
“Are you seriously trying to stitch yourself up?”
He shifted to show her his arm. “Trying to get these out.”
She held her hand out for the needle and then laughed when he gave it over. That laugh was ominous.
“Do your worst, I deserve it.”
“Because you went out into the wilderness and wrestled with poor, defenseless nature?” She stepped close and smoothed a warm hand down his arm, from shoulder to elbow, her eyes on the mass of scratches and gouges that scored his bicep.
“Because I’m a total shit for how I reacted last night.”
She scraped the flat edge of the needle down his skin. “Before or after you let me rub one out on you and made me feel like a greedy whore?”
“Before.” Her hand stopped. “After. All of it.”
“And yet you’re going to let me stick a needle in you.”
“Least I can do.”
She worked a splinter loose, caught it in a tissue and then moved on to the next one.
“You’re not a whore.”
Her hands were gentle. Nothing hesitant in her movements. “Thank you for that very fine endorsement. Perhaps I can get some likes for it.”
He took a sip of the whiskey to mask his frustration. He had to stop screwing up with her. Flick worked efficiently, the prick of the needle in her hand easier to take than in his own.
“This one—” she tapped the deepest, widest splinter with her finger “—no way I won’t hurt you taking that out.”
He’d hurt her last night and it’d been unnecessary.
“It had to hurt going in.”
He hadn’t felt the injuries till later—adrenaline. He’d felt the weight of what he did to Flick all day. “Wait.”
Her hands came away and she looked up. “It needs to come out.”
He swiveled on the stool to face her. “I did the wrong thing last night.” She shook her head and he touched her forearm to stop her walking away. “I wanted you. I wanted to be inside you. I wanted to make you come till you passed out.”
She made a noise of frustration. “Why didn’t you do something about it?”
Afraid he’d like it too much. “Stuck on my rails. You’re a detour to an uncertain destination.”
She pulled her hand out of his grip. “You think I’m this big risk, that I’m going to play games with you, mess with your head.”
He knew it. “I think you’re a challenge. I don’t take anything I said back. It’s not a good idea to get involved. But how I withdrew, distanced myself, that was a bastard act.”
“Like wrestling a tree.”
“I wasn’t careful and it side-swiped me.”
“I’m not going to side-swipe you.”
She already had. “I’ll survive.”
“We could both win.”
A tie. “I want you to know I’m sorry.”
“I want you to know this is going to hurt.” She scraped the needle across the open end where the rough edge of the splinter showed and broke the skin, making blood well and then dribble down his arm. She stopped the flow with a cotton ball. “I have to do that again, otherwise it’s going to break up into pieces and I’ll be digging at it forever.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
She worked at it, picking and squeezing, using her fingernails and then tweezers to work at the splinter. It did break up and came out in pieces, and they were both relieved when it was all over.
“Thank you.” His arm was red, angry and sore. The antiseptic ointment she switched to and slathered on would help.
“Do you have any more anywhere else?” She moved around to his back and walked her fingers over his shoulders. “You’re scratched up.”
He’d had a pack on, it’d protected him somewhat, but caused the welts she could feel. She rubbed the cream in there as well, fingers drifting to the back of his neck. “Tight.”
He had the makings of a headache behind his eyes. He dropped his head forward and let her work on the column of muscle in his neck. “This is now officially the best part of my day. How did you spend yours?”
“Went to see my family.”
He straightened and turned, moving his knee so she stood between them. “How did that go?”
“It was overrated.” She put her thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone. “That sting?”
Not as much as whatever she wasn’t saying stung her. He’d attributed her earlier tension to frustration with his behavior; now he saw there were layers to it that had nothing to do with him. “Tell me.”
“All spark and no fireworks. It was a day, okay. I wrestled trees as well.” She put her hands to his shoulders and leaned in, kissed the bruise. His hands had gone to her waist. He expected her to pull back, but she hesitated, and when he moved his head they bumped noses.
She nuzzled. “I’d like to forget about the splinters, how deep they can go and the ones that never come out.”
It was an invitation he didn’t expect and couldn’t give up again. He slipped his hands to her ass and moved her closer; she draped her arms over his shoulders. “We kiss this time, I’m not going to stop at kissing. I’m not stopping at clothing, getting my hands on your skin or making you come. Is that the kind of forgetting you’re talking about?”
The answer was a groan and an openmouthed kiss that started deep and went down fathoms, pulling from the muck of stalled expectations a surge of feeling intense enough to heat Tom’s chest from the inside. He put his teeth to her tongue, grazed over its surface, making her moan. His headache was gone. He didn’t feel muscle-sore or weary to his bones. A new flood of adrenaline hit, excitement and desire. Almost overpowering.
“What do I need to know, Flick?”
“There’s nothing I don’t like.”
That left it wide-open. There were things he didn’t like. His preferences were simple enough. He didn’t like to dominate, though his size made women think he would. He didn’t want to immobilize her, or mark her, or play rough. “I want to put my mouth where my hand was last night. I want to come inside you.”
“Yes.”
It might not be enough for her. “What do you need?”
“Your kisses, hands on my skin. I want to hear you. I want you to lose it.”
That could happen all too soon. “Birth control.”
“I’m taken care of. No diseases. You?”
He should be clear. He didn’t know for sure. He’d need a rubber.
She saw the hesitation. “I’ll risk you.”
Her cupped breast was firm under his palm. It would be warm and soft under his tongue. This was risk enough. “My room or yours?”
“Surprise me.”
He chose his room, taking her by the hand there. Pulling her inside to back her into the wall and kiss her. He stopped when her stomach growled, put his hand over her belly. “My second favorite thing to eat in bed is pizza.”
She laughed and shoved him away. “Take your pants off.”
“You first.”
She toed her loafers off, pulled her shirt over her head. He sucked in a breath to see her lace bra, nipples hard under the filmy fabric. He’d had the pattern under his fingers, the button of her tit.
The cargoes went next, yanked down her legs, leaving her pale-skinned and curved stomach in blue panties.
There was a thick scar on her thigh. A web of broken capillaries on her hip. Her belly was pierced with a hoop and she had a tattoo that rode her rib cage. The words I make it happen in a cursive script.
He wasn’t afraid of liking her too much now—he was terrified.
The bra came off, his mouth went to water. He was moving before she bent to lose the panties. Had his mouth on hers, had her backed into the wall. That scrap of cotton was his and he was taking his time with it.
She tried to pinch him. “I still don’t see your ass.”
“You’ll see stars in a minute.” He dragged his lips over her throat, down her sternum, detouring to lick one tit, while his fingers lightly rolled the other. Down her rib cage, hands going to her ass, he buried his face between her legs. He liked how she smelled, filled his nose with her scent, plucked at her panties with his teeth.
“Jesus, Tom, you’re going to need to hold me up or lay me down. You made my legs into noodles.”
He could feel her trembling. He backed off, nodded at the scar on her thigh. “What happened?”
“It’s a burn. Edge of a hot saucepan when I was ten.”
“And the tat?”
“Fifteen. You don’t like it? I don’t care.”
“It’s perfect.” He tucked his thumb into her panties and pulled them down, put his face against her again. This time she jerked, already sensitive. Once she was out of them, he stood, kissed her forehead, cheek, chin, lips, keeping his hands away. Hers went to his ass, slipping inside his sweats and briefs.
She pulled her body into his. “You’re hard all over, Tom.”
And she was smaller and softer and pliant, strong but unbreakable all the same. He braced his hands on the wall behind her head when she pushed his pants down, when she wrapped her hand around the length of him, watching her, getting off on the excitement radiating out of her.
“Dear Lord, that is gonna feel so fine in me.”
“Too much attention and I’m not gonna make it inside you. Feels like I’ve been this hard since last night.”
“You want my mouth on you?”
He was already leaking and she used the fluid to lubricate her strokes. “I want to be inside you more.”
“We should do that then.” She added a twist to the motion of her hand and his knees buckled.
“Get on the bed, Flick, before this is the most disappointing sexual encounter of your life.”
She ducked under his arms and went to the bed. He got rid of his pants and got a condom.
She sat in the middle, with the covers pulled back and her leg outstretched. “Your bed smells like wood chips.”
“It’s the soap.”
“I want it to smell of sex.”
“I think we can do it.”
“That won’t be too messy for you?”
He reached over the bed and took her by the ankles and dragged her to the end, bringing the covers with her. She fell back, laughing. He’d give her messy. Wet, dripping, sheet-tearing, throat-straining messy. He’d make her sweat and squirm and chase her high like she had last night, only this time he’d be ready to follow her, ready to repeat it, till neither of them could take it anymore.
None of that was messy to him. It was good and pure and right, and with a person you cared about it was powerful, grounding, uplifting. With a person who thrilled you, like Flick thrilled him, it was an unknown quantity, an adventure on a trail he’d not yet walked and wasn’t familiar with. There could be fallen trees ahead, crumbling sides, danger, but hell, that was half the fun.
Flick jerked her leg and he let go of her ankles. She came up on her elbows, her body was laid out for him to play with. “What are you looking at, Tom O’Connell?”
“My evening’s entertainment.”
“You sure know how to flatter a girl.”
He went to his knees. “If I thought you were after flattery, I’d bake you a cake.”
“You can do that after we call for a pizza.”
“Spread your legs.”
She groaned, bent her knees and opened them out. Her hair was trimmed neat and close; she glistened inside.
“All that pretty pink is for me.” He stroked a finger through her and her hips tilted. He did it again—slower, with more pressure—and she dropped her shoulders back to the bed, reaching for a pillow to prop herself up. She wanted to watch. He wouldn’t be satisfied until she couldn’t.
That first taste was all about watching her face, her mouth opening, her eyes pinned wide, listening to her breath catch. He slipped his hands under her ass and lifted her so his access was unrestricted. A few strong licks in, she’d reached for his hair, then came the gasps and murmurs, the involuntary twitch of her hips and her thighs clamping around him.
He pushed her knees back and stopped teasing, moved to sucking, the occasional graze of his teeth. He didn’t know if it was enough—he wanted her trembling, moaning. He got that when he added a finger, a firm upward nudge and release of her clit. Her sigh bottomed out into a gasp, and she yanked on his hair and her eyes slammed shut. Now he had her. He kept the rhythm up while she got breathless and desperate, and when she came, she thrashed, bucked and stiffened. He licked and stroked her through it, and while she was drifting, sat back and wiped his mouth.
“You’re a trip, Flick Dalgetty.”
She opened her arms. “Come fly with me.”
He crawled over her, knelt across her legs. “First class.”
“Mile high.” She watched him suit up, her hands gripping his thighs. “I want to ride you. Do you like a woman on top?”
He lowered over her, the shock of their skin meeting making him lose the conversation. He tucked his face into her neck, skimmed his hands up her body. Heat came off her in waves, and she smelled of the soft leather jacket she’d worn. God, he was so ready, ground against her pelvis, and with one hand under her knee, lowered himself into position.
“Roll.” She bit his ear and he rolled them.
From above she used her hand to take him inside, rocking up and down on her knees, a hand flattened on his chest for balance. He held her waist and let her run the show, but he couldn’t stop his hips bouncing. It became a pattern, bucking into her smooth, wet slickness, dissolving into her tight softness. The plan to watch her face got lost as soon as he felt her contract around him and shake through her peak. He sank inside his own head, focused on the buildup, the need, the quick hot spark up his spine and the flash of light across his closed eyes.
At some point in all that he eased her forward, tucked her head under his chin. Their breathing was chopped up and he wrapped her more firmly, wanting to contain the heavy peace of the moment before he questioned it.
When he cleared his throat to speak she stopped him with a kiss, another, another, until he quit worrying she wouldn’t like the taste of them. Rolling her to the side let him withdraw. He didn’t want to leave the bed and she didn’t want him to, clinging with a leg thrown over his hip and a hand to the back of his head.
“If I let you go, will you promise to come back to bed?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die.”
She let go. “Now your bed smells of sex.”
They both took a bathroom break, but Flick beat him back to the bed. She put her hand to his face when he climbed in.
“You washed.”
He’d considered shaving. If he was going to keep kissing her, he didn’t want to taste bad or score her skin.
“Considerate. But you didn’t have to. I like all the funk of sex, the smells, the tastes, the bruises.” She pushed him to his back and draped over him. “That was fun.”
“It was.” He was mellowed out from it.
“I could hear you thinking.”
“Ah.” He gave her hair a tug. “I wanted to be enough for you.”
She sat up. “Why would you think you wouldn’t be?”
“You like everything. I’m not built that way.”
A blunt fingernail circled his nipple. “You’re built to please, Tom. This body, what you did to me. It was enough.”
Enough. Solid score. Keep the job, but lose out on the promotion.
Again that nail, circling. “We can do better.”
She meant he’d need to. Shit. This was make-up sex anyway. Better that it was good, not great. Easier for them to continue living together if they weren’t craving each other. Easy for her to leave.
She flicked his nipple. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“You’re hungry. We should order in.”
“I’m not finished with you.”
He held her shoulders to sit. “I’m starving too.” And all the soreness from his nature wrestling was visiting, the muscle-ache heavy.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I heard you. It was fun, good enough. You like my body.” He shot his legs over the side of the bed.
“How did I not figure you’d have performance anxiety?”
“What the fuck, we both came.” He rocked forward to stand and she grabbed him with her arms and legs and held him down.
“You were thinking the whole time, right until your own orgasm hit.” As soon as he peeled an arm away, she snapped it back around him. “You wanted everything for me and took almost nothing for yourself.”
And yet she complained.
“Take everything you want from me, Tom.”
“Let me up, Flick.” A beat, two. He’d have to hurt her to get free. Enough tussling for one day.
“You can’t leave your own bed angry.”
Flick’s palm sat against his heart. “I’m not angry.” She might feel it. The disappointment, the unexpected bitterness.
She kissed the back of his neck. Stayed wrapped around him. “You made me forget and I needed that. I needed you.”
Proximity. Obligation after abandoning her last night. He’d certainly had worse sex. Left a bed quicker. Wanted to shower it all off.
“What happened to you today?” he said.
“Let me kiss you and I’ll tell you.”
He was a sucker. There were worse ways to end with her. He hauled her around his body into his lap and let her kiss him.