We’d talked about the city, his work, my work, and the upcoming trip to Tahoe, and now we headed over to the couch with coffee.
I leaned back against the pillows with my legs curled underneath me. Simon was telling me about a trip he’d taken to Vietnam a few years before.
“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen—the mountain villages, the gorgeous beaches, the food! Oh, Caroline, the food.” He sighed, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. I smiled and tried not to notice the butterflies when he said my name that way: with the word Oh right in front of it…Oh me, oh my.
“Sounds wonderful, but I hate Vietnamese food. Can’t stand it. Can I bring peanut butter?”
“I know this guy—makes the best noodles ever, right on a houseboat in the middle of Ha Long Bay. One slurp and you’ll throw your peanut butter right over the side.”
“God, I wish I could travel like you do. Do you ever get sick of it?” I asked.
“Hmmm, yes and no. It’s always great to come home. I love San Francisco. But if I’m home too long I get the itch to get back out on the road. And no comments about the itch—I’m starting to get to know your mind there, Nightie Girl.” He patted my arm affectionately.
I tried to feign offense, but the truth was I had been about to make a joke. I noticed he still had his hand on my arm, absentmindedly tracing tiny circles with his fingertips. Had it really been so long since I’d let a man touch me that fingertip circles sent me into a mental tizzy? Or was it that this man was doing it? Oh, God, the fingertips. Either way, it was doing things to me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine O waving at me—still far away, but not as far as she’d been before.
I glanced at Simon and saw that he was watching his hand, as if curious about his fingers on my skin. I breathed in quickly, and my intake of breath drew his eyes to mine. We watched each other. Lower Caroline was, of course, responding, but now Heart began to beat a little wildly as well.
Then Clive jumped up on the back of the couch, put his bum right in Simon’s face, and killed that real quick. We both laughed, and Simon moved away from me as I explained to Clive that it was not polite to do that to company. Clive seemed oddly pleased with himself, though, so I knew he was up to something.
“Wow, it’s almost ten! I’ve taken up your entire evening. I hope you didn’t have plans,” Simon said, standing and stretching. As he stretched, his T-shirt came up, and I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from licking the bit of skin showing above his jeans.
“Well, I did have a rather exciting night of watching Food Network planned, so damn you, Simon!” I shook my fist in his face as I stood up next to him.
“And you even made me dinner, which was great, by the way,” he said, searching for his sweatshirt.
“No problem. It was nice to cook for someone other than myself. It’s what I do for any guy who shows up demanding bread.” I finally handed him the loaf I’d left out for him.
He grinned as he grabbed his sweatshirt off the floor next to the couch. “Well, next time, let me cook for you. I make a fantastic—huh, that’s weird,” he interrupted himself, grimacing.
“What’s weird?” I asked, watching as he unfolded his sweatshirt.
“This feels damp. Actually, it’s more than damp, it’s…wet?” he asked, looking at me, confused. I looked from the sweatshirt to Clive, who sat innocently on the back of the couch.
“Oh no,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face. “Clive, you little shit!” I glared at him.
He jumped off the couch and darted quickly between my legs, headed for the bedroom. He’d learned I couldn’t reach him behind the dresser, and that’s where he hid when he’d done a bad, bad thing. He hadn’t done this in a long time.
“Simon, you might want to leave that here. I’ll wash it, dry clean it—whatever. I am so, so sorry,” I apologized, horrifically embarrassed.
“Oh, did he? Oh man, he did, didn’t he?” His face wrinkled as I took the sweatshirt from him.
“Yes, yes, he did. I’m so sorry, Simon. He has this thing about marking his territory. When any guy leaves clothes on the floor—oh, God—he eventually pees on them. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’m so—”
“Caroline, it’s okay. I mean, it’s gross, but it’s okay. I’ve had worse things happen to me. It’s all good, I promise.” He started to put his hand on my shoulder, but seemed to think better of it, probably when he realized the last thing he’d touched.
“I’m so sorry, I—” I began again as he started for the door.
“Stop it. If you say sorry one more time I’m gonna go find something of yours and pee on it, I swear.”
“Okay, that’s just gross.” I finally laughed. “But we had such a nice night, and it ended in pee!” I wailed, opening the door for him.
“It was a nice night, even with the pee. There’ll be others. Don’t worry, Nightie Girl.” He winked and crossed the hall.
“Play me something good tonight, huh?” I asked, watching him go.
“You got it. Sleep tight,” he said, and we closed the doors at the same time.
I leaned back against the door, hugging the sweatshirt in my arms. I’m sure I had the goofiest grin on my face, as I remembered the feeling of his fingertips. And then I remembered I was hugging a pee-stained sweatshirt.
“Clive, you ass**le!” I yelled and ran for my bedroom.
Fingers, hands, warm skin pressed against mine in an effort to get closer. I felt his warm breath, his voice like wet sex in my ear. “Mmm, Caroline, how can you feel this good?”
I moaned and rolled over, twisting legs with legs and arms with arms, pushing my tongue into his waiting mouth. I sucked on his bottom lip, tasting mint and heat and the promise of what was to come when he pushed into my body for the first time. I moaned as he groaned, and in a flash I was pinned beneath him.
Lips moved from my mouth to my neck, licking and sucking and finding the spot—that spot underneath my jaw that made my insides explode and my eyes cross. A dark laugh against my collarbone, and I knew I was done for.
I rolled on top of him, feeling the loss of his weight but the gain of my legs on either side of him, feeling him twitch and throb exactly where I needed him to be. He pushed my hair from my face, gazing up at me with those eyes—the eyes that could make me forget my name but scream his own.