Tell Me More (18 page)

Then the moment was gone, and Ann, one of my volunteer announcers at the station, talked about her new kitten and her boyfriend, who’d gone home to the west coast for Thanksgiving, and how she hadn’t been able to afford to go with him, but this was almost as good. Although, she added, she missed her mom and dad and sister, and burst into tears.

Patrick handed her a napkin and gave her a friendly hug. Others clustered around to embrace her, and someone else dropped a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes, the ultimate comfort food, on her plate, in a practical gesture of support.

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea,” I said to Kimberly. “She’ll start a chain reaction of boo-hoos.”

“Bullshit. It’s what Thanksgiving is all about. Football and Americana and eating like a pig and wallowing in sentimentality. When do we get pie?”

“After we’ve finished your circle jerk-off.”

“And I thought you were my friend,” she said. “Where’s the dressing?”

And so we went around the table. There were a few tears, but not the torrent I feared, some hard-luck stories, good news about work and family, talk of people and friends far away.

By the time we got to Ivan I was working up quite an appetite for dessert and wondering what would happen late at night when I returned from work and it was just me and Patrick in the house.

Ivan raised his glass. “To Jo, a lovely lady. And to new beginnings, because Jo and I have a complicated history, and I think this Thanksgiving marks the start of something very special between us. So, Jo, you’re the one I’m thankful for.” He reached for my hand and my fork clattered onto my plate.

I pulled my hand away, flushing with embarrassment as the table erupted into a chorus of sighs and applause. Opposite me, Patrick gave a small, sardonic smile.

“It was him? Your mystery man?” Kimberly whispered. “He’s gorgeous. So sweet. He was telling me all about—”

“Time for dessert.” I sprang to my feet and my gravy-laden knife tipped off the table and slithered all the way down my dress. “Let’s get these plates together. Pass them down to this end of the table, please.”

“Sure, honey,” Ivan said, although I’d deliberately not looked at him when I spoke.

To my annoyance, no one else offered to help, obviously thinking that some heavy making out or misbehavior with the whipped cream was going to take place in the kitchen. Instead, when we got there, I slammed my load of dirty plates on the counter and hissed at him, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, come on, Jo. Don’t be mad. It was a joke.”

“It was not a joke. I’m going to have to do a hell of a lot of explaining to my friends. Who put you up to this?”

“Calm down, honey. Or are you afraid lover boy will get mad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Since you’re out here, you may as well make yourself useful. The dishwasher is there to your right and the detergent is under the sink.”

“Okay, okay.”

Ivan whistled annoyingly as he rinsed plates and loaded the dishwasher.

I started the coffeemaker and filled a tray with cups and saucers, the best china I so rarely used. One thermos jug was already full of coffee. I added cream, sugar and teaspoons to the tray and took it out to the dining room. Some of the guys already looked antsy about missing the game.

Kimberly gave me a look that indicated she wanted full disclosure and I gave her a bright smile. “Give me a hand?”

“Sure.” She came into the kitchen and, joined by Ivan, we brought the usual huge assortment of pies to the table, along with whipped cream.

Despite cries that no human being could possibly eat that much pie, we made a valiant attempt. Or at least, everyone else did. I picked at mine, finally pushing my plate away. “Too full,” I explained to no one in particular.

Ivan meanwhile was being bombarded with questions about our alleged relationship, and I sat silent and let him do the talking. He was really good; he gave the impression we’d known each other for some time, until a mysterious rift had driven us apart.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Liz said.

“Yeah, it was when the tentacled aliens swept me up to another solar system to be their goddess,” I said, which elicited a peal of laughter.

“So this was before Hugh? Before you bought the house?” Kimberly asked. “Jo, I thought you were dating that rock-climbing guy.”

“Oh, yeah, him,” Ivan said. “Tell them, honey.”

“I have a real talent for picking jerks,” I commented.

“How lovely that you’ve gotten together again.” That was Liz, formerly Patrick’s number-one fan girl.

“Oh, it’s early days yet.” Ivan reached for my hand.

“Oh, my God, look at the time. I have to go to the station.” I smiled at Kimberly, who’d offered to take over as hostess when I left. “Stay as long as you like, everyone. Eat everything, please. Kimberly will force leftovers upon you all.”

Kimberly accompanied me to the kitchen when I left with my plate. “So you were runnin’ around with our boy Ivan when you were still with Hugh.”

“No.”

She looked at me, cool, judgmental. “And here I was wasting all that sympathy on you. You could have told me. No big whoop. I thought this secrecy stuff was recent but perhaps it isn’t.”

“I first met Ivan a week or so ago.”

“Oh, yeah?” She nibbled at a piece of piecrust on my plate. “Then why’s he sayin’ all this stuff?”

“To jerk my chain.”

“So tell him to get lost. What’s the matter with you? Patrick’s really pissed about Ivan all over you like a cheap suit. You might have more on your hands than you want to if you keep this up.”

I shook my head. “Where’s your mystery man? I was hoping you’d bring him.”

“With his family,” she said quite calmly.

“He’s married?”

“Divorced. He’s with the kids and grandkids. We didn’t want to spring it on them just yet.”

“Oh.” My feeble attempts at moral superiority had fallen flat. “I’ve got to change clothes.”

I ran upstairs to change into my winter bike gear. When I came downstairs I spent quite a bit of time saying goodbye to my guests in the kitchen as I made myself a turkey sandwich for later.

I put the sandwich and an apple in my backpack and reached into the hall closet for my helmet and the bicycle itself. Normally I kept it in the entranceway, but with this many guests we needed the space. As I propped the bicycle against my hip to fasten the helmet, Ivan came out of the living room, where most of the guys had clustered to watch the game.

“I don’t want you to be here when I come back,” I said. “And I don’t want you to come to my house ever again.”

“Heck, Jo, I thought we did pretty well.”

“Pretty well? Half my friends now think I was fooling around with you on the side when I was with my boyfriend.”

“I feel we have a real connection, Jo.”

“Not here. Not in real life. We’re supposed to ignore each other in real life. Did Harry tell you to come here?”

He lounged against the wall. “Yeah, he said it might be a good idea.”

I pulled on my gloves and wheeled the bicycle to the front door. “’Bye, Ivan. Remember what I said.”

He opened the door for me with just a hint of mockery in the gesture. “Be safe, Jo. And talk to Harry.”

He leaned in to kiss me but I dodged and hit his face with my helmet, a small gesture that pleased me immensely. I rode out into the quiet night, seeing the warm glow of houses where the holiday was celebrated, taking the center of the road to avoid the larger-than-usual number of parked cars. I turned off onto the bike path and the only sounds were the hiss and whirr of my tires and my breath. I stood on the pedals to build up speed, feeling the pull and stretch in my quads and calves, the sense of power and freedom that riding my bike in the dark always gave me.

The station felt like home; a different sort of home. I put my turkey sandwich and fruit into the refrigerator, and went into the studio, where the announcer was eager to leave and be with her family. I cued up music, checked for breaking news and weather and turned almost all of the lights off, so I sat in a pool of light at the board.

Of course I had work to do—paperwork, programming plans, creating schedules—but today was a holiday and I could take time off. I had a few pieces programmed, but announced that I would take requests, and spent some time answering calls and tactfully refusing to play some of the more outlandish choices. I wondered whether Mr. D. would call, or Harry, but to my relief—I think it was relief—neither did.

I shut down at one in the morning and left with a fizzing expectation in my gut. I was going home, where I had some explaining to do. I noticed a car in the parking lot as I left; parking spots were jealously guarded, as close to the campus as we were, but it must be someone who was a guest at a house nearby and had taken advantage of the space. As I glanced at the car I saw a sign of movement at the driver’s side.

I swung my leg over the saddle and pushed off, rising on the pedals to accelerate, and swung across the parking lot onto the bike trail. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. I even doubted I had seen anyone in the car, and if I had, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation.

And then, as I gulped in the crisp air scented with wood smoke and sped forward, I forgot about the car and its illogical menace, because I was going home.

Home to Patrick.

I APPROACHED MY HOUSE AND SAW A LIGHT ON
over the garage. So Patrick was still awake. I hoped he was waiting for me.

I opened the front door and pushed my bicycle inside, unsnapping my bike helmet and hanging it from the handlebars. Brady approached, making the affectionate sounds he always made when he was hungry, and I accompanied him into the kitchen to check on his food supplies. The kitchen gleamed, tidy and clean, although the scent of Thanksgiving dinner lingered in the air.

I left the house again through the front door, clicking it closed behind me, and dropped my keys into my jacket pocket. As I mounted the stairs to Patrick’s apartment I could hear soft jazz playing. I tapped on the door.

Patrick opened the door. “Jesus Mary, Mother of God!” He reached out and removed my balaclava. “You look like a fucking terrorist in that thing.”

So much for an erotic charge to my visit; a pity, because he looked good, in a pair of soft cotton pants and a T-shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms, all of which reminded me of the boys in the Great Room. But I didn’t want to think about that now. He was barefoot and slightly tousled. He looked gorgeous and I wanted him to take off more than the balaclava. I couldn’t believe I’d once referred to him as a leprechaun.

“Sorry, I forgot I had it on.”

“Well, come on in, then. Don’t stand there letting the cold in.”

Yeah, real sexy, Patrick.
But I went in anyway.

“I was having a cup of tea. I’ll make you one, too.”

Even worse, but at least I was inside the door. I unzipped my jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, on top of one of Patrick’s jackets.

“I enjoyed the show tonight,” he said, his back to me, as he switched on the electric kettle in the tiny kitchen alcove.

“There was a nice, friendly vibe. I had a lot of callers. Only one got upset and that was because I wouldn’t play any Charles Ives. We compromised with some Copland.”

The kettle whistled. I heard the clink of the teaspoon as he stirred the tea bag in the mug and then had the opportunity to admire his ass as he bent to retrieve a carton of milk from the refrigerator.

“Sit down, woman,” he said as he turned, mug in hand, and I saw why he’d kept his back to me: he had a huge erection in those loose cotton pants.

Naturally I pretended I hadn’t noticed, but took the mug and settled into the armchair he indicated. I could see, beyond the screen, that his bed was mussed, as though he’d been asleep, or had gotten up recently. An electric charge zoomed between my legs as effectively as if I’d sat on a vibrator.

But I was here to talk, I reminded myself.

Patrick, mug in hand, pulled out a chair similar to mine and hooked a small ottoman forward with one foot. He lifted the top and flipped it over, converting it into a coffee table.

“Thanks for dinner tonight,” he said.

“My pleasure. Thanks for your help.” I really had to stop seeing innuendos in everything I said. Pretty soon I’d be incapable of having any sort of conversation with him at all. “And thanks for the kitchen cleanup.”

“Kimberly organized it. She made Ivan do most of the work.” He grinned.

There was my opening. “Yeah, I wanted to tell you about him.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you really don’t have to.”

“But I think you should know.”

He flapped a hand at me. “It’s not necessary.”

He had that sardonic twinkle in his eyes again, enjoying my discomfort. First Ivan jerking my chain, now Patrick. I ignored him and kept talking. “Whatever he said is mainly untrue. We haven’t known each other that long, whatever he claimed, and we don’t have any sort of long-term relationship, and certainly no commitment to each other.”

“Ah.” Patrick took a sip of tea. “And would Ivan possibly be connected with that night you came home looking like an extra from a porn film? Just a wild guess.”

“Yes.”

“Ha.” He put his mug on the improvised coffee table.

I waited. I didn’t want to get into the whole Association debacle with him. Not now. Should I thank him for the tea and leave? I looked at the toffee-colored brew and wondered about its caffeine content. I didn’t want to lie awake, jittery and dissatisfied in all senses of the word.

“So I wanted to tell you… You said when I was ready, I… And at dinner today…” I stopped in terror, finally realizing the enormity of what I was about to do. Only a few weeks ago I’d told Mr. D. I wanted to be solitary, that I didn’t need the baggage of emotional involvement in a real relationship, or want the sorrow that would inevitably follow. And now another man had made a public declaration to me—Patrick’s gaze meeting mine over the dinner table and the moment of recognition between us—and it could be too late and I was about to become horribly embarrassed—

He pushed the ottoman aside and scooted his chair forward. “Shh,” he said as his knees bumped against mine. “You’re about to hyperventilate. Breathe.”

He took the tea from my hand. I could barely move, paralyzed by lust and fear. I breathed out and sucked in a great mouthful of air as I did when I first built up speed on my bicycle, but this time the air was full of Patrick’s scent and warmth.

His mouth touched mine, softly, tentatively. His lips were slightly rough and although I wanted to devour and be devoured I waited and let him move and press and nudge mine. He could kiss, but I knew that. I wanted greater knowledge, admission to his secret tastes and textures, to share breath and wetness. His tongue darted to my lips and he made a slight sound in his throat that made me shudder with longing for what seemed like hours, but was only the amount of time it took for his tongue to traverse my closed lips.

He withdrew and looked at me. “Okay?”

I nodded. I seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

“Well, then…” And he hauled me onto his lap, me straddling him, so that I was pressed up against that glorious hardness at his crotch. He ran a thumb up and down the outside of my thigh and all the nerve endings below my waist zinged into life again.

I moved then, touched his face and his neck and the muscular tenseness of his chest, until he caught my hands in his and reached for my lips again. This kiss was wet and greedy and clumsy, our teeth clashing, and at some point I’d guided his hands to my breasts, his touch startling even through layers of silk underwear (the practical winter kind, not the sexy stuff) and a cotton turtleneck. His mouth moved down under my ear, where he nuzzled and sucked while I squirmed in delight.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. He removed his eyeglasses.

“Don’t stop.” I was proud that I had managed a coherent sentence even if it was only two words.

“I think we need to think about this.”

“Why?” I pressed myself against his erection and wondered vaguely if I had a damp patch there. I certainly felt warm and wet and excited. I wondered if he had a damp patch at this point.

His hands gripped my hips and moved me away. “You know I’m receptive, humbled, grateful—”

“Oh. I thought it was an erection.”

“Smart-ass.” He cleared his throat. “It happens when you’re around and quite often when you’re not. Nature is a wonderful thing. But we’ve still got the underlying problems—I’m your tenant. You have the remnants of a complicated love life. I’m still married although moving toward a divorce.”

Fuck all that, let’s get naked.

As if in response to my unspoken comment, he touched my spandex-clad crotch with an index finger and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“So,” he said, “I think we should take things easy. Get to know each other. Go on dates. Make out sometimes. Often.”

“You didn’t bother with all that with Kimberly.” The whine in my voice embarrassed me horribly.

“I didn’t feel this way about Kimberly. Sure, I liked her. I still like her. But we both knew it was going to be strictly sex, for a limited time, and we weren’t going to have any sort of real intimacy. But with you, it’s different. I want this to last and I’m superstitious about it. I don’t want to screw it up.”

“Okay. I’m not quite sure what to say. But what if we get to know each other and either you or I decide we don’t want to fuck?”

He grinned. Without the eyeglasses he looked different, more serious, more adult. “And you think that’s likely?”

“No.”

“And here’s a couple more things to consider. One, purely practical, I don’t have any condoms at the moment.”

“What?” And then the realization hit me that I didn’t, either. Jason the ever-erect had depleted my stock. “Neither do I. Okay, that’s tonight covered although I do know an all-night drugstore. But what’s the other thing?”

He leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Ah, I thought we might play a few erotic games first. I think you’d like that. Lots of fooling around and lots and lots of squishy, messy orgasms, lots of lovely damp patches for us both. Are you woman enough for it? It’s a good way of getting to know someone, and we’ll transition easily into the fucking, no shyness or clumsiness or, in my case, coming too soon.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Tonight it would be.” He said it quite easily without a trace of embarrassment. “You’ll make me go off like a fucking volcano, Jo, and quite soon if we keep this up.”

“Hmm. Like this?” I placed my hand on the considerable bulge in his pants. He was naked underneath, I was sure, and his cock jumped against my palm.

He closed his eyes as I trailed my fingertip over the head of his cock and down to the taut bulk of his balls. “Please don’t. I have a shitload of laundry to do already.”

I laughed and took my hand away. “Okay, then. What next?”

He grinned back at me and I felt warm. Warm from desire, physically warm, enthralled by his suggestion of lovely squishy orgasms, and excited as though the two of us were embarking on a new journey. Which I suppose we were.

“So how do you feel about me?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Terrified. Elated. Curious. Affectionate.”

“Affectionate!” He snorted. “You sure know how to boost a guy’s ego. And how the hell can you be affectionate and terrified?”

“I don’t know. I’m scared of intimacy, of pain.”

He shrugged. “Oh, get over yourself. It’s the human condition. We all crave intimacy, we’re all afraid of pain. Sometimes you have to take the risk.”

“And I find you very sexy.”

“Finally. I find you very sexy, too.” This time he trailed his fingertip from my throat to my nipple and I just about fell off his knees. “Hey,” he whispered. “Would you like to get…affectionate with me?”

“Oh, yes.”

He pulled me close again. “Let’s take it easy.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to cause unnecessary laundry.” I spoke virtually into his mouth. It made this mundane statement unbearably sexy and I squirmed as his thumbs worked my nipples.

“No genital contact,” he said in a prim sort of way that sounded as though he were dictating a rather inhibited sex manual.

“But your hand on my ass is allowed?”

“Absolutely.” And he pulled me forward. The chair creaked.

And oh, God, the man could kiss and do amazing things through my layers of clothing with his fingertips. “Patrick, I’m hot.”

“Yeah.” He tipped his head back and smiled at me. “You
are
hot.”

“Not like that. I have to take off a layer.”

“Okay. Do it slowly.”

I pulled the turtleneck over my head—as usual, the neck got stuck on my head and I had to fight my way out. “Sexy enough for you?” I asked when I emerged.

“I’ll take what I can get. Better?” He stared at my nipples poking through the silk undershirt.

He ducked his head to one nipple and sucked hard, sending more zings to my clit, which was becoming particularly well-acquainted with that delicious hard bulge in his pants. “Nice?” he asked.

“Don’t stop. Do the other one. Please.” I rubbed myself against him. “You’ll make me come.”

He muttered something and mouthed the other nipple while that clever forefinger played around my crotch, tickling me through the taut spandex. I gripped his shoulders. No condoms. It was a disaster. No it wasn’t. It was—

He kissed me hard, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, his hands squeezing my breasts, as I came. That I couldn’t cry out or make any sort of sound made the moment sexier, more intimate, more intense. And then he drew his head away and gave a sound that was halfway between a moan and a laugh.

“More laundry,” he said with great cheerfulness. “And how was that for you?”

“Nice,” I said. “Oh, God, it was nice.”

“Let’s have another cup of tea.” He pushed me off and reached for his eyeglasses, and sure enough, there was a large wet patch on the crotch of his pants, and the bulk of his cock had decreased somewhat.

I was surprised, but not offended, by his forthrightness. It seemed he was someone who was energized by sex, and he whistled as he plugged his kettle in again. I stood and put my arms around him, resting my head beneath his chin, and he held me, without words, making tea one-handed, careful to keep the boiling water away from me.

“Most men collapse after sex,” I said.

“Ha, that was just an orgasm. One I have to thank you for, it’s true, but if we’d been fucking, well, I’d be comatose for days among the broken furniture and the wrecked carpet.” He poked his cup with a teaspoon, his arms still around me. “But I’m not averse to a bit of a cuddle after. Let’s go out on a date Saturday night. I have a project I have to finish and I expect you’re working tomorrow, although you’re most welcome to come fool around after. I’ll be awake.” He stopped messing with his mug of tea and looked at me. “God, I can’t believe this. That we’ve dry-humped each other like teenagers and we’re planning to go out on a date like adults. Come on, Jo, speak to me. You’re awful quiet.”

“I’m happy. I’m amazed. I didn’t expect…”

“My amazing technique?”

“You talk too much.” I placed my finger on his mouth.