The worlds have ended. It's not like there's a wide array of men to choose from to adorn her masturbation-landscape. It's her first rationalization, the one that allows the image in her mind to slip from the edges of consciousness to its center. The mental picture of a shirtless Tom Zarek is a vague notion at first. It wavers, uncertain and indistinct, like a reflection on rippling water before the surface settles.
The surface does settle and there he is. Full-bodied. Tangible. Laura comforts herself with the flimsy argument it's a modified memory and not something she's completely made up. That would be worse. Conjuring half-naked pictures of her Vice President from the subterranean depths of her unconsciousness would somehow represent an even greater breach of good judgment than pulling the visual from her memory. Not pulling. She didn't choose this. He popped up. Popped up. Gods. She suppresses a moan at the associations of up. Of popping. Of water and slick wetness and rippling, undulating waves that crest and crash, one driving into the next -
Her eyes fly open and she stops the rebellious hand making a slow descent toward the juncture of her thighs. Shirtless Tom smiles at her, a knowing conspiratorial smile. A devil's grin. In her fantasy-version of the memory, the day is luminous and bright, not dreary and gray, and the sun is as warm as an embrace. The added light does not transform him into an idealized, bronzed paragon of peerless masculinity. He is still Tom, mature in age and carrying the added imperfections nature bestows on us as the years pile up. Paragon-Tom would have been easier for her to cope with, a means of getting off, dismissible - a backdrop. This careful reconstruction of his person feels almost - affectionate.
She abandons that line of thinking almost as quickly as it comes. Shirtless Tom is still waiting patiently for her at the shoreline of the lake, his smile beckoning. His hazel eyes glitter with an unspoken invitation. She supposes it would be a shame to waste a good fantasy, wouldn't it? Her imagination has already gone to all this trouble, after all.
Tom verbalizes his agreement. "It would be a terrible waste of resources, Madame President." It comes as no surprise whatsoever that even virtual Tom is a talker. His voice is throaty and low when he tells her to "come here."
And she does. It's further confirmation of the fantasy's separateness from anything she'd ever actually do, for Laura would never follow a directive issued by Tom. His hands circle her waist and she wraps her arms around his neck. He smiles and it turns a light on inside her. His skin is hot with the flush of arousal and the warmth from the sun. Delicious. Something to be savored in slow spoonfuls. She will not allow the inevitable kiss that almost occurs. No - not even an imaginary one. As long as she doesn't kiss him, she decides, none of this qualifies as romantic in nature. If she doesn't kiss him, she can attribute the act to being nothing more than a hormonal fantasy.
He pouts a little, which only emphasizes the fullness of his mouth and the lack of kissing. Laura grazes her lips against his neck and runs her hands along the slope of his chest. His small shudder is a bigger turn on than it should be and she pushes a desperate hand inside her pajama bottoms and then between her legs.
She darts her tongue out between her lips and tastes him, right at the groove of his collarbone. He tastes creamy and dark intermingled with a tinge of salt. She works her way lower, edging her tongue around a nipple until his breath catches. She discovers other places, as she blazes a heated downward trail, that make his breath hitch and falter.
She unbuttons his pants and pulls down the zipper, sinking to her knees. The hand rubbing her clit increases its pace. Her hips move and twist and the godsdamned cot squeaks. She doesn't care and doesn't stop. She imagines taking him in her mouth, imagines riding him hard and fast until they both collapse. She imagines it's his hand in between her legs coaxing each breathy moan - and not her own. It melds together, all of it, one image superimposed over another, the momentum surging to its only possible outcome.
Her cry, when she comes, is uncontainable. She clamps her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound but she's not quick enough. It doesn't matter. Her body grows heavy and limp.
For the first time in a long time, she smiles as she falls asleep.