POMEGRANATE
by Rach
RATING: R
PAIRING: Syd/Sark UST, Syd/OC fantasy
SPOILERS: set after 'The Counteragent'
SUMMARY: A symbol of death and paradise – a man whose motives are
tightly guarded – and a woman who allows both to play with her mind. A response
to the January Cover Me challenge.
DISCLAIMER: Despite the fact I own a stuffed animal named BOOJ, none of the characters belong to me…oh, except Mr. Wetzel. He's mine, baby…all mine!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Rhien, Pooh and Diana
for feedback. Thanks to Ian McCollough for the song 'Pomegranate'.
FEEDBACK: aliasrlm@yahoo.com
* * *
It should've never been so hot in late October. And living in such close proximity to Las Vegas – also having traveled there at all times of the year – she knew this. Average fall temperatures hovered in the high 70s, low 80s. And that, supposedly, was the maximum.
She should've known, along with the expected highs and lows, that this would happen. That she'd be sweating, rivulets of perspiration trickling from the base of her neck, down her back to dampen the wide waistband of her khaki Capri pants. That she'd be stuck in a stuffy-as-hell Jeep, only a few feet from Sark, with nothing to say but…
"I can't believe it's this hot in October."
And that he'd turn, sunglasses reflecting her perspiration-dotted cheeks, her parted lips, and reply wryly, "Who would've ever thought it would be so warm…in the desert."
If the comment hadn't immediately provoked irritation, she would've laughed. If the air weren't so heavy, didn't carry the dry bite of isolation and wind-blown sand, she would've smiled, at the very least.
She looked away, not wanting a visual reminder of his comfort. She didn't know how it was possible for the man to not share in her weather-induced misery. After all, they were on a stakeout – in the middle of the day, of all times – in a claustrophobic, poorly ventilated vehicle, a good fifty miles out of the city.
Aided by a thin layer of perspiration, her calves slid easily over the leather upholstery of the passenger seat. Back and forth, back and forth. Her flesh glided with relative ease across the slick material – her knees first tapping the door, then edging back to graze the center console, a rough beige carpet tickling the side of her right ankle.
"I wish Wetzel would show already," Sydney murmured, her legs still moving. The man's dossier photo popped into her head, shot in vivid color, displaying his sharp blue eyes, the wise wrinkles branching from the corners of his eyes, his classically-trimmed salt and pepper hair, and just a hint of an expensive white dress shirt. Calvin Wetzel was, by far, one of the most attractive men she'd been assigned to trail -- so much so that she wished she had more than the one photo of him to study. If she weren't so professional, she might just have other, more sensual thoughts about him.
Who was she kidding? She'd already thought of running her tongue down his athletic chest. Actually, four times in the past half-hour. And as far as the accompanying thoughts – hell, fantasies … they were rather graphic, even for Sydney's well-developed imagination. And given that the man, according to his dossier, was a known sex addict, it wasn't a surprise she was thinking in that vein.
It must be the heat, she thought, catching a glimpse of her deflated reflection in the side mirror. She paused long enough to pull a few errant strands of hair off her sticky face, to run her tongue over her parched bottom lip.
"I bet you do," Sark replied after a full minute of silence. His voice was loaded with its usual confidence, sprinkled with a pinch of jest, and of course, garnished with a thick side of snark.
Her head snapped in his direction, and she visibly recoiled upon again seeing her golden-hued, extremely distorted reflection in Sark's oversized sunglasses. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She wasn't angry, merely annoyed. She didn't want to waste her energy on the arrogant man seated next to her. Not in the slightest. "And, please, for the love of God, take off those ridiculous sunglasses…"
With a fluid flick of the hand, he pushed the glasses to rest on the top of his short hair. "Better?" He leaned against the door, slinging his arm casually over the steering wheel. "And as ridiculous as they might seem to someone with your" – he raised his eyebrow, giving her the once-over– "impeccable fashion taste…they are actually quite stylish –"
"With pretentious snobs?" she finished for him, giving him a crooked smirk of her own. She copied his position, leaning against the passenger door and propping her feet on the center console. She sighed, feeling the sun beating down through the half-opened window, warming the surface of her neck to a temperature she was certain could fry eggs.
"Ahhh, Sydney, always so quick to judge…" Sark's comment, spoken in a deceptively light tone, carried a brass-knuckled punch.
Indignant, she opened her mouth to speak. But upon seeing Sark's expectant expression and knowing he'd have some sort of sarcastic retort in return, she just crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at the beige ceiling of the Jeep. I won't give him the pleasure. I just won't.
"Let's not do this," she started, almost by accident, her voice weary. A few long seconds passed before she let her gaze settle back on him. Pleased when Sark's expression turned to one of interest, when his fingers rubbed at his jaw, she added, "The barbs, the insults…let's not…"
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, his focus not straying from her. "I'm fine with that," he said finally. His long fingers brushed the underside of the steering wheel, moving against the hills and valleys of the synthetic finger grip. It was hypnotizing, in a way, the way his perfectly manicured fingers fondled the curves with such a light touch. His motion was graceful, and if she didn't know his type so well, she would've even gone so far as to say gentle, perhaps almost caring. Even more intriguing was the fact that he wasn't aware of what his fingers were doing – his actions were completely unintentional, just something to pass time.
And unfortunately for Sydney, the meandering motions of Sark's fingers stirred something deep within her – like there were these strings, pulled painfully taut across her abdomen...strings that just begged to be played, to be plucked.
She thought of Calvin Wetzel, of his charming playboy smile, his luscious lips… wondered what they'd feel like pressed against her flushed flesh. On her neck, still acutely slick with sweat. Across her jawline… down her spine… fluttering over her breasts. Lingering on her erect, damp nipples. Moving downward, lazily, in the heat of a 95-degree desert day, the sun baking the world around them, the heat between them unavoidable, natural, fueled by raw lust –
"We just can't sit here like this," Sark's voice interrupted her erotic daydream.
Sydney blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring blankly at him the past few minutes. "Hmm? Like what?" The questions emerged in a haze of sensuality, the timbre of her voice deeper than she thought possible. She gulped and tried to look away.
But she couldn't.
Especially after he smiled slyly, a telling gesture she wished she hadn't seen.
But she did.
"Like we're a pair of jungle cats. Staring each other down…" Something glimmered in his bright eyes at that moment, a perceptive, attractive shimmer that she couldn't avoid acknowledging. "It's just as bad as the verbal skirmishes… don't you agree?"
"I didn't mean to stare, Sark," she started, but was caught off guard by the sly widening of his smile.
"I did." His smile slowly ebbed, the side of his index finger rubbing across his lower lip. And as his fingers fell away, his upper teeth grated over the lip, his eyes obstinately peeking at her under thick lashes. "But that's not the point, is it?"
The trap was set. It was obvious to Sydney that she was being baited. And just like the jungle cat he thought she was, she bit. Hard.
"Then what is the point?" It came out edgy and dangerous, a don't-fuck-with-me question from a don't-fuck-with-me woman. Except they both knew he was fucking with her. And they both knew she could stop it at any moment, but she elected not to.
So did that mean she held the upper hand in the conversation? Or did it mean that Sark did, only because he knew she was apparently comfortable with her illusion of power? Or was he still planning to manipulate her further?
He sat straighter, his back moving away from the door. Eyes burning into hers, he paused a brief moment before he spoke. "That in this situation, just for today, it's imperative that we attempt to get along. It's unbearable enough from the weather alone…arguing will only make it worse."
"Oh." She lowered her eyes, not bothering to mask her disappointment. She was expecting something more interesting, something less, well, dull. Instead, she glanced out the window, to ensure Wetzel hadn't appeared while they had been engaged in conversation. Nothing had changed. No one was around. Not even a breeze to stir the thick air. Just orange-hued rocks…a nearby hiking trail…and sand.
"I've been watching for him," Sark commented. His hiking clothes, neutral-colored and practical for a day spent pretending to be nature-lovers, rustled as he moved in the seat.
Even if you haven't, Sydney. She knew he wanted to add on that last phrase; she could feel that he was holding back something. She was sure of it.
"This Wetzel character is rather intriguing," he continued, his eyes measuring Sydney's reaction to the name. She tried to feign disinterest by examining her poorly tended cuticles.
"How so?" A quick glance was all it took to be betrayed by her innate curiosity. She gave up on pretending, folding her hands – with their forgotten cuticles – in her lap.
"First off, from this whole meeting – who meets with colleagues in the middle of the desert?"
She cocked an eyebrow and stifled a laugh. "Haven't you ever seen 'Casino'?"
Sark sighed wearily. "Wetzel is shady, yes, but he isn't a mafia thug. He could meet with anyone easily enough in his Las Vegas office. That said, it would be easier to mix in with the crowd anywhere on the Strip…why come all the way out here?"
"Exercise? A good screw? He is addicted to sex, after all…" Sydney half-heartedly suggested with a lopsided shrug, her attention drawn back to her cuticles. Wetzel's motives for this meeting with some shady local didn't really matter. Especially in this stifling heat, when all she could do was picture his chiseled features…and wonder what he tasted like.
Red. Juicy. Exotic, yet somewhat familiar. Like something she'd want to devour and savor in the heat of a mid-October day. Like a passionate, carnal open-mouthed kiss. Like a…
"Pomegranate."
It was a whisper, a hoarse one at that, but loud enough for Sark to hear. Definitely loud enough for her to realize she had actually spoken.
"Pardon me?" Sark leaned in, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "What in the world are you talking about?"
There were two obvious ways she could have handled the situation. She could've given Sark the truth and explained why she said the word aloud. Or she could lie, fabricating some flimsy excuse as to why she was talking to herself about fruit.
She didn't consider either option. With a sideways glance at Sark, she just cautiously stated, "Pomegranate…a fruit."
Sark stopped his eyes in mid-roll, consciously attempting to keep the atmosphere as friendly as possible. "Yes, I am aware of what it is. But I fail to see the connection to Wetzel."
"Have you ever had one?" Her voice had taken a dreamy, contented quality, one that caused Sark to narrow his eyes and exhale long and loud, his exasperation evident.
"Sydney, are you on some sort of medication?" He sounded seriously concerned, his hands moving forward, off the steering wheel, to rest on the center console, inches from her feet. "You're acting odd. No – you're acting downright insane."
Sark's words hardly penetrated Sydney's vivid thoughts of Wetzel, a queen-sized bed and a bowl of pomegranate seeds. She imagined tasting the sweet-tart juice, squirting crimson dots onto the white linens, onto Wetzel's bare chest. Using her tongue to smear the rivulets of red over his hard abdomen, her hands greedily exploring his lower back, dipping lower to smooth over his ass…
"They stain," she continued, eyes glazed over, lost in her fantasy. "A deep red…the kind of stain that can't be removed. It's best, some say, to eat the fruit while nude, so as not to ruin clothing," She paused, remembering how she foolishly once wore a white dress shirt while attempting to cut the fruit. The blotchy stains rendered the shirt a throw-away, looking vaguely like… "A lot like blood stains."
The last remark caused Sark to ease back into the chair, an understanding striking him. Sydney wasn't crazy, just recessing into that dark place…the place familiar to anyone who's witnessed death and destruction. A place to which he was not a stranger.
While Sydney's mind continued to churn out thoughts of Wetzel and juicy pomegranate arils, Sark faced straight ahead, looking out at the vacant hiking trail.
"The Ancient Greeks associated pomegranate with the dead for that very reason," he started softly, attention focused on the rust-colored rocks out in the distance. "They believed that the dead needed blood for their strength. Ancient Greek tombs are adorned with a symbol of the fruit…"
"Persephone…" Sydney murmured, eyes also moving to take in the view, saturated with the full light of the midday sun. She vaguely remembered the story of the Greek goddess, how she accepted and ingested pomegranate seeds from Hades in an apparent symbol of the consummation of their relationship.
"Yes, the goddess of the Underworld…" Sark added quietly.
Sydney sighed, turning to gaze out the window, fingers playing over the warm glass, all visions of hazy passion gone. "It all sounds so dark…y'know…Underworld…ruler of the dead…."
"Indeed."
A strange, almost choked giggle rolled up from the back of Sydney's throat. "Hades was probably one pissed off guy," she said through laughter. The movement caused strands of hair to catch on the sweat of her cheeks.
"Why do you say that?" Sydney's laughter was contagious and Sark soon found himself chuckling.
"He sooo got the shaft…" The sentence was almost lost in a fit of giggles. Sydney felt delirious, as if the heat had melted what was left of her common sense. But, as the accompanying smile threatened to swallow her face, she didn't care. The light, dizzy feeling was ten times better than the stuffy, claustrophobic tension that had clogged the air only ten minutes before.
"Again," Sark paused to accommodate a chuckle, this one louder than its predecessors. He shook his head, not bothering to suppress a grin. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, think about it," Images of fine sculptures and swirling oil paintings surfaced in her mind, lightning bolts and tridents, long, snow-white beards and tanned, muscular forearms. "Zeus and Poseidon got much better jobs – ruling the sky, the sea…Hades was stuck with the Underworld." Her head fell back onto the hard headrest, her damp neck slapping against the cool leather. "What a disappointment that must've been."
"Maybe Hades was pleased with ruling the Underworld," Sark pointed out, crossing his arms on the steering wheel. He rested his head on his relaxed forearms, his head tilting in time to catch Sydney's half-smile. "Perhaps he had no desire to rule the sea or heavens. Perhaps," the top row of Sark's teeth gleamed before his grin slowly faded, "he enjoyed his lot in life."
The statement, the way Sark said it in such a serious tone, masked only by a translucent grin, seemed to carry a world of importance. Sydney pursed her lips and averted her gaze, reflecting on the meaning behind Sark's comment. This was her opportunity to delve deeper into this mystery man, to discover something that might help her – and her father – gauge his true motives at SD-6.
"Which job would you choose?" She established eye contact, pleased to see an intense expression fall over Sark's features, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought, his lips forming a straight line.
"I would have to rule out the sea immediately," he replied after a moment of deep deliberation, creases appearing between his brows.
"Not too fond of fish?"
"Not particularly."
"Ever been snorkeling?"
Visibly surprised at the question, he hesitated before responding, "I tried a few times…but it all felt so unnatural."
"The breathing part, you mean?"
He shrugged casually, as if to maintain his machismo by not verbally admitting his incompetence, even in such a small, unimportant area.
"Well, you should give it another try. The trick is to keep breathing through your mouth – to essentially forget it's possible to breathe through your nose," she stopped, feeling silly explaining such a simple process to a man of such extreme intelligence. "But I'm sure you already know that."
As he nodded, his sunglasses slid forward, hitting the bridge of his nose. His fingers wrapped around the metal temple and nonchalantly tossed the glasses into the rear of the car. "Of course."
"You scuba, I'm sure?" For work purposes, it was a valuable asset she was sure he possessed.
"Naturally…not that I enjoy it."
They both fell into silence, which turned awkward after the first few minutes passed.
Sydney cleared her throat, determined to get an answer to her earlier question. "So we've established that you are not meant to wield your god-like power over the creatures of the sea…you are now left with two options." She threw her legs back to the floor, stretching as she did so, and finished, "What will it be, Mr. Sark?"
His eyes skimmed her outstretched arms, her open palms that brushed the soft beige ceiling of the Jeep, before returning to her face with an electric, intense twinkle. "Like most men, I'm rather fond of the idea of god-like power," he admitted in a sultry tone, glancing openly at Sydney's lips. "So much so that it's of little concern where I should be ordained to utilize it."
A shiver tickled Sydney's spine, although she couldn't determine if it was a result of Sark's out-and-out lust for power or the way his teeth tugged at his bottom lip so suggestively.
"Hmmm," she said, lowering her arms. "A diplomatic answer, if not one that's a bit disconcerting."
"Why? Because I'm straightforward regarding my desire for power?" The blue of his eyes sharpened, enthralling her to the point that she couldn't look away. "Like I said before, most people crave it. At least I'm honest in that respect, not hiding being some flimsy façade of laziness, nonchalance or lack of ambition."
"No," she broke from his hypnotizing stare to focus on the clean, dark gray edges of her hiking shoe. "No one would ever dare accuse you of lack of ambition, I'm sure."
"Quite right," he responded quickly, licking his lips as if devour something. Or someone. "But why the note of disappointment in your voice? What is it that you find so displeasing?"
Where do I start? A nasty response stuck in the back of her throat as her eyes slowly rose to survey Sark. Conceited, yes. That was one strike against him. But he wasn't wrong in wanting to know why she disapproved of him. And now that she was taking a moment to compile a list of his shortcomings, she couldn't find more than three. Ruthless. Arrogant. Untrustworthy.
Obviously, he wasn't abhorrent on a physical level. He knew that. She knew that. Again and again, she was reminded of that fact when their gazes collided, when he smirked, when he nibbled on his charmingly crooked bottom lip.
Wiping her neck with the back of her hand, the sweat slid over her fingers into the already-damp strands of hair at the base of her low ponytail. Yes, he's more than just attractive. God, do I know that.
"What makes you think that I care enough to be displeased?" A decent retort, it was, but it lost all impact with the way her voice shook. She smoothed her ponytail one last time and fought to keep her expression neutral.
"It's obvious," he said simply, as if he was stating the day's weather forecast. "It's in your nature to care…about everything."
"Maybe you're wrong." But she knew he was right – he had her pegged in every respect. And it scared the shit out of her.
She found herself leaning closer to him, drawn to something she couldn't quite pinpoint. It wasn't him, surely, that captivated her? It had to be the heat; it had to be a result of hours spent restless in a cramped vehicle. It had to be…
He titled his head slightly, reading her movement with a raised eyebrow. At this angle, curls of hair peeked out from the back of his head, looking as if they existed only to wrap around her needy fingers.
The heat inside the vehicle seemed to skyrocket at the exact moment she locked stares with Sark, perspiration dampening the valley between her breasts. Although she just… could not force her gaze from his, she suddenly became aware of a thousand things at once.
A dull ache in the pit of her abdomen. A warning scent of rain hanging in the air outside. A sharp pinch where her hand was lodged between the sticky leather seat and the seatbelt buckle. A hint of toothpaste and this morning's blueberry bagel lodged in her molars. A chirping chorus of birds. And a measured grin growing across her helpless face.
Ever so slowly, almost as if in slow-motion, Sark was moving toward her, his right hand resting on the center console to absorb the weight of his body. The seriousness in his movements – even in his eyes – startled her to the very core. Say something, Sydney… do something. Don't just sit here and – sweet Jesus, he smells like fresh linens and espresso and --
Sark recoiled, his body falling back into the driver's seat, his hand reaching into his pocket, retrieving a silver cell phone.
It took Sydney a few perplexed moments to actually realize that the phone had been ringing. She couldn't blink, couldn't look away, couldn't think a single coherent thought until Sark spoke –
"The mission, I take it, is aborted?"
With a shake of the head, Sydney emerged from the stifling haze, her focus finally sharp and attentive. She studied the veins bulging along the back of Sark's hand, mentally tracing them as if following a river on a map.
"And Wetzel?"
The heat surrounded her again, pulling her down into another sauna-like fog. Earlier images of a bare-chested man - smiling seductively while his teeth diligently worked on the front closure of her bra – resurfaced in Sydney's mind. Her nails played down his muscular back as his tongue traced the curves of her breasts. She pulled his head up to hers, their lips colliding passionately, his tongue sliding over hers… and he tasted like….
Pomegranate.
"His death has been confirmed?"
She pulled away, eyelids still heavy with desire, to see blood gushing from him – his mouth, ears, eyes, nose… blood that retained a hint of pomegranate until the scent of iron – and her screams – drowned it out.
She gasped, coughing on her own saliva. The images faded quickly as she was lost in a powerful bout of coughing, her head thrown back against the headrest.
Sark cocked an eyebrow in her direction, as if the action alone would silence her. She could've been choking to death and all he cared about was being able to hear the bastard at the other end of his phone connection.
"Right. We'll head back to the airport, then." Sark paused, nodded, and added, "I'll inform Agent Bristow."
With that, he flipped his cell shut and gave Sydney his attention. "Wetzel's dead. The mission is aborted by Sloane's order."
"What happened?" Sydney's voice, weary from the coughing spell, was strained.
"A plane crash, apparently." Sark turned the key, the Jeep's engine roaring to life. "Two hundred miles north of here. Wetzel is confirmed dead by local sources."
"Oh."
It was all she could manage. The previous fantasies in her head had been shredded, torn apart…and all she could think was that Wetzel had been dead while she was daydreaming about him.
She couldn't suppress a shudder of revulsion. Fantasizing about a dead man, even if she didn't know he was dead at the time…it bordered on wrong.
Not to mention the unavoidable, nagging thoughts of what might've occurred with Sark had Sloane not phoned when he did. Oh, God….
Her fingers massaged her temples. It wasn't until five minutes later, as the Jeep turned from a dirt road to pavement, leaving steep clouds of orange-brown dust in its wake that she realized her hands were shaking.
And partly because of her throbbing head, she remained quiet for the remainder of the trip home. Her silence was also the only way she could ensure nothing would slip about Wetzel…or about the oddly sensual moment she and Sark shared in the Jeep. Sark, through some creepy sixth sense, knew well enough to leave her alone. He busied himself with his laptop, long fingers clicking away with ease, hardly giving her a second glance. It irritated her that he could detect proper boundaries and stick to them.
Especially since she never could.
* * * *
The debrief was short. Sark was absent on some mysterious errand for Sloane, to her relief, and as a result, she was able to breathe properly and look her colleagues in the eye with an almost-genuine smile.
The satellite surveillance footage of Wetzel's smoldering crash site still fresh in her mind, she took her time walking back to her work area, stopping at the water cooler first, then at Marshall's office for a quick chat. The last thing she expected to find on her desk was a rectangular box wrapped in tasteful, thick wrapping paper, adorned with a velvet cream-colored bow. And yet, there it was.
She stood back from the desk at first, almost afraid to approach – as if a jack-in-the-box would catapult from the depths of the package, a twisted expression etched on its face, mocking her naïveté. After a brief moment, too consumed by curiosity, she cautiously stepped to the desk.
Her fingers trailed along the soft ribbon, wondering if perhaps someone had placed the gift on her desk by mistake. With eyes deftly scouring her industrial, blue-tinted environs for a smiling culprit with no success, she couldn't pry her fingers off the sumptuous material.
Upon looking back at the gift, she noticed a matching gift tag the size of a business card peeking out from the edge of the ribbon.
Her curiosity piqued, she snapped it up, her slender fingers devouring the embossed border like Braille. Her name was written with black ink on the tag: Sydney.It was best to not open the gift in the office, she decided. Hell, it was probably best not to open the gift at all. The whole way home, she managed to valiantly fight the temptation to tear into the beautifully wrapped present. It was just a box. Unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. It wasn't as if it contained the secrets to the universe. In fact, it was probably nothing special at all. Maybe a token of Sloane's appreciation. Perhaps a belated gift from Marshall or Dixon. It could've even been from her father, although she knew the elegant handwriting on the gift tag was far from Jack's block-lettered print.
Of course, she battled with the voice in the back of her mind that suggested someone else entirely. Not only did that thought fill her with a mix of anxiety and anticipation, it set off numerous signals of warning.
It can't be from Sark – the idea is completely ridiculous, she thought over and over, the heat from yesterday's mission must still be messing with my head. She kept herself composed – nonchalant, even -- until her house key turned in the door with a brassy click.
Then it was if that single action had triggered something deep within Sydney, rendering her into a five-year-old on Christmas. She tore into the paper, feeling the strong, expensive paper rip with a deep sense of satisfaction. She barely glanced at the box as she flipped open the top, tossing it onto the carpet below.
Her breath caught in her throat. Red. The deepest, richest color she could imagine – the shade of royalty, of wealth, of passion. Combined with the thickest, softest terrycloth, it was probably one of the most contradictory items she'd ever seen. Lazy comfort…mixed with deep-seeded desire. A scarlet bathrobe. Her fingers flew over the material, rubbing it in wonder. And what was placed on top of the robe – it gave everything away. Made her heart lodge in the base of her abdomen. Made her think of the hot desert sun. Made her mouth go dry.
A pomegranate.
Her fingers curled around the tough skin, moving the fruit slightly to expose a cream-colored envelope.
The note inside was written by the same hand as the tag, the script distinctly European in its tight curves and steep angles. It has to be Sark.
The content of the message confirmed her suspicions:
"So not to titillate your neighbours – an item to keep you clothed while enjoying the pomegranate. To counter your beliefs that your favorite fruit has a dark history, take heed of the following -- in Islam, the pomegranate, called 'rumman' in Arabic, is the fruit of Paradise. The world in an interesting place indeed when a single thing can symbolize both death and paradise. Enjoy."
There was no signature – it wasn't necessary.
But there was a strange sensation growing within her, one that she wished wasn't ricocheting from parted, parched lips to the tips of her curled toes. One that warned her of inherent weakness, of the need to draw boundaries. One that served as a reminder of the hot desert sun, trident-toting Greek gods and a raw, undeniable desire to touch…and to be touched.
She hung the new bathrobe from a shiny hook in her bathroom, hands smoothing over the thick material briefly before she discarded her clothing, piece by piece, and unabashedly sauntered into the kitchen, thankful that Francie was working late.
She was just finishing the arduous task of separating the juicy arils from the inedible fruit of the pomegranate when her cell rang. She swore, tempted to just let the phone go unanswered. Looking from the pomegranate seeds on the kitchen counter to the coffee table, where her cell lay flashing in eerie shades of green, she sighed.
Cool air tickled her bare flesh as she walked briskly into the living room, snapped up the small object and pressed the green button.
"Yes?" Irritation was unmistakable in her voice.
"Did I call at a inopportune time?"
She placed the smooth voice immediately. "Sark…" she started, suddenly all too aware of her nakedness. Her eyes darted back to the kitchen, where the red seeds waited. "No, well, yes --"
"Which is it?" He teased quietly. She pictured him in a dark room, lights dimmed, his blue shirt partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm.
Sighing, she could only think of one word. Boundaries.
"What do you want?" To her horror, the frustration she intended to instill in her voice was absent. Instead, she sounded playful…inviting, almost.
"That's a loaded question, isn't it?" He paused for a long, tortuous moment during which she imagined he licked his lips predatorily, his eyes intensely focused on an unimportant object across the room. "How is the pomegranate?"
Boundaries.
"I was just about to try it." Her free hand rested on the slight curve of her hip, long fingers teasing the flat plane of her stomach.
"And the robe?" The words, so innocent, emerged from his mouth sounding as pornographic as any neon-tinted, bold-faced phrase she could imagine.
The thundering beat of her heart increased, her fingers unmoving on her tingling skin. Her mouth was dry as she scrambled to find an appropriate response, something that would put a quick end to the indecent conversation. She came up with nothing practical – only –
"It's hanging up in the bathroom."
She held her breath, cursing herself for speaking so candidly.
The only response he gave was a slight exhalation, extremely telling in its own right. Her eyes shut instinctively, as if preparing to feel his warm breath on her exposed neck.
Suddenly, she was brought back to that electric moment they shared in the Jeep – and a throbbing need for resolution of any kind. Dear God…help me stop this before it goes any further.
"And your neighbors?" Sark's voice was deep and raspy, bordering on an erotic whisper.
Boundaries.
Again, she spoke without thinking, almost as if her replies had been established earlier. "Not titillated, I'm sure." She stole a heavy-lidded glance at the window, fingers crawling upward to brush the underside of her breasts. "You wouldn't think I'd be so careless as to leave the blinds open, now, would you?"
And with that, she pushed a button on the cell, effectively ending the conversation.
It took longer than she expected to steady herself – her heart hadn't thumped this fast in ages. Once she could breathe normally, she walked back into the kitchen, to her pomegranate seeds.
As she finally placed one in her mouth, she let her eyes slide shut. And she smiled.
-the end-
AN: Here's hoping all my facts on the pomegranate and Greek mythology are correct. If not, I apologize.