7
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. This story takes place between "Hot Spot" and their heartbreaking date in the restaurant. It assumes that Michael and Fiona are adults. Content is not graphic but suggestive. This is the first Burn Notice story that I have written in 3rd person with 1st person voiceovers. If the characterization seems "off" to you, please review and let me know. It's the only way that I can get better. For non-members, you do not need to sign up to review; just enter your name as "anon" or "forum member". Chapter III will be posted next Thursday.
HEATWAVE
Chapter II
She leaned against him. She had on a low-necked, lime-green sundress, sinfully short, with spaghetti straps. Where there was skin-to-skin contact, she was so cold that it seemed as though her flesh was burning him. Even her nose felt icy when she rubbed it against the knobs of his vertebrae, setting off fiery bursts in his nerve endings.
He reached behind him and toyed with the hem of her dress, rolling the material between his fingers. Her thumb and index finger did not quite meet around his wrist as she resisted his upward pull. She always knew how to get his attention. He turned on the stool to face her and she stepped into the V of his legs. He lifted the hem just enough to see that her panties were the same color as the yellow trim on her dress.
Do all women match up their underwear with their . . . outerwear? Even her panties and bra, when she wears one, almost always come as a set. What's the purpose? Even a spy doesn't get a chance to know about that unless he has a reason – and permission – to look. And, by that point, most guys aren't going to be paying attention to color coordination.
She rested her still-cold cheek against his chest, placing her palm over his heart. He traced the margins of her shoulder blade with the edge of his thumb, just skimming the surface. She shivered. He tightened his other arm around her, claiming her for the afternoon. They sighed in unison.
They were being discrete, in this new phase of their life. For once, she was the one urging him to keep their personal life private. Although he was confused about her reasons, he was just happy to avoid any unhelpful advice from his mother. Apparently, Sam had said something to Fi after the fire. Michael suspected she was more hurt by the comments, whatever they were, than angry. Or, he would have been hearing about it, all about it. But, she was consistently deflecting his questions. He found that more alarming than if she had just slapped Sam around.
On the plus side, it was exciting to have this secret life. They were getting good at finding little moments, pieces of time, when they could be together. But, if she spent the night, she always left early, after a quick breakfast of yogurt. He thought that was carrying the secrecy a little too far, since they were adults who had been having sex, on and off – well, mostly off -, for a good many years. He wasn't sure they could fool Sam for much longer. And, he thought his mother already suspected the truth. But, and this was a miracle, even Madeline was keeping her thoughts to herself. He had asked Fi, a few weeks after they had reconnected, how long she thought they could hide the situation from his mother. Better that we don't get her hopes up, she'd said, and her dry tone had taken him aback. But, after those harrowing hours of searching, thinking he had lost her to the fire, he would never forget the gush of exhausted relief when he found her at the loft. After that, he would give her anything. Except, of course, the one thing she wanted the most.
He leaned back and peered down the square-cut neck of her dress.
"Excuse me." She tried to hide her amusement behind a mock glare.
He picked up his phone from the counter. He turned it off, watching her.
"Wow," she said. "I'm impressed." She leaned over his leg, bending to rummage in her bag. He could hear things clinking together. He gathered the material of her dress in his hand.
"I really like thong underwear," he said. "Did I ever tell you that?"
"I think you might have mentioned it." She straightened up and, triumphantly, waved her phone, which made its annoying "off" sound.
Only then did she let him pull the material up and over her head. With the dress inside out, he could see that there was a built-in bra in the same shade of green. Women were full of surprises, he thought. He let the dress slip off the ends of his fingers to the floor beside her shoes. Her skin was golden and felt baby-oil soft.
For such a petite woman, she has a lot of skin.
He laid his hand along her cheek and traced the curve of her jaw. "You smell good." He sniffed, bending closer and closer until she was hunching her shoulders in playful protest. She could be ticklish. "Cherry-vanilla?"
He felt dizzy with the aroma of her. There was always that rush, with her. But since the fire, it wasn't always the frantic white-heat of their earlier couplings. They had learned to take advantage of the times when nobody was being shot at or blown up or hunted down. Somehow, the way they were together had become something different. It was, sometimes, unbearably good: warm and soft, slow and wet and sweet. Without the tensions of their past differences, their life fell into a smoother rhythm: advancing, receding, but always returning. He was surprised by the unhurried yearnings to be found in long, lingering afternoons that were as much talk as touch. They might doze to the low sounds of the blues, which might lure them into a languid nap, to wake tangled together like puppies. There were no boundaries in that place and they hardly knew where one ended and the other began. He knew the things that made her moan and the things that made her sigh. She knew all his sweet spots. She could measure out his pleasure at a pace just short of torture, with all the promise of satisfaction to come. Then, of course, there were the times that were anything but leisurely and the contrast could be . . . astounding.
Finally, when blood and breath had slowed, with bodies relaxed and brains stilled, they would lay, looking up into that vast loft space. While it had been so hot, they would lie under the fan, their sweat drying, with only their hands touching. Sometimes, he would wrap his fingers around her wrist. That contact was their bond and his pledge, acknowledging the ties that bound them fast.
"Have any plans for this afternoon?" He gave her his best Groucho Marx imitation eyebrow- waggle.
"Quilting bee?" she suggested, with an attempt at eyebrow movement herself. "I saw a show on that."
He was much better at keeping a straight face than she was. "You've been watching the History Channel again. Didn't I warn you about that?"
"Where is Iowa?" She stared off into the distance as though that state might be just beyond the balcony. "Somewhere in the middle?"
He waved Iowa off. "I'll buy you a map," he promised. "We could order pizza in."
She entered negotiation mode. "No mushrooms."
"You can have anything you want," he said.
"Let's go to my place later. The pizza guy isn't scared to deliver there."
He nodded. "And you have air conditioning."
"A real bathroom." She hated his shower stall.
"Big enough to get rowdy in," he said happily.
"Um. Then, I'll need a nap first."
"A nap, my ass!"
"Yes," she murmured and gave him a slow, wicked smirk.
Then, her smile faded. "Can we hold off on the burn notice for today?" Her voice was so low that he wasn't sure whether she meant the question for him or herself.