APPRECIATING DISTRACTIONS
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He did it periodically. She and her brother worked with his brother. Their business boomed and sometimes they needed a hand. They remodeled houses; "turned them over," as they said.
And sometimes he needed a break from the endless drudgery of his office, so it formed a perfect balance.
It was exerting physical labor, and it took his mind off of his work, off of travel times and court dates, from club meetings and counselings that always seemed to feel like the pinnacle of pyrrhic victories.
They were keeping the house to rent, his brother had told him. So they had decided to furnish it. But another turnover in Arlington required his brother and her brother to be out of town.
Would he consider moving in furniture, screwing in bulbs, checking the A/C, hanging pictures and mirrors and doing other menial tasks?
Of course, it would be a lovely distraction. He appreciated distractions.
He definitely appreciated them, he thought passionately, watching her walk barefoot in her cutoff faded blue-jeans across the white living room carpet, a box of decorative knick-knacks in her arms. Her long legs lightly tanned and sinfully smooth.
Oh, and if he hadn't, he was learning how to be more appreciative, he thought, watching her crouch down to paint a spot of trim as they worked in the closed-in sun porch, him mounting wall-hangings and her finishing the painting.
Her braid slid down her back, then flopping over her shoulder heavily to lie against her delicate collarbones and the side of her neck.
Her arm stretched above her as she worked on a short stool, going over the moulding around the ceiling; bits and pieces touch-ups, the finer details. His gaze flickered from ensuring the hanging hung straight, to her; how she stood on tip-toe, the tendons in the back of her legs tense, her face in profile and her mouth set in concentration.
He appreciated her assistance.
She came up beside him, leaning her body ever-so-slight against his arm to nudge a frame into place in the front hall. It was a watercolor landscape, but he didn't care; it could have been a Picasso and he wouldn't have blinked twice. He tried not to think of how good it felt to feel her against him, even if it were only for an instant and nothing substantial or lasting.
But he could not appreciate her nagging.
"No, not there."
"No, five inches higher." A pause. "Or maybe five inches lower?"
"No, that goes in the second bedroom."
"No, not that lamp."
"No, not those curtains."
"Can you hang that straighter? It's crooked on the left side."
"Maybe don't put that up?"
"I think you should just go back to moving the couch now, I'm good here."
"No, put the couch back, I think the table from the hall would look better behind it."
It had begun to grate on his patience and his benevolence. But he had agreed to help her ready the house and he never reneged on his word. It was a standard of value he prized in himself if there was not much about himself that he prized.
"All right, yeah, that looks like that would be good; you can start putting those nails into the wall there," she allowed, after what felt like a hellfire ternity in which she debated and pondered and reconsidered and doubted and redecided where she specifically wished he hang the last mirror.
"I'll pound you against the wall," he muttered under his breath as he positioned a nail, exasperation getting the better of him at last.
He froze when she took a sharp inhale signaling that his words had not gone unheard, rising from the box she had bent over. Clearly she put a different meaning behind words spoken in the haste of irritation.
She turned to look at him. He suddenly felt immeasurably idiotic. He held out his hand, taking a step back in his awkward uncomfortability.
"That did not come out as I intended. I swear."
Or had it? he wondered, gazing at her and trying not to let his eyes wander. She boosted a hand on her hip, thrust out as she bent her leg, regarding him in the examining, critical way universal to all woman and yet uniquely their own. A thin stripe of bare skin showed between her shorts and the hem of her white shirt. He tried not to look at it, but found himself coming back to it the longer she stared, one silver brow raised in deliberation. That strip of exposed skin was creamy-white, smooth, paler than her arms and her throat and her thighs.
She nodded and he managed to breathe again.
"No harm done." She grinned, turning back to the box.
But now all he wanted was to see the contrast of light skin against dark, trace his fingers against the line where they met, taste her with his tongue and wonder if the essence of her matched the fragrance of orange blossoms and summer and honeysuckle that she carried with her wherever she went. He wanted to be appreciative, he thought, growling low in his throat as he whirled back to the wall, banging the nail into place so roughly it went clear into the wall.
"Damn."
"What?" She turned to look, coming over. Why did she feel the need to stand so close? She put her finger on it, tapped for a moment in thought and then shrugged. "No big deal, just remember to pry it up before give it another go; I don't want the wall full of nails."
He glanced at her. Oh, he decided passionately, he would give it another go; but not with the nails. She shifted, moving to go. He put his arms up on either side so she couldn't walk away, his palms braced against the yellow-white eggshell colored wall. She looked up at him.
"What are you doing, we—"
"I am appreciating the distractions," he rasped.
She exhaled, high-pitched, staring at him with those wide grey-violet eyes that inebriated him without even having to taste a drop of wine.
She threw her arms around his neck unexpectedly, but he reacted.
Pulling her up off the ground. kissing her madly, wildly, desperate. Open-mouthed, hungry for that taste of her. Her fingers pulled his hair as she tried to angle for a better position, leaning against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her torso pressed seamlessly against his so that he could feel every breath, every shudder of pleasure. He slid his hands beneath the hem of her t-shirt, drawing it up, exposing her skin, gliding his hands across it. She trembled and he felt as if he shook too; heady with how much she filled and dominated every sense he had.
She drew her mouth off his, her head going back against the wall. He followed, leaving soft kisses against her jaw, bites against her neck that made her utter noises to only encourage his pursuals.
Somehow he managed to shed her shirt without having to draw her off the wall. Somehow she'd managed to undo the buttons of his while still keeping a hand curled tight in his hair.
She moaned, fingernails digging into his shoulder, the back of his neck. He left another open-mouth kiss on the soft skin at the base of her throat, trailing farther down and then back up again to her mouth when she tugged on his hair. She bucked against him, cried his name and then laughed and then moaned again.
He chuckled against her skin, grinning madly, kissing her mouth, tasting his name on her tongue and panting her own in response. He asked if she wanted to finish hanging mirrors. She mumbled something about hanging her and only pressed her mouth against his harder, her hand at the back of his head.
.
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They lay on the floor among the pictures and the mirror and the plastic painting tarps, nails strewn all across the carpet. Her hair fanned around her in a silver halo, tangled out of its loosely-twisted braid. His black hair hung all in his face in unruly curls, finger-waved and mangled by her fists when she'd clenched it tightly in their unexpected throe of passion.
Their heavy breathing filled the quiet din around them.
"I never thought I could fall asleep on plastic sheeting." She laughed, shifting where she lay. The tarp rustled beneath her as she moved, sticking to her damp back.
"Hmm, nor I."
He found he rather liked this house. Perhaps it would do as a future place to rent when he tired of the cramped apartment with the view of the brick building next to him. Except of course he'd have to take down some of these millions of blasted pictures and mirrors. He wanted to be sure to have a chance to repeat this experience; he wanted to be appreciative of each different wall.
He traced his fingers down her side, against her rib cage, leaning over to press a kiss to her throat. She inhaled softly, but sharp, reaching out to curl her fingers back into his hair, offering a sort of distracted guide to the path she wished him to travel across her skin. He braced himself with one palm flat against the floor, leaning crosswise over her.
A truck rumbled. Then the sound of an engine cutting off.
A door opened distantly.
A voice called out from some location far away yet appallingly nearby.
"Sis, you guys done yet? I just thought I'd drop by since I had to come up anyway and get the welder from the garage; forgot I'd left it."
He jerked up from her body, staring at her. Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushing a sensual shade of scarlet. He wanted to kiss her again, bend her body against his until they whispered each others names in concert.
"Get dressed," he hissed instead, flying for his shirt and throwing it on. She sprang up, the tarp rustling, grabbing for her clothing. Hastily he buttoned pearl-white buttons down his shirtfront. She zipped her shorts, tugged down her t-shirt, going to work on her hair.
At the same instant as her brother walked through the doorway, she'd bent down over her box and he'd finished snatching up the scattered nails. Coming to his feet, breathing heavily— more from his tussle with her than the mad scramble after stray nails, he nodded at Eysa.
"We're about done," he said, hoping his voice wasn't as low and growling as he thought it sounded.
"Just, uh, hanging a mirror."
"About to finishing banging in the last nail," he agreed quickly.
"Banging is right." She sounded wry, and he snuck a sidelong glance at her.
She eyed him back, her gaze fluttering the length of him. His eyes flickered with wicked pleasure, and he blatantly stared at her in return.
Eysa nodded and glanced over at them, coming away from inspecting the look of the room. "It'll be great when it's done. Nice job, guys; and I appreciate the help, Loki."
He waved him off. "It's, uh, nothing, really." He glanced at her again. "I enjoyed it immensely."
"I hope so."
He tried not to look at her too long, because if he did he felt that he would go down on her again and her brother would not take well to that. Instead he looked at Eysa, nodding and pretending to be listening as the other man explained what they hoped would be the first of a trend in finding easy flip-houses to turn into rent properties.
"All right, well, I'm out of here, then; you'll come for dinner tonight, yeah?" Eysa looked at him.
He froze. Dinner in the lion's den. With her in the kitchen. Doing what he could only guess. Distracting him and no doubt making it an immense challenge to keep himself limited to his chair and polite conversation that did not include ravishing her on the countertop. He drummed his fingertips against his thigh, considering the consequences and the benefits. "Yes, of course. I'll be there." He flashed a bright grin, hating himself that all he wanted at the moment was for Eysa to get out.
Nodding, saying something to his sister, Eysa left.
He looked over at her.
She stared at him with wide, inviting eyes.
"We have decorating to finish."
"You could do that thing with your tongue aga— Oh, right."
She colored. He straightened attentively.
"Or . . . yes, I could do that."
"And we finish decorating later?"
She stepped forward, reaching out and grasping the front of his shirt, working at the buttons already.
"Mhmm, oh. . . yes. . . yes, cer. . . sure," he managed, her mouth on his hungrily, his arms twining quickly around her waist. He slumped back against the wall and slid down, keeping her in his lap as she kissed him and he began unwinding her braid.
Oh, yes, he most certainly appreciated every single distraction. And he would be sure that he could obtain many more.