0630 ZULU
Mac's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
The pounding in my head has finally permeated my brain to tell me that, in fact, the pounding is coming from the door, not my head. I roll out of bed with a groan, and wrestle with the sheets that tangle around my legs. I manage to pull the covers halfway off the bed before I break away to stumble to the door.
The pounding is incessant. This better damn well be important at…at…what time—oh, 1:30 in the morning?!! And tearing me away from a delicious Harm dream, a dream where we were together…on our honeymoon…
Damn important.
In my sleep-hazed mind I wrench the door open, not only without looking to see who's on the other side, but also without unhooking the chain. In both cases not smart. It springs out of my grasp so quickly I nearly knock myself in the head with it before it snaps back to almost smash my fingers into the doorjamb.
"Dammit!"
"Mac?"
I'm afraid to say my sleep-addled senses do not shed any pride onto the vaulted Marine Corps reflexes. It takes me a moment to conjure up the owner of that voice. The voice I dream of every night.
Of course it's none other than Harmon Rabb, Jr.
"Harm?" I inquire sleepily.
"Yeah, it's me," he confirms. Then he proceeds to ask one of the most asinine questions I've heard at this hour. "Did I wake you?"
"No," I retort, mustering quite a bit of sarcasm into my response for still being medically brain dead. It's not often that I get a good night's sleep, but when I do, pity the person that awakens me from it.
"Can I come in?" He asks, subdued.
It's 0130 and Harm sounds as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I would be at 1030. He must've never even went to sleep. Something must be up.
"Sure."
I remember to unhook the chain from the door this time, and I barely pull it open before Harm pushes his way through. He walks straight to the couch, turns around abruptly to face me with hands on hips. His jaw falls open and his eyes bulge slightly out of his head.
It's then that I recall my nightgown, really a euphemism for a black silk and lace chemise, something I threw on after my bath tonight, and the memory of the kiss in the parking lot. It seemed appropriate at the time. It has a plunging neckline that nicely shows off my ample assets in that area, and a thigh-high slit up the right side, and a low back. Harm's wearing the look I've always dreamed he'd wear if he ever saw me in such attire.
Raw desire, passion, guilt--no doubt for the racy thoughts flying through his head that his eyes betray--and regret, probably for never getting his head out of his six sooner to see exactly what was before him. His marine dream.
Maybe it's the interruption in sleep, but my brain suddenly takes on a life of it's own as it enlists the help of my hormones and imagination, my body just the medium in which to execute this endeavor. I swagger up to Harm like there's nothing I'd rather do more than to shove him on my couch and have my way with him.
Okay, so my brain is in touch with my hypothalamus there.
"Come here, flyboy," I say in a voice so low I barely recognize it as my own. He stands rooted to the spot in front of my couch, but his eyes are sweeping up and down my figure hungrily. I notice they linger in a couple places longer than others. I crook my finger at him and gesture he should come to me. Come to me.
"Come to me," I whisper. It doesn't really matter, I'm already standing before him at this point. I let his eyes rove all over me, let him have his fill of my breasts which he tries desperately not to gape at—perhaps there's still some vestige of his cherished officer-and-gentleman-persona still nagging at his brain. I find I'm warmed at the thought of my well- bred sailor trying to be a good little flyboy, but I don't think it will be necessary tonight.
I let his eyes wander for a moment longer and then I cast what inhibitions remain to the wind and fall into his arms.
He's there to catch me, he always is.
His mouth is hot and demanding and bruising and I press myself further into his crushing liplock. Finally, he is the Harm of my dreams. Passionate, needy, desperate. He can no longer hide from me. With each heated assault against my mouth I become more and more certain that Harmon Rabb, Jr. sees me as more than just Mac, the friend, that this is more than just bodies responding to lust, that this is more than anything either of us has ever experienced.
He won't be able to pretend like nothing happened tonight. He can't any longer. I won't let him. I know all his secrets. Harmon Rabb, Jr. wants me. He needs me.
He fingers are softly running the length of my spine, producing chills with each flourish as they encounter the silk of my gown, before sweeping up to start their trail again. His other hand is wrapped gently but firmly around the nape of my neck and I swear if it wasn't there I would slink to the floor in a silk and lace heap.
My hands sweep through his jet-black hair, a little stiff from the styling gel he uses, but it feels great nonetheless. He's wearing Brut again, and I break away from our scorching kiss just so I can finally breathe in the wonderful scent of him. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and press my nose against the juncture of his neck and jaw and breathe deeply. He chuckles softly at my actions.
"It's Brut," he whispers. I knew it.
"It's wonderful," I say. Heavenly. "It's you," I tell him, and he smiles and kisses me again.
This is wonderful, too. Heavenly. I can't believe I would have rather slept through this. No dream can hold a candle to this.
"Oh, God, why is it I can't resist you?" He whispers into my hair as he lights a fire from my cheek to my hairline.
If the butterflies in my stomach weren't fluttering before, that statement sends them flying high.
"Why do you try?" I whisper back, pressing feather kisses onto his temples, his forehead, his nose.
"I don't know," he sighs. "Because I'm an idiot?" he asks, smiling a little. I grin, but his grin fades and he pulls away.
Wh-what? No. I'm not ready to turn him loose yet.
"Speaking of which," he begins, turning away from me, before looking back. His hand reaches out to cup my face with one hand. Like last Sunday, my hand encircles his wrist and holds it there as I brace myself for what's coming.
The Big Confession.
Harmon Rabb, Jr. is finally going to tell me what an idiot he's been for not realizing sooner that he was—is—in love with me.
It's been a long time coming.
"I have a confession to make, Sarah." He pulls his hand away, and walks three steps away, and one step back.
Sarah. Ooooh. Good sign.
"Yes?" I ask, taking a seat on the couch. The slit in my gown exposes plenty of my thigh, enough to distract Harm for a moment. He actually shakes his head out of it, and I hold the two pieces of cloth together in an attempt for some propriety.
He stares at me for 28 seconds, and I'm starting to get nervous. I'm also starting to get the impression I may not like what he has to say.
"I—well, when you guys found—well, maybe I should—hell, I'll just say it." Is this about his crash? Perhaps that's when it finally became clear to him, that he loved me. For me, it was just reaffirmation that I was in love with him.
"Go on," I encourage.
"There aren't any Superbowl seats."
Huh? I stare at him dumbfounded. He rushes on to explain.
"I mean, there are, sort of. I'm flying CAP for the Superbowl." Where's my declaration of—huh? I must've have fallen asleep again, because none of this is making any sense.
"I thought it would be kind of funny, you know, to see what you guys would do about my alleged seats—"
'Funny'?
"—So, I let you go on thinking that I had tickets. Except I let it go on too far. I know that. Believe me, Mac. I wasn't trying to use you—I would never do that."
So what would you call it?!
"It's just, you were so sweet, and wonderful, and it was like when we were good friends again, before I left to fly, and I missed that and I loved having our old banter back. And the flirting. And the kissing. That was a nice addition." He smiles sheepishly, but when I don't return it, it withers away.
"So," I state. "You never had any intention of taking me to the Superbowl. At all. Or Sturgis."
He cringes. "I'll still take you, Mac. I'd be more than happy to. I just didn't think you wanted a ride in a Tomcat. Not to mention, you wouldn't even be able to see the game. You seem pretty keen on it."
I could give a rat's ass about the game if missing it meant being with you, my heart screams, but I ignore it. I ignore all the logic that says I knew that this was a game, that I knew I was taking things a little too far, that I knew I was putting my heart on the line when my lips connected with his profile with the excuse it was just for a seat in New Orleans.
I just focus on the fact that once again Harmon Rabb, Jr. hasn't been completely honest and forthcoming with me. Like that night in Sydney, like that night on the Admiral's porch, like when he didn't tell me about his breakup with Renee.
"I'm sorry, Mac." He says, watching me carefully. My eyes are filling with tears, and I'm not even sure why.
He kneels down before me, and thumbs away one that slipped past my defenses. "This is not how I wanted our relationship to come about," he continues quietly, still touching my cheek.
I'm tired. So tired.
"It's late, Harm," I say wearily, staring dully at his bangs, so I can avoid his penitent eyes.
"Sarah," he tries again.
"I think you'd better leave now," I choke out. He doesn't move, and my eyes break contact with his bangs to look into his green—and yes, penitent—eyes, before I hastily shift their gaze to something on the wall behind him. I can feel his eyes boring into me before he nods dejectedly and stands up. I don't look at anything but that spot on the wall until I hear the door click shut and his footsteps fade into the distance.
Then I at look at my lap and sigh.
Mac's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
The pounding in my head has finally permeated my brain to tell me that, in fact, the pounding is coming from the door, not my head. I roll out of bed with a groan, and wrestle with the sheets that tangle around my legs. I manage to pull the covers halfway off the bed before I break away to stumble to the door.
The pounding is incessant. This better damn well be important at…at…what time—oh, 1:30 in the morning?!! And tearing me away from a delicious Harm dream, a dream where we were together…on our honeymoon…
Damn important.
In my sleep-hazed mind I wrench the door open, not only without looking to see who's on the other side, but also without unhooking the chain. In both cases not smart. It springs out of my grasp so quickly I nearly knock myself in the head with it before it snaps back to almost smash my fingers into the doorjamb.
"Dammit!"
"Mac?"
I'm afraid to say my sleep-addled senses do not shed any pride onto the vaulted Marine Corps reflexes. It takes me a moment to conjure up the owner of that voice. The voice I dream of every night.
Of course it's none other than Harmon Rabb, Jr.
"Harm?" I inquire sleepily.
"Yeah, it's me," he confirms. Then he proceeds to ask one of the most asinine questions I've heard at this hour. "Did I wake you?"
"No," I retort, mustering quite a bit of sarcasm into my response for still being medically brain dead. It's not often that I get a good night's sleep, but when I do, pity the person that awakens me from it.
"Can I come in?" He asks, subdued.
It's 0130 and Harm sounds as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I would be at 1030. He must've never even went to sleep. Something must be up.
"Sure."
I remember to unhook the chain from the door this time, and I barely pull it open before Harm pushes his way through. He walks straight to the couch, turns around abruptly to face me with hands on hips. His jaw falls open and his eyes bulge slightly out of his head.
It's then that I recall my nightgown, really a euphemism for a black silk and lace chemise, something I threw on after my bath tonight, and the memory of the kiss in the parking lot. It seemed appropriate at the time. It has a plunging neckline that nicely shows off my ample assets in that area, and a thigh-high slit up the right side, and a low back. Harm's wearing the look I've always dreamed he'd wear if he ever saw me in such attire.
Raw desire, passion, guilt--no doubt for the racy thoughts flying through his head that his eyes betray--and regret, probably for never getting his head out of his six sooner to see exactly what was before him. His marine dream.
Maybe it's the interruption in sleep, but my brain suddenly takes on a life of it's own as it enlists the help of my hormones and imagination, my body just the medium in which to execute this endeavor. I swagger up to Harm like there's nothing I'd rather do more than to shove him on my couch and have my way with him.
Okay, so my brain is in touch with my hypothalamus there.
"Come here, flyboy," I say in a voice so low I barely recognize it as my own. He stands rooted to the spot in front of my couch, but his eyes are sweeping up and down my figure hungrily. I notice they linger in a couple places longer than others. I crook my finger at him and gesture he should come to me. Come to me.
"Come to me," I whisper. It doesn't really matter, I'm already standing before him at this point. I let his eyes rove all over me, let him have his fill of my breasts which he tries desperately not to gape at—perhaps there's still some vestige of his cherished officer-and-gentleman-persona still nagging at his brain. I find I'm warmed at the thought of my well- bred sailor trying to be a good little flyboy, but I don't think it will be necessary tonight.
I let his eyes wander for a moment longer and then I cast what inhibitions remain to the wind and fall into his arms.
He's there to catch me, he always is.
His mouth is hot and demanding and bruising and I press myself further into his crushing liplock. Finally, he is the Harm of my dreams. Passionate, needy, desperate. He can no longer hide from me. With each heated assault against my mouth I become more and more certain that Harmon Rabb, Jr. sees me as more than just Mac, the friend, that this is more than just bodies responding to lust, that this is more than anything either of us has ever experienced.
He won't be able to pretend like nothing happened tonight. He can't any longer. I won't let him. I know all his secrets. Harmon Rabb, Jr. wants me. He needs me.
He fingers are softly running the length of my spine, producing chills with each flourish as they encounter the silk of my gown, before sweeping up to start their trail again. His other hand is wrapped gently but firmly around the nape of my neck and I swear if it wasn't there I would slink to the floor in a silk and lace heap.
My hands sweep through his jet-black hair, a little stiff from the styling gel he uses, but it feels great nonetheless. He's wearing Brut again, and I break away from our scorching kiss just so I can finally breathe in the wonderful scent of him. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and press my nose against the juncture of his neck and jaw and breathe deeply. He chuckles softly at my actions.
"It's Brut," he whispers. I knew it.
"It's wonderful," I say. Heavenly. "It's you," I tell him, and he smiles and kisses me again.
This is wonderful, too. Heavenly. I can't believe I would have rather slept through this. No dream can hold a candle to this.
"Oh, God, why is it I can't resist you?" He whispers into my hair as he lights a fire from my cheek to my hairline.
If the butterflies in my stomach weren't fluttering before, that statement sends them flying high.
"Why do you try?" I whisper back, pressing feather kisses onto his temples, his forehead, his nose.
"I don't know," he sighs. "Because I'm an idiot?" he asks, smiling a little. I grin, but his grin fades and he pulls away.
Wh-what? No. I'm not ready to turn him loose yet.
"Speaking of which," he begins, turning away from me, before looking back. His hand reaches out to cup my face with one hand. Like last Sunday, my hand encircles his wrist and holds it there as I brace myself for what's coming.
The Big Confession.
Harmon Rabb, Jr. is finally going to tell me what an idiot he's been for not realizing sooner that he was—is—in love with me.
It's been a long time coming.
"I have a confession to make, Sarah." He pulls his hand away, and walks three steps away, and one step back.
Sarah. Ooooh. Good sign.
"Yes?" I ask, taking a seat on the couch. The slit in my gown exposes plenty of my thigh, enough to distract Harm for a moment. He actually shakes his head out of it, and I hold the two pieces of cloth together in an attempt for some propriety.
He stares at me for 28 seconds, and I'm starting to get nervous. I'm also starting to get the impression I may not like what he has to say.
"I—well, when you guys found—well, maybe I should—hell, I'll just say it." Is this about his crash? Perhaps that's when it finally became clear to him, that he loved me. For me, it was just reaffirmation that I was in love with him.
"Go on," I encourage.
"There aren't any Superbowl seats."
Huh? I stare at him dumbfounded. He rushes on to explain.
"I mean, there are, sort of. I'm flying CAP for the Superbowl." Where's my declaration of—huh? I must've have fallen asleep again, because none of this is making any sense.
"I thought it would be kind of funny, you know, to see what you guys would do about my alleged seats—"
'Funny'?
"—So, I let you go on thinking that I had tickets. Except I let it go on too far. I know that. Believe me, Mac. I wasn't trying to use you—I would never do that."
So what would you call it?!
"It's just, you were so sweet, and wonderful, and it was like when we were good friends again, before I left to fly, and I missed that and I loved having our old banter back. And the flirting. And the kissing. That was a nice addition." He smiles sheepishly, but when I don't return it, it withers away.
"So," I state. "You never had any intention of taking me to the Superbowl. At all. Or Sturgis."
He cringes. "I'll still take you, Mac. I'd be more than happy to. I just didn't think you wanted a ride in a Tomcat. Not to mention, you wouldn't even be able to see the game. You seem pretty keen on it."
I could give a rat's ass about the game if missing it meant being with you, my heart screams, but I ignore it. I ignore all the logic that says I knew that this was a game, that I knew I was taking things a little too far, that I knew I was putting my heart on the line when my lips connected with his profile with the excuse it was just for a seat in New Orleans.
I just focus on the fact that once again Harmon Rabb, Jr. hasn't been completely honest and forthcoming with me. Like that night in Sydney, like that night on the Admiral's porch, like when he didn't tell me about his breakup with Renee.
"I'm sorry, Mac." He says, watching me carefully. My eyes are filling with tears, and I'm not even sure why.
He kneels down before me, and thumbs away one that slipped past my defenses. "This is not how I wanted our relationship to come about," he continues quietly, still touching my cheek.
I'm tired. So tired.
"It's late, Harm," I say wearily, staring dully at his bangs, so I can avoid his penitent eyes.
"Sarah," he tries again.
"I think you'd better leave now," I choke out. He doesn't move, and my eyes break contact with his bangs to look into his green—and yes, penitent—eyes, before I hastily shift their gaze to something on the wall behind him. I can feel his eyes boring into me before he nods dejectedly and stands up. I don't look at anything but that spot on the wall until I hear the door click shut and his footsteps fade into the distance.
Then I at look at my lap and sigh.