Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, though I wish I did. They
belong to Tribune Entertainment.
To Dare: I was tempted to have Emma read Brennan as well, even in Chapter
2. But it's explained later why she doesn't. To Feral86: You can copy and
paste this story any time for posting on your board. Thank you so much, and
you have a lovely site.
Oh, and please leave a lot of reviews, critical as well. If you can't 'see' the characters and the scenes they are in, or if you can't 'feel' for them, you have to tell me. I'm writing my first fiction novel after this, it's extremely character driven, and I have to improve.
This chapter is rated mostly PG-13, with R towards the end
Chapter 3
He drove them to a motel with a gaudy neon signboard out in front, which was supposed to have flashed 'Harrod's Inn. $84 a night. Rooms available now.' Only the 'a' in Harrod's was dim and the '8' was hanging lopsided by a electronic thread, or whatever it was that held those things. She wasn't much of an electronics type, but she supposed he would know. The rain was pouring down but she could make out a U shaped building with 2 floors, with individual room doors connected by a running balcony that looked out into the centrally placed car park. Like innumerable motels across the continent. Nondescript and featureless really, like all the little towns and all the people in them who had problems like hers.
There were a number of parked cars in the courtyard. Somewhere to her left, a car alarm had been triggered, probably by the rain - though in these kinds of motels you really couldn't be sure - and the hapless automobile was flashing its rear lamps off and on, competing with the wind on which would make the loudest 'whoo'-ing sound. And losing helplessly. I hope it won't be too noisy to sleep in, she thought, when the alarm howled one last challenge to the storm and switched itself off.
The Camaro drew under the central porch, the only shaded area in the courtyard, and crawled to a stop. Light from closed glass doors, the central reception area she presumed, spilled out and threw elongated shadows onto the car seats, shielding his face from hers. Leaving the engine still running, he got out and walked round in front to the passenger door - her side - and opened it.
'This way you won't have to go into the rain,' he said. Holding the door open and proffering his hand.
Oh yes, very thoughtful, he's a real charmer. She could see why so many women would fall for him. She muttered a 'Thanks', which was probably inaudible against the sound of the storm, and fumbled for her purse which she had stashed under the seat. She remembered picking out this purse because it was red. To match the color of her jacket. Shalimar had picked it out for her when it was on 40% discount at a really posh store, the kind she wouldn't normally shop in unless she was with Shal. She remembered that particular date. It was a girls' afternoon out, they had watched a movie at a second run theatre - David Lynch's 'Mulholland Drive' - and after that they had gone to Dan Ryan's for coffee and a fudge covered brownie. They had giggled about guys, not about Brennan or Jesse in particular.
When she thought about Shalimar, she felt a stab of guilt.
But they're not seeing each other, right? He's so neck up with other women, and Shal seemed desperately to be trying to get herself attracted to other men as well. Emma took his hand, wondering if this would later be viewed as an act of betrayal - it made her nervous again, and some niggling second thoughts about going through with it prodded the back of her conscience edgily - until she told herself it was only for one night; and there were no relationships or emotions attached to this....What did he call it again? Right. Strings.
And besides, Shal would never, never know.
There was that guilt twinge again, grinding in the pit of her stomach and making her slightly nauseous. Stop it, Emma, she scolded herself. The world did not revolve around Shal, and if she didn't seize her chance, other people were sure as heck not going to wait around for her to make up her mind/not make up her mind. As though Brennan were some yammering toothache that wouldn't go away unless she did something about it, and Shal did particularly have dentist phobia. Well, at the rate she was going, it would be an interminable wait. No, Emma decided. She was going to do this for herself.
When the heck did she get so decisive? She squeezed Brennan's hand, not sure if she was liking the new her.
He led her into the motel reception, opening the door. 'Just wait here, Emma, I'll go park the car.' She stepped into the room, the bright light assaulting her eyes. Perhaps she shouldn't have worn red. It made her stand out. Too starkly. Like she was some red harlot woman. She could feel the receptionist's eyes on her. She almost took an involuntary step backward, turned to grab Brennan's arm but he had disappeared.
The young receptionist cleared his throat, he was Indian, she presumed - not Native American Indian but Indian as from the subcontinent. 'Room for the night, miss?' he said a little too brightly.
'Um.... yes.' She approached the counter, not daring to meet his eyes. He knows, she thought. Some anonymous person knows and if I feel embarrassed about it, it hasn't hit me. At least, not yet. She was coasting on an adrenaline spike. She wasn't sure when it would dip, but when it did, she was certain the floor would fall from under her. 'One room please. Where do I sign?'
'Just one night?'
'Yes, just one night.' She wrote a name on the foolscap ledger with the ballpoint pen that was attached to it by a string. It smudged. On a whimsy, she had written 'Michelle Bigelow.' In tribute to her best friend from high school.
'Breakfast will be coffee and donuts, from seven till ten thirty. Check out is at twelve. That'll be $84, miss.'
'Okay,' she fumbled in her purse for her wallet.
'Hey, I'll get that.' She turned to see Brennan coming from behind her and sliding a credit card across the counter.
The receptionist turned up his smile one beam brighter. 'Mr Mulw..' She saw Brennan give him a pointed look. 'Well, hello sir. We're all signed up here. I'll just swipe your card and give you your keys.'
She wondered if Brennan kept a tab. And also, if he had a special favorite room. It was nice of him anyway to keep up pretenses just to make her feel better. Like she was the first not floozy he had taken here. He was dripping a little from the rain, he had worn a windbreaker but was now shrugging it off, dripping little puddles on the threadbare (but clean) carpet. His shoes were soaked, and he was wiping his wet face with the back of his hand. That gesture gave her a pang, she could actually see the little boy in him doing just that. Somehow, that made her feel protective all of a sudden. She wondered why he never carried an umbrella - if it was any of them who couldn't afford to get unnecessarily wet, it was him - but he probably thought it wouldn't suit his image. Or something knuckle- headed like that.
He smiled at her. 'Let's go.' And led her out into the howling night. The stairs that led upstairs were shaded, but the wind was blowing something furious, and the steps were wetly slick with something slippery. And he wrapped his windbreaker around her, carefully smothering her head in the enormous hood. Smoothening her errant wisps of hair and tucking them behind her ear.
'What about you?'
'It's okay, I'll dry myself off later.' He put his arm around her and gingerly guided her upstairs. 'Careful, don't slip. Hold on to me.'
A woman could just fall in love. No, not that, she prayed, never that. Not with a guy like him. It would be the greatest folly. Especially when they had predetermined - actually HE had done most of the predetermining - it would only be for one night. So she would just have to harden her resolve, steel her emotions and keep them in check. But still - it was so nice to pretend....
The room number was 211. She would remember that. He inserted the key into the lock, and turned it. She shivered. She was seeing symbols in things. They stepped into the room and he closed the door against the elements, shutting out the keening of the wind. The room was dark and chilly, he slotted the key into the holder and fumbled for the switches next to the door. The overhead fluorescent flickered on once, twice, then blacked out completely - until she was almost sure they would going to spend the entire night in darkness - when it caught again and stayed on, buzzing a low-drone hum.
'Boy, it's cold,' he said, shrugging off his wet jacket. It was the red and black one, the one that suited him best; the one he had, like, forever. She wondered if he did his own shopping, because his tastes were eclectic to the say the least, or if his clothes were gifts from the numerous women who courted him. (And if that was the case, then THEY had questionable tastes). His hair was plastered on his head, it had grown out from his previous cut and was looking more like when she had first met him at the bar, many months ago. Somehow, this invoked in her a feeling of inexplicable wistfulness.
He was trying to turn up the thermostat. 'This will probably take a while, but I set it up to 30. It'll probably cook us.' He turned to her. 'Let me help you get out of that.'
If she wasn't so frozen, she was sure the blood in her limbs would be coursing a lot faster, pumping right into her heart and spilling out again in watery urgency. He eased the windbreaker off her, quipping 'It looks good on you, you look like Little Blue Riding Hood', which might have provoked a smile from her had she not been so tense, and ran his hand once through her hair absently, tousling it.
'Do you want me to take a shower?' he asked.
This took her by surprise. His nearness discomfited her. She wasn't sure she was looking her best. 'Uh....well, you don't have to if you don't want to.'
'Well, I'll take one anyway, I feel like a drowned rat.' He sank down on to the only armchair in the room, which was as green as the carpet (she noted that), and bent down to remove his shoes. 'Ugh. This is really really wet. If we get attacked tonight, I'm not going to be much help. So you'll just have to fight them off yourself with your third eye thingie.'
He called her psionic blast her third eye thingie. She had to smile. After the awkwardness in the car, he was returning gradually to the Brennan she knew. She was glad for that.
She unzipped her red jacket, took it off and carefully laid it across the back of the armchair, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he peeled off the tatty tank top he was wearing, revealing his very admirable physique. She had always maintained that he was a little too comfortable about his own body. Why, he practically walked around Sanctuary half-naked all the time, and had such a minimalistic sense of self-awareness that he hardly noticed it himself. But no matter how many times she had seen his body, he was still gasp-evokingly stunning and she could never resist soaking in the sight of him. Tonight of course it took on special meaning.
He began to unbuckle his belt, and the enormity of the situation suddenly sank into her and she turned away, blushing. Perhaps it would have better with a total stranger. At least there would have had been closure. The queasiness in the pit of her stomach took on a new pitch. Please don't strip all at once, she begged silently, I don't know if I can handle it.
He seemed to hear her, and stopped. She wasn't quite sure if she had unintentionally projected onto him, but it was quite possible. Her mind played funny tricks on her (and everyone else) when she was disconcerted. If he was aware of it, he shrugged it off anyway, and grinned at her. 'I'll be heading into the shower.' A pause. He seemed to hesitate. There was nothing sexual in his expression. 'Do you want to join me?'
Her breath caught in her throat. There was a questioning (hopeful?) look in his eyes.
A wave of torrid images swept through her mind - glistening hands groping wet slick bodies, hungry moist mouths urgent with need, bare limbs being kissed and adulated, the taste of bath water on skin, saltily tanged with the mild sheen of perspiration - and she gasped, another maelstrom of undefined emotions raging through her. She felt a sudden trickling moistness in her core and an aching unfulfilled need somewhere in her deep secret recesses, which would have had been embarrassing if she had allowed herself to admit to it. Did the images come from him? Unconsciously projected from the memory of a previous encounter? Or was it her own repressed subconscious conjuring her need into a fantastical erotica?
Her mouth went dry, and she had to lick her lips.
'Uh...I don't know if I'm ready for that, Brennan. Not yet anyway. I just need to ....settle down a bit.'
He looked disappointed. 'Okay. Next time maybe.' He seemed to realize the import of his words before she did. Would there even be a next time? 'Or later. When you're feeling up to it.' Another pause. Then he looked around the room in a sudden awkward haste, muttering. 'Where're the towels?' and disappeared into the bathroom.
She wanted to call out to him, 'It's not you, Brennan, it's me,' but the sound of a running shower being turned on made it pointless - he wouldn't have heard her anyway. He had left the bathroom door slightly ajar, the yellow light was spilling out, almost like an invitation should she have changed her mind. She wondered if she dared, and decided no, she didn't have that kind of dare in her.
She looked around the room. It was like he said, spartan but clean. There was a double bed in the center, flanked by two side dressers; the bedspread was a dull green to match the carpet. Overall it was a very understated room. There was a television set facing the bed. So motel room Americana. She picked up the remote and turned it on. Distraction was what she needed right now. Oh, and yes....time to settle down.
And how did one settle down around here? It wasn't as if she had brought a nightie, not that she was a nightie person to begin with she was more elongated T-shirt and comfortable panties type. Was she supposed to get into bed and strip into her undergarments, waiting for him? (the words 'wanton harlot' crept unbidden to her mind). And if she didn't, purposefully decking herself out on the bed in the full regalia she had on now, would he think her school marmly prissy and uptight?
She wondered if he was beginning to regret his decision now, and the thought of that upset her more than she would have imagined possible. She was tempted to get a reading off him, just to get a desperate feel of what he was thinking. They had all agreed long ago, the four of them, that it was a violation of the highest order of any of them were to use their powers against each other, unless it was a life and death situation or if they had to prevent one another from hurting themselves. So Jesse didn't walk through walls to spy on them in their bedrooms. Shalimar didn't prowl around panther-like on the rafters and drop down to pounce on them if they were eating a particularly good tidbit. Brennan didn't joy buzz anyone's knee underneath the dinner table to make them swallow their soup spoons though he sometimes forgot, or so he said. And she, well, they always claimed she had the most lethal power of them all. She wasn't supposed to read them unless she had their explicit permission, and that went for day time, night time, any time.
Most of the time, that worked for her since she considered herself above this petty prying, and past experiences revealed that sometimes, it was really best not to know what someone else was thinking about. But at moments like now, when nervous curiosity was eating away at her at the verge of a hyperventilation attack, with all that power within at her grasp.....No. She turned away from the temptation she was better than that and pondered instead on the state of her undress. Perhaps she would settle for something in between. She would keep her blouse on but remove her slacks, which were wet anyway at the lower trouser legs, so when she snuggled into bed, the blanket would obscure the view of her lower body. Yes, that was best.
In consternation, she noted she was wearing her white lacy panties with the little blue ribbon, the one that was so teenager-like. Perhaps he wouldn't notice. Perhaps a little less light was called for. Switching on both bedside lamps, she crossed the room to turn off the fluorescent, when she caught her reflection on the dressing table mirror. Her hair looked officially ghastly. Frantic, she fumbled in her purse for her comb and ran it hurriedly through her red waves. She wondered if she should touch up her lipstick, and decided against it because it wouldn't do later if it were smudged.
By the time he had finished showering, she was tucked up in bed, the rough green blanket covering her waist demurely, the top two buttons of her blouse undone that was as far as she would contribute towards being less uptight. He emerged, toweling his hair dry, she noted with relief he was wearing boxers because she couldn't handle him being totally naked, not yet.
'Wow, it's cosy,' he remarked. 'What's on TV?'
'Nothing much.'
He picked up the remote and began to channel flip. She observed this with just a hint of irritation. He was so typically male. It was well past midnight, and a cable channel flashing soft porn images appeared. 'Do you want to watch this?' he asked, looking at her.
She felt her cheeks flushing. 'Not really.'
'Okay.' He flipped one channel up, tossed the towel aside and shook his hair. Bathed in the pale yellow light, his well-toned body gleamed with a certain phosphorescence. Lifting the blanket on the other side of the bed, he murmured, 'Mind if I share?' and promptly got in without waiting for an answer. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Here it comes, she thought. He made a big do about fluffing his pillow and propping it up against the headboard. He then leaned back into it and tucked the blanket around his waist.
'Do you want to cuddle up to me?' He said, his expression solemn.
Her tongue went slightly dry. 'Okay.' He snuggled closer, enveloping her head in the crook of his arm and gently laying it against his chest. Like love. She could feel his skin against her cheek, and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was so warm, so alive, his skin mildly flushed and tingly from the shower. She moved her bare legs beneath the blanket, feeling a frisson of contact as they brushed against his. She wondered if she dared put her arm around his waist.
For a while, they lay like this, watching everything and nothing in particular on TV, though she couldn't honestly remember a single image or word, her heart was fluttering too much in her throat for her to experience any other sensation.
Then the realization dawned upon her that he wasn't going to do anything. He was waiting for her to make the first move.
Do I dare? She wondered. She had come so far, made so many important choices. Out of no volition of her own, her shaky hand rose from beneath the blanket to caress his waist, running across the taut silky skin that encased his abdominal muscles, the ones she had always admired from afar. Her boldness surprised even her.
She felt them contract with his sharp intake of breath. He pulled her closer, breathing the scent of her hair on the top of her head, his other hand coming around to stroke her face. Lifting her chin, he bent down to give her the first kiss, close-mouthed, almost chastely. She closed her eyes, her body becoming one giant sensory orifice as his kisses became more insistent, his tongue flicking deftly between her lips, probing, running across them, tasting them. She was glad she wasn't wearing lipstick. The smudge would have been incredible. She had never imagined kissing him would be like this.
He raised himself from the bed on his forearms, and pulled the upright pillows away. Laying her head on the mattress with care, he pushed the strands of hair away from her face. He was breathing slightly more heavily. He kissed her again, deep searching kisses; inserting his tongue into her mouth in wet, sweet invasion. She had always regarded French kissing to be a little indecent, violating too much of one's personal modesty. She had never exulted in it and maybe it was always with the wrong person, but Brennan made it so good, so very very good. He had perfect lip pressure, the right cadence; and he was obviously so very practiced in it. Oh God..
She could let him kiss her forever. But pretty soon, he's going to want more....they all did. And why did that thought come unbidden into her head? Did she not sanction this union? Did she not, in theory, want it to go a lot further?
Her heart began to drum up a tempo again as he moved his mouth to her neck, looked up mischievously and said, 'Don't worry, I won't give you a hickey', and bent down again, leaving sensuous trails down her throat. 'Let's get this off, shall we?' He tugged at her collar, and his hands moved to fumble with her buttons. She wondered if he would be able to get them off, he had such large hands, but he dexterously (and swiftly) proved her wrong. The skin of her chest and belly shivered as it came into contact with the cold air of the room (the thermostat had still not kicked up). Peeling both sides of her blouse apart with laborious care, he gazed at her brassiere.
'Pretty,' he remarked. He tugged at her bra strap, and let the elastic go with a playful snap. In alarm, she realized her bra and panties did not match. Would he notice? The air suddenly seemed heavy, the room's shadows sinisterly mocking. And when she was lying on her back like this, there was an obvious lack of cleavage. He had to notice that. Did that disappoint him, just like it had disappointed her for, like, forever since she was 13 and had begun to bud a semblance of breasts? Which did exactly that..stay a mere semblance of breasts. She wanted to reach out to turn the bedside lamps off, wishing now she had listened to Shalimar's advice about Maximizers.
If he had noticed, it didn't register. 'And let's get this off too, shall we?' He was teasing, his eyes were smiling with him. He drew her up, and helped her take off her blouse, taking care not to let it get caught in her arms. She felt a flush coming to her cheeks again, and this time the warmth was spreading down to her chest. She always did blush too easily. He was gazing at her, not a nonchalant gaze but the deep, admiring stare of a man looking at a woman he found worthy. Still locking eyes with her, he reached behind to unclasp her bra.
She gasped as he removed it, revealing her breasts in all their stark (un)glory. Instinctively, she moved to cover them with her arms.
He appeared bemused. 'But no, Emma, you're beautiful.' He gently tugged her arms away. 'Believe me, you are beautiful in every way. Look, these are made to be kissed.'
He pushed her down on the bed again and did exactly that. Cupping, squeezing, teasing with his lips and tongue, applying gentle suction pressure, making her feel wonderfully like a woman with breasts to be proud of. And all the while his hand was trailing down, languorously circling her belly button, and further down; slipping beneath the elastic band of her panties. She gasped again as he touched her core, explored it, found a sensitive nub and began to apply finger pressure onto it (she wasn't sure, but she thought it was his third finger)....But oh my God he was so gentle, she didn't think he would be in the beginning because he was such a big man, but ooooh, and aaaahh...
He was bringing her to a crest of orgasm she wasn't ready for and she squirmed, 'Please Brennan...not yet....I can't stand it.....' But he did it anyway, his mouth never straying from her breasts. And when she closed her eyes, shuddering in pleasurable arousal my first orgasm with a man, he paused to look at her, that faint grin still on his face, and started it all over again. He was merciless. She struggled out of his grasp, but he held her, and the pressure grew harder, and faster, and she came two more times before she fell back, panting, sweat fringing her face.
Oh my, but he was good.
And she realized why he was so good; it was because he loved women for the very sake that they were women. And he loved their bodies, he loved pleasuring them, possibly more than he loved being pleasured by them. Maybe it was an ego thing with him, but no sane woman could possibly complain.
He hooked both thumbs underneath the sides of her panties, made no mention about the blue ribbon, and peeled them off. Her blush deepened as he stared deep and hard, she wondered if she had any inadequacies down there as well, when he leant over to kiss her wetly startling her and provoking a moan, meting out the same treatment to her sensitive core as he did to her lips and breasts. His hands pushed down against her thighs, prying them apart; she would have cried out in sheer pleasure had she not been so embarrassed. The sensations were incredible, she wouldn't even begin to describe them to herself, no one had ever done this for her before. She felt another orgasm building, when he stopped the withdrawal felt almost like cold turkey, she now knew how smokers felt, 'No, not yet. We'll save that for later.'
And touched her again, down there. 'Wet enough,' he whispered in her ear. 'Maybe you're ready.' He rolled away from her and got up. 'Don't go away, I'll be back.'
She watched him saunter across the room - he was so magnificent - pausing to turn the television off - she couldn't believe it was still on, she hadn't heard anything except the rushing of blood in her ears for the past half hour - and grabbing his pants to remove something from his pocket. (It was the prophylactics, she thought, and clenched her fists, gathering up bunches of bedsheet.) Her palpitations were returning.
He returned, and for the first time, she noticed the bulge in his boxers, forming a tent in the material. Why hadn't she noticed that before? Panic, like a vortex, was forming. Not again, she pleaded. When are you going to tell him? You haven't told him yet ...if you don't tell him now it's going to be too late....oh God....
He slipped his boxers off, and her worst fears were realized. He was so horribly huge. She was launching into a full-scale panic attack - her throat was constricting, her heart had gone into major arrhythmia, her pupils were letting the light in, hurting her eyes. Her skin felt unbearably hot all of a sudden, and she felt as though she had to claw it off to escape that dreadful choking....He was slipping on a condom, it looked so tight on him, she wondered if it might burst.....he was positioning himself on top of her, opening her legs, his hands felt cold, things were rushing by in a blur, photokinetic images in a strobe machine....and all she could think of was how everything was spiraling downward and inward.....
With all her strength, she placed both hands on his hips and pushed him away hard. Crying 'Stop.'
TBC
Oh, and please leave a lot of reviews, critical as well. If you can't 'see' the characters and the scenes they are in, or if you can't 'feel' for them, you have to tell me. I'm writing my first fiction novel after this, it's extremely character driven, and I have to improve.
This chapter is rated mostly PG-13, with R towards the end
Chapter 3
He drove them to a motel with a gaudy neon signboard out in front, which was supposed to have flashed 'Harrod's Inn. $84 a night. Rooms available now.' Only the 'a' in Harrod's was dim and the '8' was hanging lopsided by a electronic thread, or whatever it was that held those things. She wasn't much of an electronics type, but she supposed he would know. The rain was pouring down but she could make out a U shaped building with 2 floors, with individual room doors connected by a running balcony that looked out into the centrally placed car park. Like innumerable motels across the continent. Nondescript and featureless really, like all the little towns and all the people in them who had problems like hers.
There were a number of parked cars in the courtyard. Somewhere to her left, a car alarm had been triggered, probably by the rain - though in these kinds of motels you really couldn't be sure - and the hapless automobile was flashing its rear lamps off and on, competing with the wind on which would make the loudest 'whoo'-ing sound. And losing helplessly. I hope it won't be too noisy to sleep in, she thought, when the alarm howled one last challenge to the storm and switched itself off.
The Camaro drew under the central porch, the only shaded area in the courtyard, and crawled to a stop. Light from closed glass doors, the central reception area she presumed, spilled out and threw elongated shadows onto the car seats, shielding his face from hers. Leaving the engine still running, he got out and walked round in front to the passenger door - her side - and opened it.
'This way you won't have to go into the rain,' he said. Holding the door open and proffering his hand.
Oh yes, very thoughtful, he's a real charmer. She could see why so many women would fall for him. She muttered a 'Thanks', which was probably inaudible against the sound of the storm, and fumbled for her purse which she had stashed under the seat. She remembered picking out this purse because it was red. To match the color of her jacket. Shalimar had picked it out for her when it was on 40% discount at a really posh store, the kind she wouldn't normally shop in unless she was with Shal. She remembered that particular date. It was a girls' afternoon out, they had watched a movie at a second run theatre - David Lynch's 'Mulholland Drive' - and after that they had gone to Dan Ryan's for coffee and a fudge covered brownie. They had giggled about guys, not about Brennan or Jesse in particular.
When she thought about Shalimar, she felt a stab of guilt.
But they're not seeing each other, right? He's so neck up with other women, and Shal seemed desperately to be trying to get herself attracted to other men as well. Emma took his hand, wondering if this would later be viewed as an act of betrayal - it made her nervous again, and some niggling second thoughts about going through with it prodded the back of her conscience edgily - until she told herself it was only for one night; and there were no relationships or emotions attached to this....What did he call it again? Right. Strings.
And besides, Shal would never, never know.
There was that guilt twinge again, grinding in the pit of her stomach and making her slightly nauseous. Stop it, Emma, she scolded herself. The world did not revolve around Shal, and if she didn't seize her chance, other people were sure as heck not going to wait around for her to make up her mind/not make up her mind. As though Brennan were some yammering toothache that wouldn't go away unless she did something about it, and Shal did particularly have dentist phobia. Well, at the rate she was going, it would be an interminable wait. No, Emma decided. She was going to do this for herself.
When the heck did she get so decisive? She squeezed Brennan's hand, not sure if she was liking the new her.
He led her into the motel reception, opening the door. 'Just wait here, Emma, I'll go park the car.' She stepped into the room, the bright light assaulting her eyes. Perhaps she shouldn't have worn red. It made her stand out. Too starkly. Like she was some red harlot woman. She could feel the receptionist's eyes on her. She almost took an involuntary step backward, turned to grab Brennan's arm but he had disappeared.
The young receptionist cleared his throat, he was Indian, she presumed - not Native American Indian but Indian as from the subcontinent. 'Room for the night, miss?' he said a little too brightly.
'Um.... yes.' She approached the counter, not daring to meet his eyes. He knows, she thought. Some anonymous person knows and if I feel embarrassed about it, it hasn't hit me. At least, not yet. She was coasting on an adrenaline spike. She wasn't sure when it would dip, but when it did, she was certain the floor would fall from under her. 'One room please. Where do I sign?'
'Just one night?'
'Yes, just one night.' She wrote a name on the foolscap ledger with the ballpoint pen that was attached to it by a string. It smudged. On a whimsy, she had written 'Michelle Bigelow.' In tribute to her best friend from high school.
'Breakfast will be coffee and donuts, from seven till ten thirty. Check out is at twelve. That'll be $84, miss.'
'Okay,' she fumbled in her purse for her wallet.
'Hey, I'll get that.' She turned to see Brennan coming from behind her and sliding a credit card across the counter.
The receptionist turned up his smile one beam brighter. 'Mr Mulw..' She saw Brennan give him a pointed look. 'Well, hello sir. We're all signed up here. I'll just swipe your card and give you your keys.'
She wondered if Brennan kept a tab. And also, if he had a special favorite room. It was nice of him anyway to keep up pretenses just to make her feel better. Like she was the first not floozy he had taken here. He was dripping a little from the rain, he had worn a windbreaker but was now shrugging it off, dripping little puddles on the threadbare (but clean) carpet. His shoes were soaked, and he was wiping his wet face with the back of his hand. That gesture gave her a pang, she could actually see the little boy in him doing just that. Somehow, that made her feel protective all of a sudden. She wondered why he never carried an umbrella - if it was any of them who couldn't afford to get unnecessarily wet, it was him - but he probably thought it wouldn't suit his image. Or something knuckle- headed like that.
He smiled at her. 'Let's go.' And led her out into the howling night. The stairs that led upstairs were shaded, but the wind was blowing something furious, and the steps were wetly slick with something slippery. And he wrapped his windbreaker around her, carefully smothering her head in the enormous hood. Smoothening her errant wisps of hair and tucking them behind her ear.
'What about you?'
'It's okay, I'll dry myself off later.' He put his arm around her and gingerly guided her upstairs. 'Careful, don't slip. Hold on to me.'
A woman could just fall in love. No, not that, she prayed, never that. Not with a guy like him. It would be the greatest folly. Especially when they had predetermined - actually HE had done most of the predetermining - it would only be for one night. So she would just have to harden her resolve, steel her emotions and keep them in check. But still - it was so nice to pretend....
The room number was 211. She would remember that. He inserted the key into the lock, and turned it. She shivered. She was seeing symbols in things. They stepped into the room and he closed the door against the elements, shutting out the keening of the wind. The room was dark and chilly, he slotted the key into the holder and fumbled for the switches next to the door. The overhead fluorescent flickered on once, twice, then blacked out completely - until she was almost sure they would going to spend the entire night in darkness - when it caught again and stayed on, buzzing a low-drone hum.
'Boy, it's cold,' he said, shrugging off his wet jacket. It was the red and black one, the one that suited him best; the one he had, like, forever. She wondered if he did his own shopping, because his tastes were eclectic to the say the least, or if his clothes were gifts from the numerous women who courted him. (And if that was the case, then THEY had questionable tastes). His hair was plastered on his head, it had grown out from his previous cut and was looking more like when she had first met him at the bar, many months ago. Somehow, this invoked in her a feeling of inexplicable wistfulness.
He was trying to turn up the thermostat. 'This will probably take a while, but I set it up to 30. It'll probably cook us.' He turned to her. 'Let me help you get out of that.'
If she wasn't so frozen, she was sure the blood in her limbs would be coursing a lot faster, pumping right into her heart and spilling out again in watery urgency. He eased the windbreaker off her, quipping 'It looks good on you, you look like Little Blue Riding Hood', which might have provoked a smile from her had she not been so tense, and ran his hand once through her hair absently, tousling it.
'Do you want me to take a shower?' he asked.
This took her by surprise. His nearness discomfited her. She wasn't sure she was looking her best. 'Uh....well, you don't have to if you don't want to.'
'Well, I'll take one anyway, I feel like a drowned rat.' He sank down on to the only armchair in the room, which was as green as the carpet (she noted that), and bent down to remove his shoes. 'Ugh. This is really really wet. If we get attacked tonight, I'm not going to be much help. So you'll just have to fight them off yourself with your third eye thingie.'
He called her psionic blast her third eye thingie. She had to smile. After the awkwardness in the car, he was returning gradually to the Brennan she knew. She was glad for that.
She unzipped her red jacket, took it off and carefully laid it across the back of the armchair, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he peeled off the tatty tank top he was wearing, revealing his very admirable physique. She had always maintained that he was a little too comfortable about his own body. Why, he practically walked around Sanctuary half-naked all the time, and had such a minimalistic sense of self-awareness that he hardly noticed it himself. But no matter how many times she had seen his body, he was still gasp-evokingly stunning and she could never resist soaking in the sight of him. Tonight of course it took on special meaning.
He began to unbuckle his belt, and the enormity of the situation suddenly sank into her and she turned away, blushing. Perhaps it would have better with a total stranger. At least there would have had been closure. The queasiness in the pit of her stomach took on a new pitch. Please don't strip all at once, she begged silently, I don't know if I can handle it.
He seemed to hear her, and stopped. She wasn't quite sure if she had unintentionally projected onto him, but it was quite possible. Her mind played funny tricks on her (and everyone else) when she was disconcerted. If he was aware of it, he shrugged it off anyway, and grinned at her. 'I'll be heading into the shower.' A pause. He seemed to hesitate. There was nothing sexual in his expression. 'Do you want to join me?'
Her breath caught in her throat. There was a questioning (hopeful?) look in his eyes.
A wave of torrid images swept through her mind - glistening hands groping wet slick bodies, hungry moist mouths urgent with need, bare limbs being kissed and adulated, the taste of bath water on skin, saltily tanged with the mild sheen of perspiration - and she gasped, another maelstrom of undefined emotions raging through her. She felt a sudden trickling moistness in her core and an aching unfulfilled need somewhere in her deep secret recesses, which would have had been embarrassing if she had allowed herself to admit to it. Did the images come from him? Unconsciously projected from the memory of a previous encounter? Or was it her own repressed subconscious conjuring her need into a fantastical erotica?
Her mouth went dry, and she had to lick her lips.
'Uh...I don't know if I'm ready for that, Brennan. Not yet anyway. I just need to ....settle down a bit.'
He looked disappointed. 'Okay. Next time maybe.' He seemed to realize the import of his words before she did. Would there even be a next time? 'Or later. When you're feeling up to it.' Another pause. Then he looked around the room in a sudden awkward haste, muttering. 'Where're the towels?' and disappeared into the bathroom.
She wanted to call out to him, 'It's not you, Brennan, it's me,' but the sound of a running shower being turned on made it pointless - he wouldn't have heard her anyway. He had left the bathroom door slightly ajar, the yellow light was spilling out, almost like an invitation should she have changed her mind. She wondered if she dared, and decided no, she didn't have that kind of dare in her.
She looked around the room. It was like he said, spartan but clean. There was a double bed in the center, flanked by two side dressers; the bedspread was a dull green to match the carpet. Overall it was a very understated room. There was a television set facing the bed. So motel room Americana. She picked up the remote and turned it on. Distraction was what she needed right now. Oh, and yes....time to settle down.
And how did one settle down around here? It wasn't as if she had brought a nightie, not that she was a nightie person to begin with she was more elongated T-shirt and comfortable panties type. Was she supposed to get into bed and strip into her undergarments, waiting for him? (the words 'wanton harlot' crept unbidden to her mind). And if she didn't, purposefully decking herself out on the bed in the full regalia she had on now, would he think her school marmly prissy and uptight?
She wondered if he was beginning to regret his decision now, and the thought of that upset her more than she would have imagined possible. She was tempted to get a reading off him, just to get a desperate feel of what he was thinking. They had all agreed long ago, the four of them, that it was a violation of the highest order of any of them were to use their powers against each other, unless it was a life and death situation or if they had to prevent one another from hurting themselves. So Jesse didn't walk through walls to spy on them in their bedrooms. Shalimar didn't prowl around panther-like on the rafters and drop down to pounce on them if they were eating a particularly good tidbit. Brennan didn't joy buzz anyone's knee underneath the dinner table to make them swallow their soup spoons though he sometimes forgot, or so he said. And she, well, they always claimed she had the most lethal power of them all. She wasn't supposed to read them unless she had their explicit permission, and that went for day time, night time, any time.
Most of the time, that worked for her since she considered herself above this petty prying, and past experiences revealed that sometimes, it was really best not to know what someone else was thinking about. But at moments like now, when nervous curiosity was eating away at her at the verge of a hyperventilation attack, with all that power within at her grasp.....No. She turned away from the temptation she was better than that and pondered instead on the state of her undress. Perhaps she would settle for something in between. She would keep her blouse on but remove her slacks, which were wet anyway at the lower trouser legs, so when she snuggled into bed, the blanket would obscure the view of her lower body. Yes, that was best.
In consternation, she noted she was wearing her white lacy panties with the little blue ribbon, the one that was so teenager-like. Perhaps he wouldn't notice. Perhaps a little less light was called for. Switching on both bedside lamps, she crossed the room to turn off the fluorescent, when she caught her reflection on the dressing table mirror. Her hair looked officially ghastly. Frantic, she fumbled in her purse for her comb and ran it hurriedly through her red waves. She wondered if she should touch up her lipstick, and decided against it because it wouldn't do later if it were smudged.
By the time he had finished showering, she was tucked up in bed, the rough green blanket covering her waist demurely, the top two buttons of her blouse undone that was as far as she would contribute towards being less uptight. He emerged, toweling his hair dry, she noted with relief he was wearing boxers because she couldn't handle him being totally naked, not yet.
'Wow, it's cosy,' he remarked. 'What's on TV?'
'Nothing much.'
He picked up the remote and began to channel flip. She observed this with just a hint of irritation. He was so typically male. It was well past midnight, and a cable channel flashing soft porn images appeared. 'Do you want to watch this?' he asked, looking at her.
She felt her cheeks flushing. 'Not really.'
'Okay.' He flipped one channel up, tossed the towel aside and shook his hair. Bathed in the pale yellow light, his well-toned body gleamed with a certain phosphorescence. Lifting the blanket on the other side of the bed, he murmured, 'Mind if I share?' and promptly got in without waiting for an answer. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Here it comes, she thought. He made a big do about fluffing his pillow and propping it up against the headboard. He then leaned back into it and tucked the blanket around his waist.
'Do you want to cuddle up to me?' He said, his expression solemn.
Her tongue went slightly dry. 'Okay.' He snuggled closer, enveloping her head in the crook of his arm and gently laying it against his chest. Like love. She could feel his skin against her cheek, and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was so warm, so alive, his skin mildly flushed and tingly from the shower. She moved her bare legs beneath the blanket, feeling a frisson of contact as they brushed against his. She wondered if she dared put her arm around his waist.
For a while, they lay like this, watching everything and nothing in particular on TV, though she couldn't honestly remember a single image or word, her heart was fluttering too much in her throat for her to experience any other sensation.
Then the realization dawned upon her that he wasn't going to do anything. He was waiting for her to make the first move.
Do I dare? She wondered. She had come so far, made so many important choices. Out of no volition of her own, her shaky hand rose from beneath the blanket to caress his waist, running across the taut silky skin that encased his abdominal muscles, the ones she had always admired from afar. Her boldness surprised even her.
She felt them contract with his sharp intake of breath. He pulled her closer, breathing the scent of her hair on the top of her head, his other hand coming around to stroke her face. Lifting her chin, he bent down to give her the first kiss, close-mouthed, almost chastely. She closed her eyes, her body becoming one giant sensory orifice as his kisses became more insistent, his tongue flicking deftly between her lips, probing, running across them, tasting them. She was glad she wasn't wearing lipstick. The smudge would have been incredible. She had never imagined kissing him would be like this.
He raised himself from the bed on his forearms, and pulled the upright pillows away. Laying her head on the mattress with care, he pushed the strands of hair away from her face. He was breathing slightly more heavily. He kissed her again, deep searching kisses; inserting his tongue into her mouth in wet, sweet invasion. She had always regarded French kissing to be a little indecent, violating too much of one's personal modesty. She had never exulted in it and maybe it was always with the wrong person, but Brennan made it so good, so very very good. He had perfect lip pressure, the right cadence; and he was obviously so very practiced in it. Oh God..
She could let him kiss her forever. But pretty soon, he's going to want more....they all did. And why did that thought come unbidden into her head? Did she not sanction this union? Did she not, in theory, want it to go a lot further?
Her heart began to drum up a tempo again as he moved his mouth to her neck, looked up mischievously and said, 'Don't worry, I won't give you a hickey', and bent down again, leaving sensuous trails down her throat. 'Let's get this off, shall we?' He tugged at her collar, and his hands moved to fumble with her buttons. She wondered if he would be able to get them off, he had such large hands, but he dexterously (and swiftly) proved her wrong. The skin of her chest and belly shivered as it came into contact with the cold air of the room (the thermostat had still not kicked up). Peeling both sides of her blouse apart with laborious care, he gazed at her brassiere.
'Pretty,' he remarked. He tugged at her bra strap, and let the elastic go with a playful snap. In alarm, she realized her bra and panties did not match. Would he notice? The air suddenly seemed heavy, the room's shadows sinisterly mocking. And when she was lying on her back like this, there was an obvious lack of cleavage. He had to notice that. Did that disappoint him, just like it had disappointed her for, like, forever since she was 13 and had begun to bud a semblance of breasts? Which did exactly that..stay a mere semblance of breasts. She wanted to reach out to turn the bedside lamps off, wishing now she had listened to Shalimar's advice about Maximizers.
If he had noticed, it didn't register. 'And let's get this off too, shall we?' He was teasing, his eyes were smiling with him. He drew her up, and helped her take off her blouse, taking care not to let it get caught in her arms. She felt a flush coming to her cheeks again, and this time the warmth was spreading down to her chest. She always did blush too easily. He was gazing at her, not a nonchalant gaze but the deep, admiring stare of a man looking at a woman he found worthy. Still locking eyes with her, he reached behind to unclasp her bra.
She gasped as he removed it, revealing her breasts in all their stark (un)glory. Instinctively, she moved to cover them with her arms.
He appeared bemused. 'But no, Emma, you're beautiful.' He gently tugged her arms away. 'Believe me, you are beautiful in every way. Look, these are made to be kissed.'
He pushed her down on the bed again and did exactly that. Cupping, squeezing, teasing with his lips and tongue, applying gentle suction pressure, making her feel wonderfully like a woman with breasts to be proud of. And all the while his hand was trailing down, languorously circling her belly button, and further down; slipping beneath the elastic band of her panties. She gasped again as he touched her core, explored it, found a sensitive nub and began to apply finger pressure onto it (she wasn't sure, but she thought it was his third finger)....But oh my God he was so gentle, she didn't think he would be in the beginning because he was such a big man, but ooooh, and aaaahh...
He was bringing her to a crest of orgasm she wasn't ready for and she squirmed, 'Please Brennan...not yet....I can't stand it.....' But he did it anyway, his mouth never straying from her breasts. And when she closed her eyes, shuddering in pleasurable arousal my first orgasm with a man, he paused to look at her, that faint grin still on his face, and started it all over again. He was merciless. She struggled out of his grasp, but he held her, and the pressure grew harder, and faster, and she came two more times before she fell back, panting, sweat fringing her face.
Oh my, but he was good.
And she realized why he was so good; it was because he loved women for the very sake that they were women. And he loved their bodies, he loved pleasuring them, possibly more than he loved being pleasured by them. Maybe it was an ego thing with him, but no sane woman could possibly complain.
He hooked both thumbs underneath the sides of her panties, made no mention about the blue ribbon, and peeled them off. Her blush deepened as he stared deep and hard, she wondered if she had any inadequacies down there as well, when he leant over to kiss her wetly startling her and provoking a moan, meting out the same treatment to her sensitive core as he did to her lips and breasts. His hands pushed down against her thighs, prying them apart; she would have cried out in sheer pleasure had she not been so embarrassed. The sensations were incredible, she wouldn't even begin to describe them to herself, no one had ever done this for her before. She felt another orgasm building, when he stopped the withdrawal felt almost like cold turkey, she now knew how smokers felt, 'No, not yet. We'll save that for later.'
And touched her again, down there. 'Wet enough,' he whispered in her ear. 'Maybe you're ready.' He rolled away from her and got up. 'Don't go away, I'll be back.'
She watched him saunter across the room - he was so magnificent - pausing to turn the television off - she couldn't believe it was still on, she hadn't heard anything except the rushing of blood in her ears for the past half hour - and grabbing his pants to remove something from his pocket. (It was the prophylactics, she thought, and clenched her fists, gathering up bunches of bedsheet.) Her palpitations were returning.
He returned, and for the first time, she noticed the bulge in his boxers, forming a tent in the material. Why hadn't she noticed that before? Panic, like a vortex, was forming. Not again, she pleaded. When are you going to tell him? You haven't told him yet ...if you don't tell him now it's going to be too late....oh God....
He slipped his boxers off, and her worst fears were realized. He was so horribly huge. She was launching into a full-scale panic attack - her throat was constricting, her heart had gone into major arrhythmia, her pupils were letting the light in, hurting her eyes. Her skin felt unbearably hot all of a sudden, and she felt as though she had to claw it off to escape that dreadful choking....He was slipping on a condom, it looked so tight on him, she wondered if it might burst.....he was positioning himself on top of her, opening her legs, his hands felt cold, things were rushing by in a blur, photokinetic images in a strobe machine....and all she could think of was how everything was spiraling downward and inward.....
With all her strength, she placed both hands on his hips and pushed him away hard. Crying 'Stop.'
TBC