Legalities and other niceties in Chapter 1.
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31 March 2003 – Mac
It's just after midnight now and we're all checked in at our quaint bed and breakfast. I'd be willing to bet that Meredith brought the admiral here while he was recuperating from his untimely exit from Harm's Tomcat back in February; it's a place she would enjoy sharing with him.
Harm and I can't fault the choice, either. Our room – and it's a room with only one bed, which I am sure our commanding officer and the woman I hope he marries knew when they made the last minute reservation – is beautifully done in forest green walls with ivory wainscoting and ceiling; a maroon/ivory/gold/green bed suite, curtains, and throw rugs in florals and stripes; and a polished hardwood floor that would make any Marine Corps Drill Instructor proud. The motif continues in the luxurious bathroom; the tile floor is the same deep green of the bedroom walls and is veined with ivory, while the cabinetry is the same wood as the floor. A fabulous clear glass shower stall occupies one corner of the room while along one entire wall stretches the longest and deepest Jacuzzi tub I've ever seen in a private room or house.
We will be exploring that tub at length. What a nice coincidence that I happened to pack my infamous blue bikini in that sea bag of mine…
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31 March 2003 – Harm
I hear Sarah inhale from the bathroom and move to see inside.
Yeah, baby.
Damn that provision about being naked…
"Harm?" she asks from six feet away in the middle of the cavernous room.
"Sarah?"
"I'll start the water if you'll get my swimsuit out of my bag for me."
Swimsuit. That's a devastating thought. Not, mind you, that she doesn't look absolutely ravishing in her black racer-back one-piece, but that she's the one to keep the rules the first time…
I hear her chuckle and look up to face her, but I must not be focused because she takes the two steps necessary to be within smacking distance and knocks her open palm against my arm twice. "Harm! Swimsuit!"
"Uh, yeah, baby," I manage, turning to begin my mission.
I should do this neatly, but right now the only thing I can really think about is submerging myself into that tub with Sarah's curvaceous body tucked in with me, so I open her sea bag and dump the contents on the floor inside the closet, thankful for the light on the wall. Marines pack their bags funny; us squids aren't required to stack them any particular way, just to fold and roll things appropriately. Marines, on the other hand, have taken uniformity to such absurd lengths that the pile before me maintains the two halves of its neatly rolled and folded shape around the laptop and phone; I can see the demarcations between sections. I have to guess that swimming gear would be considered skivvies, so I dive into that section of appropriately dull white and black undergarments. And come up empty.
Hmm…
Socks? Nah, but I check anyway. Uniform gear? Possibly, I suppose, but again I come up empty and by now the pile is in shambles. I paw through the small collection of toiletries – deciding that she might need her toothbrush, comb, and the body mist tonight, I set them to the side to take with me when I finish my quest – and move on to the personal preference section. There I find my two t-shirts (now bearing her scent and mine, which makes them all the more precious to me now) and…eureka! The blue bikini of my dreams.
Tomorrow, we're going shopping for a black Speedo.
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31 March 2003 – Mac
"Um, yeah, baby," Harm says, his eyes far away even though he's looking right at me. I know where he went when I said swimsuit. He's reliving that conversation we had last week about the blue bikini and the black Speedo; I will take to my grave the fact that the reason I mentioned my bikini was because I knew I had it with me. Not that I expected to be here to use it, but I'm not bypassing the opportunity.
I turn on the hot water tap and let the water work its way through the pipes before I set the plug in place. I know, it's wasteful, but after a week of cold, one-minute rainwater showers in the desert, I'm going to take advantage of the creature comforts.
And speaking of creature comforts, Harm has showered today – okay, technically yesterday – but I barely had time to rinse off and change into my dress uniform in the women's head at Centcom HQ before my flight left Doha at 0710 East Coast time yesterday. I've been in combat since my last cold shower. I need to shower or I'll leave sand scum in the tub.
I strip off my uniform blouse and skirt – the jacket hit the hanger in the closet before I even looked at the bed, never mind the bathroom – and roll off the pantyhose gingerly because I don't want to buy a new pair for Tuesday and the pair I wore on the flight over to Qatar went into tying down a recalcitrant canvas awning during the last of the sandstorms outside Baghdad. The sensible black bra needs to be washed, too, so I reach into the shower to turn the spray on and step into the pure bliss of a pulsating hot massage.
I'm surprised a moment later to realize that I'm being somewhat cruel to Harm, and that it may actually be subconsciously intentional. He's going to come in here with my bikini to find me nude in the shower, and then he'll have to watch me get dressed before I allow him to strip down. So the question becomes, do I let him touch, or make him just look?
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31 March 2003 – Harm
The glass stall is fogged from Mac's shower and steam rises from the slowly filling tub as I close the door behind me. "Sarah, I have your, um, swimsuit."
"Thank you," her voice comes back, rich with laughter she hasn't let out. "Just hand it in." The stall door opens a fraction and two exquisite fingers extend through the gap.
Damn, I was so hoping for a first look.
Okay, and a chance to touch.
I'm a guy. Sue me.
I'm a lawyer in love with the most beautiful woman in the universe. I'd win.
With as dramatic a sigh as I can manage, I take the three strides necessary to reach the shower and lay the two pieces of the bikini of my dreams on the still digits; I can't help the whimper that escapes when those same fingers disappear into the mist.
And then it dawns on me that this incredible woman has manipulated me into this situation. She caught me out last week on the phone. "No, you'd rather see me wipe out," she said to my comment about seeing her surf. "More precisely, you'd rather see me all wet in my blue bikini, right, Commander?"
Well, duh. My mind reels even now at the thought of what I'm about to see. The water in the shower stops running; the door swings open wide. Five long toes emerge first, followed by one elegant foot and the accompanying long, sculpted leg that swings the toes and foot to the plush ivory bathmat as gracefully as the pilot of that C-5 landed the behemoth that brought my Sarah home to me.
I have to remind myself to breathe as I wait an eternity (that's a good word now) for the rest of her to materialize; when she does, I'm really glad I breathed before because I certainly can't now.
Until this moment, I had thought of myself as a man with a vivid imagination. But "breathtaking" is so insufficient a description as to be inane when it comes to the glorious vision in flesh and blue before me.
Sarah's chocolate eyes dance over me; I see the thought form in her mind but am powerless to stop her when she closes the distance between us and begins to loosen my Navy-issue black tie as the steam gathers around her glistening, moisture-beaded body.
Yeah, I'm a dolt; I got as far as taking the jacket and shoes off but nothing else.
On second thought, she's standing here undressing me, obviously relishing the task as her hands move down my chest, unbuttoning my dress shirt as she keeps her eyes locked on mine. I gasp when she slides her hands down into my pants, but she's only being gentle with my shirt because she knows that I, like she, has only the one uniform to wear on Tuesday – and neither of us has any interest in spending any of our precious time together obtaining different ones.
Mac has my shirt undone; she walks around behind me and slides it off my shoulders with the gentlest of caresses. Then her hands delve into my pants again but with less control; she whips my t-shirt off my torso in one swift, smooth motion that has my arms moving without my conscious participation.
I expect her to move back in front of me to continue her work, but my Sarah is more creative than that. Her left arm wraps around my chest and she splays her hand on my breastbone, stroking the sensitive hair and skin in small circles. This hypnotizing motion holds me in thrall until the warm, humid air hits my legs and I realize that she's managed to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip my trousers (no, officers don't wear dress pants with 13 buttons, in case you're wondering) without me noticing.
Even had the air on my bare legs not gotten my attention, her next move would have. Her hands move to the waistband of my briefs and she hooks her fingers at either hip. With a delicacy I won't be able to duplicate when our positions are reversed, she slides my remaining garment down my legs until it rests on top of the puddle at my ankles that is my trousers.
My reaction is instinctive when she runs one short, smooth fingernail up my right leg from my mid-calf to my mid-thigh; I lift my leg and her right foot slips into view for a second when she twirls my clothes out from under my foot. She repeats this on my left leg; when I am unencumbered and back on both legs she does something I've never experienced before but will remember for my turn.
Mac runs one of her hands up each of my legs from ankle to thigh, spinning her touch around as she goes until her palms rest in the crease of my hips and her thumbs rest just above the part of me that hasn't gotten the message that we're on leave and at ease.
Not that I can find fault with that; Sarah has pressed herself against my back and her tongue is tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder blades between nips and nibbles.
I deserve a medal for the amount of self-control I am currently exercising.
