Body Heat (18 page)
Authors: Susan Fox
God help him if he began to like that woman, as well as lust after her. She did control his future. Twice today, she’d been thinking of cutting him loose: after that kiss, and when she’d asked him about his attack on Pollan.
Shit, he’d have to watch himself. Didn’t want to end up in jail. His grip tightened on the handlebars and he revved the throttle.
Over the next hour, riding hard and fast, his tension dissolved in the sheer joy of operating the powerful machine. Finally, starvation had him turning back. He could have beer and a burger at Low Down, or Con would take him in if he showed up. That nice Mrs. Wolchuk had invited him to the Polish Community Center. All good options, except he wasn’t in a mood for company.
He did need food, though. It was a lot of hours since he’d eaten ham and cheese sandwiches in the garden.
Nice of Maura to give him lunch, especially when she was pissed that he’d taken Fred for a ride.
She’d smiled, though, when he told her about the old guy whooping his head off. There was a spark of fun in the woman, under that straightlaced exterior.
He thought of how he’d last seen Maura, out in the garden tonight. Her pretty green sweater had been buttoned all the way from neck to hem. All those buttons, they gave a man ideas . . .
Button, unbutton . . .
He stopped at a red light.
Her sweater had about a million of the things . . .
Little green ones that matched the soft wool, small enough to challenge big hands like his. But man, he wanted to unbutton her, to get inside that sweater, to make her open up to him . . .
His hands were clumsy as he fumbled with those buttons. He could have stripped the sweater over her head, but there was something sexier about undoing her, a button at a time. He leaned down to nip her collarbone.
“Jesse,” she protested.
He nipped again, then moved to the other collarbone. She sighed.
As he worked down the front of her sweater he resisted pulling the edges apart. Prolonging the anticipation.
Wondering about what lay beneath. Firm breasts—curves his knuckles nudged against as he worked the buttons. Breasts confined by a bra, but what kind?
With each button he undid, his dick pulsed and thickened.
When he reached the ones that held the sweater closed across her stomach, he thought about that stomach, a pale curve of soft flesh under her skirt. He bet himself what kind of panties she’d be wearing. Simple, practical, expensive, he figured.
That was fine by him. Anything would be sexy, on her.
Very slowly, he peeled the edges of the sweater back, starting at the neck. His pulse thudded as he revealed the pale top curves of her breasts and—
A blast of horns brought him back to reality. Now he ached in two places: his stomach and farther south.
He could fix one of the aches easily. He swung into a parking lot. The Colonel would deal with his hunger pangs. As for his lust pangs . . . He was on his own there.
Maura Mahoney was his fantasy, and she’d never be a real part of his life.
In reality, she wouldn’t climb on the back of his Harley, visit with Con and Juanito, stop for a beer with the guys, shoot a game of pool, pick up pizza or KFC to take home for an evening in front of the TV—much less let him unbutton all of those buttons.
Oh, hell, she wasn’t the only female in the world. He could phone someone. There’d been women he hooked up with, who just enjoyed a good time. Hadn’t seen any of them in a while. Nah, none of them appealed.
Tuesday he’d see Gracie and ask her out. She was pretty, sparkly, and he could see her fitting into his world.
He picked up three pieces of extra-crispy and large orders of fries and slaw, and rode back to his apartment. There, he peeled off his dirty jeans and tee. Dinner first, shower later. He cracked open a beer and settled in his battered leather recliner, clad in black boxer-briefs. The joys of living alone. No one to care how he looked or smelled.
Who needed women anyhow?
Maura lugged the heavy hanging basket out to her balcony and gazed up. No hook. Oh, well, she was off tomorrow so she’d have a chat with the building manager. He was an older man, a widower, and enjoyed doing fix-up tasks for the residents.
She set her pink geranium and herbs on the windowsill and smiled. The kitchen looked much cheerier. Why hadn’t she thought of this years ago, when she moved out on her own? Maybe next, she’d get a bird.
Now, before she did anything else, she had to phone Edward. Had it just kept skipping her mind, or had she been putting it off? She checked her cell for the number he’d called from.
When he answered, she said, “Edward, it’s Maura. I’m sorry for being abrupt this morning. I’d pulled off on the side of the highway and it was too dangerous to stay there.”
“No problem. I’m sorry you can’t attend the lecture tomorrow.”
It would be good to spend time together, if she was considering inviting him to the reunion. She opened her mouth to tell him her plans had changed, when he said, “Fortunately, your parents and one of Timothy’s colleagues decided to come along.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good then.” No, she didn’t want to hang out with that group. What should she say now? “You’re enjoying your visit here?”
“Yes, though it always takes a while to get the feel of a new place.”
“You’ve traveled a lot?” She’d never had anyone to go with, and exploring a new place on her own didn’t appeal.
“My father was in the military. Then I did my post-secondary schooling at four different universities, and I’m still on the move.”
“That’s unusual for an academic, isn’t it?”
He chuckled. “You’re right. You can’t get tenure when you don’t stay in one spot. As your father’s been reminding me.”
“I guess all professors want tenure.”
“I’m not sure I’m there yet. But who knows, this may be the place I want to settle. I do want a family, and I suppose that’ll mean landing in one spot. It’s tough on a spouse and kids, always moving around.”
Hmm. Edward was more interesting tonight, talking just to her, not getting caught up in her parents’ intellectual discourses. They chatted for a few more minutes, and she liked that he didn’t go on and on about himself, but asked her about her job, and whether she enjoyed travel.
“Well, I’m afraid I must go,” he said finally. “One of the professors has invited me to his house for dinner. But Maura, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Since tomorrow night doesn’t work for you, is there some other time we could get together?”
“I’d like that. I’m working most evenings.” Her schedule was crazy, what with filling in for both Louise and the general manager, not to mention supervising Jesse. “I’ll be free on Friday.” And, hopefully, the Board would approve her budget at the afternoon meeting and she’d be in a good mood.
“Then it’s a date.”
She’d see how things went, then decide about the reunion. As she hung up the phone, she felt optimistic.
Quickly she tossed together a chicken and veggies stir-fry, using some of her fresh herbs, and ate it at the kitchen table along with a glass of a BC Ehrenfelser wine that she loved. After tidying up, she took the library book to her reading chair. She needed to find out why she’d gone from pretty much frigid to having hotter-than-sin fantasies, virtually overnight.
Her best guess to explain her odd sexual urges and fantasies was a hormonal change related to turning thirty, so she turned first to that section of the book.
Hmm, yes, there could be hormonal changes, it said, like loss of testosterone, and that could lead to . . . lowered sex drive? Well, that certainly didn’t apply to her.
Maybe this next part did. She read that many women in their thirties felt more sexual and enjoyed their sex lives more, because—oh. Those women were more experienced, more confident, more knowledgeable about what turned them on. Maura snorted. That sure as heck didn’t apply to her, either. What turned her on seemed to be fantasies about a completely inappropriate man.
When it came to the men she’d dated, including her two lovers, her sexual response had been lukewarm. Was there any hope she’d ever be aroused by a suitable man—a man like Edward?
Sighing, she flipped to the chapter on sexual dysfunction, including frigidity.
To her surprise, she found that she wasn’t alone. The book said that a lot of women didn’t have orgasms, and many considered themselves frigid. Her eyes widened as she read on. Often, it was because their partners didn’t have much of a clue how to arouse them. Nodding, she tapped her pen against the book. Yes, that did apply to her lovers and dates. Jesse, though . . . Oh, my, the touch of his hand, even the sight of him, made her body tingle and yearn.
He was experienced, sexually confident, very physical. He must have some special knack that the men she dated hadn’t. With a lover like him, surely any woman would experience sexual bliss.
He could teach her . . .
No, that was ridiculous. Not only was he all wrong for her, but she certainly wasn’t going to risk her job for the sake of a sexual experiment.
She turned back to the book and read on. The authors said that women often didn’t know their bodies well enough to know what aroused them, so they couldn’t guide their partners. Although Maura couldn’t imagine telling a man what to do to please her, the truth was that she’d have no idea what to say.
The book used the M word. The word that was never actually said in that “master of my domain” Seinfeld episode about the contest where the characters challenged each other to see who could go the longest without masturbating. Maura had never been able to relate to that episode.
The book said women should experiment with their own bodies to understand the process of orgasm and how they best achieved it. It said most girls did this in their teens and it was perfectly natural.
So, in this area of her life, her development was stunted. Yes, a few times while watching a particularly sexy movie, she’d touched herself, but she’d always stopped. The thought of trying to manipulate her own body to pleasure just made her feel more deficient. Pathetic. Besides, she’d had no reason to believe it would work.
Still, the authors stressed the importance of this kind of experimentation. They recommended that women overcome their inhibitions, and they’d learn a lot.
Inhibitions. There was that word again. She thought of herself as practical—like when she avoided social situations where she knew she’d just feel uncomfortable and not make friends. But sometimes did she cross over the line to being inhibited and repressed? Had that held her back from having fun—and great sex?
The authors of this book seemed positive that inhibitions were more of an obstacle to a satisfying sex life than frigidity. So perhaps she ought to . . . loosen up. Often, she heard her parents’ voices in her head, but now there was a different chorus: her old friend Sally, Sophie Rudnicki, Jesse.
Let down your hair, Maura.
In the safety of her own home, what would it hurt?
She reached up and began to pull the pins from her hair as she read on. The authors said that, to break through the barrier of inhibition, a woman had to relax and open herself to the possibility of orgasm. The possibility of being a sensual, sexual creature.
The authors had recommendations, like wine and candlelight, a bubble bath. Maura made a list, then began to work through it.
She found candles on the top shelf of the hall cupboard, red ones left over from a holiday dinner. Not scented, but she’d sprinkle perfume in the bath water. Though she rarely wore perfume, there was an unopened bottle that had been an impulse buy, like the orchid in her office. The scent made her think of sultry southern nights. Gardenia, she read on the bottle.
She didn’t have bubble bath, so instead used a milk bath Aunt Evelyn, her dad’s sister, had given her. What would her prim and proper unmarried aunt say if she knew how her gift was being used?
For music, Maura chose an album of light jazz with lots of saxophone, music that matched the sultry gardenia scent. Next on the list was wine. Supposedly a relaxer of inhibitions, which was why she rarely had more than one glass. Tonight, she poured a second glass of Ehrenfelser.
Then, leaving her glasses on so she’d be able to read, she stripped off her clothing and stepped into the heated water, book in hand.
Relax,
the book said.
Savor all the sensations, concentrate on each sense individually, and then let them all slip together into one overall feeling of sensuality.
the book said.
Savor all the sensations, concentrate on each sense individually, and then let them all slip together into one overall feeling of sensuality.
Okay, the senses. Sight. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, and focused, moving the book aside. Oh, yes, she enjoyed the mellow flicker of the candles, that creamy glaze on the top of the water, the sparkles of gold as the light caught tiny bubbles. She lifted one knee, noting how the milky surface parted and the bubbles drifted away. Water ran down her leg and her skin looked satiny and slick.
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