Rest & Trust (13 page)

“By making me drive to your dirty house in the middle of the night? Be still my heart.”

He chuckled. The sound in her ear made her belly flutter. “Spikes down, little outlaw. Are you still dressed?”

She looked down at the black dress, the pearls on her wrist. She’d kicked off her shoes and gotten online right away, looking for Sherlock. “Maybe.”

“Then pick up your keys and come here.”

“Are your sheets clean?”

“Contrary to your belief, I change my sheets every time I do laundry. But I will change them again right now. Daisy fresh. Come. Here.”

“Are you telling me what to do?”

“Sure would like to be.”

She wanted that, too. “Okay. I’m coming.”

“Good girl.”

~oOo~

When he opened the door, his eyebrows went way up. “Damn. I didn’t know I’d ordered the Audrey Hepburn experience.”

She grinned, absurdly pleased with the Hepburn comparison, but said, “Asshole,” just to keep him honest. He’d also compared her to a hooker, after all.

He stepped back, and she stepped up into his house, and then he kissed her. She loved the way he did that. Not just the way his mouth moved with hers, which was fucking fantastic, but the way he pulled her body so closely to his that she had to bend backward, the way he curled over her, compensating for his greater height. He made her feel surrounded. Truly embraced.

When he pulled away and smiled down at her, she scratched all her fingers through his glorious beard. Damn, she loved that thing.

“I got a little something for you. Not much.”

“What? You said you forgot.”

“Twenty-four-hour Safeway just down the road. Like I said, not much.” He led her the rest of the way into his living room—which was tidier than she remembered. A little. On the now-uncluttered coffee table was a little round cake. Not much, just one of those little cake-for-two things that all markets sold. White frosting with two yellow roses. He’d stuck a little plastic sign that read ‘Happy Birthday’ in the middle. It listed to the right.

It was the most pathetic, remarkable, lame, perfect little cake she’d ever seen, and for a second she thought she might cry.

“Your dad probably had a cake for you with dinner.” He was standing so close behind her that she felt the breath of his words against her cheek.

Looking down at her cake, she shook her head. “No. Crème brûlée.”

“I forgot candles. Sorry. Kind of in a rush.”

“That’s okay. Sherlock, it’s awesome. Thank you.”

“You want a piece?”

Cutting into it would destroy the perfect picture it made. She turned and met his eyes over her shoulder. “Not right now. Not of that, anyway.”

Catching her meaning, he grinned, his teeth moving over the ring through his lip, and grabbed her hand. “You’re keeping the pearls and the shoes on.”

~oOo~

Sadie woke the next morning in Sherlock’s bed. She could feel his warmth and weight behind her. Keeping still, she took the quiet moment to look around and see as much as she could see from her side.

She’d been surprised that his room was fairly clean—messy and cluttered as fuck, but not dirty. The small space was dominated by his bed, a queen-size (with a mattress that was a billion times better than hers) framed by nightstands. She’d giggled last night when he’d hit the switch and the lamps on the nightstands had come on. Their bases were figures of the monsters from
Aliens
.

They weren’t the geekiest thing in the room, though. The other pieces of furniture were his big leather desk chair and a gaming desk, on which sat a CPU, and elaborate keyboard and gaming mouse, and three big monitors connected together, two side by side and one above. A huge flexscreen television hung on the wall above them. Five different kinds of headsets hung from hooks on the wall next to the door. Framed vintage horror movie posters hung over the bed.

She’d always considered herself a full-blooded geek. But she was a muggle in comparison to this guy.

What she wouldn’t give, though, for a couple of hours alone in this house with a bucket of soapy water, a few rags, and a vacuum cleaner. Possibly a hazmat suit, too, for the kitchen. And very likely the bathroom.

She kind of had to pee, but she could hold off.

He had clothes draped over the desk chair, and there were a couple of piles on the floor, plus two laundry baskets full of what Sadie assumed were clean clothes. No bureau or anything, but his closet door was open, and she’d seen that the organizer in there had a few drawers. She smiled at the thought of a guy this messy having a closet organizer. It must have been already installed when he bought the house.

Moving carefully lest she wake him, Sadie rolled to her other side so she could see him. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head. This was normally their way: they’d fall asleep spooning, and at some point in the night, he’d roll to his back. She’d always been a still sleeper, so she usually woke in the position she’d gone to sleep in. Unless Sherlock woke and moved her.

Sleeping with someone else was a wonderful thing. He didn’t snore—thank God—and according to him, neither did she. It was a warm and safe way to spend one’s rest, curled up with somebody one…cared about.

He normally got up well before her. She liked to stay in bed as long as she could, but he got antsy, and if he wasn’t going to start something, then he got up. Watching him sleep like this, in daylight, was an unexpected luxury.

The cover cut across his belly; she tugged it down, wanting to see more of him. God, she loved his body. Before she’d met Sherlock, she would have said thirty-eight was middle-aged. But he looked young and was incredibly virile. More stamina than she had, in fact. He had no grey in his hair anywhere, and his body was firm and beautifully fit. He had an assortment of scars, the worst of which being the one he’d shown her his first time in her apartment. His hands were on the rough side, but she thought that was work and activity more than age. The only signs of age at all were the faint rays of lines at the corners of his eyes, and the beginning of a line between his brows.

Unless he was smiling, Sherlock had a furrowed resting expression, almost a frown—it was why he always looked so intense. When he smiled, though, he looked her age rather than his.

She put her hand on his chest and traced a line from his breastbone to his navel, then down to the trimmed, dark auburn hair around his cock. He did a little bit of manscaping after all. Just this trim, though, and she appreciated it. As she scratched her fingers through that short hair, his sleeping cock stirred, woke, and stretched. She looked up at his face, but he was still asleep; no other part of his body had moved.

He was so much in charge of their fucking that even these weeks later, she’d done little more than touch him a few times. She’d never gotten him off. Seeing an opportunity before her, she scooted down and lifted his cock into her hand. It finished filling out as she held him.

Still wearing her mother’s pearl bracelet, she smiled at the sight of her classily-adorned wrist attached to the hand holding that mass of man. He was so thick that there was probably more than an inch between her thumb and middle finger when she circled her hand around him.

With another glance upward to see that he was still sleeping, she bent over him and sucked him into her mouth. Just the tip; she sucked and licked until he twitched in her hold, and then she sucked more of him, as much as she could. He tasted faintly of condom and more strongly of him.

She had laid her other hand on his belly while she worked his cock; now she felt that hand lift as he took a deep breath. On the exhale, he murmured, “Yeah, sweetheart. Take me deep.”

That made her laugh around his cock. She’d taken him about as deep as she could. He was way too big for more than that. But he flexed his hips upward, pushing himself into her mouth. Worried, she pulled away.

“Easy. I can’t.”

His eyes lased her; his whole expression was on fire. It made her feel a little unsettled. Not afraid, but still nervous, somehow. She didn’t know why.

“With that mouth? Sure you can.”

She shook her head, feeling more nervous. Maybe even fizzy. “No. You’re too big.”

“I can show you how. Do you want to?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want.” He sat up and put his hand over hers on his belly.

She believed him, and it settled her down. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Then yeah. I want you to.”

“If I need to stop…”

“Then we stop, Sadie. No question.”

“Okay.” She shifted to a seated position. “What do I have to do?”

He gathered up the pillows and pushed them behind him so that he could half-recline against the headboard. “Kneel between my legs. I curve downward. It’ll make it easier if you come straight on.”

She eased her way out from under the covers and did as he asked.

“Wait. C’mere.” He waved her close, and she leaned forward, toward his hands, until he reached behind her for the clasp of the pearl choker she still wore. “You don’t want this in your way.”

Pooling it in his hand, he reached over and laid it on the nightstand, at the base of his Alien lamp.

He smiled and cupped his hands around her cheeks. “Just relax. Deep breaths, go slow, ease back when it feels too much, then another deep breath, and go a little deeper. I’ll talk you through it.”

“You’ve taught women to do this before?”

“Is that a question you want an answer to?”

She didn’t need the answer now. She hadn’t really needed it before. And she felt pissed off. “No. I just asked because I like the sound of my own voice.” The snarl in her voice actually pricked at her throat a little.

He frowned. “Spikes down, sweetheart. If you don’t want to do this, then we won’t.”

But she did want to do it. She was terrified now, really afraid of she didn’t even know what, but she wanted to do this. She wanted to be in charge of his pleasure for once. “I want to. But don’t move. Let me do it.”

“Okay.”

Sitting back on her knees, she picked up his cock and put it in her mouth.

A groan came up from his throat right away. “That’s it. Breathe through your nose and relax, Sadie.”

It felt like he hit the back of her throat almost immediately, but she did what he’d said and backed off, then went down again and went a little farther. She didn’t fear puking on him; she’d never been much of a gagger. An experiment with bulimia when she was in high school had gone nowhere because she hadn’t been able to make herself throw up.

She was afraid it would hurt, though, and she didn’t feel as in control of things as she’d thought she would. Part of it was that he was teaching her, and teaching implied control. Another part was that she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t move. He’d said he wouldn’t, but what about when he really started getting into it? She knew from experience how hard it was to be still. He was forever stopping and reminding her.

“Get out of your head, sweetheart,” he murmured. “It’s okay. Stop if you want.”

No! She didn’t want to puss out on this. So she kept going: sucking him down, easing back, going a little deeper, easing back, remembering to relax. He mumbled encouragements, but his sounds of pleasure were the best motivation. Her mouth filled with saliva, but when it dripped down the length of his cock, he groaned and whispered, “Fuck yeah,” so that apparently was a good thing.