T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (25 page)

The surprise was hard to keep out of his voice, much less his expression. “Lyla!”

She surveyed his attire. “I’m sorry, Fletch, I never thought you’d already be in bed. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” She turned to leave.

“You didn’t come to see me?” Fletch put his hand to his chest. She didn’t reply. He gave a little laugh. “C’mon in, Lyla. He’s showering. We’re not ready for bed. At least, he’s not. I mean, I am. I’m going, in fact.” He changed the substance of the conversation with each sentence, gauging her facial expressions and matching his words to what he thought she wanted to hear as she entered. “Have a seat. I’ll get him.”

He scurried off toward the bedrooms, skidded through T’s open door and into the bathroom. “Has knocking gone out of fashion?” T was drying off.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. You have a visitor.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t make me ask.”

“Lyla, of course, it’s Lyla. You need to get dressed.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’ll get your clothes. Dry your hair.”

“Fletch, since when are you on my side in this?” He watched the manager rummage through drawers and the closet until he found what he considered to be a suitable wardrobe: clean underwear, dress shorts, golf shirt, mocs. “Do I have my part straight?” T finished combing his ultra short hair. “And answer my question.”

“Just get dressed.”

“Fletch—”

“I’m giving you a chance to be Sam. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes.” He zipped the shorts, stared at the mocs. “Think we’re going outside?”

“T, I swear—”

“Okay, okay. Where are you going to be no matter where we are?”

“Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere but where I am.”

“Get me my laptop and I’ll retire.”

Lyla was seated on the piano bench and when T saw her, he knew why Fletch was so concerned. Simple beauty, glowing skin, hopeful eyes. He gathered Fletch’s office articles and deposited them on his bed. He slammed the hall door behind himself.

“What if he needs a glass of water, Dad?” Her tone was teasing.

“He can drink from the toilet.”

She smiled. He stood awkwardly beside the piano, wanting to take her in his arms, knowing that the first move was hers.

“Where’s Harrison?”

“Asleep on the couch, with baby-sitter in attendance. Don’t ask. It’s an extremely complicated story.” She glanced down at her hands. She had come to him, and he waited for her to do something. The tension between them jumped across the five feet of space. When she looked back up, it was clear she’d made up her mind. “You invited me to play a duet. Chopsticks?”

“So I did.” He moved toward her. “Which half the keys do you want?”

“Well, the girl keys, of course.” Now that there was something definite to do, they calmed down. He joined her. They sat side by side, placed their hands on the keyboard, and at an unspoken mark, took off.

Wherever she led, he followed. It started as chopsticks and ended in a cacophonous musical dialogue between them. Ten minutes later, the music stopped abruptly. “Switch sides. If you dare.”

“You’re on.” She stood and he slid behind her. “Ready, set—” he launched without her.

She squealed. Her hands raced to catch up to his melody, to overtake it, to demand to be first. He was quicker and five minutes into it, she threw up her hands and brought them down on the keyboard, elbows and all.

“Hey! What gives?” He stopped also.

“Me. You can have the bass.”

A slow smile slid across his face. “Maybe I want them both.”

He put his hands on her waist and both lifted her and slid himself farther down the piano bench towards her. He settled her into the V left by his opened legs. She wasn’t on his lap so much as in it. “Maybe you can keep up if you’re in the middle.”

Her small gasp ended in a squeak. Had he frightened her? He surrounded her, her legs, her sides, her back. His arms stretched out on either side of hers. His fingers wavered over the treble and the bass as his heart staccato’ed in his chest. “Make up your mind, Lyla. Start something.” He paused. “Or I will.”

She hesitated, then played the one finger rendition he’d mocked the week before. He tried not to read any meaning into it. Instead, he reveled in her nearness and let her finish the tune before he joined her melody with his the second time round. The third, she added her left hand, the fourth, he added his. Over and over, becoming more complicated, more intimate, until they’d played all they could, and he dropped out his left hand, then she hers. The last time through was just her melody again.

The song over, they sat as they were, their hands touching the keyboard. Lyla shivered, caught her breath. What had they done, he thought. All their pent–up emotions had spilled over and played themselves out on the piano, leaving each naked to the other’s senses.

T wanted to look at her face but didn’t dare. Finding tears there would confirm that the duet he had so insolently asked for had cost him his freedom. Whether she knew it or not, now or ever, he was irretrievably hers.

Lyla finally released the tension from her body. She removed her hands from the keyboard and hugged herself, leaned back against him. It was all the encouragement T needed. He enfolded her in his arms, rubbed his chin on the top of her head, closed his eyes at the touch of her. He kissed her neck, just a tender, soft kiss.

“Sam.” It was said with exhaled breath and he drew her even tighter to himself. “I feel as if I’ve made love to you.”

“Lyla.” It was a croak, all he could express.

“Let’s take the houseboat out.” Her voice quavered.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded in reply. He released her and they both stood awkwardly. She held out her hand, and he took it.

Chapter Twenty

“Y
ou want to really take it out, or just leave it here at the dock?” She kicked her shoes to the still sandy deck, then he did.

“I want to really take it out. I want no ties to land.”

He nodded. “Stand by to cast off.”

She expertly undid the ropes and he started the engines. She joined him by the wheel, weaving herself between him and it. “Where are we going, captain?” he asked.

“Just steer. We’ll settle out in the big middle.”

“No hiding.”

“If I wanted to hide, we’d have kicked Fletch out.”

“Okay.” He uncharacteristically thought before asking his next question. “You’re not doing this to prove anything to anyone, are you?”

“I haven’t done anything yet, Sam.” She leaned back against him. “And I know all the arguments against it and I have only one for it. I think I love you. I don’t know why.”

“Well, I do love you.” There! He’d said it again. Twice in one day what he’d never before uttered honestly. “And I know why. I just can’t explain it.”

He felt her smile although he couldn’t see her face.

“I guess I could go below and make sure the accommodations are up to my standards.” But she didn’t move.

“If you wanted your standards, we should have definitely kicked Fletch out.”

She turned in his arms and kissed him fully. “I’ll be back.” It was a whisper, a promise.

“Hey, where am I going?” he shouted at her retreating back.

“Just keep heading out. At this speed you’ll not get in any trouble.”

“Sure,” he muttered to himself. This was like some absurd adult version of driving to a lover’s lane in order to get laid. Part of him wanted to turn the houseboat around, dock it, point the way up the steps, and order her to leave. But he knew what was coming, desired it, and wanted it with his whole being.

He kept steering straight, away from one shore and toward another. Music started from below and he laughed at the choice.

“Henry Mancini?” he asked as she joined him.

“You work with what you’ve got.”

“He sounds a little scratchy. You playing LP’s?”

“Better than that. Eight-tracks.” She hugged him from behind. “I think we’re far enough out. Cut the engines and let’s drop anchor.”

He followed her to the kitchen, the source of the vintage eight-track. The only illumination was that given off by the running lights, just enough for each of them to see the other’s face as they moved together with the rhythm.

His hands roved over her back and down her hips. Hers mirrored his. He reached up and pulled the gathered lace of the peasant blouse onto her upper arms, started his kisses on one shoulder and trailed them across to the other, dipping to kiss the tops of her breasts, as yet unrevealed to him. When he reached the other shoulder, his thumbs eased the blouse over her braless breasts and he gently kissed each one in turn, bringing low moans from her throat. Her knees weakened and she bent them. He lifted her in his arms. He felt his eyes glaze over, cross, as he concentrated on her lips, touched his to hers. He carried her into the bedroom and placed her on the turned-down bed. The light from the bathroom glanced off their bodies and made shadows on the walls.

He sat beside her, his right hand resting between her thighs, her skin so soft he ached to bury himself in it. “Undress me,” she whispered. His breath was ragged as he worked at the knot in the wrap skirt, finally untangling it, opening the skirt. She shivered as he ran his hands over her panties, but he never took his eyes from hers. He was memorizing her with his hands. She was a piano and he was going to play the concert he had waited a lifetime to give.

He eased her blouse down her body and off at her bare feet. She was naked except for her bikinis. He left them on her as he kissed her though the silk. Hot breath and a promise.

He leaned over her. “I feel so overdressed. You going to do something about it?”

She smiled in the dim light and reached up to his collar, undoing the two buttons and gently pulling the shirt out of his shorts. Putting her cool hands on his torso, she pulled the fabric over his head and threw it to the floor with hers. She ran her fingers up and down his chest, massaged over his rib cage, reached up and kissed above his navel, traveled down and licked the tattooed snake’s head. She wrapped her legs around him as she slowly dragged kisses over his chest and slid the zipper down with one finger, feeling the maleness of him through the boxers. She eased the shorts off his hips, intimately feeling his contours, and breathing hot kisses through the fabric of his boxers. She pushed him onto his back. Sliding her hands up the wide legs of the boxers, she caressed his bare buttocks, ventured from back to front, quickened in anticipation of what she felt. Finally, she slipped her fingers into the boxer waistband and pulled them off.

“No fair.” His voice was husky. His sexual experience had become several variations of ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ and concerned itself generally with women just past the legal age. This was a mature woman, with definite goals and ideas on shared experience. He prayed he didn’t disappoint her.

“I thought I’d better check out all those body piercing holes you were bragging about to Harrison. And, of course, this.” Her left index finger followed the colorful snake’s body down and around.

“And?”

She laughed, low in her throat. “A true two-headed snake. Must have been a painful tattoo.”

He grinned. “Let’s just say, I won’t be getting it removed.”

“I need better light to get the full effect.”

“Don’t worry, you can still get the full effect. Even in the dark.”

“Then why cry foul about being naked? You had your chance to see me in the altogether first.”

“I was being polite.”

She laughed. “This’ll teach you.” She straddled him, sitting fully on him, her panties blocking any intercourse. She grabbed his hands and held them over his head, dangled her breasts just out of his mouth’s range.

“You’re a wicked woman, Lyla Lee.” He brought his knees up, forcing her body further up his torso. He turned his hands until they held hers and brought her up where she was over his mouth. He blew on her. “Now, just think how good that would feel if you didn’t have panties on.”

“Well, do something about it then.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” He released her hands and grabbed her about the waist, turning her onto her stomach across the pillows. He sat over her legs and divested her of the article in question. He stretched his body over hers and began to kiss her back, starting at her neck. His hands preceded every kiss as he gently massaged the tautness from her body and left kisses in their wake. He went down one leg, back up the other, turned her over, showed her how good the kisses felt without panties. She moaned beneath his touch, arched her back to his ministrations.

He sensed she waited for him and brought his lips to hers. “Lyla, you caught me off guard, my love. I have no protection.” Hell of a time to develop a conscience, but he could no more hurt her physically than he could join with her without protecting her.

“A convenience store is a wonderful thing to have around the house.” She reached into the drawer of the small bedside table and pulled out a condom. She tore it open for him and he put it on.

“Lyla,” he was balanced above her, “I really do love you. It’s not a ploy.”

“Shhh.” She reached up with her lips to silence him. “Sam, I know. I love you, too. Now please, put us out of our sexual misery.”

“As quick as I can.”

“Well, you don’t have to be too quick.”

He laughed. Had he ever laughed during intercourse? For that matter, had he ever really made love as he was doing it now? Sliding into her, sliding with her, feeling her legs around his hips, not knowing if the moans he heard were hers or his. Releasing before her—God, he couldn’t wait! Then feeling her shiver beneath him, knowing that the fingernails sinking into his back were there from a mutual passion, a desiring that she wanted as badly as he. He lay beside her, and for the first time in his sexual life, felt needed for himself.

Five minutes later, they lay cuddled together, peaceful, exuberant, unashamed. Lyla moved in his arms, nudged him in the chest.

“I need a drink of water, Sam. Want one?”

“Be fine.” He reluctantly eased his hold. “You must come right back.” He yawned, caressed her breast as she slid from the bed.