Games of the Heart
Page 11
Then he looked at me, crossed his arms on his chest and asked, “So?”
He totally wasn’t dicking around.
“Welp,” I started. “I figure you had time to think too but as for me, you want to, you’re spending the night.”
He studied me.
Then, softly, he asked, “Sure?”
I drew in breath.
Then I nodded and whispered, “I’m sure.”
When I did, he returned bizarrely, “How do you feel about cold pizza?”
I tipped my head to the side in confusion and asked, “Sorry?”
Before I knew what he was about, he picked up the pizza box, dropped it on the floor, leaned into me, put his hands in my pits, plucked me right out of bed and into his arms. Then he twisted and dropped, landing on his back with me on top of him. I was recovering from this, not, mind you, successfully when he rolled me to my back with him on top of me.
His face all I could see, his hands moving on me, he whispered, “Cold pizza. You got a problem with that?”
“No,” I whispered back.
“Right,” he murmured.
Then he kissed me before he did a bunch of other stuff to me while the pizza sat on the floor and got cold.
*
“Pottery?”
“Yep, vases and bowls and shit like that. I mean it’s mine. It’s gorgeous. I love it. I put a lot into it. I totally get off on it in a way that when I say that I mean, when I’m working, I lose time. I can start at noon and the next thing I know, it’s midnight. But still, I think it’s totally whacked that someone pays two hundred dollars for a medium-sized vase,” I shrugged, “but there it is.”
Mike had on nothing but his jeans. His back was to the headboard. His eyes were on me.
I again had on nothing but my tee and panties. My body was cocked at the hips, my calves lying across his thighs, the rest of me lying across the bed. I was on my side, up on a forearm with a pillow scrunched under me.
I had a beer resting in the crook of my hips. We had the pizza box between us. And we now knew each other pretty thoroughly biblically so we were getting to the other good stuff.
“Damn, honey, your shit must be good,” he said softly as I took a bite of pizza.
I chewed, swallowed and grinned. Then I stated, “I think so.” Then I took another bite.
“I’m impressed,” he replied.
I chewed, swallowed and grinned again before I warned, “Don’t be until you see it.”
He grinned back then remarked, “So you do something you love.”
“Totally,” I confirmed.
“Good for you, Dusty,” he muttered and took a bite of his own pizza.
“You like your gig?” I asked.
He chewed, swallowed and asked back, “Bein’ a cop?”
I nodded.
“Days I hate it, days I love it,” he answered. “But I feel it’s important work. Some days, I knock myself out and don’t see anything for it. Some days, I make a difference. The days I make a difference make the rest worth it. So yeah,” he grinned again, “overall, I like my gig.”
“Awesome,” I whispered then told him, “I thought you’d be president one day.”
He burst out laughing and I watched. That was something else I always loved about Mike. His laugh. He had a great sense of humor and he laughed a lot. It was always close, easy to get. Still, back in the day, I worked for it. But it was also deep and attractive. And, over the years, it had only gotten better.
A whole lot better.
When he sobered he asked, “President?” before he put the last bite of his slice of pizza in his mouth.
“Yep,” I replied, reaching for my new slice. “I crushed on you hard mostly because you were gorgeous, partly because you were you. I thought you could do anything.”
When I had my slice and looked back at him I noticed his face had gone soft and, seriously, he naturally had a lot of good looks but that was a clear winner.
Then, quietly, he said, “Sorry to disappoint you, honey.”
“I’m not disappointed, Mike,” I assured him. “I’m not certain, being older and understanding the ways of the world, that being president is such a sweet gig. Not thinking, the way you describe it, being a cop is any sweeter but, you do something you like. You make a difference. You feel that. It’s worth it to you then it works for me. Not that it has to work for me as long as it’s working for you.”
“It works for me,” he assured me back.
“Then good,” I whispered.
He grabbed a new slice. I took a bite of mine and washed it down with beer.
He took a bite from his, reached and grabbed his beer from the nightstand and was leaning back to replace it after taking a drag when he asked, “Wanna explain something to me?”
“Shoot,” I invited, taking another bite.
He sat back and leveled his eyes on me.
“Be seriously f**kin’ disappointed to find out my guess is not true but, you’re in this bed with me, you get what it means, me spending the night, that means you’re free. What I’d like to know is how that could be?”
“Sorry?”
“You free?”
“Free?”
“You got a man?”
I shook my head and added a, “Nope.”
“So how could that be?”
“I don’t get what you’re asking, babe.”
He stopped talking and studied me and he did this thoroughly in the sense that his eyes moved from my head to my legs in his lap and back again.
Then they caught mine and he stated, his voice firm and strangely edging toward irritated, “Dusty, I think you get me.”
“Uh…that would be negatory,” I returned.
He held my gaze then he asked, “Straight up?”
“Mike, you’re totally losing me.”
“Right,” he muttered then said louder, “Straight up, Dusty, you’re gorgeous. You’re fantastic in bed. You give world-class head. You’re funny. You like what you do and you’re successful at it. You obviously know yourself and you’re comfortable with what you know. So, with all that, I’m having trouble figuring out how you’re not taken.”
I liked that he thought all that. It was great.
But…seriously?
“Pointing out the obvious, but, Mike, you’re gorgeous. You’re fantastic in bed. When you went down on me, both times, I could make a case that I had an out of body experience. You’re nice. You like what you do and you’re successful at it. You know yourself and you’re comfortable with who you are. So, with all that, how can you ask me why I’m not taken when I’m guessing that you’re also free?”
He totally wasn’t dicking around.
“Welp,” I started. “I figure you had time to think too but as for me, you want to, you’re spending the night.”
He studied me.
Then, softly, he asked, “Sure?”
I drew in breath.
Then I nodded and whispered, “I’m sure.”
When I did, he returned bizarrely, “How do you feel about cold pizza?”
I tipped my head to the side in confusion and asked, “Sorry?”
Before I knew what he was about, he picked up the pizza box, dropped it on the floor, leaned into me, put his hands in my pits, plucked me right out of bed and into his arms. Then he twisted and dropped, landing on his back with me on top of him. I was recovering from this, not, mind you, successfully when he rolled me to my back with him on top of me.
His face all I could see, his hands moving on me, he whispered, “Cold pizza. You got a problem with that?”
“No,” I whispered back.
“Right,” he murmured.
Then he kissed me before he did a bunch of other stuff to me while the pizza sat on the floor and got cold.
*
“Pottery?”
“Yep, vases and bowls and shit like that. I mean it’s mine. It’s gorgeous. I love it. I put a lot into it. I totally get off on it in a way that when I say that I mean, when I’m working, I lose time. I can start at noon and the next thing I know, it’s midnight. But still, I think it’s totally whacked that someone pays two hundred dollars for a medium-sized vase,” I shrugged, “but there it is.”
Mike had on nothing but his jeans. His back was to the headboard. His eyes were on me.
I again had on nothing but my tee and panties. My body was cocked at the hips, my calves lying across his thighs, the rest of me lying across the bed. I was on my side, up on a forearm with a pillow scrunched under me.
I had a beer resting in the crook of my hips. We had the pizza box between us. And we now knew each other pretty thoroughly biblically so we were getting to the other good stuff.
“Damn, honey, your shit must be good,” he said softly as I took a bite of pizza.
I chewed, swallowed and grinned. Then I stated, “I think so.” Then I took another bite.
“I’m impressed,” he replied.
I chewed, swallowed and grinned again before I warned, “Don’t be until you see it.”
He grinned back then remarked, “So you do something you love.”
“Totally,” I confirmed.
“Good for you, Dusty,” he muttered and took a bite of his own pizza.
“You like your gig?” I asked.
He chewed, swallowed and asked back, “Bein’ a cop?”
I nodded.
“Days I hate it, days I love it,” he answered. “But I feel it’s important work. Some days, I knock myself out and don’t see anything for it. Some days, I make a difference. The days I make a difference make the rest worth it. So yeah,” he grinned again, “overall, I like my gig.”
“Awesome,” I whispered then told him, “I thought you’d be president one day.”
He burst out laughing and I watched. That was something else I always loved about Mike. His laugh. He had a great sense of humor and he laughed a lot. It was always close, easy to get. Still, back in the day, I worked for it. But it was also deep and attractive. And, over the years, it had only gotten better.
A whole lot better.
When he sobered he asked, “President?” before he put the last bite of his slice of pizza in his mouth.
“Yep,” I replied, reaching for my new slice. “I crushed on you hard mostly because you were gorgeous, partly because you were you. I thought you could do anything.”
When I had my slice and looked back at him I noticed his face had gone soft and, seriously, he naturally had a lot of good looks but that was a clear winner.
Then, quietly, he said, “Sorry to disappoint you, honey.”
“I’m not disappointed, Mike,” I assured him. “I’m not certain, being older and understanding the ways of the world, that being president is such a sweet gig. Not thinking, the way you describe it, being a cop is any sweeter but, you do something you like. You make a difference. You feel that. It’s worth it to you then it works for me. Not that it has to work for me as long as it’s working for you.”
“It works for me,” he assured me back.
“Then good,” I whispered.
He grabbed a new slice. I took a bite of mine and washed it down with beer.
He took a bite from his, reached and grabbed his beer from the nightstand and was leaning back to replace it after taking a drag when he asked, “Wanna explain something to me?”
“Shoot,” I invited, taking another bite.
He sat back and leveled his eyes on me.
“Be seriously f**kin’ disappointed to find out my guess is not true but, you’re in this bed with me, you get what it means, me spending the night, that means you’re free. What I’d like to know is how that could be?”
“Sorry?”
“You free?”
“Free?”
“You got a man?”
I shook my head and added a, “Nope.”
“So how could that be?”
“I don’t get what you’re asking, babe.”
He stopped talking and studied me and he did this thoroughly in the sense that his eyes moved from my head to my legs in his lap and back again.
Then they caught mine and he stated, his voice firm and strangely edging toward irritated, “Dusty, I think you get me.”
“Uh…that would be negatory,” I returned.
He held my gaze then he asked, “Straight up?”
“Mike, you’re totally losing me.”
“Right,” he muttered then said louder, “Straight up, Dusty, you’re gorgeous. You’re fantastic in bed. You give world-class head. You’re funny. You like what you do and you’re successful at it. You obviously know yourself and you’re comfortable with what you know. So, with all that, I’m having trouble figuring out how you’re not taken.”
I liked that he thought all that. It was great.
But…seriously?
“Pointing out the obvious, but, Mike, you’re gorgeous. You’re fantastic in bed. When you went down on me, both times, I could make a case that I had an out of body experience. You’re nice. You like what you do and you’re successful at it. You know yourself and you’re comfortable with who you are. So, with all that, how can you ask me why I’m not taken when I’m guessing that you’re also free?”
