Reception
Page 22
He lurched forward, forcing her back. She didn't say anything as he abruptly stood up and climbed out of the tub before hurrying from the room. He didn't care that he was soaking wet and trailing puddles of water behind him. Didn't even think about it as he sat down in the chair with a loud squelching sound. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the front door.
Nothing. Nothing. Think about nothing. The square root of thirty-two is five-point-six-six. Thomas R. Marshall was the twenty-eighth vice president. Control yourself. Control your environment. Don't do anything rash. The twenty-ninth president was Calvin Coolidge. Four hundred and thirty-two divided by seventeen is twenty-five-point-four. Control yourself.
*
Tate took a deep breath and ran a hand over her hair. She'd known this wouldn't be easy, but she was ready for the battle. She slowly climbed out of the tub and walked into the bedroom.
Sanders was sitting in the shitty chair at the foot of the bed. His arms were folded sternly across his chest and he was refusing to even look in her direction. She smiled to herself and came to a stop in front of him. When he still didn't acknowledge her, she put her hands on her hips.
“Are you going to ignore me for the rest of the night?” she asked. His mouth was set in a stern line, but he surprised her by responding.
“If that's what it takes to make you realize you are being absurd, then yes.”
“If a woman throws herself at you, the last thing you should do is call her absurd.”
“But it is absurd when that woman is involved with another man. And especially when that man is practically family to me,” he informed her.
“It's not when it's a carefully considered choice made by both that woman and man,” she replied. Even Sanders wasn't able to hide the shock a statement like that induced and he finally looked at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Sandy,” she sighed, dropping her hands and slowly moving around him. “I worry about you. More than you could possibly know. The idea of … of just anyone being your first time. I can't handle it. You're so different. You deserve perfection. You are perfection. I refuse to send you out to the wolves. I can't let it be awful or awkward or uncomfortable or wrong. The idea of you possibly feeling bad about it, or somebody treating you badly, it kills me. I just … I can't, Sanders. I can't.”
She was behind him when she finished speaking, and she lightly rested her hands on his shoulders. He was completely stiff, his body locked up into one giant charley horse.
It's gonna take a lot of work to loosen him up.
“What, exactly, are you suggesting? You and I have sex, just so you can feel assured that I've lost my virginity to someone deserving?”
“No,” she laughed. “I don't deserve it. I doubt anyone does – you're too good for mere mortals. But you can relax with me, there'll be none of that awkwardness that usually comes along with a first time or when you have sex with someone you don't really know. You can be yourself with me. We can talk to each other. You can ask me anything, do anything. Like I said once before, I've had a lot of practice. I can show you the ropes.”
That hit a note. She felt a shimmy under her hands. A slight tremble rippling through his system.
He remembers. I'm winning.
“This is a bad idea,” he breathed. Tate bent at the waist, running her hands down the front of his body. She kept moving till her chin was on his shoulder.
“Trust me, you'll feel differently in about fifteen minutes,” she whispered back, deftly undoing one of his buttons.
“I don't want to do this.”
“Liar.”
Another button. He was still refusing to move, but he wasn't stopping her.
“Please,” his voice was hoarse.
“I'll stop when you make me stop,” she informed him, now working at the knot in his tie, pulling it loose and slipping the loop free of his collar.
“I don't want him to hate me,” he finally voiced his fear.
“Do you think I would be doing this if that was a possibility?”
“I think that the two of you rarely think through your actions.”
“You think wrong, Sanders. We would never do anything to hurt you. This is a limited time offer. A very special present for a very dear friend who is going so far away. Just accept it. It's like a band aid – just rip it off. Get it over with.”
He was breathing fast, and when she turned to press her lips to his cheek, she saw that he was again staring at the wall.
“I don't want you to hate me,” he whispered.
“Not possible.”
“But what if I don't -”
Enough.
Using both hands, Tate grabbed either side of his shirt and jerked them apart. The remaining buttons popped and flew across the room. He was forced to uncross his arms and she pushed the wet material back over his shoulders, slid it down between him and the chair, then let it fall down his arms.
As his shirt fell away from his hands, she stepped to the side of the chair. She held onto his tie as she went and pulled it free over his head. Then she bent over again, cupping his face between her hands.
“I promise,” she whispered, so close her lips were brushing his. “You won't regret a moment of tonight.”
“I can't ...” he sighed, his eyes closed. She laughed softly, then she pressed her lips to his for a brief second.
“Oh, but you will.”
When she kissed him again, forcing her tongue between his lips, he finally broke. He hid it well, but there was a wild kind of passion in Sanders, she knew. Whenever it came out, it was like a tidal wave, taking over everything in its path.
He grabbed her arm and yanked her down onto his lap. She didn't miss a beat, quickly rearranging her legs so she was straddling him.
“What if this is a mistake,” he panted when she pulled away enough to kiss down the side of his jaw.
“Does this feel like a mistake?”
“You do not love me.”
“Sanders, I love you more than just about anything.”
“But you're not in love with me.”
That made her pause for a moment. Did Sanders really want to wait to have sex until he was in love?
“No,” she agreed, and let her hands drop to his belt buckle. “But you're not in love with me, either, Sanders. No matter what you think. We're not making love here. We're having sex, and that's very different. You'll be having a lot more sex than you'll be making love, trust me.”
Nothing. Nothing. Think about nothing. The square root of thirty-two is five-point-six-six. Thomas R. Marshall was the twenty-eighth vice president. Control yourself. Control your environment. Don't do anything rash. The twenty-ninth president was Calvin Coolidge. Four hundred and thirty-two divided by seventeen is twenty-five-point-four. Control yourself.
*
Tate took a deep breath and ran a hand over her hair. She'd known this wouldn't be easy, but she was ready for the battle. She slowly climbed out of the tub and walked into the bedroom.
Sanders was sitting in the shitty chair at the foot of the bed. His arms were folded sternly across his chest and he was refusing to even look in her direction. She smiled to herself and came to a stop in front of him. When he still didn't acknowledge her, she put her hands on her hips.
“Are you going to ignore me for the rest of the night?” she asked. His mouth was set in a stern line, but he surprised her by responding.
“If that's what it takes to make you realize you are being absurd, then yes.”
“If a woman throws herself at you, the last thing you should do is call her absurd.”
“But it is absurd when that woman is involved with another man. And especially when that man is practically family to me,” he informed her.
“It's not when it's a carefully considered choice made by both that woman and man,” she replied. Even Sanders wasn't able to hide the shock a statement like that induced and he finally looked at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Sandy,” she sighed, dropping her hands and slowly moving around him. “I worry about you. More than you could possibly know. The idea of … of just anyone being your first time. I can't handle it. You're so different. You deserve perfection. You are perfection. I refuse to send you out to the wolves. I can't let it be awful or awkward or uncomfortable or wrong. The idea of you possibly feeling bad about it, or somebody treating you badly, it kills me. I just … I can't, Sanders. I can't.”
She was behind him when she finished speaking, and she lightly rested her hands on his shoulders. He was completely stiff, his body locked up into one giant charley horse.
It's gonna take a lot of work to loosen him up.
“What, exactly, are you suggesting? You and I have sex, just so you can feel assured that I've lost my virginity to someone deserving?”
“No,” she laughed. “I don't deserve it. I doubt anyone does – you're too good for mere mortals. But you can relax with me, there'll be none of that awkwardness that usually comes along with a first time or when you have sex with someone you don't really know. You can be yourself with me. We can talk to each other. You can ask me anything, do anything. Like I said once before, I've had a lot of practice. I can show you the ropes.”
That hit a note. She felt a shimmy under her hands. A slight tremble rippling through his system.
He remembers. I'm winning.
“This is a bad idea,” he breathed. Tate bent at the waist, running her hands down the front of his body. She kept moving till her chin was on his shoulder.
“Trust me, you'll feel differently in about fifteen minutes,” she whispered back, deftly undoing one of his buttons.
“I don't want to do this.”
“Liar.”
Another button. He was still refusing to move, but he wasn't stopping her.
“Please,” his voice was hoarse.
“I'll stop when you make me stop,” she informed him, now working at the knot in his tie, pulling it loose and slipping the loop free of his collar.
“I don't want him to hate me,” he finally voiced his fear.
“Do you think I would be doing this if that was a possibility?”
“I think that the two of you rarely think through your actions.”
“You think wrong, Sanders. We would never do anything to hurt you. This is a limited time offer. A very special present for a very dear friend who is going so far away. Just accept it. It's like a band aid – just rip it off. Get it over with.”
He was breathing fast, and when she turned to press her lips to his cheek, she saw that he was again staring at the wall.
“I don't want you to hate me,” he whispered.
“Not possible.”
“But what if I don't -”
Enough.
Using both hands, Tate grabbed either side of his shirt and jerked them apart. The remaining buttons popped and flew across the room. He was forced to uncross his arms and she pushed the wet material back over his shoulders, slid it down between him and the chair, then let it fall down his arms.
As his shirt fell away from his hands, she stepped to the side of the chair. She held onto his tie as she went and pulled it free over his head. Then she bent over again, cupping his face between her hands.
“I promise,” she whispered, so close her lips were brushing his. “You won't regret a moment of tonight.”
“I can't ...” he sighed, his eyes closed. She laughed softly, then she pressed her lips to his for a brief second.
“Oh, but you will.”
When she kissed him again, forcing her tongue between his lips, he finally broke. He hid it well, but there was a wild kind of passion in Sanders, she knew. Whenever it came out, it was like a tidal wave, taking over everything in its path.
He grabbed her arm and yanked her down onto his lap. She didn't miss a beat, quickly rearranging her legs so she was straddling him.
“What if this is a mistake,” he panted when she pulled away enough to kiss down the side of his jaw.
“Does this feel like a mistake?”
“You do not love me.”
“Sanders, I love you more than just about anything.”
“But you're not in love with me.”
That made her pause for a moment. Did Sanders really want to wait to have sex until he was in love?
“No,” she agreed, and let her hands drop to his belt buckle. “But you're not in love with me, either, Sanders. No matter what you think. We're not making love here. We're having sex, and that's very different. You'll be having a lot more sex than you'll be making love, trust me.”
