Sequel to “Stamp! Thrust!” This time around we’re back to Mac’s POV. It’s November, which means Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving … Webb and Mac finally talk about what they’re thankful for.

Monday, November 11, 2002
Veteran’s Day
0810 Local
In the Vicinity of Mac’s Apartment

As I near the end of my usual jogging route, I decide to run an extra three miles since it’s a holiday, and thankfully I have nothing on my calendar. Passing the old man and his three shelties for the second time this morning, the rest of the neighborhood appears to be sleeping in. I listen to my feet make satisfying smacks on the pavement, and my mind wanders back to the topic which, over the past few weeks, has been occupying my thoughts more than I’d like to admit - Clayton Webb.

Almost a month has passed since I saw Clay at the post office on Columbus Day, and then again at my place, a few days later. That night, I was certain something had changed between us. Not that there was really an “us” for something to change between. But I perceived a shift in our “fuck-buddies” relationship that last time I saw him.

I’d felt myself growing attached; wanting him to really *like* me, and not just for the sex. When he asked me out, just before his unexpected departure - never taking his eyes off his shoelaces while he spoke - I began to suspect there was more starting to happen for him, too. But I don’t even know, for sure, that he’s not carrying on this kind of thing with anyone else. And now I find myself with a sick, jealous feeling at the thought that he could very easily meet someone, and have a real relationship with them, before he and I get a chance to explore whatever’s between us further than our obvious mutual physical attraction.

I’m just as surprised as the next gal that I’ve fallen for Clay Webb. I’d come to trust and admire him on a professional level. He does what he can for us, when we need him; and he’s certainly gone above and beyond the call on more than one occasion, even when national security wasn’t a factor. Clay had trusted my instincts in Afghanistan, and that meant a lot to me.

But the lighthearted and powerfully erotic side to Clay was a real revelation. The strength of the draw between us was a surprise, too, but undeniable. He’s awakened in me a sexual vigor that I didn’t realize was there.

I turn a corner for the final mile stretch of my run, and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my hooded sweatshirt. The mornings have been cold, in the mid 30’s, but by now the sun’s out, and I’m getting warm.

I was sexually active far earlier than I like to admit. When I was young, it was always drunk sex; then I was celibate for a while, after drying out, and in my early days in the Corps. In law school, I had a couple of boyfriends, then came my relationships with John Farrow, Dalton, and Mic.

Being with Clay is nothing like my experiences with those other men. It’s not the anatomical act itself that’s so drastically different, but the playfulness of it, and the concentration of eroticism. I had resigned myself to the fact that those six orgasm nights you read about in Cosmo just don’t happen. After being with Clay, even the few and brief times we’ve had together, I’m starting to think they can.

Now I want to know more about him. There’s a level of comfort and freedom that I experience with Clay that I think extends beyond the sex. Having that deep a sense of ease with someone is rare for me, and it’s kind of out of the blue, since I don’t actually know that much about Clay, his family, or his personal life.

I’d like to find out if we can merge the great sex we’ve been having with a real relationship. I know enough about his job to realize he could be gone for extended periods of time - so could I, for that matter. And I think he trusts me professionally, the way I do him; and it feels like there’s a growing trust between us, on a personal level.

I slow to a trot, then a fast walk, as I get to my street, and decide to make one more loop around the block to cool down before going upstairs to shower.

Underlying my analysis of the “Clay situation” - as I’ve come to think of it - is an unsettling frustration and nervous energy. There’s a sexual edge to it; but my primary source of aggravation is not knowing his feelings. I’ve decided that the next time we’re together - assuming there is a next time - I’ve got to at least let him know how I feel, or this whole affair will begin to take on an air of familiarity. That is to say, I don’t want it to turn into anything even vaguely resembling what Harm and I have been doing over the last few years, albeit minus the sex. For my own emotional health, I need to know how Clay feels about me. I refuse to dance back and forth with him. We both deserve better.

When Clay left last time, I knew better than to ask him where he was going, what he’d be doing, or how long he’d be gone. I did want to know if I should worry, though. I have no idea if he’d given me a straight answer. But I needed to ask all the same, and I hope he had realized why.

At least we both got completely naked that night. And not having sex outdoors or in a public place was good progress, too. With today being Veteran’s Day, I’d hoped he would turn up. I’m trying not to worry about it, and to do my best to assume he’s all in one piece, and still out of town.

I take my stairs two at a time and, while I’m digging my house key from the little Velcro pouch that’s tied to my running shoes, I hear my phone start to ring. Fumbling with the key in the lock, I fling the door open and don’t bother to shut it behind me, as I dive for the phone on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?” I’m out of breath and my heart is pounding. I know it’s more because I hope that it’s Clay who’s calling, than from my run or haste to get the phone.

“Sarah? Are you okay?”

It is Clay. My heart thuds even louder, which is stupid; I’m not in junior high talking to the cute boy on the football team. All the same, the nervous feelings are just as intense.

“I just got back from running.” I pace the perimeter living room, trying to calm my nerves.

“I can’t talk long. I wanted to wish you a happy Veteran’s Day, and let you know I’m still in one piece.” The line’s full of static, and he sounds like he’s talking from the inside of a tin can.

“I’m glad to hear that. How’s the op going?” I quietly close the front door and lock it shut.

“Too soon to tell, but we’re getting close. I should be wrapped up here by Thanksgiving. If you don’t already have plans, can you keep that date open on your calendar, at least for a bit? I should know soon if I’ll be back. Mother’s invited you to join us.”

“I’d love to come. And I promise not to leave my underwear in her guest bathroom this time.” I fake a reluctant promise, referencing the first time Clay and I’d been together, and the only time I’d been to his mother’s house.

“Too bad.” He’s sounding farther and farther away, but I can hear the grin in his voice.

"Clay, I can barely hear you. But I’d love to know what you had in mind."

I really don’t want the phone call to end. And, just as I start to imagine the conversation evolving into phone sex, I wonder if he’s talking to me on a satellite phone, and if it’s being monitored.

"I'd love to tell you all about it, but this line's not secure. Are you opposed to an e-mail?” Clay’s voice from far overseas is barely audible now.

“I’ll look forward to it,” I say loudly into the receiver, hoping he can still hear me.

“I’ll call again when I ca…” The line goes dead, and the impersonal drone of the dial tone comes through after a few seconds.

I flop down on the couch, and feel my body gearing up for whatever’s in that e-mail. Before I can imagine what he’ll write, my growling stomach heads off those thoughts, and I hop up to shower and make some pancakes.


Tuesday, November 12, 2002
1342 Local
JAG Headquarters

I’d checked my e-mail about a thousand times yesterday afternoon, but there was nothing from Clay on either my JAG account or my personal e-mail. With Major Lundberg’s case wrapping up this morning - including a positive outcome for me, as prosecutor - my mind’s no longer occupied, and I hurry back from lunch with Bud and Harriet to check my e-mail.

I’m well aware that my e-mail here is not private, and, while sending or receiving erotic correspondence is not technically against the UCMJ, it would be incredibly embarrassing if we were found out. Part of me doesn't care, though; we're consenting adults, and, like our other couplings, the slight sense of danger of being caught is a turn on.

I open my in-box and flit my eyes over the list of new messages. Bud with some research I’d asked for, the Admiral, Tiner confirming a staff meeting, Chloe forwarding a joke, Bud again, and a return address I don’t recognize, with nothing in the subject line. I stand to close my door, and catch a glimpse of Harm looking puzzled as I rotate the wand on the blinds to angle them closed all the way. He’ll just have to stay puzzled.

My fears of this e-mail turning out to be spam about penis enlargement or free Nigerian money are dismissed when I read the first line, “I can’t decide what I want to do to you - with you - first.” There’s no “Dear Sarah” at the top, no preamble; similar to our lovemaking, Clay just dives right in with no formalities.

I look up from the monitor and around my office, which is silly because I already know I’m alone, but I feel myself blush and become self-conscious, all the same. I want to read his e-mail as fast as I can, I’m that anxious; but I also want to savor it. Dammit, I’ve fallen for him hard. Knowing that a bruised ego and wounded heart could be at the end of this fantastic voyage, I think I decided, somewhere along my run yesterday, to just let myself go. I gave myself permission to feel what I’m feeling for Clay: love. Consequences be damned.

I take a deep breath and read the rest of Clay’s e-mail. Following his instructions, I hit “print,” dash out my office door, weave through the bullpen where Sturgis and Tiner are standing at Harriet’s desk, and I reach the printer just in time to catch the page as it’s printing out. I stand there for a couple of extra minutes, to be sure there weren’t accidentally two copies printed.

Making a hasty retreat to my office, I gather my files for the next case I’m assigned to, and I tell Tiner that I’ll be out the rest of the afternoon interviewing witnesses. I’m so turned on from Clay’s e-mail, that I’m practically shaking, but there’s no way I’m going to relieve the tension in the bathroom here at work. There’s also no way I’ll be able to concentrate on anything if I’m in my office, and the temptation to close the door for some personal gratification might be too great. I’ve got to get out of here.

I grab Bud, who’s sitting second chair with me on the case, and the next three and a half hours go by surprisingly fast. The case isn’t complex, and we’ve now confirmed the stories of three key witnesses who saw the Petty Officer take the ammo from the lock-up and put it in his car. We get affidavits from them, account for all the inconsistencies in their initial statements, and we’re done by 1715.

Throughout the afternoon, I couldn’t help checking periodically, to be sure the e-mail was still in my purse. Every time I touched the folded up paper, I felt a tingle between my legs and a warmth spread through my center. Home at last, I change out of my uniform and into a silk pajama top, rather than my usual cold weather flannels, before lying on top of the bedcovers and re-reading Clay’s words…

“I can’t decide what I want to do to you - with you - first.

Before I get to that, though, there’s been a change in my itinerary. I’ll be flying into NYC on Monday the 25th, but should be done with business by mid-day Wednesday. Join me in the city, and stay for the parade on Thursday. We can go back to DC together, in time for dinner at Mother’s. Pack warmly, but for a variety of activities. I’m still ironing out some plans.

Now then, assuming you can come, and you show up at my hotel on that Wednesday, part of me wants to immediately pull you into the room, press you hard up against a wall with my body, so you can feel my erection, and how much I want you. Then, yanking my pants down and hiking your skirt up, I’d fuck you right then and there; neither of us caring if we’d bothered to shut the door or not, because it feels so good, and even though we’ve probably both gone a lot longer without sex, it’s been far too long since you and I have been together.

You’ll be immediately wet for me and, when I bury myself deep inside you, you’re so hot and tight that I’ll last only about twenty seconds before coming. I guess that’s when we can get to the other option: long and slow. We haven’t done that yet, and I really want to savor you - the way you taste on my mouth and tongue, the way you feel under my fingertips, hands, and body, and the way your scent fills my nose when I nuzzle it into your hair, the crook of your neck, or between your legs.

Slowly stripping off your clothes, kissing and touching each newly revealed inch of you, until you’re lying on the bed, totally naked before me. My hands running all over your body, my cock getting so hard for you. My mouth caressing yours, wrapping my tongue around yours, and licking you lower and lower. Sucking at your nipples that peak in my mouth. Licking from your opening to your clit. You taste so good. You’ll come under my touches and kisses, and then I’ll finally enter you, with a long slow stroke, and you’ll beg me to do it harder, which, of course, I will. And we’ll come together while I’m deep inside you, your legs wrapped around me, squeezing tight.

Sarah, I hope this has turned you on as much as it has me. If not, I’ll feel like a fool. If it *has* excited you, I want you to distract yourself for the rest of the workday and wait until you’re home to touch yourself. Print this out, but for God’s sake, don’t let anyone, especially Rabb, see it. Read it again at home, where you can pleasure yourself. Jesus, just imagining you doing that is making me horny as hell. I can’t wait to see you.

Love,
Clay”

I read his words once over quickly, and then a second time, imagining it all in deliberate detail. With visions of Clay caressing my body, I make my fingers and hands imitate his touch. It doesn’t take long, and I experience two shuddering climaxes before dozing off for an hour’s nap, the e-mail still in my hand as I sleep.


Wednesday, November 13, 2002
0937 Local
JAG Headquarters

I finish off a reply to Clay that leaves out anything overtly sexual; I don’t know how secure e-mail is on his end. I tell him I’ll ask the Admiral for Wednesday the 27th off, and that it shouldn’t be a problem. I also say that I’d followed his e-mail “instructions” to quite a successful end; two, in fact. If Clay fails to get my meaning, then his time in cryptology school was a complete waste.

The next couple of weeks pass without a word from Clay, so I’m forced to re-read his e-mail over and over, and imagine what our trip to New York will be like. Will it be the beginning of a new part of our relationship, or the end of our holiday fun? I’m ready for, and want, more; I hope he does, too. But if my feelings aren’t returned, I don’t think I can continue to see him on such a casual basis. I try not to think of that outcome, and I remind myself that he’d signed his e-mail “Love, Clay.” Which I’ve been trying not to read too much into, but can’t help feeling hopeful about.


Wednesday, November 27, 2002
An Amtrak train bound for New York City

I’d received a very brief phone call from Clay on Monday. He’d just landed in New York, and we quickly confirmed plans to meet on Wednesday. I told him I’d come in on the train, and that the train I planned to catch would arrive at Penn Station about 12:50.

I was surprised at how relieved I’d been that our plans were settled. I’m a big girl, after all, but who wants to spend Thanksgiving alone? Although, I suspect even if Clay couldn’t make it, his mother would have insisted that I come to dinner anyway. But I know my disappointment would’ve stemmed from the plans to see Clay falling through, not the prospect of eating a frozen turkey dinner at home alone.

After going into work early this morning, to put in an hour at work, I drove to the Falls Church Metrorail station, and caught a train to Union Station in DC. From there, I bought a ticket to Penn Station, and wound my way through the crowd to the correct track, pulling my rolling luggage along behind me.

Now, leaning back in my seat on the train, I feel a nervous tension building high up in my stomach, just below my chest. I’m excited, and scared, about seeing Clay. It’s been this strange journey from colleague, to occasional lover, to *in* love. The anticipation of seeing him has me jumpy and distracted, and, instead of my usual cup of coffee, I’d decided on hot chocolate as a form of “comfort food” for the trip.

I really do love traveling by train. There’s a sense of excitement about being on a journey. Watching the world pass by from your seat, you’re forced to just sit back and enjoy the ride. This time of year, it’s particularly beautiful. The trees with their falling, and colorful, leaves, and the cozy warmth inside the cars - while outside it’s chilly and bleak, but beautiful, in its own way - makes you feel comforted, as you’re lulled by the click and clack of the wheels on the rails.

I doze for about seven minutes, before the elderly but distinguished looking conductor, with his pocket watch and fitted vest, walks through the cars announcing that we’ll be pulling into Penn Station in a few minutes. I sit up, and push my hair back into place, before standing to put on my dark blue wool overcoat and black leather gloves, in preparation for the 40-degree weather and stiff winds that were predicted.

Stepping from the train, and making my way from the track we’d pulled in on, I walk with a fast gait to the main part of the station. My eyes search the crowd, and I wonder if Clay’s not going to show, or if his training automatically makes him blend into a crowd. At last I see him, but he hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s looking over the throngs of people milling to and from their trains. I stand next to a ticket window and watch him.

Clay looks really great in a very dark gray overcoat and burgundy scarf. I think he’s wearing a suit, but I can’t tell for sure yet, because his coat’s buttoned up all the way; it must be really cold outside. Ideas about divesting him of his jacket, vest, tie, and dress shirt start to form in my mind.

His head scans in my direction, then doubles back, as he recognizes me. His expression lets me know that he realizes I had been watching him. Raising a gloved hand to wave at me, Clay’s expression is a mix of embarrassed and flattered. We walk towards each other, and my heart begins a nervous tempo as I get near him.

All my imagined scenarios go out the window when we’re face to face. There’s no passionate reunion kiss, or declaration of longing and love. We exchange a peck of a kiss on the lips, and just stand there.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

We’ve apparently lost the capacity for conversation. I’m afraid I’ve built this up in my head too much, and the next day and a half will just be stiff and polite, instead of *him* being stiff, and anything but polite. As the mental image that goes with that train of thought forms in my head, I smile at myself; both at my fairy-tale vision of this meeting, and at the fact that I can’t seem to keep my mind out of the gutter when it comes to Clay.

He looks at me, and I see a smile start to crinkle the edge of his eyes. “What?” he says cautiously, drawing out the word.

“That was such a polite greeting, I was just wondering if I’d imagined that steamy e-mail you sent me.”

It’s not precisely what I’d been thinking, but the sentiment’s the same, and I’m not about to try to explain “stiff and polite” to him in the middle of the train station.

“If you imagined it, then we’re having some kind of ESP thing, because I’m sure I sent it to you.” He comes closer and closer as he speaks, and we’re now literally nose to nose.

I smile broadly, and just say, “Good,” as I tilt my head and meet his lips again. The decorum gone, our lips soften together, and his tongue darts out to brush my lips. I shoot my tongue out to meet his and, as has happened nearly every other time we’ve kissed, a warmth and overwhelming desire begins to take us over.

Not wanting to get too carried away in this public display of affection, we step back and grin at each other.

“That’s more like it,” I say.

Clay takes my suitcase, and holds my gloved hand in his. And I can feel the heat of his hand through the leather of our gloves. His grasp is firm, and now and then as we walk together, we exchange squeezes with familiarity.

The crisp air hits my face when we step onto the street, and I look up at the overcast sky beyond the tops of the tall buildings that line the streets. Clay lets go of my hand to hail a cab for us. After we settle in, he gives the driver instructions to take us to the Gramercy Tavern, and my stomach growls appreciatively.

“I see you approve of my restaurant choice?” Clay raises his eyebrows and looks down to where the noise came from.

“I’ve never been, but it’s supposed to be really hard to get into. How’d you swing it?” I scoot closer to him, chilled from our brief moments outside, enjoying his warmth, and just being close to him.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he says it like he’s obligated to deliver the line.

“How original, Clay. Your imagination’s really impressive.”

He shifts the topic from silly and lacking any substance at all, to sexy.

“Did you really follow the instructions in my e-mail?” He’s picked up my hand again, and, pushing my coat sleeve up, Clay traces circles with his index finger on the inside of my wrist.

“You better believe it.” Honesty about our sexual desires was the foundation of this relationship; there’s no reason to be shy now.

“Good. I’d hate to think I was alone in my, um, personal gratification, as a result of that particular correspondence, “Clay whispers into my ear, emphasizing the phrase “personal gratification.”

His hot breath, and the way he’s started to kiss and nip at my neck, in conjunction with the thought of him pleasuring himself, turns me on instantly. “Clay, we’re going to have to stop talking about that e-mail, and the resulting ‘personal actions,’ if we’re going to eat lunch in public.”

“Since when has being in a public place stopped us?” He’s relentless as he finds my most sensitive spot, biting and sucking just behind and below my ear.

“What happened to long and slow?” I’m starting not to care, but have to at least put on a show of protest.

“Sarah, I don’t think I could physically manage long and slow right now - I really want you,” he says with a breathy voice, before diving in for hard kiss, his tongue firm and probing.

I’m positive the cab driver’s seen way more than what we’re doing in the back of his cab, and our past encounters aside, I’d really rather wait until Clay and I are someplace alone. But my body can’t help but react to this man, and I feel a prickly heat melt down through me, making me aware of every inch of my skin that wants so badly to be touched and devoured by him.

Before the driver can call the cops on us for performing a lewd act in his car, we pull up in front of the Gramercy Tavern. The atmosphere inside is warm and comfortable. We leave my suitcase with the hostess, and dine in the bar area, where there’s a wood-beamed ceiling and soft lighting. Clay and I both decide on the pheasant, and even though it takes a long time to get our food, it’s fabulous, and well worth the wait.

Our conversation at lunch is light and friendly. It’s really nice to hear a little bit about his job. The operation in South East Asia - he insists that’s as specific as he can get about where he was - went better than he thought it was going to, after one of their contacts decided at the last minute to take a bribe from the local police department instead of following through with his CIA errands. Clay was frustrated, because he’d voiced his concern about this particular contact several months ago, but his advice went unheeded.

“Not that I wanted to be right, but I think they’ll pay more attention to what I’ve got to say next time. So, what’s up at JAG? Did the Admiral give you a hard time about taking today off?”

“I think I caught him in a good mood; he didn’t even grumble when I asked.” Clay knows the Admiral well; you can usually expect him to at least put on a show of protest, when asking for time off.

I share some of what's been happening at JAG with Clay, like how gratifying it was to win the Lundberg trial against Harm’s defense. At the mention of Harm, Clay’s easy posture stiffens, just faintly. I think Harm is one of the issues we’re going to have to address. I feel a tinge of pride, though, knowing my relationship with Harm might make Clay uncomfortable.

While it’s relaxing, and it feels great to be here with Clay, I think we both know that we need to talk about what’s going on between us. Part of me wants to just enjoy this time away from home with Clay, and simply play out whatever sexual escapades we can come up with - and I’m confident we can come up with some good ones - but I know that my pride and self esteem are worth breaking the “vacation” mood. However, over lunch in a restaurant isn’t the place to bring it up, and I think we’re aware of that.

By the time we’ve finished eating, had coffee, and Clay’s paid the bill - denying my offer to pay half with a no-nonsense shake of his head - it’s almost 3:30 in the afternoon. We grab another cab to the Trump International, where he’s staying. Clay continues to wheel my luggage through the lobby and all the way up to the room. It’s a one bedroom suite overlooking Central Park, and is probably the nicest place I’ve every stayed; certainly in New York City, that’s for sure.

One full wall is floor to ceiling windows that look out onto the park and the skyscrapers across the other side of the swath of green. To the left of the windows, there’s an entertainment armoire in the corner, framed on the other side by another set of windows. A couch, a small table, and set of four chairs fills the rest of the living room.

There’s a telescope aimed at the park, and I tease, “That from your bag of spy tricks?”

“I swear it came with the room.” Clay peels his gloves off, and I do the same to mine. We both remove our wool overcoats, and Clay takes them to hang up in the front closet.

“Wait until you see the bedroom,” he turns to say over his shoulder.

“Time’s a wastin’. Lead the way.”

Clay wheels my suitcase into the bedroom, which is equally as impressive as the main room. Tasteful furniture accents the room, and one wall reveals windows looking up along the length of the park. There’s a huge framed mirror over the bureau, which sits along the wall at the foot of the bed, and is adorned with a vase of fresh flowers. The lights illuminate the room softly, and the bed’s been turned down; it creates a decidedly tranquil mood.

I look in the mirror, and catch Clay looking back at me. Staring really. He was wearing a three-piece suit under that coat, and I watch him reach to take the jacket off and lay it on the bed. His eyes never leave mine, and I feel suddenly hot in my slacks and sweater.

Clay comes up behind me, to put his arms around me, high up, near my shoulders. He resumes the sweet assault on my neck that he’d begun in the cab before lunch. I lean my head back and to the side, soaking up the attention and sensations. But I’m getting impatient, and from the feel of his hips pressing into my rear, so is he.

I turn in his arms and run my hands over his back, as we anxiously attack each other’s mouths in a hard kiss. The silky material that makes up the back of his vest is so smooth, and I feel his muscles shifting under my hands, as his own hands come up to my face, steadying my head under his kisses, his thumbs occasionally brushing the corners of my mouth. I break our kiss, and turn to suck one of his thumbs into my mouth, running my tongue up to the tip, and around and around.

“Mmmmm,” Clay closes his eyes, and leans me into the bureau, his erection pressing insistently against me.

He yanks his thumb from my mouth, and pulls my sweater up and over my head. After tossing it next to his jacket on the bed, Clay kisses quick pecks from my shoulder, down my collarbone to the hem of my bra. With his teeth, he pulls the material down over my breast and then returns his mouth to my skin, sucking my nipple into a hard nub.

I ruffle a hand through Clay’s hair, while reaching the other to undo the buttons on his vest. Pulling his dress shirt and undershirt from his pants, I relish the way his hot skin feels under my fingers. He straightens up, deftly unhooks my bra, and while I wriggle out of it, he strips bare to the waist and starts to unbuckle his belt. But when he sees my bare breasts, his concentration turns from his clothes, and I feel his hands on my breasts, kneading my flesh and bending again to gnaw hungrily on my nipple. I feel my inner muscles contract automatically, as each nip sends a burning tingle down my chest, past my stomach, to land directly between my legs.

Taking over where Clay left off in removing his pants, I get them down to his knees, along with his boxers, before he reaches to undo my slacks, and shove a hand into my panties. I groan at the feel of his fingers on my sex, passing over my clit, and reaching to my wetness. Again, my walls tighten in excitement at his touch. In reply, I smooth my hand over the soft skin on Clay’s hard cock, and he sways his hips with a steady rhythm.

“Step out of your pants,” I request.

He obliges, kicking off his loafers first, and I discard my pants and panties, after un-zipping and yanking off my black boots. Opening the middle drawer of the bureau’s set of three, I put my foot up on the edge of it, and Clay’s perplexed look melts into understanding, when I guide his hips to mine and rub his erection over my wet folds.

“Inventive way to avoid letting me get you into a bed, yet again.”

“We’ll save that for the ‘long and slow.’ I want to feel you inside me, and I want to watch it happen.” I look pointedly at the mirror, and he follows where I’m looking.

Because of the way the mirror’s hung, high and angled downwards, we have a pretty good view of ourselves. Clay and I watch our reflections as he bends his knees to position his cock, so that when he straightens his legs, he’s all the way inside me.

“Jesus,” I gasp.

It has been too long. Clay jerks his hips hard against mine, plunging himself in and out of me, but the position gets kind of uncomfortable.

“Hang on,” Clay bites his lower lip in thought, then pulls all the way out of me.

In an impressive move, he hoists me onto the dresser, tugs my hips right to the edge, and thrusts back into me. I grab onto his shoulders to steady myself against the force of his physical actions, as well as the way I’m all of a sudden feeling lightheaded.

“Much better. And still an excellent view,” I say, noticing that Clay’s transfixed on watching his cock as it slides in and out of my core, no longer using the mirror to see.

“Oh, yeaaah.” He looks up at me, and then back down again.

Surprisingly, the view of our pairing isn’t like watching some icky porno, as I’d have expected. Instead, it’s incredibly hot. I lick my dry lips, and breathe open-mouthed, while linking my ankles behind Clay’s waist to draw him closer.

He continues his rhythmic pumping, and bites his lower lip again, as he carefully lets go of my left hip to bring his right thumb to my clit. I close my eyes at the sensation, unable to continue to focus on anything, and my head lolls back in pleasure.

I bring my own hand to join his, and reach around his hand to feel where he’s entering me. I feel his slightly sticky, wet shaft, as he draws it in and out of me, I then dangle my fingers lower to reach his balls. When my fingers graze his sensitive skin there, Clay pauses his thumb on my clit.

“Oh, God, Sarah. Yesss.” His statement lingers in the air, mingling with the moist sound of our bodies moving together.

His thumb regains its rhythm on my responsive clit, and I continue to tease and tangle my fingers around his cock and balls. Just as the dresser begins to thud against the wall, adding to the resonance of sex in the room, I feel my final tightening, and subsequent release begin. It starts where his thumb is, and radiates internally down to my core, where I squeeze Clay with force, and lastly it travels the length of my limbs, to end in a shout issuing forth from my mouth.

I feel Clay get even harder inside me, just prior to his climax. He grabs my hips with both hands again, and, when his cock pulses inside me, I study his face. Clay closes his eyes, and compresses his eyelids hard together, before a relaxation washes over his features.

We carefully separate, and I gently slide down from the bureau. Clay surprises me by hugging me hard, and we stand there, rocking back and forth. I’m kind of relieved that this initial session of sex is over. It’s like we’ve gotten it out of the way, but in a good way. Now, though, I know we’ve got time to relax and talk, and just be together.

“Shower?” I whisper, realizing how dark it’s gotten, and how cold I’ve become. The only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the far bedside table, and it seems really dim now.

“Great idea.” He lets me go, and we pad into the bathroom.

The bathroom rivals something from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. There are two sinks, a separate room with the toilet, a very deep and large bathtub with jets, and a huge glass-walled shower with three showerheads. Clay holds onto my hand while he bends into the shower stall to adjust the water. As he’s leaning forward, I kiss his lower back, and rest my cheek on his moist skin.

“Go on in, I’ll get the towels and robes handy.” Clay stands up and leaves me to begin showering.

By the time he comes back, I’m all lathered up. He steps under the water, and I slide my chest against his back, “Wash your back?”

“You can wash any part of me you like, if you’re going to use those to scrub me with,” Clay laughs.

We spend time in the shower lovingly washing each other. I marvel at how little I’ve gotten to know his body, and trace my fingers over a half-dozen scars, wondering where each one came from. A few I already know about. I wonder if I’ll ever know the story behind all of them.

Clay lets me wash his hair, and then he clumsily washes mine. I smile, thinking that I suppose I can’t expect him to be a whiz in every department. The conversation is light between us, and I’m positive he’s realizing, the way I have, that we really need to talk. We reluctantly leave the steaming water, and ultimately wrap ourselves in the complementary plush robes and soft slippers.

We gravitate towards the couch in the living room, but when I sit down, Clay veers away to fetch two glasses and cold mineral water from the mini-bar. Returning, he sits on the other end of the couch, and pours us each a generous glass of the refreshing, cold water. We sip in silence, gazing out at the city lights and dark patch of Central Park that’s visible from the couch.

“Sarah, I don’t want to fuck you anymore. I want to make love to you. I think that’s what I have been doing. At least, that’s what I’ve wanted to do, probably since Labor Day, even if my actions have been more … lascivious.”

I jump at the sound of his voice, and a sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach after his first sentence, only to disappear as soon as he continues. Clay rushes through the rest of his declaration, and I realize that he’s just as nervous as I am about the outcome of this conversation.

“Funny how casual sex never stays that way for long.”

“Yeah.” His voice is calm and measured; he’s not giving his hand away any more than he already has.

I take a deep breath, and one more gulp of water, before speaking again.

“Seriously, Clay, hearing you say that makes me really happy. I’ve been wanting to tell you that I can’t keep just sleeping with you.” I snort at the euphemism, before reaching for his hand and continuing, “Not that there’s been any sleeping going on, but I stopped fucking you after the Fourth of July.”

“I want you to know that I’m not seeing anyone else. I don’t want to see anyone else,” he says.

I look at him, and my heart swells with affection when he smiles at me, the lights from outside reflecting in his green eyes, which look like deep, dark pools from this distance. He looks so sexy, and vulnerable at the same time, with his robe halfway open, and his hair wet and neatly combed, like a little boy.

I set my glass down, and we stretch out on the couch together. Clay strokes my hair, as I lie resting with my head on his chest. I listen to his heart beating under my ear, and relish the feel of his chest rising and falling with his even breathing.

We talk quietly, and the mood is friendly and intimate. The conversation is tentative and exploratory, at first; I think we’re testing out a new level of vulnerability and openness. He speaks warmly about his mother and extended family. I ask him about the modern pentathlon, and there’s obvious pride in his voice when he talks about being in the Olympics.

Clay’s from an established family of means, but he’s proud of his accomplishments, feeling good about standing on his own merit in school, and in his career. I tell him that I come from a broken family of little means, so I’m positive that everything I’ve got now was earned by my own blood, sweat, and tears; and it means all the more to me because of that. He squeezes his arms around me tight, as I talk about my father, and coming to terms with my relationship with both of my parents.

As most couples do, we eventually broach the topic of past relationships and lovers. There are the usual “first time” stories, and I’m inordinately relieved that Clay doesn’t even flinch when I tell him how young, and drunk, I was. It’s a revelation to me, though, how many lovers, and how few relationships, Clay’s had.

“I don’t know why it surprises me, with your skill in the sack, and the kind of job that you have. I suppose it fits into that James Bond image …” I muse out loud.

“Being in covert operations is hardly the way to keep a girlfriend, or even get a second date. And I guess now that I’m not that young anymore, having a more long term relationship matters more to me than the opportunity for bed-hopping.”

I take him through all my serious relationships, recounting mistakes as a young woman – Farrow; disappointments as I got older – Dalton; errors in self-knowledge – Mic. And, in the heavy silence that fills the room when I finally pause, he asks the million-dollar question, “Harm?”

I sigh heavily, and hear his heart rate pick up. Snuggling closer to Clay, I tell him the truth. I was in love with Harm. I’m not anymore, and I know for sure that I could never be again. Clay reveals how he’s watched and wondered about our relationship for years. He was jealous of Harm, who seemed to have me in the palm of his hand, and never understood what kept us apart.

“I’m not sure I know myself what kept us apart. I’d like to say it was him, and be bitter about it for years to come. But I know it was partly me, too. Whatever the reasons were, they aren’t there anymore, because I don’t want to be with him.”

“Is this a recent revelation?” Clay clearly wants to know if I’m on the Harm-re-bound.

“No. More of a slow realization that began probably last spring, and became starkly clear to me when we were in-country. I guess the change of scenery helped clear things up.”

“Worked for us.”

I shift to see his face. We lean together for a kiss, and adjust our positions to more comfortably keep kissing. And that’s what we do for the next fifteen minutes. It’s slow, and if we hadn’t had the release we’d experienced atop the bureau earlier, I’d describe it as torturous.

Moving very nearly in slow motion, Clay uses his tongue to caress mine over and over, eventually turning his attentions to my lips. I let him suck, then nibble on my lower lip, before he lazily thrusts his tongue back between my lips to trace the roof of my mouth. Giving control over to Clay, I savor the pampered feeling, before doing some exploring of my own.

I open his robe all the way, and expose his chest, which is sprinkled lightly with dark curly hair. I float my lips over the contours of his muscles, landing kisses on his nipples, and relishing the way they harden between my lips, and the satisfying hum that emanates from deep in Clay’s throat, as they do.

He fingers my hair softly, “Let’s go to bed.”

I don’t reply, but stand and hold my hand out to him, and we shuffle in our slipper-covered feet into the bedroom, where the bedside lamp is still shedding light over the room.

I stand on one side of the bed, Clay on the other, and we simultaneously let our robes drop to the floor and step out of our slippers, before sliding under the covers. He laughs nervously, and I reach out to simply embrace him as we lie together.

From that hold on one another, our hands begin to caress and discover skin and reactions. It’s like we’ve never been together before. It all feels new. Our newly exposed hearts are making our bodily exposure brand new, as well

He slides the palm of his hand over the curve of my hip, and around to squeeze my ass. We share a pillow, and continue our lazy kisses. It’s exceedingly nice to be lying down with him. There’s a strange relaxed, yet erotic, feel to it all. I prop myself up on one arm, and kiss Clay’s face softly all over. He takes deep breaths, and hums on each exhale.

I lie completely on top of him, and he holds me tight against him. We’re rubbing ourselves together, just enjoying being totally naked and in bed together. I can feel his cock, hard against me, and I slide off him a little, to straddle his hip and rub my clit there.

Clay runs his fingers through my hair, and touches my face tenderly, “Lie back Sarah.”

I roll onto my back and spread my arms out across the huge king size bed. Clay takes both of his hands and intertwines our fingers together for a second, before running his hands up my arms, lightly over my breasts, and all the way down my torso, to my hips, thighs, knees, and feet. I feel like a cat, all stretched out, and getting rubbed.

“Hmmmmmm,” is my reaction.

Clay smiles, “Feel good?”

“You’ve got the softest hands.”

He doesn’t say anything; I hope he’s not insulted. He seriously has really soft hands for a man, and, from where I’m lying right now, that’s a good thing. Clay uses those soft hands to massage my calves and thighs, slowly working his way higher.

Eventually he gets to the juncture between my legs, and he pulls his body along side mine, as he fingers my lips, to expose my clit. Bending to kiss my right breast, he gently fingers me below, while softly circling his tongue around my hardening nipple. I don’t make a move to touch him, and Clay doesn’t seem to mind. I’m kind of playing a game with myself, trying to see how long I can stand not to touch him while he treats me to this exquisite torture.

Putting a finger inside my passage, he hums against my breast, and I clench my inner muscles hard, to let him know it feels good. The slow pace he’d set for himself picks up in tempo, as he thrusts one, then two fingers inside me. Lifting his head to look at me, Clay smiles, and then gets a very serious look on his face as he stares into my eyes, while never letting up with the motions of his hand at my sex.

I know I’m panting, and starting to sweat, and I just look right back at him with glazed-over eyes. I’m in a sexual stupor, and am totally content to lie here and just be “worked on” by him. The arrangement seems to suit Clay, as well. He finally breaks eye contact, and moves lower on the bed again. Resting between my legs, he inserts a third finger into me, and pumps all three hard into my passage. I’m thrusting back just as hard, and when Clay buries his face in the hair at my mound and works my clit around with his tongue, I try to hold off as long as I can, but it’s no use. I come in a matter of seconds, moaning and writhing the whole time.

Clay lies down on his back, and, without a word, I sit up and throw a leg over him. While I want to just fuck his brains out, I’d like to return the intense feelings he’d stirred in me. I sink myself down on his cock, as slowly as I possibly can. He lifts his hands to my hips, just resting them there, his fingers twitching, and clearly resisting the urge to push me down onto him faster. He rolls his head to the side and watches me, as I cover his hard member with my tight core.

When I’m all the way seated, his eyes and hands travel together from my hips to my stomach, to my breasts, lightly grazing my nipples, and up to my face. I lean forward to meet his lips, and we kiss softly. I put my arms around him, and we stay that way for a few minutes, with him stretched out inside me, and my legs curled up on either side of his hips.

It’s warm and comfortable, and comforting. I could almost fall asleep, joined this way with him. But I can’t ignore the way his cock feels inside me, and, when I reflexively squeeze my muscles around him, he bucks up, pushing farther into me.

“I want you,” Clay whispers.

I can’t help laughing, “From where I’m sitting, you’ve pretty-well got me.”

His laughter joins mine, and I sit up all the way, to ride him for all he’s worth. Beginning slowly, I rise and fall on his erection a few times, before rocking my hips forcefully against his. Clay meets me thrust for thrust, and, reaching between us, he sets me spinning into another climax, just before holding hard onto my hips and, stilling my motions for a second, then punctuating the pause with a last pump into me.

I collapse back on top of him, and he pulls the covers up over us, as we snuggle. We’re huddled together the way we were before, and this time, we both doze off, until his softening erection slips out of me and the sensation wakes us up.

“Well, that’s a unique kind of an alarm clock,” I say.

“If we could market that method of falling asleep and waking up, we’d be millionaires,” Clay chuckles, as he rolls me off of him so we can sit up.

“No kidding. You hungry?”

“Starving. Room service?”

“Excellent idea. I love the food in New York, but I’d much rather have you all to myself.”

Clay turns to smile at me, before disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes. While he’s gone, I find the room service menu, and make a few selections. I hear the shower running, so I stick my head into the bathroom and ask how he likes his steak.

“You’re making a big assumption, Sarah. What if I wanted fish for dinner?”

“For what I’ve got in mind, you’re going to need the protein.” I make sure to sound stern, but sultry.

“You ought to work for the beef council. Medium rare.”

“Beef, it’s what’s for dinner when Sarah MacKenzie is going to fuck your brains out all night,” I say over my shoulder, as I leave the room laughing.

I crawl back into bed and order room service, smiling as I get an idea, and adding dessert to the order at the last minute. When Clay comes out of the shower, I take my turn and leave him to deal with our food, if it arrives before I’m out.

I’m insanely happy. Work feels about a million miles away, but this thing with Clay – my relationship with Clay, I correct myself, since it’s no longer just a “thing” – feels real, not like a vacation fling. I don’t think we’ve gotten caught up in a false sense of affection. I mean, we began this thing while working and keeping our regular schedules. Granted, we were both out of town a lot between the times we saw each other, and it wasn’t like we were actually dating. But, I’ve just got a good feeling about all this, and the worries I’d had before seem silly now. There was no emotional or dramatic declaration of love. What we did say felt simply like we made something official that had already been going on.

I step out of the shower to find Clay waiting there with a towel. He hands it to me and watches me dry off. He’s put on pajama pants, with a tiny gray and black plaid pattern, and a plain blue t-shirt, but he’s wearing the fluffy slippers from the hotel. It’s really domestic looking.

“Dinner’s here,” Clay says, as I’m toweling off my hair. “They said something about your steak being done ‘black and blue?’”

He makes the statement into a question, and I explain that “black and blue” means charred on the outside, bloody on the inside.

“No one outside New York City does it right.”

“You really are a Marine, aren’t you?” he teases, as he walks into the living room where I can see that he’s set up our food on the table and lit two white taper candles.

I slip on the silk Chinese-styled pants and top that make up the red pajama set which I’d worn the top from when I’d read Clay’s e-mail at home for the first time. When I get to the living room, Clay holds out a chair for me, “Madam…”

The food is fabulous, and my steak is prepared perfectly. Clay looks at the bloody mess of meat that I’m devouring, and sneers. I smack the back of his hand with my fork, and we finish our meal in relative silence. I’m lost in thought, and Clay’s expression is blank, impossible to read.

When I finish, I peek at the second cart and take inventory of what’s in store for dessert. My plan is working out perfectly.

“I can see you’re up to something,” Clay says, putting our dishes on the dinner cart, before rolling it into the hallway.

I don’t answer, but walk to the armoire to find the stereo. I tune in a classical station, and turn all the lights off, leaving just the candles lit. Clay sits on the couch, and I nestle next to him, his arm resting gently around my shoulders. We’re silent for a long time, until I get curious.

“What were you thinking about at dinner?”

“You. Your body, your mind. The incredible way you make me feel, even when we’re not together.” Clay speaks with his mouth in my hair. I can feel the warmth on my scalp. There’s a sadness in his voice, contrasting his words.

“What aren’t you saying, Clay?” I don’t want any lingering feelings left unsaid between us.

“I’m not saying, ‘I love you.’ Not because I don’t; it’s just not something I’ve been able to honestly say to very many people, and I don’t want you to doubt the sincerity of my words.”

I take a moment before responding. I’m really touched, and don’t want to say the wrong thing.

“That makes me feel really special. Thank you. I love you, too.”

Looking into his eyes as I speak, I gently touch his face, and we kiss tenderly. His hand traces the contours of my features lovingly, and I thank whatever forces prompted me to go to that Fourth of July concert alone, allowing me to encounter this man in a way I don’t think I would have otherwise. We’d have gone along in our lives without knowing the pleasure of being together. I sigh at the thought, and he cranes his head back to look at me, asking what I’d been thinking about.

I tell him, and Clay laughs, sharing that he’d been so surprised to see me that night, but he’d recognized me almost right away – from my busty profile.

“Pervert,” I smack his arm.

“You know it.”

“I sure do.”

We laugh and tease each other, throwing accusations back and forth over who’s the biggest sex fiend. It’s a draw when we realize that, until we’d been together, sex with others had been pretty standard and by-the-book.

“The book *not* being the Kama Sutra, that is,” I snicker.

We fall silent again, and just listen to the music and stare out the windows at the city lights. An opera aria comes on the radio that I almost recognize, but can’t quite place.

“I feel like I should be watching an opera while my hit men are out murdering someone, like in one of the Godfather movies,” I comment.

Clay looks at me, puzzled at first, “You’re thinking of the third Godfather; that was the Intermezzo from the Cavalleria Rusticana. This is ‘Nessun Dorma’ from Turandot. But I think they used this in that Jack Ryan movie, Sum of All Fears.”

“Okay. I’m impressed. You’re either a total opera geek, or a huge movie buff.”

“Little of both, I guess. You know, my original plan was to take you to the opera, to impress you with my cultural prowess.”

“I’m suitably impressed, as it is. I’d have liked the opera, though. And I brought appropriate clothes, too.” I’d wondered what he meant when he said to pack for a variety of activities.

“We’ll come back again sometime, and get Mother to finagle a box seat for us.”

We’re quiet again for a while, and I’m so relaxed that I almost forget about my plans for dessert until Clay speaks up.

“You ready for dessert? I know you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Ahh, yes,” I nod, while standing to survey the room, deciding the floor of the living room is as good a place as any.

“Take your clothes off and lie on the floor. Close your eyes, and no peeking.”

I find the thermostat and crank it up a couple of notches, so we don’t get chilly, and then strip my own clothes off. I roll the cart with our dessert on it closer to where Clay’s reclined, with his shoulders and head propped up on one of the couch cushions, which he’d moved to the floor.

I take the top off the silver container that the ice cream’s in. It’s got a false bottom for the dry ice to sit, so it hasn’t melted at all, since room service brought it up. Next to the ice cream is another silver dish; this one’s got a sterno can burning beneath it. I lift the lid and stir the caramel sauce, testing it with my fingers to be sure it’s hot, but not too hot. There’s also whipped cream and freshly cut strawberries, in an iced container.

Clay’s very obediently got his eyes closed, and he looks like he’s got the patience of Job. Maybe it’s some special CIA training. I put the serving dishes on the floor, out of Clay’s reach, but convenient for me. Taking a spoonful of strawberry slices, I begin to lay them on his body. Clay jumps when I put the first one on one of his nipples.

“Jesus, that’s a little cold, you know.”

“Ohh, just you wait.” I’m going for sexy and mysterious.

“Humph!” He tries for frustration, but I turn my head to his groin and see his cock slowly engorge with blood. He knows what I’m up to.

I dollop whipped cream in blobs, starting at his chest and following a straight line down his breast bone, hitting his belly button dead on, and topping his erection with a spoonful. Deciding this is enough for the first course of dessert, I begin to alternately nip and lick the food from him.

Clay’s imitating my passive performance from before, and he makes no move to touch me. I see his hips move up and down, though, when he senses my body close to him. He’s trying to be sly and cop a feel, without me knowing it. Smiling, I scold him for moving around too much.

I’m totally delighted at the reaction he’s having to my little experiment. I wasn’t sure how it would go over, but Clay’s going along with it, and obviously enjoying the ride. I’d put berries on his kneecaps and I slurp them up while straddling his legs and walking on my knees to balance my core over his erection, which is still covered in whipped cream. I rub him along my folds, and see Clay smile.

“Come here,” he says.

He tosses the couch cushion over his head, back onto the couch, and I place one knee on each side of his head. Clay slides his hands up my thighs and finds my clit with his fingertips, as his tongue licks at the whipped cream that was, moments ago, on his cock. He’s taking leisurely laps up and down my folds, and working my clit in a rotating motion. I can feel my own wetness mixing with the moisture of the cream, and Clay’s moaning into my lower lips, extending his tongue as far into me as it will go.

I have to lean forward to hold onto the couch, and I tense my thighs in rhythm with his motions over my nerve center. I can’t decide what feels better, his hands or his mouth. Realizing that I really don’t care, I feel myself tighten up from the inside, when Clay shifts to insert a finger deep inside me, while his other hand never stops moving, and his mouth seems to be everywhere down there.

“Hmm mhmm?”

“Yeah, just like that. I’m so close,” I gasp.

Bucking my hips into his mouth and hands, I feel my legs shaking as I climax, and my head goes fuzzy for a second. When I feel like I can move again without falling over, I move to sit next to where Clay is still lying, eyes closed.

“You can open your eyes now,” I laugh at him.

“Okay.” He turns his head, smiles, and his lids open to reveal his green-hazel eyes shining up at me.

“I was supposed to be doing that to you.”

“Who says you can’t still? But I want a turn at this dessert stuff. Lie down and close your eyes.” He’s all business-like in tone. I think he takes everything he does seriously, wanting to excel at everything. No complaints here.

I don’t argue, even though I’m afraid I might fall asleep while he’s putting food on me, I feel completely satiated. The hot caramel sauce feels great on my body, which is just starting to cool off. Clay drizzles it from each collarbone to the point between my breasts and downward, following the pattern I’d drawn on him with the whipped cream dollops. He trails the sauce in the hair at my sex, leaving a generous amount there to drip down to mix between my folds. He continues to let the sauce fall from the spoon, making trails all the way down my legs. Before I can figure out where he is, I feel Clay’s mouth close over my left big toe. I’m totally surprised, it’s something you read about or hear rumor of, but who actually sucks on your toes?

“God, that’s weird,” I say, “But, good weird”

Clay lifts my foot up and swirls his tongue around my toe, licking and sucking at it, grazing his teeth over the under-pad, while massaging my foot. There’s a wet, naughty feel to it, and the idea that I might have dozed off seems miles away now.

Gently putting my foot down, he nips at each of my toes, before licking his way up the caramel sauce trail on my legs. Instead of following the path to it’s ultimate destination, my sex, he picks up the path at my belly, and finishes off the rest of the sauce, ending in an open mouthed kiss, where I get to taste the sweetness of the caramel on his tongue and lips. He lets me lick his lips and suck the last of the sauce off, and his now-stubbly face is so sexy under my tongue. Clay really seems to be getting off on this, because he’s breathing really hard, and isn’t moving away. So I continue to lick at his lips and mouth, transitioning my actions into bites at his lower lip, and flicks of my tongue along his upper lip.

“You’re so good at that,” he finally says.

“I’m well inspired,” I compliment.

Clay moves away, and the next sensation I feel is very hot caramel sauce on one of my nipples. He must have stirred some up from the bottom of the dish, where it’s closer to the heat source. The momentary pain is replaced by an amazing contrasting feeling, when his mouth closes over the tight bud, and I feel the cold ice cream in his mouth soothing the sting of the heat. I moan something guttural, and Clay moans something back, while sucking and swallowing the sauce and ice cream. He licks me clean and repeats the same process on the other breast, and it feels even better. He doesn’t let up, even when I’m sure there’s not a morsel of food left on my skin there. But he keeps sucking and tonguing my nipple, making my core ache for him, and my clit long for his touch to release the tension he’s winding up in me.

“Clay,” I beg with no shame, and open my eyes.

He answers by sharply thrusting a finger into me, drawing it back out and placing it briefly on my lips, before sucking on his own finger. I lick my lips to taste myself and the caramel sauce he’d spooned onto my sex. The erotic freedom I’d felt with him before was nothing compared to what he’s unleashing in me now. I’m hungry for him, in a way that I’ve never felt for anyone. I want to devour him, and I want to be devoured *by* him, until we can’t tell who’s doing what to whom.

Clay’s moved to the floor and is lapping at my folds now, cleaning me up. He’s not really moving with direct purpose, the way he was licking me there before. I sit up and lean back on the heels of my hands to watch the way he’s working between my legs, which are spread wide. There’s a lull in the urgency I’d been feeling when he was sucking my nipple, but there’s a totally engulfing desire between us, with no hurried need to finish this lovemaking session any time soon.

Clay lifts his head up to see me watching him, and he kisses the inside of my thigh. Rising to his knees, Clay settles back down with his cock at my wet sex. We’re both sticky, and we’re about to get stickier. He drives his hardness into me and lays his body down flat on mine to kiss my face. As soon as our lips meet and our tongues reach for one another, the urgency’s back. He props himself up, and I raise my legs high up around him. I can’t help grunting as his hips bang between my legs, and I feel his cock plunging deep into me.

“Oh. Yes. Yes.” My words jumble together, and I look up at Clay, who’s sweating from the effort, and I’m sure that there’s nothing sexier. Watching him starts my muscular contractions around his cock, as he pumps in and out of me. And, as I feel myself go completely over the edge, making me almost unaware of everything but how he feels inside me, I hear Clay give voice to his own climax with a loud, “yes,” before resting on top of me, kissing my sweaty hairline tenderly.

We’re sticky; really, really sticky, and probably going to be glued together, if we don’t move soon. Clay makes a move to get up, and I suggest we try out the bathtub.

“Good idea. You want to start the water, or try to clean this up a bit?”

“I’ll start the water,” I say, taking advantage of his offer and picking the easier task.

I check myself out in the mirror as the water runs, and confirm that I’m a complete, goopy mess, even as good a job as Clay was doing at licking me clean. I see Clay’s reflection in the mirror, and he stands next to me, his hands on his hips.

“It’s a sticky business we’re in,” he says, with a droll voice.

I fling my hand out and smack him in the stomach, which distracts him enough to let me step into the tub first. I shut off the water, and hit the button on the wall that starts the jets. Clay climbs in and sits across from me, his legs on either side of mine. We simultaneously sigh and sink farther into the water, then laugh at our mirrored actions.

I close my eyes, and just relish the feel of the hot water relaxing my over-worked muscles, and the way the hair on Clay’s legs tickles the sides of my cleanly shaved legs. Again, I appreciate the duality of our relationship. To go from the hottest sex ever, to sitting and soaking in a tub with the man, in a matter of minutes, is amazing. I think to myself that this is how a marriage should be, and it takes me a couple of seconds to realize that I’d just thought about marrying Clay.

Instead of being a scary or totally alien thought, the idea seems in the realm of the possible, and so I let my mind wander randomly, and enjoy this quiet time together.

“Ready to get out?” Clay wakes me up.

I hadn’t realized that I was sleeping. And, as I wake up, it does strike me as odd that, as much as has happened between us, and as close and comfortable as I feel with Clay, we’ve yet to actually *sleep* together. Hell, it wasn’t until a couple of hours ago that we’d even had sex in a bed, much less use one for sleep.

We groggily make our way though our own nightly rituals. Clay’s a flossing fiend, and when he tears a piece of dental floss for himself, he hands me the container. This relationship could be good for my dental health. Twenty minutes after getting out of the tub, we’re in bed, naturally getting in on the sides we’d gravitated towards when we were in bed for another purpose. Clay holds his arm out to me, and I snuggle against his body, my head on his shoulder, his arm around my back.

I’m asleep in no time and, when I wake up at 6:30, I can’t even remember if we’d even said good night to each other.


Thursday, November 28, 2002
Thanksgiving Day
0737 Local
Trump International Hotel, New York City

As I wake up, before I open my eyes, I try to hang on to the sleepy bliss that I’m loath to give up. When I finally am all the way awake, I recount the events of the prior day in my head. I run my fingers through Clay’s hair, hoping to wake him gently. And I lovingly study his stubble-covered features, and smile down at him, as he opens his sleepy eyes to look at me.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning.” I press my body against him, one leg thrown over his.

“What’s for breakfast?” Clay hints at our dessert “menu” from last night.

“If you want to pour milk and cereal all over me and eat it off, you’d better re-think your selection.”

He laughs, and says he usually just has a cup of coffee for breakfast. I tell him he’s nuts, and he informs me that I must be secretly in cahoots with his Mother, who nags him all the time about his eating habits.

“Speaking of your mother,” I say, purposefully caressing his balls, and running my fingers over his morning erection.

“Um, no. Let’s not speak of my mother.”

He reaches for me, and prepares my passage for his cock by fingering my lips and pushing a finger into me. We kiss and I mount him. We seem to be insatiable with each other, because after I come once, while on top of him, he rolls us over, pulls all the way out of me, and positions me on my stomach. I finally get a clue, and get on my hands and knees, raising my ass in the air, with my hips tilted upwards.

Clay holds onto one hip, while grabbing his cock in the other hand to find my opening, and he slides in. I lean all the way down, bunching up a pillow to lean on, and I hang on for the ride. The position allows him to plunge deeper into me than before, and I feel him all the way through my body, as he slams hard against me, his balls slapping my sweaty skin. We grunt in unison, and I let a gasp of, “fuck me,” slip from my lips. At my words, Clay clenches his hands on my hips, and thrusts harder and harder, until I’ve gone over the edge again, and can feel him throbbing inside me.

Clay slips out of me and stands up, staggering a little. Again, I order room service while he’s in the bathroom, then we shower together, embracing or gently touching the whole time. We dress and eat breakfast at the living room table, with the television on, watching the pre-parade commentary.

“So, Clay, does the CIA always put you up in such nice digs? And, if so, are you guys recruiting?” I’d wondered yesterday about his accommodations, but was too pleasantly distracted to ask.

“This is strictly on Mother’s dime,” he says nonchalantly, as he sips his coffee.

I swallow my bite of French toast, “Really? She doesn’t mind paying for your one-night love shack?”

“She doesn’t mind. Well, she doesn’t know. Actually, that’s not true.”

Clay looks down, and starts to play with the seam along the edge of his gray flannel pants.

“Go on.” I’m really curious what he’s told his mother about the woman he fucked up against the side of the pool house.

“I told her you’d be here with me, and that we’d come for dinner directly from here, together.”

“And …”

“*And*, as I’d suspected on the Fourth of July, she really likes you, and she could barely restrain her grandmotherly biological clock from ticking at me. Seriously, though, spending her money on things like insisting I stay here – especially after I’ve been out of the country for a while – is one of the things she’s getting more and more insistent about, as she gets older.”

I tease him about being a mama’s boy, and he’s really good-natured about it. I think he knows he kind of is one, but has enough self-confidence not to care what people think. We finish up our breakfast; well, Clay finishes his second cup of coffee, and we decide that, since we’re kind of high up, the view of the parade will be better from street level.

We hurry to get ready, and I finish getting dressed. I decide to be naughty and practical, putting on a gray ankle length wool wrap around skirt with two maroon stripes near the bottom, but I don’t put on any underwear, just some heavy socks, and my black boots. I top the outfit off with an off-white Irish cable knit turtleneck sweater; my overcoat and gloves completing the outfit.

Clay’s ready the same time I am, and we hold hands as we take the elevator downstairs and exit the lobby, to find ourselves in a huge crowd of people. We walk as best we can through the bustling mob, and finally decide to walk along the parade route, until we can find a space where we can see.

We walk for blocks and blocks, and I’m really enjoying the opportunity for people watching. There’s so much diversity in the crowd, and the feeling of holiday cheer is prevalent. Clay keeps a tight hold on my hand, and now and then we stop to whisper in each other’s ears about a particularly noteworthy individual in the crowd, like the young woman who clearly thought this was a Britney Spears look-alike contest, and the middle of summer – she’s wearing a barely-there halter top, very short shorts, and is holding an albino snake.

While most of the people around us are watching this Britney act, we spot an entryway that’s not occupied, and quickly take up the spot; there’s just room for the two of us. It’s a couple of steps up, so we can see over most people’s heads, and it appears to be the doorway to an upstairs business office, so it’s not like we’re standing in front of someone’s apartment.

The start of the parade finally gets to where we’re standing, and we watch as the floats and soap opera celebrities pass by. Clay stands behind me, his arms encircling my waist, and he watches the parade over my left shoulder.

As that kid from American Idol with the big hair passes by, waving and smiling his toothy grin, Clay says in my ear, “Tell me about what you did after you sent that e-mail.”

I turn to face him, and he firmly tells me to keep watching the parade, asking me to describe in detail how I touched myself, and what I was thinking about. Facing the backs of the hundreds of people on the sidewalk in front of us, I try to concentrate on remembering exactly what I did.

“Well, I came home, and got dressed in just the top to the pajamas I was wearing yesterday.”

Clay reaches all the way around me, and takes his gloves off, shoving one in each of my coat pockets as he does, “Go on.”

I’ve got no idea where he’s going with this, but I’m getting very curious, so I continue.

“I went to lie down on top of my bed, and read your e-mail, imagining the scene you’d set for us - fast and furious, up against a wall. Then I re-read the e-mail, picturing the long and slow part.”

As I tell him all about how I’d pleasured myself, and the way his words had made me so wet and wanton, I feel Clay’s hips swiveling in circular motions into my backside, his hands on my hips. He reaches down and bunches my coat up, to reach underneath it. I’m grateful that the slit in the back of the coat goes up fairly high, so the material he’s moved out of the way kind of ends up on either side of my hips. While I’m telling him about how I’d pretended my hands were his touching me and fingering my own wet opening, Clay explores the skirt I’m wearing, and I hear a quiet, “ah-ha” as he figures out that the skirt’s a wrap around. He rotates it on my waist, until he can slip his hand beneath the material and move it out of the way, in a similar way as my coat. The cold November air hits my skin, but Clay presses close up against me, allowing just enough space for his hands to caress me, and I’m not chilly at all. It takes him a second to figure out what’s going on when his hands touch the bare skin on my rear.

“No underwear, you naughty girl,” he scolds, in a sexy and low voice.

“That’s right, and it’s why you love me.” I push my butt back and rub it into his hands, which grab my muscles and squeeze tightly.

“Hmmm, one of the reasons,” he’s really distracted.

The Marines’ Quantico Band comes within hearing distance, and as they get closer I identify the song as Semper Fidelis.

“They’re playing our song,” Clay says, referring to the fact that this had been playing when we first kissed on the Fourth of July.

He nuzzles my turtleneck down a little, and starts to kiss my neck, while his hands disappear from their task of massaging my butt. I feel him rustling around behind me, and I have a sneaking suspicion about what he’s doing, but can’t believe he’d be that bold. Clay keeps his lips on my neck, and then I feel his hands again, working their way back underneath my clothes. This time, instead of feeling his hands on my ass, I feel his cock pressing into the flesh at my backside, with no clothes between us. His hands come around to the front of me, and he reaches down with his fingers to find my clit. His other hand goes to my hip, and he bends me forward slightly.

My hunch was right, and I’m getting really turned on, as he keeps kissing my neck. I feel his breathing get harder and harder against my skin there. The hand that was on my hip, now comes back around to my ass, and he slips his fingers down my crack, past my anus, and to my already-wet passage. He puts a finger inside me and pulls it out, efficiently spreading my juices around. The danger factor is incredibly high, and, as we watch the Rockettes kick their way down the street, Clay maneuvers my feet apart with a kick. I sense him bending his knees, and feel his thrust upwards as his hardness enters me.

We’re both panting now, and I have to hold onto the walls of the little entryway we’re in, to balance and to get enough leverage to thrust back into Clay as hard as I want to. My head surges with the excitement and emotion of it all. Clay’s fingers are working fast at my clit, and I’m meeting the quick rhythm he’s setting with his hips. I stifle a cry as I climax, and, when it subsides, I manage to stay standing, thanks to the way Clay now has both of his hands on my hips. He’s driving into me hard. Burying his face into my neck as he comes, he bites and sucks on my skin. I wonder briefly if he’ll leave a mark.

We don’t say anything as we tidy up our clothes, never taking our eyes off the parade and the huge balloon of Uncle Sam that’s floating by. The rest of the parade is completely uneventful in comparison to what we just did, and we get a little bored as the parade seems to go on and on.

“Want to get out of here?” I ask, hopeful that he’s on the same track as I am.

“Thought you’d never ask. There’s only so much of this I can take, and frankly, I don’t think I have it in me to screw you again at the moment.”

We fight the crowd back to the hotel, and clean up a bit before packing and checking out. By the time we’re back out on the street, the parade’s over, and the streets are being cleaned up. We get a cab to the train station and travel the three hours to DC.

Since my car’s at the Falls Church station, and Clay hasn’t been home in weeks, I drive him to his house, and we’ve still got a couple of hours before we have to be at his mother’s. I’ve never been in Clay’s townhouse before, and he tells me to make myself at home, while he unpacks from his weeks overseas.

I check out every room, but don’t snoop too much. I’d rather have him show me around and tell me the stories that go with the pictures on the walls and the furniture in each room. Then I sit on his bed and watch as he musses up his hair in frustration at the messy state his bedroom is in. There are about six piles of laundry on the floor, and papers spread all around.

“I guess I was doing more harm than good, trying to unpack in a hurry. I didn’t want you to get bored.”

I insist that I’m a big girl, and that I can entertain myself.

“I bet you can. Tell me again what you did while you read my e-mail?” He turns from the mess on the floor, and gives me his full attention.

“No way, you got your turn. I want to hear about what *you* did after you sent it.” There’s no way he’s going to get out of telling me about this.

I’ve never watched a man touch himself, well, except for the occasional glimpse at Playgirl, so I make Clay demonstrate. He’s really reluctant, at first, but I tell him he can keep his eyes closed and pretend I’m not here. He agrees and takes his shirt and undershirt off, then unbuckles his pants. Lying on the bed, he reclines, with a couple of pillows propping him up. He puts his right hand down the front of his pants, and I can see his movements under the material of his boxers. I can tell he’s getting hard, and soon he lifts his hips and pushes his pants and boxers down with his free hand, to expose his cock.

My mouth literally goes dry, as I watch him stroke his hard member up and down, rubbing his thumb over the head. His grip gets stronger and stronger, while he pushes his head back into the pillows and sinks farther down to lie flat on the bed. He’s biting his lower lip, and I can’t resist quietly leaning down to kiss him. He jumps a little in surprise, and stops the jerking motion of his hand on his cock.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper, and, before he has a chance to answer, I kiss him again, plunging my tongue into his mouth, thrusting it over and around his tongue.

I keep my eyes open and my head angled, so I can see him resume his strokes. I don’t touch him anywhere else, other than to keep kissing him, and I watch as Clay nears his release. He breaks our kiss, turning his head to the side to say, “Oh God. Sarah…” as he comes, spraying his hot liquid all over his own stomach.

He opens one eye, then the other, looking sheepish and embarrassed. I kiss him again, and, with some kleenex from his bedside table, I wipe him up. Clay just lies there, staring at me.

“You’re fucking amazing. I’ve never done that in front of anyone before.”

“Me, neither. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone do that before. But you were really sexy.”

To prove my point, I take his hand and run it up under my skirt, where I’m still not wearing any underwear. I let his fingers feel how wet I got from watching him, and he easily brings me to climax, our fingers working together at my sex, stroking and rubbing me there.

“Okay, think we can manage to go to my mother’s house for dinner without ‘accidentally’ dropping our silverware and doing it underneath the dining room table?” he jokes.

I give him a deadly serious look, and compliment his brilliant mind. We change clothes; I thankfully had brought more than enough outfit choices with me, and we finally head for our turkey dinner. I let him drive my car out to his mother’s house and, on the way, we talk about his family traditions. There’s some regret in his voice at the fact that his mother wanted him to choose another profession, just about any other profession, besides intelligence. He’s worried, now that she’s getting older, that it means more and more to her that he be in town. But, the reality of the way things are in the world is that he has to be gone a lot.

Clay seems really pensive, so I don’t say much, but just let him talk. It seems like he wants a family of his own someday, but, as I’d have guessed, he’s concerned about the possibility of leaving a wife and children behind, the way his dad had. We hold hands in the car, and, by the time we reach his mother’s house, we’re joking around again about my underwear, or lack there of, and are talking about sneaking off for a rendezvous in the pool house, for old times sake.

“Not that it’s been all that long, you realize,” I say, as we pull into the driveway.

“I know. It just feels like we’ve been doing this forever.”

I’m flattered, and before I get all teary or sentimental, Clay puts a hand at the back of my neck and draws my lips to his. We kiss tenderly, and when we break apart I say, “I’d like that.”

I’m not all that specific about what I mean, but he immediately understands.

“Come on, let’s get the holiday greetings over with, so we can hit the pool house and start another Thanksgiving tradition that will embarrass the hell out of any kids we might have one day.”

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