Spoilers: Through Need to Know
Summary: An encounter in Japan leads to new beginnings.
En route
Narita to Tokyo
10:15 am, Local Time
April 3, 2003
I’d forgotten the almost casual incorporation of beauty found in everyday things in Japan. It’s been a number of years since I’d been on this same route, the highway leading into Tokyo from the international airport at Narita. I look out the window of the large transit bus, marvel at the greening of the rural countryside, and watch the occasional tendrils of smoke rising from the ‘trash burns’ of small family farming plots as they spiral in a dissipating fashion into the clear early spring sky. The bamboo lattice fences lining the highway are verdant with geometrically trimmed hedging, and, scattered among the occasional forest and cultivated garden, I can see the ephemeral fully blossomed cherry tree. Cherry blossom time in Japan is magical; people delight in the transience of their beauty.
I lean my head against the lace covered seat and watch the passing scenery; another 72 minutes to the hotel, I might as well nap a little, my body still feels the time difference from DC. I reflect on the odd chain of events that’s led to finding me redirected to Tokyo when I’d been bound for Hong Kong.
The SARS epidemic closed the new Hong Kong airport while my flight was en route from Okinawa, causing us to be rerouted to Narita – I was surprised we weren’t going into Osaka – but was quite content to let JAL pick up my hotel bill in Tokyo. They’re being very gracious because I was traveling in uniform. Not that JAL hasn’t always been impeccably service-oriented. I briefly wonder where they’re putting me up for the night, and what type of travel arrangements I’ll have to make to get where I need to go. I still have an investigation to conduct. Maybe the Admiral will allow a videoconference? I’m not eager to travel into a known epidemic. I’ll have to get Bud to check on the admissibility of electronic testimony; although during in the initial investigation, a videoconference might suffice, for my purposes.
Depending on the hotel, I’ll surely be able to make the arrangements, and then I can spend my extra two days in Tokyo. No real Christmas shopping, though, as I’d planned. It’s too expensive. Trinkets, maybe. If I have the time, I’ll take the train down to Kamakura. I love the old capital with its temples and the sea air. I’ll make my pilgrimage to the great bronze Buddha, rising its 32 feet into the air. A fixture in the landscape since the 13
th century. I love its enduring quality. It’s withstood fire, flood, and tsunami. None have managed to destroy the magnificent statue, and, after the second building was demolished around it, the monks thought it foolish to hide Buddha’s face from the elements any longer, and left it in the open air.My thoughts return to the reason for my trip, and the investigation into the hapless Marine Major’s weapons smuggling charges that was almost complete. The one available witness who could confirm the Major’s ineptitude had been sent TAD to the American Embassy in Hong Kong. Thus, I’d been Hong Kong bound to confirm that, while the Major was guilty of stupidity, his actions weren’t necessarily intentional. My findings would’ve been complete with the interview, and I’d been looking forward to the additional two days the Admiral had granted.
I enjoy Hong Kong; it’s lively with the hustle and bustle of a teeming international market and the gateway to China. Besides, it’s a wonderful place to shop, you can find anything. I’d been thinking that I could pick up some Christmas presents. Early, I know, but with my schedule being so hectic, I’m never certain where I’ll be during the holidays, so a couple of years ago I started buying gifts as I found them. I’d been looking to buy pearls for Chloe. Every woman needs some good pearl earrings, and maybe a necklace. Although so many of the styles are hopelessly old-fashioned, I’m sure I can find something to appeal to a young woman’s heart. I let my eyes rest for a moment.
Tokyo, Japan
1:00 pm, local time
I must’ve been more tired than I realized, because the next thing I know, the bus is in the hectic traffic jam of Tokyo at lunchtime. There is no time of the day that Tokyo’s traffic isn’t busy, but traffic crawls at peak hours. I look at the surrounding area of the Ginza as we drop passengers off at first one hotel and then the next, and the bus makes its way into the Asakasa district, near the Imperial Palace grounds and Embassy row. There are a number of very nice hotels in this area and I think I’m really going to enjoy JAL’s hospitality.
On that thought, the bus pulls into the lower parking lot of the Imperial Hotel, across the highway from the Imperial palace grounds. This is a large, luxurious, and elegant hotel. The flower arrangements alone are worthy of a full time staff; orchids, roses, and a huge display of fully blossomed cherry branches. I’m greeted, by name, by an impeccably uniformed concierge and a bellboy who escort me directly to the etched glass enclosed VIP office, where an equally impeccably uniformed young woman assists me in the selection of a room.
It seems I’ve a choice of 3 floors. I’ve no fear of heights, just of flying with a certain Navy pilot, so I elect the highest, and I’m escorted to a corner room on the 29th floor. I’d forgotten that space in Japan is at a premium, and the size of the room reminds me. This, I know isn’t one of the lesser rooms, but I’m struck, once again, by how little floor space is available. Having had cramped quarters on the Watertown conditioned me for small, tight spaces, however, so this is no hardship, and the panoramic view’s spectacular. The view of the hotel grounds, neighboring buildings, and greenery fade into a concrete landscape of high-rises, juxtaposed against newer sections of city interspersed with the older, more residential areas. I’m always surprised at the immensity of Tokyo. There’s no visible sign of the rural countryside I’d so recently ridden through. The view is all 21st century metropolis stretched to the horizon before me.
Due to the time difference -- it’s late afternoon yesterday in DC -- I decide that I’ll first call Colonel McMurphy, the CO in Okinawa, and then Admiral Chegwidden, to apprise them of my current situation and discuss the possibilities of the videoconference; if it’s a go, I’ll make arrangements through the hotel’s business office. Then I’ll take a shower and head out for a walk along the cherry blossom-lined path verging the moat along Embassy Row. It’s a beautiful, cool spring day, with a light breeze and nary a cloud in the sky.
The Colonel’s gruffly understanding and refers me to the Admiral for further instruction. Admiral Chegwidden is annoyed, presumably not with me, but rather with the epidemic that prevents me carrying out my duties forthwith. He agrees with my idea to use a videoconference for the initial interview, and connects me to Bud to have him check the current law for its admissibility as evidence. Bud commences his research, and I’m cut loose for the remainder of the day.
After a long, refreshing shower, I dress in civvies – black wool Prada suit with mid thigh length skirt, garnet silk blouse, and black leather flats suitable for walking. I’d brought some civilian clothes when I thought I’d be in Hong Kong, but Tokyo is a bit more formal. Jeans and a t-shirt would be too casual, which is why I go with the silk blouse and suit, particularly considering that the entire hotel staff seems to know who I am and that I’m here as a representative of my country.
Tokyo, Japan
Asakasa District
3:30 pm, Local Time
I leave the hotel, after exchanging some currency, and stroll in the direction of Asakasa, over the bridge of the little moat tributary and head down into the subway. Fortunately the major signs are printed in both Kanji and English, and I can easily find my way. It’s not terribly crowded at this time of the afternoon, and I’m able to find a seat. I exit after a couple of stops and head up into the waning afternoon light.
I wander past a couple of Tori gates, and onto the dirt and gravel lined path above the moat surrounding the Imperial palace grounds. The trees form an archway of pink and white blossoms, and I walk, enchanted afresh by the simple beauty of thousands of delicate flowers in simultaneous bloom.
I’d forgotten how deep the moat was, and a couple of hundred feet below my current location, there are swans swimming in a small family formation. Across the moat the occasional uniformed guard maintains his position, and impassively gazes at the surroundings in an ongoing assessment. I continue to walk up the hill past the British Embassy -- at least the guards stationed here don’t have to wear the bearskin caps that the Grenadiers do at Buckingham Palace -- all the way to one of the gate houses leading into the Imperial grounds. I’ve brushed the cherry blossoms from my hair a couple of times, but carry one or two in my hand. They really are lovely.
As I meander, I think about the fleeting moment of life the flowers have, in that they bloom for only a few days. Certainly the trees will bloom again, in a year’s time, but these individual blossoms are gone. I reflect that they’re, in a way, a metaphor for our lives. Moments and opportunities come and go and, once past, the opportunity’s lost. My relationship with Harm has been like that. The moments for us to move into a relationship have occurred, fleetingly, and then are past. I no longer desire a more intimate relationship with Harm. I hope to retrieve the easy camaraderie of our friendship which has suffered of late, but the time for more is long past.
I decide to head back toward the hotel, my internal clock telling me it’s time to find dinner. The little neighborhood adjacent to the hotel is business oriented and filled with narrow streets, a single car’s width, where traffic is both foot and vehicular. In front of me is a garishly lit noodle house, and I suddenly have a craving for a large bowl of udon noodles swimming in a rich clear broth. The chill in the air enough of an incentive for something warm and comforting. As I cross the street, I notice the number of gaijin (foreigners) frequenting the restaurant, and determine to find something a bit more neighborly. I’ve found in my varied travels that small restaurants frequented by locals are usually treasures waiting to be discovered.
Down the next little street, more like a mews than street, I see a small line of local businessmen and clerical workers at a tiny noodle house. Eureka! If they’re lined up, it has to be both good and inexpensive. Tokyo on a strict stipend can be a bit tight. I queue up behind a young woman who’s obviously just finished work. Her de rigueur white blouse is well suited with the demure black skirt she wears; and, in true Tokyo fashion, her shoes and bag match. Topped with an intricately tied flamboyant scarf and jacket, she reminds me of numerous other young women I’d seen earlier on the subway. She politely nods to me and, in a pure feminine appraisal, checks out my shoes. They obviously meet with her approval, because she utters a polite, “Konban wa.”
I reply with an equally pleasant good evening, and we wait amicably for our turn at the cafeteria-style noodle shop. The food’s superb and I eat at one of the tiny tables in the cramped quarters. Most of the diners at this hour are solitary, and I don’t feel awkward eating alone. I follow local custom and slurp my noodles gustily. It’s kind of fun to enjoy what would be a serious breach in manners at home. I finish quickly, and depart, nodding a good night to the young woman at the next table, and pressing on the flat metal plate that activates the automatic sliding glass doors.
Once back on the street, I take in my surroundings, which, for a relatively small back alley, are very clean. At the approach of one of the hundreds of taxis, I duck into a tiny entry where I hear the strains of a hauntingly beautiful saxophone. I look around the tiny entry to discover a sign in both Kanji and English: Tony’s Jazz Club. The steep stairs are lit even in the dusk of early evening, and something in the music speaks to my heart and I’m drawn to investigate.
Tony’s Jazz Club
Tokyo, Japan
6:45 pm, Local Time
I lightly climb the two flights of stairs to reach the entry of a dimly lit club. There’s a small dance floor, tiny stage, and a number of café tables and chairs. The largest item in the room is the grand piano, situated adjacent to the dais.
There’s no one in the club save the musician. He stands alongside the piano, in rolled up shirtsleeves, tie loosened along with the top button of the immaculately white dress shirt. His slacks are navy blue and the remainders of his suit -- coat and vest -- are folded and laid across the piano. I can’t see his face as his head’s tilted forward, and a fringe of dark, shiny hair hangs across his brow. Something about the man seems familiar, but I shake off the thought; I’m thousands of miles from home and it’s unlikely that here, of all places, I’d find someone I know. I’m fascinated by his hands. They’re broad and long-fingered, and manipulate the keys in a sensitive and confident manner. That he’s immersed in his playing is obvious. He isn’t aware of an audience. I can’t tear myself away; his playing is mesmerizing, and I’m viscerally drawn to him.
I become aware of an annoying presence hissing at me, and I turn to find myself confronted by the manager. “Sumimasen,” he keeps repeating to get my attention. I pretend not to understand. Anything to prolong my stay. But he’s persistent.
I finally give the functionary marginal attention, tearing my gaze from the musician, and ask in English, “What time do you open?”
“Madam, this is private. You must leave,” he says in heavily accented English.
“Pardon me?” I prolong the inevitable. At that moment, the sax player realizes that there’s someone else in the room, and he raises his head. Something in the manner in which he moves catches my attention, and I swing my head back in his direction, to be caught completely by surprise. I’ll be damned. Clayton Webb. Our eyes lock, and he immediately stops playing. I can see that he’s taken as much by surprise as I.
The proprietor once again attempts to usher me from the club, and I again resist. “It’s all right, I know the gentleman.”
“No. No. Madam. Must leave. It is private.” he insists; his polite tone’s beginning to take on an edge of frustration.
I can’t stop staring at Webb. I haven’t seen him since the Angel Shark incident. He looks leaner and slightly more tanned. I feel a tightening in my stomach at the connection between us. There’s been a similar feeling in quick, fleeting moments in our past. Moments when we’ve transcended the exigencies of our jobs, and been just Webb and Mac. He walks toward us, still carrying the instrument.
“Mr. Webb,” the proprietor begins. “So sorry to disturb you. The lady does not understand.”
Webb smiles, sardonically. He knows full well that I know enough Japanese to have both understood and conversed.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Takahashi. I know the lady. I can handle her.”
Mr. Takahashi walks away, shaking his head and muttering, “Gaijin. Shikataganai (‘what can you do?’)”
“You can handle me?” I raise one eyebrow, while searching Webb’s face for the familiar mocking and condescending expression. It’s gone. In its place is the face of an extremely tired and strained man. I find that I’m uncharacteristically concerned. About Webb.
“Yes, Mac. I can. What are you doing here?” He’s direct, and not particularly polite. The Webb of old. But I detect an underlying tone that I can’t identify.
“I didn’t know you played the saxophone” I respond, ignoring his question.
“That’s because you’ve never cared enough to find out,” he fires back.
I’m taken aback by the underlying anger in his tone, and a little hurt by his words. They’re true, but our relationship’s never been personal, other than his saving my life, which was very personal, I’ll admit. And it’s the reason I’ve had a soft spot for him since.
“Well, that’s a comment I’d expect from Harmon Rabb, not you.” I turn to leave; I’m not going to stay where I’m so little welcome. I take one step away and he grabs my wrist. I spin to face him, not knowing what to expect. Certainly not the contact shock at his touch on my bare skin.
“Don’t go, Mac. Stay.” He’s still holding my wrist, and his voice takes on a pleading note. “Please, Sarah.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
‘Real smooth, Clay! Damn it!’ I’m holding her wrist, and suddenly I look down and notice how my fingers wrap effortlessly around it, meeting, as they encircle the slenderness that leads into the length of her arm. My eyes follow this path, trailing up her arm, finding those shoulders draped in silk and wool, to that long elegant neck. It’s here that I stop, nearly caressing her skin with my gaze. I draw in a slow breath, as I finish my path and raise my eyes to meet hers. I repeat my plea, “Stay.”
She appears struck by the moment, and, I swear, I note a catch in her breath as she pauses in her movement. Her mouth slightly parts as if words were to follow, but then she swallows and holds my look.
I continue to her, “I’m sorry.” I pull my mouth into a small apologetic smile, “It’s been a long week.” I cock my head, and give a small shrug of my shoulders, “You caught me by surprise.”
I see her stance relax, and a feeling of relief sweeps across me. I marvel to myself at just how relieved I am that she appears as if she truly believes me and is going to stay. A smile creeps onto her face, and she gives a small laugh, “Well, I wasn’t actually expecting to run into you, either.”
A moment of awkwardness settles again, and we seem glued to our spots. She looks down, realizing my hand’s still wrapped around her wrist. My look follows hers, and slowly I release her, feeling the smoothness of her skin slip under my fingertips. This sends an unexpected jolt through me; my eyes nearly snap back to meet hers. Come on, Clay, it’s just Mac, relax. I ask, trying for an air of confidence to mask the confusion of feelings that seem to be coursing through me, “What brings you to Tokyo?”
She seems thankful for the innocent question and answers, “Just finishing up an investigation.” She turns slightly, and points in no particular direction, “I was actually supposed to be heading to Hong Kong, but was detoured.” She drops her arm, “Apparently, there’s a SARS scare that closed the airport.” She brings her eyes back to me. “You?”
I stare at her, my voice muted. SARS. Yes, I’m all too familiar with the airport being closed and the scare that hovers over the city of Hong Kong. In fact, that’s the exact reason *I’m* here. Not that SARS in itself isn’t scary enough in its ease of airborne transmission, but there’s suspicion that the ‘outbreak’ may not have been an accident, and the latest intel lead us to possible Al Queda involvement. With anything that may involve Al Queda, in comes the CIA. I’ve just finished up nearly two weeks of my own investigation which has led us completely in circles, with nothing concrete, good or bad. There isn’t anything that frustrates me more than ‘nothing,’ and this was part of the reason for my surly mood.
I’m pulled out of my own internal ramblings by Mac’s voice, “Webb?” I pull my focus back to her. She suddenly gives a light laugh, and shakes her head, “Never mind, Webb, I have a feeling I know what you’re about to say.”
I cock my head at her, noticing how dark and deep the color of her eyes are. I feel a tightening in my stomach at the connection between us. There’ve been similar feelings in our past, quick, fleeting, but there. Moments when we’ve crossed the constraints of our jobs and have been just Mac and Webb… I wonder, ephemerally, if we could ever be Sarah and Clay. At that thought I catch my breath. Did I mean that? As the depth of her look washes over me, I offer, “Actually, I’m here because of that possible outbreak of SARS.” She appears slightly stunned that I actually told her. I continue, “It may not be a natural outbreak, so to speak.”
She’s literally speechless, and I know it’s not because of what I’ve told her, but because I *have* told her. For the second time within these moments we stand working through this awkwardness. Her mouth starts to form words, then pauses, and she swallows.
Breaking the seriousness for a moment, I ask, “Can I get you anything?” I look towards the bar, “Beverage?”
She nods, and we walk towards it, where I casually walk behind and reach for a glass. Dropping several square cubes of ice into it, I grab and pour bubbly tonic over them, topping it off with a slice of lime. When I look up and hand it to her, she laughs, “I guess, I’m not too difficult to remember, eh?” She raises the glass to her lips, and I notice the color as she presses the glass lightly to them. Yes, you’re definitely not too difficult to remember, in fact, you’re impossible to forget. After she sips some of the liquid, she asks, “Okay, Webb, in this light of openness, what’s all this?” She casts a glance around the small vacant club.
I pour myself a scotch, reaching for the Laphroaig on the top shelf, pouring it over ice. Slipping a smirk on my face, I pause, take a draw on my drink, then talk with a slight lilt to my voice, “Mr. Takahashi sure is a piece of work, isn’t he?” I lean on my elbows, as I stand across the bar from her. The low lighting casts softness to her face.
She mimics my move, holding her glass with both hands as she looks over it. “Yeah? So?”
I sniff a small laugh, “Well, I saved his hide a couple years ago.” I shrug, “During an op. So, he gives me a few favors when I’m in town.”
She sits up and looks around again, “Like letting you escape in his club for a night?” I notice, tucked in her hair, nearly hidden, a flash of color. I’m intrigued and when she’s turning back to me, I reach to touch it, as I’m answering her, “Like letting me escape in his club for a night.”
She starts when I move towards her, and raises an eyebrow as I remove the silky bloom and toy with it lightly. I cock a look at her and smile, “Flower Child?”
She gives me an airy giggle, reaching over and retrieving her blossom. She now plays with the silky petals, delicate like her fingers. “If you must know,” she starts with a light teasing look, “I was reflecting on how metaphoric they are.”
I sniff a laugh, “Metaphoric?” I’m quite anxious to hear her explanation. Actually, I’m quite anxious to hear almost anything Sarah MacKenzie has to say.
She settles a little and looks at me with play, “Well, young grasshopper, you see, the cherry blossom is fleeting, each bloom lasting only a few days.”
I watch her as she talks, a small smile creeping onto my face, “And how exactly is that metaphoric?” I sip my scotch, leaning towards her.
As she looks up to meet my eyes, for a moment we lock into each other; the jump in my heart rate is inexplicable. With a slight breath, she drops her look back to the bloom, and continues, her voice soft and now far away, “They’ll bloom again next year, but the moment and opportunity for each flower is fleeting.” She raises her eyes back to mine and pauses again. I stare, unable to speak as I’m mesmerized by her voice, her explanation. She tilts her head and our eyes hold again. Seriousness settles in her eyes, and she speaks, as if she’s just realized something, “Opportunities are fleeting, and if you don’t take advantage of them, something beautiful can be missed,” she lifts her hand holding the delicate flower above the counter, and with a sigh she finishes, “And who really knows if they’ll come around again?” The flower falls without a sound onto the counter, coming to rest next to the saxophone I laid down on the bar.
I’m staring at her; she’s staring at me. What was she saying? Lost opportunities? Something beautiful?
With a sharp breath in, she breaks whatever spell she seems to have cast, and looks back to the empty room, “How does he afford you ‘stealing’ his club for a night?”
It takes a moment for my heart rate to ebb, and I run a hand over my face to regain my composure. I stand upright and shrug, “I try to avoid the busy nights, weekends… and, well,” now I smirk and wink, “he’s well compensated.”
She gives me her teasing smile as her eyes twinkle in play, she drawls, “I see. On the Company?”
The heaviness of the previous moment has subsided somewhat, but is that what I want? I act hurt and place a hand over my chest, “Sarah, you wound me. On the company?”
At the sound of her given name off my lips, I pause, she pauses. We drop our gazes and that awkwardness starts to return. I push it away, and quickly try to divert her attention, “No, actually, on me.”
She changes the subject and looks at the saxophone I’d laid upon the bar, “So, you play the sax for escape?”
I sip from my drink and say quietly, “Yes, I play for escape.” I avoid her direct gaze; the thought of her knowing something so intimate about me is confusing. No, it’s not as simple as that she’s never cared enough to find out. It has just as much to do with the fact that I’ve never cared enough to reveal it. I’ve revealed it tonight… willingly. I continue to evade her gaze, “Sorry I was short earlier.” I explain further as I look at my drink, “This op has left me more than frustrated.” I look back to her, “But that’s no excuse.”
She smiles warmly, and my eyes are locked on her mouth as the corners curve invitingly, “It’s okay, Clay.” With a breathy voice she adds, “Play me something.”
Now I stare at her in a stupor. ‘Clay? Did she just call me Clay? Play her something? What should I play? Damn it, Webb, snap out of it!’ Pulling myself together, I reach for my sax. I step from behind the bar and move around towards her. Honestly, playing for Sarah MacKenzie is a thought that has passed through my mind before…well, many times before. There were nights when I’d stand alone in this dark empty place, or in my own townhouse, and imagine her sitting there, not unlike she is now, listening intently, watching me move, watching me work the instrument with my fingers.
I catch her eyes, and the message I’m attempting to send is intense and heated: I would love nothing more than to play for you, Sarah MacKenzie. Slowly I bring the reed to my lips, and, just before settling it in place, I deliberately slide my tongue over them. I catch her staring at my mouth, and there’s a twist in my gut at her look. Placing the piece to my mouth, I encircle it, while my fingers find their spots. She’s captivated, and I’m reeling with the thought that I’m having this apparent affect upon her.
Breathing deeply… I start. And within a few notes, I see her mouth open slightly in amazed recognition. Her eyes move from my mouth to my eyes, our gazes are locked as I play for her. My notes are smooth and smoky, and my fingers move effortlessly along the brass. She drops her eyes back to my mouth, then to my hands, back to my eyes, and, as I continue playing “Unforgettable” to her, she’s mesmerized.
When I finish, I lower the instrument from my mouth, sliding my tongue over my lips. When I try to speak, my voice is suddenly hoarse and my mouth is dry, “Like?”
And when she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sucking briefly, then letting it slide purposely out, and breathes, ”Like,” the twist in my gut leaves my head spinning.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I can’t believe that Clayton Webb has just played the most soulful rendition of “Unforgettable” I’ve ever heard, to *me*, on his sax. My brain is awhirl, and my stomach has that soaring feeling as if I’m about to take flight. I find myself fascinated with these new facets of Webb. Clay. The man who’s watching me in the same intense, heated fashion that he played the sax, just moments ago.
I’m so overcome with the sudden, urgent desire to kiss him that I have to do something. ‘Get a grip, Mac. You work with him sometimes. He’s simply opening up to you for the first time. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything else. Even if the spy did trust you with the reason he’s here.’
I’ve never given serious consideration to Clayton Webb as a man I’d like to know more about. ‘Be honest with yourself, Sarah,’ I chide. I’d occasionally thought about him beyond the normal parameters of colleagues, but we’d never worked together long enough for me to follow up on the fleeting inclination. But, here tonight, something’s going on. This is a moment ripe with possibility. Like my metaphor with today’s cherry blossoms, I know this opportunity’s short-lived. If I do nothing, there’ll never be another like it.
I find that I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from him. Biting my lip again, I desperately search for something to talk about, wanting to move forward, to explore this delicious and heady feeling, and, alternately, hesitant to do so. I notice his eyes fasten on my mouth, and my lips tingle at the attention. Kiss me. The thought rises unbidden as I look into his smoldering eyes. They’re almost black, the pupils have dilated to such an extent. That he appears similarly affected by our circumstances both soothes and excites me.
I have to move. I ease my way to the piano and feel him watch my every move. My breath is starting to become uneven. I stand at the keyboard, and lightly run my hands across the black and white keys, wondering just where we go from here. He moves immediately behind me, and every nerve ending in my body’s attuned to his nearness. My addled brain can’t seem to find anything coherent to say to break the somewhat awkward silence of two people who know one another and, yet, don’t.
“I’ve always wished I could play,” I confess in a slightly breathless voice.
“The piano?” Clay asks, his low tone caresses my ear, giving rise to the upwelling of anticipation building in my veins.
I feel a little lightheaded from the unexpected strength of my reaction to him, and lean back slightly, curious whether he feels the same way, “Um-hmmm.” I used to be fairly articulate, but I can’t find words at the moment.
“Let me show you,” he growls. Clay’s hands lightly sweep the length of my arms, from shoulder to wrists, leaving a searing trail in their wake. Brushing the tops of my hands with his, he gently slides them under mine on the keys. “Rest your hands on mine, Sarah, and let go.”
I’m completely enveloped by Clay’s body; he begins to play, and, as my hands mold to his, I think this is the sexiest thing I’ve ever done. I let my hands feel the movement of tendons and sinews as his fingers dance across the keys; I can hear his ragged breathing as he attempts to maintain control. The thought that he’s struggling to do so sends a surge of pure desire skittering to my core, and I begin to throb in anticipation. I lean into his body so that I can feel his response to me, and I hear him suck in his breath. I welcome the feel of his growing erection.
I’m torn between wanting to hear him play the piece of music, which is a particular favorite, Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and wanting to feel what his hands will do on my body. The sensuality of the piece, along with the privacy and atmosphere of this dimly lit jazz club, not to mention the heady feeling of being seduced by Clayton Webb, has me reeling. I turn my head slightly to study his face. His profile’s clean and focused on the keys. I can clearly see the unevenness in his nose, the remnants of the Admiral’s love tap in Russia a number of years ago.
‘What am I doing?’ Some small part of my brain attempts to ask the rational question. The rest of my body screams for it to shut up, don’t let the moment pass, and my body wins the argument.
I let the music wash over me, and find myself unconsciously grinding back into Clay’s groin. I want to feel more of him. As he continues to play, I note the determination to finish the piece from the firm set of his mouth and chin. It’s as if he’s afraid that if he stops, the spell between us will be broken. It won’t. He’s a disciplined man, and I’m going to change the focus of that discipline. Letting my hands release from his and feather their way up his forearms to where the shirtsleeves meet the skin, I ease away from him, and hear, low in his throat, a small groan of protest.
I won’t keep him wanting for long. I don’t plan for this night to end in any other way than what we are currently hinting at. I want this man. In my bed. Tonight. That it’s Clayton Webb who’s driving all rational thought from my brain is extremely ironic, but greater reflection will have to wait. I slowly turn in his embrace, keeping in physical contact with him. I let my hip graze the front of his pants, his restrained and growing desire. Clay’s guttural response is all he allows me. It’s not enough, though; I want more. I snake my arm around his waist, and, turning fully into him, I lift my face into the shelter of his neck and jaw, deeply breathing in the scent of the man who’s seducing me with his openness and his talent.
I begin to nuzzle and nibble my way under his jaw line, and marvel at how smooth his skin is, even after what must have been a very long day. I’ve worked with Clay often enough to know how he drives himself to the ends of his endurance. I recognize those signs now.
He finally removes one hand from the instrument and draws me closer to his body. I grind against him and lift my lips in open invitation. Please, kiss me. He does. His lips crush down on mine with a passion that I haven’t felt in years. I return the kiss with equal need, and we open to each other, our tongues meeting and mating in a dance with no lead, only mutual longing. I wrap my arms around his waist, and want to feel more of him. I moan into his mouth, and his arms answer my need by tightening around me.
I don’t know how private this location is, despite the fact that Clay’s bought out the club for the night. I’m not terribly keen on providing entertainment for Takahashi-san’s staff. I no longer wonder at my desire for Clay, I only wonder at how soon I can see him naked.
”Clay?” I whisper.
“Hmmmm?” he responds.
“What are we doing?” I ask breathlessly, as he begins to nibble his way down my neck.
“Does it matter?” he growls. His arms tighten around me, as if he’s afraid I’ll break away given the chance to consider the ramifications.
“Yes.” I do, indeed, pull back to get a better look at his face. I have to know whether *this* means anything to him. He returns my look; I see desire in his hooded, shining eyes, and the slight vulnerability lurking deep within. It reassures me in a way no words would’ve. “How much privacy do we have?”
“Enough,” he responds. Coming from another man, it wouldn’t be a guarantee, but from this man, it’s a surety.
I lean into him for another kiss, sucking on his lower lip, and then I arch my back, as Clay continues the assault of my very sensitive neck, thrusting my breasts into him, in a blatant bid for further attention. He does not disappoint. I feel one hand skim the silk of my blouse, caressing my breasts. The other hand is on my thigh, at the hem of my skirt, teasing and toying with my skin.
I have to touch him. I run my fingers along the placket of the white dress shirt, slipping in between the buttons to feel his chest. I begin to release the buttons for better access, and slide my hand inside. I can feel the frantic beating of his heart and know that it beats in time with mine.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I’d seduced Sarah MacKenzie, more than I even care to admit, in my thoughts and dreams; had I known it’d be so easy… What the hell am I talking about, I’m completely under her spell. When I wrap my arms around her, and she leans back, I’m somewhat embarrassed by the physiologic response that immediately occurs. But, when she pushes back further, grinding into me, I know I’m lost and I’d give her anything she’d be willing to take.
When her hands lay upon mine and I play, I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced more sensual foreplay in my life. I caress the keys beneath her hands and imagine those long slender fingers of hers playing me like I play the music. I watch our hands. But, amazingly, it seems to affect her as well, and I can feel the shallowness of her breathing; this fuels me, lighting a desire I simply can’t explain.
How’s this all happening? Who the hell cares, it is.
She turns in my arms and we face each other. I have to hold myself from grabbing her, claiming her as mine… no, she’s not to be claimed, she’s to be won.
There’s pleading in her eyes. For me? Dare I think she’s making a plea for me? Does she want me to kiss her? I want to kiss her. I so want to kiss her. I need to kiss her. I want to play you, Sarah MacKenzie. I can’t imagine a more perfect instrument than you. Do you hear me? I’ll show you. I kiss her.
She accepts me; I’m falling. She pulls me tightly to her body, and I feel the press of her breasts against me, our hearts beating a feverish cadence for our dance. I venture my mouth along the line of her jaw, onto her neck… that zone I’d always considered forbidden. The scent of her is intoxicating.
She asks me what we’re doing, and we exchange a searing look, as I try to communicate with her without the need for words. It seems to work, and she asks how much privacy we have as I’m kissing her neck. She tastes delicious and the feel of her heated skin beneath my lips is sending intense responses through my body. Privacy? Yes, there’s definitely privacy. Mr. Takahashi knows better; he’ll only emerge if summoned.
My hand rests on her thigh, she presses into me. I can’t help it, I want to feel her, I want to touch her; I slide my hand over her breast. A low growl comes from the touch, sending a surge right to my groin. My fingertips play with, and are rewarded with the instant hardening of the nipple I tend to. I lightly pinch, producing another low noise from within her.
Yes, I’d seduced Sarah MacKenzie hundreds of times in my mind, and never was it as thrilling as this.
She finds my mouth again with hers; her lips are incredibly soft, and, when she deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue into my mouth, my knees feel ready to buckle. I lean harder into her, as much for balance as to feel her hard against me. The piano behind her, serves as our brace.
Breaking from her, with a deliberate motion, my hands sweep into her hair and pull her back so I can see her eyes. Deep chocolate-colored, intense eyes nearly obliterated by the dilation of her pupils, stare back at me. We’re both breathing raggedly, and her hands rest on my hips, just above my pants.
“Clay?” she asks, in question to my interruption of our kiss.
I stare at her, moving around her face with my eyes, I settle back to her gaze, “You’re beautiful.”
It takes her off guard. Why? Why can’t you see it? She’s momentarily halted at my intensity. “Clay.” She breathes as she drops her look. “I’m… uh…”
I silence her when my hands grab her waist and I hoist her up and onto the piano. The keys pling no particular note as she hits them, and the sound is erotic to me…the sound of notes from the weight of her body upon the keyboard. Her hands sweep into my hair and mine rest upon her legs, just above her knees. God, how hot is that, Sarah MacKenzie sitting on my piano before me? Nothing in my fantasies matches the reality of it. I tilt my head, kissing her neck, working my way down her shoulders, breathing in the scent of her. She arches slightly towards me, and I take the invitation to kiss her breast through the sheer material.
I feel her breath catch and her fingers tighten in my hair. I start a slide with my hands up her thighs. She’s bare legged, and the feel of her skin nearly burns as I make my way towards her center. She wiggles from my attentions; more off-key noise comes from the pressure on the piano.
My hands reach the hem of her skirt; I pause, my mouth still hovering around her breasts. I feel her part her knees, effectively helping me move closer to her, as I push the skirt up and nestle between her thighs. Her breathy moan joins my guttural growl when my hands find the tops of her thighs and my body is pressed against hers.
I can feel the edge of her panties, silk, small. I have to close my eyes in order to regain some semblance of composure. Her feet shift, more keys are struck. The occasional noise spurs our dance.
I choke out, “Sarah?” As I pull back from her body, just far enough to see her face.
She looks down and the sight of her looking at me, all wanton and eager, takes my breath away. “Uhm?”
It’s a small plea filled with hope and promise, “I want you.”
A sly smirk creeps onto her lips, and a hand snakes down my body, slipping past the top of my pants to caress across the firmness that aches for her. She purrs, “Obviously.”
At the feel of her touch, I can’t control the thrust of my hips into her hand. But I hold her gaze with seriousness, our unspoken understanding of earlier is now not enough. Gently I remove her hand, bringing it to my mouth. I whisper, “No, Sarah, it’s more than that.” The slyness in her grin fades into warmth, and she’s quieted. I continue, “I *have* wanted you.” I kiss each the tip of each of her fingers, slowly, letting them linger on my lips. I continue, “Not just this, but *you*.”
I see her swallow hard at my admission. She breathes my name and it sounds like the smooth melody of music coming from within her, “Clay.”
I give a shy grin and shrug bashfully as my gaze slips away from her eyes. She reaches out and pulls my face back to hers. God, I could get lost forever in the depth of her stare. She leans toward me, and just before she connects again with my mouth she whispers, “I’m yours.”
An audible groan from deep within me escapes as I crush my mouth to hers with near desperation, claiming her. Yes, she’s offered; I’ve won her. One hand tangles in her hair, the other finishes its original path and slips completely under her skirt finding her hip with the wisp of silk material covering it. The force of my actions sends another wave of movement on the piano, and more random notes float through the air.
Our tongues are in full contact, dueling for position. I’ve never experienced the passion she’s bringing out in me; it’s simply overpowering. The flesh beneath my fingers is smooth, and I inch along it while not leaving the warmth of her kiss. And, when I dip my fingers under the material at the juncture of her thigh, sliding between her legs, I feel a quiver run through her. But, when I slip over the curls already dampened beyond my dreams, it’s my turn to shudder at the feel. I’ve done this. She’s responding to me, no one but me.
I feel another small spread of her thighs, inviting me to further my exploration. Keys are pressed, notes dribble forth; and slowly I slip one, then two, fingers through the wetness, between the folds of soft heated skin and find their way to her, slipping within her, and I feel that I’ve found nirvana. The touch is too intense and she pulls away from my mouth, dropping her head back, gasping, when my thumb feathers over the throbbing nerves I seek.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders and her feet move to open herself even further to me. The capricious notes swirl around us. She’s simply the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen; her head’s back, her mouth’s open, her fingers gripping me, responding to my gentle assault upon her. I concentrate on my delicious task, circling, stroking as I can see she wants; and, within moments, I feel a tightening of internal muscles around my fingers, a near frantic dig into my shoulder, a small buck of her hips, more discordant notes from the piano, and I see the look of pleasure wash across her face as I bring her to climax before me.
Catching her breath, although still shallow, she brings her face back to look at me. A cunning smile curves on her lips as she pants, “Good God, Clay… if that’s what those hands can do, I can’t wait to see what else you can do!”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
As my mind slowly gains a semblance of coherence, I watch a shy smile of complacence hover around Clay’s mouth. He has every reason to feel smug. I don’t think I’ve ever had such an intense sexual experience. I’m swamped by a wave of tenderness, and I gather him to me, brushing my lips across his in a light and loving thank you, while I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him close. I can feel his undiminished hardness, and know that I want him to feel the same degree of pleasure he’s just given me.
I also want him to be comfortable on the way back to my hotel. I don’t plan on letting Clay go. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. He’s mine, if what he says is true, and the amazing intensity of his kisses lends weight to his words. The most protected part of my heart hopes that he means what he says, because I certainly meant what I said. How I could mean it so quickly is a surprise, but I do.
I’m still a bit disheveled, and my legs feel like rubber, but I slide off the piano, discordant notes filling the air, and I lean into Clay, guiding him to sit on the piano bench. I hear him gasp as I kneel in front of him, and I look up into eyes blazing with desire and an underlying depth of feeling. I reach to the button on his trousers. I release it from its enclosure, and begin to slide the zipper open.
“Ok?” I ask, checking carefully for his reaction, in case he’s the one man I’ve ever known who doesn’t like what I’m about to do.
“God, Sarah. Yes,” he groans, and entwines one hand through my hair as the other lightly brushes my cheek. “You don’t have to.”
“Clay, I *want* to,” I say, and proceed to show him just how much. I release his straining erection from his boxer briefs, and he lifts off the bench enough for me to pull his trousers and briefs down his legs, giving me relatively unfettered access. I run my hands up his inner thighs, meeting at the juncture of his groin.
I can feel him tremble at my touch, and I’m overwhelmed by the depth of emotion he’s invested in these moments. Tears momentarily blind me, and I close my eyes, choked by the unexpected power of my feelings. I look up at him again and recognize the equal intensity in his return of my gaze.
I bend my head to my task, willingly, eager to taste him in this most intimate and trusting of actions. I flick my tongue to the tip of his head, tasting the tiny drop of moisture, a precursor of things to come. His groan urges me on, and I grasp the tensile strength of his shaft with one hand and cup his scrotum with the other. Stroking upward on his erect shaft, I plunge my mouth down to meet my hand, enclosing him in my mouth.
He bucks upward at the feel of my mouth on him. “Jesus. Sarah!”
I can already feel the tightening in his balls, and know he’s fairly close. Our earlier foreplay has stimulated him almost to the point of losing control, and I marvel at how long he’s held out. I slowly draw back along his shaft, licking along the vein, my hand following my mouth as it retreats. With a twirl around the ridge of his head, I once again follow my hand back down his rigid cock with my mouth until he is fully enclosed and my nose is pressed into the curly hair at its base.
“So… good,” he groans, and I speed up the pace a tiny bit as he bucks into my mouth.
I continue with the dual hand and mouth motion, rotating my hand and sucking him deeply. I occasionally use my teeth to lightly grate across the ridge of the head, and am rewarded for my efforts with another buck of his hips. With my other hand, I tickle the soft skin of his perineum, and, with a hoarse shout, Clay erupts into the back of my throat. I swallow and lick him clean. I like his musky scent and salty taste.
When I release him, he pulls me to him and kisses me gently. “God, Sarah. That was incredible. It’s been years.”
I grin at him, “We can’t have that. I’ll just have to do it again.”
“Well, I don’t think I could manage to do it again just now, thank you.” He grins, playfully, in return.
“That’s good, because I have other things in mind for us.”
I watch the play of emotions cross his face; wanting this, wanting him. He looks surprised, relieved, and unexpectedly happy. I stand up and begin to adjust my clothing. I’m still standing between his legs, and he halts my actions, taking both of my hands in his. He draws them to his mouth and, turning them over, kisses first one and then the other of my palms. It’s a caressing and tender action, and I’m deeply touched by it.
When he releases my hands, he places his on my hips, and I cup his face with mine, tilting his head so that our eyes lock.
“Will you spend the night with me, Clay?”
He exhales explosively, as if he’d been holding his breath, but recovers quickly. “Your place or mine?”
“Mine, please. I’ll probably have a videoconference at their business center at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning. I set it up in lieu of reaching Hong Kong. Although it probably won’t be admissible if this thing ever reaches courts martial. I was supposed to be at the Embassy in Hong Kong tonight and tomorrow before my two-day leave.”
I stop, realizing that I’m babbling, and I look at him, suddenly feeling awkward. How I can feel awkward after what’s just occurred I don’t know, but this level of intimacy is completely uncharted territory with Clay.
He seems to understand, because he quickly stands, trousers dropping completely to his ankles; his degree of unselfconsciousness admirable. He gathers me in his arms, and huskily says in my ear, “Sarah, I don’t care where we spend the night, as long as it’s together. I don’t plan on letting you go. Even after we return to DC.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. How he knew what I needed to hear is beyond me. Maybe it’s what he needed to say. I relax at his words.
“Good. Because I don’t want you to let me go, especially after we return to DC.” I look at him directly and continue with what I know may be a deal breaker for him, “I don’t want to hide this, Clay. I want to be able to tell people. Harriet and Bud. And Harm. Is that all right with you?”
His answering smile is breathtaking, I’d no idea he has dimples. “I’m glad you want to tell people. It’s all right, as long as I can tell my mother. I want you to meet her; I think you’d like her. She already likes you.”
As we talk, we’re dressing. It takes a little longer because we spend our time helping each other, and I kiss my way up his chest as I button his shirt. Clay’s hands seem to enjoy tucking my silk blouse back into my skirt, because they stay tucked under the waistband, cupping my hips.
“About Harm…” he begins, and I know the question. It’s the question any man I date asks. This time I have the definitive answer.
“There’s nothing between us. We’ve both entertained the thought at different times, but it’s never happened. Clay, I don’t want it to happen. I want what happened tonight, what’s going to happen tonight. And I want you.”
Roughly, he pulls my hips to him and I can feel the beginnings of his resurgent arousal. I kiss him deeply, a promise for the future, and I gently pull his hands from my skirt.
“Let’s go, I have places to explore.” And I wink at him as I turn to find my suit jacket.
He reaches for his vest and coat, asking, “Where are you staying? I’m at the ANA downtown.”
“The Imperial. It’s two Meguro-ku exists from here.”
“We’re not waiting that long. I’ll get a cab.”
“At this time of night?” I ask incredulously. We’re not in Shinjuku or the Ginza or even near the hotel districts, and cabs at this time of night in the side boroughs are more difficult to come by.
“Trust me,” he smirks, and I laugh. It’s just so funny to hear those words from his mouth. And the wonder of it is that I do.
He asks me to wait, and goes to the back of the club, exiting down a narrow corridor. He returns forthwith, and, taking my hand in his, leads me out of the club and down the stairs to the street where we are met by a waiting taxi.
He simply smirks at me and hands me into the cab, directing the driver in Japanese to the Imperial Hotel.
Room 2924
Imperial Hotel
Tokyo, Japan
9:20 pm, Local Time
We enter my room, and, as soon as the door closes, we hungrily reach for each other, and kiss. Tongues melding, tasting, exploring. We’d discretely maintained a polite distance from one another in the cab and through the hotel. Public displays of affection are not appreciated in Japan, and with my obvious military connection, it would’ve been a critical error on my part to let my passion overcome my sensibility. Clay completely understands and was as discreet as a spy can be. Our only contact between the Jazz Club and my hotel room was the lacing of our held hands during the cab ride. Of course, the electrical current flowing between us would have fried lesser beings. But it only enhanced the connection we were forging.
Breaking the kiss to breathe, I hold onto the few remaining shreds of self-control and sense I possess. “I have to check my messages to find out the time of the videoconference.” I arch my head to give Clay better access, as he suckles on that terribly sensitive spot under my ear.
Raggedly, I continue, “Clay, I have to do this. Um…” I lean against the closed door and simply enjoy the sensations he’s creating, external combating with internal for predominance.
“Didn’t you have to do something, Sarah,” he grins wickedly, knowing full well that I’m not thinking at all right now.
“Yes,” I moan, and push away from him, making my way to the small desk at the window, where I see the message light blinking furiously. I pick up the phone to dial the hotel operator, shooting Clay a serious warning glance, and I pick up pen and paper as I jot down the messages, noting the time for the morning’s videoconference call. 9:00 am, Tokyo time. Not too early.
I hang up the phone; there’s nothing requiring my attention until the morning, and I want to focus entirely on the man in the room with me. But he’s no longer in the room. I look around, and realize that I hear the bathwater running. He must’ve discovered the very deep and large tub in my bathroom. For all the lack of space in Japanese hotels, the bathrooms are large and luxurious. The tub in mine can easily fit two, and the water level, when full, would be at my chin. My mind flashes to the possibilities, and I feel myself begin to tingle at the images my imagination conjures.
I quickly strip, folding my suit and blouse across the chair, and, noticing the door is ajar, I step quietly into the bathroom, catching Clay’s reflection in the mirror. His eyes widen as he realizes I’m naked, and he spins around and groans as he looks at me.
“You’re so beautiful.” It comes out in a deep and caressing tone, and I feel the sensation throughout my body. I don’t think I’ll ever again be in a room with this man without my body reacting to him. I feel the blush spread from my toes upwards, and I can’t maintain eye contact. It’s not something I easily believe. Coming from Clay, it’s impossible to think he doesn’t mean it.
He takes the step forward, and folds me in his warm embrace. The wool of his suit is slightly scratchy against my sensitive skin. It doesn’t matter. His strength emanates from his arms and chest, and I feel comforted and wanted. It’s a unique interlude in the heat of our exploratory passion. I love his scent; it’s still musky from our earlier foreplay, overlaid with his natural body odor. I tilt my head for his kiss, and he willingly bestows it. His hands begin to roam my back, and, as they explore, I begin to undress him. I want us both naked, and in the tub together.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I’m not sure why her walking into the bathroom already devoid of clothing somewhat shocked me. I mean, my God, after what happened at the club, I can honestly say, I’ve never allowed myself such unabashed vulnerability. Not just the act, but my voicing to her what actually was going on in my head… that’s something that rarely, well, nearly never happens.
She walks toward me and I wrap her into my arms. She fits perfectly against me, and, when my hands slide across the smooth heated skin of her back, I’m hyperaware of every inch that I touch. I feel silly telling her she’s beautiful, because, honestly, the word doesn’t even do her justice. She’s so much more than beautiful. I nearly laugh at my thought as Frank Sinatra runs through my head, ‘…too marvelous for words.’ Should I tell her I can sing too? Nah, I’ll save something for later.
I’m brought out of my thoughts as she starts to slowly undress me, and I think nearly half of my fantasies have been fulfilled within these past few hours. I watch her intently as her hands smooth along my chest, pushing my shirt over my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She has this small curious smile on her face; I dare say she’s downright content. If she were a cat, I’d swear she’d be purring. My hands continue in their idle stroking of her back, and she continues her quest.
The small smile becomes playful as she’s working on my pants. She quietly says, “You know, in Japan, bath houses are quite popular.”
Her nails lightly scratch along my skin as she peels the clothing from me. A twitch of my abdominal muscles reveals the eagerness within me. I watch her intently. “You say?”
Her head bobs in affirmation. “Uh-uh. And in Japanese culture, it’s somewhat traditional for the woman to bathe the man in these establishments.”
She has my pants unfastened and pushes them down, where they pool around my feet. I swallow and stutter, for I’m finding thoughts hard to form while her hands are caressing my gluts, pulling me towards her naked body, “Uh, er, really?”
Her eyes stray from her hands as they play with my body, lifting to gaze at me. With a sudden gleam in her eyes, she asks, “Finding it hard to concentrate, Mr. Webb?”
I groan, reaching for and closing the minute space left between us. When her bare skin touches mine, the energy is incredible, and I feet it surge directly to my groin. I pull her mouth to mine and drink of her. I fully plan on never letting her get too far from my arms ever again. Seven years. Seven years of watching, assessing, patiently waiting for her to see me, and now it all seems like yesterday that I just met her… just yesterday that I fell for the beauty, grace, intelligence, and power she holds. The power over me… over my being.
I’m finding it hard to stand, let alone think, as our hands are now freely roaming over each other’s bodies. I explore every inch I can reach, remembering it as I go, knowing full well I never want to forget this night, this first night in what I hope is… what I hope is… forever.
We pull away from each other, finding the need for oxygen essential, and, when we catch each other’s eyes, we lock and suddenly smiles break on our faces and we laugh. We laugh with the absurdity that, within a matter of hours, we’ve become so needing of each other’s touch; so needing of each other, period.
I caress her face. “Is this too fast, Sarah?” I honestly don’t want to rush anything, and, even though she seems to be as eager as I am, I never want to take anything about her for granted.
She reciprocates with a caress across my cheeks, “Clay, honestly, do you really think seven years is too fast?” She pulls me to her and presses a small deliberate kiss upon my lips.
That simple touch was quite possibly the most perfect thing I’ve ever experienced. She, holding my face with the softness of her touch, staring at me with the intensity of her stare, kissing me with the promise of more.
I’m torn. But not for long. I make my decision… the bed. With a swift motion I scoop her into my arms and carry her there, laying her upon it. I lay next to her, and, reaching for her hand, I lift and place her arm over her head. I feather the backs of my fingers down its length and circle her breast. I watch my path, before settling my look where my hand is lazily stroking her. Her breasts are full and beautiful, but it’s not what draws me to her. No. With barely touching movements, I make my way back up her neck, trace her jaw, and settle my fingertips next upon her lips. Her mouth is what I long for. Her perfect lips, the slight overbite, the smile when she’s happy and playful. I trace her mouth with my fingers and watch.
Or is it her eyes? The deep brown color, sometimes close to black, the depth, the emotion that emanates from within. Or her intelligence? The intensity, the strength, the astuteness. Or her emotion? The caring, the sensitivity, the kindness. No… it’s everything, everything about her draws me to her. This woman I’ve longed for and now quite possibly have... God willing.
“Clay?” I’m brought out of my trance by her soft voice… did I mention her voice? Soft, seductive, mesmerizing. “You’re staring,” she quietly points out.
I was. I was trying to take everything in, everything about her, about this. “Yes,” I say in a whisper, and lean into that mouth, finding home as I kiss her.
As our mouths touch, gently sucking and nipping, I move myself upon her. I feel her open herself, spreading her legs to settle me within her grasp. She squeezes my hips as she presses towards me. I stop, resting on my elbows, stroking through her hair, looking in her eyes. I whisper with a slight smirk, “Sarah?”
“What?” She’s equally quiet.
I look from one eye to the other, “May I make love to you?”
A soft smile curls on the mouth I love, “Please.”
I reach for and grasp her hands, pulling them above her head, bracing myself on them as I find my position. She’s slick with wetness, and, when the soft head of my erection slowly pushes through the folds of skin, I press just at her entrance. This is it. If nothing else that’s happened tonight has changed what we are – were -- to each other, this is certainly going to do just that.
When I pause, she looks directly into me, through to my very soul. She pleads softly, “Please, Clay. I want this.” She pulls her hands from mine, and reaches to stroke my back, “I need this.” I’m captivated by her. “I… want you.” She pulls my mouth towards her, “I… need you.”
With this declaration, as her mouth returns to mine, I’ve just fulfilled the rest of my fantasies. I slowly, deliberately, thrust within her, and the connection is electrifying. When I reach her depth, I have to stop. I have to gather myself. This is overwhelming and if I don’t collect myself, I’m going to lose it even before I get started. Her nails scrape down my back and she groans, causing a rush of blood that makes me even harder.
I reciprocate with a low growl and start a rhythm with her. The feel of her is perfect, and I’m sure I’ll never tire of this. She meets my every move flawlessly as we take each other to another level.
Her fingernails dig into the flesh of my back, eliciting a deep guttural noise from within me. And, when I feel her thrust, while dropping her head back, gasping my name huskily, “God, Clay, yessss….” Followed by a bite onto my shoulder as hard waves of pleasure sweep through her, I feel the last tiny string snap, and I’m completely and wholly hers as I release heatedly within her.
Drawing each other out, feeling the sensations reach the very tips of our bodies, we relax and fall into each other. I wrap my arms around her and roll onto my back, pulling her to lie upon me. No, I will never tire of this.
I’m more relaxed now than I think I’ve ever been, but sleep is not what I want right now. No, right now I want her with me in that hot bath awaiting us. I stroke her back, feeling the light sweat covering her skin. I ask, “Bath?”
I feel her lift her head, and I turn to look at her. That small little smile is there again. She nods, and answers with a breath, “Yes.”
I stand behind her holding her hands for balance; gracefully she lifts her leg to slip into the tub. She dips her toe, and I watch as the water swallows one long, luscious leg, next her other, then her body. I’m mesmerized as I hold her and guide her down. When she’s seated, she looks up and laughs quietly, as she beckons me with her long slender finger, curling it towards her, “C’mere.”
Gladly.
I nearly dive into the water after her, and she positions me to sit before her, pulling me to lie back against her body. Truthfully, I’d prefer to be behind her; be in a position where I could touch her. I’m about to voice this when I feel her start to gently scrub my shoulders, and once again I’m powerless to her ministrations.
She massages me with her long fingers, sending shivers through me as she trails a firm path up my neck, kneading the muscles beneath her touch. I feel water sluice over my shoulders as she squeezes the sponge across me. But it’s when she wraps her legs around me and drapes her arms over my shoulders to sweep the sponge over my chest, and toy with me as she kisses my neck and nibbles what she can, that I know this is where I belong… in the arms of Sarah MacKenzie
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
JAG Headquarters
Falls Church, Virginia
April 8, 2003
8:30 am, EST
As I enter the bullpen, 5 days and a lifetime later, I realize that everything is different. It’s really only me that’s different, and it colors my perception of everything else. I’m irrevocably changed by the time spent in Japan. With Clay. It’s altered the course of my life. I’m elated at the fact that we both fully intend on seeing where this relationship will lead. I hope it will last. I want it to last, and I’ll do everything in my power to make it last.
When I’d returned to my apartment last night, there were two messages from Clay. The first telling me that he was leaving Tokyo for several days, that he hoped to be coming ‘home’ within the next week or two, and that he already misses me. His second call was to ask me to hold open the night of April 21 for dinner with him, and to remind me that he already misses me. I smiled at his tone of voice. And at the fact that I miss him just as much. So much that it’s a small, but continual, ache in my heart. I revel in the fact that, in such a short time, Clayton Webb’s come to mean so much to me.
I emailed him essentially the same message. I’m home and I already miss you, hurry home, but be safe, because I want you here in one piece. I had an email from him this morning. He’s not home and he misses me. He’ll be home as soon as he can.
I put my briefcase down in my office, begin to read through the stack of notes and files on my inbox, and gather my things in preparation for staff call. I can tell it’s going to be a busy few days. But I don’t mind; Clay’s not here for me to share the nights with, so some extra hours will help me focus while he’s gone. Focus on something other than the number of days, hours, minutes, and seconds until I have him in my arms again.
I look up at the knock on my door, and it’s a new Petty Officer, holding a large crystal vase in her hands. My eyes instantly well up, and I can’t imagine how he’s managed it from wherever he is. The vase is filled with branches of blooming, white, ephemeral cherry blossoms.
I wave the Petty Officer in and take the top-heavy vase from her, barely remembering to thank her in my distraction. I place the stunning arrangement on my desk, and find the card. It reads, “I miss you. Coming home in 8 days. Tell anyone you like. CW.”
I will -- I look up as Harm pokes his head in my door -- starting now.