Afternoon Delight (12 page)

His expression went blank. For a split second she thought he would make a joke out of it, because that's what he did. He made jokes, turned and twisted things into funny and light and ridiculous. His fingers traced her ribs, repetitive, automatic motions, walking that fine line between touch and tickle. She found herself tightening in anticipation.

Then his touch lightened. “I can do that,” he said.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb over his golden beard, then his lower lip. He looked down at her, his eyes hidden by the streetlight that gilded his hair. She stayed with the moment, the uncertainty, the vulnerability in it, until she knew what to do next.

She brought her thumb to her mouth and licked the pad, then returned it to Tim's lips. Face still unreadable, he touched the tip of his tongue to her thumb, then nipped at it. Gentle, slow, but still a nip, a reminder of the male's strength and prerogative now held at bay for her pleasure.

“Come here,” she said.

He bent and set his lips on hers, the kiss so uncertain, it nearly broke her heart. It was like he didn't have any idea how to do this without a game or a challenge, a winner and a loser. She slid her hand around to the nape of his neck, threading her fingers into the soft strands. His hand stayed at her waist, his thumb stroking the soft skin there, grinding himself in her body. She didn't rush him, didn't guide him, just let the kissing simmer into a new and different desire until the grabby instinct surged to the surface again.

His hand went to the front catch of her bra. He flicked it open, skated his open palm over each breast to reveal the skin, a movement that brushed rough palm over the most sensitive flesh. She gasped, lifted, closed her eyes. He did it again, again, until her nipples were tight, hot, aching, and she was rolling under his touch.

He caught one nipple between thumb and forefinger and kissed his way down her throat to the other. The contrast between rough skin and silky tongue made her moan. A low rumble powered his breath onto her skin, and she tightened her fingers in his hair. Craving skin of her own to touch, she tugged his shirt free from his jeans and delved inside. With her eyes closed she had to work from touch. A hip. Muscles shifting under skin. She curved her fingers around his buttock, tightening the pressure of his jeans against his cock. He groaned and rolled his hips against hers. She spread her legs a little wider, he settled between them, and the temperature in the room shot up ten degrees.

“Off,” she pleaded. “Clothes. Off.”

He sat back and went to work on her button and zipper, stopping only when she shoved his shirt off his shoulders and tugged the cuffs over his wrists. After some wriggling that made the bed squeak in protest she was naked and on her knees in front of him, attacking his zipper. His cock bobbed free, distracting her from her task. She stroked it, squeezed, before he muttered, “Focus, darlin'.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, and worked his jeans down to the point where he had to sprawl to shove off jeans, underwear, socks, and shoes in one pile.

He stretched out, half beside her and half on top of her. With a bone-deep exhalation she gave in to the sensation: weight and heat and the sheer delicious delight of being naked with a man.

“Like that?”

“Yes, oh yes,” she said. Her hands roamed his back, tracing the bumps of his spine, the hollows at the top of his backside, the firm curves. His cock slid against her hip, sweat and precome making her skin slippery. The movement, so close to where she wanted it, triggered a rush of desire.

“Inside,” she said. “Please. Tim. Inside me.”

He found a condom in one of the drawers in the bookcases surrounding the Murphy bed, rolled it on, and positioned himself between her legs. Hands on his hips, she looked up at him, wanting to watch his face as he glided into her.

She couldn't see it. Positioned above her as he was, backlit by the streetlights, face harsh angles and shadows, she couldn't tell whether he was with her or not, so she turned to other senses. His skin was hot to the touch, sweat breaking, a fine tremor in his shoulders and upper arms. His breathing had an edge to it, guttural, not sharp.

But she couldn't see his eyes to discern whether this was passion or stress.

Then his cock found her slick folds and he was inside, gliding in to the hilt. A soft cry forced its way from the back of her throat, not from pain but from the cascade of sensation radiating from her core.

“Jesus,” he gasped.

“I wanted this,” she whispered. “I wanted this so badly.”

He dropped to his elbows and groaned into her ear. But she didn't stop to decipher it because she had what she wanted, his body pressed against hers, chest to her breasts, his hard abdomen to her softer stomach, his hips against her inner thighs. She drew her knees up and rubbed her feet against the backs of his thighs, then undulated under him for the sheer pleasure of feeling all his planes and angles against her softer flesh as he settled deeper inside her.

“Jesus,” he said again, and this time it was closer to prayer.

Swamped by animal instinct, she lifted her head and scraped her teeth over his collarbone. His hand burrowed into her hair, cupping the back of her head. For a long moment their hearts pounded out of sync; she could feel her own against her breastbone and see his pulse at the base of his throat. Then he pulled out and slid back in.

Slowly. Just like she'd asked for. She gave a choked little cry he read perfectly, setting a patient rhythm she never thought he'd be capable of. Then she stopped thinking at all, surrendering to the heat twining through her. It coiled out from her core, tendriling around her hips and down her thighs to her toes, up her ribs to wrap around her breastbone, her collarbone, her spine, her skull. Without conscious thought she released her death grip on the nape of his neck and worked her arms under his to flatten her palms at the base of his spine.

“Oh oh oh,” she breathed. Her skin tingled, release surging just under the surface. Tim slid a hand under her hips, tilting her up, sliding deep, flinging her out into the void. From far away she heard a cry tear from her throat, disappearing into the concussive tidal waves sweeping through her.

Tim went rigid above her, tightening with his own pulsing release. When she came back into her body he was trembling, aftershocks burning their way out through his major muscle groups.

“Oh, God,” she said. The incredulous tone of her voice made her laugh. She patted his hip, savoring the slow surrender of his body as he sank from tense to relaxed. His head hung beside hers, cheek to cheek, and his breath gusted hot and steady against her shoulder.

“Yeah.” He disengaged their bodies and slumped to one side.

“That was . . .”
Wickedly hot. Tight chemistry. The best sex I've ever had.

“Yeah.” He draped one arm across his eyes. She looked at him, watched his fingers twitch randomly.

All right, then.

“I should go,” she said, and sat up. “It's not that late, just after nine.”

She ducked into the bathroom, cleaned up, and tamed her hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She dressed quickly, then scuffed into her clogs.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said. “I had a great time.” She'd be thinking about it on the subway ride to Brooklyn, all dreamy-eyed like a girl. Dinner, walking through a spring night in Manhattan, absorbing sex. She was back in the land of the living. Aunt Joan would be proud of her.

“I thought of something that's uniquely New York,” he said without moving the arm that covered his eyes.

She blinked. “What? Oh. The challenge,” she said.

“Unless you want to back out.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. I . . . wasn't thinking about it yet, what with the crazy awesome sex we just had.”

She got the sense his smile was involuntary. “Yeah,” he said again. “It was pretty good.”

“Pretty good? You're a hard man to impress, Tim Cannon.”

“It's also crazy awesome when we both have something at stake.”

The conversation was oddly forced, and therefore jarring. Even earlier in the night it would have made more sense than it did now, after . . . oh. “What makes you think something wasn't at stake?” she asked quietly.

He said nothing.

“I'll text you. Good night, Tim,” she said, and let herself out of the apartment.

***

The train hurtled into the tunnel under the river, headed for Brooklyn. Sitting under the fluorescent lights as the car swayed, Sarah found her mind wandering to the summer she'd learned to make crème brûlée. There was a specific temperature necessary to cook the sugar on top of crème brûlée. The line between cooked and burned was a fine one, and it took a careful eye to stay on this side of the line. One too many passes with the torch and the dessert was scorched.

She shook off the nerves and watched for her stop. After the last two years, it was impossible for her to get burned. She'd watched her beloved aunt fight cancer, surrender, and die. A simple, casual spring affair couldn't possibly lay her low.

He should have recognized a professional's touch. In his world there was classroom training and on-the-job training. Sarah's few details about taking care of her dying aunt confirmed what he'd suspected when she cleaned up his stitches: Like him, she had the deft touch of someone who'd learned compassion and gentleness on a beloved family member's body. But unlike him, she was letting the experience slowly simmer inside her, letting it change her for the better.

The question startled both of them. That much was obvious. He hadn't known he was going to ask it until the words were out of his mouth. He blamed the city he loved for lowering his guard. Taking her to his favorite places, remembering who he used to be in the process, opened gaps in his defenses. Some of his best years had been at the Yorkville station, working with the firehouses on the Upper East Side. He still had friends in that neighborhood, had been skimming the customers spilling from bars on Second Avenue for guys he used to work with. That night with Sarah wasn't about speed. It was about slowly getting to know someone—and letting her get to know him in return.

He'd been a jackass, too, bringing up the competition to end their evening together. He didn't want to end things, just get the stakes back where they were supposed to be, in the purely physical realm. Except he was fooling himself if he thought even the purely physical didn't carry a big risk.

The thing was . . . it was supposed to be simple. She wasn't asking for much. No gymnastics, no trying to read the Kama Sutra and contort himself into the ape pose. No demands for an expensive dinner (she'd make a better one) or flowers or candy (they weren't dating) or his time (she had a life of her own). All she wanted was his skin against hers and a pace that matched human experience, not a modern, frenetic, distracted, I'm-thinking-about-work-you're-wondering-who-texted post-date fuck.

Simple enough, on the surface. The reality was anything but.

The building was a big one, covering half a city block, so he and Casey had witnesses from the elevator to the open door at the end of the hall. He hoisted the trauma bag higher on his shoulder and quickened his pace. Casey broke into a trot behind him, close enough to Tim that the loose equipment bag smacked his calf with each step.

The housekeeper was waiting at the door, wringing her hands, eyes anxious. She pointed at the bathroom. They shed their bags, straightened him out on the floor. On his own, Casey did the assessment. Breathing, no pulse, unconscious. Without a word Casey yanked the Automated External Defibrillator from the bag and attached it to the patient's chest.

“Clear,” Tim snapped as he switched on the AED and hit the button. Casey scrambled up onto the toilet, eager to break contact with the victim.

“V-fib,” Casey said, peering over Tim's shoulder at the readout.

“Clear,” Tim said again, and Casey pulled away.

The housekeeper hovered in the door, her hand over her mouth, judging by the muffled prayers in Spanish. The shock tightened the vic's muscles, but nothing as dramatic at the arching contortions shows on TV. Tim watched the AED for a pulse, recording in the back of his brain the sight of Casey perched on the toilet like a wide-eyed blue vulture.

ABCs. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Air goes in and out, blood goes round and round. He wasn't avoiding anything. Every day he dealt with the most basic elements of life. Simple enough, when Sarah wasn't.

“He's got a pulse,” Tim said. “Let's go.”

Casey hopped off the toilet, fitted the mask over the man's mouth, and squeezed. Tim shouldered past the housekeeper into the living room, where the gurney waited, along with two cops who'd answered the call. Between the four of them they got the man strapped to the gurney, the housekeeper's explanation of reporting for work, opening the door, finding him on the bathroom floor a sound track to the sounds of the job.

They bumped and thumped down five flights of stairs and out the front door to the bus. “Stay with him,” Tim said, and swung up into the driver's seat.

They dropped the victim at the hospital. On the way back to the station he threw together a quick Internet search on Sarah's full name, soup, her aunt's name. Her blog was the first hit. The most recent entry announced her plan to move to New York and thanked everyone for their condolences on Aunt Joan's death. He skimmed the comments section of the actual obituary: note after note from people who were friends, relatives, or total strangers, all touched by the story she'd told of the journey from diagnosis to death.

Older entries were a mixture of updates on Joan's health and comments on what Sarah was cooking. Hospice care, increased pain medications, weight loss, hair loss. Recipes.
Joan wants the old standbys now, the recipes she remembers from childhood. I bought a meaty ham bone and made my grandmother's recipe from scratch. Aunt Joan said the house smelled like her mother's house. She had a whole bowl and some homemade bread today, and sends everyone her love.

There was a picture of a crazy quilt and sunshine draped over an emaciated woman wearing a soft hat—black, with a skull and crossbones knitted into the fabric; someone had a wicked sense of humor—holding a bowl of soup and smiling determinedly for the camera. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, then jerked against the harness when Casey braked to a halt in the bay.

He closed the browser window and swung out of the bus. The Internet search helped. She'd been through a rough time, and she wanted to get back to the way she had been. He could help her do that, because the way she used to be fit perfectly with the man he was now. Her past was his present. She wanted casual, no responsibilities, no obligations. She wanted to forget. She wanted a challenge, to feel alive again, and no wonder.

Perfect. They were on the same page.

“Somebody cut these stitches out of my forehead,” he said to the ready room in general.

Captain Jones got scissors. Tim slumped into a chair and looked up. Jones eyed the healing cut as he gloved up, then worked the sharp tip of the scissors into the first stitch and snipped. Tim felt the stitch tug loose, then Jones dropped it on the table.

“I'm going to get lunch,” Casey said, hovering as usual. “Want to come with me?”

No, because he wanted to go see Sarah. If the captain would hurry the fuck up, he could just make it by the time the truck closed up to drive back to Brooklyn. He didn't know how he felt about the desire to see her, or worse, the desire under that one to keep her his little secret.

“Fine,” he said, then winced as one of the stitches stuck. “But I pick the place.”

“Sure, LT,” Casey said.

“I missed lunch,” Jones said. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere special,” Tim said.

“Yeah? I like nowhere special. They've got great food, and you can't beat the atmosphere.”

“You should come, Captain,” Casey said.

“Thanks, Casey. I will,” Jones said, so cheerfully Tim could have throttled them both. For no good reason at all. “Anyone else up for lunch?”

Suddenly they were
all
going for lunch, the whole shift coming off duty, one big pack of EMTs and paramedics trooping out of the station and along Canal Street. Pedestrians steered clear of a team in the middle of regaling Casey with what happened when someone died and wasn't found for several days, the expansion of stomach gases, the smell. Tim gently scratched either side of the cut on his forehead and wondered what the hell had happened to his life.

He led them into the park and caught sight of Sarah, sitting on her heels, her skirt tucked under her rear as she erased options from the menu board.

“Where are we going, LT?”

Tim pointed at the truck.

“Symbowl,” Casey pronounced. “Is it good?”

“I like it,” Tim said.

Sarah stood up, then turned and saw Tim. She smiled, big and bright and unmistakable, then waved.

He waved back. Someone behind him, probably Gutierrez, whistled. “I bet you like it.”

“Shut up,” Tim said. “The food's good.”

Beside him, Jones grinned. “Uh-huh.”

“It smells great,” Casey said.

“Hi,” Tim said to Sarah. “You're still serving?”

“Sure,” she said, eyes dancing with delight. “You brought friends.”

Tim handled introductions. In the truck Trish leaned on her elbows and grinned, then explained the menu, the sauces, the process. Everyone ordered something different, asked for sauces on the side; Sarah made change and poured individual sauces while Trish answered questions and scooped out the bowls. At the very end, Sarah handed Tim a bowl doused with an unfamiliar sauce.

“What's that?” Casey asked, comparing his bowl with Tim's

“That's our new Infinite Heat Sauce, made with infinity chiles. We're testing it with certain customers, because it's extremely spicy.”

“It's not bad,” Tim said after his first bite. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but overall, it wasn't going to give him heartburn, much less kill him.

“I'll try that, too,” Casey said.

“Have you had it before?” Sarah asked.

“No, but it'll be fine.”

“Try just a bit on what's on your fork,” Sarah said, scooping a tiny portion into a plastic cup.

Casey dipped his fork in the sauce and shoved it in his mouth. Within seconds he was gasping and spitting. Jonesy caught his bowl on its way to the ground, no mean feat given that he was holding his own bowl and bent over laughing. Casey tried to cough, swallow, and drink something to soothe his inflamed tongue, and managed only to spew rice and beans out his nose.

Sarah cracked the seal on a second bottle of Coke and held it out the window. “It's pretty spicy,” she said, but her words were nearly drowned out by the laughter. Half the shift had their camera phones out and aimed at Casey.

“Yes, ma'am,” Casey agreed, his face the color of a fire engine. Sweat trickled down his temples. “Maybe I'll try the Equanimity.”

“Good option,” Sarah said, and dropped a dollop of the yogurt-based sauce on his bowl. “Excessive spicing kills your taste buds.”

The show over, everyone settled onto the benches arcing away from the entrance to the park. Sarah wandered over to stand by Tim. “You got the stitches taken out,” she said.

“Captain did it just before we walked over,” he said. “It itches a little. We were late. I wasn't sure you'd still be here.”

“We hung around,” she said. “I thought you might come by. I didn't think you'd bring a whole pack of guys with you.”

“It's good food,” he said. “I want other people to know about it.”

“We both appreciate it,” she said quietly.

“Ma'am?” Captain Jones said.

“It's Sarah,” she said with a smile, and moved closer to him. Tim watched them out of the corner of his eye. Jonesy asked her a question, gesturing in a circle over the bowl with his spork. Sarah tucked her skirt under her bottom and crouched down to point in the bowl, answering his questions with a smile, saying something that made Jonesy nod in agreement, then give a sharp laugh Sarah joined. Jonesy nodded and said thanks, then Sarah strolled back toward the truck. “We're here every weekday, and we're trying new sauces next week,” she said as she walked. “Follow or like us for the schedule, then come back and let us know what you think.”

Nods of agreement, because mouths were full of brown rice and red beans and avocado and chicken and beef. It was better than a calzone dripping grease down your wrist as you ate and drove at the same time. The energy level settled a little. One by one guys finished, tossed the bowls in the trash cans, then sat back on the benches, looking around the park, tension easing from shoulders and necks. Casey ate between rounds of blowing his nose. Tim watched Sarah close down the truck, sneaking peeks at him as she did. His phone buzzed.

I bet Casey shows up on AnonEMT in less than an hour.

He smiled, a slow, private grin.
No bet.

You were going to show me something I've never seen before . . .

Meet me at Fourteenth and Eighth Ave tomorrow at five.

I'll prepare to be astonished.

***

On the way back to the station, Jonesy fell in step beside Tim. “How's Casey doing?”

“His driving is improving,” Tim said. Jonesy snorted. “He's doing fine.”

“He worships the ground you walk on,” Jonesy said. “No way would I eat Infinite Heat Sauce to impress you.”

Tim shifted his shoulders. “He's not trying to impress me.”

“You're right. He's trying to
be
you.”

“No, he isn't,” Tim said automatically.

Jonesy's look was one-third his friend who went through training with him and two-thirds Captain Jones. “You're not just training him to do the job. You're training him to handle the job, the way it transitions from a job to a career. You're training him to handle twenty-plus years of this.”

“So he's my gosling? Imprinting on me?”

“Just keep it in mind. He's young. Remember when we were that young?”

Tim thought about that as he crossed the street. He did remember his probie year with the EMS department, but all he'd wanted was to get better, faster, stronger, smarter about the job. Learning to handle it hadn't crossed his mind. You did the job, you put it in a box, and you went on to the next call.

Jonesy sighed. “Do you have anything going with Sarah?”

His heart thumped hard against his sternum, but Tim forced himself to keep looking straight ahead. “We've spent some time together.”

“How much time?”

Tim shrugged.

Jonesy stopped, forcing Tim to stop. “I'm asking if you're serious about her.”

Tim shrugged again, but this time it felt like his shoulders were grinding in their sockets. “She's new to the city. I've been showing her around. That's all.”