23 - Common Ground

Sheridan had no right to feel like she’d been waiting for that kiss since the last time they saw one another.  None whatsoever.  He wasn’t hers.  He shouldn’t feel so damn safe and familiar.

But he did.

In deference to her battered self-esteem over the last couple of days, she let the softly probing kiss go longer than was wise.  She selfishly used it as a healing balm on her wounded pride and allowed Jon to make her feel like a relevant, desirable woman.  He owed her that much.  Didn’t he?

The problem was that she didn’t want it to end.   She didn’t want to think about right and wrong or fairness and blame.  Sheridan just wanted to lose herself in the place that only Jon had been able to take her.

And she did.  She completely indulged herself for a full minute – until her self-respect stood up and demanded to be acknowledged.

Gently separating herself from him, she wiped away the residual moisture from the kiss.  Unwilling to look at his face – rather, let him see hers – she directed her monotone question into his chest.  “What are you doing here, Jon?”

“I missed you.”

That wasn’t the answer she expected.  Wanted, yes.  Missed, no. 

Guarded eyes slid from the printed words on his shirt, up and over his neck and face.  Unwillingly, she recognized that the liberal amount of gray in the stubble along his jaw was sexier than a three-piece suit.  It humanized him, she decided. 

“So you want to add another night to the notch on your bedpost.”

He gingerly cuffed his fingers around her wrist and tried to draw her closer, frowning when her slippered feet firmly held their ground.  “No.  That’s not it.” 

She commanded the fluttering in her chest to stop, as her heart unfurled wings of anticipation.  “Then what is it?” 

“I fucked up by walking away,” he sighed, still holding her in his grasp.  “I want you, and I want more than just sex.”  This time when he tried to propel her toward him, she allowed herself to be inched forward.  “You think you might be up for that?”

There was no way in hell that the fluttering was going to be denied now.  No, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, and she would make a point to be smart a little later, but for now…

She wriggled out of his grip so that both of her arms could loop around his neck, and then angled her face close.  “I might be,” she breathed against his lips, gratified when strong arms curled around her back so that he could tenderly claim her mouth.

It was… different this time around.  The intensity that characterized their physical relationship was undeniably present, but the pace wasn’t so urgent.  His hands, rather than desperately clutching at her hips and bottom, were doing a slow, sensual slide under the back of her shirt.

“Baby,” he whispered.  “Let me take you to bed?”

He was asking her permission?  The newness of his uncertainty made her knees watery, and impossible to refuse.  “Yes.  Let’s go to bed.”

The grin he gave her was so endearingly sweet that Sheridan had to remind herself to exhale.  How had she thought him irresistible before?  If that was irresistible, this was… irresistible to the umpteenth power.  Was she dreaming?

“We’re going to have to talk.”  Pointing out that everything wasn’t all hearts and roses was the best way she knew to keep her feet on the ground.  It was too dangerous for her head to float in the clouds.  The lack of oxygen  would have her mind fuddling in a perilous way.

“We will,” he agreed, lightly twirling her toward the staircase and dipping beneath the high ponytail to kiss her neck.  “Later.”

The barest scrape of lips against her sensitive nape sent goose bumps skittering across her flesh in an ecstatic rumba.  Sheridan missed him, too – missed the natural, unaffected way their bodies interacted.  It was almost as though their DNA knew something they didn’t.

Later would be fine. 

Inside the bedroom door, she regarded him curiously, unsure as to what was to come next.  Their history had her half-expecting to be pinned against the wall, or playfully pushed to the mattress.  But neither of those things happened.

She silently watched as Jon tossed his sunglasses on the dresser and grabbed the neckline of his shirt, yanking it off and tossing it to the side.  It landed with a soft ‘plop’ on the same chair that he always put his clothes. 

“C’mere.”  He beckoned for her hand as his tennis shoes bounced dully against the baseboard, next to her discarded boots from last night.  An untidy pile of shoes shouldn’t have heat rushing through her blood, but it was… intimate.  Not hot, not sexy... just intimate.

Filling her lungs with a ration of fortifying air, she allowed him to envelope one hand in his.  The other she burrowed into the soft mat of chest hair while he looped lazy arms around her waist. 

How was this going to play out?  Would he be demanding the sex kitten’s presence soon?  Or would they be doing the same thing in a whole new way?

The scent of coffee lingered on his breath when he claimed tender possession of her mouth.  She couldn’t suppress a tiny whimper when their hips gently bumped, then swayed together while their tongues engaged in a sultry samba.  The Sunday afternoon was silent, but they danced together in perfect time to an imagined beat. 

With a heated groan, he shimmed sensual hands under her shirt, seeking out the heat of her skin as he took the kiss deeper.

Christ, she feels good.

Jon craved more of her touch.  He swept her shirt up and away, nearly demolishing the already-messy ponytail in his carelessness. 

With a muttered, “Sorry,” his lips began systematically moving over each of the now faint markings over her neck and shoulders.  Tasting them, nuzzling them, and licking them with a conscious effort not to make any new marks.  Not this time. 

“No lace?” he queried, rubbing a firm thumb over the plain white cup of her bra.  The already stiff nipple poked through the cotton material, begging for more.

“Mmm…  My supply of lace is very limited.”

 “We’ll get you more.”

Wide splayed palms roamed sensually over the balls of his shoulders, and her head fell back, too heavy to be held upright.  Unable to resist the temptation, he gave the creamy white column the mildest of nips.  Not nearly enough to leave a mark.

“You don’t like my cotton, I guess?”

He used the flat of his tongue to bathe her sternum from throat to cleavage, simultaneously reaching for the bra clasp situated directly between her shoulder blades.

“Right now it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, but I like knowing that you’re wearing the other.  Underneath.  For me.” 

Sheridan sucked in a long, jagged breath and slowly brought her head upright, palms coming to cup his face.  His thumb continued to leisurely worry her nipple as Jon peered into the voluminously dilated pupils that had forced her mossy green irises into recession.  There was nothing hidden in their depths.  No games, no deception.  Just Sheridan.

“I missed you, Jon, and I want you.”

His erection and infatuation went full-blown at the simple, bare-naked honesty.  The impact was such that it was all he could do to push out four gruff words.

“You’ve got me, Baby.”

❧❧❧

“I saw you on TV last night.”

His off-hand comment resonated through his chest and, subsequently, tickled the cheek she had resting against it. 

Sheridan was trying to camouflage her nerves by playing with the soft gray hair around his belly button while she pondered the possible outcomes of this day.  For the last ten minutes they’d lain in silence broken only by the efforts to regain their breath and the occasional quiet cough.  She had inconspicuously swallowed back the bile that was determined to come free each time she allowed her thoughts to drift an hour – or two, or three – in to the future.  There was a cloistering uncertainty in the bed with them.

It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but there was one overwhelming thought plaguing Sheridan.

The sex wasn’t the same. 

At all.

She fluttered damp eyes, knowing she was being silly.  There was no reason to attach that level of importance to something like sex.

“Oh?” she pushed through thick vocal cords as he wrapped his finger in a tendril of her hair and then released it.  “The library thing?”

“Yeah.  You interview well.  I wanted you to know I was impressed, so I, uh… I called you afterward.”

Her crinkled with confusion, and she pushed up onto her elbow so she could look at him.  There weren’t any missed calls from last night on her phone.  “What?”

“Mm.”  He scratched absently at his chest, the oddest look clouding his eyes.  It wasn’t anger that drove the piercing gaze, but…  What?  “Did you sleep with the British guy?”

How the hell does he know about Rick?

Sheridan twisted around until she was sitting on her bottom, and pulled the sheet over her breasts.  It wasn’t breastplate armor, but, not sure where this conversation was headed, it left her feeling a bit less exposed.

“Does it matter?” she asked warily, tucking the loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. 

They should have had all this out before they crawled into bed.  If he had sex – no, made love – with her and now planned to bound out the door with a cheery goodbye, then she was going to be…  Well, she wasn’t going to be happy about it.

Jaw squared, she locked her eyes into his, her heartbeat the only sound in the silence.  She was opening her mouth to repeat the question, when the brilliant blue irises softened and he let go of a tiny, lopsided grin. 

“No.  It doesn’t matter.”  He wove the fingers of his left hand into her right, urging her back onto his chest.  With his other hand, Jon lazily traced the sleek line of her back.  "As long as you tell me you're mine now.  Are you mine, Kitten?"

Her lungs seized.  She hadn’t been wrong.  The sex was different.  It wasn’t sex.  That look in his eyes when he slid deep into her womb had been more than untempered lust.  The messy-headed, unshaven man lounging in her bed no longer viewed her as a disposable fuck toy.  He viewed her as a woman.

“What...”  She cleared her throat, having trouble articulating the words.  “What exactly does that mean?  Being yours?”

“Well.  It means…”  Her scalp tingled when he lightly scraped his fingers through her hair, a wry grin twisting his lips.  “..that you get to put up with my arrogant bullshit.  That you have to listen to me answer a million fucking business phone calls when we go out.  And, most importantly…”  His index finger crooked under her chin, forcing her eyes upward to meet his.  “It means I’m the only man whose trousers your face is gonna be in.”

Her nose wrinkled with startled laughter and Jon chuckled along.  “What in the world does that mean?”

“The Brit who answered your phone last night.  He said he’d have you call me after you got your face out of his trousers.”

“Oh dear God, he didn’t! No wonder you thought I slept with him!”

Jon’s eyes went wide and pale eyebrows shot into his hairline as he exaggeratedly nodded his head.  “SEE?!  Pissed me right off.”

“Be honest.  Were you pissed or jealous?”

Grimacing, he wrapped her in a loose hug before revealing, “Maybe a little of both, as much as I hate to admit it.  Who is he?”

It was her turn to grimace, wondering how he would take to this story.  Hopefully, he would laugh.  The whole thing  really was funny, after all.

“He’s my massage instructor.  Very nice guy, but it was an… uncomfortable date.”

“Oh, yeah?  How so?”  It must not be funny yet, because he didn’t look amused.  He looked like he wanted to take a hit out on somebody. 

She found him to be endearingly cute.  The bad ass, arrogant rocker was cute.

Grinning, she explained, “He’s younger than me by several years, and the place we went to was loud and obnoxious.  To top that, I let these two girls make me feel old and, in an effort to prove I wasn’t, I did a body shot of tequila from Rick’s waistband.  I guess that would be my face in his trousers,” she snickered.  “Although I never heard him on my phone.  You must’ve called while I was in the ladies’ room giving myself a pep-talk.”

He frowned, shaking her lightly in his embrace.  “No more fucking tequila.  Promise me.”

“You’re getting awfully bossy, considering that we’re not really dating.”

“We would be dating if you’d just admit you’re mine.”

It was the 2011 Butterfly Olympics in her stomach, and one of the beauties had just performed a perfectly executed triple flip axel with a half-gainer twist.  Or something like that.

“Okay,” she acquiesced slyly.  “I will on one condition.”

“Jesus.  Conditions already.  What?  What condition?”  Jon’s eyes rolled dramatically as he snuggled her closer.

Sheridan smirked, liking his playfulness – and him – an awful lot.  Slithering up higher in the bed, she dusted his lips with a quick kiss and replied matter-of-factly, “That you admit you’re mine.”