58 - In the Know

“Hiya, Jack.”  Jon juggled the bottle of wine with the Chinese takeout sack as he passed the understated desk tucked just inside Sheridan’s building and punched the elevator call.  “How’s life in the fast lane?”

The doorman laughed, shrugging his shoulders almost comically.  “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Bon Jovi.  The fast lane doesn’t run through this lobby.”

“Ah, I bet it veers through here once in a while.”  Jon stepped in the car and pushed the button with his pinky finger.  “Take care, man.”

“You, too, sir.  Tell Ms. King I hope she’s feeling better.”

Forehead wrinkling, he nonetheless called out, “Sure thing,” as the doors slowly ate away his view of Jack’s concerned face.

It had only been three days since Jon had seen Sheridan.  They’d come back to her place Christmas night.  Since he left on Sunday afternoon, he’d been working, humoring Richie that the whole damn drunken debacle had blown over, or spending time with the kids. 

But he’d talked to her every night.  Well, not last night because she’d fallen asleep before he got home from dinner with John Shanks, but they’d texted.  She hadn’t mentioned being sick.  Nor had she mentioned it when they texted earlier today, making dinner plans.

When the elevator deposited him in her foyer, he was annoyed that the doorman knew something he didn’t.  Bypassing the doorbell, he tucked the bottle of wine under his arm and knocked loudly.  When she didn’t answer in the first five seconds, he then followed up with the bell.

His fist was lifted to knock – pound – again when the deadbolt rattled and the knob slowly spun. 

“Where’s the fire?” Sheridan asked, blinking sleepily up at him with foggy green eyes.  There was a red crease in her left cheek where she’d been sleeping against something besides a bed pillow, and her ponytail was a little crooked.  Sexy didn’t even begin to cover describing the comfy, rumpled kitten look.  The burgundy velour hoodie of her sweatsuit was unzipped far enough that Jon almost forgot why he’d been impatient.

“Are you sick?” was his socially inappropriate greeting.  He did tone the bluntness down with a kiss over her creased cheek as he stepped inside.  His mother or Miss Manners wouldn’t kill him now.

“No, why do you ask?”

She took dinner and the wine from him as he shrugged out of his jacket, frowning as he hung it over the back of the nearest dining chair.  “Jack said that he hopes you feel better.”

“Oh, that.  Jack is very sweet.”

Unconcerned, she didn’t break stride as she unloaded cartons of rice, Schezuan chicken, pepper steak and egg rolls.

Jon folded his arms over his chest, propping one hip against the kitchen island.  She wasn’t telling him anything, which was unlike Sheridan.  He was a little irritated that she was playing ‘keep away’ at this stage of the game.  “You wanna tell me why he thinks you’re sick?”

A narrowed gaze slid toward him, tinged with her own touch of irritation as the obligatory assortment of Chinese condiments hit the countertop.  Soy sauce, duck sauce, hot mustard and fortune cookies skittered across the surface from the upended paper bag that she was now folding with a piquish frown.

“I don’t know, Jon.  I came in earlier today with a couple of grocery bags.  Maybe it’s because when he commented that I looked tired, I tried to make polite conversation.  I told him I’d been fighting a sinus infection for the last week and the damn thing doesn’t seem to want to go away.”

He personally thought she was being more snappish than the question warranted, but seeing as that was also unlike her…  It bugged him.

“Hey.”  Jon stepped in behind her, sliding his arms around her unprotected waist as she reached up into the cabinet for plates.  Gingerly twirling away from the cabinet in his embrace, he peered down into her face.  “Why didn’t you tell me you still weren’t feeling good?”

“Because it’s a sinus infection, not cancer or typhoid,” she huffed, leaning hard against the circle of his arms.  Not really trying to escape, but disgruntled enough not to feel cuddly.  “It’s not even worth mentioning, and I wouldn’t have if Jack wasn’t so nice.  I feel like I need to chit chat with him when I come through the lobby.”

“There’s no reason to be bitchy, Kitten.”

Bad choice of words. 

Green sparks lit from angry eyes and her mouth flattened into a hard line.  “And there’s no reason to greet me with accusations at the door, like I’m hiding something.”

“Alright,” he acquiesced.  “You’re right.  Let’s start over again.”  Jon schooled his undaunted smirk into a more congenial smile, full of agreeableness as he inclined his head for a brief kiss.  “Hey, baby.  How was your day?  I brought Chinese.”

As though she couldn’t help herself, Sheridan’s eyes drifted shut and the annoyance melted away under a reluctant grin as she shook her head.  He could understand.  Sometimes he couldn’t believe himself, either.

“Hi, yourself, you socially uncouth ass.”

His head fell back with a bark of laughter and he hauled her close, bending to nuzzle into her neck even as she pushed at his shoulders.  Her half-hearted attempt to break free was short-lived and protesting hands ended up curled around his neck.  They stood that way for a moment, absorbing the physical nearness that had been absent as of late.

“So how was your day?” Jon prodded again, reluctantly releasing her so that she could get the dishes to plate their cooling dinner.

“Lazy.  I went to the market for a few things and did some writing.”  She served Schezuan chicken onto a bed of rice while he opened the wine, her mouth bending into a slight frown.  “I didn’t realize how much I was going to miss the massage therapy classes – or at least the way they got me out of the house.  I can only tinker with aromatherapy so much before the odd blend of smells bothers my stupid sinuses.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, setting down the filled wine glasses and accepting the plate that was now adorned with an eggroll.  “Couch or table?”

“Table.  I’ve been on the couch all afternoon.”

He caught the placemats she tossed at him and fixed them at their usual seats, putting the plate on his.  She brought her plate and silverware and he went back for the wine.  Placing her glass on the table, he noticed the food that she’d chosen for herself. 

“No chicken?” he asked, sliding into his chair and pulling a napkin into his lap.

“Sinuses.  The smell got me when I opened the carton,” was her somewhat apologetic explanation.  Schezuan chicken was kind of their ‘thing’ since discovering they both had a passion for it.  “But the pepper steak looks great.”

Nodding his understanding and sympathy, Jon dropped back to her earlier comment about getting out of the house.  "Why don’t you come over to my place tomorrow night?  We can make plans for the underage set’s New Year’s shindig.”

She agreed and they spent the rest of their meal throwing around entertainment options for the youngsters, and she went off on a food tangent.  Personally, he’d call Sal’s pizza and be done with it, but she was set on more of a “party” spread. 

In his personal experience, planning was a waste of time.  Judging by his kids and the friends they had over, teenagers would listen to music, talk and eat pizza.  Little kids would listen to no one, bellow like banshees and eat pizza.  What was there to plan?

But he let her do her thing, agreeing here and offering some input there until dinner and the ensuing cleanup was done.  Then he coaxed her back onto the couch to broach the other topic she’d mentioned.

He kicked off his shoes and stretched out as she settled into the sofa’s corner, placing his head in her lap.  Jon loved this part of their dinner nights almost as much as he loved the sex that would surely follow.  When her blood red fingertips started rifling through his hair, he tipped his head back to see her face. 

“So…  You’ve been writing.”

“I have,” she amusedly confirmed, still raking light nails over his scalp.  He was seriously obsessed with her fingernails, and leaned into the gentle touch.  It never felt this good when he scratched his own head.

“Is this for business?  Or my pleasure?”

“Maybe a little bit of both.”

The fingernail fun dropped off his radar in a hurry.

Shit.  That means she’s really going to publish.  I was hoping that was going to fade away into oblivion.

“Can I read it?”

A little line furrowed its way from one blonde eyebrow to the other.  “It’s not finished yet.”

“Please?”  He pulled out all the stops, sitting up and twisting so that she could see the pouty lip and puppy dog eyes. 

While there was a part of him that was concerned that she was going public with this stuff, there was that other, horny, part of him that wanted to know what she’d come up with this time.  Maybe it wasn’t even worth worrying about.  She might have watered everything down for a grocery store magazine.

“You realize this is uncomfortable for me, right?” she asked, bending forward to retrieve her iPad from the coffee table and bringing it to life with the push of a button.  “Watching you read.”

“Then take a nap,” he suggested, sitting upright and accepting the tablet with a smile.  “That way you don’t have to watch.”

Sheridan grunted softly and stood, picking up both of their glasses and retreating to the kitchen to refill them.  When she pulled the cork from the wine, Jon turned his attention to the screen in front of him.

I had never liked the rain before.  Not that I’d ever had a fear of it, but, much like the rest of the world, I preferred sunshine to clouds – particularly when vacationing in the tropics.  Sunshine is a mandatory requirement for a memorable Jamaican getaway.

Or so I thought. 

I am a successful business woman who slides happily between my silk sheets every night knowing that my business is far more satisfying than a lover.  Why, you might ask?  I’m a reasonably attractive and intelligent woman, but those very qualities tend to intimidate men.  Once intimidated, they hand over their balls and start following the orders I’m forced to issue – because they are clue-less and do-less.

After the divorce, I decided that a vibrator was far less trouble and ultimately more satisfying.  Not only had I never liked the rain, I had also never realized how easily my cemented opinion could be swayed on both subjects.

One rainy Caribbean evening accompanied by thunder, lightning, a blackout, and one outrageously hot man…  In all fairness, the storm and power outage were merely incidental.  That outrageously hot man could sway a woman’s opinion on pretty much anything, with one brilliant blue eye tied behind his back.

“Uh, could I borrow a cup of electricity,” I mumbled when he opened the door that connected our penthouse suites, foolishly holding my hairdryer aloft.

Everything after that was blurred in the shadow of his brilliant smile, although I’m certain there was a bit of drooling on my part.  Somehow, despite that, I can also vaguely recall flirting, wine, candle light, dinner. 

There’s one other thing I can recall, and this is with a startling clarity.  For once in my very staid - and two years’ celibate - life, I threw caution to the wind and grabbed onto my good fortune with both hands.  Literally. 

It was easily the most fabulous sex of my life.

“Celibate for two years?”   Surprise had Jon’s head popping up to seek out her face as she none-too-gently stuffed the cork back into the wine bottle.  She’d been celibate for two years before they’d hooked up?  She hadn’t told him that.  “And the most fabulous sex of your life, huh?”

He tried for about a second to rein in his prideful gloating, but couldn’t resist grinning cockily as she rolled her eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you this was awkward?  You’re not helping.”

Why was it so good, I still catch myself wondering, but deep-down I know the answer.  This man, like no other I’d ever known, simply oozed power, which is odd because that’s normally a turn-off for me.  I realize that’s a contradiction in terms, but powerful men who have to exert their power to be powerful are, in effect, powerless. 

Not so with my sexy storm man.  He had the charm to offset the arrogance which he'd had the nerve to tell me might be well-deserved.  His self-confidence had my panties dripping with the first smug quirk of his eyebrow.  

Arrogance was evidently an aphrodisiac, I thought, unknowingly squeezing my thighs together.  The throbbing between them was further fueled by hard fingers encircling my wrist, promptly stealing my breath and the control I usually clung to with a vengeance. 

I was surprised to find that I didn’t mind relinquishing control to this man, because he didn’t actually take it.  He shared it. 

The Greek god that I was about to find statue-stiff in all the right places wasn’t intimidated by a strong woman.  He got off on it and for every bite mark he left on my neck or shoulder, he would take away matching scratch on his back or that perfect backside. 

I couldn’t wait to

His head snapped up when she reclaimed her corner of the sofa and sipped at her freshly filled glass.  “You stopped in the middle of a sentence,” Jon accused.

“I told you it wasn’t finished.”

“Finish the damn sentence.”

Sighing, she lifted the iPad from his hand and flicked her eyes over the last paragraph.  “Do it.  I couldn’t wait to do it and then do it again,” she supplied, sliding the device back onto the coffee table.  “So what do you think?”

He thought that it was hot-as-hell looking inside her head, but it carried an element of exposure that he wasn’t sure he wanted in the public eye.   Their sex life was off-the-charts good, but it was theirs and he didn’t want to belittle it by putting it on a supermarket newsstand.  And, God forbid, what if someone made the connection that this pseudo-porn was written about him? 

It’s better than the flat-out porn that those so-called fan fiction writers put out there for God and my mother to see.

But he wasn’t dating those porn writers.  He was dating this one.

She called it erotic fiction, not porn.

Whatever.

“Kitten…”  Jon pussied out and reached for the fermented fortification swimming in his wine glass.  A healthy swallow later, he picked up again.  “Remember when you told me about your Cosmo thing on Christmas Eve?”

She stilled, her tone going from playful to somewhere in the neighborhood of accusatory.  “Yes.  You wouldn’t talk about it.”

“No,” he corrected gently, reaching for her hand.  “I said it wasn’t the time to talk about it.  Now it’s time.”