Lazy Afternoon I

Showered once more, freshly shaved, and dressed in a pair of his own sweats, bearing the patch of his ship, the Valkyrie, Bill settled into a corner of Laura’s leather couch and turned on the video unit.

The lady of the house was still in the lavatory, doing those things that women do and men are best off just letting them do and not asking about, having told him to go make himself at home. So that’s what he was doing, flipping through the channels until he found a pyramid match between the Panthers and Bucs.

Returning the remote to the coffee table, he sat back and watched the action, trying to remember the last time he’d had the chance to just kick back and enjoy a game. He couldn’t recall, but he was fairly sure it’d been at least a decade, possibly more.

Carolanne hadn’t appreciated the sport, and she’d hated his interest in it, refused to let him watch it when he was on leave saying that it took him away from her and the boys and they already didn’t get to see him as it was. To make peace, he’d abided by the dictate, even though his interest in watching the games via vid wasn’t all that pronounced. He’d always preferred live action and had regretted never being able to take his boys to a match.

“Oh, I love pyramid.”

At the exclamation, Bill glanced over his shoulder to see Laura approaching, bearing a little basket full of … things. As she got closer, he made out bottles of nail polish, clippers and files. She set her burden on the coffee table, asked, “Would you like a beer?”

Bill just looked at her. She was beautiful, sexy, great in bed, liked pyramid and had just offered to bring him a beer. He had to be dreaming. There was no other explanation for the sequence of events that began last night.

“No, you’re not dreaming,” she giggled, making him realize he’d spoken aloud. “Now, do you want a beer?”

“Yeah,” he replied, chuckling and shaking his head at himself.

When she returned a few moments later with a couple cold bottles of beer, one for herself and one for him, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles. “Thank you,” he said and earned a ruffling of his hair when he released her hand.

“You’re welcome,” she replied then plopped down in her chair and popped the top of her beer. He watched her take a swallow then set it aside to pick up the little basket. She rummaged through the contents, occasionally glancing up at the screen.

“My father was a Bucs fan,” she said. “Pyramid and boxing were his two great sports passions. I loved watching matches with him. I haven’t seen one of either in ages, though.”

“Me either,” he confessed, eyes returning to the vid screen in time to see the Picons score a goal. “We don’t get many live broadcasts when patrolling the outer systems, and my ex wouldn’t allow them on in the house.”

“So you were married?”

“Yes.” He glanced over to see Laura’s reaction to his answer, found her shaking a bottle of nail polish, dark red from the look of it, and her eyes on him. He’d half expected a look of pity or scrutiny, looking for wounds or faults, but he was greeted with neither. Neither did she have that hungry look some women got when they set their sights on a widower or divorcee.

No, Laura’s expression displayed only honest, normal curiosity. That he could handle, though he wasn’t sure if she’d ask. So far, they hadn’t really talked about personal things beyond the physically intimate. Hell, Bill mused, he didn’t even know her last name. It wasn’t that he wasn’t curious or didn’t want to know. It just hadn’t seemed a piece of information necessary to meeting her needs, or his own.

As he looked at her, a smile teased her mouth. “Well that explains your comfort in the kitchen,” she said simply.

Bill gave a soft chuckle. “Not really. She didn’t like me in the kitchen.”

Laura raised an eyebrow. “Territorial?”

Bill shrugged. “In a way.” He took another drink of his beer, checked the score of the game, eyes tracking the movements of the players as he considered elaborating on his answer. He hadn’t really talked in detail to anyone, even Saul, about the things that had gone on between he and Carolanne in those last couple of years, how she’d shot down every effort he made to be a good husband to her, to meet her needs or help her.

Frankly, it’d been too painful at the time and he’d spent the time since the divorce disconnecting from the frustration and heartbreak. He would have left it all behind if he could have, but his sons necessitated some contact with her still. He just tried to keep it to a minimum and be the best father he could be under the circumstances.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Bill smiled and bowed his head, blinked slowly before looking back over at the woman who’d been a refuge the last twelve hours or so, and who continued to be one, whether she knew it or not.

She had let him take care of her sexual needs, and then she’d let him wash the breakfast dishes and take out her trash. Not many men would ever comprehend the simple joy he’d found in the latter tasks but It was simple really — in letting him meet her needs, whatever they were, she was meeting his. It’s what Carolanne had denied him at every turn, ultimately rendering him impotent as a spouse and useless as a man.

Bill raked his gaze over Laura, taking in the comforting sight of her and those gray-green eyes filled with understanding, and he felt invigorated, not emasculated.

She wore a white t-shirt, one of those feminine ones with a v-neck that showcased the freckled-kissed rise of her breasts, and a pair of tan, short-legged pants. Her hair was dry and fell in bouncy curls to her shoulders. It was blonde but should have been red. In her hands, she held the nail polish bottle and a little foam thing that, if memory served, was designed to separate toes in order to paint the nails.

Leaning forward, Bill placed his beer on the coffee table then pushed himself off the couch and moved to sit on the low table. He set her little basket in the floor then straddled the end, corralling her feet, which were propped on the edge.

He gently lifted one of them and placed it on his thigh before holding his hand out for the foam separator. She put it in his palm and hummed as he carefully worked her toes into the grooves.

“You’ve done this before,” she commented.

“I’ve seen it done,” he replied, glanced up at her, explaining with a smile, “My sister had slumber parties.”

Propping her foot on his thigh, he took the bottle of polish from her when she held it out to him. He eyed the color and read the name, laughed. “Frak Me Red. It suits you,” he grinned and uncapped the bottle.

“You think so?” It was practically a purr, drawing Bill’s gaze back to her face, which bore a decidedly sultry, if mischievous, smile. He loved it and when she lifted her foot and brought it to rest on his chest. “I think you’ll find this angle is better,” she said softly.

“Done this before?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes dancing in merriment, “I’ve had slumber parties.”

Bill smiled, turned his head and kissed the delicate arch of her foot. Then carefully, his hand steady like it was when he worked on his models, he painted her nails. He began with the big toe and worked his way out to the little one. He felt her eyes on him as he worked but didn’t dare look away from his task for fear of messing up his handiwork.

When he finished with the first foot, he lowered it to his thigh, murmuring, “You’ll want a second coat,” before reaching for her other foot. She handed him the other separator and he arranged her toes then positioned her foot on his chest. She was right. That angle was perfect to get straight strokes. He was able to paint each nail smoothly and evenly.

Finished with that foot, he propped it on his thigh and checked the other to see if it was ready for the second coat. It wasn’t quite, so he blew gently across the fresh polish and heard her sigh. He looked at her. She had sunk low into the chair, nested into the cushions, hair mussed wildly around her. One hand dangled over the chair arm, the other held her folded glasses against her breasts, which were peaked beneath the t-shirt, the fabric tented noticeably as her chest rose and fell quicker than normal. Her eyes were dark and enigmatic.

She was very obviously aroused, and that pleased him. She was so different than…

Leaving her foot against his chest, he slipped his fingers up along her calf, as far as he could reach, massaged his way gently back down to her ankle, his eyes taking in how dark his skin was in comparison to hers.

“She wouldn’t let me do this sort of thing … anything for her,” he murmured, easing Laura’s foot higher, until her ankle was over his shoulder. He moved her other foot, hooking that leg over his thigh, then eased forward, sliding off the table, down into the space between it and the chair, moving inexorably toward her to bury his face in the warmth between her thighs. He breathed deeply the musky heat of her arousal, kissed her through her clothing, then turned his head and lay his cheek against her, murmuring her name as she held him to her and ran her fingers through his hair.

He nuzzled down, lower, kissing until he worked her moisture through the fabric so that he could taste her. She moaned when he moaned, a sound full of anguish as much as desire even to his own ears. She tasted so good and he wanted more, needed to taste her response to him.

Raising his head, he reached for the waist of her pants, eyes seeking out hers. “I want to eat you,” he rasped, asking permission.

She shifted, passing her leg over him. He helped, then together, they divested her of her pants and panties, and positioned her so that he could…

“Eat,” she whispered, her fingers taking his glasses from his face then delicately opening herself to him.

“Frak, yes,” he groaned at the sight of her soft and creaming flesh then danced his tongue over and into her, making her moan.

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