Making a Scene Read online

  So what’s Jack and Dana up to these days?

  But do they really? If he had to ask, that just proves they don’t. And of all people who had to ask, why him?

  Roark. Damn funny name, you ask me.

  Roark. Sex-on-a-stick Roark.

  Roark of the massive arms and shoulders near highway-wide, of slim waist and tight ass and rock-hard thighs, glorious, wrap-around-me thighs, leading to a juncture I can’t even begin to imagine, at length…

  At length.

  Strange non sequitur there, Pammy. Or double entendre, more likely.

  Suddenly my nipples go very hard.

  This is what I need, a fantasy to get my motor running. Good golly, if Coffee Stud could be good for anything, surely it must be this. I slide down into the water until it’s up to my nose, my hand latching on to the soap. I order it online, through this site that specializes in vegetable soaps and natural cosmetics, as I’m allergic to aloe and a few other things I haven’t figured out yet. So what can be safer than soap made from glycerin, coconut and ground apricot-somethings, what can be kinder to my aaaahh…

  I slide the bar up my belly and through the valley of my breasts, slippery mounds now peeking through the suds. The soap’s oily wake dissipates the bubbles, foam parting as the water clears, my breasts shiny and wet and my nipples now rigid, one step ahead of my thinking process. All at once Mr. Smokin’ Hot Coffee’s visage leaps into my brain. There’s that kneadable ass, that masculine vee of his back, that midnight voice growling at me over his shoulder as he stands at the coffee urn.

  Turn around, sweetheart, I think, let me see the flip side. He does, walking toward me, his eyes as dark as olives, his shirt hugging him like grape skin, the khaki bulge below his belt buckle almost a taunt more than a tease. I fix the picture in my mind and swirl the soap around my belly, sliding it lower and lower until the ground apricot-somethings slightly scratch the more tender patches of my skin. But the abrasion only heats me even further as the soap drifts into the vee of my legs.

  I twist the soap, slowly at first, a glide so delicious my hips rise slightly from the water and my legs stiffen, my clit starting to throb. Suddenly this tub feels a little too confining and I stand, the water cascading down my breasts, my belly, my ass in ticklish, snaky rivulets. I catch my naked body in the fogged mirror and lean over, grabbing a towel to give the mirror a swipe. All the better to see myself sliding the soap up my slickened skin to my breasts. I cup one, reveling in its heaviness, imagining Roark nipping and licking and sucking until it aches from the pressure, my hips beginning to sway as my hand once again slides to my clit.

  I’m so wet, who needs the water? Or the soap. I drop it to the water, my body slickened and shiny. I glide my hands around my breasts, across my belly and down to my hips, sliding them back across the mounds of my ass, wishing he were behind me, kissing my neck, parting my thighs, driving into me.

  Oh, I’m so wet and hot and ready to go. I slide my hands back into the lather, watching it drift down my legs into the bathwater, lifting one foot atop the side of the tub. I shift my hips until I can see my clit in the mirror, swollen and impatient. For a moment I close my eyes and imagine him kneeling below me, his hands parting my thighs, those granite arms wrapping around them as he cups my ass and raises my clit to his mouth, his breath fiery against my skin as he blows against it. I moan, shivering, as his tongue flicks one experimental lick against my inflamed skin.

  I nearly jump out of the water.

  “Roark!” I cry, my foot splashing into the water. “Don’t play with me, please—oh!” He grabs my hips, pulling me against his mouth, his teeth nipping, his tongue swirling, circling and flicking, flicking, flicking. His hands knead my ass as his whole being devours me.

  I can barely stand, my legs stiffening, my hips quivering as my hand dives to my clit, scooping what’s left of the suds to send them swirling around. My heart starts to pound as my finger glides in and out, working my clit until it’s throbbing enough to burst, my pelvis thrumming with such a rising beat my ears begin to ring and I slam back against the wall, and—

  Son-of-a-bitch!

  I slide into the tub, water splashing everywhere, and there I am, breathless and panting and my crotch still throbbing, and all I can see is them, going at it like bunnies, in my bed, in my house, over and over and over again until the only thing that’s getting fucked is my brain, my writing mojo, me.

  It’s only sex, Josh says. It’s nothing personal.

  Dammit. Dammit. Dammitdammitdammit. It’s bad enough I can’t write a sex scene, but now he’s even screwing my fantasies. I climb out of the tub, catching myself in the mirror. Well, screw yourself, you perverted little bastard, because maybe there’s something I can salvage out of this yet.

  I’m going for the heavy equipment.

  I reach under the sink for some lubricant. I squirt a business-size dose onto my fingertips, prop myself against the sink and kick the bathroom door shut. Staring back from the full-length mirror opposite is me, slickened and steamy and still soaking wet, and I fix in my mind the Perfect Roark and suddenly, my fingers are him—his lips, his hand or whatever else he’s got in his bag of tricks to rein in this still throbbing pussy. I spread my legs, shivering when my slickened fingers meet my inflamed clit. But oh, how good that shiver feels, because it’s Roark, you see, Roark’s tongue, to be exact, and oh my, how it starts to move.

  I’d like to take a moment to personally thank Mr. K-Y. A glorious invention, your jelly. Because within moments, with big props from Fantasy Roark, I can feel myself going off, my hips rising, my clit tingling, and a few seconds later a glorious rumble ripples through me, my toes fairly curling, my mouth wide and gasping. When I finally ease myself back to earth, I have to wonder, what would the real Roark be like?

  More than likely, I’d have to stand in a really, really, really long line to find out. But that wasn’t the purpose of this fantasy.

  Still tingling and dressed only in a towel, I go to the living room and flick on my laptop. When it finally comes up, I click on Word and get as fast as I can into tanaka4.sexscene. If I can get to the place I was just a few minutes ago, I know I can do this. So I focus on Roark and place my hands on the keyboard.

  And let the magic flow.

  Chapter Three

  Seven hours later I’m dry and dressed, have opened four emails and answered eight, cruised Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest, flipped through Philadelphia magazine, have eaten an apple, a banana, a non-fat Key Lime Greek yogurt and half a bag of tortilla chips with medium-heat picante sauce, have drunk three bottles of spring water and washed my kitchen floor and, after a crossword puzzle, twelve games of Free Cell, checks to weather.com, philly.com and the Huffington Post, this thoroughly washed, sated, well-informed and weather-aware writer is still waiting for the frigging magic to get off its ass and start flowing.

  I drop back into my chair. What the hell good is a multiple orgasm-worthy fantasy if I can’t get a damn thing on the page? Ultimately all I’m left with is the lead-in from the manuscript, the same sketchy thing I’ve been staring at for two days.

  “Shields?” The pistol slipped from Jack’s hand. “Shields!” He dropped to his knees, crushing her body to his. “Oh, God— If you die on me—”

  “Tanaka?” she said, breath blissfully warm against his neck.

  He pulled back, relief washing over him. “The armor. You wore it?”

  “Need proof?” she said, placing his hand over her heart.

  “You know the rules, precious. Habeas corpus.”

  “Show the body? Mmmm…” she murmured, “you first.”

  See what a natural segue that is? The story has them in the Atlantic City crib of a business tycoon/drug kingpin, whom they’ve just taken into custody after a big shootout, which conveniently occurred right outside the kingpin’s to-die-for bedroom. All I should have to do is have the uniforms take the kingpin back to the station, leaving T & S alone to seal the crime scene, then, still reeli
ng from the reality of Shields’ close shave, have them fall into each other’s arms and this fabulous round bed. Cue gauze curtains lilting in the breeze, ocean waves crashing outside the open French doors, the rising sun gilding over their naked bodies as their arms and legs twine around each other’s…

  What should have happened next couldn’t be more obvious if my screen said . But as I get ready to pound it out, knowing it should be so simple the scene would practically write itself, all I keep seeing is Josh atop Karen shooting spunky instead of Tanaka and Shields doing monkey. And the sight of it after seven hours is enough to make me want to go blind.

  Or wish I had. Son of a bitch.

  So now it’s past six and I realize I’ve pretty much wasted the whole day, and that it’s time to meet Leslie for dinner. As I change into a skirt and heels I tell myself if she asks how my day went I just might have to slug her.

  But she doesn’t. She seems very much preoccupied this evening, and I haven’t the attention span to mine what’s causing it. Some friend I am.

  “He’s had a lot of meetings lately,” she says.

  “Hm…?” I ask pointedly.

  She huffs. “Ted, you know, my husband? He’s out almost every night lately. Tied up with meetings or one thing or another.”

  “Really?” I ask this as I’m munching away on grilled trout and wild rice.

  Leslie prods the food about her plate before looking at me a bit shyly. She laughs. “If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was having an affair.”

  I catch her face; there’s no humor in it at all. This gets my attention. “Oh Les, get real. You should expect this, marrying a politician. They’re always more hooked up to the office.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know where he is, right? Most of the time he’s either at the…”

  But I’m not listening again, the only affair seeming to affect me is the one of the Continual Blank Page. As we round out the meal with apple crisp and a nice aged sherry, I begin to wonder if anyone would think my little problem a problem at all, their own so much more immediate.

  I ponder this as I walk back from the restaurant. Leslie did offer to give me a ride, but it’s such a nice night, brisk but not very cold and so clear, and with it not even nine o’clock, I’m hardly in a hurry. Back home it’s just more of the same frustration, and who needs more of that? Still, my practical side berates me. Ignoring it will not make it go away, and with the time ticking down I really need to get back to work. And I will, I compromise with myself, right after I have one more sherry. Up the street is a little piano lounge I could never get Josh to try. I go there to get it.

  I walk in the door and it’s all wood paneling and velvety sofas and chairs, each low table lit with cozy little hurricane lamps. The piano player has some slow and bluesy riff going, and I take a seat at the backlit bar and order. But when I push a twenty at the bartender as he sets my sherry down, he shakes his head and says, “It’s taken care of.”

  “What?” I ask. “By who?”

  He tilts his head to the right and I look to the other end of the bar.

  “By me,” says Roark. “Good evening.”

  Good golly. I’m lucky it’s dark in there because just the sight of my fantasy incarnate must have me flushing as red as a whore’s nightlight. He looks delicious, his dark hair tousled from the wind, his cheekbones even higher than I remembered. I smile and, lifting my glass, say, “Thanks,” adding, much to my own disbelief, “Why don’t you join me?”

  He stares at me a moment before glancing over his shoulder, then points to his chest and mouths a silent, Me?

  If that’s genuine surprise I can’t help thinking he must be joking. But it doesn’t appear to be; he looks honestly thrown. I nod, amazed not only by the oh so flattering gesture, but by the idea that this textbook example of The Perfect Man could be intimidated by anyone, especially me. He grabs his coat, picks up his glass and walks over.

  “What is it with me,” I say, going for the witty as he slides into the next stool, “that compels you to ply me with drinks, alcoholic and otherwise?”

  He looks at me askance as he takes a sip, of scotch, I’m thinking, and smiles. “I don’t know…because I’m a gentleman?”

  I cross my legs, giving him a gawk at my silkily-covered gams. “Are you?” I ask, practically purring.

  He turns to me, dark eyes smoldering. “Sure, babe…at least most of the time.”

  Okay. Here I am, breathless and pretty much snared by his gaze, especially since both of us are emitting enough phenomenal fog to lose each other in, so naturally, I’m going a bit swoony. As ridiculous as this sounds, I’m dead serious. Until I notice he’s shaking ever so slightly before he starts snorting, cracking up.

  All right, I’ve been had and I give his shoulder a poke. “You’re nuts, you know that?” But I’m laughing too. I can’t help it.

  His grin lights up the room. “Hey, what do you want? It’s a bar. This kind of banter is mandatory, isn’t it?” He takes another sip and sets down his scotch, directing his full attention on me. “So what’s a class number like you doing in a dive like this?” When I laugh again, he adds, leaning in, “Look, give me a chance, here. I’m hoping if I’m quirky enough I might end up a character in your next book.”

  Or in my next fantasy? God, I hope I’m not blushing again. “Oh, you’re quirky enough. Let’s see…” I swivel my gaze upward, thinking. “Shall I make you a good guy or a bad guy?”

  “Bad,” he says, most emphatically. “Make me bad to the bone.”

  “You?” I shake my head. “Oh no. Anyone who buys my drinks can’t be all bad.”

  He cocks a brow. “Anyone who uses clichés like ‘class number’ and ‘bad to the bone’ can’t be all good either.”

  I consider him over the rim of my glass. “True, but what other qualifications do you have?”

  He thinks a moment. “Just the other day I walked right past a bunch of girl scouts at the supermarket selling cookies.”

  “They’re too fattening anyway,” I say, sipping. “What else?”

  His legs splays as he shifts in his stool. “One Mother’s Day I sent my mom flowers a day late.”

  I try really hard not to look down. “Thoughtless, but at least you sent them. What else?”

  “I consistently do eighty-five on the Turnpike.”

  “And slow down traffic? A menace, for sure, but merely an annoyance. What else?”

  He shoves a hand through his hair, rumpling it, and then he smiles, his mouth curling sinisterly. “I once voted for Ralph Nader for president.”

  I recoil. “And screwed the Democrats? Oooh, that is truly evil. You’re in.”

  He slaps the bar. “I knew that’d do it! Okay, what do I get to do?”

  I take one last sip of sherry. As much as I’m enjoying this, my guilt, and my reemerging embarrassment, are getting to me. “You don’t get upset when I tell you this is all of my marvelous personality you’ll enjoy this evening. Doing that to any woman’s ego,” I say, standing, “is truly horrible, indeed.”

  Roark smiles, throwing out his hands. “How’s this? Do I look upset?”

  “No.” I wince. “You really are a meanie!”

  He waves me off. “Oh, I am not. And you know why?” He tosses a five to the bar and stands up. “Because I know I’m taking you home.” He slips into his coat and tosses the bartender a salute.

  “You are?” The next thing I know he’s got his hand to the small of my back and we’re heading toward the door. “But you don’t have to, I don’t live far from here. As a matter of fact, I walked.”

  “So did I, which now makes it mandatory,” he says as we hit the sidewalk, the night so much warmer now with Roark beside me. “Can’t have you trolling the streets alone. I’m a gentleman, remember?”

  “An evil gentleman,” I remind him.

  “But an honest one. With his own selfish reasons for leaving.”


  My heart skips a beat. Because, holy cow, I’m not blind. I sneak a glance. He looks even more fabulous in the dark, his large body draped in a black overcoat, his jeans snug and hugging his hips, his collar opened just enough to give me a tantalizing peek of his chest. I imagine my hands snaking inside that shirt and across the hard planes of his body, slipping farther and farther down until they reach that soft trail at the top of his jeans where I open them, slowly lowering the zipper to find him already—

  “A-hem!” I clear my throat, pinching it. “Tickle,” I explain. “You were saying something about being selfish?”

  He laughs. “Right. What I mean is this is kind of a late night for me. I should be asleep already. Which is why I’ve got to get home and get to bed.”

  Mercy, sleep would be the last thing I’d think of in Roark’s bed. “Really?”

  “All those bagels and pastries don’t make themselves, you know.”

  I look at him, surprised. “You bake too?”

  He stops, turning to me. “Don’t look so stunned. Someone has to.”

  “I know, but I’m just having a tough time picturing you a baker.”

  He tilts his head. “Oh yeah? Just how do you picture me?”

  Let’s see…how about between my thighs? I take a step back. Criminy! This is getting out of hand. I’m never going be able to look this guy in the face again. “I don’t know. Doing something more physical, I guess.” I give him a quick up-and-down. “I mean, come on! Look at you!”

  Now that was smart—pointing out I’ve been scoping his body. Not that he seems to mind. He laughs and nods, as if he takes my observation as a given. “Hey, baking is very physical, bread especially. Have you ever tried kneading dough for about fifty loaves?”