10

THE CANDLES WERE NOTHING but tiny stubs, the ziti sat uneaten on the table, and the wine was still unopened. Towels were strewn like bread crumbs from the bath to the couch, where Mercedes was curled up next to Sam, all transgressions now easily forgiven. A few well-timed orgasms would do that to a girl.

He tightened his arms around her. “Next time I think you need to come to Jersey, and learn how real people live.”

“Next time…hmmmm, I like the sound of that.” She perched up on his chest to study his face. The light was almost non-existent, but she didn’t need it. Her fantasy man wasn’t a hazy figment in her head anymore. The details were being filled in, her own Sam-portrait in progress.

There was the slightly crooked left eyebrow that most of his viewing audience assumed was his intelligent, quizzical look, but seeing him relaxed, even sleeping, she now realized it just grew that way. His lashes were golden-tipped, although she didn’t dare tell him that, because he would think it was girly. Then there was the way he brushed his hand through his hair when he was thinking, and didn’t know anyone was watching.

Mercedes was always watching. She ran her hands up over his torso, twirling a finger in the chest hair. The golden-tipped lashes opened, and sated green (not hazel) eyes gleamed.

“Let’s not rush past ‘this time,’” he said. “The night isn’t over.”

“I could stay like this forever.”

He sighed, and she could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her. “See, this is how I know that what you write is fiction. I have no warm spot on this couch. Don’t you have a bed?”

“It’s a Murphy bed, and I don’t usually fold it out, and you were in a hurry.”

He started to laugh. “I should’ve guessed. This place suits you.”

“I’m a wreck?”

“No, your priorities aren’t the same as normal people,” he said, softening the words with a kiss to her hair.

They stayed there quietly, and she wondered why she’d never appreciated the steely security of a man’s arms before, the curve of his bicep, the hard lines of his chest. Lying here with Sam, the view out the window looked like paradise dusted in stars, rather than a rusted fire escape. Tonight her old couch was the most perfect place in the world. Sam stirred, their legs tangled together in a knot she was in no hurry to untie.

“Are you hungry?”

“Food?” he asked, his hand sweeping over the curve of her back, up and over, long, languid strokes.

“Ziti, in particular,” she answered. If she moved just an inch to the left…

“Maybe in a minute. I’m treasuring my warm spot here.”

“You’re making fun again.”

“Only because you make me smile.”

“How was the interview with the law professor?”

“Pretty sharp. He had some good case points on capital punishment. The Supreme Court has got a case in a few months, we’ll see what happens.”

“We could turn the television on to watch the show.”

“Bite your tongue. I’m quite happy here.”

“Short sofa and all.”

“It’s the ‘all’ part that I’m happy about.”

“What kept you tonight?”

“A meeting with Charlie.”

“What was that?”

“What?”

“It was not an enthusiastic answer. Like it was a really bad meeting and you just don’t want to whine.”

“I don’t mind whining, but it was actually a good meeting.”

“So why the lack of enthusiasm?”

“I’m enthusiastic.”

“That’s not enthusiasm. That’s brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Morose. Melancholy. Down in the dumps. Life in the crapper. Pick a word, any word.”

“I didn’t want to say anything yet—”

“Aha! It was a bad meeting.”

“No, it was good. But things are going to change.”

“Good change or bad change?”

“It depends on your point of view.”

“Just tell me.”

“I’m running for Congress. One of the candidates has dropped out at the last minute. They want me in,” he said.

“Oh! Oh.” Congress. Just the word gave her hives.

Sam studied her face. “What do you think?”

“Are you serious?” she asked, but she knew he was. It was wonderful, it was daunting, it scared her senseless.

“Yeah. I met with the party chairman and a campaign manager yesterday. What do you think?”

“Wait a minute.”

Mercedes reluctantly disengaged from his arms and fumbled through her purse. Then she came back, and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“If you’re running for Congress, I want a lifetime tax exemption for Mercedes Brooks. No, that’s too selfish. I want one for the entire Brooks family—except for Andrew. With his money, the pork police would be all over you.”

He looked down at the twenty. “I can’t do that.”

She folded up the bill and smiled. “Okay, you passed. You’re not for sale. I like that in my elected representatives.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

She climbed up on him, and happily engaged herself back in his arms. “You’re nervous about this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“What if I lose?”

“Sam, that’d be like George Washington losing, or Abraham Lincoln losing, or Thomas Jefferson losing. Of course you’re going to win.”

“Those are all dead guys. Name a guy who’s still alive.”

She stayed silent.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re the only non-dead guy I know of that’s a shoo-in to win. Oh, my God. I’d be sleeping with a member of Congress. Assuming you still want to sleep with me after you win.”

“The election’s three months away. I’ve got a lot of campaigning to catch up on.”

“Oh, yeah, make me feel better.” Then she broached the one issue that was forecasting rain for her parade. “Campaigning?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t ‘oh,’” he said, and she could hear the worry in his voice.

This was his shining moment, and she was raining on not only her parade, but his as well. Mercedes smiled at him, shoving her own problems to tomorrow when she’d be alone.

“I think you’ll make a great Congressman, Sam Porter. The people of New York couldn’t ask for anything better.”

“New Jersey.”

“What do you mean, New Jersey?”

“I live in Jersey. That’s my home state.”

“But what about the people of New York? Don’t we deserve honest representatives, too?” It was one thing when he was going to be her Congressman, but he was going to be someone else’s Congressman, not hers?

“New York has good representatives.”

“But not as good as you, Sam. We deserve the best.”

“Move to Jersey.”

She snuggled closer, because New York’s loss was New Jersey’s gain, but right at the moment, she was the one laying naked with him. “No way.”

“Yeah, I can see how all your creature comforts would be so appealing,” he said, his hand moving lower with nefarious intentions.

“You’re mocking me,” she said, but the words had no sting because his nefarious intentions were no longer just intentions. One finger teased between her thighs, circling and stroking, feather-light touches that slipped higher and higher.

Sam switched their positions, so she was flat on her back. He straddled over her, diamond-sharp eyes watching as he teased with his hand. The noise of the city faded to nothing, her senses focused on the sound of his breathing, the touch of his hand, the musky smell of arousal in the air.

The steadfast touch continued, sliding in between her wet crease, circling, then sliding further, her hips rolling upwards to meet him. He would touch her just so, not enough, never enough.

Then he waited, and a moan broke free from her lips at the loss. His lips curved up in a smile, all male, all knowing, as if she were his puppet on a string, but oh, he knew exactly which strings to pull.

The ache inside her was growing, and she moaned restlessly, wanting to come, but every time she was close, he would pull back, and the torment would start all over again.

Back and forth, back and forth. Her head moved from side to side, words coming from her mouth, cursing him because she needed to come so badly, and all he would do was laugh. A soft, whisper of a laugh that skimmed over her body, over her breasts, settling in her mind, thudding in her clit.

His lips came down over hers, his tongue thrusting inside her, and as her hips ground against his finger, his tongue made love in her mouth. The thrill of him, his mouth, his hand, his touch, took her up and up, so close to falling, so close….

This time, he knew, and was merciful. The lovely, lovely finger moved faster and faster against her, and she was so ready to come. There. There.

But then it wasn’t his finger any more. He thrust his cock inside her, his mouth still covering hers, and the pure relief was instant. Her thighs clamped against him while he moved deep and strong, and the first flush of the orgasm rolled through her. Tension radiated from him, muscles corded, and slick with sweat. He raised his head, stared, and she fell deeply into his eyes at the same time the climax took over. So much there, so strong, so gentle, so perfect.

When she moaned, it didn’t come from her body, but her heart.

The flame from the candle blurred in front of her eyes, a prism of colors emerging from the fire. He rode her to his own completion, and then fell still.

She wanted to believe it was only sex between them, it would be easier for him, for her. But “only sex” didn’t explain the tenderness in his face, “only sex” didn’t explain the hopes in her mind, “only sex” didn’t explain why even the afterwards with Sam was better than the during of her other encounters.

Long moments passed, the sound of breathing, the city noises taking hold, cars honking, the quiet hiss of the candle flames. Yet all Mercedes could hear was the steady bump of his heart.

Sam was everything a man should be. Honest, caring, reliable, give or take an hour, and most of all, he was the most honorable man she’d ever known. Every night he told the entire country what he believed in, taking the hits in stride, but never letting it stop him from what he thought was right. People didn’t do that anymore, they were too afraid.

Mercedes let out a sigh, because honest, caring and reliable men didn’t belong with her. He heard her sigh, misread the reason, and rolled her back on top of him.

“Sam, this campaigning business, will I still be able to see you? It’s going to be worse, isn’t it?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I found my warm spot, all three-quarters of an inch of it, and I’m not giving it up. It’ll be worse for a while. But then it’s over. We’ll work it out. Promise.”

“Okay.”

“No brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“Don’t make problems, Mercedes. I don’t have to run.”

At that, she raised her head, jamming a hard fist into his chest. “Don’t you dare not do this, Sam Porter. America needs you.” I need you, too, she thought, keeping the words quiet in her heart. “What would you do?”

“If I won?”

“Not if, but when. Let’s be realistic.”

“You’re good for my ego, Mercedes.”

“This isn’t about ego, this is about doing your patriotic duty for your country. What would you do?”

His chest rumbled with laughter. “There’re a few heads in the House that have some common sense. I’d work with them. Budget needs help, foreign diplomacy needs help. That’s where I’d start.”

“You could do a lot.”

“Washington is a lot like Wonderland. You’ve got to be careful not to drink the water, or who knows how you end up.”

“Hmmm.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Just thinking,” she answered. She didn’t know much about the political process, but like it or not, she was about to get a baptism by fire. It would have been nice if they’d been together a little longer first. Like maybe a month.

“No brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“So I have a question for you.”

“What?”

“Do you really keep chocolate sauce in your refrigerator?”

“No. That’s just fiction.”

“Ah. It’s a good thing I brought some, then.”

BY THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Mercedes had written an online profile for Tony and e-mailed it to Sam, posted two mediocre stories for her Web site, written three yuck pages on her next manuscript, played seven games of Solitaire, and had viewed an anonymous sex video that some Wall Street trader had sent her in hopes of getting it posted on her blog. In response, Mercedes sent him her standard form rejection letter:

This time, when she hit the send button, she didn’t get her usual charge of satisfaction. In fact, she didn’t get a charge at all. Sadly, her attention was fixated on the pillow in her lap. She picked it up, inhaling deeply. Sam’s cologne. She’d walked to the Starbucks that morning, and right after she crossed 14th street, the scent had hit her nose. She turned, ready to see him, but it was just some doofus who had the nerve to wear Sam Porter’s cologne. Ruined her whole morning.

Maybe if she did a story about a man’s cologne, and the woman who dabs it on herself in order to be able to smell her lover on her when he wasn’t there? She was struck by inspiration, felt the need to run to Sak’s and buy a bottle of his cologne, when cooler heads (and lack of funds) prevailed and she sat down to write.

When the phone rang, a few minutes later, her first thought was Sam. Her second thought, as she glanced at CallerID was Portia. Her excitement dimmed.

“Doll, great news!”

Okay, it was a nice way to start. “Portia, tell me more.”

“What do the words ‘second printing’ say to you?”

“I can pay next month’s rent.”

Portia laughed. “You’re such a card.”

“Forget compliments, tell me about the printing.”

“The warehouse is out of stock. Apparently your book has started to fly off the shelves, apparently with the Victoria’s Secret slash book club crowd. Who knew? Anyway, just wanted to share the love. The head of PR is trying to line up an interview with you on one of the talk shows. Just think. All that exposure. Your face would be plastered everywhere. Instant recognition, doll.”

Instant recognition? But she liked her anonymity. For instance, she could go out with whomever she chose to (Sam) and not worry about him being linked with a well-known writer of erotica. “Maybe I should play it low-key. Right now, I’m pretty faceless, which can be a good thing when you write erotica.” Or date a Congressional candidate. Or both.

“Well, yeah, but that’s your big hook. You’re gorgeous, and you’re willing to go out there, and stand up for what you’re writing. Not trying to hide behind some fake pen name. People like that. It makes you seem real, earthy, yet sexually charged, too.”

“Sexually charged is good.”

“How’s the next book coming?”

“Slow.”

“Doll, when you’re writing sex, slow is a definite plus.”

“Thanks, Portia.”

“Loved you on the Sam Porter show, by the way. He’s such a hottie.”

“Thank you for watching.”

“I’ve heard he’s a hard-ass in person, is that true?”

Yes, he does have a hard ass. “I thought he was very personable, but what do I know?”

“Oh, yeah, those talking-head types. I’ll be in touch. Kisses.”

Mercedes hung up and returned to her writing.