Chapter 24 MARCEL
Chapter 24
M ARCEL
When he decided to take a beer out to the backyard in the middle of the night, naked from the waist up, he wasn’t expecting to find Siobhan there. She was sitting in the swing seat, legs crossed and computer in her lap. Surprised, he lingered in the doorway for a few seconds, watching her. The moonlight glittered on the pool and projected flashes of blue over her beautiful frame. Her hands hovered indecisively over the keyboard. They typed, deleted, typed again. He smiled, transfixed. Everything about her seemed to fascinate him: the gentle flutter of her nightgown, both innocent and seductive at the same time; her nervous manner of wiggling her big toe; and even a resounding slap on her neck to scare off a mosquito. Was he losing his mind, or did he only notice this kind of detail because he was a writer? The most sensible course of action would probably have been to turn around and take his beer elsewhere, but ...
To hell with being sensible.
He quietly slid aside the mosquito screen, went down the steps, and walked up behind her.
“Are your muses keeping you busy?” he asked.
Startled, she turned her head. Her eyes shone like embers when she saw him shirtless. She seemed entranced for a few seconds, then averted her gaze.
“More like they won’t let me sleep.”
“You want company?”
“Sure, why not?”
He sat down next to her. Her perfect naked knee brushed against his leg, and a flash jolted through him. Luckily a barking dog in the distance brought him back to his senses.
“Tell me, what are you writing?”
“The scene where Felicity tends to Jeremiah’s eyebrow wound after the fight with those drunks and—”
Marcel finished her sentence:
“They end up in bed together.”
“Yes, well, first they kiss,” she explained. “I know we haven’t come to an agreement on this part, but I wanted to try it. I don’t like the way it turned out.”
“Let me read it.”
“Hell no. It’s garbage.”
“Come on, I’m sure it’s not that bad. Your style has improved a lot.”
Siobhan exhaled.
“If you say so.”
She swapped her laptop for his beer, and, while Marcel read, she swung on the seat and downed his chilled bottle of Jax.
When he finished, he gave a low whistle.
“You’re right. It’s garbage.”
The tiny spark of emotion he had seen in Siobhan’s eyes disappeared behind a mask of fury.
“Bastard,” she muttered through her teeth. “You’re quite the diplomat, aren’t you?”
He accepted the reproach with a sly smile.
“The way I see it, there’s something about the spatial arrangement that doesn’t work. Look at this.” He pointed at the screen. “‘Felicity sat on Jeremiah’s knee holding a cotton wool pad moistened with alcohol and leaned in slightly to clean the blood oozing from his left eyebrow,’” he read out loud. “Sitting on knees is what Heidi did with her grandfather. There’s no sexual energy in that position. There’s no anticipation. There’s no ... fire.”
“Okay, so how is Felicity supposed to sit to create ... fire? Straddling him?”
“That’s too explicit. Look, fire only needs two things to grow: fuel and oxygen. Let’s give them a bit of both. Make it Jeremiah who pulls her onto his knee and kisses her when he can’t hold back any longer.”
Siobhan lifted her index finger to her lips pensively.
“Let’s try it,” she suggested finally. “Let’s do some role-play. Then we’ll know whether it works or not. What do you think?”
Curiosity burned in her eyes.
Marcel blinked several times.
“Let me get this straight. You want us to pretend we’re Jeremiah and Felicity in the prelude to the erotic scene?” he asked doubtfully.
“It would be for the sake of the novel. Anyway, we don’t have to kiss for real. It will be theater. You know, like we’re actors on Broadway.”
Say no.
Say no.
Say—
“All right. What do you want me to do?”
“Let’s see.” Siobhan placed the beer and the laptop on the ground and stood up. “Open your legs to give me room. That’s it. Now I’m going to lean over you and clean your wound. Lift your head a bit.” She held his chin gently and pretended to dab at his brow.
His heart rate soared. She was too beautiful, and that nightgown, too thin. Marcel was so agitated he didn’t know where to put his hands without giving himself away. He noticed his palms were damp and cursed inwardly.
“Ow,” he protested. She frowned, puzzled. “Just making it more realistic. You know we men are wimps,” he explained.
Siobhan laughed.
“Now, sit me on your knee.”
Let’s go, champ. Forget that your hands are just the right size to grab her around the waist. And that when she looks at you the way she’s doing right now, all you can think about is kissing her until neither of you can breathe. You’re Marcel Dupont, man. You’ll survive.
But as soon as he felt the touch of her ass against his thigh, he feared his banks would burst as catastrophically as the levees during Katrina.
“Okay?”
“I feel like Santa Claus, for Christ’s sake. Ho ho ho!” he crooned.
“I don’t think Santa has pecs like that. Let’s try something else. What do you think about me straddling you?”
What did he think? That he was heading straight for self-destruction, that was what he thought.
“Sure,” he murmured, although it was more of an exhalation than a word.
When Siobhan changed position, Marcel stayed still, grinning and bearing it. The full weight of her body fell on his thighs, causing a hot, sharp pain; admittedly, it would be even worse farther up. If she shifted forward, even just a couple of inches, all was lost.
“Can you hold me? Like before.” Siobhan took his hands and lifted them to her waist. “Like this.”
“And now what?”
“Now I should . . .”
Then she moved and ... God. A shudder ran up and down his spine. Marcel held his breath for ten seconds. Unconsciously—or perhaps not—he gripped her more firmly, and her nightgown tightened across her stomach. The friction intensified through his pants. The blood pounded in his head, and somewhere else.
He was turned on.
Very turned on.
And she was only wearing tiny panties under her nightshirt.
“I don’t want to be rude, but you’re crushing my balls.”
Crushing was the polite way of putting it.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“I have an idea. Why don’t ...?” He gestured for her to lean back, and she did as he asked. Marcel placed an arm on either side of her body and angled himself over Siobhan just enough. The seat lurched. “Much better, don’t you think?”
Much better now that I’m the one in control.
“Y-yes,” she replied, her eyes darting over the swollen veins of his tensed muscles. She cleared her throat. “What do you think Jeremiah would do now?”
The night hung heavy and humid. Marcel took a deep breath before answering.
“I suppose ...,” he started to say, as he gently brushed a lock of hair off her lips, “he would caress her here ...” He ran his fingers down the line of her neck to the hollow of her throat, which contracted obscenely. “And here.”
Siobhan’s breathing deepened. Marcel noticed the contrast between his dark skin and hers, white and creamy and so sensitive to his touch that the hairs were standing on end.
“And then?”
“Then . . .”
He lowered his head and brushed her lips with the tip of his nose, imitating the gesture of kissing her without actually doing it, which was torture. Siobhan let out an involuntary moan, and he became aware of the faint note of beer on her breath. Her chest expanded with each inhalation.
“And what else, Jeremiah? What else would you do to me?”
“I’d do it all, Felicity.”
This was a very dangerous game, and he knew it. But by this time, the boundary between fiction and reality was beginning to fade, and Marcel clutched on to that trump card so he could keep playing.
“Do you want me?” she asked, as she timidly ran her fingers up his arm.
“You bet I do. From the moment I saw you.”
Siobhan licked her lips, and a thousand images flitted through his mind: kissing her, ripping off her nightgown, sucking her nipples, slipping his hand inside her panties ...
My god, he was going to explode.
“Do you think about me?”
“Every goddamn second,” he confessed. He ran his eyes over her face, consumed by lust, from her eyes to her mouth, from her mouth to her breasts, her hardened nipples starting to show through the almost-transparent fabric. He slid his finger over the buttons delicately, barely grazing them, and continued down toward her belly. He stopped there. The fabric was burning his hand. “Should we take this up a level?”
His voice came out hoarse and rough.
She nodded silently, then added:
“Just for the sake of the novel.”
“Purely and exclusively for the sake of the novel.”
Marcel lay down on his side, grabbed her deftly around the waist, and pulled her toward him until her back was nestled up against him. His heart was beating so hard she must have felt it between her shoulder blades. He buried his face in her hair and breathed it in. His insides felt like a house burning to the ground, and he wanted her to feel the full force of that. He wanted her to know how hard he was. He stroked her hip under her nightshirt. God, her skin was so soft. He began to trace circles on that tiny piece of blazing skin, and in response Siobhan rocked her hips sensually. He felt like he was getting lost in the sensation of her, in her scent, in the way she moved.
He thought it might drive him crazy.
“I want to touch you,” he whispered in her ear. He slipped his hand from her hip to the inside of her thigh. “God ... I want to touch you so bad.”
Siobhan pressed her buttocks against his erection. It was a subtle movement, but powerful enough for him to throw his head back, aching with anticipation, close his eyes, and gasp.
“Keep talking,” she said.
“Does it turn you on when I talk dirty? Yeah, sure it turns you on. Sure that sweet pussy of yours is ready for me to fuck you right now.”
Then she suddenly went rigid.
“What did you say?” she whispered, bothered by something.
Shit. I’ve offended her. This is where she turns around, twists my balls, and tells me I’m a pervert. Christ, man, you’ve screwed up big-time.
He squeezed his eyelids together and swallowed to get rid of the lump rising in his throat. She turned her head and scrutinized him with a puzzled look. She made a sound that seemed halfway between a taunt and a grunt, which turned into laughter—a cackle that could have come from a goddamn hyena. Marcel needed to blink several times before his eyes remembered how to focus.
A wave of clarity dissipated the fog that had weakened his senses and made him sit up suddenly.
“Might I ask what the hell is so funny?”
His voice came out strangled.
“You said pussy and fuck ! Do you realize, Marcel? Pussy and fuck !” she repeated, still laughing. “Jeremiah can’t talk like that. I mean, he’s from the nineteenth century. Oh, this is hilarious.”
And she kept on laughing.
Oh yeah, funny as fuck.
He ran his hands over his face angrily. He would almost rather have offended her than have to tolerate this humiliation. Nevertheless, he had the dignity to pretend he found it as amusing as she did.
“Honestly, how could I think of saying that instead of virtue , fornicate , or some other equally erotic word? What was I thinking?” His usual sarcastic tone had returned. “Although I’m pretty sure a nineteenth-century detective would have used a bit of rough language. Anyway, do you want to continue the role-play or ...?”
“No need. I think I have enough material to write a scene with plenty of ... fire. But thanks for the help,” she said and gently pinched his arm. “It was really useful.”
“Sure, no problem. Whenever you like.”
Siobhan stood up, smoothed down her nightgown, picked up her laptop from the ground, and vanished.
What had just happened? And why did he feel like some kind of lousy guinea pig? Disconcerted, he lowered his gaze to the bulge in his pants and let his head drop back against the swing seat, sighing despondently.
Someone needed to take a cold shower urgently.
And to jerk off. That too.