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Flashes by Ginger
Standing at the hallway mirror she adjusted the scarf around her neck. It brightened her pale gray ensemble but its placement was more strategic than aesthetic. Her smirk faded with the honking of a car horn. She picked up her keys and emitted a weary sigh.
She had warned him to stop but, being the stubborn pain-in-the-ass he is, he didn’t. He kept right on needling her until she couldn’t take it anymore and slapped him. It was a ridiculous gesture – a move straight out of some tacky old melodrama starring Bette Davis or Joan Crawford – made even more ridiculous by his reaction: he slapped her back.
“You’re awfully quiet, Angel. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby.”
He shocked them both into silence; they stared at each other in bewilderment, anger and every other emotion that had accumulated over the years. It was probably only an instant but it seemed to go on forever, or maybe that’s just how she would remember it later.
“Your pensive mood may play to our advantage; we need to tread lightly with the Africans. You tend to come on too strong for their liking but I asked you along because I really need you today. I need you with me to convince them that we have everything under control.”
In the next instant her back was hitting the wall as her front made contact with another hard, though slightly more yielding, surface. It was more of a battle than a kiss and when she intentionally drew blood by biting down on his bottom lip, she half-expected him to back off. He didn’t and her knees went weak.
“They’ve been uncharacteristically patient but I wonder how long their patience will hold. What are your thoughts on the matter… sis?”
“I think you’re an idiot, embittered by the loss of a matching set of opposable thumbs.”
Pawing frantically at his fly, she demanded, “Is this why you lured me here?”
Tearing open her blouse, he shot back, “Is this why you showed up?”
“Now, now, that’ll be enough. We’re all on the same team here. This is about the future, your future… and my legacy.”
With every thrust he was trying to get inside her all the way, to reach a place from which she’d never be able to dislodge him. She fought him by bearing down, flexing her muscles just so, digging her nails into his flesh. Better to distract him with superior technique, to overwhelm his senses. Better to out fuck the fucker.
“You look smashing, Angel. You both do. They’ll see there’s no standing in our way; that we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be, in charge.”
The best contests are between well-matched opponents, those possessing similar levels of skill and expertise. Maybe he’d been practicing lately or perhaps his unique gifts predisposed him to success in this, as well as every other, arena. Whatever the case, he held his own to a spectacular finish that was simply too close to call.
“Pretty day for this time of year… Good omen.”
“Here’s hoping, Daddy.”
Undaunted, she ran her tongue along a protruding vein in his neck then breathlessly challenged, “That the best you got?” in reply to which he growled, “Not hardly.”
“Look, Dad, they brought out the Welcome Wagon. Isn’t that nice,” he remarked wryly as the car rounded a bend and the imposing neo-classical structure, as well as the dozen or so men in dark suits standing in front of it, came into view.
Wrapped around him like a vine - her arms encircling his neck, her legs clenching vice-like around his waist – they kissed with brutal intensity as he carried her through the darkened warehouse. Kicking open a door, he brought them into a lighter, warmer environment. Tearing her lips from his to take in her surroundings, she noted that he must be in his eastern mysticism faze.
He lowered her onto the plush Persian carpet, taking care to position her head on one of the ornate, overstuffed pillows strewn about the place. She inhaled deeply, taking in the pleasing scent of jasmine as she watched him toe off his shoes and remove the shredded remnants of his t-shirt.
“Sweet tea?” offered a beautiful woman wearing a brightly-colored headdress as they took their seats around a long mahogany conference table. She accepted and demurely sipped at the fragrant, exotic concoction.
His sweat was like an elixir, dripping from his taut abdomen onto hers, wetting a path down his spine greedily traced by her fingertips, tasting of salt and cinnamon as she licked drops from his meaty shoulders and lapped at the pool in his navel.
“So, it is agreed then,” the finely dressed gentleman at the head of the table announced, pointedly meeting her eyes. “We must step up the pressure. He cannot be permitted to continue getting away with this. It is unacceptable.”
She clenched, shifted position, clenched again; his tortured expression giving her the incentive, the patience, to hold on. “I own you,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“I agree,” she replied with a saccharin smile.
“I own you,” he purred, leaning forward to kiss the sweat and tension from her brow. All the while his hand remained steady, his fingers maintaining an inexorable, excruciating rhythm.
“That being said,” she announced rising regally from her seat. Smoothing her jacket she continued, “Challenge him directly and you’ll regret it. But you don’t have to take my word for it; just ask the gentleman to my right to show you his left hand.”
Tangled limbs and perfect silence: the sleep of the righteous, a full six hours. Who’d have thought?
“My team has remained in regular contact with him since the beginning. Can anyone else sitting around this table make that claim?” She waited exactly three beats before adding, “I didn’t think so. Good day, gentlemen.”
She opened her eyes to find him looking refreshed and aroused, his gaze fixed intently upon her.
“Good show, Angel, damn good show.”
Coaxing her to full wakefulness with his hands and mouth, he whispered her name as he entered her body.
Hearing the car pull away, she leaned back against the front door and closed her eyes, sighing heavily then dropping the day’s mail on the table where it was immediately forgotten.
“This changes nothing,” she insisted then turned away. Feeling the heat of his eyes upon her, she had to stop herself from running to the door.
Hanging up her suit, she spotted the item hanging on a hook in the back of the closet: the shirt he’d given her to wear home. She was about to reach for it when she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
Her hands shook so badly on the drive home that she considered pulling over.
“I’ve had a really long day,” she announced matter-of-factly.
She stayed in the shower for a long time, the scalding water leaving red marks on her skin, but no amount of scrubbing could remove his essence.
She sensed him move up behind her then felt his fingertips on her right shoulder, gently sliding aside her bra strap.
“That’s why I’m here,” he whispered then pressed a lingering kiss to the newly exposed skin.
For the first time in a very long time, she cried herself to sleep, but awoke early the next morning feeling clear-headed and rested. She enjoyed two leisurely cups of coffee then dressed and got to the office early.
Having just emerged unscathed from one battle she was in no mood to engage in another. Exhaling deeply she asked, “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
Sliding his arms around her bare torso, he pulled her to him with a deep, satisfied groan. Nuzzling her neck he remarked, “You said it yourself this afternoon; it is important to remain in regular contact.”
A/N: Lately, I have J/MP nookie on the brain or, rather, the existential implications of J/MP nookie. This is just a little something that played out in “my fragile little mind” (to quote that 21st Century Bard, Eric Cartman) and I haven’t a clue if it makes sense to anyone else. For all I know, y’all were hopelessly confused. If so then I apologize for wasting your time. If not then I hope you enjoyed this trifle. Oh, and for those of you patiently awaiting more from my WIPs, all I can say is that you’ll have to take it up with my muse. But be warned: she’ll probably kick your ass.