Name: Patty
Email: redwriter1987@yahoo.com
Title: Operation Home Improvement
Rating: R
Categories: Best Webb Romance; Best Secondary Character Story
The Home Depot
Falls Church, Virginia
Friday, September 5, 2003
1915 hours
I’ve been watching him for over an hour as he’s moved casually about the store, putting miscellaneous items in his cart and asking occasional questions of the people in the orange aprons. At first, I felt rather silly, and I’m sure the same thought crossed other people’s minds, as well, as I observed him from a distance, ducking in and out of aisles, still in my uniform. What a picture I must present!
I’d stopped by the ‘home improvement superstore’ on my way home from work to pick up a few discounted end-of-season plants. I’ve recently begun to nurture my green thumb, and I’ve been potting plants and strategically placing them around my apartment. Not that I was in search of a new hobby, but I read an incredibly enlightening article about plants and human health and well-being, and I figured, what the hell! Anything’s worth a shot.
I’d just straightened up from selecting a miniature rose, and was contemplating getting a cart when I saw him. I hadn’t realized it was him at first... his casual appearance, and the fact that he was in this particular Home Depot, momentarily threw me for a loop. Of course, the store is on his route home from Langley, but I highly doubt he left work dressed like that: faded Levi’s, complete with a hole in the knee, that sat low on his hips and hugged his ass. Dark green Wolf Trap tee shirt stretched tight over broad, muscular shoulders. Worn sneakers. And the Boston Red Sox baseball cap, brim backwards. He looks at least ten years younger, and absolutely yummy.
Oh, my God! Did I just refer to former CIA Deputy Director of Operations, Counterintelligence Clayton Webb as ‘yummy?’
I must have inhaled too much fertilizer.
I say ‘former’ Deputy Director because, when he was exiled to Suriname over the Angel Shark incident, he was stripped of his title. From what I understand, it caused quite a stir, too, since he was considered the CIA’s ‘Golden Boy,’ destined to be the youngest DCI in the history of the agency. Well, that train’s now derailed. But some interesting things have come from that little shakeup.
First, DCI Watts is definitely on his way out. After the tape made the light of day, he was brought before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and was called on the carpet for the cover-up. He’ll be held accountable for his actions, it seems. His successor has already been chosen, and is being groomed for the position, so it’s only a matter of time before Watts is removed from office.
Second, Webb may have suffered in Suriname, but his reputation definitely hasn’t. I’ve talked with several agency employees since Webb’s reassignment, and every one of them has nothing but praise for his courage and commitment to ‘do the right thing.’ What started out as a career-killing decision has evolved into one that has brought him accolades from people in the intelligence community and from those in the private sector who question the agency’s far-reaching power.
I’m also sure that, once the new DCI takes over, Webb will be back on the fast track. It would be a foolish mistake on the new DCI’s part if he didn’t reinstate him. Webb’s one of the best field operatives the agency has, and, combined with his experience and connections, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with someday. To leave him languishing in some backwater, out of the way country, or, even worse, behind a desk, would be a waste of his talent. And, right now, our country needs all the people like him it can get.
So, here I stand in the middle of the lighting fixtures, a New Guinea Impatiens in one arm and a miniature rose in the other. I can see him in the next aisle, the top of his hat just showing above the display of floor lamps. He’s got his head tilted up, and he’s surveying the ceiling fans, like a scientist observing a solar eclipse.
When you work with someone, you often have a very one-dimensional view of what that person’s like, since the work environment is the only time that you interact with them. It’s obvious from my little exercise in surveillance that there’s more to Webb than three piece suits and classified documents. Seeing how my curiosity’s getting the better of me, I decide I’ve had enough of the observation game. I want to talk to Webb.
This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve talked to him since his return from South America. He’d stopped by the JAG offices, just last week, for a reunion meeting with the Admiral. On his way out, he’d stuck his head in my office to say hello to me and Sturgis, and I’d been delighted to find that his tenure in the tropics hadn’t deadened his sense of humor.
We’d made small talk for a few minutes before he left us to our work, but I’d noticed a shadow cross his face when I told him I’d inform Harm he was back. Something had happened between the two of them...something that was testing the constantly shifting bonds of their friendship. I had a pretty good idea what it was, but Harm had just brushed me aside like I was imagining things. I knew better. I’m hoping that I can persuade Webb to tell me what happened, and then I can work on helping to fix it.
But right now, in Home Depot, I just want to talk to him. I want to see him smile. I want him to make me laugh. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him, until I saw him last week. Who would have thought that not having Clayton Webb around to irritate me would leave such a big hole in my life?
As I round the end of the aisle and approach him from behind, I hear him speak, just loudly enough for my ears to pick it up. "I was wondering when you were going to come out of hiding, MacKenzie."
Damn. I should have known you couldn’t pull one over on the Super Spook. Sighing, I ask, "What are you doing here?"
"Shopping." He lowers his gaze to me and smirks that irritating little smirk of his.
I roll my eyes in frustration. "I meant *here,* Webb. I thought Alexandria had its own Home Depot."
"Two, actually. But considering I don’t live in Alexandria anymore, it doesn’t pay me to go that far out of my way."
Now I’m really curious. "You moved?"
I can see Webb thinking about his answer for a moment. I bet he’s trying to decide if he wants to toy with me or not. He must decide to be nice, because he’s a whole lot more forthcoming with information than I expected.
"I bought a house in McLean. It’s only about a mile from AJ, but he doesn’t know that yet." He winks, then waves towards his cart. "There are some projects that needed done around the house, so, since I have the weekend free, I thought I’d try to get as many done as I could."
I know I’m staring, but I can’t help myself. This has got to be the most un-Webb-like behavior I’ve ever seen. I’m trying to picture him on a ladder cleaning out gutters, when he attempts to get my attention, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
"Mac? What’s the matter?" *Snap. Snap.* "Earth to Sarah." *Snap. Snap.*
I shake myself, finally bringing my eyes back to meet his. "Sorry, Webb. I was just having a hard time picturing this."
"What?" he asks suspiciously.
"You. You never struck me as the do-it-yourself type."
"Actually, Mac, I really enjoy working with my hands."
He’s got a wicked grin on his face, and I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks as the double entendre registers. Before I can stop myself, my mouth opens and, "I’ll bet you’re good at it, too," comes rolling out of it. Webb’s smile freezes, and his eyebrows shoot up. I just shocked the hell out of Clayton Webb, and it’s worth any embarrassment I may have felt.
Deciding that we should steer the conversation away from the suggestive and back to the ordinary, I offer, "I never thought about it, but I guess I just assumed you’d hire somebody to do the work for you."
Webb contemplates my statement, then breaks eye contact to move around behind his cart. "You assumed? And why would you assume that, Mac? You think I’m too snobby to do my own chores? Or maybe a little money makes me lazy." He sounds angry, and I think he’s taken what I’ve said the wrong way.
"That’s not what I meant." This conversation is not going right at all. "I meant you’d get someone else, because you’re out of town so much and are so busy." He’s crossed his arms and is leaning them on the cart handle, patiently waiting for me to bury myself completely. His face has relaxed, but I’m not sure he isn’t still a little peeved at me.
I decide to change the subject instead. "So, are you looking to buy a light?"
He gazes at me for a moment, then generously concedes the evasive maneuver. Standing up, he points overhead. "I wanted to put a couple of ceiling fans in, but I’m having trouble choosing which one I want for my kitchen." We are standing underneath two fans, both with Tiffany-style lampshades over the light kit. One is a simple round design, the other is more detailed, almost a tulip-shape.
"I haven’t seen your kitchen, but I think the simple one fits you better."
"Are you implying I’m simple?" he teases, his anger gone.
"Don’t put words in my mouth, Spook. I meant it’s a classic design. Fits anywhere."
I can see he’s trying to wrestle with whether my statement was intended as a compliment, so I move off down the aisle and leave him to his task. I can hear him grunt as he bends over and digs a box out from one of the bins on the floor, but something catches my eye and I stop and stare upward.
Over my head is absolutely the most gorgeous ceiling fan I’ve ever seen. It’s huge; at least 72 inches, and it looks like the blades are covered in mother-of-pearl and edged in gold. Six globes of cut glass hang down from the center, each one a delicate rose shape, with a band of gold around the edge to match the blades. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I feel Webb come to stand behind me, and I hear him whisper, "Wow."
"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" I haven’t taken my eyes off it, picturing it in an all-white bedroom with billowing curtains and eyelet linens, so I can’t see that he’s scanning the bins, looking for D59.
I hear him moving things around in his cart, and, when I finally turn around, I see that he has the white fan in the bottom of the cart, with the Tiffany one on top. "You’re buying it?"
He shrugs. "I wanted one for the master bedroom, too. You just saved me the agony of making a decision."
I’m floored. I just picked out a ceiling fan for Clayton Webb’s bedroom? Can this day possibly get any stranger?
*****
I should have known better. Don’t ask questions you don’t really want the answers to.
We’re standing in line at the checkout, me with my arms full of foliage, and him with his cart full of fans. He motions me to go first, but I have no intention of leaving before he does, so, after I pay for my plants, I walk around to the rear of his cart and rest them on the handle while waiting for him to pay. He’s watching me, but not saying anything.
Webb has quite an assortment of fix-it supplies in his cart. Spackle, sandpaper, and a can of paint mean he must be going to paint a room. Carpet tacks, some assorted screws, and a new massaging showerhead are laid up on the counter, as are some organizing bins, a new lockset, and a rubber hose. And the ceiling fans, of course. The boy’s going to have a busy weekend.
As he hands his credit card to the clerk, I ask, "Are you doing all this yourself?"
He just shrugs and replies, "We’ve already established that I’m not hiring assistance." He pauses to wink at me. "And I don’t think tacking down the loose carpet in my family room is on my mother’s list of fun things to do to spend quality time with her son."
I laugh at the mental image that his statement conjures up. I’ve only met Porter Webb once, and, though she was gracious and polite, I really can’t see her agreeing to help her son with his home improvements. I believe he’s on his own.
I’m not exactly sure why I do what I do next. Heaven knows, I have my own things to try to accomplish this weekend, but the idea of Webb slaving away on his new house all by himself sounds a touch unfair, so I blurt out before I can change my mind, "If you need a hand this weekend..."
Webb and I are walking out the store exit and heading across the parking lot towards our cars, which just happen to be parked four spaces away from each other, when I make my half-assed offer. He stops dead in his tracks and looks at me like I have three heads. "Are you offering to come help me, Colonel?"
I can’t resist. "No, actually I was volunteering Sturgis. He’s quite handy around the home. I’m sure if you call him tonight..."
I don’t finish my tease as Webb pushes his cart past me in exasperation and digs in the pocket of his jeans for his car keys. He can barely get his hand in his pocket, his pants are that tight. Damn!
"Webb, I was joking!" I set my plants down on the pavement, and help him load his trunk. "Yes, for what it’s worth, I’m offering my services."
That funny look’s back on his face, and I could swear that, with my last statement, his mind just took a nosedive for the gutter. But, before I can call him on it, he accepts my generosity. "Thanks, Mac. Actually, it would be nice to have someone to work with, for a change." He gives me a disarmingly charming smile, complete with a set of dimples that I’ve never seen before.
While I’m standing there in the parking lot with my jaw hanging somewhere in the vicinity of my knees, Webb hefts the white ceiling fan, my fan, out of the cart and manhandles it into the back seat of his car. He then bends over, retrieves my plants, puts them in his cart and wheels them over to my Corvette, where he proceeds to place them in my front seat, before taking the cart to the cart return.
"I don’t have anything to write with, so I’ll call your home number and leave a message with my address and directions on your machine. Do you prefer bagels or donuts?"
"Bagels," I mumble, trying to compose myself.
"8:00?"
"That’s fine." I nod and smile. I’m actually proud of myself when I remember to ask, "Is there anything I should bring?"
Webb returns my smile before he turns to get in his car. "Nope. I got it covered. See you in the morning, Colonel."
I climb in my own car with my potted plants, and I sit for a moment, trying to comprehend what just happened. I’ve just agreed -- no, I just volunteered -- to help Clayton Webb work on his house tomorrow. To say I’m apprehensive would be an understatement. But curiosity wins out over apprehension, because I want to know more about the enigma that is Webb. And the best way I have of doing that is to meet him on his own turf.
Starting the car and putting it in gear, I realize that I have my work cut out for me. Clayton Webb is a formidable opponent, and he won’t let me get close without a fight. Although I’m a Marine, and although we prefer the frontal assault, I may have to resort to back door tactics to get under the armor of the Super Spook – a taste of his own medicine, if you will.
Pulling out into traffic, I begin to formulate my strategy for the Declassification of Clayton Webb.
Clayton Webb’s house
McLean, Virginia
Saturday, September 6, 2003
0800 hours
As I coast down the tree-lined street and turn into the circular driveway, I glance at my watch to confirm my internal clock’s assessment that I’m right on time. Normally, I don’t have to worry about my accuracy, but last night my sleep was fitful, at best. Though exhausted after a particularly stressful week, I didn’t sleep well, and I was awakened several times with what I can only describe as incredibly erotic dreams.
Now, I’m a healthy 37 year old woman with a relatively normal sexual appetite. I’ve fantasized many times over the years, mostly about a certain Naval Commander, but I haven’t limited myself to that particular subject. I admit to fantasizing about my CO. Who wouldn’t? For a man of 53, he’s buff, and the fact that he’s off limits only adds to the appeal of the fantasy. And that guy from NCIS, the one in charge of Harm’s investigation? He was a hottie, too. I think I’d have let him investigate any part of me he wanted. And, of course, there’s Gunny... but I won’t even go there. However, last night was the first time that I ever consciously chose to dream of being intimate with Webb.
I’ve always considered Webb a handsome man. Clean cut, well-dressed, impeccably groomed. That’s how he usually presents himself, and that’s how I’ve seen him for the last eight years, with the exception of Afghanistan, of course. And when he’s made an appearance in a fantasy or two, that’s how he looked. But, yesterday, after encountering him at the Home Depot, I think he redefined ‘casual’ in my mind. It’s those clothes, those well-worn jeans and that stupid baseball cap, that he wore in my dream. Well, he didn’t wear them for long.
This wasn’t just some ‘off-on-a-mission-in-a-faraway-land-so-let’s-have-sex-in-the-heat-of-the-moment’ dream, either. No, indeed. There was no mission. Webb and I were right here in the nation’s Capital, sharing a laugh over General Tso’s Chicken and some dim sum at Hung’s Pacific Rim Eatery, when he grabbed a fortune cookie from the basket on the table. He read the tiny slip of paper out loud... "That which you most desire is within your grasp." Suddenly, he reached out and caught the sleeve of my shirt in his fist and pulled me toward him for a kiss.
We barely made it back to my apartment before ripping each other’s clothes off. We made love inside my front door, on the bedroom floor, in the shower, in the kitchen, and then finally in my bed. The last thing I remember before waking up was snuggling down into Webb’s arms and feeling so warm and so comfortable.
I know it was a dream. But the images, the sensations, and the emotions seemed so very real. True, I may have been projecting my own desires onto Webb, and giving him the characteristics of my ideal man. But the scenes were so vivid, and the sensations were so powerful, that I woke up this morning sore in all the right places – even though I didn’t actually have sex.
And now, I sit in his driveway, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. Am I seriously going to tempt fate? Can I go in there, lend a helping hand as promised, and not make a total fool of myself? Can I look at him without blushing, or without thinking of all the incredible things I dreamed of him doing to me? He’s a spy, for God’s sake, trained to be more observant than the rest of us mere mortals. How can I be sure he can’t read what I’m thinking?
Of course, I argue with myself, maybe I want him to know what I’m thinking. But am I really stupid enough to believe that, if I did make a pass at him, he’d accept? I’m certainly not cut from the same mold as most of the ladies he’s used to having on his arm. I’m not high-born and well-bred. I’m not independently wealthy, and don’t have a distant relative knocking on death’s door who’s going to make me so anytime in the future. I don’t exactly move in the ‘inner circle,’ nor does what little family I have left.
Then again, I’ve seen what Webb’s had on his arm in the past, and the fact that I’m nothing like them may work to my advantage. They’ve almost all been blonde, some of them taller than him, and all as dumb as a stick. The one exception was the redhead he escorted to the Inaugural Ball. She was Welsh, and spoke with the most beautiful accent. I never saw her after that, though. She was probably with Scotland Yard or MI5 or something.
I shake my head, and give myself a mental pep talk. I’m here for the Declassification of Clayton Webb, not the Seduction of Clayton Webb, although both have their own appeal. I could spend hours taking what I know of Webb and trying to apply it to the question of what kind of lover the man would be. Or I can simply push my dreams and everything I’ve thought about aside and go help a friend get his house in shape. The sensible Marine in me opts for the latter.
I open the car door, and finally look at the house in front of me. As I take it in, I can feel my stomach clench in surprise. I imagined it would be a fancy new home, with five bedrooms and three garages and a butler. I was so wrong.
What I walk towards is an old farmhouse; a two-story dream come true, with a huge wraparound porch and a double front door with etched glass panels. The clapboards sport a fresh coat of white paint, and the old wooden shutters are a beautiful contrast in dark Wedgwood blue. There are wave petunias in hanging baskets around the porch, and wisteria climbs one of the porch posts and trails along the roof where the porch wraps around the house. The smell of honeysuckle floats on the morning breeze, and I’m thoroughly enchanted. I stand at the bottom of the steps, and the only thing that goes through my mind is ‘perfect.’
The door opens above me, and there stands Webb, in old jeans, a black tee shirt and the black cap. He’s holding a mug of coffee, and grinning at me like a proud new papa. "Good morning, Mac. You’re right on time."
"Was there any doubt?"
I climb the steps, and he waves me inside, closing the door behind me, then leads me down the hallway to the kitchen. As I pass the living room on the left, I see it has a beautiful set of pocket doors with stained glass panels. The long hallway leads back to a spacious and newly renovated kitchen, complete with new appliances, a wraparound bar with stools, and a separate dining area.
It’s a charming old house. The floorboards squeak when you walk on them. The trim is a heavy dark wood, as are the doors and windowsills. In the corner of the kitchen I can see another door... inside are the back stairs up to the second floor. And between the kitchen and the dining area is a big, old screen door, complete with gingerbreading, that leads to the back porch.
Webb waves his hand towards the kitchen, indicating a selection of bagels and cream cheese on the counter by the toaster. He heads to the island to get me a cup of coffee.
"How did you find this place?" I ask, as I cut a cinnamon raisin bagel in half.
He moves to stand beside me, sitting the mug of coffee on the counter to my left. He’s practically pressed up against my shoulder, and I can smell his aftershave...musky and subtle. I never noticed how tall he was, either. When Harm’s in the room, everyone looks short, his physical stature and overwhelming personality dwarfing those present. Webb’s actually taller than me, by a few inches, but not enough to give me a stiff neck from looking at him. Realizing that I’m staring into his eyes, which are almost level with mine, I try to bring my focus back to his answer.
"It was owned by a friend of my sister’s."
I stop chewing. "You have a sister?" I ask with my mouth full. ‘That’s it, Marine, wow him with your table manners!’
Webb gives me this quirky little smile. "Yeah. Anyway, Caty emailed me in Suriname, said that her friend Roger was selling the place, and asked if I was interested. She sent me pictures, and I bought it. She thought it would be a perfect showcase for my antiques. She was right."
I take a second look around the kitchen. Though it didn’t take me long to fall hopelessly in love with this place, I have a hard time seeing Webb giving up his posh townhouse for an old farmstead. I decide to reserve judgment until I have more facts, though. His reasons may or may not be legitimate, but, the fact of the matter is, he scored a good deal.
"So," I begin, as I wipe my hands on my shorts and gulp down a swallow of coffee, "where do we start?"
Webb flashes me that quirky smile again, then leads the way out of the kitchen, talking to me over his shoulder. "I installed the new shower head and patched the wall in the upstairs hallway last night. If you want, you can start tacking down the carpet in here."
I follow him into the family room, and feel instantly at home. One wall is nothing but bookshelves, lined floor to ceiling with books. I trail my fingers along the spines – Thoreau, Fitzgerald, Lawrence, Nash. I’m intrigued, but not surprised, by Webb’s choice of reading material. I decide that I’ll have to ask him about more recent authors later.
My eyes continue to sweep the room. A huge armoire in the corner houses the electronics – television, stereo, and DVD player. There’s a fireplace with its mantle lined with photographs, and, off to the side of the hearth, on its own stand, is a cello. I raise my eyebrows and point my finger at it. "Do you play?"
Webb actually looks a little embarrassed. "Yes, I do."
"Play something for me."
"Now?" he asks, looking slightly uncomfortable with my request.
"Consider it incentive," I prompt, as I take a seat on the sofa.
Webb eyes me again, but must come to the conclusion that I’m not going to budge. With a sigh, he sits in a chair by the stand, picks up the bow and places the cello between his knees. He runs the bow across the strings a few times, then begins to play the most haunting melody I’ve ever heard.
Webb is definitely an experienced cellist, and I’m stunned at what I’ve learned about this man in the half hour I’ve been in his home. I watch as his eyes drift close, and his body moves with the ebb and flow of the piece. I can tell that he’s feeling the music, not just playing it, and I think again how impressed I am with his skill.
When he finishes, he opens his eyes, and is a little surprised to see me kneeling on the floor in front of him, listening with rapt attention. "What was that?" I ask quietly, so as not to disturb the mood he’s created.
"Beethoven’s Sonata in A-Major, Opus 69."
He says it so matter-of-fact, as if he were saying, "The Star Spangled Banner" or "Yellow Rose of Texas." I’m pleased that he isn’t snooty about his choice of music, although I can see from his CD rack that Beethoven steps aside for Aerosmith and Boney James as the mood strikes.
I watch him as he carefully, almost lovingly, places the cello back on its stand. "I’m a little rusty," he informs me, somewhat apologetically. "I hadn’t played for over a year, until I moved in here."
"It’s a beautiful instrument."
"My father bought it for me, when I turned eight. He told me he always loved to listen to the cello, it was his favorite instrument, but he’d never learned to play himself. We made a deal. He’d buy it for me, and pay for lessons, and I’d play for him in his old age."
The lump in my throat won’t let me swallow, but, before I can offer any comment about his revelation, he’s off the chair and extending a hand to help me up. I accept it, and, as he clasps my hand in his, I feel a tingle that goes from the palm of my hand up my arm and into my chest. I look at him, and he catches my gaze for one intense moment, then he breaks contact and reaches up to the mantle to retrieve the hammer and tacks.
The morning progresses quickly. I finish tacking down the carpet while he puts a new water hose on the dishwasher and begins to hang the ceiling fan in the kitchen. There’s already a light where he wants to hang it, so it’s only a matter of making sure everything fits properly. I lend a hand, and between the two of us, the fan’s up in record time.
After a quick lunch of subs from the deli a few blocks away, he heads upstairs to sand and paint the hallway, and I tackle putting a new doorknob on the door to the garage. It’s a fairly simple lockset, and I have the old one out and the new one installed in 23 minutes. I’m actually a little curious, because I have found no evidence of the high tech security system I’d expect to grace the home of a highly paranoid intelligence operative. I’ll have to ask him about it – after I tease him about it, of course.
I decide to take a break and wander around the outside of Webb’s house. It’s a gorgeous day, still warm enough to be called summer, but without the oppressive humidity that usually pervades DC at this time of year. Though the sun’s high in the sky, I’m quite comfortable in my sleeveless cotton blouse and denim cut-offs. There’s a gentle breeze, and I can smell the honeysuckle again, although not as strongly as before. It’s a heady scent and I wonder briefly where the vines are, before allowing my eyes to wander over Webb’s property.
The lawn’s huge, probably close to an acre, with lots of cedar and boxwoods around the perimeter. There’s a small rose garden with a trellis and a bench, and, hidden under the canopy of some walnut trees, is a gazebo. And in one far off corner of the yard stands what appears to be a playhouse. It’s almost identical to the main house, minus the porch, with matching wooden shutters and window boxes for flowers. Apparently, one of the previous owners must have had children.
It’s a charming property, and I’m having difficulty understanding why Clayton Webb, well-to-do bachelor, would be interested in a place like this. I can easily see myself here, though. With a family. It’s a perfect house for children. There are nooks and corners and places to hide. Room to grow. Could it be? Nah. Webb wouldn’t want kids, not with his job. Still…
As I turn back towards the house, I realize that the wraparound porch literally wraps the whole way around the entire structure. As I stand in the shade of the walnut trees admiring it, I picture young children, a boy and a girl, with my dark hair and Webb’s beautiful hazel eyes, running around the house on the porch and then jumping off to head for the playhouse, laughing and screaming their delight. Suddenly grabbing my head, I give myself mental shake number 14 for today. Children that look like Webb and me? Get real, MacKenzie!
I’m snapped out of my strange reverie by my cell phone. Glancing at the caller ID, I sigh. Harm. Just what I need. How do I explain to him where I am and what I’ve been doing? ‘Me? I’ve just been dreaming about what beautiful babies Clay and I would make.’ Oh, yeah... that would go over well. I decide that avoidance is the best tactic right now, so I let it ring and head back into the house to find Webb.
Once inside, I climb the huge staircase to the second floor. It’s an amazing staircase, straight out of Gone With the Wind. The heavy, dark banister and the wide plank steps lend grace to an otherwise utilitarian structure. Nearing the top, I find myself imagining my daughter descending those stairs on prom night, her date eagerly awaiting her at the bottom. I bet her father would buy her a dress of deep scarlet -- his favorite color -- that would flow around her ankles and set off her brilliant eyes. She would be breathtaking.
As I hit the landing, Webb must see my dreamy look, because he stops painting and watches me, leaning on the top of the ladder.
"Mac. You ok?"
Dare I tell him? Why not? "This is a beautiful staircase, Clay. I was just picturing my daughter descending a staircase like this with her prom date waiting at the bottom." Then I shrug. "Don’t mind me, Spook. Just... daydreaming."
For a moment, I wonder if he realizes that I picture not just my daughter, but *our* daughter. Webb continues to silently watch me, his eyes boring into mine, making me feel like he can see right through me, a technique cultivated through years of espionage experience, no doubt.
I decide to shift gears before I say something stupid. "How’s the painting coming?"
He starts, as if jolted awake, then stands upright and points to the section of wall he’s working on. "Almost finished. Only about two more feet to go to the corner."
"Why was there a hole in the wall all the way up there?"
Webb chuckles. "Roger has a little boy who’s into model airplanes."
I groan.
"Apparently, he learned from the same flying instructor as..."
His jibe is cut off by the ringing of my cell phone. I don’t have to look at the caller ID this time. I know who it is. When Harm didn’t reach me the first time, he called my apartment, then called around to all our friends to try to find me. Since he’s made the rounds and come up empty, he’s now going to call my cell phone until I answer. Predictable.
Webb points to my pocket. "You going to answer that?"
"I’m debating."
"Do I need to ask who it is?"
I shake my head.
Suddenly, Webb gets a wicked grin. "Can I answer it?"
It’s a really tempting thought, but as I reach for it, the phone stops ringing. Webb looks disappointed.
"Don’t worry. Give him five. He’ll call back."
Webb nods, and goes back to painting.
Since there’s nothing for me to do right now, and the hallway’s stuffy and smelly, I wander around the upstairs, checking out the bedrooms. I can feel Webb’s eyes on me, but he doesn’t protest. Maybe he really doesn’t mind if I do a little investigating.
There are four rooms upstairs. One he’s converted into an office, with a gorgeous mahogany desk and a leather sofa. His computer’s in there, and some two-drawer wooden filing cabinets. It’s a very masculine room, but I could be comfortable curling up on the sofa to read while Webb worked.
The next room’s the guest room. The furnishings are simple, yet comfortable, and there’s ample space to convert the room to another use, if need be.
Another room holds his weight bench and treadmill. I knew he worked out – he’d have to, for him to have shoulders and arms like he does. I move to look out the window in that room, but I’m not seeing the view. Instead, I’m imagining a sweaty Webb, working out on the weight bench.
Bare-chested. Little running shorts. No, bike shorts. They’re tighter. Exhaling forcefully every time he lifts the bar. Muscles straining, bulging. Sweat glistening. Adrenaline flowing. Testosterone? Naturally. He needs a spotter. I’ll volunteer. Sports bra. I’ll wear the little running shorts. He stops when he sees me. Puts the bar back on the supports. Sits up. Curls his finger, calling me to him. Looks up at me with those eyes. Smiles. I rest my hands on his shoulders...
His voice, calling to me from the hallway, snaps me out of my fantasy. "Hey, Mac! I’m done here. I’m going to put this stuff away and go cool off."
"Okay."
I hear him dragging the ladder down the stairs and I reenter the hallway. It smells like fresh paint, and I try not to inhale too deeply as I walk past and into the only room I haven’t been in – Webb’s bedroom.
I stand in the doorway, and lean my weight against the doorjamb. I think this easily qualifies as the most beautiful room in the house. The room itself is huge, with a king-sized brass bed in the middle of the far wall, covered in luxurious Ralph Lauren linens of beige and hunter green. The windows are hung with matching draperies, and run floor to ceiling. One window even has a window seat that overlooks the backyard. There’s a sitting area, with a writing desk and two overstuffed chairs. And one wall’s covered in paneled doors, which hide a series of closets. Another doorway off to the side leads to the master bath, which has a gorgeous double sink and absolutely the biggest claw foot tub I’ve ever seen.
It’s big enough to hold two comfortably. With room to spare. I wonder how much water Webb and I would displace?
My eyes grow big as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I just wondered what it would be like to share a tub with Webb. What’s wrong with me?
I sit on the edge of the tub and contemplate what’s going on in my head. Actually, my head isn’t the problem. It’s my libido that’s causing a ruckus. But the truth is, I’m attracted to Clayton Webb. And it’s more than just lust. That, at least, I could understand. But the fact that I want to get to know him and all his little secrets tells me this is much more than a physical thing. Walking side-by-side with my libido is my heart.
My cell phone rings again, disturbing my self-reflection. This time, I have to answer it, because if I don’t, Harm will start to panic and then I’ll have to deal with Overprotective Rabb. I’m not in the mood for the many faces of Rabb today, but the overprotective one’s my least favorite. So I might as well just get this over with now.
"Hi, Harm."
"Mac! Are you okay?" He sounds panicked already.
"Of course, I’m okay. Why do you ask?"
"I tried to get you before, and you didn’t answer." He’s scolding me. I can’t believe this.
"Sorry, Harm," I say, my voice conveying my irritation. I really hate it when he thinks I should be at his beck and call. "I left the phone down in the kitchen, and couldn’t hear it." Okay, that was a lie, but I’m going somewhere with this.
"Down in the kitchen? Where are you?" Good boy. I’d have been disappointed in his powers of observation if he’d missed that one.
"At a friend’s house, doing some home improvements." I’m not going to make this easy for him. Let him work for it.
"Bud should’ve called me. I’d have helped."
I roll my eyes, even though I know he can’t see it. "Why do you assume it’s Bud?"
He hesitates. "Then who?"
I hear Webb’s voice call to me from the bottom of the stairs. "Hey, Mac?"
Harm hears it, too. "Who’s that?"
I choose to ignore him for now, moving to the bedroom door and answering Webb instead. "Yes?"
"I made some lemonade. It’s in the refrigerator if you want any."
"Thanks, Clay."
Oops. Cat’s out of the bag.
"Clay? You’re over at Webb’s? What were you helping him do?" I can hear the jealousy and accusation in his tone, and I teeter between pushing his buttons and telling him to mind his own business. Either choice will ultimately have the same result – the pleasure of listening to NastySpitefulJealous Rabb. I decide to come clean, since I have nothing to gain by lying.
"I told you. Clay had some projects to do around the house, and I offered to help." I try to sound casual and conversational. "We’ve gotten a lot done, and he has the most beautiful old house." I’d sat down on the edge of Webb’s bed to continue this conversation, and I flop backwards, enjoying the feel of the firm mattress and the cool comforter under my tired back. "And his bed is amazing."
"What?"
Shit. I said that last part out loud. Time to cut bait. "I have to go, Harm. We have a ceiling fan to hang in here. I’ll talk to you later." I hang up before he can question me further.
As I lay there, feeling slightly guilty for enjoying Webb’s bed without his permission, my eyes dance across the ceiling of the bedroom. As I think about what we need to do in order to hang his fan, I suddenly realize that the hues in here are all dark and fairly masculine. The ceiling fan I oohed and aahed over, which he then bought, is white. It doesn’t go with the room. Damn. It was such a unique find, too.
My mind begins to wander to other matters as I sit up again. If I’m completely honest with myself, spending the day with Webb has been wonderful. We’ve joked and laughed, we’ve shared small pieces of our past, we’ve even flirted a little. It’s been comfortable. And I realize that this is what I’ve been missing all these years. Not the sex, not the mind games, not the control issues, and certainly not being put on display and being expected to conform to someone else’s standards. All I ever wanted was someone to walk side-by-side with, someone to share with, someone I could be myself with. I’m not nearly as shocked as I should be that it turns out to be Clayton Webb.
There’s no competition between Webb and me. We don’t jockey for position with each other. He allows me the space to be me. He doesn’t judge me, because he has as many skeletons in his closet as I have in mine. He doesn’t try to change me, either. I actually think he likes me the way I am. Webb and I are two completely different personalities, but we complement each other, rather than conflict. It’s a refreshing change.
Unlike Harm and me. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that he and I would never survive crossing that line between "friend" and "lover." Although he’s my best friend, and I’ll most likely continue to bend over backward, in certain circumstances, to accommodate him, I find that I no longer trust him like I used to. I know he’ll always be there to protect me physically, if the need arises, but he’s left me hanging emotionally once too often. After eight years, I deserve better than that.
Harm is... Harm. He’ll never change. I wish he could get past the pain he feels over losing his father, but it’s something he carries with him and holds close to him at all times. As long as the Hammer takes up so much room in his life, there won’t be room to love someone else enough to commit to them.
And I, for one, am fed up with being Harm’s security blanket. Good old Mac, always there to fall back on, always there to pick up the pieces when things don’t go the way he plans. Well, this Marine’s tired of putting her life and her happiness on hold for someone who doesn’t appreciate it.
I sigh. If anything ever did happen between Webb and me, I’m sure Webb would be able to handle Harm. I have no doubt he can hold his own against my partner any day of the week. I just don’t know if I could. I remember the constant barrage when I was with Mic. I think I’d quit JAG before I allow him to ruin yet another one of my relationships. Rather than ponder the possibilities, I decide to go get some lemonade and inform Webb of my ceiling fan discovery.
On my way through the kitchen, I grab my mug of cold coffee off the counter and stop at the sink to pour it down the drain when I see him. I knew Webb had finished sanding and painting the hallway, but I’d lost track of where he’d disappeared to. Now, as I stand, looking out the windows over the sink, I’m mesmerized by his body in motion.
It would appear that I have stumbled onto him ‘cooling off.’ He’s out in the middle of the back yard with a plastic washtub and the garden hose. He takes the hat off, tossing it in the direction of the porch, then reaches behind his neck to grab his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. As he peels it off his arms and throws it to land beside his hat, I can see that his arms aren’t the only body parts with well-defined muscles. Clayton Webb has pecs!
I watch, entranced, as he uses the hose to wash the leftover dust and paint splashes off his forearms. The water is dripping off his elbows, but I’m bewitched by the line of hair that runs from the tuft in the center of his chest downward in a straight line to disappear inside his jeans. These are the same jeans he had on last night, with the hole in the knee, that sat low on his hips. They still sit low. Way low.
I’m clutching my coffee cup so hard, it’s a wonder I don’t break the handle off.
He squats down beside the tub, and begins to fill it from the hose. As he rests there, balancing on his haunches, I watch the interplay of muscle in his back. His shoulders are broad and chiseled, and my fingers itch to travel along their dips and curves, to feel the smooth skin under mine. I’d like to drag my nails down the channel over his spine, just to watch him squirm. I’d like to lay my cheek on his shoulder, and just run my hands up and down his muscular arms, my body pressed tight to his back.
I also make note of the fact that the denim is stretched impossibly tight over his ass. The waistband of his jeans dips low as he squats there, and I’m aware of the fact that there are no underwear peeking out from under said denim. That answers the briefs or boxers question, since neither seem to be present. Bikini? Oh, God... commando?
Suddenly he stands and drops the hose at his side, turns slightly, then bends from the waist and picks up the tub. It’s only about half full, but I find myself rooted to the spot in awe as he lifts the tub high and proceeds to slowly dump it over his head. He tilts his face up to receive the offering, and I hungrily watch the water cascade over his shoulders and down his chest. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so erotically beautiful.
With the tub empty, he drops it to the ground in front of him and gives his head a few hard shakes, like a dog after jumping out of the bath. The water droplets fly outward, catching the light and making tiny prisms, giving the air around him an ethereal glow. He then runs the fingers of both hands through his hair, slicking it back out of his eyes.
Water is running in rivulets down over his chest and tight abdomen into his jeans. I can see it beading on his arms and glistening in the sunlight, making his skin appear shiny like satin. I watch as his hand travel the path of the water, stroking down his chest and hooking into the top of his pants. I am dumbfounded at the pure eroticism oozing from his every pore. I grab the sink in front of me in an effort to remain upright.
I release the mug from my grip, and jump when it makes a loud ‘ding’ in the sink. Webb hears the noise and turns towards the windows, but I look away quickly for fear that he’ll catch me watching him. Hell, I wasn’t just watching – I was drooling! I’m stunned speechless at the Adonis that I just observed. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect Webb to look like that under those designer suits of his. Good tailoring can hide a myriad of flaws, but I’ve now discovered it can also mask great beauty.
I’m sure that, if Webb knew I was referring to him as ‘beautiful,’ he’d protest. But there’s no other adjective that I can think of that will do him justice. For eight years I’ve been overwhelmed by this man’s brilliance, by his brazenness, by his arrogance, by his uncanny ability to do his job, and by his extraordinary wit. I never expected to be captivated by his sheer physical presence.
He gathers his shirt and hat off the lawn, and moves to take a seat on the porch steps. Part of me wants to be with him desperately, and part of me wants to climb in my car and drive back to Georgetown as fast as legally possible, so that I don’t have to deal with the feelings that this man has stirred up in me today. Nothing’s really changed between us, and I can still walk away and pretend that I felt nothing, yet I know I’d be living a lie. Because I have changed. I look at him through opened eyes, and I like what I see. I find it very difficult to choose to walk away.
It’s a simple matter of my head versus the rest of my body and soul. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which one wins, either. Like a moth to a flame, I’m inexplicably drawn to this man, like I have been drawn to no other. All my previous relationships took weeks, even months for the casual to become something more. This man has taken me there in a single day.
Deciding to bring him a drink, I open the refrigerator and grab a bottle of Sam Adams and my lemonade, and head for the great outdoors.
I observe him through the kitchen screen door for a moment, before pushing it open and stepping out onto the back porch. He’s sitting on one of the porch steps, leaning back on his elbows, which are braced on the porch behind him, his legs stretched out and ankles crossed. I can see beads of water still hiding in the hair on his chest, and I resist the urge to bend over and lick them up. I hand him the lager instead.
He smiles his appreciation as I take a seat on the porch beside him, crossing my legs and sipping my lemonade. After he takes a healthy swig and runs the cold bottle across his forehead, he breaks the peaceful silence. "So, you like my house?"
"Like it? I love it! It’s beautiful. It’s... perfect." I know I’m gushing, but I’m also telling him the truth.
He chuckles at my enthusiastic response. "Good. Mission accomplished."
"What mission was that?" I ask, as I take another sip of my lemonade.
"To have more than just a nice house. I wanted a home."
I know I’m staring at him again. I have to stop doing that, but he’s done nothing but surprise me all weekend. He glances at me, and seeing my reaction, he smiles and turns to stare off across the lawn, before he elaborates.
"I had a lot of time to think in Suriname. Some days, that’s all I did." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "Don’t get me wrong, Sarah. I love my job, and I’m damned good at it. For 17 years, I’ve lived, breathed, eaten, and slept the CIA. But, once I slowed down, once I was out of the action for awhile, I began to realize what all I gave up by choosing the life I lead."
He takes another swig, then continues. "I’m 42 years old, and, with the exception of my mother, there’s no one who misses me when I’m gone. No one to wait for my phone calls. No one to come home to." He chuckles, somewhat ruefully. "You know, when I used to return to my townhouse late at night or after being away on a mission, the sound of the door shutting behind me would echo. That’s how empty the house was. Not that it wasn’t full of stuff. It just wasn’t full of life."
He drains the bottle. "Step one... I now have the home."
There are tears in my eyes, and I silently pray that he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look at me and see how he’s affected me. But in the end, my voice gives me away.
"You’re wrong," I correct him vehemently. "There are people who miss you, people who care about you. But you’ve never let anyone in. You haven’t allowed them... us... me... to get closer than arm’s length."
Now it’s his turn to stare at me. "I didn’t know you wanted to be closer than arm’s length."
His eyes are locked with mine, and I watch, fascinated, as the hazel deepens in color. I know my heart begins to race, and my breathing quickens as he sits up and crawls up the steps to rest on his knees in front of me, never breaking eye contact.
The tears are flowing freely now, and I can’t stop them. The little voice in the back of my head tells me to ‘Suck it up, Marine!’ but I choose to ignore it over the surging emotion I’m feeling right now. It’s been a long time since I felt anything at all, and I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced an emotional response this powerful.
Webb reaches his hand out slowly to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing the tears away. Suddenly, I’m angry, for no reason other than the fact that I realize how much time has been wasted in both our lives. My fists clench and unclench as I feel the dam burst inside me. Unable to maintain my composure any longer, I shove him backwards, hard enough to land him on his ass, before screaming, "Damn you, Clay!" and propelling myself off the porch and across the yard.
I have no idea where I’m running to, and my tears have blinded me almost completely. I can’t see Webb jump off the porch and come running after me, so I’m startled when he grabs my shoulders from behind to halt my progress, stopping me short. I stumble, but his grip keeps me upright, then he comes around to stand in front of me. He doesn’t let go, however, probably out of fear that I’ll take off again.
"Sarah..." he begins, but I cut him off with a torrent of words.
"Damn you, Clayton Webb! How dare you sit there and tell me some sob story about how lonely you are? You think you’re the only one in this world who’s lonely? The only one who made sacrifices for their career? The only one who wishes there was someone to come home to at night? Someone to wrap your arms around as you go to sleep?"
"Sarah..."
"We all make choices, Clay. You made yours, and you continue to make that same choice every day. It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to come breezing into JAG like you own the place, holding everyone at bay with your sarcasm and your arrogance. You’re so busy trying to maintain your distance, trying to stay in control, that you miss out on the fact that there are people, real human beings, friends, who want to get to know you."
"Sarah..."
"Damn it, there are people who notice when you’re gone. There are people who care about whether you come home. You didn’t see what I saw after you ‘died.’ You didn’t see the pain in Harm’s eyes. You didn’t know how driven the Admiral was to find your killer. You didn’t know how my heart..."
I stop, choked with tears again. He’s still got me by the shoulders, and he’s shaking me, trying to get my attention.
"Damn it, Sarah, listen to me! You know my job. You know how easy it is to become lost in the shadows."
"There aren’t any shadows here," I scream at him, pointing to my heart. "All we ever wanted to do was care for you. You don’t have to pretend with us... with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not out to get you, or to manipulate you, or to use who you are against you. Hell, I don’t even really know who you are! I only know what you let me know, and that’s damned little."
The adrenaline is starting to recede, and I can feel myself begin to droop. I’m no longer yelling at him, and I realize how tired I am.
"I thought you trusted me, Clay. I thought we trusted each other."
"Look, I’m not talking about Rabb or AJ saying, ‘Come down to McMurphy’s for a drink after work, Webb.’ I’m talking about finding someone to share my life and my home and my bed with. Someone who won’t just tolerate me and my smart mouth, but who loves me and is in love with me, despite all the crap I dish out."
Dear God. There it is, right out on the table.
I drop my eyes to the ground as pain rips through my chest like lightening. I’m such a stupid fool. I should’ve known better, should’ve realized that what he was looking for couldn’t be found housed inside an olive green uniform. This whole day was one big charade... a game of Let’s Play House. Who was I kidding? What was I thinking?
"I’m sorry, Clay. I’m sorry that what we have to offer isn’t enough. And I’m sorry if we’ve made your life more difficult by trying to be your friend. We won’t make that mistake again." I know I sound bitter and petulant, but I can’t help myself. I pull out of his grasp and head backwards towards the house. "And I hope that, whoever she is, you find her. And that she’s worthy of you." I turn and start up the steps of the porch, when I hear his voice, drifting on the breeze.
"I did find her. She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. But she keeps running away from me, and refuses to listen to what I have to say."
I freeze, then reach out and clutch the porch post for support. Did he just say what I think he said?
I hear his footfalls on the steps behind me, then feel his hands slide up my arms as his exhaled breath tickles the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I shiver, and involuntarily lean back against his bare chest. His body heat radiates easily through the thin cotton of my shirt, and I’m aware of his physicality once again.
"Sarah," he breathes in my ear.
"What do you want from me, Clay?" I whisper.
He pauses, then kisses my earlobe before answering, "Everything."
I think I just whimpered.
He turns me around and grasps the back of my neck in one hand, before he pulls me against him and presses his lips to mine. His lips are soft, yet demanding, and he tastes of lager and Clay. I yield to him with an eagerness that began building last night in the Home Depot.
He pulls back from the kiss and looks at me. I know that if I ask him to, we’ll stop and pretend that this never happened. But I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of doing what is expected of me and I’m damned sure tired of living up to someone else’s standards for me. I know what I want, and it has nothing to do with being a good Marine.
I want this man tonight, tomorrow, and for as long as he’ll have me.
My epiphany leaves me reeling. I feel giddy and wanton, and, for the first time in my life, I’m approaching an intimate relationship with no preconceptions and no reservations. The knowledge is liberating.
Webb rests his forehead against mine, his breathing shallow and labored. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was as affected by that kiss as I was.
"Sarah," he pants, "I have to ask you one question. I have to know, before this goes any further. I know the answer I want to hear, but, please, please be completely honest with me."
I nod, already knowing the nature of his question. I’m not surprised, either. Actually, I’d have been surprised if the topic hadn’t come up at all. I decide to spare him the indignity of having to ask.
"I’m not in love with Harm."
Webb lifts his head and stares into my eyes, his gaze so intense that my soul feels laid bare before him. I feel raw and exposed, but I welcome it. If I truly have a chance with this man, then I’ll give him total access to everything that makes up Sarah MacKenzie. I will hide nothing.
I see just a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, and I wait for him to make a smart remark. But he doesn’t. Instead, he slides his fingers up into my hair, and announces in a voice rough with arousal, "Good. That makes my job all the easier."
My lips are just brushing his, as I ask, "What job would that be, Mr. Webb?"
"Seducing you."
I smile as we breathe the same air, our lips passing within a hairsbreadth of each other. "You seduced me a long time ago."
It’s Webb’s turn to be taken by surprise. "I did?"
I can’t help sucking his lower lip into my mouth, as I clarify my answer for him. "In Afghanistan. You began seducing me the day you trusted me to handle the guy with the knife at my throat."
"Purely unintentional," he states, as he dances his tongue across my lower lip and down my neck to the pulse point, where he lightly sucks on the skin over my heartbeat. The thought crosses my mind that he’ll leave a mark, but I quickly dismiss it. If Webb wants to mark me as his, I have no complaints.
I tilt my head back to allow him better access, then I continue. "The care package for Bud and Harriet, and the Christmas gift for AJ didn’t hurt, either." He’d surprised the Roberts’, and most of JAG, with his generosity after Bud’s accident. The Lieutenant had also received some mysteriously preferential treatment. I’ve always thought Webb was behind it, but was afraid to mention it to anyone for fear of their reaction.
"But the jewel in the crown was when you turned over that Angel Shark tape."
Suddenly, Webb is chuckling into my neck. "Care to tell me how pissing off the DCI is seductive?"
"Irritating your boss is only par for the course," I tease him. "What turned me on was that you were willing to sacrifice your career for people you didn’t even know."
He’s instantly serious, and brushing my lips with his again. "You make me sound so noble."
"You are. You’re my noble warrior."
"I’m no warrior."
"Maybe not, but you are a noble man."
"God, Sarah, what you do to me..."
I wrap my arms tightly around his neck, and press our lips together briefly. "It’s very mutual, Spook, very mutual," I purr, before I give in to my desire.
Our lips fuse, and everything else fades into the background as I’m overwhelmed with explosive passion for this man. Our kisses start out firm, but tender, and I marvel at how soft his lips feel on mine. They feel so good, and I realize that I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed kissing a man like this. Yet our kisses rapidly progress until we are devouring each other with a hunger that I know I’ve never felt before. We nip at each other, then crush our lips together, over and over, possessed with a hunger that I can’t control nor seem to pacify.
My fingers weave through his wet hair, trying desperately to pull him as close as possible. Webb slowly maneuvers me backwards, guiding me with baby steps, and I suddenly find myself trapped between the hard exterior wall of the house and the hard body in front of me.
I pull away from his mouth, and hiss, "Inside now, Mr. Webb, unless you want to give your neighbors a show they won’t soon forget."
Webb gives the screen door a yank, almost hard enough to pull it off its hinges, and shoves me backwards through the door. I see him give the butcher-block island the once-over, but he must dismiss it just as quickly, because he continues to push me through the kitchen and down the hall. He turns at the doorway to the family room, hooks his foot behind my calf, and tumbles me to the floor. I land unharmed in the thick plush carpeting, right inside the doorway, and pull him down beside me.
I want to tell him how I’ve been dreaming about him, how this little day of domesticity fueled my passion for him, how magnificent and masculine I think he is. And there’s no doubt in my mind that Clayton Webb is all male. And the woman in me is responding in ways I never thought possible. But the only thing I can think of to say, the only thing that comes out of my over-stimulated brain is one word.
"Please."
If anyone ever doubts the power of being polite, they can just ask me. Knowing the right thing to say at the right time can prove invaluable. With that one word, I receive far more than I could possibly have hoped for.
Webb hears my plea, but has a request of his own before he accommodates me. "Sarah," he chokes out, his voice raw with arousal, "look at me."
I try to focus on him, on his face, on his gorgeous hazel green eyes.
"I’m not letting you go."
"Yes, Clay." I can barely comprehend what he’s saying. I reach down and grab his biceps in a tight grip, anchoring myself to him.
"I want you in my life, Sarah. I want you to love me."
"Please, Clay," I beg, and with my final plea, we join together in bringing each other to ecstasy.
I’d like to say that this will go down in the annals of lovemaking as the all-time longest session on record. But I’d be lying. I’ll call Guiness in the morning and check on the shortest.
I just cling to him, not wanting this moment to end. I just had the fastest, hottest, craziest, most incredible sex of my life. With Clayton Webb. I smile. I feel good.
Turning my head to the side, I notice that, in our intensity, he’s pushed me across the floor. We are now inches from bringing his cello down on top of our heads. I hope our trek across the rug doesn’t leave carpet burns.
Suddenly, he stirs, lifting his head and groaning softly. "Damn, woman," he pants, still somewhat out of breath, "that was amazing." He’s nuzzling my jaw. when he freezes. "Wait. We didn’t... I didn’t..."
I bring a hand around, and place two fingers over his mouth, quieting him. "I got it covered."
He visibly relaxes, then apologizes, "I’m sorry. Now’s a hell of a time to think of it. I should’ve thought of it sooner, but I was so caught up..."
This time I silence him with a kiss. "No harm, no foul."
He pulls back and stares at me, as my little quip sinks into my sex-addled brain. Before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch. "You’d know more than anyone if those two things are mutually exclusive."
It earns him a smack on the arm. and he laughs, then rolls us over so he’s on his back and I’m straddling him. I stretch myself out on top of him, and give him a long, hard kiss. "Well, I, for one, am hungry. I believe I saw a grill in that back yard. Got anything we can throw on it?" He nods, then grabs me in a tight embrace. But I’m not giving in. "Sorry, Super Spook. If you want this Marine to go on maneuvers, you have to feed her."
He grumbles. but acquiesces, eliciting a promise from me to christen another room in his new house later tonight, and within half an hour we are showered, dressed, and cooking dinner. I’m glad I carry a ready bag in my trunk, although this was certainly not its intended purpose.
Once again, I find myself standing at the sink, looking out the window. But this time, as I cut vegetables for salad, I sigh in contentment. As I watch Webb flip steaks, his ass covered by yet another pair of tight Levis, I am struck by how right this feels. I don’t know where the two of us will end up, but I know that I will do my damnedest to make sure we are together.
It suddenly occurs to me that I never acknowledged the requests he made of me. Although I appeared to be in a horny haze, I heard every word he said. Wiping my hands, I step out on the porch and walk up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and laying my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch. Years of fieldwork have honed his abilities such that, even if I did surprise him, there’d be no outward sign.
I enjoy feeling his strength beneath my cheek. I’ve come to respect and admire that strength, rather than resent it, because he doesn’t use it against me. His tee shirt is soft, a direct contrast to the hard body underneath, and it smells like a mix of his fabric softener and his cologne. I give him a small squeeze before speaking.
"I don’t want you to let me go."
He stops what he’s doing, but doesn’t turn around.
"I want to be in your life, Clay. I’ll play as big a part in it as you’ll let me. And I want you in mine. I need you in mine."
He puts the tongs down, and places his hands over mine on his chest, but he still doesn’t turn. Instead, he waits to see if I say what I know he wants to hear. Lifting my head so that my breath just brushes his neck, I put an end to his anticipation.
"And I want you to love me, too."
That quickly, I’m in his arms and being crushed to his chest. He presses his cheek to mine and says, "God, Sarah. I do..."
Leaning back in his arms with my hands resting on his waist, I cut him off. I have to get this out before he declares any undying love for me. He has to know what he’s up against. "Clay, I don’t know if I can love you the way you deserve to be loved. I haven’t been very good at it in the past..."
His kiss is hard, almost brutal in its intensity, then it turns gentle and tender, his tongue sweeping in to play with mine for a brief moment before retreating. "Just keep doing what you’re doing," he tells me, as he releases me.
After dinner, we spend some time just sitting on the porch, holding hands and talking. It’s peaceful, and the songs of the crickets dance on the cool night air. He tells me more about his father, and I share a little about mine, and then we compare notes on growing up in different parts of the country. I can’t recall ever opening up to anyone like I have to Webb today. Harm doesn’t know half of what I’ve shared tonight. It’s pleasant, and comfortable, and I don’t want the night to end.
After a while, we head inside to watch an old movie. I never figured Webb for a closet Cary Grant fan, but he has several movies on DVD, so we choose ‘To Catch a Thief,’ and settle onto the sofa, our limbs entwined and a bowl of popcorn between us. The ordinary-ness of our evening speaks volumes – we thoroughly enjoy being normal for a change, something we both cherish.
Webb doesn’t even ask me to stay. He just takes me by the hand and leads me up the stairs. When we reach that beautiful bedroom, he turns the lights out, save for one lone candle on the dresser. We undress each other slowly, taking the time we didn’t take before to touch and taste each other. Then he pulls me into his bed, where we explore each other’s bodies like the new lovers that we are, but with a level of familiarity and intimacy and trust that comes with years of association. The love we make is gentle and tender, a direct contrast to the primal coupling of this afternoon. The passion is quietly intense, and, when we come together, I know I’ve never felt so connected to another human being as I am to Webb.
He falls asleep in my arms, and I’m content to just lay here holding him. His weight is comforting as he uses my breast for a pillow. I can’t resist placing butterfly kisses on his forehead while I stroke his hair, enjoying the feel of the silky strands slipping through my fingers. As I let my other hand trail down his back, lightly stroking his skin in soothing circles, I marvel at everything that has happened in the last 30 hours.
We have a lot to talk about, the Spook and I, but we have plenty of time for that. I have no clue what tomorrow will bring, but I’ve learned to take one day at a time. After all, it took us eight years to get to this point. I can’t imagine either of us is going anywhere anytime soon.
Looking up at the ceiling, I recall his response to my telling him that the ceiling fan didn’t go with the bedroom. "That’s okay... we can just redecorate." I shake my head in wonder. Clayton Webb’s willing to redecorate his bedroom, willing to disrupt his life, to accommodate me. I still can’t wrap my mind around it. But I can accept it. That’s the easy part.
I feel Webb’s arms tighten around me, and he sighs in his sleep. God, I hope I can make this man happy. He trusts me, he wants me in his life, and he loves me. I hope I’m worthy of all of that.
9/22/03