Outside The Lines:: Third Person Narration Page 9

  She squinted at the brightness, then slid her sunglasses out of her bag and onto her face; after the low light of the banquet hall, it was like walking out into a sunny day.

  Johnny smiled faintly at the appearance of her sunglasses, still listening to his phone, then he gave a clipped nod, to himself, at whatever news he was hearing.

  A female employee appeared out of the door to the gym and stopped short, clearly surprised at seeing people standing in front of the banquet doors as if they were about to head in.

  Hopefully it didn’t look as if they were just heading out.

  Juliette waved innocently. “Hi.”

  “Oh, the banquet hall is closed,” the staff member said a bit uncertainly, coming closer. “The heat doesn’t work.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Juliette said, feigning disappointment. “We were really hoping to see it.”

  The employee nodded in approval and came another step closer. “It’s an incredible space. It has a whole wall of windows that overlooks the slopes and the valley below. You can stand in front of the windows and look out over everything.”

  “Really?” Juliette squeaked. “Over everything? That sounds amazing.”

  “It is. Are you here for New Years? It’ll be open by then. There’s a big bash.”

  Johnny touched his ear, ending the call. The heavy wool of his coat brushed her arm as he turned and smiled at the employee. “We’ll be there,” he told her.

  The employee smiled back at him, a lot more happily than she’d smiled at Juliette. “I’ll be waiting,” she assured him.

  Juliette scowled.

  Johnny propelled her to the elevators and punched the button. A moment later the doors opened and they stepped inside, leaving the employee smiling as she opened the door to the pool at the other end of the hall.

  Their reflections filled the elevator, over and over, handsome, tousled, dark-haired Johnny in a forest green pea coat, black boots, and messenger bag, and Juliette, hair a little wild-looking, wearing sunglasses, face filled with more color than it had been in a long time. And she wasn’t wearing underwear. It was torn in half and stuffed in Johnny’s pocket.

  “Did she just hit on you?” she asked crankily.

  “Yes.” He jabbed the button for the lobby.

  “While I was standing right there?”

  “Yes. Listen, you’ll be glad to know: Billings said he’d send the paperwork by morning. Maybe tonight.”

  She blew out a breath and nodded. “Good.”

  He stared at her. “Good?”

  “Excellent?”

  He shook his head slightly. “It better be excellent, Jauntie. We’re all riding your train here.”

  That had a nice ring to it. “It’s very excellent,” she assured him. And it was. Exceptionally excellent. Answers would come, maybe tonight. And then, all this, with the questions and the divorce and the messiness, would all be over, maybe tonight.

  All this with Johnny, would all be over. Maybe tonight.

  But not right now.

  The elevator doors opened and Johnny reached for her hand again. She took it. Right now, her life was all about Johnny wanting to do wonderful, nasty things to her body.

  And she was going to do them right back.

  Chapter Eleven

  JOHNNY’S PLACE was stunning.

  About twenty minutes from the ski resort, it took nearly two hours to get there, because they stopped and ate what might have been the best Thai food Juliette had ever had, in a dimly lit, be-cushioned restaurant, just her and Johnny and the owner named Vahn, who greeted Johnny like a long lost friend and served them himself, keeping their tea cups filled.

  They ate slowly, drank tea slowly, and talked about everything but work. It was as if they’d made an unspoken agreement, to not return to work—or the world—until they were done with whatever they were doing here.

  Whatever that was. Whatever thing this was, here, this moment of sitting with Johnny and talking about skiing and arguing about things like whether there should be instant replay in baseball and if the universe was actually expanding then what was it expanding into?, and, importantly, which actor had played the best James Bond and whether the movies did justice to Fleming’s books in the first place.

  “I knew you’d like Bond,” Juliette said a bit smugly as she nibbled at the remnants of their chicken cashew nut dish.

  Johnny sat back, his arm bent over the back of his chair. “Did you?”

  She nodded.

  “How so?”

  “Well, first, there’s your name.”

  “My name?”

  She nodded, holding a cashew in front of her lips. “How could you have a name like Danger and not like Bond?” She smiled and popped the cashew into her mouth. “Did you pick it?”

  “Pick it?”

  “Did you make it up, or is Danger your real name?

  “You think I made up my name?”

  “Well….” She rocked her hand back and forth in the air, to show she could go either way on the matter.

  “Oh, it’s real,” he assured her in a voice low and full of innuendo, which made her smile.

  “Secondly, there’s your watch.” She pointed.

  He rolled his wrist over and peered at it. “What about it?”

  “Who has a projector watch?”

  “Me.”

  “Exactly. You and James Bond.”

  He laughed. “My friend made it.”

  She set down her fork and looked at him levelly. “You have a friend who makes projector watches. Who does that?”

  He shrugged. “He’s an inventor.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Among other things.”

  “See, that pause right there, that makes your friend sound scary. You have scary friends.”

  This earned another smile. “Actually you’d like him, Jauntie.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s an oddball. Straight-up. People don’t get him. He doesn’t pull his punches.”

  She was distracted by his little smile, and only half listening. “Well, I sure don’t like to be punched,” she agreed vaguely.

  Johnny grinned at her and her heart did an unfamiliar little flutter. She didn’t know why, because he’d certainly smiled at her before. He’d even laughed with her—heck, he’d sucked her off so good that even the memory of it, here, now, with a plateful of cold cashew chicken sitting in front of them, still made her get hot—but there was something about this simple, wholehearted, boyish grin of amusement, directed at her, that made her heart do an entire fluttery backflip.

  Nope, never had that happen before, not even with Patrick O’Faolain.

  “No, Jauntie,” Johnny said, still grinning at her. “That means he hits hard. No holding back. Pow pow.” He mimed two fast punches.

  “Right,” she murmured, still contemplating the fluttery heart-flip, and wondering whether she would like the watch-inventor after all.

  “Like you,” Johnny added, pushing his plate away and getting to his feet as the restaurant owner came over to the table.

  She stared as the owner Vahn delivered more tea and another round of smiles and nods, completely distracted—no, stunned— by the nonchalance of Johnny’s insight.

  That’s how he saw her? As an oddball? Hard-hitting? Not pulling her punches?

  She felt thunderstruck.

  He’d nailed her.

  No one ever nailed her. People barely liked her.

  She felt like they formed an invisible little Venn diagram, her and Johnny and the watch-maker: People Who Didn’t Pull Their Punches.

  Usually, the groups Juliette ended up a member of were default groups, ones she didn’t want any part of, starting with ‘orphan’ and ending with ‘criminal.’ But this group…this group she liked.

  Johnny’s ‘cabin’ was perched on the side of a mountain, a huge A-frame with gleaming wooden beams crisscrossing each other under the towering ceiling. It had a great hall gathering room, and the back wall was dominated by two
floor-to-ceiling windows that came to a jutting, projecting spine in the center. Outside, a starry black night burned.

  Johnny dropped his bag on a bench by the door, while she waded into the understated magnificence. A stone fireplace cut away one wall, faced by a long, low couch and two oversized, overstuffed chairs. A few scattered tables sat around the large common room, and one huge oak dining table that appeared to have been hewn from a single tree. Thick area rugs were scattered across the gleaming wood floors and in front of the fireplace couch.

  She drifted to the window. It overlooked the valley below. The hillside was dotted with dark evergreens and a smattering of other chalets, all topped with snow like sugar. Lights glowed warmly in many of the windows, and smoke rose out of the chimneys. It was like a Christmas card.

  Juliette didn’t have much experience with Christmas card moments. She kept her life neat and controllable by dint of constant effort, but there were not a lot of cozy moments or twinkling lights, metaphorical or otherwise.

  But she wasn’t in her life right now, was she? She’d stepped over a border, formed a new nation. She was in this place, with this man, who’d made her hungry, then fed her. And she was still hungry. She wanted to drink Johnny in, taste whatever it was about him that made her body get hot and her heart get full.

  She heard him behind her, setting things down, opening drawers, turning on low lights, clinking glasses. He came into the room, carrying two glasses of water. Ice cubes bobbed against the glass and trickles were starting to run down the sides as he handed Juliette one.

  She drank the cold water while they stood and looked out the window, and, surprisingly, desire built inside her again. She didn’t know where it came from, after the acrobats of earlier, but there it was, hot and fresh: wanting Johnny.

  They stood side by side, looking out at the dark mountain night. “This is a nice place,” she said softly.

  He nodded. “I might move here some day.” They looked a bit longer, then he pointed down the hill. “The watch-inventor’s place is down there. In the valley. See the one with the red lights?” All around one dark blob, a faint, warm, electric red glow lit the snow.

  “He lives in a red light district,” she quipped.

  Johnny looked down at her. “That’s what he says. Does it to piss off the neighbors.”

  “Well, he sure sounds like my kind-of guy.” He put an arm around her shoulder and turned her to the long, cushiony couch in front of the fireplace. “You sure know a lot of people, Johnny,” she said.

  “Right now, I’m most interested in you,” he murmured as he laid her back on the couch, kissing her neck.

  A hot sort of glow lit inside her body, because when Johnny said something like that, it wasn’t a line, or even a compliment. It had no purpose other than Johnny simply stating, like a newspaper article, what was happening.

  She liked that, a lot. Juliette didn’t do well with agendas; didn’t have enough herself to feel as though she could keep up. But this, this moment with Johnny, this she could do.

  So when he started to slide his jeans down, she brushed him aside and slid off the couch, onto her knees, on the floor.

  “Sit back, Danger,” she ordered, as he’d done to her to so many times, with such phenomenal results. “It’s my turn.”

  JOHNNY DIDN’T USUALLY let people push him around, but he let Juliette push him down onto the sofa. He sprawled back as she crawled forward and unbuttoned his jeans. He slid a palm down the front of them and she tugged on the zipper. They slid them off together.

  Her eyes were dark and sparkling as she looked at his hard dick, then she slid her gaze up.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  “Hey there.”

  Swiftly and in a low voice, like she had to hurry to get it out, she whispered, “I’m going to suck you off.”

  Her hesitation, and her desire to push past it, made his already well-used cock ready for more. “That sounds good to me.”

  Another rush of color flooded her cheeks. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.” Her voice was soft and hesitant, and he decided a rallying cry was in order.

  “Give it your best shot. If you run into trouble, let me know.”

  She laughed, and flushed even deeper, but her fingertips touched his shoulders, pushing him back against the sofa.

  “Just one thing,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Pull down your pants.”

  She blew out a sharp, hot breath.

  “Just to your knees. I want to be able to touch you. And I definitely want to see you.”

  Her eyes closed as she did it, shoved them down to her knees.

  “And your shirt.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and pulled her shirt over her head, leaving only her red bra. He smiled. “Leave that.”

  She shook her head. “Do you have a plan for everything, Johnny?”

  “Yep.”

  The small, almost invisible half-moon dimple on the left side of her mouth deepened as she smiled and knelt between his legs and put a forearm on either side of his hips. He reached out and tugged at the band holding her hair in a ponytail.

  “Take it down.”

  He liked her this way, loose and undone, her hot body ready, her lips parted, her dark hair falling down around them, hair that, he saw now, wasn’t truly black; it was dark, dark brown with faint highlights of red within.

  It fell over his lap as she stroked her pale fingers up his dick. He sucked in a hissing breath and forced himself to sit back and let Juliette do her thing.

  Johnny had lived most of his life on the edge of a battlefield from the age of four up to when he returned the last time from Afghanistan after fourteen tours down range. He knew exactly what a wasteland looked like, and it lived in the center of his chest, where other people reported having a heart. Johnny had ambition and drive and determination; he did not have a heart. He hadn’t seen much need.

  Nor did he think he was growing one now. But something was happening with Juliette. Something on the perimeter of that wasteland.

  He’d felt it when he’d located her at the top of the ski slope, clutching her ski poles like a crucifix, determined to kill herself, her face white, but somehow, standing her ground with him, even as her feet slipped out from beneath her.

  It had triggered something he hadn’t felt for anyone other than his Ranger buddies in a long time: respect.

  He’d felt it first when one of her wealthy but idiotic clients tried to sue one of his clients, and he’d seen Juliette’s report, warning the client off.

  He felt an expanded version of it again today, when she pushed and pushed and asked her annoying questions and pissed off people who could jeopardize everything she had, and then turned out to be right.

  The emotion that followed that, yeah, he hadn’t felt that one for awhile either: admiration.

  You had to admire balls. A woman with balls was even better.

  And right now, this was definitely something that had never happened before. Because every time Juliette looked at him with her crooked lips and her furrowed brow and her off-the-charts tension, he experienced a white-hot, crushing lust. A body-filling, churning, ball-tightening desire so potent he didn’t know what to do with it.

  Except slake it. On her. Repeatedly.

  She was a willing victim.

  Her mouth came down to the head of his cock, her lips wet, her breath unsteady, blowing over everything she was making wet. Her tongue flicked out against him, a pushing pressure as she spread her hands over the tops of his thighs.

  Her eyes were almost closed, but not quite, as she sent her hot tongue all along him, from base to tip. He reached out to catch up her hair, and pushed his hips up. Her cool fingers brushed his dick as she rocked forward to take him into her mouth.

  “Yeah,” he urged, soft and low.

  Her hair fell down around her face, shielding her but for glimpses of her mouth, her tongue darting along the underside of his dick, t
hen up over the head, licking him, giving little sucks, then opening her mouth to take him fully in. His hand fisted in her hair. She did it again, teasing touches up the length, then giving it to him fully, letting him pump into her hot mouth, before releasing him to tease again.

  Violent, hot lust coursed through him. Her dark head bobbed up and down, his erection slid in and out past her red, wet lips, pressed by her slippery tongue, her fingers fluttering lightly around his balls. He fought the almost overpowering urge to push her head down, shove his hips up and pound into her.

  She curled her fingers around the base of his cock, and gripping tight, stroked him in one, hard, fast pump.

  “Arch your back,” he ordered harshly.

  Her breath shot out and she did, pressing her bottom up into the air.

  He reached out and wrapped a length of her hair around his palm so he could watch her mouth fuck him. Her bare ass pumped a little as she moved for him, and the soft lace of her bra brushed his inner thighs.

  He watched her, one hand still fisted in her hair, expressionless. But inside he was burning. His hardness pulsed and demanded release. In her.

  Gripping his swollen shaft at the base, she pulled her mouth away and looked up the length of him with those dark brown eyes.

  “You can hold me into it,” she whispered, trembling on her knees. “Make me do it harder, faster, however you want.” Then she bent her head and took him in again.

  He gave a guttural growl and curled his hand around the back of her head. “Slow and easy,” he rasped, barely capable of sound. “Relax,” and he lifted his hips and pushed up, slow and steady into her mouth.

  She repositioned herself and bobbed her head, taking him deeper. He pumped again and felt the back of her throat. Her body went still.

  “Swallow,” he rasped.

  She did, and the tightness of her throat squeezed around him.

  “Fuck,” he muttered roughly. He was going to come. Hard, explosively. Flexing his hips, he tried to pulled back, out of her mouth. He put a hand on her shoulder, trying to lift her.