Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

My voice may have gotten higher and a wee bit more shrill toward the end of my diatribe, because Simon and Ryan stopped talking. As did the three tables on either side of us.

I looked at them, then downed the rest of my Scotch. “So, tomorrow?”

By the time we finished dinner, walked back to the house, and enjoyed cookies on the back porch, everyone was reasonably sober and ready to call it a day. I packed them into their car and thanked them for coming down, and we made plans for them to come back after breakfast in the morning. As they left for Mimi’s family’s vacation house, I reread the note I did indeed find from Clark on my back door. And if I didn’t think it possible for someone to be uptight in a note, I now did.

Vivian—

In spite of what occurred this morning, I still feel it my duty to advise you on your restoration project. While I am opposed to a complete and total overhaul, I can see how there are some aspects of the home’s deterioration that may seem untenable to you. Therefore, I have some suggestions that may help to guide you in your efforts. I can return tomorrow morning with the original plans. Please call me at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Clark Barrow

Come on. Regards? And it was on embossed stationary. Embossed! With Mendocino Historical Society at the top—as if I could forget for one second whom he represented.

And what was this? At the bottom, his phone number?

I dialed it without thinking. It rang twice, then he answered.

“Clark Barrow.”

Christ, he answered the phone with his full name?

“Hi, Clark Barrow, it’s Viv Franklin.”

“Vivian? What a surprise,” he said, his voice deeper than I remembered it. Must be the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The pleasure. Ooooo, that deep voice. The—why did I call him?

“I got your note, and yes, I’d like your assistance.”

“I thought we’d established that over Scotch, Vivian,” he murmured. His voice was deeper than usual. Thick. Not slurred, just . . . heavy.

“We never actually said for sure if you were coming.”

“If I’m coming?” he asked, and I pressed my hand against my cheek. Did it feel hot?

“Tomorrow. If you’re coming tomorrow. Over here.”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Sure. If you want me.”

Hmm. Nighttime Clark is very different from Daytime Clark.

“Sure. Great. At 10 a.m.?” I managed, my head reeling a bit.

“Perfect.”

“Okay,” I said, then waited. “Bye?”

“Night, Vivian.”

I hung up the phone, shook my head, then shook it again. I went upstairs, crawled under the quilt, and thought about Scotch. Water. Neat. And Regards.

Chapter seven

Vivian stood in the doorway, luminous and radiant, lit from behind like an angel. But her thoughts were the furthest from pure. She refused to turn, even when she heard him approach. His footsteps, sure and strong, rang out as he walked toward her. Each step echoed as loudly as her heartbeat, which she was sure he could hear.

He stood just behind her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body reaching out to caress her, a promise of what was to come when he finally laid his hands on her. Yet just the promise was driving her out of her skin, out of her mind, and practically out of her clothes. Her gown of silk was soft to the touch, but right now it was simply a barrier, confining her when she longed to be naked and free.

Reason? Rules? Order? All disappeared with each breath at the nape of her neck, intoxicating and wanton. She twisted in the doorway, not turning to see but to feel, her body changing into something mindless, only capable of feeling whatever he was going to do to her.

And whatever it was, she would let him. She was his.

His hands hovered at her waist, his strong hands wrapping low on her hips, his skin burning and branding her like none had before. When he pulled her against him she could feel how she’d affected him, how her curves alone had made him hard with lust for her.

“Vivian,” he breathed into her ear, lips brushing just below and making her shiver and moan.

His hands slipped across her silk to her navel, tracing a path below her full br**sts, made heavier by the second as they grew more full in anticipation of his touch. Her ni**les hardened in excitement, straining against the silk. She arched into his hands, pressing her body back against his, flush and barely contained. He groaned heavy in her ear, and she shuddered.

“Vivian,” he said once more, and she began to turn toward him. She had to see him, had to see his face—this lover she had ached for for far too long.

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled as the elements echoed her excitement at finally knowing his touch. She turned, she turned more, and—

Crash!

I woke up on the floor, covered in sweat and tangled in sheets, blankets, and a very thick quilt. My heart was racing, and no wonder. I’d had one of the most erotic dreams ever; my mind was still full of the images conjured by my subconscious.

Subconscious Viv was extremely horny. Something Conscious Viv could appreciate as well.

I struggled to get out of the cocoon, finally pushing everything down and shimmying out the top. Crawling back on top of the bed, I leaned over and pushed back the curtains, the dawn just beginning to creep into the sky. I looked at the clock. Not quite 5 a.m. Ugh.

I looked forward to the day when I was on California time. I looked forward to the day that I could sleep through the night. I especially looked forward to the day when my sex dreams were replaced by actual sex.