35 #NewMission

July 11, 2017
Tuesday

 

Morning nudged at him with a persistent finger, and Jon nudged back.  He wasn't ready to rise or shine.  Oddly enough, his back didn’t argue with him and say tough shit.  It was normally stiff when he awakened and demanded to be stretched, but this morning it felt abnormally fine. 

 

Remembrance stretched the corners of his mouth. 

 

It was fine because of the massage from his Gypsy lover.  After they’d gone a couple rounds of “who’s in charge”, she’d straddled his back and kneaded it into mush.  His brain must also have turned to mush, because he fell asleep.

 

Carefully slitting one eye, he found that daylight gave a faint glow to the cauldron, despite the firmly closed curtains.  He risked cracking the other eye and, when rolling to the opposite of the bed, noted with surprise that the light wasn't blinding.  

 

Another surprise was the emptiness he encountered.  Jon was the only one sandwiched between luxurious orange sheets.  He lifted his head with a scowl, finding that his neatly folded clothes and the room’s finishings were his sole companions.  There was no sign of his nymphomaniacal hostess. 

 

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t a nympho, but she was definitely into all the things two people could do naked.  Even when Gypsy girl wasn’t chasing an orgasm, she made innocent touches feel anything but.  Gentle fingertips explored his body, with a rapt interest in pieces that were classified as intimate but not solely built for sex.  His underarm, for one. 

 

He had no idea why the hair in his armpit was a thing, but she seemed to consider it captivating.  Over and over, she’d stroked and petted until the tickle became too much to bear.  Jon made her stop, so she switched to an exploration of the crease behind his ear.  When that turned bothersome, she flipped him over for that massage. 

 

That was the last thing he remembered until now. 

 

Jon may be reluctant to face the day, but seeking her – and a cup of coffee – was sufficient motivation to slide from under the covers and make a quick trip to the ensuite.  Afterward, he was buttoning his jeans when a piece of wall décor caught his eye.  His signature was easily recognizable and drew a smile as he leaned in to examine the photo that also occupied the frame. 

 

It was a shot of her tucked against him that night at the Cuban restaurant, when he’d expected her to be wearing pearls and making reservations for My Fair Lady.  She looked just as prim as he remembered, even with cheeks that were pink with what he now knew to be a sign of anxiety. She’d been nervous, but nobody would’ve ever guessed, just like they’d never guess what lurked behind her bland exterior. 

 

Who did know?  Her husband, certainly. 

 

Jon sneered when acknowledging that her “friend” obviously did, too.  But was there anyone else?  He could be wrong, but the cousins at dinner that night had acted as though they knew her only as beige. 

 

What about Tori?  Did she realize who Teddi really was?

 

Without looking at what was in the other frames on the wall, he went in search of an answer to that question. 

 

Jon was on the verge of descending the stairs when a chipper voice hailed, “Good morning.  Did you sleep well?”

 

A twist of his head revealed that she was making the bed in the room next to the one he would forever think of as the “cauldron of color”. 

 

He padded over, propping a bare shoulder against the doorframe, and a cursory glance confirmed that the setting was predictably beige. 

 

Hardwood flooring was a light ash that blended seamlessly with the open-canopy bedframe and nightstands.  All of those things were marginally lighter than insipid putty walls.  The darkest features were tan curtains and a khaki wingback chair, while parchment bed coverings took the award for palest accessory.  An area rug held a smattering of them all. 

 

This was a stark contrast to her room but utterly predictable. Dr. Cookie in her beige pants and white blouse would want the guest room to reflect her signature refined elegance.  In that respect, it was mission accomplished. 

 

“Yeah, I slept fine, thanks.  You making up the bed for company?”

 

Blonde eyebrows knit in mild confusion as she fluffed a pillow.  “No.  You’re the first overnight guest I’ve had in years.”

 

The friend didn’t spend the night.  Interesting.

 

“So you just randomly make the spare bed?”

 

She glanced back and forth between him and the pillows until comprehension dawned.  “You think this is a guest room.”

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

“No.  It’s mine.”

 

“But…?” 

 

“You assumed the other one was my bedroom,” she supplied, giving the coverlet one more tug before crossing to where he lounged in the doorway.  “I refer to it as the boudoir, but it’s more of a playroom.”

 

It was early.  He hadn’t had coffee.  Hell, he wasn’t even dressed, so maybe that’s why Jon was having trouble making sense of what she said. 

 

“You have a room just for fucking?”

 

“No,” she countered his blatant incredulity with amusement.  “I have a room for shedding my inhibitions.  May I fix you some breakfast?”

 

He shook off the offer and pointed behind her.  “So, you’ve never had sex in that bed?”

 

“That’s where I sleep.”

 

“Most people fuck and sleep in the same place.”

 

The amusement faltered and dwindled to a faint smile.  “You know by now that I’m not most people.”

 

“You aren’t,” he agreed.  “And that’s cool.  I’ve just never known anybody to keep separate beds for sleeping and fooling around.”

 

“That’s because you’re a rock star.  You fool around in all the beds.”

 

At her teasing, he shrugged good-naturedly.  “Not in a long damn time.”

 

“I, uh…”  A restless hand snuck up to stroke the necklace that had been restored to its usual spot, and seeing it irked him just a little.  “Following that vein of thought, it seems like we may have reached a point where it’s wise to discuss the practicality of that.”

 

“Practicality of what?”

 

Dr. Cookie, communication specialist extraordinaire, lifted her chin to deliver a clear and concise, “Sexual partners.” 

 

“Okay.”  How that factored in here was anybody’s guess, but since Jon had a vested interest in the topic, he was game.  “What about ‘em?”

 

“If you’re sleeping with other women between our encounters, that’s something I should know.  So that I can reconsider my stance on protection.”

 

Teddi swallowed the beating heart that leapt into her throat.  Had anyone ever told her she’d be quizzing Jon Bon Jovi on his sexual partners, she would’ve laughed.  Hysterically.  Yet here she was, insisting that she had a right to such information. 

 

While he was wearing nothing but unbuttoned jeans, bedhead and morning whiskers. 

 

That was the part that had her thumbing her necklace.  The eyes that were still soft with sleep, a carelessly exposed pelt of silver chest fur, and the matching tousled hair stirred an uncomfortable sense of intimacy.

 

Physical intimacy in the boudoir didn’t evoke anything other than pleasure, but there hadn’t been a man in her sleeping quarters since Truman.  To have this one in such a state of undress was either exhilarating or terrifying.  Teddi was too flustered to make the distinction – and his prolonged silence didn’t do anything to help the situation. 

 

“There are two sides to that coin,” he pointed out calmly.  “Are you going to be equally forthcoming with notification about your sleeping buddies?”

 

Her laugh came immediately, offering a distraction from the inner agitation.  “Why would I sleep with anyone else when I can have you?”

 

That bedhead of his tipped to a speculative angle.  “I dunno.  Things happen.  Maybe your ‘friend’ convinces you it’s a good idea.  You gonna tell me about it?”

 

“The odds of that happening are astronomical.”

 

“Odds of you telling me or that the ‘friend’ convinces you?  And does this guy have a name, so I can stop thinking of him with quotation marks?”

 

“I’m honestly surprised you think of him at all, but his name is Pierce.”

 

“Pierce, then.  You gonna tell me if Pierce gets between your legs?”

 

A moment ago, she’d thought it impossible to find something stranger than quizzing Jon on his sexual partners.  His interest in her sexual partners fit the bill, though. 

 

“As I said, the odds are astronomical.” 

 

“People hit the lottery every day,” he reasoned persistently.  “And those same people have sex multiple times a day.  I’d say the odds are in favor of Pierce getting laid.”

 

Teddi could easily end this debate with an explanation of her relationship with Pierce, but she couldn’t make herself do it.  It didn’t matter that she’d (somewhat) easily had that conversation with Tori yesterday; Jon was another matter entirely.  It would be humiliating to confess he was the only sexual partner in decades who hadn’t affected her bank balance.    

 

He gets your anxiety.  There’s every possibility he would understand why you chose a business arrangement over social sex.

 

A man who had gratuitous sex thrown at him daily wouldn’t understand.  How could he even fathom such a thing? 

 

Fine, then.  He didn’t ask you to explain, he asked you for disclosure.  You can do that. 

 

Yes, she could.

 

“The odds are not in favor of his getting laid,” Teddi reinforced, even though the odds were very good considering Pierce’s profession.  Just not with her.  “But if that happens, I won’t keep it from you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

She dropped her necklace with a frown, realizing that he had diverted her from the original question.  “I notice you haven’t made that same assurance.”

 

“I don’t need to.”  His lazy grin was both adorable and unapologetic.

 

“Oh?” 

 

He pushed off from the doorframe, and bare feet padded silently over the hardwood that separated them.  Each step brought him closer and more clearly revealed the gleam of intent in his eyes.  There was such determination that Teddi instinctively clutched her necklace again. 

 

When he was near enough for her to make out individual whiskers on his chiseled jawline, he stopped.  A deliberate hand ever-so-slowly peeled her fingers away from the pendant and spread them.  Once there was room to tuck his own fingers between them, he molded the grasp into a unified fist.   

 

“My new mission in life is fucking you in that beige bed,” Jon murmured, dusting a kiss against the back of her hand.  “So, until those virgin sheets are wet, sticky and stinking of multiple orgasms… there won’t be anybody but you.”

 

The solemnness of his vow had Teddi’s panties fulfilling the “wet, sticky” part of the mission.  A driven Jon Bon Jovi was breathtaking, especially when he was driven to have her.  It was so incredibly tempting to give him any and everything he wanted, but that just wasn’t possible. 

 

“Sex stays in the boudoir.”

 

Teddi’s quiet insistence wasn’t the deterrent she intended it to be.  In fact, it merely put resolve in his eyes and turned them to stubborn blue steel. 

 

“We’ll see about that.”