Title: Impulse and Tulips

Author: Elliott Silver (elliottsilver@hotmail.com)

Summary: A celebration of tulips.

 

com∑pul∑sion

  1. An irresistible impulse to act, regardless of the rationality of the motivation.
  2. b. An act or acts performed in response to such an impulse.

 

Impulse, I have discovered, is a very fickle thing.

Instead of packing and moving on to the next pretend, I lounge deep in the plush reclining chair just letting my mind wander where it may. Which isnít always where it should.

A dozen brilliant tulips dance out of the cut glass vase on the mahogany table. Such beautiful visual eye candy.

They had positively assaulted me on the way to the apartment, all by tripping me flat on my face.

A chilling bottle of Cristal had done nearly the same.

Flowers and champagne.

I wait and ponder the consequences of impulse.

Impulse.

I checked my watch impatiently, even after all this time, still nerve-wrackingly anxious that she wonít come.

Wouldnít come home.

To me.

Soon, I think.

And then she is.

The door opens without the usual grating of the key, as if she had known I was waiting. For her.

Impulse.

She steps through and shuts it carefully behind her. From where she is, she canít see me. Doesnít even know Iím here.

God, is she gorgeous. Each time I see her, I think the same thing, and I get knocked on my ass all over again. There isnít even a word for how lucky I am.

She is drawn immediately to the flowers, as I knew she would be.

Impulse.

She bends over the table and leans down to inhale their sweet fragrance. Her eyes close, as if this were an intimate kiss between her and the flowers, and her lashes shadow darkly across her face.

I am so goddamned jealous of those flowers right now.

She is still dressed from our latest pretend. We were working on reversing an unfair court-martial posing as JAG lawyers. Thatís Judge Advocate General, by the way. Just one day into it and I thought Iíd go positively out of my mind, watching her in those outstanding dress whites. That alone should be illegal. God knows what she could drive me to.

She stares at the champagne and that rare incredible smile of surprise lights on her unlawful mouth.

There I go on my ass again.

The tulips are magnificent.

We passed a tiny old-style florist shop the other day and naturally I commented on the flowers. Jarod must have taken it to heart, filed it away in his brain, and abracadabra.

Impulse.

They smell heavenly, their scent heady and smooth. Just like the Cristal I spy chilling. Just like him, sweat and fading aftershave, indescribably, electrifyingly masculine.

Christ, Jarod Ė he really knows how to bring me to my need Ė wait Ė knees. I should be exhausted. Iíve spent the better part of the day arguing for a crazy pilot. And fending off all the military boys. But this Ė with him Ė this is all about impulse.

Impulse.

I am so touched I can feel the tears bubbling at the corners of my eyes.

Impulse.

There is a light scuff behind me and I know it is him, circling around three rooms to surprise me.

He thinks he can sneak up on me.

I stand and sneak out my hiding space with stealth. I loom up behind her without her knowing and bestow a meaningful kiss on that delectable spot right where her neck meets her collarbones and shoulder.

Impulse.

My arms knot around her waist and draw her to me.

She leans back against me and I realize just how hard and ready I am. It should be embarrassing. But after all those years at the Centre, weíve got to make up for it somehow.

She knows who I am without even turning around, simply by my touch. Itís something Iíve felt before, but tonight I am sure. It exhilarates me.

I kiss her again, letting my mouth suction onto that tender skin. Her breath leaves her in a tiny incoherent exclamation.

Yeah, I think itís safe to say she wants this as much as I do.

Although there was a time I wouldnít have even dared give thought to such a concept. I figured sheíd kill me if she even suspected I was thinking such R-rated, okay NC-17, nonsense about her. After all Ďunrequited loveí had that beautiful ring to it.

But then she finagled her way out of the Centre. Itís a good thing I really didnít have any of the details. Only Angelo really knew, and he didnít say much. Iím not sure Iíd have let her go through with it and risk her life like that.

And then once out of the Centre, where did she run? Well, truthfully, straight into my arms. I donít know the specifics yet, but I think Angelo had something to do with it all. We made love that night. And if we think about that first time objectively, which we donít, it wasnít really all that good. Really, after three years of near celibacy, what did one expect? But by our way of looking at it, it was mind-blowing, short-circuiting Ė yeah, ok that just about covers it.

Weíve been together just over six months now. And in that brief time, weíve collaborated on eleven pretends. That was a lot, even for me. But she loves it. The first time she held back a little and played it safe. But by the second time, she really jumped in there and went for broke. Thatís something I know all about. And as I have told her several times, sheís a pretender too. Now she doesnít hesitate to argue with me on the technicalities of a pretend or to improvise as we go.

And then there was that seventh pretend, the one we did with the whole espionage thing. Iíll condense it and say she did it so well I was scared out of my mind. Sure, I had noticed she got real quiet on that pretend, but I wasnít sure it was anything out of the ordinary. It was only later, after weíd made love that she told me.

Let me say this now: Miss Parker never fails to fascinate me.

I never knew that a few years into her Centre career, sheíd been offered a spy position. She didnít take it.

She turns in my hold and her eyes are already navy blue with desire. Maybe weíll see if they donít go black tonight. Her eyes are like a scale to me. The higher our passion, the darker her eyes.

"Howíd it go?" I ask.

"Like clock-work," she answers, kissing me lightly on the lips. Another thing about her, she is an unparalleled kisser. I really think she could create orgasms solely by kissing.

I donít bother with more words. Iíll get the details tomorrow. Thatís what trust is all about really: knowing that when you hear the story later, it will still be the same.

Her excitement over ending the case, the pretend, is percolating like boiling water through her body. I can feel it. Itís bubbling right below and out of her skin. And that is one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

I hold her in my arms and we begin to slow dance to our own music. Her excitement doesnít leave, but rather transforms, converts into something not so different. It becomes desire.

And the world stops. We are alone. There is nothing but us and the soft breeze mingling with the tulips.

I kiss the line of her jaw and down along her neck as she bends backwards, held upright only by my support. There is so much trust there, trust in the truth that I will not let her fall. I pull her back up and let my knees to buckle, allowing me to slide down her body. I end in a squatting position at her feet.

Her hands rest on my shoulders as I unbuckle the straps to her decidedly wicked heels. I ease out her feet and set them on the floor, reminding myself a really good foot rub is in order tonight. Later.

I slide my hands over her just slightly bristly legs, enjoying the nubbly texture. I realize with a jolt of surprise that she is not wearing the even wickeder stockings she left the apartment in this morning. I look up at her and see a mischievous grin.

Oh yes.

Impulse.

Weíve both got it so bad.

He stares at me as if seeing a revelation.

Impulse.

I pull him back up into my arms. Sometimes I just want to melt him into my skin, to know that heíll never let go.

I love this little dance thing, I really do. But all I want right now is Jarod all over my skin, every decadent inch of my body.

Good thing, he wants that too.

I slip my fingers down each shirt button, popping them maddeningly slow. His eyes begin to bulge and a single droplet of sweat beads above his upper lip.

God, when did I start needing him so badly? There was a time that I used sex simply for the favors and information it brought. And all because I was good at it.

I slip the shirt over my shoulders and let it glide down my arms to the floor.

His fingers tremble along my wrists slithering up to my shoulders. Then he leans forward again and begins kissing my neck, my collarbones, my shoulders, with those indescribable open-mouthed kisses, laving tongue, teeth, and lips against my skin.

Does he know what his touch does to me?

I think he must, at least to some degree. By sharing ourselves with each other physically, we transcend each other mentally. Like that pretend about espionage. I wasnít sure I could do it. It just hit so close.

But Jarod was all for it, gung-ho 200%. And so I went along. I didnít want him to know about my doubts. And luckily it worked out all right. After all, contacts like those are how I eventually broke out of the Centre.

But itís that little stuff I worry about sharing with Jarod. Like the fact I love tulips. Or that my favorite drink is Cristal. Or that I love being kissed. Anywhere.

Maybe it is just like Tommy told me so long ago, that if my old dark sides erupt and I allow them to surface, that Iíll be rejected.

Life isnít like chalkboard though. You canít just erase what you donít like.

I slide my hands under Jarodís opened white dress shirt and trail it over his shoulder to the floor. His chest is one big beautiful playground. My fingers linger on the hot, hard bulge in his pants before dropping them too.

A little bit of uh-huh and a whole lot of oh-yeah.

Impulse.

I shimmy the tight little standard-issue dress skirt off her hips and leave it to puddle on the floor. For a second she teeters in its tangles and leans heavily against me.

But she keeps pushing, pushing me backward towards the bedroom.

Sheís thinking what Iím thinking: if we donít get there now, we never will. More than half the times we never do. And though Iím not exactly the adventurous sort in that regard, her experience brought some rather unusual solutions. The first time we got here we ended up in the kitchen and that resulted in a pulled back for me and some serious bruising for her.

It was highly worth it.

We plow through the living room. She has my hands in hers and pulls them to her back, settling them at the clasp of her bra. My fingers work frantically to free her, and in the back of my mind I wonder how this act can be so damn easy for a woman and so damn impossible for a man. Even for me, and sheís given me lots of practice, though when Iím too slow for her taste, she reaches back and rips it away in a few milliseconds. She wants my touch and that is intoxicating.

This time I get it right and her hands pull mine to her shoulders to grasp the thin satin straps off her arms. The fabric falls away just as we turn the corner, and collide with the couch.

At the last second he twists and turns, and I fall under him. His weight presses me down into the soft cushions and a silly smile charms my face as I kiss him again, knowing we didnít make it to the bed this time either.

You know, heís got his rough edges, some of which might even venture across the line into jagged. But those kind of rough edges suit me just fine. Because Iíve got rough edges too.

But together, those edges soften.

Somehow it finally occurred to him, Iíd been aware for quite sometime, that the remaining apparel between the two of them was his boxers and my criminally iniquitous black lace string bikini.

His hands devour my body, inch by inch of it, and I sigh from deep in my chest. God, I love his hands on me. Eventually they reach that sexy little scrap of lace Ė yes, there was a definite reason I chose this pair this morning.

Impulse.

His fingers tangle with the strings and slide them off. The feel of my naked body against his is sinful. The feel of his heart against my, synchronous, always assures me Iíve made the right choice.

He pulls off his own boxers and for a brief second it is entirely skin to skin contact.

Then he moves. His head drops between my legs, his thick hair brushing the insides of my thighs. I shiver, delightfully. And then his breath reverberates and his tongue flicks against me. I squirm under him, wanting, and he raises his mouth and bites the inside of my leg. Not enough to hurt, but enough to warn.

See, most men think of foreplay as a means to an end. Jarod does not. He loves it. I think he loves touching me.

He begins moving in and out of my folds and I am so wound up, I might just come at this contact. God, I am so wound-up. God, I think Ė

I grab his head and lift it forcefully. We are pretenders, not pyschics. Sometimes we come pretty damn close to reading each others minds, and sometimes we donít. I look deep into his eyes Ė eyes so stunning, so in love Ė yes, I know that.

He knows.

Impulse.

He knows I know.

Impulse.

He crawls up my body, a big dark predatory male.

Holy Mother of God Ė

Impulse.

When he reaches his summit, he stares straight into my eyes, letting me know just how much he wants this too. Just how much he wants me. And just how ready he is. Fuck, we were both primed and ready the second I walked through that door. Now we just want compensation, a release from this erotic pressure.

Just when he thinks heís called the ball, so to speak, since Iíve been in a courtroom arguing for an F14 pilot all day, I sit up on top of him.

Oh yes.

His cock is hard and smooth. His breath is coming fast.

I settle myself over him, about as close as I can get without touching. He knows how wet I am. And after a few excruciating seconds, that wetness begins to seep down the sides of his cock.

His breath revs up, his eyes nearly bursting.

Yeah, I think Iíve tortured him long enough. I think Iíve tortured myself long enough.

I sink down over his length, bringing him entirely inside me.

Impulse.

God, this feels so incredible.

His eyes blink and the corners tear with relief. He flies up into a sitting position, surging so sinfully incredibly indescribably deeper still inside me. His mouth covers mine, his tongue plunging nearly down my esophagus. And then he flicks it in and out, between our seal, an imitation of what is to come.

His arms knot around me and together we move.

Impulse.

This is when I lose every bit of rationality I possess. Jarod too. I can tell by his eyes and his expression. We go to a place only we can create Ė together.

Impulse.

Sweat showers my body and his. Our pulse builds faster and faster.

This is what I needed.

This is what I wanted.

I donít even care whether I come. This is what I Ė

His fingers reach down between us, between our joining. Expertly he thumbs my clit. He knows. He knows just what I like.

Impulse.

I growl, a deep, predatory growl, and sink my fingers into his back as if to hold on to my sanity.

Fuck it. Who needs sanity.

He digs in just as I let go and I find myself exploding, or maybe imploding. God, I love him.

Impulse.

Watching her come Ė it defies words.

About two million emotions define her expression, and Iíve just only catalogued half of them.

It builds inside me so powerfully, knowing that I did that.

And I know: it is her. I love her.

She flexes her muscles around me and I come too, so hard.

Impulse.

And when that fantastic darkness lifts, she is holding me.

Her eyes are midnight black.

Somehow we made it to the bed and the foot massage I promised. Half the bottle of Cristal is gone and half the ice too. I close my eyes and replay the scene where I ran the dripping cube from her chin to her navel and she shivered under my touch. Yes, that is what dreams are made of.

I am living a dream.

I sit at the end of the bed, my eyes devouring her greedily. I want her like most men want money and power. She is stretched over the rumpled sheets, her body strewn out in an invitation inscribed only to me. Her hair is a dark tangled sea on the pillows, her eyes veiled and bedarkened with her lush lashes.

I shift her feet, trading one for the other, and begin rubbing the arch. I love this. Okay, so being totally and irreversibly in love makes people crazy. It does to me. What a normal person would think is a task secondary only to scrubbing toilets, is one of my favorite things to do.

I get to touch her and watch her at the same time. And not much is better than that.

She stretches a little on the bed, into my hands. If I give her any more pleasure, Iím sure sheís either going to start purring or levitate off the bed.

So there I go on my ass Ė again.

But I wonder. Even I have insecurities. This is my biggest.

"What do you see in me?" I ask, realizing that Iíve actually, finally said it out loud, my voice raw and revealing.

Impulse.

She opens her eyes and looks at me.

Impulse.

Her somnolent sable eyes unfurl painfully honest.

"Everything."

 

 

 

Email Elliott Silver

 

Return to Elliott's Pretender Fiction

 

Disclaimer: The characters of "The Pretender" are not mine; they rightfully belong to NBC, MTM, and Pretender Productions, as well as the actors and actresses who give paper and ink a life and a voice. I am making no profit from these writings; imitation is the highest form of flattery.