Page 103 of Agency
“Fine! I’ll go stoke the fire or something!”
“Just don’t burn the house down,” I shouted through my giggles as the kitchen door closed.
The guys all laughed, and even Jericho’s chuckle came bubbling back from the living room.
We drank more and laughed more as we stood along our stations, and treated cleaning the dishes like an assembly line. Andrew would soak and pre-rinse, Morgan would scrub, and I would dry and place them off to the side in the rusty racks. When Andrew’s dishes were loaded up in the sink, he’d be busy spraying down the counter tops and stoves, or even sweeping, as we got everything back to spic-and-span shape.
And, you know what?
Cleaning felt good. Really good. Maybe the booze was to blame, or the food, but a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time, or maybe ever, was roiling inside me. Like there was more to life than my work, or theirs. Like there was some kind of normalcy waiting for me at the end of all this.
Their smiling faces, their laughs, their hard, chiseled bodies assembled down the line to my left.
So, I went with the flow. Because when something feels this good, you just do. Because maybe,just maybe,there was a chance. And, when you’re in the position I was in, the slimmest of chances was the only hope you had.
After a while, though, the alcohol had worked enough magic on me that I had to disappear to the lady’s room. While there, I changed the dressings on my neck. No yellowing or green around the edges of the used bandages, I threw them away in the empty wastebasket. The surgical wound was healing well enough, I thought, but I’d have to have one of the guys double-check for me in the morning to make sure.
When I returned to the kitchen, I could tell something was slightly off. For one, they’d been whispering back and forth about something as I stepped through the swinging kitchen door. And, then, as I stepped back to my spot on the assembly line, they seemed different. Not that they were cold, or distant, or anything.
No, they just kept exchanging small, knowing looks as we kept doggedly going through the pile.
Finally, after a big pile of my dry plates and bowls had accumulated, Andrew was coming around to collect them as his soaked. Beside me, Morgan scrubbed at the scalloped potatoes’ casserole dish, hands working in the sudsy dish water and trying to loosen the stubborn, baked-on bits.
But, instead of grabbing the dishes, Andrew grabbed me by the hips. Strong, warm hands pulled me back into him, and I could smell the slight tang of red wine on his breath as he nuzzled in and gave my bare shoulder a long, sweet kiss.
“How was dinner?” he whispered as his arms came up and encircled me, pulling me back more tightly to his broad, muscular form.
“Fantastic,” I breathed. “You ate it, too. Don’t you know?”
“Just wanted confirmation,” he said as his lips moved to my neck. “How’re the bandages?” His fingers dancing up as he spoke, Andrew brushed away my hair and pulled back the edge of my top to get a better look at the wound.
“Better. Just changed them. Not bleeding as much, and the wine helps with the soreness more than the painkillers.”
“Good,” he growled, again kissing my shoulder, then moving closer to the bandages. “I’m glad.”
That shouldn’t have been sexy. None of this talk of surgery wounds healing should have been, especially with the kitchen sink’s steam and smell of dish soap filling the air. But, somehow, this was. He was. Especially with Morgan right next to me, still scrubbing the last of the pots and pans, and casting furtive glances our way.
“How glad…” I began, trailing off as I pressed my bottom back into him and wiggled, before continuing in a smaller, more excited voice, “…sir?”
“Very,” he whisper-growled, his lips moving now to my neck, and then my ear.
My eyes roll back in my head, and my throat produced a minuscule, matching growl that sounded more like a whimper.
His hands, still damp from the dishes, closed around first one wrist, then the other, directing them to the counter. His touch was so soft, so tender… but brooked no argument. Hand now on my hips, he directed me to stand exactly the way he wanted as his other arm wrapped around my waist and his big palm spread over my stomach. His thumb made little circles, lifting my shirt from my jeans, and then his lips were back at my ear as his hand continued to move up.
Tell me, please, what about these men drove me so crazy? How could they just perform the exact, necessary sequence to make me damp as a flood plain in rainy season? Were they rain dancers? Sex shamans? Was there a magic spell they could cast, one which no other man had ever deciphered, which made me drip for them?
“Feeling up to being a good girl for me and Morgan tonight? Because the dishes are practically done, and I think we need your hands for something else.”
Another partial moan escaped my lips.
“Yes sir,” I whimpered as I pushed my denim-clad ass back into him and guided my cheeks up and down his firm length, stroking him through the combined fabric of our jeans.
“Yes sir, absolutely sir. Anything you want, sir.”
“I keep thinking about the night before last with you.” He kneaded my breast through my top, now, and his hot breath washed over my ear. “And do you know what the hottest part was?”
Had that only been the other night? Time sure did fly when you were having to run…
