There's no sudden starting away, no sense of the spell being broken; they both knew what they were doing, where they were headed, and there's no cause for shame. Still, the mood shifts and he watches her pull back slightly, open her eyes, and put the back of her hand to one of her glowing cheeks. "Sam," she says, her voice a little strangled, and he doesn't answer her, not with words. He lets the hand on her skin keep working, rolling a nipple between his fingers, lets his thumb continue to sketch abstract patterns on her hidden, hot flesh; it's a long, slow, delicious retreat, fingers slipping down, teasing as they go, until finally his hand emerges back into the light and she's sitting mostly upright again.
She looks a little shaky, so he puts his hands on either side of her waist and helps her slide off the washing machine; she stumbles and clings precisely because she's trying too hard to stand on her own. Her lipstick is smudged and messy and her hair is falling out of its neat braid. He pivots her and seats her in the little folding chair, then turns back to pull his clothes out of the washing machine.
An unfamiliar trill sounds, and they realize at the same time that it's the house phone. The sound is coming from the main room, and Sarah looks like she's debating whether it's worth the effort to get up. She seems to decide that it is and she brushes by him as she leaves, quick, light steps that are almost too soft to hear, and he gets back to the task at hand, retrieving his wet, fragrant clothes and shaking them flat, then tossing them into the dryer.
He sits in the little wooden chair and zones out watching the clothes tumbling dry, his eyes tracking a red-toed sock that keeps working its way between shirts and jeans. When the buzzer finally goes off, he realizes that Sarah never came back, and now that the steady humming thunk-thunk noise of the dryer has stopped, he can hear her voice, rising and falling in conversation, from the main room. He takes his time pulling the clothes out of the dryer, turning everything right side out and folding them neatly. Going through the duffel, he sets aside what's still inside - a few weapons, his phone, the five-year planner, a Band-Aid tin stuffed with strips of pills, bandages, gauze, and condoms, and his dopp kit - and gets rid of the detritus - crumpled receipts, empty power bar wrappers, and the sheet of motel stationery on which he'd jotted down Sarah's address. There's a small handheld vacuum in one of the cupboards, and he gets rid of the crumbs and dirt that have accumulated in his bag; there's something relieving about putting everything to rights, making sure everything is clean. The neat stacks of clean clothes go back in the main compartment of the duffel, and the rest of his stuff finds a place in the side pockets.
He pulls the strap over his shoulder and leaves the alcove, turning off the light. Sarah's still on the phone, gesturing emphatically even though he's the only one who can see her. "No, Dad, I need that piece for the 'Life and Loves of Mary Cassatt' that the Dorsky is running. I asked you about that months ago, when we got the letter." She pauses to listen, then bursts out, angrily, "No, I'm not suggesting we give it away! Think of it as free publicity!" She pulls the phone away from her ear and looks up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath; he moves then, just to let her know he's there, and her eyes widen at the sight of him. Bringing the phone back up to her ear, she says, "Yes. Yes. I know, Dad. I'll send you an email. Yes, I love you too." She hangs up the phone with enough force to make it clang with a weird vibration, then turns to him; there's a completely wicked twinkle in her eye. "Want to go for a ride, Sam?" she asks, lips curving into a naughty smile when she realizes he's not about to refuse her.
Daniel Blake might well be the biggest douchebag on the eastern seaboard, but there's no denying the man knows his cars. Sarah put him behind the wheel of Daniel's prized electric blue Maserati Spyder, encouraged him to floor it, and laughed long and loud when they whipped around the curves of the narrow country roads made to look like horse lanes, very upper crust. The only thing that's keeping the moment from being absolutely perfect is the knowledge that Dean wouldn't be jealous, not really; he's too in love with his own car to get much more than a little thrill from driving anything else, even one of the rarest, most expensive, and unworthily-owned cars ever. All Dean would do is whistle through his teeth and then shake his head at a schmuck like Daniel Blake owning such a beauty and keeping it locked up instead of letting it out to do what it was made to do. Still. There's no point taking the car out if he's not ready to see everything it can do; he presses down on the accelerator with a heavy foot and lets the rumble of the engine tear through him and push Sarah closer.
"Home," she says, decisively, though he'd bet money that she'd planned to take him out to dinner for his first night in town.
He eyes her curiously, quickly, not wanting to lose sight of the road, and he catches her direct gaze for a moment. "Don't want to share you tonight," she confesses, voice a murmur in the darkness.
She seems to have gotten some self-control after that, because while he's busy returning the Spyder to its designated spot in the Blake garage, she's stepped demurely out and walked calmly into the house, no extra swing to her hips or anything.
"I was thinking we could order in," she says when he steps into the living room. She's curled on the couch, lounging with the cordless phone in one hand. "Thai, Indian, sushi? What sounds good?"
She has just got to be kidding. He tests out the theory by plucking the phone from her hand and tossing it aside, and she smiles up at him when he holds out his hand, hauls her to her feet, and leads the way upstairs.
Her bedroom is a reminder of all the differences between them, sophisticated with its pale green textured paint and blond wood furniture, impressive copies of some of the world's most recognizable paintings hanging in heavy frames. But the look in her eyes is negating all of that, saying that all that's been missing from the room is him. He takes her at her word and strips her naked.
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