One thing I am going to try do is post scenes - interludes, orphans, funny dialogue, whatever - maybe once a month or so. Also, provided I can hold on to a thought for more than five seconds once school starts up again, I'm going to try write about the process and my problems with writing. You know, make you all familiar and friendly with my crazy. Anyway, the first cookie of 2011 is cozy *cough*smutty*cough* scene between Fin and Ian. ;)
Enjoy!
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“Neat story.”
I didn’t jump. I knew the voice to well to give its source that much satisfaction. Ian was behind me. There was a look in his eye, a little like the leer he gave me in 13, but not as lewd. “You have a way with words. Ever thought about switching to the writing major?”
“What, so you can stare down my shirt everyday without your sister seeing?”
He laughed a little. “Maybe. It’s a nice view to look forward to in the morning.”
I should’ve punched him. I kind of wanted to. But it was flattering and no one had flirted with me like this in New Orleans. No one had really looked at me at all. And I wanted someone as handsome as Ian to look at me, if I was honest. The facial features that were so unusual on Iris were sharp and rugged and attractive. In a few more years, he’d be gorgeous, with flocks of women fawning over him. It was inevitable, as clear to see as his outline against the fire.
By then, hopefully, I’d be smart enough to not be among those flocks. But why couldn’t I enjoy him right now, when he was paying attention to me? Sure, he was a jerk. According to every woman I’d ever met, all men were jerks. I’d deal.
“So what, you want me to write it down for one of your assignments?” I teased. “It sure as hell sounds better than that crap you put in the school paper.”
“There’s an idea,” he stepped forward and I held my ground. “But I was actually interested in where you got the story from. You said you were injured, right?”
“That’s right.” He had this queer little smile. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling back.
“Iris said you had a scar. Same accident?” I nodded. “Can I see it?” He stood toe to toe with me, and his left hand was on my right hip, just at the edge of my shirt. I couldn’t help smiling then. I turned and ran.
The forest floor sped away under my feet. I listened to the crackle and thud and his boots pounding the ground and wondered how long it would take until he caught up with me. He’d wanted me to run and I’d wanted him to chase me. I wondered if he really had wanted to do this since he met me. The thought, the wish, was so loud I could see it written in the air above his head. It amazed me Iris had never noticed it. But Iris could be exceptionally unobservant at times.
A ginger bread house was ahead of me. I swerved to run around it and felt Ian tackle me. I landed hard on my stomach, but there was moss and more leaves that had bunched against the building, acting as a natural pillow. I gasped and breathed in the musk of decaying foliage. His hands were on me, pulling me onto my back. I could barely see him. The ginger bread house had blocked out the light from the fire now yards away. But I could tell it was him and when he kissed me, it was the most natural thing to bury my fingers in his hair, giving back as good as I got.
I hadn’t realized I was still carrying around the taste of Renfrew from that hazy liaison at the Peabody. Then I realized I still remembered how he felt pressed against me in the stairwell. Suddenly, the kissing wasn’t enough. I started tugging at Ian’s jacket, and when he shed that I started pulling his shirt up. His hands had found their way under my top and as his palm slid over my rough, scarred skin without hesitation, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My fingers were teasing the skin just above the top of his jeans while he fumbled with my bra.
“Hey Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaan! Where aaaaaare youuuuuu?”
We both froze. Iris’ singsong call was coming closer.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Ian said over and over again as he pulled his shirt back on – I was amazed he could see well enough to even find it – grabbed his jacket and hobbled away from his sister. As though he’d just remembered me, he turned back, grimacing. “Maybe another time?”
*****-Maria D
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