~ Lyla's Song ~

by

Kay Layton Sisk

"So I just needed to know you guys are normal in case he loses his head and proposes over the donuts one morning?"

"No, not really." His left hand began a slow descent down the steering wheel across the space between them to her hair, then to the back of her neck. "You need to know because I’ve been daydreaming about this." He gently pulled her to himself. She came, as if she’d been half-expecting the kiss. He pressed his lips to hers, was as careful, as deliberate as he had been with the first girl he’d kissed. No funny stuff, no tongues, no noise, just a slight pressure, a tenderness; he wanted her lips to be caressed by his. He stroked her cheek with his left thumb. He parted from her long before he was ready.

Lyla had sensed what was coming when his hand was midway through the air to her. All this talk of sexual preference had to be building to something. A small part of her thought of the clichéd ‘paying for your dinner’ routine. Another part was riotously happy that this very virile man next to her was available. Still another realized that she wanted to kiss him. Desperately. God, she almost needed it, so drawn was she to him, to his music, to his essence. She’d not considered backing away, but had let him move her into position, had almost quivered in anticipation. And the kiss, so undemanding, yet so complex, like his rendition of Lyla’s Song. He broke it off, backed away just an inch or two. "Oh, my," the words escaped from her before she could stop them.

"Yes." He said it in a breath. Her eyes sought his, found them eagerly seeking hers.

"Sam?"

"Yes?" They were whispering.

"I have daydreams, too." She reached up to his shoulders and pulled him back to her. He came, let her lead the next kiss. When she parted her lips, he moaned and encircled her in his arms. The console was between them and by the end of the kiss, when they were both in hormonal overdrive, they knew it was a good thing for the console to be there. Their lips were inches apart, each savoring the essence of the other. "Lord, Sam, I feel like a schoolgirl."

"I’ve got some schoolboy feelings myself." His face was flushed, and as he cleared his throat, he stretched his legs.

"I’d better be going in." Half turning to the door, she started to raise the handle.

"I’ll walk you." He started to turn in his seat, grinned slightly. "The, ah, the air will do me good."

"It’s not necessary." If he walked her to the door, he’d kiss her again, and that would be awful, wouldn’t it? Liar. That would be wonderful. What if he really wanted to come upstairs? No, couldn’t happen. Not yet anyway. Get a grip, Lyla. He’ll be gone in two weeks!

He was out the driver’s door and around the car before she could sufficiently gather her thoughts. One would think she’d never been kissed! She’d been married! The opening of the door brought her back to reality, and she took his proffered hand and pulled on her skirt and got out. He seemed to be content to escort her to the back door thirty feet away. He swung their hands high like schoolchildren would and the awkwardness was gone. She laughed aloud, pulled slightly on his hand, then stumbled as her right heel found one of the potholes in the uneven pavement. He grabbed her to keep her from falling, his right arm encircling her waist and pulling her to him. He hadn’t meant to kiss her again, but with the length of her body brought to his, he couldn’t help himself. He leaned over as she arched up to him.

This was a different kiss. This time there was more than gentle fingers caressing a neck or shoulder. Their bodies touched and of their own accords sought to be closer. His hands splayed on her back and toyed with the idea of wandering to her hips; he barely kept this under control, instead allowing his tongue free rein. Lyla’s hands roamed to his back, kneading his muscles, running up and down his spine. Her mouth welcomed his, and when the kiss ended and they still embraced, she lifted her neck and he ran kisses up and down it.

"Someone’s got to fix this parking lot. The potholes are killers." She let her breath out slowly as he trailed kisses across her cheeks on the way to the other side of her neck.

"Don’t fix it on my account."

"Sam, I’ve got to go."

"Why?" He pulled away slightly, looked at her. Their breathing was ragged. "Got a curfew?"

"Got to be flipping pancakes and frying bacon at six."

"You go and trip in your own parking lot and get me more riled up than I thought I could be--" sober--had he ever been this excited sober? He wouldn’t have remembered it stoned. "--and then you start talking about work? Lord, Lyla, I knew women were the world’s conscience..."

"Sam, please."

"I’m sorry, Lyla." He sought control, found it in his rehab training. He gathered her hands from himself and held them between his. "It’s been a wonderful afternoon, an unbelievable evening, a night I’ll be thinking about well into the morning." He raised his eyebrows, smiled slyly. "Never has a bet been so graciously lost." He raised her hands toward his lips just as the west end of the parking lot illumined with headlights.

T stopped his motion in midair and Lyla turned. "Tib! Damn him!" Instead of drawing her hands from T’s, she turned them to hold his fingers.

Tib stopped the Blazer twenty feet from them, opened the door, got out and came to stand in front of the lights. "Lyla, you okay?"

T felt the heat radiating from her. Her gentle touch on his fingers became a vise grip, then she dropped his hands. She was the picture of exasperation as she turned to Tib and placed her hands on her hips. "Why do you ask? You been spying on us?" She stood defiantly in his headlights, the white suit almost shining, an avenging angel without wings, standing between the devil and a would-be savior. T tossed the phrase to the back of his mind. He was always looking for new lyrics, and this woman was teaching him a new song.