#4 in the third series of Mouse stories. Read the others here.
Mouse Launches Herself Without A Parachute
The last time I went undercover, well, let’s just call it a substandard experience. Did I also happen to mention that the last time I went undercover was also the first time?
I was beaten by an amazon, a bullet grazed my head, and I saw the man of my dreams (daydreams, nightdreams, nightmares, you name it) be in love with the woman of his dreams who was in love with the woman of her dreams. A bit of a mess, wouldn’t you say? So you can imagine my reluctance in doing undercover again, especially now that Joe seems to be puking his guts out due to some virus and the man of my dreams gets to be the man of my dreams. Sigh.
I am packed and ready to go and have been. Now it’s just waiting, which I hate to do so I play instead.
I hear Tom’s stride, but haven’t heard him bellow for days. His blood pressure’s probably too low. I clack at my computer keys. He strides by, never looks in. We aren’t as close as we were before that undercover operation. Maybe it’s because I spoke my mind, my jealous little mind, about his almost messing up the operation because of his libido. Or maybe he’s in a funk because she wasn’t who he thought she was. Are any of us?
Four, three, two, one.
Ah, the blissful sound of a pissed off Tom.
“What?” I ask, meanwhile putting his door code back to what it was moments before. Yes, one must find one’s fun where one can.
“Put my door code back the way it was.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say and then unwrap a mini-almond Snickers. It has nuts–health food, you know.
He stomps down the hallway. I’d be intimidated if I didn’t know that they needed me.
He must have just come back from a run because his t-shirt is soaked with sweat and beads of perspiration cling to his upper lip. I feel my body go into maximum overload which seems to concentrate pretty much at that juncture between my thighs. I am staring at those lips like I’ve lost my mind. The one thing for certain is my undercover pretense of being attracted to him will be a breeze, considering that it’s no pretense at all.
He clears his throat, but when he speaks, it’s oddly gentle, because I’ve probably been staring at those lips with every ounce of feeling in my entire body. Can anyone say: loser alert? I glance up into his blue-green eyes, which show so much compassion. Does he pity me and my stupid crush?
I am gripped with this sudden urge to do it. Just jump up from this chair and kiss him, but he takes a step back. He’s reading my mind, or I spoke it out loud. Certainly I’m not going that crazy.
Before he can take another step away, I do it. I launch myself at him. And my lips mash against his teeth. And the sweat of his shirt merges with mine. And his arms don’t enfold me. But I am persistent and I suck on his bottom lip, just long enough for him to open his mouth slightly and swipe his tongue across my lips. It’s so quick that I wonder if it happened. When I take a step back, I can’t tell from his expression.
“My door, Mouse,” is all he says as he walks away.