After the Fall

Fragile.

To her dismay, Mariah realized that was the word she was looking for. Michael's insistent declaration of love left her feeling fragile. Her eyes burned and her head ached. She hated that she had broken down and cried, hated it even more that she had let Michael hold her while she did, and hated most of all that she was comforted in his arms.

He had known she didn't want to hear him talk about his ridiculous claim. She

told

him she didn't. His persistent romanticizing of their relationship was upsetting and dangerous. It was upsetting because it was preposterous. It was dangerous because she wanted to believe it. She didn't understand why she would want such a thing, but lying to herself about it would be pointless.

The messy emotional collateral was something she hadn't anticipated when she agreed to the terms of Michael's proposal. If she walked away from their agreement, it would end his obligation to carry through with the project for Ashland. She hoped he would continue with it even if she left, but she was far from confident of that. The project would make a critical difference for people in Ashland, one that would mean the difference between life and death for some people. She was committed to seeing it through.

She rubbed her temples and tried to compose herself. The relentless sexual stimulation Michael had inflicted all morning as payback for teasing him was not helping. It was probably why she was so on edge. Even if she hadn't been distracted, the ride back to the house was too short to sort through the conflict swirling in her mind. She pushed it to the back of her consciousness, along with her resentment toward Michael for subjecting her to it.

When they parked in the garage, Ezra, Jack and Yvonne were still unloading the van they had taken to Sarah's house.

"Sarah's up in Ezra's room," Yvonne explained.

Michael grabbed a box to carry and followed Ezra to the elevator. "How did it go? Did you run into any trouble?"

Ezra snorted. "If you could call a couple of punks who slunk off as soon as they saw us trouble." He was still itching to get his hands on the men who had traumatized Sarah. For Sarah's sake, it was good the men had run off without a confrontation, but their quick retreat left Ezra frustrated.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael caught sight of Mariah picking up a box to carry. "We'll get that, sweetheart."

"I can help."

"If you want to help, put that one down and choose something lighter." He smiled apologetically when he noticed her annoyance. "I can't let you make me look like a wimp by comparison, babe. Jack would never let me live it down."

"Never," Jack agreed.

Mariah rolled her eyes and exchanged the box for a basket of fabric scraps. When they reached Ezra's quarters, Sarah was holding the door open. "I'm sorry I have so much stuff," she apologized.

"It's not much at all," Ezra replied, unconcerned with the boxes piling up in his living room.

When everyone else left to make another trip, Mariah stayed behind with Sarah. It wasn't as if Michael was going to let her contribute meaningfully to the moving effort, anyway.

"Sooooo..." Mariah gestured to the boxes in Ezra's room.

Sarah fidgeted sheepishly. "He said it would be okay."

"I bet he did."

"Don't say it like that! He offered to let me put my things here until my room was ready."

"Uh-huh. I hope he's not going to be too disappointed if Paula gets your room set up today."

"Do you think she will?" Sarah didn't sound thrilled by the idea.

"Relax. Even if she does, that doesn't mean you have to lose your man-sized teddy bear."

"He did say I could stay with him until I was ready to sleep by myself."

Mariah grinned. "And even after that, I'm sure."

"You're awful, you know that?"

"I've long suspected I might be. So, not to be indelicate, but are you going to make him sleep in a chair every night?"

Sarah bit her lip. "I want to ask him to sleep in the bed, but I don't know how to say it without sounding like I'm suggesting sex."

"I haven't known Ezra that long, but he doesn't strike me as a man who would make that kind of assumption. Just tell him you would feel safe with him sleeping in the bed. That doesn't sound like an invitation to me. Not under these circumstances, not when you're talking to someone like Ezra."

"As opposed to someone like Michael?" Sarah giggled.

"Michael takes saying 'good morning' as an invitation."

"Yeah, 'cause you keep sleeping with him!"

"Whatever. What do you want to do with the boxes? Should we unpack them?"

"I'm going to wait and see what Ezra suggests."

"You won't have long to wait. I hear the elevator."

"I can't believe you have your own elevator."

"It's not

my

elevator. It's Michael's elevator."

"Oooooh," Sarah teased. "Touchy!"

Michael, Ezra, Yvonne and Jack arrived with the last of Sarah's things and added them to the pile.

"Do you think we could get the security team together in about forty-five minutes for a meeting?" Michael asked.

"Sure,' Ezra agreed. "Yvonne, could you let Nate and Andy know? And see if Daniel's willing to cover the camera feeds while we meet?"

Michael turned to Sarah. "You're welcome to come to the meeting if you want to, but don't feel like you have to. It's going to be about security, and a lot of it will be about Hawley's group. I don't know if that would be something you really want to hear about right now."

"I think I would rather stay here. I can figure out which things are in which boxes."

"Marcus made rigatoni in vodka sauce for lunch. I can bring some up for you while you guys figure out the box situation," Mariah volunteered.

"That sounds delicious!"

"It is."

On their way to the kitchen, Michael asked, "Is she moving in with him?"

"Michael!"

"What? We moved the boxes to his room instead of her room. It's a fair question."

"I'll tell you when we're somewhere private."

"Somewhere private? Is that an invitation to take you off to a dark corner?"

She darted into the kitchen before he had a chance to try anything. The kitchen was empty.

"Ha! Marcus isn't here to save you!"

Marcus' voice came from the pantry. "Did someone call me?"

Mariah smirked at Michael. "You were saying?"

Marcus was happy to dish up some pasta, along with some bread and salad. They used a couple of serving trays to carry it up to Ezra's quarters. Afterward, Michael took Mariah to the lounge in his wing.

"Marcus definitely isn't here to save you this time, Miss Smarty-pants. Take off your clothes."

"But we have a meeting in just a few minutes!"

"We have a meeting in more than half an hour. I intend to spend that time on the couch with you naked over my lap. Do you need help taking your clothes off?"

"No."

"Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No! I mean, I'm okay." The last thing she wanted was more talking. She began undressing.

He reclined on the sectional to watch. When she was naked, he guided her to sit sideways on his lap, then eased her back until she was laying with her shoulders on the seat beside him. He hooked her nearest leg over the arm of the sectional and left her other leg dangling. Exposed, she wrapped her arms over her stomach.

"Put your hands over your head and cross your wrists."

He waited until she complied.

"Good girl. Keep them just like that."

He spent most of the next half hour ignoring the old documentary that he turned on, while Mariah devoted herself to focusing as exclusively as possible to the narrator's drone about the search for the ruins of Carthage. She wasn't terribly successful. He started with light touches over her stomach, across her hips and down her thighs. Her breasts were next. He feathered his fingers up their slopes to her nipples, as If he were drawing the sensation upward to concentrate in the achingly swollen tips.

The combination of his harsh stimulation of her nipples that morning and his teasing throughout the day left them almost unbearably sensitive to light touches. It was a relief when his touch grew firmer. The pleasure was greater, but less tantalizing and easier to tolerate. Then she felt his other hand sliding along the inside of one thigh and then the other with the same light touches he had used on her breasts. She squirmed when he lightly stroked the outside of her pussy. His fingers tightened around her nipple and he gave her pussy a little smack that was so perfect she couldn't stifle a groan.

"Try to be still, sweetheart."

With one hand he began squeezing and massaging her breasts, first one and then the other. With his other hand, he spread her pussy. His index finger slid up and down over her clit until she began to pant.

"Are you doing okay?"

When she didn't answer, he stopped what he was doing. "Answer me, kitten."

She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were dark pools, the pupils dilated and unfocused.

"How do you feel?"

She worried at her lower lip while she searched for the word.

"I feel floaty."

"Floaty?"

She nodded, unwilling or unable to come up with a better word.

"Do you remember the rule if you start to feel disconnected again?"

She nodded again.

"Out loud."

"Yes."

"No, tell me what it is."

She sighed. She was showing signs of regaining her focus, which was not what he wanted, but he had to make sure another incident like the one earlier in the day was not repeated.

"I'm supposed to tell you."

"You

have

to tell me."

"I have to tell you."

He rolled a nipple between his fingers. "Good girl."

He dipped inside her entrance to slick his finger before he resumed his slow torment of her clit. The hood had drawn back as her clit swelled, and he was able to fully circle it as he traced round and round. Soon she was whimpering so plaintively that he offered a measure of mercy.

"Do you need my fingers inside you, baby?"

She nodded. "Please."

When he slid one finger into her, her hips arched. When he pushed two fingers in, he could feel her legs tremble. She was much too close to coming for him to do more than slowly stroke in and out. He abandoned her breasts and clit so that she could concentrate on his fingers inside of her. Every time his fingers moved, she clamped down around them. He gradually increased the tempo until she was panting and moaning. Then he stopped.

She whined when he pulled his fingers from her pussy.

"I think that's all you can handle right now, sweetheart."

He helped her sit up, and then to stand. When he shifted to the edge of the seat, he realized how uncomfortably insistent his erection had become. He hadn't intended to indulge himself again until later, but he needed to take the edge off.

"Kitten?"

"Hmmm?"

"Come kneel down between my legs."

She glanced at him, half-hopeful, half-wary as she sank to her knees in front of him. He unfastened his pants, then freed his cock from his boxers. The relief was immediate.

"Do you want it, Mariah? It's up to you. You don't have to."

"Yes."

He was surprised. He had expected her to resist admitting it.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want to suck your cock." She looked up at him and added, "Please."

He brushed her hair back from the side of her face and pulled her toward his groin. Her hand replaced his, wrapping around his shaft. She guided his tip back and forth over her lips, then licked it delicately. Mindful of the consequences of too much teasing, she quickly swirled her tongue and took the head of his cock in her mouth. She rubbed her tongue against the underside while she sucked. Soon she was sucking him deeper, her head bobbing as his cock slid in and out between her firmly pressed lips. He placed both hands on the back of her head and pulled her down slowly until the head of his cock bumped the back of her throat. He gently held her there as he pushed further.

He sank in fully and paused, feeling her throat constricting around his cock. Her throat kept squeezing his cock as she swallowed again and again until she had to back up to breathe. He caressed her cheek, and she let her eyes close as she leaned into his hand. When she was ready, she looked back up at him. He held her head in his hands and guided her mouth up and down his shaft. Before long he could feel the vibration of the greedy little noises she was making. Her tongue stopped sweeping from side to side as she grew more intent on the rhythm of sucking.

He could feel the tingling starting at the base of his cock. As his balls tightened, his need to thrust grew. He needed to fuck her mouth. He eased her head up and stood. She moved with him, shifting to an upright kneeling position. As she recaptured his cock in her mouth, he threaded his fingers through her hair. With her head cradled between his hands, he began thrusting into her mouth.

The speed of his thrusts grew until she couldn't keep sucking. There was little she could do besides keeping her lips pressed around his shaft. Being deprived of anything to do left her to focus on the feeling of him fucking her mouth: the feeling of his cock pushing into her mouth, sliding over her tongue, and bumping the back of her throat; the feeling of her power even as he took his pleasure from her. She squeezed her thighs together and shuddered.

He didn't try to hold back his orgasm. After the first spurt, he eased up enough that she could suck. His hips twitched forward in time to the rhythm of her suction. When it was over, he fell back against the arm of the sectional to arrange his pants and catch his breath. She looked disappointed, no doubt wanting to indulge her habit of gentle suckling afterward.

"Come here, sweetheart." He took her hand to help her stand, then drew her to him.

"I'm afraid the time has gotten away from me. We need to get downstairs to the meeting."

Her eyes widened and she looked at the clock. They were already a minute late. She dressed hurriedly, despite Michael's assurances that she didn't need to rush.

"They're not going to start without us. I think you might want to freshen up first," he suggested, eyeing her tousled hair and thinking of her dripping wet pussy.

Her cheeks flushed. She jogged off to her bathroom. A few minutes later, she was back, poised and collected. Despite her hurry, Michael pulled her close and kissed her. "I love you, sweetheart." Before she could say anything, he headed for the elevator, with her in tow.

They were the last ones to arrive for the meeting. Once they got started, Mariah wasn't sure why she was there at all. They talked about "lessons learned" from the attempted kidnapping, but she really didn't have anything to add to the discussion. Michael asked for an inventory of the video cameras and microphones in storage so that they could evaluate placement of additional devices. Everyone agreed that suspicious activity immediately outside the walls of the compound would be addressed more proactively.

Jim Carruthers was still chilling in a holding room in the basement. Ezra planned to question him a final time after the meeting. After that, there didn't seem to be any reasonable alternative to releasing him. Once they let him go, Hawley would know they had been asking about Sarah and about the lake house. Even without the help of Quinland's agent, Hawley ought to be able to figure out Sarah hadn't escaped on her own.

Mariah finally spoke up. "We could just persuade Carruthers not to tell them what he told us."

Everyone laughed.

"I was being serious."

Everyone looked uncomfortable, like she had said something tremendously stupid and nobody wanted to be the one to tell her.

"Sweetheart, I don't think we can trust him not to tell something just because we ask him to."

Michael's patronizing tone grated on Mariah's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. She narrowed her eyes at him. "I didn't say anything about making a request. I said persuade him."

"How would we do that?" Ezra asked.

"I doubt you could. Let me try. I'm not a man and I'm not an authority figure. I can use his ego rather than working against it. I'll just convince him that it's in his best interest. It probably really

is

in his best interest."

Michael started to object, but the look she gave him made him reconsider. He didn't want her anywhere near one of Hawley's goons, but he didn't need more arguments with her right now. She was probably already looking for an excuse to distance him. With adequate precautions, she would be perfectly safe talking to Carruthers.

When Michael sat back in his chair, Ezra spoke. "I'm skeptical, but I don't see what we have to lose as long as she doesn't give him any information."

"Unless there's something you want them to know," Mariah suggested.

"But anything we let them know, we have to assume Quinland will know, too," Nate pointed out.

Michael nodded. "I agree. Maybe we should be thinking about what we want Quinland to believe. This could be a unique opportunity. Unless there's more to discuss about Carruthers, let's turn our attention to Quinland's guy. Nate, what did you say Dave's real name is?"

"Fred Lansing."

"Thanks. My initial assumption was that if Quinland's got a guy on his payroll here, it's about me rather than about Hawley or his group. I'm open to alternative explanations. Is there anything about Ashland that would interest Quinland?"

Michael's question was met by headshaking around the table. He continued. "The only possible reason I can think of would be expansion of his geographic influence. But again, why Ashland? It's true that there's not another Elite property anywhere nearby, but there are lots of places Quinland doesn't have his hooks yet. Also, why now? I tend to think the answer to both questions is my father's recent death."

"That was my assumption," Ezra agreed. "Quinland's ambitious and he's an opportunist. His interest may not be overtly hostile, although I don't rule out that possibility. He's probably trying to assess how he might use your father's death to gain some influence. He's a big believer in influence and puts a premium on information. I can't even guess at the resources he expended converting and building The Center, all to have control and influence over the relationships between Elites and the flow of information.

"As I've reported to you before, there's been partial substantiation of the rumors that Quinland has listening devices all over the place at The Center. The first rumors were about Forum Centralia, which I thought wasn't too surprising, since it's where you guys meet. I suppose there were bits to be gleaned from listening in on the sidebar conversations or breakout sessions.

"More recently, though, Sly Finnegan's head of security found a microphone in Finnegan's room at the lodging center. When he brought it up over beers one night a couple of conferences ago, some of the other guys were nodding. Nobody else volunteered information, but I walked away with the understanding that we're subject to eavesdropping anywhere we go in The Center. I don't even trust the Shopping Arcade. I assume that's the reason nobody but Finnegan's guy volunteered anything out loud. I especially don't trust The Pit, but I never have."

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but so I can follow what you're saying, could someone tell me who Sly Finnegan is and what The Pit is?" Mariah asked.

The men around the table looked uncomfortable, but Yvonne was grinning ear to ear. "Sly Finnegan is an Elite based out of southwest Wyoming. 'Sly' is just a nickname for Sylvester. He's one of the younger members of the Elites and is supposed to be pretty nice to work for. Now, The Pit..." Yvonne broke off to glance around the table, clearly relishing everyone else's discomfort. "The Pit is short for 'Passion Pit.' I assume people shortened it because Passion Pit is too embarrassing to say. My nickname for it is 'the Prostitute Palace.' It's where the well-connected male gets his rocks off."