brangle buttock game with brutal intensity, perhaps meaning to punish each other for their separation. They couple with the desperation of survivors.
In her bouncy bed, with the pink mattress flounce all around, French dolls tossed to the floor to stare at the ceiling with ceramic eyes, they joust with grunts and fervor, reclaiming their intimacy with groans and curses. No delicacy or gentle caring here, but naked warfare and the fury of combat.
“Ah,” Timothy Cone says. “Ah ah ah.”
These two demons never have figured out if they’re lovers or antagonists-and have no interest in finding out. All they seek is the resolution of their wants. And if the end doesn’t justify the means, what the hell does?
So they slide slickly over each other, prying ferociously, grappling, twisting, biting, and losing themselves in a quest they cannot define. There is anguish in their lovemaking as if they mean to perish when all is complete. But meanwhile they practice the age-old tricks and skills that came out of the cave, or might have been perfected by hairy primates swinging from trees.
Neither will surrender, but both must. They end with a duet of moans and yelps, singing a song of longing and need deferred. Then, slackening, they stare at each other wide-eyed, fearful of their release, wondering if the world still turns.
Cone lurches off the sheets, stands a moment until his knees solidify. Then he pads over to Samantha’s refrigerator and returns with the chilled California chablis he brought to celebrate her homecoming. He fills their glasses, then sets the jug down on the floor alongside the bed.
They sit up with their backs against the headboard, sipping their wine and content to laze away the late Saturday afternoon.
“Did you miss me?” Sam asks.
“Sure.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t cut your eyes at another woman while I was gone.”
“I might have looked,” Cone admits, “but I didn’t touch.”
“Fair enough,” Sam says. “And what have you been up to at the office?”
“Nothing much. The usual bullshit.”
She turns her head to glare at him. “Come on, asshole, give me a break,” she says. “I’ll read your reports on Monday anyway.”
“Yeah, well, mostly I was working the White Lotus file.”
“Tell me about it.”
He gives her a condensed account of his adventures with Chin, Claire, and Edward Lee, with Johnnie Wong and Henry Wu Yeh, with the United Bamboo and Giant Panda gangs. By the time he finishes, they’ve polished off the wine. Cone refills their glasses. The light is muted now, the apartment mellow with dusk.
“Jesus,” Sam says, “you really get the crapolas, don’t you. Did the Giant Panda baddies ever come after you?”
“Nah. I got a call on Wednesday from Chin Tung Lee. He made a deal with Yeh-bought back Giant Panda’s shares of White Lotus stock at a premium. And Edward is moving to the coast to start his new business.”
“Was Chin happy at how it all turned out?”
“I guess so. He sent me a great big carton of White Lotus products. I’ve got enough Chinese food in the loft to give Cleo slanted eyes.”
“Tim,” she says thoughtfully, “that Claire Lee-was she the one you had the hots for?”
“She’s something. I thought at first she was gold, but she turned out to be tin.”
“But her husband loves her.”
“Everyone’s got problems,” Cone says.
“Yeah? What’s your problem, sonny boy?”
“I’m horny again.”
“Thank God!” Samantha cries.
