by Smart, Kit
“Okay.” I said slowly as I took it in. “So how does it work—this negotiation process?”
“You ask me questions.” He told me and I noted that the neutrality was still there. “I answer them.” A slight pause. “I ask you questions. You answer them.” He looked away and let out a deep breath. “And we figure it out.”
“Okay.”
He glanced back at me. “You say okay a lot.”
I decided to overlook that for the defense mechanism it was. “You really don’t mind if I—?” I let that fall into the spaces between us.
“Ask questions?” He finished with a small crooked smile that had me wondering. “No, I don’t mind.” His eyes darkened slightly. “It’s easier if I can be open about it.”
I blinked in surprise. I would have thought that he wouldn’t welcome intrusive intimate questions. “Really?” Borrowing one of his expressions I raised my eyebrows at him. I refrained from attempting his head tilt; it is virtually impossible to look down your nose at someone taller than you.
Amusement flickered across his face—presumably at my imitation of him. “Yeah.” He grinned at me. “CP is part of who I am Pippa. “It isn’t all that I am but it affects me. It affects the way I do and experience things.” The grin faded. “Having people around me who are willing acknowledge, and make space for that, whether or not they totally understand it. It’s…” He hesitated.
“Less work?” I filled in thinking about the way he was leaning against me.
“Yeah, something like that.”
I thought of our characters. “How often does it happen?”
“Happen?” Now he was doing the raised eyebrows.
“People asking questions and making space for your CP?” I squirmed internally with residual socially-conditioned embarrassment but forced it down with resolution. For the love of god, he has outright told you to ask Pippa.
“Rarely.” Very level.
“Your friends and family?” Too pushy Pippa.
“Some of them can and some of them can’t.” Same polite level tone.
“Surely—” My instinctive protest faltered in the face of his challenging stare. What do you know about it? “Okay.” I said instead.
“There’s that word again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Would you like me to switch it up with some profanity? Maybe a ‘fuck yeah’?”
I felt his quiet laugh. “No. You’re prickly enough as it is.”
“Nice Hastings. Really nice.” The reverberation of his laughter was having an odd effect on me—akin to that of a cat purring and I wondered idly if the reverberation of laughter had ever been studied for its relaxation properties. Did laughter occur at the same decibel as the purring of a cat? Did it have similar associated health benefits?
“Sinclair?”
“Ah—sorry.” I shook my head to clear away my wandering thoughts. “What about romantic partners?” I refocussed myself on the conversation. This was the core of any potential plot changes.
He smiled slightly as if amused. “Very rarely.” There was a slight tightness to that that didn’t match the easiness of his expression.
“Why not?”
“Well you would have to ask them to be certain,” He regarded me down the length of his nose. “but I imagine that some of it centers around sex—perceived inability to have, or perceived difficulty during.”
Ouch. “They see you as unable to have sex or as difficult to have sex with?” I clarified carefully. Following his lead, I kept my tone easy and matter-of-fact. I so did not want to disrupt the comfortable rhythm we had going.
“They’re not wrong—about the second one.” Pressed as we were together, I felt his heart pound briefly before it regained its regular beat. “I enjoy sex and I’m a more than competent lover.” He said and it was my heart’s turn to flutter. Down girl. This is your colleague. Currently in any case. “I know my way around a woman’s body—how to pleasure a woman’s body.” How is it you’re able to be so open about this? I wondered as I fought the urge to flush. “I am considerate and I am capable of making love to you any way you’d like.”
Me?
“But,” There was a slight change in tone—one I couldn’t quite decipher. “I often need…” A slight hesitation. “preparation—spontaneity is not always possible.”
I considered that. Considered those indecipherable brown eyes. “What do you mean by preparation?”
“I mean this.” He deepened his lean briefly. “And—” His tone changed and he looked away. Something about this part is harder than the rest.
“And?” I prompted when he didn’t continue.
“And,” He looked back at me and I was surprised to see the barest hint of reserve in his eyes. “I sometimes need time to get—comfortable prior to sex.”
“How do you mean?” I asked carefully aware that this was a sensitive spot. What could you possibly be getting at that would result in that edge of uncertainty in the context of this conversation?
“My legs and my back, during the day, they get…sore.” He told me. “Ideally, it is better if—” An brief hesitation as he hunted for the words. “I am relaxed… I mean, if I have time to relax before…sex”
I stared at him. Why the sudden stumbling and stammering here of all places? How is it that pain is more difficult to talk about than sex? “Seems pretty normal.” I said then hastened to clarify when he threw me a surprised look. “To not want to have sex when you’re in pain.” To not want to be in pain during sex?
“It’s a hell of a spanner to throw into the works Sinclair.”
“Why?” It was my turn to be surprised. “Everyone needs foreplay.”
“Foreplay?”
I wondered briefly if I had the wrong end of the conversation somehow. “Uh, preparation for sex?” I tried rephrasing it. “Making sure your partner’s comfortable and receptive?”
“I wouldn’t classify it as foreplay.”
“Why not?” I frowned at him.
“It’s more…medical; physical than sexual.”
“But it is preparation…” The wheels were turning in my brain now as I seized upon a direction for our project. “Preparation for sex is by definition foreplay—or at least it could be…” I frowned as I considered the possibilities. “Your muscles get tight? Cramp up?”
“Yeah.”
“So meds, heat and massage?” I guessed.
“Something like that.”
“That could totally be foreplay. A hot bath with a partner and a massage… good for relaxation but also good for building anticipation and desire; kind of like tantric sex.” I grinned up at him suddenly excited. “And we now have a direction for our sex scenes!”
Hastings gave me an odd look. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
“Since this is a romance novel, we had better go with a heroine who makes an effort don’t you think?”
“That would be the practical approach.” Dry.Very dry.
“So—is this the best position for kissing or do you have better ones?
“You want me to show you my favorite kissing position?” There was a slight incredulity to that which was unexpected.
“Kissing positions.” I clarified which earned me a look. “For research purposes.” I reminded him. “We are going to need a variety for the novel and I want to make certain I understand the negotiation process.”
“Okay.” He said after a moment during which he considered me carefully. “The muscles in my legs are tight which makes me somewhat unsteady on my feet. The tightness also causes spasms and cramps pretty regularly which can cause me to fall, so positions that eliminate stress on my legs are preferable.”
“Such as?” I prompted.
Straightening slightly he dropped his hand from the back of my head then used it to reach behind him as he used his other hand to pull me back with him. Releasing me entirely for a moment, he levered himself up onto the table. Once he had positioned himself he reached out and pulled me forward until I stood between his
open legs. Once again I found myself front to front with him only this time he wasn’t leaning on me for support and his thighs rested along my hips. Curiously, I found that I missed the slight pressure of the lean. “You’re a lot more relaxed.” I observed as I took in the relative ease of his body against mine.
“I’m not worried about having muscle spasms and falling or how you’re feeling about my leaning on you. He said simply.
“Yes, I suppose that would help.”
That earned me a laugh which somehow made my rising my hands to rest on his shoulders the most natural thing in the world. “For the record, I don’t mind the leaning.”
“Is that so? He tilted his head back to peer down at me with amusement, and I had to catch my breath at the unexpected way the expression lit him up. You’re a handsome man Hadrian Hastings; when you smile like that.
“That is so.” Forcing the disturbing thought aside, I tilted my head and peered back up at him in return. “It’s kind of nice actually.”
He closed his eyes in reaction to that. I saw him swallow once—hard. Then he reopened his eyes and smilingly nodded in the direction of the sofa. “Okay. Next position.” He gave me a small push and I turned obediently and made my way over to the sofa. The sound of him sliding off the table told me he was close behind me while the pattern of the steps told me that he wasn’t using his canes. He put a hand on my shoulder to indicate his intentions as he brushed past me to seat himself on the sofa. I was close enough that our legs were touching and reaching out he caught my hand and catching my gaze with his he guided me forward until it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to straddle his legs. Hastings caught my other hand. “Down Sinclair.” He instructed quietly as he pulled and I found myself laying first one knee and then the other along his outer thighs. I hesitated and he caught it. “If you have something to ask, just ask.” Hastings said simply.
“Will it hurt you if I sit on your legs?”
“No. Not now.”
“But sometimes?”
“Sometimes.” He confirmed with a small smile.
Not quite believing him, I lowered myself carefully until I was seated on his thighs.
He grinned at my caution. “See. No problem.”
I found myself smiling back. As we smiled at one another, he released my hands and moved his own hands to my hips and I found myself once again moving my hands to his shoulders. “If you’re not uncomfortable with the idea, you can move forward a bit.” He told me carefully.
I considered. Moving forward would put me directly into his lap which was definitely pushing the boundaries of acceptable intimacy between colleagues. However, this was all in the name of research was it not? And considering that you’ve already been pressed up against him in inappropriate-for-work ways, and nothing untoward has happened, you don’t exactly have cause for concern.
“I can’t promise that I won’t react.” He said, presumably sensing my reservations. “But I can promise that any reaction that happens is sheerly biological rather than intentional and as such will not be acted upon.” A wry, self-deprecating twist of his lips indicated that he saw the humor in the situation. Erections happen?
“Okay.” I stuffed the errant thought that I couldn’t promise the same to the back of my brain and slid forward onto his lap. Whether it was the sensation of my female bits settling against the still soft bulges of his male bits, or the sensation of his hands taking a tighter grasp on my hips and lower back in a manner reminiscent of the way a man holds on during sex; I found that I had to close my eyes briefly as a stab of arousal shot though me. This is research. I told myself grimly as I fought the instinctive desire to move against him. You cannot start this with him. You work together. You cannot risk fucking up this project. Get it out of your head and get on with things.
Pep talk done I forced myself to open my eyes just as Hastings shifted beneath me. Although it was a minuscule shift, it served to communicate the changes in his body in an intimate fashion. My clit began to throb in heated reaction to the presence of his hardening cock that had, somehow, despite our layers of clothing come to rest intimately between my folds. All you have to do is slide forward—just a little and then back just a little. Blood flooded to my nether regions in response to the thought and I found myself hard-pressed not to groan at the sensation. He’s your colleague. You cannot do this. Just move back. Just get off his lap. That’s all you have to do. I braced my hands on his shoulders in preparation to push myself off his lap and took a deep breath which proved to be a mistake because my expanding diaphragm pushed me more fully against Hastings—a move, I realized, he felt too when I felt his cock swell and lengthen even further agains me.
The rest of my body joined my clit in its throbbing awareness of that cock and I felt myself get wet at the thought of releasing it from the confines of his trousers and after guiding it to my entrance slowly sinking down onto it. He was thick and long, I could feel that, and would stretch and fill me in a way that would satisfy the throbbing ache rapidly growing between my legs. Get a grip Pippa. This is the kind of stupid shit that could cost you the farm. Literally. Cost. You. The. Farm. It was the thought version of dousing myself with a bucket of cold water and I felt my arousal begin to recede. I bit my lip and the resulting pain drew the final dregs of my attention away from my lap to my mouth. Like smashing yourself on the thumb with a hammer so you can ignore a migraine.
I heard Hastings let out a breath and when I felt him soften beneath me realized that he must be smashing his own proverbial thumb. I opened my eyes and found him, face and neck still lightly flushed with arousal, regarding me steadily. “Biology.” He reminded me with a small shrug.
It was the perfect thing to say under the circumstances and I shrugged in response. “Fuck yeah.” I agreed.
He laughed settling more fully back against the sofa as he did so. “You look really comfortable.” I observed noting the relaxed , almost boneless appearance, of his upper body. The contrast made me aware of the heretofore ever-present tightness in his body. You’ve been tense and uncomfortable pretty much the whole time I’ve known you haven’t you? It shed some light on the mystery of the pain killers.
“I am.” Hastings said easily.
“I’ve never seen you this relaxed.”
“The sofa supports and cushions my legs and back.” He explained almost languidly. That’s different. I cocked my head at him.
“What?” He asked.
“You’re different.” I said. “Your tone is different—less edgy…”
“Edgy?”
“Less—“ I waved a hand searching for the words. “impatient, less sharp, less angry.”
“Ah—” He looked away briefly and when he looked back his eyes were cautious. “Pain often makes me irritable.”
“Hmmmm….. That makes sense.” That’s probably something you should have realized from your own experience or, you know, a little thought Pippa. “We should include that in the book. Shouldn’t we?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“This?”
“Collaborating with me.” I clarified.
“You do remember asking me right?” Dry.
“I mean,” I gave him a mock frown. “Why did you agree to do this? You didn’t have to.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
He sent me an enigmatic look. “Just once, I want to see a romance novel that portrays disability in all of its messy reality; no fade to black sex scenes or avoidance of sex altogether; no miraculous cures; no suicides or pity or skirting round issues. Just a boy meets girl and they fall in love and it’s real and complicated but romantic and sexy-as-hell kind of story.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s—” The set look on his face warned me that I what I said next would have implications. “do-able.” The look he was giving me; all wariness and cautious hope was intense, so I grimaced and checked my watch. “Barely— if
we get our asses in gear.”
* * * * *
People were staring, had been since I had met Hastings at the bar and followed him across the dining room to our corner table. Some were doing it side-long and others were doing it outright but it didn’t dissipate until we had been seated and Hastings had leaned his canes against the wall.
“You look nice.” He nodded at my red dress.
“You look tired.” I blurted and winced when I heard it come out of my mouth.
He laughed. “Nice social skills you’ve got there Sinclair.”
“Sorry.” I mumbled. “Too much time at the computer clearly.” I took in his charcoal grey suit. “You look nice too.” I told him and earned myself another laugh.
“I look exactly the way I always do.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have time to go home an change after work.”
“You always look nice.” I told him as I reached for my water glass. “You came here directly? Busy day?”
“You think I always look nice?” He tilted his head to the side; looked bemused.
“Yes. You always look nice.” I affirmed. “You don’t always act nice but you always look nice.”
“Ouch.” He said softly.
“Serves you right for fishing.”
“A man’s gotta to do a little fishing every now and then Sinclair. Compliments are rare things.”
“Are you ready to order?” The waiter appeared and I put a mental pin in the conversation while he took our order.
“Well?” Hastings raised his brows at me after the waiter had moved away. Amused, like he knew I was waiting.
I shrugged. “Maybe they wouldn’t be so rare if you weren’t so above it all. It’s hard to compliment a god. You never know if you’re overstepping—or if they need or appreciate compliments at all.” I kept my tone light and teasing and was therefore a little horrified when the amusement faded from his face and he dropped his gaze to his water glass.
“A god?” He asked glancing up at me, brown eyes unreadable, and then just as quickly glancing back down. “Am I really that bad?”
“Well perhaps not a god exactly.” Aware that I had misstepped, I tried to revive the convivial atmosphere. “Maybe more like a really intimidating immortal—a time-lord or—”
