by Poppy Dunne
“That was.” He stops. Please, don’t let him say ‘scratchy.’ “That was incredible,” he rasps.
“Yuppers.” Yes, I just said that. But I said it in the breathiest, sexiest voice of all time, so go me. Fraser sets my feet back on the ground, even though my head’s still spinning. We gaze at each other, and I can feel the simmer of lust between us. I want to ask him to come back to my place—or hell, get in the backseat of my car. I want to feel those strong, capable hands on my body, between my legs, followed by his massive—
Car alarm. Blaring. Right behind me.
Apparently when I leaned back against my little TARDIS, I triggered its berserk mode. The sound is something between a bomb siren and a Jim Carrey comedy from the 90s—obnoxiously loud, but it gets the job done. Fraser’s hands are clamped over his ears while I hit the ‘desist’ button on my keychain. And it does absolutely nothing.
Maybe I should’ve bought anything other than the bargain basement security plan for my baby.
Hold on, Fraser is yelling something over the blaring, ear-shattering noise. What?
“Huh?” I shout. I can’t quite hear him, but his mouth seems to be forming the words ‘Wanna hang tenner.’ “I’ve never been surfing,” I shout back.
This time, he adds mime to his words. “You.” He points at me in the chest. “Tenner.” Then he mimes shoveling a spoon into his mouth…oh, dinner! “Me.” Then he sticks his thumb at himself.
“Yes!” I look back at my bleating TARDIS. Now we’re attracting angry shouts from the buildings around us. “Soon as I fix this!” I scream.
Fraser holds up his hands: wait. Then he goes over to the front of the car, wincing as my baby screams in his face. He knocks politely on the hood, as if asking the engine gnome to come out and have tea with him. Then, taking a step back, he hurls himself forward with the sincerity of a tweed-wearing professional wrestler. He body slams on the hood of the car, and my little TARDIS gives one final blip, and then stops. The ringing in my ears suggests I may need to go to a doctor, but the buzzing in my nether regions indicates I need a love doctor.
Paging Dr. Drake. Come in, Dr. Drake.
“Well. That solves that.” He’s back to semi-British formality, which is hot in the way Mr. Spock is hot. Having seen a little bit of the buttoned-up Fraser Drake fall away, I want to see him fully, gloriously naked. I want to see how much I can make him scream.
God, I am going to need that vibrator tonight.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He catches me up against him and kisses me once more. My whole body tingles as he lets me go. Tingles, man. That’s the real deal.
“Tomorrow. And Emma?” He paces away from me. I watch him go, still panting with lust.
“Yes, Fraser?”
He eyes my little car. “How about I drive?”
8
Fraser
“Take it easy!” my trainer, Colin, says as I attack the punching bag with everything that I’ve got. “You want to have a little energy left over for sparring.”
“Believe me, I’ve energy to burn today,” I tell him, because I can still feel her body pressed against mine, still enjoy the taste of her lip gloss, the scent of her hair. The kiss with Emma did not go as planned. No, it was far more than even I could have imagined. Much more.
I was surprised by how she responded, how ready she was. Surprised, and then mad with desire. I swear, if that mouthy little car hadn’t stuck its horn into our business, I might have taken her right there. Yes, right on the asphalt. I get the feeling Emma had a similar thought, and that the idea turned her on.
I can’t get aroused during a boxing session. Colin will send me to the showers.
Finally, I let the bag have a breather and wait for my heart rate to cool. It’s my lunch hour, but I found the idea of eating too bloody exciting. In a few hours, I’ll be eating dinner with Emma. Then, if all goes well, I’ll be eating—
I need to be a gentleman about this. And have a sandwich at some point.
“Rough day?” Colin walks with me to the mat, strapping on his gloves. “Or did you have too good of a night?” He grins at me, then jabs me in the shoulder. That one’s for free, pal.
“A gentleman never tells.” I put in my mouth guard, so I couldn’t tell even if I wanted to. Upon arriving in my long lost hometown, I wanted to keep up my training. After years of being the skinniest boy in class, I was determined to fill out. That I did, upon discovering a boxing club in Cambridge. Bit like Fight Club, but without the hallucinations and unintentional homoeroticism. It’s been something of a hobby of mine ever since.
Colin’s been in the ring with Mayweather before, and he told me when we started that I was the most natural and surprisingly advanced student he had. Said I’d missed my true calling. I believe that was all flattery to keep me coming back. Still gave him a massive tip, though.
We spar, jabbing and dodging about the place. This was exactly the right idea; there’s no thought of Emma while I’m trying to avoid getting a fist to the jaw. Because she would be too distracting. Distracting, with that dark blonde hair framing her face, her lips parted. Distracting in a low cut evening gown, so that I can glimpse those remarkable—
And I’m on the floor, Colin bending over me with a bemused expression of concern.
“Pretty sure you’ll be seeing stars after that one.” He helps me to my feet. Not stars. Breasts. Dancing, impeccable breasts.
I should have a concussion more often.
I take out the mouth guard, and laugh. There’s no real damage done; already the room’s quit shaking. “Slightly distracted today. Bit of a good night yesterday.”
Colin grins, and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Finally. I knew you’d get over being a tightass at some point.”
“Call me that again in five minutes. I need to give back as good as I get.” I stick the mouth guard back in as Colin laughs…and then someone else joins in.
The sound is enough to freeze my blood and kill any lightly stirring hard-on I might have. Gavin Walker has wandered into our private session, dressed for a workout. His teeth gleam, his shit-eating grin perfection. Of all the bloody high-end, exclusive gyms in Los Angeles, I have to pick the one with this bastard as a member?
“You still haven’t given it up, Fras?” Gavin keeps grinning. I assume he means boxing. Fuck, but I’d love to demonstrate all the hours I’ve spent training right now, right on his damned bloody face.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” Colin grins and walks over to clasp hands with Gavin in that aggressive, grappling gesture I remember from my American childhood. “You forget the date, asshole?” Colin says this affectionately. “We’re not on until Saturday.”
Of course Gavin is still boxing. He looks over at me, that easy-going, boyish charm in full effect. He can make anyone see the best in him. He’s talented in that way.
“Popped in to say hi, but what a coincidence.” Gavin enters, his hand held out to me. “This man and I go way back. All the way to college.”
Yes, that one study abroad year at Cambridge. I was the one who introduced Gavin to boxing. Who introduced him to many things that I loved.
How I regret those introductions now.
“No shit?” Colin shakes his head, whistling. “You two assholes used to spar together?”
“All the time.” Gavin keeps smiling; now I’m the one who looks like a raging dickhead. As usual.
“Boxing is a passion we share.” I say it politely.
“Not the only thing we share.”
Now there’s some primal part of me that wants to grab this man by his shirt and throw him headfirst out the window, onto Olympic Boulevard. I clench my hands as best I can in these boxing gloves.
Emma. Could he be talking about Emma?
“You two want to spar, for old time’s sake?” Colin hands Gavin a pair of gloves and a mouth guard. At first, I consider saying no as neutrally as possible. But Gavin seems so eager to play. I nod in agreement, and within mi
nutes we’re ready. Gavin moves back and forth with that lithe, easy grace of his. He was always the quicker of the two of us.
In more ways than one.
“Been too long, Fras.” He taps gloves against mine as we begin. Since he’s wearing a mouth guard, those weren’t the easiest words to catch, but catch them I did. A pressure builds behind my eyes.
Fras. The sound of friendship, of when it was only the three of us. Gavin, Gillian, and me. Closing down every pub in Cambridge. Studying blearily, well into the early morning hours. Gillian’s tears when he had to go back to America. And then he returned after graduation, to relive the old times.
And how we lived then.
I circle him, remembering that I’m not the one to land a fast blow. No, I have to draw him out. He needs to feel comfortable and confident. When I was younger, I made the mistake of feeling too much. I revealed the soft, vulnerable bits…and no, I don’t simply mean my balls.
I have had much time since then to protect myself—and safeguard my testicles.
Gavin jabs, and I let a few of his blows land. That draws him in closer. That gives him the taste of victory already. Gavin’s flaw is his ease: he believes himself to be better than everyone he meets. Faster. Quicker. Slyer.
People that confident can find they’ve underestimated their opponent.
I let him push me back, back to the edge of the mat…and then I send out a small jab, to catch him off guard. He doesn’t suspect it when I lean back and deliver a mean right hook across his face. Gavin’s head whips to the side, and the mouth guard goes flying. He collapses back onto the mat, coughing and touching at the swollen, tenderized point where my blow landed. Colin stands at the edge of the mat, one eyebrow cocked.
“Got some real power, Fraser. I haven’t seen that before.”
That’s because I don’t have a reason to want to murder you, Colin. Gavin looks up at me from his place on the mat, and for one instant I get to see that mask of his fall. The charming, grinning, easygoing fellow disappears and a raw, cold intensity breaks through. Gavin never liked it when things didn’t go his way. Not when we were young, and not now.
Then, probably for Colin’s benefit, that shit-eating grin reappears. Gavin extends a hand, a silent offer to be helped up. Like a pal. Like two good friends who enjoy beating the fuck out of each other.
I don’t extend a hand. Colin grunts, comes over and clasps Gavin’s hand. He helps his other pupil up, while looking at me with cool detachment. Of course, he’ll have found himself on Gavin’s particular team now. That’s the way it is with people.
The way it always has been.
“Take it easy, Fraser. No need to lose your fucking mind.” Colin walks back, giving Gavin time to excuse me. To make himself look saintly in comparison.
“Fras likes to play tough. It’s one thing I admire about him.” Gavin clasps my hand in that wrestling battle for domination we call a handshake in this country. He leans in a little closer, so that it’s hard for Colin to hear. “You got a firm grip, man. Of course, you know what they say about guys who hold on too tight?” He releases me at last. “Whatever they want slips through their fingers.”
And Gavin Walker is always so easy to let go whatever he doesn’t want.
“We should do this more often.” I still have the greater height, and this is my fucking session. Time for the extra man in the room to get the hell out. Gavin moves away for the door, and I think I’ll have the last word. Of course, I should learn at this point that that’s simply too much to hope for.
“Let’s call this round one,” Gavin says, grinning before he exits.
If I know anything about Gavin, it’s that he won’t give up a fight until it’s finished. And currently, the one battleground we share is Emma.
9
Emma
I’d like to tell you that I didn’t obsess over getting every aspect of my appearance right before this date. I’d like to tell you I came home after staying late at the office for half an hour, before grabbing a quick shower and sliding into just any old thing lying on my floor. But that would all be a total lie. I pulled out every stop for Mr. Fraser Drake this evening. Did I leave work half an hour early by pretending I’d come down with a rare form of illness caused by deer ticks? Sadly, yes. I had to use my lip liner to paint dots on my face and everything. I am still ten years old; I just graduated to a different body.
Once home, I took a thirty minute shower while shaving and lotioning and washing and conditioning and plucking and tweaking and twerking and any other thing ending in –ing I could think of. Then, you better believe I fretted a full half hour with Casey and Moira on Skype while fishing pieces out of my wardrobe. It’s a studio apartment, so my wardrobe is a closet that would be a walk in closet if I lost half my body weight and then cut off both my legs. Couple that with a few cardboard boxes I still haven’t unpacked, and you have my entire fashion inventory.
Classy, I know.
“You look like you’re going to disco prom,” Moira helpfully says while downing a wine cooler. Hey, I don’t look that tacky. These Mardi Gras beads I found at the bottom of a box were just a touch of flare. It was in the moment, dammit.
“What about a sedate color palette? Something tells me Fraser’s an autumn, not a summer.” Casey is drinking a martini. Why am I the only one without booze? Oh, right, because I don’t want to be sloshed in front of Fraser. Then he might be too much of a gentleman to put his hands down my pants/skirt/elastic waistband.
Depending on what I decide to wear, of course.
Huffing, I take off the brightly colored beads, shake my hair free of the feathered dazzler pinned to my hair, and slide into a little black cocktail dress with some kitten heels and a matching clutch. The girls dog whistle and toast me when I stroll back into view.
“If he’s not eating you out by the end of the night, then I’m drunk,” Moira says before slamming back the remains of her wine cooler. Casey blinks owlishly behind her glasses.
“I’m pretty sure you are, though,” she says. While they continue to argue between themselves, I log off and get my wrap. It’s seven o’clock, folks. My phone buzzes, telling me it’s Fraser Drake downstairs. Showtime.
I think I’m a fairly attractive lady, but when I stroll out the elevator and into the lobby to find Fraser waiting on me, I don’t feel fairly attractive. As soon as he locks eyes with me, I feel like a goddess. His face goes slack, and his jaw even hangs agape for one sweet second. Yes, I’ve made it sound like he’s having a mini stroke, but don’t take my word for it. Take him.
His, take his. You don’t take him, I’m going to.
“You,” Fraser breathes, “look sensational.”
I can’t thank Casey enough for suggesting the classy black ensemble. But I’m not even preening over my compliment right now, because Fraser’s not the only one who’s practically drooling. I think my tongue’s about to roll out and hit the floor, Looney Tunes style.
I don’t know if the well-fitted suit and tie are his everyday business attire, or if he made a special effort for me. All I know is that the clothes accentuate every line of his powerful body, from the broad shoulders to the nicely sculpted backside. The smolder I mentioned in his brown eyes? It has ignited, folks. His whole countenance is blazing with an emotion I like to think is lust. Heavy, panting lust. Maybe we should skip dinner. Or maybe we should order out for pizza in a few hours after we’ve ridden each other to exhaustion.
Who am I kidding? There’s no getting tired tonight.
“Oh, this old thing?” Yes, I do the stereotypical girl act of downplaying how freaking hard I worked to look this good. Sue me, we all have our way of doing business. “It’s just something I happened to have around.” Again, total lie. Most of my clothing is tie-dyed or Little Mermaid themed. I’m so glad Lily got me this for my last birthday. I owe her a fresh ombre-ing for her hair.
“So you make it a habit of looking this delectable?” Fraser saunters towards me—sauntering, folks, I wa
s right. He somehow makes the Windexed, cramped little lobby of my apartment building a sensual paradise just by walking toward me. That is hard to accomplish.
“Well, you never know who’s going to ask you on a date. Good thing you booked your appointment early.”
That is meant to be flirtatious and endearing. Instead, Fraser goes into full on lockdown mode. The wanton lust evaporates from his face like lusty, I don’t know, steam. The smolder in his eyes is squelched. I’m half afraid that Fraser Drake is an android, and I mistakenly pulled his RAM card or something. Now all he’ll be good for is orgasms and making cappuccino.
Not that there is anything wrong with that.
“Fraser? Something wrong?” What did they do in the third Captain America movie with Bucky Barnes? “Er, longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen—”
“Come again? Are you simply making up words now?” There we go, there’s Fraser back at his Grumpy Cat best. He escorts me out to his Lexus, which is parked and gleaming by the curb, then drives me to the restaurant—just like he said he would. Our conversation on the way is pleasant, but the bubbling heat’s been set to simmer, if you know what I mean. Man, Fraser really clammed up when I made that crack about appointments. Kind of annoys me, really. What, does he think I’m just hanging around with an ‘Open 24/7’ sign hanging from my neck? Or, er, lady bits?
Granted, he takes me to Patina, maybe the swankest French restaurant in the entire city, which means that he has at least some gentlemanly intentions. Patina shares space with the Walt Disney concert hall, which is actually one of my favorite places in the world, hands down. There’s something about the sweeping, billowing silver architecture that makes me happy, like someone’s tossing sheets of music into the air.
When we’re seated and on our first course, sea urchin and oyster paired with some knockout handcrafted tequila cocktails, I’m hoping that this is it. This is where the awkwardness stops and the tipsiness begins. True, I can’t remember the last time I was in a place this elegant, but I wouldn’t mind playing a little footsy under the table. I wouldn’t go any further than that, though. I’m classy. Well, sort of.
