by Kris Pearson
“It’s called a Brazilian. When they deal to your…er…hair down there.” Liz nodded at her crotch.
Vi’s mouth became a perfect ‘O’ of surprise as the full implication hit home. Far worse than a Batman tattoo!
“With those wax strips you see on telly?” Ian asked, plainly fascinated.
“Well not with tweezers, hair by hair, that’s for sure,” she snapped, grabbing her coffee mug and turning for the kitchen to escape further interrogation.
It took about five seconds for Ian to join her.
“Refill?” she asked in a crisp tone to make it clear the subject of her pubic hair was now closed.
He tipped the dregs of his tea away and switched the kettle on again. Liz tweaked a teabag out of Meg’s pottery caddy and tossed it into his damp mug. It lay there looking dejected until he drowned it with boiling water. They both watched the color flood out of the bag.
Damn, I shouldn’t have mentioned the Brazilian. I’ve shocked Vi and got Ian off the subject of him. How do we get back there?
“So—clothes,” she continued, as though there’d been no fascinating diversion in the conversation. “You dress so conservatively, Ian. That’s a rather awful shirt, if you don’t mind me saying so, and your jeans are far too big. We can’t tell if you’ve got a tight little butt or a saggy fat one inside all that fabric. Look at the folds around your waist, for heaven’s sake. All gathered in on that belt.”
“Not a saggy fat one,” he said with a hint of pride.
“Good. So show it off. Women like men’s butts.”
“Men like women’s butts,” he shot back.
“See,” she said, slapping her own trim bottom. “It works both ways. Flaunt yourself.”
She passed him the sugar basin. He was one of those maddening people who took three sugars and stirred forever. She gritted her teeth and waited. Finally he set the spoon down.
“We could do a shopping trip together, if you like?” she offered. “Book the suntan sessions and get you some decent trousers and T-shirts to show off the tan and the butt. Are you up for it?”
Ian sipped his scalding tea and nodded with slow deliberation.
“And some strong sun block,” she added, inspecting his face. “And some moisturizer and lip balm. Your lips are flaky. No-one wants to kiss flaky lips, Ian.”
He licked them. Felt the hard little edges of skin. Looked at Liz’s smooth kissable mouth.
“You use lip balm, do you?”
“Aloe Vera gel,” she said. “Twice every day.”
He made a silent vow to do the same.
“So when’s a good time for you, Ian? I can do it any afternoon one-till-three except Wednesday, which is tennis.”
Her short skirt flipped in the breeze. Her long golden legs tensed for action. The ball flew across the net and she leapt high, smashing the racquet down in triumph. The ball shot across the court again, bounced just inside the line and beat her lumbering opponent.
“Love thirty,” an officious voice announced.
He watched as she strolled back to the baseline, bouncing the bright new ball several times as she sized up the other player. Again the flirty breeze lifted her skirt, exposing smooth thighs and a quick glimpse of high-cut panties.
She stretched, and slammed the racquet down without mercy. Somehow the serve was returned, and she raced over the court, chasing and connecting, volleying hard. Her breasts bounced, her legs tensed, her chestnut ponytail flipped from side to side.
“Love forty.”
That was him. Just on forty, and aching for love.
The game concluded. He waited on the sideline with a fluffy towel to wipe the beads of perspiration from her brow—and if he was lucky, to mop it gently from her heaving breasts. He followed her to the changing rooms, carrying her racquet and sports bag, ready to perform any task she required. He’d willingly enter the shower stall and wash her down like the thoroughbred she was, soaping and massaging her long elegant arms and legs...sliding his strong fingers over her hips and across her neatly pruned pussy. She would—
“So Monday-Tuesday or Thursday-Friday, Ian? Ian?!”
He wrenched himself back to the reality of Meg’s cheerful blue kitchen.
“Sorry—thinking about tennis. Love forty and so on. I’m thirty-nine—turn forty at New Year. Let’s hope the love turns up too. But I think it’ll take more than a suntan and new trousers...”
“Oh, I’ve got lots of other things we can try as well,” she said.
He thought of several as he polished off his tea.
CHAPTER 10 - MEG IS DEFLECTED FROM WRITING
The phone rang just after she’d stacked the final mug into the dishwasher. The writers’ meeting had gone on longer than usual. Five o’clock had just ticked over.
“Meg? It’s Al.”
She shot a guilty glance down at his love-bite.
“Al—hello,” she said, suddenly flummoxed and clumsy. Her fingers roamed without purpose across the control pad, eventually settling on a long extra hot wash for eight mugs, three plates and a few teaspoons.
“Bearing up?” he asked.
“That was some hangover,” she said. “I’m fine now, but I wasn’t worth knowing this morning.”
“Are you worth knowing this evening?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Hell, Meg—that sounds terrible. What do you think he has in mind???
“Wining, dining, back to mine.”
Was he a smooth operator, or what?
She plunked herself down onto one of the kitchen chairs while she searched for a suitable reply. “Wining, dining, and we’ll see?”
“How much will we see?”
“About as much as you saw last night? How did you manage that love-bite?” she demanded, braver now she’d had a few moments to recover her composure.
His deep, rich chuckle made her grateful she was sitting down. “Pick you up at seven?”
“Presumably not in cycling gear?”
“Hmmm...black trou, white shirt, charcoal linen jacket?”
“Uh-huh...taupe jersey, gold chains, black skirt?”
“The jersey doesn’t sound as much fun as last night’s blouse?”
“Nice low neckline....”
“Much more like it. See you Meg.” He rang off, leaving her worried she’d sounded too available, too eager, too much of a pushover. Oh well, he’d made the approach, so he sounded available and eager too. So much for her plans to get back to Carlo the Italian billionaire and Angela the nanny. The nanny would be keeping her underwear on for another evening. Meg wondered if she’d be doing the same.
Ben broke into her dreamy speculations. “Mom, can I have the car tonight please?”
“Yes love. Drive carefully. Where are you going?”
“Movie.”
“On your own?”
“Noooo....”
“With Tigger, by any chance?”
“Maybe.”
Meg smiled. “She’s a bit older than you. Be careful.”
“As in ‘if you can’t be good, be careful’?”
“Really, Ben! I meant don’t go falling for her. She’s only home to escape some horrible English winter weather for a while. Have a nice time. Al’s just rung and asked me out to dinner.”
“Well, you know what they say, Mom—’if you can’t be good, be careful’!”
He ducked to avoid the affectionate swat that was sure to follow. Meg grinned and went upstairs to review her underwear selection and take a very long bath.
As she soaked she thought with regret of her lost writing opportunity. It would have been ideal tonight with Ben out of the house and the computer all hers for once. She needed three completed chapters. Then she could send them to the publisher to show off the standard of her writing.
She began to compose her ‘query letter’—the pleading letter they’d all practiced that afternoon. The polite and hopeful phrases rolled around her brain as she performed the ultimate leg-shave.
CHAP
TER 11 – DEEPLI DOES THE DIRTY
Tigger took her laptop out onto the warm timber deck and thought for a few moments. How was she going to make the rest of this work? So far she’d put the ad in the paper, arranged a couple of phone calls, and got the girl nicely relaxed with her glass of Sauvignon. Time to get to the action. Closely followed by some action with Ben.
Tank would never know. Not that she expected swaggering, disdainful Tank to be faithful while she visited her parents. More than once she’d had her suspicions about his fidelity in London. But it would be nice if he seemed pleased to see her when she returned once the awful winter weather had given way to tentative English spring.
She sprawled back on the planks for a while, ignoring her story as her thoughts drifted elsewhere. At the open French doors to her bedroom, the creamy voile curtains billowed in the warm breeze. Late sunshine soaked into the denim of her jeans, and she stretched with pleasure. She couldn’t imagine being an Eskimo, snowed in and half dark for months on end.
So.
Ben.
How was she going to tackle this? Or tackle him, more to the point. She didn’t think he’d need much encouragement. But he’d managed to restrain himself from grabbing at her earlier that afternoon. She’d been truly surprised when he’d just touched a finger to her nipple. Admittedly a nipple issuing a perky invitation through the stretchy fabric of her T-shirt.
Hell, she must have wanted him every bit as much as he’d wanted her. When she’d gathered up his hand and brought it back to her breast, he’d been gentle and respectful, exploring with reverence and restraint—nearly driving her mad with need.
Still seventeen.
He had to be a virgin, surely? But she couldn’t ask him—that would be just too crass.
She wondered which movie he had in mind. Some bang-crash-male-action-thing, not at all conducive to seduction? Or might he be smarter than that? Maybe he’d elect to suffer through something girly and mushy for her, in the hope she’d catch the mood and want to continue. Was he that transparent? Was he that clever?
Tigger bit her bottom lip, still thinking of how to make her story evolve—another one to load onto Amazon under her Deepli D’Amore name. Tank had suggested she called herself Hardy Blue. “They won’t know if you’re male or female, babe. And blue kinda sums up your style.” He hadn’t added it would be extra publicity for his rock band. He was Tank Hardy (or Thomas Hardy really. How could his parents do that to him?) And Blue was Blue Smith from Seednee, Orstralia. Together with a couple of other hangers-on, they were The Hardy Blue Band, with regular enough work in a couple of London clubs. Regular enough access to salivating women, too. Tigger had few illusions about that, but while Tank thumped his drums, she had uninterrupted time to write. A fair enough trade.
No, she liked Deepli D’Amore. Deepli sounded exotic, like something out of the Kama Sutra. Not to mention sort of penetrating. Deeply.
She sighed and sat up, wrinkling her nose at the faint aroma of fish and chips drifting from the corner takeaway. Not so appetizing now she was full to bursting with Meg’s afternoon tea and Eloise’s ham-and-salad dinner.
So what would she do with Sophie next? Could she really send her upstairs to check out Ryan’s genitals? She drew a breath of anticipation. Hell, it was only fiction. Only an anonymous cheapie thrill for anyone with an e-reader. Yes, Sophie could climb the stairs and see what she found. She opened her slender Mac.
“Amy...?”
The deep masculine voice made Sophie scrunch her eyes closed with mortification.
“Is that your nom de plume?” he teased. “Amy la Belle? Amy du Provence? Something sexy and provocative?”
She stopped thumbing through the photos on her phone and bravely tilted her head skyward. On this delicious evening, French doors were open and curtains stirred lazily in the soft breeze. Ryan from the upstairs apartment leaned against his balcony railing, bare-chested, jeans low on his hips.
“Erotica?” he queried. “Getting yourself in a sexy mood? Needing more information? Sorry—I couldn’t help overhearing.”
His brown eyes danced. He sounded far from sorry. He sounded as though he found her a total joke.
“Research,” she said, hoping for a nonchalant air, and ripping her gaze away again.
“Research for your writing? Mmmm...” He let the little hum of suggestiveness hang in the air.
“I just want to get things...anatomically correct...okay? I don’t have brothers. And no really serious boyfriends.”
Surely her blushing face now clashed furiously with her scarlet slip-dress?
She huffed out a gusty sigh. Ryan would have been ideal—a gorgeous guy who was never short of female company. No doubt sexually experienced to a vast degree. What a pity he hadn’t phoned. She could have had a nice anonymous chat with him instead of this excruciating embarrassment.
“Anatomically correct?” he asked, amusement still all too evident. “You mean tab A into slot B and so on? You can check out my tackle if you want?”
Sophie’s heart stuttered. He couldn’t possibly be serious? What if she called his bluff? “Are you on your own tonight?” she asked, daring to look up again. The wine had given her the courage to hold his intense dark gaze.
“Yup. Rob’s working. Joe’s taken Hannah to a movie. Bring the bottle up with you.”
Yeah, right, Sophie thought. But some brave little devil made her reach out and grab it.
The door to the upstairs apartment swung open as she approached, and pulsing music flowed out and wrapped around her.
Ryan stood just inside, tall, bare-chested, damp haired, smelling of sin and English Leather soap. Up close there was more of him than she’d expected. More shoulders, more chest, more smooth olive skin and crisp curling hair. Her fingers clenched tighter around the neck of the bottle.
“This makes a change,” he said, reaching for it.
She knew he wasn’t referring to the wine.
He produced a couple of glasses and filled them before leading her through to his bedroom and closing the door.
Her good-girl’s brain was appalled, but her bad-girl’s body seemed intensely interested. She felt...what? Excited for sure. Strange all over. Ready to jump out of her skin.
Ryan sipped his wine and set the glass down on a chest of drawers. His gaze met hers. “What would you like to see first?”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, shocked, wide eyed. He wouldn’t really, would he?
He reached for the zipper on his jeans. The top button was already undone.
“No!” she gasped, eyes riveted on the fine line of dark hair running down from his belly-button. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed the soft skin inside her wrist. The parts of her not already trembling or throbbing decided to join in. An enormous hollow ache intensified deep inside.
“You’re perfectly safe, Sophie. If you want to look, I’m happy to show you. No strings.” He laid her hand on his belly. “Unzip me,” he suggested.
There was no way in the world she’d do that! She bit her bottom lip quite hard, set her glass down beside his, and watched in disbelief as one of her wayward hands grasped the waistband of his jeans and the other fumbled for the tab of the zipper. She pulled it until she glimpsed his snug black underpants, then stopped.
Ryan grinned, and pushed the jeans halfway down his thighs.
Hard muscled thighs, softly hairy, long and strong.
She swallowed, unable to look away.
I’ll just pretend he’s in swim-shorts.
Her eyes slid up over his black pants to his taut torso. What lurked beneath that inky fabric?
She reached out and placed a tentative hand on each hip-bone, unsure whether she wanted to hold him at bay or draw him closer. “How narrow you are, compared to me,” she stammered. “And so much broader across the shoulders.” Her admiring fingers couldn’t help but smooth up his hard body as far as his collarbones. His skin hummed with energy. “Lots hairier.” She trailed through the c
urling haze on his chest.
Ryan’s breath hitched and he sent her another wicked grin. “Better get these down or you’ll miss my demonstration,” he suggested, taking hold of her hands and returning them to his briefs. He tucked her thumbs inside the elastic. “Push,” he instructed.
Never! Sophie’s brain screamed.
Dreamily, she obeyed.
She licked her lips. A tube of rosy flesh sprang out, bobbing and swaying like an elephant’s trunk, blindly searching for...her? She dared to touch it with her forefinger. So soft...
Ryan grunted and flinched.
They watched together as he rose up; longer and thicker than she’d imagined a man could possibly be, and much more complicated than she’d expected. He had sculpted ridges, and the most amazing dark bulbous end.
“Wow!” she whispered when he’d finally stopped swelling.
“A miracle of engineering, huh?”
Was there a hint of embarrassment in his voice? He’d been so confident when he’d invited her up for a look.
“Amazing,” she agreed. “Can I touch again?”
The magnificent penis jerked in response.
“Go for it,” he invited, voice not quite steady.
Sophie wrapped her fingers around him, astounded at the firmness of his flesh now. She rubbed up and down, feeling the outer layer slide like velvet over steel.
“Thank you,” she whispered, releasing him.
Ryan pushed his clothing to his ankles and kicked it away.
“The balls are the rest of the story,” he said huskily, cupping them in one hand and pulling them forward so she could see. “Also known as nuts or bollocks...or they’ve got lots of nick-names.”
“I know that,” Sophie said, staring at the strange bulging bag. Ryan parted his legs slightly and let his testicles hang down again. Low, because the night was warm. Her hand snaked out to cradle them, and she weighed him in one damp palm, moving her fingers to feel the dense shapes inside.
“Aren’t they spooky?” she said, awed and fascinated. She sat down on the bed and inspected him up close.
