by Kris Pearson
He raised his camera and snapped her against the drooping rotor blades, not noticing that it made her look as though there were chopsticks embedded in her head.
They unpacked in edgy silence.
“I bought this for tonight.” She held up a tiny filmy black nightgown.
He glared at the see-through garment. “You’ve got some nerve, Lizzie. I haven’t been allowed to kiss you yet and now you’re assuming I’ll sleep with you.”
“I know you’ll sleep with me, Al,” she murmured. “You’ve been sending out sex-waves from the moment we met. I’ve been looking forward to it like you wouldn’t believe.”
Something twanged inside him. So she’d wanted him too, and was finally willing to admit it? Should he concede defeat right now?
“You could have had me any time you wanted,” he rasped, clinging to his final shred of self respect. “Why the long wait? Why the big untouchable act?”
She gave him a long considering look. “You needed to see the baggage that comes with me. I’m not just a blind date over a dinner table. I’m a mother, Al. I’m a family. The children are part of me. There’s not only me. I had to show you that.” She stared him out.
“There’s not only me either,” he countered. “I’ve got Michael.”
“So that helps to even things up.”
She took a step closer and stood gazing up into his dangerous eyes.
Unable to resist, he reached across the small fizzing space between them and cupped her face in his hands. Her skin felt as warm and velvety as he’d fantasized...her hair silky soft against his fingertips. He ran the pad of his thumb over the bow of her top lip; slowly around the curve of her lush lower one and then pressed it possessively against her mouth, stamping his ownership upon her.
“This is like one of those sci-fi programs on TV,” Liz said, her lips tickling his thumb as she spoke. “You have to identify yourself with your thumb print to see if the door opens and you can come in.”
The tip of her wet pink tongue flicked out and ran over his thumb. “You can. You’re cleared for entry, Captain.”
CHAPTER 45 – BACK TO THE BATHROOM
“So you think the color’s okay?”
Ian, distracted by a dribble of pale aqua wall paint making its slow way down over Meg’s chest, ripped his eyes back up to hers. “Yeah. I like it. Fresh and clean, and...”
His eyes slid back to her breasts the moment she glanced away. Would the paint make it that far before it dried? And how much longer could he keep his hands off her?
It was stifling hot in the small room. Days ago, Ian had foregone his jeans for a pair of old gray shorts as he ripped out wallboard and re-plumbed pipes. His T-shirt came off soon after he started work each day.
“I’ll get us a cold drink once I’ve finished this bit,” Meg said, re-dipping her paint brush.
Ian had almost finished grouting the tile strip above the new basin so she could paint the rest of that wall later. They were both lightly coated with plaster dust from her final sanding-down earlier that morning. Outside, it was high summer. The air hung still and hazy. Heat rose off every sun soaked surface and went nowhere. The small bathroom window provided no ventilation at all.
Meg had tied her hair up in an untidy ponytail to leave her neck and shoulders bare. She’d swapped her usual shirt for a thin-strapped cotton knit top, which was driving Ian insane. Each time she leaned over to re-dip that brush, her breasts moved under the soft black fabric. He imagined slipping one of his hands down into the damp heat there, or better still just pushing the straps off her shoulders and ripping the damn top down so he could see her properly.
Every time he turned away, Meg admired his long tanned back. Beads of perspiration tracked down through the fine coating of dust on his skin. She wanted to lick him...to taste the salty, musky fragrance wafting across to her.
Her current wall was almost finished. She squatted; then finally sat as she worked close to the new tile floor.
“It’s much cooler down here.”
Ian glanced over his shoulder and got not just an eyeful of her breasts, but a fairly good view down one leg of her denim shorts to some lacy red panties.
Meg in red lace! She’d occupied a larger slice of his imagination each day, and picturing her underwear had become part of his pleasure.
Red lace over creamy skin… Warm flesh that would welcome his hands… Her soft hair spread over his chest as she cuddled close to him… Why hadn’t he seen Meg like this for the whole time he’d known her?
He tidied up the final portion of grouting as she completed her painting. The thudding as she pounded her fist down on the paint can to secure the lid was right in time with his hectic heartbeat. He sank to the floor beside her.
“Paint,” he said hoarsely, touching the aqua trail still just shy of her black top.
Meg glanced down at herself, squinting to focus.
“Wipe it off for me,” she suggested, handing him her damp cleanup rag.
Ian dabbed at the wayward runnel. He managed to remove some, but the drying edge still adhered to her skin. He began to scrape with the nail of his index finger, hoping to loosen it. The temperature rose to new heights, even with the cool tile floor beneath them.
A stray waft of wind rattled the stiff leaves on the clump of flax outside the small window, stirring the warm air in the little room so it moved across their bodies like a breeze over the burning desert.
“We’re in Cairo, in your book,” Meg murmured. “I’m Anouska the belly-dancer and you’re Curtis the spy. We’re trapped on the floor in that locked outhouse with one high window and the palm fronds clacking together outside. The flax leaves sound about right.”
“I’m trying to undo the rope around your wrists, am I?” Ian asked, sliding one of his hands around Meg’s breast to hold it still while he scraped at the turquoise paint.
“Good thing we don’t have our mouths taped shut. You can give the paint a lick if it’s too dry,” she murmured. “God, what am I saying?”
“You’re suggesting I give it a lick, Meg.” He was more than willing. His brain buzzed. He breathed her perfume in. He bent his head and ran his tongue over her flesh, and felt her breast shuddering with every heartbeat. His thumb magically centered itself over her nipple. He rubbed, and his groin jolted as he felt the little mound stiffen into a hard inviting nub.
“I think that needs licking, too,” Meg said in a strangled voice.
He moved his mouth lower and bit her through the knit fabric, flicking his tongue back and forth, and thrilling at her sudden soft grunt. His other hand settled into a similarly pleasurable position. Meg moaned encouragement and buried her fingers in his hair to urge him even closer.
“Wait!” she gasped a few seconds later, dropping her hands and pushing at the straps of her top. Ian deserted her nipples to offer help, catching his breath as he peeled the fabric down to reveal her lush curves.
“Jesus, Meg, they’re something,” he groaned, cupping her up, weighing her warm flesh reverently. “You’re beautiful. You’re amazing.” He bent to rub his cheek against her, rooting around like a baby until he once again had his mouth full and busy.
She stroked his neck. Out over one hard shoulder. Down his dusty warm back.
“We’re filthy,” she whispered. “God knows what I taste like—paint and perspiration?” She gasped as a surge of warmth raced from her breast to deep in her belly. “I can’t possibly come on the bathroom floor,” she moaned.
Ian released her nipple with a gust of laughter. “It’s a perfectly good floor. Personally guaranteed. You’ll enjoy it.”
“I’d enjoy a shower first.”
His inventive mind easily conjured up a soapy naked Meg. Being caressed by his hands. Invaded by his fingers. Gulping in huge breaths as she drew close to climax.
“You’re on,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and pulling her up beside him. “Feel what you’ve done to me,” he added, backing Meg up to the new basin so he cou
ld press Very Big Willy against her.
“Yes please,” she murmured, pushing her hand down the waist of his shorts and closing her fingers around him possessively. “But we have to watch out for the wet paint, Ian. And the new soft grout. We should go upstairs.”
Step for step, like a pair of geriatric formation dancers, they shuffled out through the doorway and along the hall. Mouth on mouth, his hands massaging her breasts, hers circling his cock, they bumped and wove and groaned along. Meg backed up onto the lowest step. Ian pressed against her—his hard length now aligned exactly with paradise. “Great height, Meg,” he gasped. “We should do it right here.”
Her fingers squeezed and teased, up and down. Then she tore her mouth away from his long enough to say, “I’d rather be nice and clean for you.”
He buried his face in her neck. “You’ll be nice for me, regardless. After the shower I’ll give you extra treats.” He imagined settling between her warm thighs, his questing tongue sliding around the folds and ridges of her sex until she moaned and tensed and shattered.
Her breath hitched, obviously thinking the same thoughts. “What sort of treats…”
He urged her up another stair. “Anything you’ve ever dreamed about,” he murmured. “Any sexy thing you’ve thought of and not dared to write down.”
“I can come up with a few of those...”
Ian nudged against her again, and she turned to climb the stairs—one hand still down his shorts as though he was equipped with a useful handle.
He glanced around Meg’s pretty room as she led him through the door. “I’ve been imagining this lately...your bed...you and me together in it.” He kissed her again, more tenderly now the hot urgency had given way to dreamy reality.
“Me too, Ian.” She stroked his face, gazing up into his eyes.
“These last few days, I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he said, lowering the zipper of her denim shorts. “It’s a wonder I lined the tiles up straight, I was so desperate to touch you.” His fingers slid over the slippery red panties he’d glimpsed...in under the elastic to where she was so wet.
Her groan of frustration made him feel like the most wanted man on earth. He stroked gently, sliding until her breath hitched and he knew he’d found gold. She leaned against him, clutching at him convulsively each time he drew forth twitches of pleasure.
“I can’t wait,” she moaned, releasing him. “It’s faster if we undress ourselves.” Obviously equally hungry for him, she wriggled away, tweaked the bedroom blind to a more comforting level of dimness, pulled her black top up past her face, and tossed it onto a chair.
Ian watched her breasts lift as she raised her arms over her head. What a curvaceous and desirable woman she was. Thin, bony Liz had nothing on Meg; funny how quickly his preference had changed. He toed off his elastic-sided work boots, and peeled shorts, underpants and socks away with one desperate swipe down his legs. By the time he straightened, Meg wore nothing but skin and a smile.
“Come here, you gorgeous thing,” she invited.
Their bodies pressed together. Flesh slid against flesh. Lips and tongues gave and took. Ian’s brain swirled with red lust.
“Shower now,” he demanded, easing her away.
“Yes sir,” she agreed, leading him into the en-suite bathroom and once again tweaking the blind to lower the light level.
He reached across and touched her face. “Let me see you, Meg.”
“You’ll see plenty. But I’d rather I wasn’t too well lit this first time.” She reached into the shower cubicle and pushed the mixer lever around. Nothing happened. Disbelief widened her eyes. “No water.”
“Fuck!” Ian howled, thwarted for the moment. “I turned it off at the mains. I’ll tear down and put it back on again. Don’t move...”
Frustration beyond anything he’d ever known swept over him as he grabbed one of Meg’s pink towels from the warmer rack, threw it around his waist, and thudded back down the stairs.
Meg heard the door slam against the stopper in the hallway as she waited, pleasure denied for the moment. Random thoughts swirled in her sex-addled brain. She was doing this with Ian?
The same Ian who had been her friend for so long, and who now had her body alight and awash with wanting?
She laughed with joy and disbelief—not just at the recent image of her soon-to-be lover thwarted by malfunctioning plumbing, but with the delight of possibly finding the ‘pleasant-looking, nice-natured man’ who would understand her obsession for writing. Maybe it was too much to hope for long term, but for today he was perfect...just perfect.
Ian raced around the corner of the house to where the connection was, wrenched the handle into the ‘on’ position, then belted back along the path.
And skidded to a sudden halt as Vi appeared around the dumpster of garden and bathroom rubbish. She carried two books and a bunch of white Iceberg roses.
“Ian!”
“Vi! Shit!”
Devoid of further speech, they stared at each other. Vi’s sharp eyes widened as they fastened on his erection, all too visibly outlined under the flapping pink towel.
Ian clamped a hand over the evidence and closed his eyes.
“First you and Liz,” Vi quavered. “Now you and Meg?”
When he opened his eyes a few seconds later, he found her clutching a hand to her heart as though seeking the strength to breathe.
“Never Liz,” he insisted. “But me and Meg any moment now, Vi. This is not a good time for visiting, believe me.”
He bolted the few paces to the door and slammed it in her astonished face.
“Did I hear voices?” Meg asked as he burst into the bedroom again, flushed and panting.
“Must have been the radio next door,” he improvised, praying Vi had been shocked enough to trundle off home instead of trying the doorbell. “How’s that water now?”
Meg tweaked the mixer lever again. Air bubbles hissed and fizzed for a few seconds, and then water spurted out in a rush. “Some plumber seems to have done quite a good job,” she grinned.
“Some plumber’s aiming for better than ‘quite good’ for the rest of the afternoon,” he said, unwrapping his towel and joining her under the torrent.
Much, much later, relaxed and sleepy, Ian said, “This deserves something special.”
Meg raised her face from where she’d pillowed it on his chest. “Champagne? I might have a New Year bottle left in the fridge?”
“Nothing so predictable.” He kissed the end of her nose. “I don’t know how you’d feel about this, but I’ve got a fantastic new Iris hybrid I’d like to name after you?”
Warmth spread right through her as she gazed into his serious and hopeful eyes. His Irises were his special project. His life’s work. And now he’d invited her to be part of it. She smoothed her face against his shoulder. “That’s certainly a huge honor, Ian. I’d love it. Amazing. Thank you.”
“Special flower for a really special lady. I’ve been wondering what to register her as.”
“So she’ll be called ‘Meg’? Or ‘Meg Josephs’?”
“Just ‘Meg’, I think.
“That’s a bit plain, isn’t it?” She lowered her head to his chest again and pulled a few possible alternatives from her fertile imagination. “Memorable Meg?”
“That’s for sure...”
“Mistress Meg?”
“Stiff and starchy. Too old fashioned. Mistress Meg wouldn’t have been up for some of the things we’ve just done.”
She tried to stifle a grin, and failed. “Probably true. But wasn’t it nice?”
“Nice doesn’t come close.” He reached up and wound a length of her pale hair around and around his finger before cradling her face. “But you’re right—something to go with the Meg.” He stayed silent for a few moments. “How about ‘My Meg’?”
“Am I yours?”
“Hell, I hope so!” He kissed her with sudden passion.
“Mmmmmmmm, that did feel quite possessive,” sh
e teased.
Ian’s heart expanded. “My Meg. All mine.” It seemed so right. The woman he’d been longing for had been right under his nose if he’d only he’d had the sense to see it. He patted her curvy butt and pulled her closer, releasing his breath in a contented sigh.
Meg nestled against his chest again. “So what’s my flower like?”
“Your Iris? The falls are just the color of these,” he said, tweaking one of her nipples.
“ Falls?” She turned and bit him gently, sucking his flesh until the blood rose and she’d yet again marked him as hers.
“You still giving me love-bites?” Ian murmured.
“Everywhere I can. If I’m your Meg, you’re my Ian. No other woman’s getting hold of you now. So what’s a ‘fall’?”
He smiled at her persistence. “The big fluttery petals that bend downward. They have a little beard on them. It’s a Bearded Iris.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have a beard though.”
“Yes, you do. Right here.” His fingers stroked low on her belly, and she stretched luxuriously in the tangled sheets.
“That’s not a beard.”
“Just a little fringe of hair. Pretty golden hair.” His fingers plucked and played. Meg laughed and tried to wriggle away but he held her captive with his strong arms. “And the standards are the delicious creamy shade of your breasts.”
“So what’s a ‘standard’?”
“They’re the petals that stand erect.”
“You’re the one who stands erect,” she said, exploring in return, making his flesh stir and lengthen. “See—you’re starting to do it again. What am I going to do with you?”
“Anything you like, Meg. Anything you like at all,” he said, dropping a contented kiss on her hair.
Epilogue
Neill Farrell quickly filed for divorce from his awful wedded wife in Aberdeen. Romy didn’t dare ask if he was living legally in New Zealand.
