Premise:
Strangers. An intense encounter. Check the tags. What more do you want?
When, for the second time, Maeve saw the Sunny Road Strawberries sign, she admitted defeat. Somewhere between Mount Martha and Sorrento, she'd made a wrong turn. As though laughing at her, the engine sputtered, rattled, and wheezed out a rolling cough.
Maeve muttered, "Of course, of
course
!" under her breath as she pulled over to the shoulder. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel and let out a frustrated groan. She sucked in a breath and gathered her skirt to her knees as she stepped over grass gone to seed, booted toes dislodging loose rocks from the curb, and lifted the hood of her car.
Her sunglasses immediately fogged with steam and she pushed them up to keep her dark flop of hair out of her eyes, waving her arms to help it dissipate in the early evening air.
"Well fuck," she said, "as if I even fucking know what I'm even fucking looking at," before stomping her way back to the driver's seat, grabbing her phone.
"Go fuck yourself some more," she mumbled, seeing no reception bars. Resigning herself to the fact she'd be sleeping in her car tonight, Maeve closed the door, wound up the windows and reached under the passenger's seat for her pipe. She packed half a cone, just to keep the edge of hysteria at bay, hotboxing herself comfortable.
Sometime later, in the distance she saw low beam headlights, let out a sigh of relief. She unwound her the back window, opened her door to clear the smoke away before her good Samaritan arrived.
The man leaned out of his window, streaks of silver lining his temples, the shadow of his face.
"You hurt?" he called, concern colouring his voice.
Maeve waved an arm and stepped around her car. "I'm okay. Have no clue what killed the beast, though."
The man did a neat, three-point turn and lined his bonnet with hers.
"Could easily be the battery," he said, stepping from the car. He stood over six feet, flannel sleeves rolled to show forearms tanned from the sun.
"I'm Shaw," he said, extending a hand.
"Maeve," Maeve replied, perplexed at her sudden shyness. "Could just as easily not," she muttered, making him smile, a look of such boyish charm she relaxed. He walked back to retrieve jumper leads while she pulled the caps from the battery. Praying for a miracle.
Shaw stepped beside her as she straightened, their bodies close, breath mingling. Each felt a heaviness settle in the pit of their stomach, their bodies trained to recognise each other. He saw himself reflected in the clear black crystal of her eyes, felt saliva pool beneath his tongue.
"Clip these on," Shaw whispered, moving back to hook the other end to his own battery. "Start her up."
Maeve cleared her throat, a distraction on which to focus, and leaned back on her heels, rocked herself back behind the steering wheel, turned the key, pumping the gas.
Nothing.
She released the key, letting the silence settle over her, her mind a flipbook of scenarios. And heard thunder rumble low enough it shook the ground, looked out the window. Out of unknown habit, she traced a fingertip around the minimalist tattoo lined in the shape of a howling husky on her left forearm, just beneath her elbow crease.
Not one of the scenarios ended with her, alone, in her hotel room.
She packed a small cone, sucking in courage and calm, before tucking things away in her bag and grabbing her water bottle. She eased her dry mouth and stood, hair caught on the breeze promising to storm.
"It seems I'm at your mercy. Please say I'm not putting you out too much."
Shaw smiled. "Hop in Maeve. No trouble at all."
His smile grew as he watched her squirm on the seat before buckling the belt, knowing the sound of it would likely be making her pussy pulse. Him and her, they were born to recognise each other. To be thrilled by it.
To give in to it.
Testing her bravery, Shaw casually said, "Just as easy to stop by my place. Closer. We'll beat the storm. You'll have service there."
Maeve twisted the worn silver at her fingers before lifting her water bottle to ease her dry throat.
"Whatever's easiest for you," she said, lights flashing in the far distance, thunder quickly chasing.
He made two left turns and was on the main road, making his way to Wolf Winery. "In town for the festival were you?" he asked, wanting to ease her nerves, tickle them back just a little.
She flicked the top of her water bottle open and shut, open and shut, before catching herself, sighing, forcing herself to relax. "Yeah. I write culture pieces for the weekend magazines. Human interest. Goings on."
"Quick turn-around for you," he murmured. "Well, on behalf of the Peninsula, I hope this crappy ending doesn't spoil the review."
"Yes, it is. But it keeps me sharp. More writing leads always to better writing." She sent him an under the lashes look, a slight blush caressing her cheeks. "And, not all in the ending is crappy."
Shaw's hands tightened on the steering wheel as he cruised to a stop at the back of his estate. The private entrance. As he pulled the handbrake, the sky clapped and flashed, opening the promised threat.
"Well, shit," Shaw said, rubbing his hand over his forehead.
Maeve -- nervous, high -- let out a laugh, one that slowly bubbled to the top, charming him. "Man, you are so lucky I'm high right now. Any other person would be in hysterics."
Shaw's smile shifted the planes of his face into interesting formation, boyish farm charm and dignified scholar rolled into one. "Gotta make a run for it," he grinned.
Maeve grabbed her things and pulled her jacked up to protect her head as she followed Shaw in the rain, her boots splashing to the hem of her skirts. As she stepped up to the landing, Shaw turned, capturing a glimpse of her tattoo. Upside down, the contours were very erotic, making his pulse thick.
She stood close behind him as he unlocked the door, bodies bumping as he straightened, turned. The rain all but steamed from their pores as his tawny gold eyes locked with hers, down over her partly open mouth, up again.
He fumbled with the door, pushing it open to reveal a rolling rustic kitchen, down to the wooden beams and open shelving. The space carried the scent of herb and earth, and of smoke and soot thanks to the open fire oven.
Maeve made a beeline for the flames to heat her suddenly chilled skin.
"Here, let me take that, dry it off," Shaw said once inside, kicking his boots by the door, taking her proffered jacket and lay it over the back of a chair. The air snapped between them with words best left unsaid.
She ran her hands up bare arms, her layered ivory skirt zipped high on her waist, stopping beneath a cropped top of the same colour. She turned to face Shaw, his eyes a goldstorm of secrets, and her heart beat heavy in her chest. She cleared her throat.
"May I use the bathroom?"
"Oh, fuck, um, yeah," Shaw wiped sweaty palms on the backside of his pants, gestured. "On the second landing. Third on your right."
Maeve gave him a shy smile that belied her churning stomach and racing pulse, and followed his directions. Locking the door behind her, she stood, both hands on the counter, staring herself down in the mirror, dark chocolate eyes molten. She ran the cold water, splashed some onto her face, her neck, cooled herself down.
"You got this," whispered her dripping face. She patted herself dry, tied her hair out of her face, packed a cone and turned on the bathroom exhaust fan. She held the smoke in her lungs, nine, ten seconds, and exhaled counting back from ten into the fan. She washed her hands, rinsed her mouth and dabbed some perfume to the back of her neck.
She clicked the door closed behind her, made her way to the first landing, got herself turned around. She saw a dull pink light in a half-opened doorway, stepped to it and pushed it open.
Gasped when she saw flashes of black silk, leather, a rack of crops and floggers.
Maeve's hand went to her throat, blood throbbing thick there, mimicking the beat between her thighs. She stepped back and met the solid wall of Shaw's chest.
"Yes or no, Maeve," he whispered, his voice making her skin tingle in waves.
No point pretending not to know what he meant. She swallowed thick, breathed a single yes before she was ushered over the threshold.
Shaw turned her around, ran his rough, earth-worked hands up her arms, down again. He leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her lips, over the tip of her nose, her forehead.
"What's your safe word, Maeve?" he muttered into her hairline, inhaling her intoxicating scent.
A gentle blush coloured her cheek. "Clover," she muttered. Waited.
"As in 'Crimson and --?"
She nodded. "The very same."
"Okay. If," he said, "you say clover," stepping into her space, bodies now brushing, lips whispering over the crown of her head. "All this will stop. Promise."
Again, Shaw glided his hands up and down her arms, feeling them pebble with gooseflesh and tremble with want. Only this, with his lips rubbing softly along her hairline, was the way he touched her. He closed his eyes as he inhaled her rain-soaked scent, a rose stemmed with many thorns.
"Tell me your safe word, Maeve."
"Clover," she whispered, tilting her head slightly, rolling under his touch.
"Good," Shaw murmured, walking her backward into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. Its decisive click made Maeve jolt, make eye contact with him.
