Tess joined the robotic march of commuters heading through the park, ear-buds plugged in and stooped to her phone like the rest, even though her earphones were silent and her-- slightly trembling -- screen blank. Her heart hammered.
So her dream was definitely a warning. Not the faery-bollocks her mam used to witter on about (bless her soul) more like a message from her subconscious. A warning that she should not take this shortcut; that dealing with the lecherous park gardener was way more disturbing than the sarcastic wrist glances she got for being late to work.
Of course, if she could get out of the flat earlier then she'd probably avoid the gardener and beat the bitches to the office, too. She cursed her tawny tresses for taking so long to tame every morning. Even now as she concentrated on striding purposefully like a grownup -- not the gibbon-armed, splayed-foot yomp that made her mam hoot -- the breeze of her movement threatened to pop her hairdo like a bag of slinky springs.
Perhaps she needed to wax her head as hairless as her legs, pits and bits. Not that waxing the latter had sped her morning routine at all. The extra sensitivity made her needier down under, and waking increasingly involved seeing to those needs first, so she was already late before she'd even got up. Choosing a career over any of her doe-eyed and ever stiff suitors didn't help either, especially now, with spring blooming into summer. Singleton sex for Tess would usually mean a quick solo fiddle during a Sunday lie-in, but that had recently blossomed into a full-on festival of fingering. Daily. Not an excuse she could use for her lateness. (BOSS: What makes you so late every day? TESS: Umm... this?) No. She should set her alarm even earlier. Before dawn. Get dirty. Get clean. Get out. Or just sod the approval of shitty-slickers and be habitually late. Whatever. This was the last time she'd pass the gardener. Definitely the last time. Dream or no dream.
And, a few paces ahead, there he was. The improbable hulk, in his green overalls, swinging his scythe with his giant arms. Who the fuck used a scythe any more anyway? What was wrong with a strimmer? From a distance, his eyes were shaded by his thick brow, but when she got closer there would be an overfamiliar glittering in that darkness. She could already feel the hook of his gaze in her midriff.
Why had she nodded to him that morning? Because he'd seemed like some kindly wood-creature with his roughhewn features and laughter lines and fingers like her grandpa? He wasn't far off a granddad's age either -- at least round the cheap streets where she lived -- in his forties probably. Why did she, a lissom twenty-five-year-old career-girl even acknowledge a weather-beaten old brute like that?
She approached the bramble thicket where he worked, and he stopped waving his daft tool about to let her pass. As she walked by yesterday he had, despite having no hair, pretended to tug his forelock. Like someone from the sodding olden-days. Then he'd bellowed after her in a gravelly country burr, "I know what you need, Ma'am!"
At least in the mornings the shortcut was rammed with fellow commuters, so she had plenty of support. If tutting counted as support. And none of these dandies would be much help if it came down to it; they were all tiny next to this guy. No, if he tried it on today she'd sort it herself, kick him in the nuts. Scream.
She tucked in her chin and sped up. Her skin prickled at the loom of him in the corner of her eye; at the long, noisy sniff he took as she passed. If he said anything, anything at all, she'd go for him. You could not treat women like this anymore. It wasn't the fucking seventies.
"Nice dream, Ma'am?" he said.
Tess froze, her throat clenched. Blinking brought torrid flashes of the dream: His mighty shoulders frogging her legs wide. His mouth riding the heave of her belly and hips. His massive tongue paddling underneath, fluid and unstoppable, swelling a storm inside her.
The Brute laughed like grinding boulders as she marched off, the quick clip-clop of her shoes totally undermining her outrage. However, after a few steps, she reigned herself in. She was not some child to be taunted. She was an associate at a leading financial institution. Tess knotted her fists and clenched her teeth. Even her scalp crawled, as if her hair was struggling to free itself from its braid and avenge her, too. She spun on him. Motherfucker. But the Brute but had already turned away. He adjusted the front of his trousers, and stooped back to his work.
Her knees wobbled so fiercely she sat on a nearby bench. Then she decided this was how to play it, anyway. Cool, professional. Yes, she would worry the fucker with her coolness like a cat worries a hound. In fact, she would film him on her phone, be a witness to the others he tried to intimidate; support her sisters.
But her jittery fingers couldn't keep the camera still, and anyway he ignored her now, along with every other passer-by. Then something very odd happened. She became strangely bedazzled by the scent of him on the breeze. She'd never relished the smell of a stranger before, and Tess grew up in the country, where weird shit happened all the time. And it wasn't as if his scent was strong. Just... green. Damp bark in the sun. Salt. Back home, she'd always thrown open the windows during rainstorms to catch exactly this heavenly odour of water and earth. It even had a name: Petrichor. 'Stone and the blood of angels'. Tess twirled her hair in her fingers and took big gulps of it, until her head felt light and she realised her bedazzlement was more likely hyperventilation. She should move on. But then there was the mesmerising vigour the Brute applied to his work. And the animal grace of his movements. And the bulge of his muscles straining the seams of his overalls. She crossed her legs.
The next morning found Tess back in the park. Unintentionally, of course. She had set her alarm for 5am to give herself plenty of time for cheek and ablutions, but found that humping her hands -- usually a sure-fire way to fireworks -- barely lit a sparkler. So, in the shower, she got steamy with the faucet. Again, pathetic. A mere froth that, if anything, left her needing more. So she ended up digging deep in front of her dressing mirror with the kind of racy relish usually set aside for a bored afternoon. And still, she came with hardly a whimper. A growl, in fact. That fucking (licking) dream had spoilt her; it had reminded what her she was capable of and that, since leaving home for the city, her orgasms always lacked... storm.
As a result, being very late and very het-up, Tess was not in the best of moods as she stomped through the park. The scaredy-cat part of her whinged that she was late anyway so she might as well have gone the long way around. But the lioness in her said she needed the shortcut, so she would bloody well take it. She was not going to let the spooky bumpkin terrorise her. Also, if she stopped walking past him now, then he would know he had got to her. And he hadn't. And actually, the dream thing wasn't spooky at all, it was just a silly coincidence born of putting work first for so long because, fucksake, a career didn't sort itself. Credit cards and loans could not be licked into blissful oblivion.
Yes. She had many, many sensible reasons for forcing herself to take a shortcut past the fragrant and muscle-bound gardener. Though she had fewer reasons for wearing a sea-green mini-dress that exactly matched her eyes and made her bum and boobs look so fabulous she caught her boss biting his knuckle last time she wore it. At least she was wearing knickers; a feverish last-minute decision to go commando sensibly abandoned because, when she stepped out onto the street, the intimate breeze had elicited such a puff of excitement that she thought she might not get anything at all done today. She had returned to her panties. And packed a spare in her handbag.
Perhaps the Brute was on a break, off glugging mead or whatever faery-land ale he favoured, because he was nowhere to be seen. Tess's pulse quickened, in relief but also another warmer, danker emotion she wasn't sure she understood. Not that it was a complicated sensation, quite the opposite, too primal to register, perhaps. Whatever, it mysteriously had her tipping her nose at the air as if that was really a thing people did. A lioness again, closing her eyes...
Tess twirled slowly on the spot, much to the annoyance of the commuting-dead that had to shuffle around her in their mist of chemical colognes and deodorised skin. (How had she never noticed that?) And shot through the dull cloud like a vein of lightning, a scent with depth and heat and musk. Unmistakable. She homed in on it before opening her eyes. There. At the back of the park, neatened greenery ended at an abrupt border with wild grasses and nettles. And in the unkempt tangle, a Brute-sized hole.
Holy shit, he'd collapsed. Was he dead? A heart attack perhaps? She trotted over to him. A few passers-by clocked his prostrate form but quickly walked on with heads down. Tess stopped by his feet. Whether the Brute was dangerous or not, she'd never ignore someone in need of help. She kicked his boot.
"Bru-- Mate? You ok?"
Nothing. She cursed and stomped down weeds to stand beside him. Shit he was huge lying there on his back. The massive bugger even seemed to have his own gravity. Unlike most people's force-field of 'fuckoff' -- keeping all at a distance, even on the rammed tube where it merely condensed right to the nethers -- he exerted an actual pull on Tess's insides. Though to put this in context, after the frustrating morning she'd had, a broom handle would possess irresistible charisma. She crouched by his head.
A loud "Hey!" behind her made her jump. "You need me to call someone?" A suit waved his phone.
"No. No, we're OK. Thanks." Why did she say that? And what with the royal 'we'?
The suit shrugged and strode off. The Brute's chest heaved. For a second Tess thought he was having a seizure. But he was laughing, one eye open, peeking between her bare knees...
"Motherfucker." She stood up.
His dark eyes shone. She went to step away, self-conscious that he could still see straight up her skirt, but then she stayed put and crossed her arms. Let him get an eyeful, the old perve. Let his eyes get what his hands never would. Or his mouth. Or his big, stiff...
"You're ok, then," she clipped, attempting to avoid the animal cavorting in the Brute's overall-trousers. He, conversely, grabbed it roughly while he ran his gaze up her legs. With a misplaced sting or horn, she wished she'd stuck to her 'commando' plan after all, and then blinked the disgraceful thought away.
She stabbed a finger at him. "Mate, you can't treat women like this. It's not the fucking seven—"
He sneered, and grabbed her ankle.
