AUTHOR'S NOTE
If you've read any of my other stuff you've probably come to realize some of my quirks. I'm a big fan of a little Bromance. The way I figure it man on man should have the same delicious acceptance of girl on girl. This story contains, some man on man. Not a great deal in this first section, it's more implied than anything else. My stuff is more thinking porn, if you're after a quick fix of tab A into slot B (and let's face it we all want that sometimes) it's not here, it's a story.
Now after those warnings if you're turning off, that's cool. But…(there's always a but isn't there?) why not try it. You just might like it; no one's watching they'll never even know you tried. You might find yourself a delicious new kink.
Comments appreciated. Ratings even more.
Lay some sugar on me xxx
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Fitted green satin was a bad idea
. Hardly a revelation in 104 degree heat and 89% humidity—but to Grace it was a revelation of sorts. Despite the fact that she was sweating as soon as she was out of the shower Grace had not at any point prior to the party questioned her decision to wear the vintage fifties cocktail dress. It was her Christmas dress and it was a Christmas party, therefore the only choice was the full-skirted, long sleeved, heavy satin. It was as simple as that. It seemed that not even a swap in hemisphere could shake her devotion to tradition.
Grace had always liked boundaries, personal rules and goals. They had long been a comfort—a way for her to define her place in the world. Now the social rules and personal values she'd imposed upon herself were beginning to feel more like a cage. She felt trapped in the long sleeved, boned corset top. Weighted down by the mid calf wide full skirt and tulle petticoat underlay. It was the perfect Connecticut Christmas dress and a stupid choice for a humid Australian party beside the Jupiter's Casino Pool. If she'd been acting out of anything other than compulsion she wouldn't even have packed the dress. She'd have waited and found something more suitable for the climate.
Large, round, white linen covered tables surrounded the pool. Dishes from the buffet dinner had been cleared and she was one of few people still seated at the tables. She looked around at the other women in their tropical sundresses, dancing to the Carols blasting from the DJ booth beside the Pool bar.
Bing Crosby?
Did no one else realize the incongruity of sweating while listening to Bing croon about roasting chestnuts?
It was absurd. Truly absurd.
She was absurd pointing out the obvious while everyone around her was having fun.
Grace let out a sigh.
Casting an eye across the Christmas drunk crowd—high on the coming holiday—Grace could find no other person sitting and shaking their head like her. She was the only one. If it had only been a matter of being the odd one out she'd have been fine. Connecticut born, she was bred for aloof social disconnection. She had no problem with being an island. Isolation was comfortably familiar feeling; in fact it was her default emotion. She'd been raised to believe a good Christmas gathering should be as frosty as familial relationships. Stilted and confined with minimal conversation and no physical contact.
Here the music was loud and the conversation even louder. Despite the cloying heat it seemed as if touch had been state mandated. Everyone hugged her, or even worse, kissed. A discrete check of her compact mirror showed her cheek to be a lipstick smeared rainbow. She wasn't used to the contact and couldn't help the immediate recoil she instinctively made each time she was touched. The need these people had for contact was baffling. She'd only been in Australia two months and with the University for a little over three weeks. Even at her going away party from the school she'd worked at for the last three years, she hadn't received such exuberant physical affection.
"Are you as uncomfortable as you look Miss Hawthorne?"
The murmured question unnerved Grace, firstly because she thought herself better at schooling her emotions and secondly because of who asked.
Drew Maxwell.
He unnerved her. With his sharp features, steel grey hair and ice blue eyes he had the aura of a film noir detective. But it wasn't his arresting looks that made her uneasy—it was his voice.
It affected her. He affected her.
The lyrical rumbling burr elicited an unwanted physical response, as if he'd trailed his fingers down her spine. Deep and rich, it was a seductive mix of two accents—a Scottish burr softened by years of living in Australia.
"I'm fine. Thank you Mr. Maxwell." There was something about him that made her Connecticut ice rise. Even the most innocuous conversations with him had her speaking in frosty clipped tones.
He leaned over. His knuckles brushed her skin as his fingers gripped the back of her chair. She recoiled at the heat of his skin and sat up to avoid the contact. He laughed. Low and rumbling. Leaning lower, until his breath tickled her ear he said, "Yes. You are
fine
. Aren't you? Cool and completely contained. Do you ever just let go?"
"Let go of what?"
He laughed again—the sound vibrating her ear. "And with that logic she answers my question."
He sat beside her. Unasked, uninvited he took the chair in which Brent should've been seated. Brent, who was on the other side of the pool engaged in conversation with the head of the School of Medicine.
Engaged by her expansive chest anyway.
Glancing to her left she saw that Drew had also noticed. He'd followed her gaze and now he too was intently watching Brent. The flash of annoyance she felt was not due to Brent. His behavior didn't bother her; theirs had never been a jealous or possessive relationship. The anger that itched under her skin was because she'd been caught looking by Drew and it was obvious his interest had been piqued. The last thing she wanted to do was attract his focus. She had the feeling it would be difficult to shake.
"Let go of what?" she repeated the question in an effort to distract him. Regretting it immediately, because suddenly all that focus she'd feared was now directed at her. Intense blue eyes. White blue, like chips of ice, radiating burning heat rather than cold. A weight settled in the pit of her stomach as those eyes locked with hers.
"You're so contained Miss Hawthorne. Confined like a tight flower bud. I wonder…does the bud ever unfurl? Burst into blooming color?"
Grace felt herself flush. A physical reaction as it rose from her chest and blazed a heated trail up her neck. He leaned in and rested an elbow on the table. He reached closer and trailed a long finger across her collar bone along the rising flush. "There's some pretty color," he murmured.
She took a drink of her champagne. Flat and warm, it sat stale in her mouth, not giving her the cool release she'd hoped. The liquid swallowed like a stone, a hard ball going down her throat. The finger at her collar bone moved, tracing patterns up her neck, hooking into a curl of hair that had come loose from her chignon in the humidity. He tugged on it and to her shame she could not hold back the shudder.
"Is that your husband over there with Professor Thane?"
She shook her head and he released his finger from her hair. "That's Brent," she said, "Dr Brent Sutcliffe. He's not my husband."
"Ah, fiancé."
Grace was fairly certain Drew already knew her personal situation and was trying to make some point at her expense. He wanted a particular response and she wasn't going to give it to him. She wasn't going to squirm, deny or justify the status of her relationship.
"Your
boyfriend
?" The word came out on a smirk.
Boyfriend. Grace hated that word. Hated admitting it. It sounded stupid, almost juvenile for a thirty five year old woman to have a boyfriend? But what other name was there for it? For him? What else could she call Brent? Lover—how gauche. Partner—sounded like a business transaction. There was no other word
Boyfriend, fiancé or husband.
Society gave her no other choices.
At home, in Connecticut they didn't even live together. So, as much as it galled to Grace to say it Brent was her
boyfriend
.
"How long have you been together?"
"Eight years."
"Eight Years? Long time. You don't believe in marriage?"
She felt a flash of anger. Of course she believed in marriage. It wasn't like Santa was it? It existed. She didn't deny its place in society. She didn't hate the institution. There was even a time when she imagined herself at an altar dressed in white with a Prince Charming of her own, but that was long ago. It irritated her that Drew had asked. That she felt the need to justify herself.
"You don't believe in minding your own business?" Grace felt her heart race at her biting response. She looked away, hoping to hide the flush that had returned to her face. She didn't like confrontation.
Drew laughed. Threw his head back and laughed. Laughter softened the angular lines of his face, making him beautiful in a way that clenched her stomach. Layered on top of the rush of adrenalin that confrontation brought, the feelings his laughter raised made her feel a little light headed.
"You're a traditional girl aren't you Grace."
She was—exhibit A, the heavy satin dress—but wary of the potential ambush that could come of answering, she said nothing. Every conversation with this man seemed like some kind of honeyed trap. She waited, sitting stiff, preparing herself for whatever sting was to follow his baited line of questioning.
What he said next was unexpected. It confused her, which was why she reacted the way she did, without thought, without planning. In the moment.
"I'd lay money that you're the only woman here in stockings and garter belt."
How did he know?
"You wear them every Christmas don't you Miss Hawthorne? This one particular pair."
It didn't occur to her to deny or not to answer—to tell him to again to mind his own business. Shocked at his perception she nodded. The garter belt was Christmas green with gold trim. She wore it every Christmas. With this dress.
"Did your Dr Sutcliffe see you put them on?"
She had to think a moment. Place where they both were as she got ready. Yes. Brent had seen her, he'd been telling her about the Tropical Medicine Seminar he was to attend early next year. She nodded and said, "Yes. He saw me."
His hand trailed lightly down her arm and murmured, "Did he ask you to bend over?"
She gasped and shook her head.
"Really? I would have. I would have sat down and asked you to bend that ripe peach of an arse over, right in front of me." He brought his hands up in front of his face and held them as if cupping her bottom. "Just for the pleasure of seeing you bend."
I should ask him to stop. I should tell him to go
.
It's inappropriate
