Peaches (Her Fragile Restraint Part ll)

Hydie searches for her phone as it rings amongst her brother's magazines, newspapers and rolling tobacco products. The device shrills on relentlessly before she finally manages to locate and answer it.

“Hi.” A throaty baritone on the other end of the line, unfamiliar. She hesitates.

“Hullo...?”

“It's Patrick.” His voice is rich and smooth, like the man.

It's been two days since their encounter in the dressing rooms.

“How are you?”

“...Can I come over?”

Hydie stares at the wall clock, it's 7.30pm. She notices the stains on the clock's plastic cover, the clutter and mess around her, frowns.

“I live with my brother.”

“Oh.”

“But. I could see you tomorrow?” She hears hope in her voice.

“Ok.”

“It's my day off.”

“I know. Yes. Alright.” The sound of his five o'clock shadow as it catches on the receiver. “Come to my house. We'll have a drink.” His tone lightens. “I expect we'll work something out. I'd like to see you again. Come at 2.”

“Sure.”

“Goodnight.”

A sharp tang of surprise on her tongue as she puts down the handset. She makes herself a cup of tea, reads the paper, choosing to go to bed early. She calls to her brother lounging in the TV room as she pads her way up the hall.

...

Patrick owns a condo in a leafy street. It's a long simple bus ride to his suburb, affording her enough time to brew anxiety beneath her smile. Hydie's hands shake as she rings the doorbell. He answers in a work shirt and grey pants, like last time. Her heart does a flip flop. His sleeves are unbuttoned, he's barefoot.

“Hi.”

“You look gorgeous.”

Hydie giggles. He leans against the door frame and pulls her to him, encircling her waist in it's pretty yellow sundress. A hot, reassuring kiss.

“Thank you.” Hydie breaks away, grinning, much more relaxed.

“Come in.” He swings the door wide and ushers her inside.

In the back room, down a cream hallway, a man stands by the window, tumbler of scotch in one hand, the other touching the flawless glass of an enormous window. Anthony turns as they enter.

“Hi.”

Hydie shoots Patrick a look of surprise, his expression remains neutral.

“I'm Andy.”

“I'm Hyacinth.”

“I know.”

“Would you like a drink?”

Patrick makes his way over to a wall cabinet, busying himself fetching drinks and ice.

“Sure.”

Soon they are seated on the big, beige leather lounge in an otherwise sparsely furnished sun-room, Patrick sits opposite in a matching, single-seater lounge chair and his friend sits to Hydie's left on the lounge. The sun blazes through the wide window, muted by tinted glass. Hydie takes her drink and sips. Ice-cubes make a glorious clinking sound, knocking courage into her ribcage, forcing her to swallow nervously, the only other noise in the room. Anthony clears his throat.

“Well, I ought to get back to work. Nice to see you.”

Part Two: Rose's Makeshift Lover

Rose is relieved to be flying business class, leaning back in her seat with her eyes shut she hears the rustle of fellow travellers taking their seats around her. She tries to focus on the reason for her trip and the man she is to meet for the first time tomorrow. Derwisch is a dream, an idea concocted a few months ago, founded on conversations in cyberspace, first over the clamour of forum conversations and later by personal message.

Until recently he has been almost a complete mystery; then his offer. Based on Derwisch’s proposition, Rose assumes he is older than she, perhaps in his 50's. He wants a companion with whom he can travel, a privilege for which he is willing to pay.

It seems far too good to be true, he talks of Egypt, India, Canada and Mongolia, all the places she ever dreamt of as a child. They were offered now, by this man she barely knows, with strings of course. Rose intends to spend the next few days with Derwisch, testing the relationship's potential. If it all goes well, he has said he will arrange everything.

She curses herself quietly. Circumstances have transpired to make her unsure. Perhaps she will forget the sexy foreigner from the airport lounge. Luckily, she has no way of contacting him. Rose opens her eyes, perturbed. By her side, a woman arranges personal effects: a book, tissues, glasses and water. The cabin crew begins to close above-head lockers; in-flight TVs flicker and twitch. One hostess bends over Rose's chair, she smells of marigolds and fairy floss.

“I have been asked to give you this.”

It's a business card; she pats Rose's arm before she rises and moves off down the aisle. Rose glances at the crisp, white card.

Roman Aguilar

Business Intelligence Manager

Accenture AUS

M +61400 253 363

E. business.R.A.@accenture.com

Rose clasps and unclasps her hands in her lap to stem her elation. In-flight safety demonstrations commence. Derwisch, she tells herself. Rose sighs loudly. The woman at her side offers her a tissue. Rose shakes her head politely, remembering to breathe out slowly through her nose.

The flight lands in Auckland and Rose disembarks. She catches a cab to her hotel. Her room is tastefully appointed in muted blues and creams. It's also large. No beige, she thinks happily and kicks off her shoes. Rose runs a bath, wandering through the adjoining rooms. She steps out onto a balcony, amused to discover that Auckland isn't a pretty city.

A knock sounds at the door. She opens it hesitantly.

“It's ten past twelve.”

“It is Ma'am.” The teenage in hotel uniform bows his head, avoiding her eyes.

“A Graham Derwisch asks to see you?”

“Downstairs?”

“Yes Ma'am, he said he would wait. If it suits.”

“Oh.” Rose is flustered, tired.

“Tell him no. I want to stick to our arrangement.”

The teen looks quizzically at Rose.

“And why didn't you just place a call?”

“The gentleman asked me to come.”

Rose closes the door, she tries to re-establish her sense of calm. She wonders for the umpteenth time if it was a smart decision to come to Auckland. Finally, Rose sinks into her warm bath. She ducks her dark head under the water.

Half an hour later, feeling refreshed and relaxed, Rose orders a fruit and cheese platter and a bottle of crisp, white wine from room service. So much better she thinks, than the aeroplane or her empty flat across the sea.

A noise at the window catches her attention. A scrabbling, followed by a dull thud. Rose thinks to put on a sweater, hating the idea of being caught out in the dead of night, her pale breasts swinging freely beneath her cotton pajama top. 'I'm a prude' she thinks and then laughs, remembering sex and Roman at the airport, with relish.

“Shit” She whispers, alone.

The hair on the back of Rose's neck rises. Sounds of scuffle drift in from the balcony. Earlier, Rose set the door ajar, letting the fresh night air flow to her rooms. Right now it makes she feel foolish and shaky. Perhaps there is something to be said for locks and caution?

Rose takes a breath and turns on the terrace light. The decking illuminates and she can make out the cause of the noise. A man, his shirt torn and his shoes missing, gets up from where he has fallen. He limps and is missing a shoe. He holds up his hands in surrender.

“I'm Graham.” The man says softly, looking her in the eyes. “Graham Derwisch.”

Relief fuels Rose's reaction and she laughs, clasping her hand over her mouth to stifle her rude response. She hiccups. Her stranger rakes a practised hand over his chin and the start of a 5'o'clock shadow.

I surrender (the Department Part 2)

Less than a week later, Lulu finds herself on another assignment, training more men, in updated technologies, for the agency. More associates under her supervision means more work in the short term. Better agents are a bonus, she sees the value in the necessary evil of on-going training. It makes her sigh. To begin, she drags her feet, going about the process of unlocking an innocuous brown door, awfully similar to the other brown doors on level 3 of an unremarkable, cheap hotel in a good downtown neighbourhood. She greets Graham with barely a nod, relieved he has come early. The room and it's décor would undoubtedly be oppressive on one's own.

In the corner of the room, an assassin rifle sits atop a tripod. It moves occasionally on it's digital mount, responding to altering coordinates but Graham's attentions are on the room's other large toy. He introduces himself quickly, his attention focused on the telescope. She sets up her laptop, a small amount of tracking equipment and using an app., links to the weapon's coordinates.

“You like you're work?” Lulu begins, by way of conversation.

She takes over the table with her tools, looking at Grahan out of the corner of her eye. He is a lean man with peculiar, angular features.

“It's not interesting enough.” Graham grumbles.

Lulu fails to acknowledge he has response. His pessimism stumps her. Stillness envelopes the room. Time passes slowly, they pour over the equipment and Graham takes notes on an i-pad. After a time, he lights a cigarette, leaving the table to blow smoke carefully out of their rented window. Afterwards, he makes them coffee

It's a relief when the digital fingers of the mantelpiece clock creep towards shift change and Graham can' t help musing that a such a good looking could make for such poor company. He drops his coffee mug into the small sink with a clunk and fetches his coat. It's a false cue, an odd moment and even the men can't explain how these things occur. As though attuned to one another, Al enters the room at precisely the moment the other man is ready to make his exit. Graham rolls his eyes for the benefit of his partner. He heads out into the corridor wordlessly, relief evident in his stride.

Al lets the brown door close with a click. If he's surprised that Lulu's the 'Super' he doesn't let it show. She looks up, assessing him, perhaps remembering having seen him in the foyer. Al's face is distinctive on account of his moustache. It has appealing 70's qualities. He nods at her and fingers his facial achievement. Lulu's full mouth curls into an involuntary smile. Captivated, Al is oblivious to the treat he is witnessing.

Schooled in stony reactions, Lulu's composure is inexplicably, momentarily, melted. Butterflies quake in her belly, shivers shake in her limbs. Lulu imagines the 'tache tickling her lips. The flight of imagination passes. She recovers. Ever the gracious host, she introduces herself to the room's newcomer. As she stands to shake his hand, the expensive material of her skirt shimmies down her ripe, rounded thighs, righting itself. Al fights the urge to ogle, managing to keep his eyes level with her face. She is all business.

“Alphonse?”

“Al.”

“Is it German?”

“Yes. 'Ready for battle'.” He stops. “At least that's what it means.” Al self-depreciates without thinking. He feels the world spinning and tipping, experiencing a heady sensation at the realisation everything else about him is irrelevant, in the face of attention from this crazy-beautiful, full-figured woman.

“How appropriate.”

Lulu means only to pass off the compliment as a allusion to his chosen profession. Her assertion comes out, instead, as an invitation. Lulu laughs, caught off guard by her own candure. Al admires her with an eyebrow raised. He isn't to know she is practised in the habit of withholding merriment. The woman before him is radiant in her mirth, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dancing. He watches with approval. Al raises his lips beneath his moustache in a smirk. It's a habitual mannerism of his.

Lulu feels the room heat up and wishes she had thought to wear a more loose fitting skirt. She shifts. Al slides an appreciative eye up her leg, to the fullness of her hips. Suddenly Lulu's breasts are uncomfortably taut against the material of her blouse. Lulu fights the urge to take deep breaths, acutely aware that she'd rather be dead than thought of as the type of woman in possession of a heaving bosom. Her face flushes with the effort of reigning in her reactions.

Al can't take his eyes from her. She's like cookies and cream, all curves and playful glances. His cock aches in his pants. He has been alone with Lulu less than 15 minutes. Already he is ready to abandon the afternoon of study in favour of any chance at rendering his man-meat sunk into her honeyed flesh. Al coughs. Rank and file of associates reasserts itself, fighting to override the turn of events. In the stillness of her narrowed gaze, Al fingers a button midway down his cotton shirt.

“You will learn valuable new skills from this assignment. Think of it more of a training exercise.”

“It's a glorified stake out. An insult.” His tone derisive.

“Yes, if you wish. It's a minor job, you will learn much from my new methods”

Al sighs. He resents the up-dating of his techniques, eradication of skills honed by years in the service. Technology no substitute for intuition and intellect, Al wouldn't dream of owning an i-pad. He is almost religious in his devotion to hard-won skill, over quick-fix gadgets.

“Where would you be if your dinky system powered down? Ff there is a brown out, for example? A power surge? Instinct alone, unlike technology, can save you.” Al eyes the equipment with suspicion.

Lulu reads scepticism in his expression. As a man in his early forties, his handsome features are pronounced, a sensual turn to his lips, smile lines etched into crinkles at the sides of his eyes. He looks like a man who used to be happy. At the moment, his grey-green eyes are a chilly, boring right through her.

“Fine.” Lulu concedes. She turns her back on his grey-green disdain, making her way to the kitchen.

Once she's gone, Al relaxes his hunched shoulders. He straightens his shirt. He can barely believe the goddess he saw a week ago passing namelessly through his company foyer is here as his superior. He pulls on his woollen tie, it hangs more loosely round his neck. Al touches his moustache, then rubs his hands. A blood vessel in his cheek twitches. He controls his urge to pace. He looks around for the first time, standing in shadow, alongside the window, peering down at the world below.

“What do you see?” She re enters soundlessly. It annoys him.

“I think this room is exposed. The sun is likely to shine through this window very soon.”

Al indicates the well-polished glass panes that take up almost a whole wall.

“I think that if I was a passer-by and for some, inexplicable reason I were to look up, this telescope” He taps it. “And that gun - ” He indicates the formidable weapon with a wave of his hand. “Would be visible, caught in light strong enough to obscure the tint and lay bare these objects. I think if this was my hide out, I wouldn't have booked it. And if I had, I wouldn't be staying.”

Al can't explain why he feels so extraordinarily defensive. He steps back into the centre of the room. Lulu clears her throat.

“We have thought of this.” Her tone is even.

She crosses the room and adjusts the Venetians until they are almost closed. With a flick of cord she drops a pretty, sheer, layer of material in front of the Venetian bands.

“Believe it or not, two layers are enough to obscure the light you speak of. Nothing will be exposed.”

Lulu's firm tone is laced with double entrendre.

“Is that so? Miss...”

“Ravenhead”

“Lulu Ravenhead.” Al rolls the name around on his tongue. “Your daddy was a poet.”

“Don't patronise me.”

“Sorry.” And he was.

Al chooses to change the rapidly developing hostility in the room, simply by sitting. He does so in the closest available chair, at the instant the notion comes to him. Immediately the mood in their room changes. Lulu hadn't clocked the amount of tension between them until it begins to dissipate. Al smooths his hand over his moustache and looks up at the most beautiful working supervisor he had ever laid eyes on.

“Hyperbole aside, it's a nice name.” He grins. It's disarming.

“You don't want to work with me, do you?”

“It's not you, Lulu, it's the ground-work you're making me re-cover.”

“You mean the revision the department is making you do.”

“Sure.”

“Where would you rather be?”

A pause. Lulu blushes. It's unlike her to ask for personal details. Al's light eyes flick over her in assessment. She sips her water, trying to marshal her thoughts. She is never this flustered and her obvious weakness irritates her nobler instincts.

“What I meant was, what kind of hobbies do you in enjoy?”

Al stares at her. Lulu sighs.

“What kind of leisure activities does a man, such as yourself, get up to in his time off?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

“You? Or the department?”

Lulu sits. Like everything she does, the movement is graceful. Her electronic equipment creates a fine, comforting, ocean of space between them.

“Me.” She adds quietly. “Just me.”

Al regards her with naked disbelief.

“If we can't work together, then let's work out why not.”

“I told you.”

“You're a reasonable man Al. A woman like me, trying to re-train a man like you? Guess what will happen to you if my efforts prove unsuccessful?”

“I've been working in the department for 13 years.”

“I know, I've read your file.”

“What don't you know?”

Lulu glances out the window. It's well into the afternoon and the light is beginning to change. Impressed by Al's ability to assess how the planes of sunlight would alter the anonymity of their hideout, she notes his prediction would be in evidence, had she not earlier closed their blinds. She quakes a little on the inside. The sensation puzzles her. Perhaps she has been indoors too long? Lulu reasons away the niggling realisation that perhaps it is Al sending her senses reeling.

“A lot of things” Her honest reply hangs in the air like a person shouting a conversation, long after the loud music has ended.

So many minutes had passed since he first posed the question, her answer makes him stare. Al doesn't say anything. Instead he turns away, retreating in much the same way she had done, making his way to the kitchenette. Lulu watches him go. A part of her acknowledges that she should get back to work. They have three days to master these new systems. Another, more mischievous part of her reaches up and undoes a button on her silk blouse. Her fingers shake as she passes the ivory jewel through a buttonhole. She pats her full lips to steady herself and stands.

In the kitchen, Al takes a moment to steel himself. When he re enters the room, the picture she paints throws him completely off kilter. Lulu's entire focus is on him. Al grins beneath his moustache. On a more self-assured man the gesture would not be so endearing. His heart pounds. Her brown eyes sparkle and she crosses the room.

“I think we shouldn't work today.” Her voice is husky.

She reaches up to undo his woollen tie and remove it altogether, a strange expression in her eyes.

“Oh really?” His voice cracks revealing his surprise.

Lulu slides off his tie and twines the material suggestively in her hands. She leans in to whisper.

“I don't think either of us could concentrate. Do you?”

I surrender. (The Department Part 1)

In the crisp foyer, a study in minimalism and notably devoid of any company insignia, she has the appeal of a luxury item. She's got a suave, self possessed swagger that draws him in. She purses her lips and pointedly ignores the two men. Her actions speak louder than any words. Al stands his ground, enjoying the lingering, heavily erotic scent of her, long after she has left the foyer for the street. Graham eyes his partner. He gives a low whistle as they wait for the elevator.

“Well. That was all woman”.

Graham attempts to rid his features of a tell-tale smile. Al blushes beet red in the silence. No point denying his reaction. Graham presses his upper hand.

“Not built like my wife, that one. My wife is tiny.”

As they ride upwards in the steel compartment, Graham shifts the cuff of his expensive suit to cover his Rolex.

“More fool, you. I like a woman with curves.”

“You sure as hell liked that one.”

Al slaps his shoulder. The doors part, Al and Graham are met by an older colleague, a well-groomed man in his mid-fifties. As they walk, Al tries in vain to elicit an exchange of pleasantries with their escort. In a conference room the senior agent hands them envelopes pertaining to their next detail. He tells the men they will meet with their new operations supervisor in 3 days time. They are to work in shifts alongside the super and to use the time to update their surveillance skills. Al reads the documentation supplied and thinks the whole thing smacks of a glorified stake-out. He keeps his opinion to himself.

At home that night in his apartment, eating gourmet, home-style cooking and feeding the remains to his cat, Al wonders if there's more to life. He scratches his stubble. He's had his once-upon-a-time and met a fine woman. Together they'd planned a future. Alice had been in the special forces too. She'd understood his job and his frequent silences. She'd also died on duty, four years ago. Was that all there was?

Across town, Lulu pours her gorgeous flesh into a figure-hugging, maroon, 40's-inspired evening dress. Her sister wolf-whistles and Lulu smiles broadly, her eyes shining. She allows Rosie to gather her thick, silky locks into a knot at her nape, style that might have look severe on a less voluptuous woman but on Lulu it serves as a nod in the direction of propriety. A curl or two bounces free, framing her high cheekbones and enviable, ivory features. She oozes leashed enthusiasm.

Under the approving eyes of a woman who has know her all her life, Lulu smiles a smile to light the world. She glows. On route to her engagement, Lulu's features will assume an indifferent mask, at odds with her femme fatale frame. As the Jessica Rabbit of the special forces, Lulu prides herself on her cool demeanour. Nobody crosses her, nothing gets past her. She is damn good agent. Tonight, she will be wined and dined along with a select few, as 'thank you' from the upper echelons of the organisation. Their mission has been a success, neatly executed, well planned and best of all, completed without carnage.

Lulu's winning smile marks the end of her preparations. One last look in the full-length mirror and a kiss from Rosie sees her make her way down to the foyer, to await a limousine. Rosie thinks her sister is dressed carefully for a date. The idea makes Lulu laugh. The only thing Lulu courts is career advancement. At six years her junior and naive as to the real nature of Lulu's employ, Rosie's innocent enthusiasm remains the perfect cover. In a life purposefully devoid of intimate friendships, Rosie's presence is welcomed. Lulu feels no such comfort in the company of her peers.

The car arrives on time and she is ushered into the snug interior without preamble. At a revolving restaurant stories above the city, Lulu enjoys her deluxe dinner down to the truffle-oil infused potatoes. She is oblivious to the gaping mouths of the gentlemen surrounding her. They drool discretely into their napkins, avoiding her eyes. When she gets up to excuse herself 6 pairs of eyes follow the seductive sway of her steps. The other women at the table, Helen, a senior executive older than fifty and Suzette, a pleasant, plain woman in her late thirties, ignore her attempts at conversation and the evening elongates to become a strain on her good manners.

On the balcony, accepting the rare treat of a cigarette from a senior department chief, Lulu is aware of the height of the building and the effective architecture, charmingly obliterating the wind. Keith's smile is not paternal. His whitish-grey hair benefits from the lack wind-chill.

“You're in the wrong business, Kid.”

“Am I?”

Lulu doesn't meet his eyes. If she had, she would have seen a bemused mix of concern and admiration. Instead Lulu leans back, propping her elbows on the cement of the balcony, exhaling smoke above their heads. It makes her creamy cleavage press against the material of her dress. Keith nearly bites off the filter of his cigarette trying to look away.

Willard and the Wet Woman (part 1)

Ranting under her breath she carried the heavy shopping up the long street home.
She let her mind drift to the waiting heater and a refreshing cider.
It was definitely raining now when she set out had been nothing more than a light drizzle.
It was only when she put her bags down at her doorstep that she came to realised her problem. Keys. She could see them in her minds eye next to the empty coffee cup with a hire company name on it, on her desk at work. Damn! Abbey sighed and took a longing look at the soggy bags of groceries.

She hedged her bets and made her way down the little lane to one side of her apartment block, sloshing in the over grown alley way until she got to her window, Abbey hoped to be able to jimmey it open and climb in through the study. After a half hearted attempted, she discovered it was tricky to get the sticky old frame to budge. By now she was soaked to the skin.

She swore and grumpily headed around into the enclosed area at the rear of the block. She had only nipped down to pick up a few things, after an exhausting day and now Abbey felt deflated and harassed. This was not a good start to a what could have been a much-needed relaxing evening. As she rounded the corner into the large, comfortable backyard area, she failed to notice it was lit pleasantly with bud lighting and the barbecue shone in the warm winter light, the glass glistened in the rain, and perhaps, at any other time the view would have been comforting. Now she eyed it with irritation. All she saw was a cold area, and a man smoking in the shadows. At least she might make her way out of the rain if she asked whoever-it-was.

How she was to enter her own apartment? Abbey cursed her lack of a phone once more and wondered if the man might able to help her. Dripping wet, her hair plastered to her head, her shirt clung to every cold inch of her torso. In a word - miserable. She felt the rain run off the bridge of her nose. Defiantly she shook her head before speaking.

He stepped further forward into the light when she addressed him. Crushing his cigarette underfoot and pocketing the butt, the man looked up in surprise. She was met with bright green eyes. His brown hair flopped in an unfashionable style over an eye. Abbey was a little taken aback at how good-looking he was and he was far more relaxed than she and drier. Abbey felt at a distinct disadvantage.

"I live here. I'm new. Why? Do you? Out drowning rats this evening I see." He grinned. "Nice weather for some."

Her heart did a strange flip flop and she put the sensation down to relief from desperation, this strange man might be able to help her get home after all.

"I've locked myself out."

His eyes smiled at her and he fought it back from reaching his lips. Abbey laughed despite herself.

"Yeah, yeah this sucks. I just need a phone to get my mate to drop some keys around, can I borrow yours?"

For a moment he met her eyes evenly without looking away. The air crackled and Abbey chose to think it was from the impending lightning storm.

"For sure".

He opened the back door with a key and held the door out. As she walked into the corridor Abbey sighed with relief. At last, she was away from the incessant rain and it shouldn't be long before she would be dry too. She shivered. Her clothes stuck to her frame.

"What's your name?" She asked quietly through chattering teeth as he opened the door to his apartment.

As the door swung open she was treated to a wave of warmth.

"I've just had the central heating fixed. Neat timing. I'm Highfield."

She shot him a quizzical look. Highfield extended a warm dry hand towards her and grinned.

"What's you're real name?"

"Willard"

"You're name is Willard?"

"Yeah it totally is."

Abbey borrowed Highfield's phone and rang Anita, who promised to make the trek in the rain in about 30 minutes. She hung up and looked at Highfield. Large toned muscles stood out from the sleeves of his powder blue polo shirt. He was hot.

"Take a photo. It lasts longer."

Abbey blushed. She wanted to sit but her clothes were sodden.

"I'll get you a towel while you wait..."

"That would be perfect."

"Like you." He said as he disappeared out the door.

"Excuse me?" Abbey doubted he'd heard her and was left wondering if she had heard correctly.

Highfield came back with a large and fluffy green towel exactly the colour of his eyes.

"Your mother bought you this?"

She took it gratefully and started to dry her dripping head.

"That she did. You're good."

Abbey found herself blushing.

"It matches your eyes."

"Really?"

"Yeah and I was just standing here hoping you didn't have a girlfriend."

The words were out before Abbey could hold them back. A silence offered itself to the room.

"You're hot" Highfield shot back. The moment crackled on.

Abbey laughed

"Like this?"

"Yeah, I can see you've got talent. I like my women wet."

He walked right up to her, until they were almost touching.

"You're clothes are kinda, clinging. And those curves..."

He didn't make any move to touch her as she stood in front of him, the towel in her free hand. Her grey shirt was indeed sticking to everything; her breasts, her tummy. She made a belated attempt at dignity, holding the shirt away from her chest self consciously.

"You know what they say, what's seen cannot be unseen."

Abbey shot him a bewildered look.

"And trust me, it's ok. I'm not eager to forget."

Highfield still didn't move an inch. She thought fleetingly that he looked a few years older than she was.

"You're leering."

"My apologies. Let me get you a dry shirt, if it's making you uncomfortable." And he ambled out of the room.

What was happening to her? Perhaps the storm was driving her crazy. Here she was, in the lounge room of a man she barely knew, saying the strangest bluntest things. Something about the whole situation was making her blood sing, her heartbeat pound in her ears. Abbey didn't like it. The whole evening was beginning to spiral completely out of her control.

He came back with a whisky, a pair of tracksuit pants and a large, light blue sloppy joe.

"Bung these on for the time being, Spunk-Rat, before I do weird things to that lovely body"

Abbey blushed red to the roots of her hair, Boldly she decided to accept the situation for what it was.

"Why?" she heard herself saying. She was wide eyed. "What would you do?"

"Well first Crazy Rain-Lady, I would... hey what's your name?"

"Abbey"

"Well Abbey" Highfield began huskily "I'd like to give you a hand getting out of these clothes."

And in a moment Highfield was closing the distance between them. He clasped her cold wrists between his thumb and forefinger and raised her hands above her head. He smelt of spice and sandalwood, slightly musky and very male. Her shirt came off. Highfield whistled but he made no move to touch her. He slipped the hoodie on, over her head. Next, he helped her ease the wet sweat pants from her cold, clammy legs. They puddled sadly on the floor. Grabbing her hand in his much larger one, he helped her step free of the wet mess. Her small frame was swamped in the blue hoodie and already, she felt much warmer.

"Fine lady?" he said softly.

Highfield was quite close. She inhaled his intoxicating scent.

"Do you feel better?"

"I couldn't have been wetter" She immediately regretted her words, worse, her comment did not go un-noticed. Highfield raised an eyebrow.

"I'm much better now." She quickly added.

"Your friend will be here soon with your keys."

"Yeah."

Suddenly remembering the whisky he scooped it up from the small coffee table.

"Share this with me?"

She gratefully accepted the glass and took an appreciative sip. All things said and done she was heating back up nicely. It was a relief to be away from the rain.

"It's been a hairy afternoon" Abbey offered lamely.

"I'm a hairy afternoon."

Charmed, Abbey laughed. She sat on the vinyl couch, her wet thighs and knickers made a rubbery noise as she shifted. She ignored it. Highfield looked at the tracksuit pants still in his hand and the woman in front of him comfortably sporting one of his jumpers like a dress. He folded the sweats over a chair and sat with her.

"How come we've never met?"

"This is my sister's place."

"Oh. Do I know your sister?"

"I don't know, do you? She's short, her name's Dinkum"

"I'd remember that."

"Yeah."

She looked at him steadily, wanting him desperately to touch her again. He didn't.

"Thank you for doing all this. I... I'm just an idiot really. I left my keys at work. Holey fuck is this place a fortress."

"It does have some crazy security. I mea, that's good. I guess. At least I got to meet you."

They sat in silence. Abbey sipped her drink, feeling the whisky curling around her frozen insides and unlocking the icicles, dislodging the discomfort.

"What do you do?"

"I don't want to talk about my job, or the evening. How about we concentrate more on the beautiful, semi-naked addition to my lounge room."

At that moment Abbey felt brave and indestructible. Giving him a long, slow, assessing look that traveled from his lap up to amazing green eyes, she felt the moment pop and burn around them. Then very gently, almost imperceptibly, Highfield lent towards her. Abbey let him. He kept his eyes open until he was within millimetres. He set his warm, soft lips atop hers, planting a kiss. Just as gently as he had descended, Highfield retreated. Her lips tingled.

"I'll stop this if you want me to."

She turned towards him and cupped his unfamiliar, stubbly face in her hands. God, he was beautiful.

"I don't think that's really necessary."

Highfield grinned back at her, the kind of full scale grin that lit his sexy eyes from within. Abbey felt a rush of emotion and pushed it to one side. For tonight, she did not want to think. Highfield ran a finger along her jaw.

"You have a magic about you." Highfield said softly.

Abbey scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous. We're both attracted to one another, tell it like it is."

For a moment Highfield looked taken aback. He tried to hide it.

"I'll take whatever you want to give" Highfield heard himself saying.

The seconds that ticked by were warm and ponderous. He leaned in to bridge the distance between them, but instead of planting a kiss, he let his hands wander, feeling his way through his own jumper onto her curves. Abbey closed her eyes as his big warm hand continued, first up to her ribs, close to the throbbing underside of her heavy breast and then on her thigh, where the material ended.

Only then did he really kiss her, a slow sultry exploration, almost like a question mark. Her full lips met his and she sighed into his mouth, the molten heat of his tongue probing deeper. Abbey became aware of the knock at the door.

"Anita" she said softly, creating distance between them.

As she got up to answer she looked back at the disheveled man on his own couch. Through his jeans she could see the strength of his erection. She smiled to herself and then back at him.

"I'll get the keys."

Abbey opened the door without looking back and stepped out into the hall.