Thirteen Days and Nights

By S. Faith, © 2013

Words: 529

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: Bridget's mind takes a flight of fancy.

Disclaimer: Isn't mine.

Notes: This short was inspired by a recent blind item on a gossip site, for which Renée Z was a popular guess. *grin*

Thanks for the comments on the last story-now have a cold, and behind on responding to comments. Especially 'thanks' for kind words about my kitty.


"Bridge. Look. Look at this."

It was the first day of December, nearly a month after her birthday, and one of her best friends had crashed the night before at Bridget's flat after a night out drinking and dancing. Said friend, Sharon, was now thrusting a gossip magazine into her face, before Bridget had even had time to get any coffee or nicotine into her.

"Thirteen days, Bridge. Thir. Teen. Days," Sharon said in an almost worshipful tone.

"What in the name of arse are you talking about?!" she said grumpily, grabbing the magazine from Sharon's hand.

And then she read the item in question:

Which A-list celebrity was recently gushing to her very good friend (in a not-very-good inside voice) that she and her new boyfriend had just spent thirteen straight days together—in bed?

"Oh my God," she said, throwing down the magazine. "That can't be real."

"Delicious, though! Can you just imagine who it might be?" Sharon began going off on her theory as to who it might be—a very talented actress with a less-than-lucky past with men was high at the centre of this theory—but Bridget could only think of one thing: what it might like to be to spend nearly a fortnight in bed with a certain nearly normal but clearly deranged human rights barrister with a very attractive, tight and (she reasoned) eminently squeezable backside.

It was always the quiet ones who ended up being the biggest surprise, or so she had always thought; if that was the case, then perhaps the man with the gorgeous though elusive smile who had helped rescue her from an atrocious birthday dinner (only to punch Daniel Cleaver out) would have been a powerhouse in bed. She wondered what the rest of his lean body looked like under his clothes. She wondered whether the touch of those long, lean fingers would be gentle or roughly insistent on her skin, or in stripping her of her clothes. Whether his hair was soft to the touch, or those waves would be delightfully coarse beneath her own fingers. Did he shave meticulously, or did he never allow stubble that would be long enough to inflame her skin when they kissed?

Standing beside him as he'd helped her with her birthday feast had given her a mere taste of what it meant to be so near to him whilst alone. As much as it pained her to think her mother could have been right, his mere presence had been magnetic; she could not deny the fact that she had been attracted to him then, and especially she couldn't deny that he had melted her heart when he'd looked at her so fondly after dinner. She speculated on what might have happened had that fuckwit Daniel not shown up… and she had to admit she wished ardently that she could have known for sure, deranged or not.

"Bridge! Come back to earth, will you?"

"What?"

"So, what do you think?"

"I wish Daniel Cleaver had never been born," Bridget said. "Blurry bastard."

Sharon burst out laughing.

The end.