This story is part of the ItCHY (It Could Have Happened) group of stories & was written at the request of RS Fan 17.

I neither own nor claim rights to the characters. I simply borrow them, because I love them.

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Remington

Chapter 1: Sam I am

I'm beginning to think this latest case has its distinct advantages. Laura has me posing as a buyer for an exclusive group of stores, in town to see the latest lines, to spread about a bit of money. I don't think my rendition of Sam St. Cloud from Birmingham has impressed her all that much, although it amuses me. Instead of portraying a stiff backed, proper Brit here to acquire goods for elitist customers, I've decided to go quite the opposite direction. Sam St. Cloud is obnoxious with a bend towards degenerate in the way he freely fondles the models, and would be generally despised if not for the money he's spreading around freely. The perfect cover, should you ask me, for no one would suspect this chump capable of anything more than drawing the ire of one of those models and taking a palm to his face for his troubles.

But, as the saying goes… When in Rome, I think to myself, as I see my partner and the object of my every fantasy these days, leaning against the accessory board, her bottom pushed out enticingly behind her. A bottom currently covered in form fitting black satin, reminiscent of the lingerie I pray I might one day be the benefactor of slowly easing off her lovely small frame. Unable to resist – and, might I point out, quite in character with my cover – I caress the gentle curve of her hip, trace the curve of a cheek of her delightfully firm bun, then dare to take it one step further, palming her bottom.

Oops. I'll pay for that for certain, should the look she's just given me be any indication. Perhaps not one of my wisest decisions, ranking up there with my foolishness when I gave a pair of leather britches a whirl – a bad, bad idea, I assure you of that – and when I decided to take on the bugger DesCoine on my own. She'll likely freeze me out for a week for my cheekiness, but the more I think on it, the more I believe it's worth it. I mean, this is Laura, and it was her satin clad hip and bum beneath my hand. Given that's the closest I've ever gotten to second base with the woman… Yes, a week of the cold shoulder is more than worth it given I've the memory of my transgression to keep me warm.

But I better not press my luck.

In keeping with my character, I give a healthy smack to a couple of bottoms, bottoms not belonging to my lovely partner, but I do so enjoy when Laura's jealousy flares. There is so much between us undecided, that this is one of those rare times that I know, without a doubt, that somewhere in that complicated mind of hers, she cares enough that she wishes me to buy exclusively from her. Given there are days I get the impression she'd rather me go off and buy from someone else, rather than she risking the bank on a possibly defective good, my ego can use a bit of a plumping, as that little display of jealousy has done.

My God, I adore every insecure, frustrating, temperamental, demanding, overbearing inch of the woman. Felicia had once accused me of being smitten. Smitten has long gone by the wayside. Positively gobsmacked, that's what I am. And God knows, there are days that I wish I weren't. Life was so much less complicated when this woman wasn't at the center of my every dream, my life. But, it is what it is. Even if I can't admit it to her, I won't lie to myself: I've fallen and fallen hard. Love has brought kingdoms and kings to ruin. I'm no less susceptible, it seems.

Ah, damn. I've been caught with my hand in that proverbial cookie jar, given the way she'd suddenly pulled back her shoulders and straightened to her full height. But, again I might ask: What's a man to do? Without a second thought, Laura's stripped out of the dress and now stands beside me in nothing but a scrap of black lace and satin and a pair of hose, offering an irresistible view of those tantalizing freckles sprinkles over shoulders and chest, not to mention the possibility of glancing a bit of a breast if she'd move just so. Do I feel a bit like the pervert my alter ego St. Cloud is? Of course, I do. But I'm desperate and my eyes have a mind of their own.

A week did I say? More likely a bloody month at this point. Yes, being St. Cloud has certain benefits, but I need to shed this role before the only company I have in the weeks ahead are my fantasies and cold showers.

Of course, a good suspect to give chase to, forcing me out of this den of inequity would suffice, and that's precisely what I get. I gladly give chase, hoping against hope that Laura will grant me absolution sooner than later should I manage to corral the design defalcator.

Alright, mate, it's you and me… and I won't be going back to Laura empty handed, not today.