Happy - belated - birthday to Joodiff. I'm so sorry it couldn't be completed in time, but hopefully it's worth the wait. Thanks are due to missDuncan for proofreading. Love and hugs to you both. :) xxx
Sins
…
Attention locked on the task of writing a cheerful greeting in her granddaughter's birthday card, Grace only peripherally notices as Boyd reappears in the bedroom. He's wearing nothing but a towel, she knows, but the reason she knows is from experience, not because she can see him.
Shave, shower, dry off, mutter his way through his male grooming regime; walk to bedroom wrapped in towel, dress. It's his morning routine, like clockwork. She could probably set her watch by it, if she wanted.
She hears him pause behind her, feels him stare at her.
"What?" she asks, curious in an abstract sort of way as she scrawls a smiley face and several kisses after the obligatory "Lots of love from Grandma and Peter." The inclusion of his name on the card warms her heart; it's a statement of his permanency in her life, and her family's, and it feels good.
"What are you doing?" There's a fair amount of curiosity in his tone, and a good bit of amusement, too.
"Writing Georgie's card."
"In your underwear?"
She can hear the smirk in his words, but Grace ignores it, back to him as she sits at her dressing table and slips the card into its envelope. "Why not?"
"Fair point, but even so…"
The strip of adhesive never tastes good, and Grace grimaces slightly as she presses the flap down, sealing the card inside. Big, flowing letters on the outside for the birthday girl, and then she's finished. Setting her pen down, Grace gets to her feet and turns. "I suddenly remembered I hadn't written it, so I thought I'd get it done there and then before forgetting again," she informs him.
Boyd is grinning at her, hands on his towel-clad hips as he blatantly stares, eyes wandering over her near-naked body. That feels good, too. Age notwithstanding, it's really rather wonderful just how powerful attraction still is, both when she looks at him, and what she sees in his eyes as he looks at her.
"You have such a terrible short term memory," he teases. "Just like the blue fish in that film Liam and Arthur like so much."
Reaching to put the card on the end of the bed, where she'll see it as they go to leave, she shakes her head, thinking of her three and five-year-old grandsons, and the film in question. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replies loftily.
"Of course you don't. Who lost her car in the staff car park yesterday..? And what time was it I suggested we meet at the restaurant last night?"
Now it's her turn to put her hands on her hips as she looks over at him. "You told me seven o'clock," she insists, adamant.
Boyd laughs, shakes his head. "I never!" he protests. "On a Friday night? Come on, Grace. I'm not that dedicated to work. I definitely said half past six."
Stubborn, she refuses to budge. "I was not late," she declares.
"Not even fashionably?"
"You said seven; I arrived at seven on the dot."
The look in his eyes bodes trouble, she thinks. Slow, sly amusement; the kind he finds in deliberately provoking her.
"What?" she demands, when he continues to stare at her, the same smirk on his lips, the same wicked twinkle remaining in his eyes.
He doesn't move, only reaches out to rest one hand easily on the bedpost. "You," he murmurs, but adds nothing further.
He really is the most exasperating man she's ever met, she thinks, as he remains motionless, still watching her. "Explain yourself, or… or kiss me," she orders, hoping he'll opt for the former, given the schedule they're following for the day. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't.
She should have known he wouldn't.
She thinks she knew, deep down, that he wouldn't.
Of course she knew…
His smirk becomes foxier, his eyes taking on a gleam that she knows only too well as he takes a measured, deliberate step towards her, and then suddenly roars in pain and fury as he stubs his toe against the very solid carved wooden frame of the bed.
"Fuck," he snarls, face creasing up in agony as he hops on one foot, clutching the injured appendage tightly.
"Are you okay?" asks Grace, supressing the urge to laugh, knowing it will only infuriate him further. He wavers slightly, and she bites her lip in response; he is not, and never has been, the most graceful of men.
"Fine," he grumbles, planting his foot firmly back on the floor. His toes seem to clench a little into the thick fibres of the carpet, but other than that, and the deep frown still embedded in his brow, he appears fine. One of those moments of intense, fleeting pain that very quickly subsides, she thinks.
"Sure?"
"I'm fine!" It's delivered with considerable emphasis, and a deep, growly tone. One that makes her hold on her smirk falter, albeit only briefly.
"Good, good," she says, recovering herself. "In that case, you owe the swear jar a pound."
The look on his face is priceless. "What? Grace..? For God's sake…"
Enjoying herself, she lifts an eyebrow at his protests, one hand landing on her hip again as she surveys him. "One pound," she repeats, firmly.
For a moment there is silence, and she can almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he processes her request, the mutinous look in his eyes laced with confusion and disbelief. It fades quickly though, that look, and is replaced by something else. "Fine," he declares, a hint of irritation mixed with plenty of acceptance, and a lot of what looks rather suspiciously like mischief.
Grace narrows her eyes, well aware that something is about to happen, and that she probably won't like it. "Fine…" she echoes, letting the word hover in the air between them. She can feel it, whatever it is, and it is screaming trouble with a capital T.
"Yes," agrees Boyd, "fine." He gives her an open, incredibly cheerful grin, and then nods at her. "I'll pay a quid into the swear jar, and you can pay one into the sin tin."
"The what?" Completely flummoxed, Grace just knows she isn't going to approve of whatever it is he's about to come out with. He's got that look on his face, the little boy smugness that tells her he's just come up with something that he thinks is hilarious, and that he thoroughly expects her to completely disapprove of, but doesn't care anyway.
"It's just like the swear jar, but you pay a fine when you do something naughty."
"Something naughty," she murmurs, now entirely positive that they're rapidly heading in a direction that's going to lead her into a lot of trouble.
She's right, and he proves it as he says, "Absolutely, and if you think back to last night, I'm sure you'll agree with me that what you did to me after I turned the lights out was very, very naughty."
Oh.
Well, he has a point, she concedes to herself, and if that's the way he wants to play it…
"I didn't hear any complaints at the time," she points out dryly, mind inadvertently taking her back to the alleged naughtiness.
"That's not the point," he counters. "It's still a sin, and in some parts of the world it could get you into a whole lot of trouble. Pay up, Grace."
"Okay," she agrees, smiling sweetly at him.
It's too easy, and he knows it. She can see it in the twitch of his eyebrows as he steps closer still, deliberately towering over her and staring down, hands resting firmly on his hips once again.
"Why do I get the feeling you've suddenly got the upper hand?" he asks, tone dropping much lower.
"Because you're an intelligent man," she suggests, allowing no trace of her amusement to break through. Instead she gives him a long, doe-eyed look. The kind that's absolutely guaranteed to catch his attention, and hold it.
It works. Spectacularly.
The atmosphere is changing, just as she wanted, and Grace has no intention of arguing with him, not when his eyes are darkening with edgy desire and she can feel the heat radiating from his body as he takes another step closer, crowding straight in to her personal space. He really does tower over her when he's so close, and she likes it. A lot.
"You're a very naughty girl, Grace," he says, tone husky, roughened.
Not quite sure what, specifically, he's referring to, Grace simply shrugs, superbly nonchalant. "I know." Through lowered lashes, she looks up at him, well aware of the effect the subtle repositioning of her posture is having on her cleavage. And his attention span. "I thought you liked it, though…"
He does. He definitely does…
There haven't been any grand gestures; no pointed, set up, deep conversations to establish the direction on their future. Only them, together, falling a little bit more in love and in sync every day, their lives slowly, gradually aligning themselves.
No big changes, no expectations.
Only acceptance and patience, and a lot of let's-see-what-happens. From both of them.
And it's worked. Slowly, surely, steadily, they have learned about each other, become closer. Blended into each other's lives. Become remarkably happy and content.
No pressure, no expectations. Only a quiet, understated but steadily strengthening love.
It's nothing like what she expected.
Nothing at all.
"Nice lace, Grace," he murmurs throatily, a finger tracing down the length of her bra strap, the tip slipping beneath that very lace he's gazing at with the sort of utterly absorbed focus she's becoming very well acquainted with. He follows the line of the lace down across her breast, his nail an unusual but highly stimulating sensation as it tracks across her skin.
She watches in fascination as he lowers his head, leans down to kiss her, concentration entirely fixed on her. It's soft and measured at first, that opening kiss, but very quickly the pressure of his lips against hers dissolves into something more, something that has her winding her arms around his neck and opening her mouth to him as his tongue snakes out, looking for her own. How long it lasts, she doesn't know. Couldn't even guess, she's so caught up in the clean scent of him, the warm heat of him, the intoxicating taste of him.
Breathing heavier than it was however long before, they pull apart, and Grace stares up at him, wondering where they are going, whether he will decree that they hurry to finish dressing and readying themselves for her granddaughter's birthday party. If he does, she decides, she will jump on him. She's gone beyond her usual patience now, far beyond it, and if he's about to be contrary, she will use every tactic in her considerable arsenal to tempt, persuade, or simply ensnare him into giving her what she wants.
He isn't, and she doesn't have to, it seems.
Not when his eyes seem to burn as he gazes as her, as he repeats himself, voice dropping even deeper, even lower, "Nice lace..."
Due to FFNs MA fic rules this is an abbreviated version of the full story. If you would like to read the full story it can be found on my AO3 page.