More angsty than usual, due to being laid low with flu and a feeling as bit miserable last week, I suspect.
Hope you enjoy anyway!
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Tomorrow
"I wanna ride with you."
Jenette had emphasised the word 'ride', pressing herself up against him wantonly. He knew she wanted him, she'd made it abundantly clear from the start, even though she'd tried to pretend it was all just a ruse. The flirtatious looks, the blatant body language, the way she'd taken every opportunity to touch him were for real: he'd have had to be blind or stupid to miss all the signs.
Apparently, he'd once kissed her at a party in a vain attempt to shut her up and she'd remembered, even though he had no recollection. He was flattered that a pretty young woman was attracted to him, but it was really more about getting back at her. At Alex bloody Drake.
"If I mean anything to you at all …"
Those were his very words. All he'd asked was that she be straight with him, and what had she done? Pissed in his face, lied through her teeth, fobbed him off with some bollocks about being from the future. He knew she could be a complete fruitcake at times, but what kind of an idiot did she take him for? Even worse was the way she'd looked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, as though she thought there was a chance he might actually believe her. She didn't even respect him enough to concoct a decent lie.
And then he'd lashed out in his anger and humiliation and called her cold, implied she didn't care about her daughter. No wonder she'd hit him, he deserved it. And now she was suspended and their working relationship was in tatters.
He'd really thought they were unbreakable. Seemed he was wrong.
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That night in Luigi's when he'd dismissed her so rudely and turned back to Jenette he'd seen the hurt in her eyes, and it cut him like a knife. But didn't she realise how much pain she'd caused him too? Why couldn't she just trust him enough to tell him the truth? Whatever it was, however bad, he'd have helped her, supported her. Clearly she had no faith in him. He'd thought there was a genuine spark between them but she didn't really want him, she just wanted a bit of rough between her thighs. Posh birds were like that, apparently, all fur coat and no knickers. He tried hard to ignore the twitch in his groin at the vision of her that swam before his eyes.
When Jenette came to find him with one thing on her mind he was feeling lonely, humiliated, lost … and horny. She was attractive enough in an obvious way, she clearly had guts and she shared his abiding interest in Westerns. She'd practically thrown herself at him and in his vulnerable state he hadn't resisted. But when he led her into his office, closed the blinds and lifted her onto the desk, it was Alex's mouth he was plundering, her tongue duelling hungrily with his.
When she eagerly popped the buttons on his shirt and ran her hands over his naked chest, it was Bolly's featherlight touch he was feeling.
She had nice tits, he had to admit, but when he bent his head it was Alex's nipples he was grazing his teeth over, Alex's fingers threading through his hair as she sighed in pleasure and pulled him closer.
Those ruby lips wrapped around his dick sucking him with such enthusiasm belonged to his bolshy second in command: he'd always known he'd find a good way to shut her up eventually.
When he slid into her from behind it was Bolly's moist heat enveloping him, her tightness encircling him as he took her over the desk, pounding into her relentlessly as she gasped her pleasure, finally giving her the good seeing to she'd been asking for all along.
The husky voice that egged him on, demanding, pleading, imploring was posh and plummy and the woman who cried out in ecstasy, writhing wantonly beneath him as he drove her over the edge into a mind-blowing climax was his irritating, frustrating, mouthy, gorgeous, sexy, fruitcake of a DI.
And it was her and no-one else that he finally spilled into with a grunt of relief, cursing and groaning, dizzy, breathless, spent.
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He made sure he said all the right things afterwards, of course: picked up her clothes, kissed her goodbye properly, even though his heart wasn't in it. He might only be a bit of Northern rough, but he always made a point of behaving like a gentleman when he'd made love to a woman, whatever the circumstances. When she asked if they could do it again sometime he played it very cool, though. Hopefully, she'd take the hint and realise it was a one night only thing.
After she left he sat back with his boots on the desk, a cigarette dangling from one hand and the long fingers of the other curled round a glass of Scotch, and realised he felt more lonely than ever. And hollow. And strangely unsatisfied.
It seemed that he and Lady Bols were even now, then: they'd both stupidly slept with other people when all they really wanted was each other. He wondered if her encounter with the Thatcherite wanker had left her feeling this empty, and grimaced to himself at the thought of her with another man. She'd been so drunk she probably didn't remember much about it, which was some consolation at least.
He sighed heavily and took another deep drag, blowing the smoke slowly up towards the ceiling. He knew he couldn't leave things as they were, he would have to see her, try to sort the whole sorry mess out one way or another.
But not now, not tonight. He stubbed the fag out and poured another large measure. Tomorrow he'd go and find her, apologise, put things right. Tomorrow he'd tell her how he really felt about her. Tomorrow she'd admit she felt the same. Tomorrow …
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Those two really did need their heads banging together, didn't they? Followed by another kind of bang altogether … ;)
All reviews welcome, as ever.