"Sorry, I'm not interested." Wren gives the bloke a tight lipped fake smile, and goes back to poking the bloody machine.
He nods and turns around. And that's when she notices... the bum. And the mental shoulder hip ratio. Seriously, mama mia! He is around six feet, she likes them much larger, but it's like a compact version of a perfect man. And Wren just can't get over the bum!
"On the other hand..." she calls after him, and he twirls on his heels. Wow, that's what they call a hundred watt grin!
Wren doesn't like blondes, but he has a very balanced appearance - the bright blue eyes, golden, very soft looking curls, down to shoulder, and a shockingly orange beard. He looks Scottish to her, but there's no Scottish accent. Actually, it's Northern, he sounds like the Ninth Doctor, and she wonders what's with her luck for Northerners these days.
"I'll buy my own coffee, but we can chat?" she offers, and he slides on the chair in front of her. He has a cup of tea in his hand, ginger lemongrass, and she quickly evaluates the hands. Nope, not to her liking. They are large, very masculine, and for someone - probably Heaven on Earth... but not for Wren. Yet another of her kinks - that impossible combination of long, masculine fingers, and beautiful artistic wrists, preferably with well shaped forearm, and black hair. No jam here. Still, the arms altogether are ace, the sleeves on his soft, mustard coloured cashmere jumper are rolled up, and she properly appreciates the forearms and the biceps.
"Phil, was it?" she asks, and he smiles wider. "I'm Wren."
"Oh, like a bird? Ace." Ugh, she's quite tired of this line, to be honest, but she smiles back. "So, what is it that you do, Wren?" Oh wow, he moves fast.
"I'm a librarian." And here it comes... His eyebrows jump up, and the corners of his lips curl up. Those are bloody sexy lips! So curved, as if he's perpetually smirking and pouting at the same time.
"Aren't you tired of the line, 'You don't look like a librarian'?" he asks and the aforementioned lips close over the rim of his cup. She laughs.
"Immensely."
"I am a pediatrician," he announces, with just the right amount of fake aplomb, to let her know that he realises how much of a cliche chat up technique this job is. Making chicks drop their panties is basically a part of the job description for a pediatrician.
"Would you like me to batter my lashes or emit an 'awwww'?" she asks, and he chuckles.
"Depends. Do you even like children?"
"Not particularly," Wren lies, and he salutes her with his cup.
"Then just nod and pretend to be impressed." He gives her a lopsided smirk, and that's when Wren wants to emit the 'awwww' because... dimples. And criminally cute ones. She actually doesn't like them, but she might still be riding the wave from the Saturday's pull. The fake Irishman from the weekend also had dimples.
"Don't you just hate how people immediately put label on some jobs?" Wren asks and takes a sip of her coffee. "Like since I'm a librarian, I'm uptight, but there's a sexy vixen hiding somewhere behind the glasses and the knee length skirt?"
He chuckles louder and then leans to the side and peeks under the table. The gesture is theatrical and ridiculous, and she laughs. She's wearing tiny denim shorts, and he resurfaces with a jolly grin plastered on his face.
"I'm expected to chat up housewives by charming their sprogs. I blame George Clooney." When he jokes, he squints his eyes, and would you just look at these fluffy lashes!
"And do you?" Wren throws him a look over the rim of her mug.
"Trust me, a mother of three, one colicky, two with measles they brought from school... The last thing she needs is some prick to try to get into her smalls. All she wants is to sleep."
Wren is laughing loudly, and then his phone rings.
He apologises, gets up, and steps aside, the mobile pressed to his ear.
And that's when Wren decides that he might be a decent bloke. Which means the two of them should finish their cuppas, and she should say 'no' to anything that he has to offer. Because as much as she fancies the bum - seriously, Mother Nature was on ecstasy when making those pert buttocks! - couple of fast and furious shags with him is all she'd like. And something tells her Mr. I-Am-No-Doug-Ross is not a one off kind of bloke.
He comes back to the table, and she gives him a plastic smile. The mood's gone as well, they were rolling with the whole verbal ping-pong, but now there's a pause.
"Would you have dinner with me on Saturday, Wren?"
"I'm sorry..." Wren searches her mind for right words. "I don't... date."
Isn't Wren a nasty liar these days? "No, I can't come"; "no, I don't like children," and now "no, I don't date."
His eyebrows jump up again.
"Who said anything about a date?"
It's Wren turn to hike up her eyebrows now. She's very rarely wrong in people, and this one was giving out the 'serious' vibe. Well, maybe her radar is off.
He rubs his cheek with his hand.
"Listen, Wren, I'm not looking for anything serious these days..." Halleluja! "So, I just sort of thought we'd get some nosh, go to my place, and..."
"And?" Wren encourages him to talk with a small wave of her hand.
"And we'll see where it takes us."
Alarm is blaring in her mind, but on the other hand, the bloke with such body and a doctor for that matter... he can't possibly be anything but a wolf.
"Alright, Doctor. Let's have dinner on Saturday. Where would you like to meet?"
"How's Mirkwood Bistro?"
Wren really should've started to worry here. The place is all posh, and romantic, white cloths and candles on the tables, but she's too sidetracked by the idea of finally getting her hands on the buttocks.
"Sure. Seven?"
"Seven's perfect. I'll make a reservation."
That's ding-ding-ding of Wren's alarm once again. It does sound too much like a date! But then he gets up, quickly leans in to her cheek, and starts leaving. See? Wren tells to her fretty side. The bloke's clearly very nonchalant, it's OK. We are safe.
She is not. During the dinner, he tells her of his family - his Mum and a younger brother, his Dad passed away when they were kids, Uncle brought them up, all family are doctors, except for the aforementioned younger brother who's a masseuse. That's penalty one. She's avoidant and gives minimum info, just the usual rubbish - she was brought up by her Nana, and she has a boring life, to which he predictably answers that she's surely exaggerating. Chatting with him is easy, he's smart and witty and sunny, but c'mon! She's here for the buttocks!
Then he offers to pay. Penalty number two! Wren's considering running, but when they step outside, he pulls her into a kiss, instead of just calling a cab, and it's so very hot that she decides to give him one last chance.
OK, Wren has to admit, she asked around about him. The barista in the coffee shop told her that she knew his brother, and that Dr. Phil is apparently safe. As in no rapist and won't suddenly pull out some menacing BDSM equipment out of his back room. The barista mentioned some of her friend hooked up with him last Summer, just a few casual incidents, he was good, and Wren says to herself: why not?
They come to his place, it's a nice clean flat, not too organised, but stylish. She decides to test him in the lift and pulls him in, purposefully pushing the hand down and cupping the wedding vegetables. He's hard. And big. Judging by his enthusiastic response he's into a nice stormy bonk.
They fall into the doors, clothes fly off, and he's leading her backwards towards what she thinks is a bedroom. She's not wrong, and it doesn't look like a manky bachelor pad. A nice wide bed, clean sheets, everything in elegant beige shades. She's in her knickers and bra at that point, he's got a tee and smalls left, and she grabs the hem and pulls up.
Wow, that's furry. That's officially a fur! Wren cautiously presses her hands into his chest. The problem is that she's a ginger, and has very pale, sensitive skin. Any sort of rubbing causes a lot of burns. Last Saturday's' adventure cost her a jar of L'Occitane's Almond Velvet Balm.
Wren squeaks. It's a happy squeak. He's soft! Not as in floppy, but the fur is like a bunny! Or a golden lab! The chuffed grin on his clock altogether reinforces the similarity to a happy pup.
He steps closer, and then bends, his large hands low on her buttocks, and he picks her up and hikes her up. Her legs go around his waist, and bless him! She catches his mouth, and hooray! The beard is soft too.
And then Wren is so disappointed that she's going to scream! Because instead of shagging her into a wall, perhaps even inconsiderately without taking off her knickers and just pushing them aside - and yes, she was in that kind of mood - he walks up to the bed, and plops on it backwards, so she ends up on top of him.
Wren tries to pacify her randy side. He might still be a wanker and just want her to do all the work.
Oh no, he isn't! He sits up, and starts… caressing her! Bugger. He's passionately kissing her neck, his hands run her back, and that's not even the worst! The bloke is bloody talking!
"You are so delicate… Such wonderful skin."
Oh no, shut your gob! Monkey sex, mate! Concentrate! Wren quickly takes off her bra, hoping the tits will get him into the mood. And then she tried to take off her knickers. C'mon, she can feel his cock underneath, and she can't wait to get to it. At this stage it's quite clear that she scored a jackpot second time in a row. That's the second week that she ran into an disproportionately huge pecker, and she needs it now!
Oh stop it, now the bloke is pretty much purring. His hands cover her tits - again with considerate?! What's wrong with him?! - and he flickers his thumbs on her nipples. His blue eyes are right in front of her - and she's got a weakness for them - and she grabs his ears.
"You really don't have to take it slow, love." She hopes she delegates the idea, and he chuckles.
"Don't want to leave bruises." He smiles to her.
Wren decides to take the matters in her own hands. Literally. She grabs his shoulders and rolls on her back, pulling him on top. And then she wiggles, and her smalls are flying across his bedroom. He lies on top - yes, please - and he's now kissing her collarbones, going down. Wren closes her eyes, and just starts enjoying it, and trying to remember where her handbag is, because Durex is in it, when he suddenly covers her fanny with his mouth. Oh no, that will take forever, and seriously, shouldn't he have asked?
"Um… can you go back, please?" He lifts his face. She beckons him with her index finger.
"I want you to have fun, love." The voice's soft, rumbly, and everything a chick would want. That is if the chick wanted to talk!
"Take off your pants, and I'm sure I'll have plenty."
He complies, and all Wren can say is Takei's iconic "Oh my-y-y..." It's long, thick, and straight. Glorious! He's kissing her again, but thankfully he has Durex in the bedside table, and…
Oh! That, as they say, hit the spot. She arches and moans loudly. He thrusts his hips into her, deep and slow, perhaps a bit too pointed though. She opens her eyes and sees him watch her and smile warmly.
"You are so beautiful, Wren..."
Oh, he just had to arse it all up!
Wren digs her heels into the bum - damn the bum! That's what got her into this aggro! - spurring him, and he speeds up. He's shagging her for a while, she's stroking his sides and back. The skin is so soft and silky, and the chest hair is like a kitten, and she's just starting to properly enjoy it, when he leans in and whispers into her lips, "I want you to come, Wren. Tell me what to do to get you there."
Firstly, 'to get you there'?! Does he fancy himself a harlequin novel protagonist?! Secondly, can she finally get a prick with no consideration for her orgasm?! It's her body and her climax! If she chooses not to reach the bloody 'peak of pleasure' it's her bloody right!
"I can't come," she mumbles. "But please, do go on! I'm good." He catches her mouth, his tongue opens her lips, and he's very good. But again, she's properly certain at this stage that she made a huge mistake.
He tears his mouth of hers and gives her a lopsided smirk, "I bet I can give you one."
And after that he starts to really try, and Wren's considering to fake it for the first time in her life. Because he changes positions - Bridge, Splitting Bamboo, Glowing Juniper, and then even an endlessly awkward Deckchair; he's emitting what he thinks is sensual murmurs; and then he decides that oral and hands is the way to go. By then Wren really wants him to be done and let her go home.
She decisively catches his ear and batters his hand off her fanny. "I don't like oral sex." Liar, liar, pants on fire!
Oh, now she feels like she kicked the aforementioned puppy.
She decides to speak his language. "I want you take me from behind." Really, Wren, 'take'? Oh shut up.
He's been hard for so long, and they've been shagging for like two hours, so she assumes he'd be done quickly. She's wrong. Blast it. She has her weekly lunch with Nana tomorrow. Maybe a standing buffet is a good idea. She's sore and irritated, and he just keeps on going. Her orange curls are swinging in front of her face, and at some point one of the gets into her nose, and… she sneezes.
Which coincidentally makes him come. Oh, thank all Æsir!
They fall on the bed, he's laughing, she would too, but he quickly cleans up and starts pulling her on top of him, clearly for snuggles. OK, he makes a great pillow, she'll give him that. He's warm, the chest hair is soft, and he has this nice balance between muscly and meaty, that she decides to give herself couple minutes. Besides, judging by his previous behaviour, he doesn't expect her to leave right away. And then Wren yawns - she's always sleepy after a shag - and decides it's time to start moving. The worst thing to happen right now if for her to fall asleep on him. That he will surely misinterpret.
"Have lunch with me tomorrow, Wren?"
Fuck.
She lifts her head and meets his eyes. They are serious and warm, and Rassilon help her, what did she get herself into?! It's all his bum's fault! For someone this bloke is a gift from the whole Pantheon, while she now has a choice between cocking up his mood or, again, lying to him.
"I can't tomorrow. I spend my Sundays with my Nana." That's not exactly a lie. He hums, the soft noise vibrates in his chest under her hand.
"Next Saturday?" Oh god, Wren is literally in mental pain.
"How about I'll ring you?" That is a complete lie.
Wren feels very, very bad, yeah? She is not enjoying to be that sleazebag who shags and then never calls, but what else is she to do? He said it wasn't a date! He is a doctor! They are not exactly famous for any sort of monogamous habits. Blimey, how could she have been so wrong?!
He cheerily agrees, and she start sliding off him. He looks surprised, but at this stage all Wren wants is to basically run. Like the Doctor. So, what follows can definitely be called 'the most awkward ten minutes in Wren's life.' She has to walk around his flat, to pick up assorted items of her wardrobe, and he follows her around. Like the bloody pup, fuck her. He's also starkers - she would walk around naked as well if she had a body like that - but it makes her feel even worse. She wants to yell at him to stop being so bloody comfortable around her. In the doors he gently spins her around and into a tender passionate kiss. Wren would take stubbing her toe over a sofa leg over this wonderful, considerate, skillful kiss.
She tumbles down the stairs, no time to wait for the lift, and catches a cab. At home she fills her bath, and still shaking her head in disbelief she sinks into lilac scented bubbles.
{Saturday #3}
Wren decides she's not repeating the mistake of last Saturday, and stays home. She cleans her flat, waters her plants, and spends several hours on her li-lo in the company of The Bone Clocks and her cat, Mr. Thornton.
In the evening Wren decides to go jogging. It's her favourite exercise, and she already had her 12 kilometers this week, but might as well. She pulls on her old hoodie and yoga bottoms, and with Bajofondo Tango Club in her earphones, she sets off.
The bloke she slams into - because he bloody didn't signal that he was about to take a walk break - is about six four, wide, and heavy. The dark waves are gathered in a ponytail, mindblowing wide shoulders, arms like logs.
Wren flies to the side of the trail. Because... Newton's Second Law!
She rolls down the hill, lands into the ditch, her hands and knees scrape on the roots and small rocks, she yelps, and then sharp pain blooms in her hip.
"Miss?" He jumps down into the ditch and scoots in front of her. "Are you alright?"
Wow, those are glorious blue eyes! And eyebrows! And the nose! And the voice! And... wanker! Doesn't he know the jogging etiquette?!
"Weren't you watching where you're going?" she hisses at him.
He cocks an eyebrow. If he thinks his whole… majesticness will get him out of this barney, he's cruelly mistaken!
My blog: kolmakov dot ca
{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}
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{Blind Carnival initially written here & Ani my first independent fantasy story}
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My book on Amazon!
CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER
{my first novel
inspired by the story initially written here}
Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!
Summary:
Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.
John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.
Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.
Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?