This fic was written for x's birthday (don't worry, I did send it to her in June. I haven't made her wait four months for it). Happy Birthday again though sweetie - like the Queen, you get two this year. :)
Thanks to Laurie for the beta, and to her and Lynn, and Katie and Em, for the encouragement I needed to write it.
L is for Leather
Row upon row of leather handbags line the darkened shelves.
Different shapes, colours, sizes and designs.
The visual impression and the smell assault her senses as she turns the key in the lock and pushes open the door.
Why is she here? Working in a small shop up a side alley, set back from the busy streets of Malcesine. The thought passes through her head every morning and she shrugs as echoes of words, fragments of conversation, and jumbled images chase the thought through her mind.
Life in a different direction; the phrase runs on almost constant replay. If she closes her eyes she thinks she can read the words branded harshly into the delicately thin skin of her tired and heavy eyelids.
Her fingers graze the grain of a bag as she passes and she pauses to smooth the soft leather and its glowing, golden tan, as the first rays of sun fall on the shop. She picks the bag up and raises it to her face, inhaling the sweet, earthy aroma, her cheeks brushing its smooth surface back and forth.
Looking around the shop she takes pride in the neat shelves and hooks. The bags jostle for attention, standing in their regimented rows, with not a gap in the ranks and looking pristine.
She asks herself again, why is she here? She may not be fully ready to confront that question but why does she stay? - that is easier to reflect upon.
The bags remind her of her beloved books. The same musky scent that she can bury her head in. The sensation of the leather bindings against her fingertips when she touches them. Their demand to be noticed as they sit together on the shelves. And both have stories to tell; the book hiding it between its pages; the leather bags waiting – their story and journey yet to start.
Sighing deeply she hangs her light spring coat up on its stand, and watches it hanging there, looking as lonely on its own as she feels. The pain runs deep, no longer a fresh cut, but showing no sign of healing yet. She ought to get out more; meet new people. Maybe only then would she stop dreaming of a man she cannot have, in a place she cannot stay.
A passing shadow darkens the shop and the hairs at the back of her neck stand to attention even as she chastises herself for thinking that this might be him, this time.
With another sigh she turns back from where her coat hangs, heading for the light switches, trying to turn off the sensation she has of being watched. Then half way across the shop she lifts her head and comes to an abrupt standstill.
He stands in the doorway, heavyset and imposing, and she catches her breath.
A slightly creased cream shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, gives way to coffee coloured chinos and smooth brown suede shoes. Her eager eyes travel back up his body, noting the coat slung over his arm and new leather gloves casually held in his hand. Those gloves had sat in the window of the shop next door for weeks, and every day images had assailed her when she passed; images of a powerful man grasping her arm with those beautiful suede gloves and leading her into a cool shadowy room and touching her, caressing her; images of soft fibres travelling across her skin; of coarse seams brushing against hardened and oh so sensitive nipples; images of roughened fingers slipping between…..
Made brave by distance and time she had sent them to him, and now unbelievably, he's here, standing in front of her tapping the gloves against his fingers rhythmically and looking at her with such intensity.
A flush travels up her body and her stomach flip-flops alarmingly. Can he read her thoughts?
Without breaking his focus on her, he reaches his free hand behind him and slowly and deliberately locks the door, flipping the sign to chiuso. Her heart misses a beat. She dare not breathe for fear of breaking this spell, this vivid dream she is having and her eyes dart nervously over him, without quite allowing herself to make eye contact.
He takes a step forward, then another and another. A snail's pace but there is no mistaking his intention.
Please don't wake up, please don't wake up, her inner voice begs.
His coat is discarded, thrown without consideration onto the swivel barstool she bought to perch upon during quiet moments.
Everything is in slow motion. The chair sits, facing into the heart of the room, enveloped by the coat and darkened by the shadow of the man unhurriedly advancing past it.
"Ruth." The name sounds roughened coming from the man's throat, coarse with longing and a lack of use, unfamiliar to both of them.
As he narrows the distance between them she finds herself stepping back reflexively, one foot and then the other in a graceful, almost dancing motion. His purposeful movement could be seen as threatening, such is his obvious conviction. But it is not fear which is snaking itself around her body, or pooling in her loins.
Anticipation tinged with nervousness and some denial, wages a war inside her, and she nibbles on her bottom lip unconsciously; sharp teeth grazing the succulent flesh, leaving it reddened and glistening, and then watching in stunned fascination as his gaze is drawn to the action.
With her next step, she is slightly surprised to find her backward movement blocked by the hip height shelf running across the back of the shop. Covered in bags from her attempts to sort last night's late night delivery, she sinks back into the softness; releasing more of their enchanting fragrance into the air, and raises her eyes up towards the face of the ever advancing man who has haunted her dreams for far too long.
"What, here?" she squeaks, her vocal chords twisting and torsioned and her mouth dry as she accepts the reality of the situation. The answer given to her is a twitch upwards of his mouth and an arched eyebrow, asking the question silently; daring her to put aside her inhibitions whilst his soulful eyes beneath draw her into their depths until she is lost; oblivious to anything but her pounding heart, the heat coursing through her veins and the man who now stands so closely in front of her.
Slowly and carefully, so as not to break the magical spell that has descended upon them, Harry leans in towards her and tenderly lifts a lock of her hair; rubbing it between thumb and forefinger before sweeping it back from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Then, taking a glove, he traces the shape of her face: across her smooth, slightly flushed forehead, trailing down past her ears and back around the shape of her jaw.
She is becoming exceedingly grateful for the bag strewn shelf, supporting her suddenly wobbly legs, as she glories in the sensation of the suede against her skin and watches Harry as he concentrates on his task. After so many years of brief glances, only when she was sure he was unaware of her presence, followed by an interminably long period of not seeing him at all, she allows herself the luxury of looking at his face, really looking at him. Her eyes wander over his high forehead, the delicate ears she dreams of dipping her tongue into, across to his plump, slightly parted lips neither smiling nor unsmiling but promising much. Drifting upwards, her eyes settle upon his; beautiful chocolaty brown orbs framed by baby soft eyelashes; feeling like a voyeur, feasting her gaze on him as he absorbs himself in tracing the glove around her ear and down her neck towards her pulse point.
Suddenly he pins her stare. "Ruth, close your eyes," he says in a throaty voice, just above a whisper in volume and emphasizing his request by drifting the fingers of a glove over one eyelid and then the other.
With her eyes closed, the sensations assaulting her body become colour filled. Pink, red and burgundy shades flower in her mind, with dancing silver stars and shimmering, swirling lines when the suede, which has been following the line of her white, open necked three quarter length shirt dips below the top button briefly, before continuing on its earlier course. She gives herself up to the shapes and patterns, sparkles and hues accompanying Harry's exquisite touch, tilting her head back to allow him to move up her throat, inviting and encouraging him. She thinks she can feel every single nerve ending in her lips tingling as he reaches them, drawing the fibres across her softness, and unconsciously she moistens them with the tip of her tongue, tasting the muskiness of the fabric and then suddenly opening her eyes widely in surprise to stare at Harry when he replaces the glove with two gently probing fingers.
"I want you Ruth," he growls, voice full of emotion, fingers dipping into, and back out of her mouth, and she can only groan her assent whilst he pulls her to him and crushes her lips to his, pinning her between his hard body and the soft bags behind her. He tastes of rich dark coffee and the thought flickers through her mind that her dreams must have reached a whole new level if she can even register his taste on her exploring tongue.
Placing her hands gently upon his chest, she firmly pushes, breaking the kiss; looking at him with passion filled eyes and stroking his shirt when she sees the momentary confusion flash across his face.
"Harry."
Is she really going to dare to voice her fantasy?
"Put them on," she finishes, voice stammering over the words.
A silence and stillness falls over the shop, broken only by harsh breaths as they both try to control their heaving chests, and for a heart stopping moment Ruth wishes she could take the words back; feels her cheeks burning and the onset of panic in her stomach. Then Harry moves, lifting his hand to slowly and deliberately slip one hand and then the other into the soft brown gloves, and another feeling swamps entirely the fear, starting a smoldering fire in her centre.
With the gloves on, he lowers his hands to her hips, brushing against hardened nipples beneath her shirt and bra on his way. Whether by accident or design it is unclear, but her reaction to the touch is the same, shooting burning arrows towards the fire that threatens to tip her over the edge and rage out of control.
"I hope you haven't any urgent plans for the foreseeable future Ruth, because now I have my chance, I don't plan on finishing this any time soon," Harry says in the same low, throaty voice as he lifts her up to sit atop the bags, her long full skirt rucking up around her hips, parting her knees with a gloved hand to move between her thighs and press his body to hers.
And when the roughened fingers of the leather gloves move purposefully from her knees, up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh to toy with the edge of her creamy lace underwear, and tease her into moaning and begging for more, Ruth cannot help but send urgent thanks to every king and deity she can think of, for giving her the chance to turn every one of her hopes and dreams and desires into unbelievable reality, in this little shop in the back streets of Malcesine.
Soooooo, I hope you like it. Please review - it makes me happy.