-Day 35-
6:35. So not 6:30. I ring her door, and she answers, "You're five minutes late."
"I'm ten minutes early," I reply, laughing.
The door buzzes and I go in, hopping up the stairs. I walk in and see her in the bathroom, finishing getting ready.
"Hey," I call.
"Um, can you come zip me?" she asks, her voice apologetic. "I tried, I really did."
"It's all right," I say, walking to the bathroom, where she's standing with her back to me.
I zip her up as quickly as I can. She did have it about two-thirds of the way up, which is farther than she got it Thursday.
"Thank you," she says. "I'll be out in a minute."
"Take your time," I say. I sit on the couch. The telly is on, tuned to that food channel again. Some sort of competition that's somewhat interesting.
"Okay," she says. I flip off the TV and stand.
Wow. She looks… wow.
"You look so beautiful," I say softly. She's wearing the red dress, heels, and it looks like she's had her hair done. And she's got on makeup. I don't think I've seen her wearing makeup before. She doesn't really need it, and she doesn't have a lot on anyway, but the effect is… wow.
"Thank you," she says, smiling shyly.
"Did you have your hair done?" I ask, stepping towards her, still staring like a complete idiot. My fingers are drawn to her curls, and I touch her hair gently.
"Just trimmed. It always gets springier with a trim," she says, obviously not minding me touching her hair. Some girls are very particular about that. I'm glad Guinevere isn't one of them.
"And you left it down," I say. "For me?"
"Of course," she says. "You look very handsome, Arthur."
"Thank you," I say. I don't know that she's seen this suit yet. It's my best one, an Armani, dark gray, and expertly tailored. Of course.
"Your tie matches my dress," she says, running her finger down my tie with a smile.
"I know," I say.
"You did that on purpose?" she looks up at me.
"Well, yes."
"Do you have a lavender tie, too?" she smirks.
"No. But I might have to get one, if it's your favorite color." I'm secure enough in my masculinity to wear a lavender tie. I ignore the voice asking me why I would buy a tie just because it's her favorite color. I want to enjoy my evening.
"Shall we go?" I say, leaning over to kiss her cheek. Her lips are all shiny and glossy and I don't want to mess them up. Her bare shoulder is right there, and I almost kiss it, too.
Maybe I should have let her wear the other dress.
"Let me get my wrap," she says, disappearing into her room for a second and reappearing with what looks like a large piece of black fabric draped over her arm. "Let's go," she says. We take two steps and she says, "Wait."
She opens the small clutch purse she is carrying and peeks inside. "One more second," she says, scurrying to the bathroom. She emerges less than a minute later, and I just catch a glimpse of something white being tucked inside the small purse.
Then I remember last weekend and her comment about PMS.
Oh. All right, then.
xXx
We arrive shortly after seven, which is fine because dinner isn't until eight anyway. The first hour is cocktails and mingling. It's generally a headache. I spot my father across the room and decide to put that off until absolutely necessary.
"What would you like to drink, my lady?" I ask.
"I see waiters with trays of champagne," she says, looking around.
"Sounds good," I say, steering her towards the nearest waiter and plucking two glasses from his tray.
"Thank you," she says.
"Hey, there's Leon," I say, and we head in his direction. Gwaine is with him, standing next to him, looking like a catalog model.
"He cleans up well," Guinevere says.
"He looks like a bloody catalog model," I say, voicing my thoughts.
"Jealous, Mr. Pendragon?"
"Not at all," I say. "I just wonder how he gets his stubble to be so perfect and even, that's all."
She laughs. "Darling, you look just as good as he does," she says, kissing my cheek. Then she wipes the spot of lip gloss off with her thumb.
"Chickadee, you look good enough to make me want to go straight. Almost," Gwaine says to greet us. Gwen laughs and hugs him and Leon each in turn. They both kiss her cheek.
"Gwaine, Leon, you both look dashing," she says.
"Gwen, you look beautiful," Leon says. "Keep a close eye on her, Arthur, I already see people checking out your woman."
"Oh, stop," Gwen says, laughing. But Leon's right. An older man, probably my father's age, walks past us and I can see him giving Guinevere the once-over.
Old pervert.
"Let's find our table," I suggest, steering her towards the dining area. There are several large, round tables, each set for eight. We pick up our place cards from a long table at the entrance, and luckily we all have the same number on the back. We're at table eleven, so we go to that table, set our place cards down, and wander back to the bar. Around us, several other people are doing the same thing to stake their claims on the best seats at their tables. I'd like to sit next to Leon, because he and I usually make snide remarks quietly during the speeches, but I don't want to leave Guinevere vulnerable to the possibility of sitting beside Father (I peeked at his place card, and he's at our table as well), so she's between myself and Gwaine.
We mingle; I introduce Guinevere to everyone we talk to. She's completely charming and lovely and wonderful and everyone seems impressed by her. No surprise there.
Finally we make our way back to our table, and Guinevere is already lamenting her shoes.
"I'm not used to heels this high," she tells me.
"But they make your legs look great," Gwaine says.
"Gwaine, you can barely see her legs," I say. He's probably right, though. "Why don't you slip them off under the table?" I suggest quietly.
"Wait, who's slipping what off under the table?" Gwaine asks.
"Shoes, you degenerate," Leon laughs, shoving Gwaine's shoulder lightly.
"Yes, but you love me anyway," Gwaine counters.
Leon just blushes, smiles, and takes a drink of his champagne.
They've said the Big Words already? Wow. This is something.
"Arthur, there you are." My father's voice drifts over to us now. "If I didn't know any better, I would have thought that you were avoiding me," he says.
"I was," I tell him, and he snorts a laugh. "Father, you remember Guinevere," I say, giving him a look that clearly says watch it.
"Ah, yes, hello, dear, lovely to see you again," he says pleasantly, even smiling. I breathe again.
"Hello, Mr. Pendragon," she says, smiling back at him.
He sits, and Leon introduces Gwaine. "Uther, I'd like you to meet Gwaine Murphy. Gwaine, Uther Pendragon, my boss."
"Hello, sir," Gwaine says, standing and extending his hand to shake Father's. "I think I've seen you at the restaurant once or twice."
"Yes, you're that cheeky waiter, aren't you?" Father says.
Oh, please don't make a disparaging remark about the fact that Leon is dating a waiter.
"Guilty as charged," Gwaine says, grinning that grin of his and sitting back down. "You need to come in more. All that posh food isn't good for you."
"I'll keep that in mind," Father says noncommittally.
We're joined by Geoffrey, my father's right-hand man in the office, and another designer of ours, Ranulf Vaughan and his wife Melissa. They have three rather unruly children, so they're probably very happy to be out of the house. Honestly, their children are a menace. Whenever I see them I always stop at the chemist's and buy a box of condoms on my way home.
They're not at all like the beautiful, precocious little girl in my dream.
But Ranulf has no spine and Melissa lets them do whatever they want, so no wonder they're terrible children.
More introductions are made and the food starts being served shortly after.
xXx
Conversation is casual and superficial during dinner, as is to be expected. Guinevere is much better at small talk than I am. They ask her about her work, she asks about theirs. I catch my father watching her curiously from time to time, as if he doesn't know what to make of her. I think he likes her, but he's reluctant to, for some reason.
I cannot even fathom how a person could not like Guinevere. She's just impossible to dislike.
Of course, I may be partial.
There's an interval between dinner and speeches, and Guinevere excuses herself to go to the restroom. Gwaine offers to go with her.
"Bring me another when you stop at the bar, would you, Pet?" Leon asks, indicating his glass.
Pet? Bloody hell, Leon is gone.
"How did you know I would be stopping at the bar?" Gwaine counters, winking at him. Leon just rolls his eyes. "Of course I will. Come, Chickie." He offers his arm to Gwen, who takes it and walks with him across the dining room.
Good thing he's gay. They are a very attractive couple. I look across the table and can just make out Ranulf reminding a confused and surprised-looking Melissa that Leon is gay.
"You remember, Mellie," he says. Then he sighs. "I told you at the Christmas party. And the picnic last summer."
I glance sideways at Leon and he is trying just as hard as I am not to laugh.
Ranulf is a bit of a weed. We don't much care for him. And his wife is as wet as a fish in a rainstorm.
"Excuse me." Father stands and heads to the bar or the restroom as well. I'm still laughing with Leon, so I don't may much attention.
"So things are going well with Gwaine?" I ask, scooting over two chairs into Gwaine's vacated seat.
"Unbelievably well," Leon says. "We're, um, talking about moving in together, actually."
"Really? Already? It's been, what, a month?"
"I know, but, well… when you know, you know, right?" he says, grinning sheepishly.
Sadly, I do.
"Well, I'm happy for you," I say, clapping him on the shoulder. "Though I think we're all thankful I wasn't drinking anything just now when you called him Pet," I add, laughing.
"Kind of slipped out," he admits, laughing.
I realize that Guinevere should be back by now. I see Gwaine at the bar already, too. "Be right back," I say. I stand and go in search of my date.
I find her in the corridor by the restrooms, looking out of a window. She really does look lovely, and I realize that I never really took the opportunity to appreciate her from this angle. The way her hair falls slightly down her back, the narrowness of her waist, and the soft flare of her hips.
The corridor is deserted apart from the two of us, and I slowly approach her from behind on silent feet. When I reach her, I finally give in to my urge and press my lips to her bare shoulder as I wrap one arm around her waist.
"Mmm, I hope that's you," she says.
"So do I," I answer, and she giggles. "Been wanting to do that since Thursday," I mutter, kissing her shoulder again.
"So what stopped you?" she asks, angling her head as I kiss her neck.
"Fear," I unthinkingly confess, wrapping my other arm around her now as well.
"Oh, okay," she answers, seeming to understand. I move my lips again, finding that spot she likes. "Oh... that's not fair," she says, her voice breathier now.
I chuckle against her neck, kiss her once more and loosen my hold on her so she can turn around.
"Why are you out here all alone?" I ask. I'm still holding her lightly around her waist.
"Uther just apologized," she says, furrowing her brow. "It was a little strange."
"I imagine so," I say. He must have wanted to catch her alone. "I did tell him he should, but I didn't know if he would or not," I say.
"He caught me coming out of the loo," she says running her hands over my lapels. "He said he wanted to apologize for his remark in your office that day. He said he realized right away that it was inappropriate to say in my presence and that's why he invented the conference call or whatever it was."
"I knew that call was a lie," I say. "I don't know why he didn't just apologize immediately. Wait, yes, I do. Because that would be acknowledging his faux pas. And he obviously underestimated you." I smile at her and raise my hand to stroke her cheek lightly.
"You might be right about that. Because then he somewhat sheepishly told me that I seemed a lovely girl with a good head on my shoulders…"
"Even though you're with me," I interject.
She laughs. "Yeah, um, he did say something on that order, too, but I wasn't going to tell you. But then he said that he hopes that you hang on to me because he hasn't seen you this happy in at least two years."
"I'm surprised he noticed," I say. It's true, though. I am happy. As happy as I can be. As long as I pretend I'm not royally screwed in 25 days. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?"
"Yes, but a girl can always hear that again," she smiles at me. Then she leans up and kisses me. It's easier with her wearing heels; her lips are closer.
"We should go back to the table. The extremely exciting speeches are going to be starting soon," I say, nuzzling her nose with mine.
"Splendid," she says, grinning at me. "Wait," she pauses, wiping my lips with her thumb. "I don't know why I bothered re-applying my lip gloss, honestly," she mutters, and I chuckle.
We walk back into the dining room, and I see a young blonde woman chatting up Gwaine at the bar. He's being polite, but he clearly wants to escape. I spot Leon walking towards us, and I stop him.
"You need to go rescue your man," I say, nodding behind me.
"Oh, bugger," he says, laughing. He changes his course to head to the bar.
"This will be good television," Gwen says, turning around to watch.
I agree completely. We watch as Leon strides up. We can't really hear what's being said, but we see Leon say something, slide his hand along Gwaine's shoulders, and lean over and kiss his cheek. Gwaine beams up at him, and we can clearly see him mouth the words thank you to him.
The blonde who was holding Gwaine hostage is staring, mouth agape, and her face is bright red.
Gwen is giggling behind her hand beside me. "I shouldn't laugh," she says. "That poor girl."
"I know," I say, smirking. We continue back to the table. "I think she's someone's daughter, actually, and probably bored out of her mind."
"Hello, Loverboy," Guinevere teases Gwaine when they return to the table.
"Ugh," he says. "I told her I was gay and she refused to believe me." He rolls his eyes. "Name is Eira. She's here with her father, I guess. Pretty, but, well, female."
The lights go down before we can further taunt him, and we shift our chairs around a bit so we're facing the podium at front at least somewhat.
xXx
I'm practically asleep by the time they get to the bit about the rec center. Father steps up to the podium, and Gwen pokes me to make me pay attention.
"I'm awake," I tell her.
"Just checking," she whispers.
Father goes on about the rec center, how it's a feather in this firm's cap, blah, blah, blah.
Finally they pop my drawing up on the screen and unveil my model, and there are appreciative murmurs running through the room.
I wasn't expecting cheers and applause, obviously. Appreciative murmurs are about as good as it gets for something like this. And people are looking with interest.
"Arthur, would you join us, please?" my father calls me forward. I was kind of expecting this.
I walk forward, and a few people mutter congratulatory sentiments as I pass them. My father steps aside and gives me the podium. "Thank you," I say. "I'm thrilled that my design was the one chosen by the city council for this new recreation center. I hope that it will be a safe and welcoming place for the people of Camelot to gather and enjoy."
"There has been a new development with this building as well," my father chimes in. "I received word from Councilman Rodor this morning."
I look at my father for confirmation, and he nods. "I get to announce it?" I ask.
"Your idea," he says.
"Oh. Well, I didn't realize that this was going to happen so quickly. The gymnasium, here," I point to the approximate location on the model, "is going to be dedicated to the memory of the firefighters and first responders who lost their lives in the wyvern attack that partially destroyed the strip mall that was on the site of the new center." I'm forced to pause as another wave of murmurs, accompanied by several nodding heads, flows through the crowd. "The gym will be called the Firehouse One Gymnasium, as that particular firehouse suffered the largest number of casualties in that attack."
Now they applaud. I look over at Guinevere, and she's dabbing her eyes with her napkin again. I think about mentioning her; that her brother was one of the fallen, but I decide against it. For one thing, I don't think she'd want the attention right now. And secondly, and this is selfish, but I don't want people to think I brought her just because of that.
"Do you want to mention Guinevere?" my father asks me in my ear.
"No, I don't think she'd want that," I say. I catch her eye and raise my eyebrows. She shakes her head no, very small, but very definite. "Leave it be."
"All right."
"Thank you again," I say into the microphone, and step away. I never know how to finish up.
The emcee rescues me, stepping back up to the microphone, and I return to my seat.
The awards are mostly boring. The Innovation award goes (for the third year in a row) to a strange bloke by the name of Alator – that's it, just Alator – who strides up in a bright green suit and sunglasses.
"I guess the glare from his head is too much," I hear Gwaine mutter. Guinevere has to clamp her hand over her mouth to hold her laughter.
"He's actually a decent fellow. Just… eccentric," I say. "He's a Druid, too, and pretty powerful, but he doesn't use magic in his work." I've met him once or twice, and he's rather friendly. He just takes some getting used to. But Gwaine's comment was pretty funny.
"The odd ones are usually nice, I've found," Gwen answers.
The philanthropy award goes to a bloke I don't really know called Will Ellison. He doesn't look too much older than me, actually, which is very unusual. I guess he did a lot of work for an orphanage in a town just outside of Camelot called Ealdor. The orphanage had a fire, and apparently he spent time there as a boy so he felt he should give back. It's a very sad story.
Architect of the Year goes to Robert Aeridian, a rival of my father's and one seriously intimidating bloke. Father is not happy about this. He was hoping to nab the award two years' running.
"Something to strive for next year, Father," I say.
"This recreation center will certainly help that," he answers. I frown, feeling slightly used. Again. I should be accustomed to it, but it always stings a bit.
When I lean back, Guinevere takes my hand, kisses it, and holds it in her lap. She heard what my father said.
She leans over and whispers in my ear. "Everyone that counts knows it's your building, Sweetheart."
I feel better.
xXx
I park behind Guinevere's building after eleven. I want to go upstairs with her. But will she invite me up, or do I have to come up with something? She's pretty much stopped asking.
She looks over at me and bites her now gloss-free lower lip.
"I… I can come up… if you want me to," I venture.
"Of course I want you to, silly," she says.
I smile and turn off my car. I get out and jog around to open her door for her.
"Thank you," she says, taking my hand and leading me upstairs to her flat.
"I'm, um, just going to change clothes," she says. "I hate to ask you this, but…"
"I'll unzip you," I say, chuckling. It's almost becoming funny.
I unzip her dress. Almost becoming funny.
She disappears into her room, closing the door behind her.
I remove my jacket and my tie and unbutton the top button of my shirt. My shoes were off the second I walked in. If she can getting comfortable, so can I.
I sit on the sofa. I have a thought.
Please don't come out wearing lingerie.
I must be the only straight man ever to think that phrase in this situation.
Then I immediately remember the little white item she was tucking into her purse on the way out, and I breathe again. I really don't think she'll be coming out wearing lingerie.
I really don't think she would do that to me, anyway.
She comes out a minute later wearing a grey t-shirt and cotton trousers with cats on them.
"I hope you don't mind me just putting my pajamas on," she says. "It seemed silly to put on anything else."
"It's fine. Makes sense. I like your cat trousers." She's limping slightly. "Ankle bothering you?"
"A little. The heels were higher than I'm used to," she says. "I'm just going to pop into the loo."
"Okay," I say. Why am I here? Why did I choose now to come up?
Because I wanted to. Simple as that. This was probably the best CIA dinner I've been to, and I know it was because she was with me. Not because I got to show off my new building, not because I got to announce the gym dedication. Her.
I came up because I wasn't ready to part from her yet.
She comes out, face washed, hair back in a braid. She looks like herself again, and somehow she's more beautiful this way.
She sits next to me on the couch, leaning her head on my shoulder. "I had a good time tonight," she says.
"Yeah, it wasn't too bad," I say. Again, it's because she was there. "You looked beautiful tonight."
"You've told me that three times now," she says, smiling up at me. I trace her jaw with my fingertip, and she lifts her face to mine.
"You look beautiful now, too," I say softly just before I close my lips over hers.
Each time I kiss her I am struck by how soft her lips are. How they mold perfectly to mine. How she always tastes so bloody sweet.
Our mouths open almost immediately, tongues searching each other out, hungry for one another.
My brain is tearing up my rules and throwing them out of the window. Her body is so warm and soft against mine, and I tighten my arms around her.
My hand slides up her back as I pull her closer, our tongues tangling and sliding deliciously.
Dear God. Oh, no. She's not wearing a bra.
I hear myself gasp slightly as my hand continues to rove, trying to be cool about it, trying not to let her sense my panic.
Dummy. These are her pajamas. Of course she's not wearing a bra.
And now she's pulling me down over her, leaning back on the couch against a small pile of throw pillows on one end. I'm forced to bring my hand away from her back so it won't be trapped beneath her.
I should have left it trapped there. I stubbornly move my hand to the side of her neck, but it starts sliding downwards. I move it to her waist, bunching the material of her shirt in my fist to keep it there, but that doesn't work either, because moments later, my thumb brushes the underside of her breast.
She makes a soft noise into my mouth in response. She wants me to do it. I want me to do it.
So I do it. It's been over a month; I guess it's okay. I move my hand higher, easing my fingers over the soft mound.
"Mmm," she hums against my lips and arches her back, pushing her breast against my palm. My fingers flex in response.
It's so perfect. Soft yet firm, perfectly sized to my hand. I slide my thumb across the tip and feel her nipple respond, tightening, asking for more. I do it again and she moans into my mouth.
I move my lips, kissing down her neck to her favorite spot, nudging the collar of her t-shirt out of my way as my hand continues to familiarize itself with this new part of her.
"Arthur," she gasps my name. I love how it sounds, and I groan against her neck. My thumb rubs against her nipple again, now even more prominent, and I feel myself pressing my hips into her, trying to… trying to something, I don't really know. My body is no longer listening to my brain.
"Arthur, I can't right now…" she says, speaking to my thoughts.
"I know," I mumble. "'Sokay."
At this point, I think the only thing stopping me is the knowledge that she's not open for business right now.
Is that why I finally came up? Because I knew she was on her period and I wouldn't be able to succumb to temptation?
"Arthur?"
Oh. I hesitated in my confusion. "Sorry, I'm good," I say, kissing her lips again. My hand is still glued to her breast, and my fingers flex on their own. Then I kiss her again, and once more, and soon I've forgotten my confusion and I am lost in her again.
"You can… go under my shirt… if you want," she tells me between kisses.
"I don't think I'd better," I say, looking down at her for a second. I kiss her nose, and then I dive back in. If my hand touches her skin, there, I know I will lose it. It's torment enough feeling her through the shirt, feeling how responsive she is to my touch.
My mind reels with possibilities, and I realize that no matter what my expectations are of her, no matter how amazing my fantasies are of her, they will surely pale in comparison to what the reality will be.
I groan again, tearing my lips away, but before I can return to her neck, her lips go traveling down, feathering kisses along my jaw as she goes.
She sucks and licks at my neck, even biting once or twice, just hard enough to make me groan. I grunt and press my hips against her again. This is almost as good as my ear.
Shit, if she goes for my ear, I am toast.
In any case, I need to back off or I'm going to ruin my suit. Or else force me to make a very awkward visit to the dry cleaners. I ease my hand away from her breast and slide it around her shoulder, holding her shoulder blade in my hand.
Our kisses slow and relax, becoming less needful, turning sweeter, softer, and soon we are just lying on her couch with my head on her chest and her arms around me, one hand picking idly through my hair.
I could sleep like this every night. I know I would never have a bad or unsettling dream ever again.
"Am I squashing you?" I ask when she squirms slightly.
"Little bit," she says. We shift, turning so that she is lying on me now. "Better," she says, snuggling against my chest.
I wrap my arms around her. It's nearly midnight. I should go home.
She makes a rather nice blanket. She's warm and soft, and… I think she's falling asleep. Her breathing has gone deep and regular, and she's very still.
"Guinevere?" I ask.
"Mmm."
"Guinevere," I repeat.
"I love how you say my name," she mumbles.
"Guinevere, darling, you need to go to bed," I say, caressing her face. The endearments are increasing from both of us and there's nothing I can (or will) do to stop them.
"Come with me," she says, still mumbling. She's half asleep already. She must have been more tired than she let on. I'm pretty tired myself.
"I don't think that would be a good idea," I say. It would be torture. I gently start to sit up, and am surprised at how easy it is, considering she's basically dead weight.
She must be a pretty deep sleeper.
"Come on," I say softly, shifting her into my arms and standing. I carry her to her room and see that her bed is already turned back. That's fortunate, because my hands are full.
I set her on her bed and tuck her in, moving a stray curl out of her face as she snuggles into her bed.
Then I kiss her forehead and whisper, "Good night."
"Seep goo…" she mumbles. I assume she's telling me to sleep good. She's amazing.
I turn off the lights, collect my coat and tie, and ponder her door. I can't take her keys. She has a deadbolt. I don't want to leave her door unlocked, even though the door to the outside is also locked.
Ah. I can lock the knob. Hopefully it'll stay locked when I shut the door. I turn the little lock on the knob and close the door behind me. Then I try the knob. It's locked.
I get home, undress, and flop into bed. Just as the grandfather clock in my living room starts chiming midnight, I send a text.
Home safe. Had to lock your doorknob because I couldn't do your deadbolt. Thanks for a great night.
I don't even have the energy to think. It was a great night. Don't dwell on anything else.
My hand flexes, the memory of that perfect breast of hers is burned into my palm like a brand.
She's branded herself on several parts of me, I fear. My mind, my soul.
My heart. She's imprinted there, and it frightens me more than I am willing to admit.