My Fair Lacey

Chapter 17

I'm Thinking Six

Did Milah regret leaving him?

It had not been pretty. It had not been quick.

He and Milah had begun to grow apart soon after they were married, even before she got pregnant. Her infidelities, he thought, had begun soon after the baby was born. While he had done his best to pretend that there were no problems, her clear and evident dissatisfaction was an ever-present thorn in the side of their marriage. Tempers were shorter, moods were darker, words were harsher.

He had worked hard to carry on, doting on his son from infant to toddler. Throughout that time there had been a growing number of red flags: odd phone messages, sudden meetings with out-of-town friends, flowers delivered with no card, expensive new jewelry, strange perfume – all of which he had chosen to ignore. But catching her in bed with one of his business competitors had been the final straw. He could not ignore it, could not deny it any longer.

He had packed his shaving equipment and a change of clothing and left, going right to his attorney.

He'd been surprised, with his evidence of her adultery, that the divorce had ended up being so contentious. But there had been money involved, her family's and his, which he supposed had contributed to much of the bitterness. And, of course, there was a child. Milah had played the doting mother trapped in a loveless marriage to a cruel and heartless man. She had been successful in swaying the judge to gain custody.

He had more anger at her for that issue than any other. To make it worse, she had continued to do everything she could to undermine his relationship with his son. It had taken him years to even begin to repair the damage.

And now, she was telling him she regretted it?

"As I recall, I left you," he reminded her.

She had the grace to wince. "Only after I drove you to it," she admitted. She sighed and stepped towards him. "I wanted adventure. I wanted excitement and I began to believe that you couldn't give me those things."

"I was only able to offer you stability, my respect and my deepest affection," he told her, watching her intently.

"And now . . . now, I've realized that what I really want, what I don't have, is all that stability, respect and affection. Killian . . . he's not . . . he's not what I thought he was. I don't have these things with him."

"And you think that . . . maybe . . . you can still get these from me?" he asked slowly.

"Is it . . . is it too late?"

She was still remarkably beautiful, her shining dark hair and sultry dark eyes. And the Emma Peeler she was wearing, a tight body suit, showed that she had not lost any of her figure.

He considered. "You know my friends dragged me into therapy after the divorce. They were concerned about me."

"I'd heard something about that," she was confused by his response.

"One of the things that was brought up was that I had fallen in love with you because you were very much like my mother, who had rejected me early on. I was pretty disgusted by the whole idea, but as I thought about it, I realized there was some merit in the thought. You are both stunning brown-eyed brunettes, both beautiful . . . and both totally self-absorbed."

"So, you married me because I'm like your mother?" Milah asked pulling back.

"Perhaps." He walked around her, coming up behind her. He caught a glimpse of poofy gold foil around the corner. "You know, if you had come to me a year ago, maybe even just three months ago, I think I might have asked you out, made some effort to get to know you again." He stopped, then added, "I probably would have slept with you." He walked around to face her. "I would have told myself that Neal would have wanted me to try to make a go of our marriage again . . . but . . . the truth would have been that you were still a fire in my blood."

"And now?"

"It's interesting. I look at you and . . . I feel nothing," even as he said the words, he seemed surprised. "I don't love you. I don't hate you. I . . . feel . . . nothing. You're just another person in the room."

"It's that new little girlfriend, isn't it?"

He didn't answer, and she wiped away a tear. She continued. "Listen, please. Things aren't going well between Killian and myself and I've begun to realize . . . I've realized that you're the better man. You've always been the better man. I was a fool for pushing you away."

He shook his head and stepped away.

"Give me a chance to make things right between us. I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking, begging . . . pleading. Things were good between us, once," Milah told him. " They could be again. We've both grown up a lot since we were first married."

"Milah," he called her name. "Stop it. It's not going to happen." He paused just a moment, "I've moved on. It's taken me a while, and a lot of help, but . . . I've moved on. I will always respect you because you're the mother of my child but that's all there is, all there can be, between us."

There was the splash of cold liquid hitting his face.

Milah had thrown the remnants of her drink, the drink he'd gotten for Lacey, on him. She glared at him. "You think you'll be happy with her? She's younger than you, a lot younger. Don't you see that she's using you, your position, your money to get . . . oh, whatever the hell she wants from you. You won't possibly be able to satisfy her – you weren't very good at that when you were younger and had more energy. She'll get tired of you, bored with you, and she'll leave you." She turned, tossed her hair, and stomped away.

Rumple brushed off the alcohol, which had beaded up on his costume. He realized he was smiling. He couldn't remember when the last time he'd talked with Milah that he'd walked away smiling. He felt liberated, free.

"You can come out now," he called out as he adjusted his costume. And slowly, Lacey, in her poofy gold dress stepped around the corner.

"How long have you known I was here?" she asked, slinking forward.

"When I told Milah that if she had come to me a year ago, I caught a glimpse of that dress. You'd come to rescue me, hadn't you?"

"I cume t' fight fur you. So help me, if that skank had put a hand on you, I was gonna open up a jar o' whupass and I'd've been all over her."

"Fight for me?!"

"She thinks she kin crawl back into yur good graces jus by sayin' 'I'm so sorry an' never you mind.'?" Lacey was ranting and all her hard-won elocution lessons had been forgotten.

"You were going to fight for me?" Rumple pulled her over, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her anger as a trembling force possessing her entire body. He kissed the top of her forehead. "Well, I guess the woman who had the wherewithal to jab my father in the leg with a fork to defend her own honor would be more than ready to defend me. Very nice. Thank you."

"Air you really dun wid her?" Lacey had to ask.

"So very done. I never thought I'd get here. I have no more interest in her than I would a passing stranger. I care more if Granny's Diner has a fresh batch of cannoli on the menu than I do for Milah's well-being." He caught her chin, lifting it up so that she was face to face with him. "And I have you to thank." He stopped smiling and was suddenly somber. "Your love has taught me that I'm lovable. I am worthy and deserving of happiness."

"Well, of course, you . . ." she stopped talking. She had to because her mouth was otherwise occupied.

He pulled back from the impetuous kiss. "It's about that time for the dance. Why don't we go out and join the competition and see if we can win that damn prize?"

"Your leg feels well enough?" she asked.

"I'm on an endorphin high at the moment, so yes," he answered.

The Dance

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Fiona was addressing the crowd. "We are about to have the Couples' Dance. At three hundred dollars for an entry fee, it is our biggest single funraising effort of the season. It will determine who will win this year's Gala Crown. We're being judged by Isaac Heller, a well-known Broadway choreographer, Elsa Arendale, who is currently the lead dancer with Dancers on Ice and our great friend and returning judge, Anton Riese, who owns the House of Dance here in Asheville. Each competing couple will have three minutes to impress the judges."

She stepped back from the mike and sat down next to the judges. The hall lights dimmed and the area in front of the judges was lit with spotlights. A couple stepped out on the floor and began.

Rumple and Lacey got in the long line with Viktor and Jefferson coming in just behind them.

"Do we have music?" she whispered. "I didn't know anything about this competition.

"On my phone," Rumple answered her. "They've got it set up for us to pipe it into speakers."

As Lacey watched, it was evident that many of the couples had practiced – some looked like they had worked with a professional choreographer. They were really good.

"Are you sure we want to do this? We haven't practiced or anything," she told him.

"You can waltz, right?" he asked her.

"Yes, you know I can."

"We'll be waltzing," he leaned in and whispered his other ideas. She listened closely and smiled.

"All right then. As long as we don't make fools of ourselves," she agreed.

"Oh, come on you two," Jefferson butted in. "It's not just based on dance skills. You've got to project your characters and make the magic happen. See now, watch Killian and Milah dance," he directed their attention to the couple presently in the spotlight. "See, how they've obviously worked with someone and practiced, but we don't believe for a moment that she's Emma Peel and certainly can't buy Killian as John Steed. The dancing is adequate, but . . . there's no feeling." Jefferson shook his head. "They won't even place," he predicted.

"Please, Lacey, remember this is all for the Heart Center," Viktor reminded her. "We want to upgrade the solarium with this year's proceeds."

"All for a good cause then," Lacey decided. "All right then."

She was, however, very nervous, when it came to their turn. Rumple stopped her from going onto the floor and stepped out by himself. He gave a flamboyant bow to the judges and then took a stroll around the fringe of the dance floor. He was clearly assessing the other attendees as alternative dancing partners. He stopped when he got to Lacey and with a quick gesture, he produced a single rose. He bowed and offered her the flower.

Lacey's surprise at his magic-like gesture was genuine. She smiled, curtsied, took the rose, then took the dance floor, holding his hand as he led her out to the floor. He pulled her to him, taking rough charge of the dancing.

The music started and she had to laugh. It was the theme from Beauty and the Beast - of course, it was. She kept her eyes locked on his and followed his lead as he swept her around the room, one hand on her back, his other hand holding onto hers.

She'd always liked the waltz, having learned it was far from a stodgy dance, more of a whirlwind, one that could easily catch a person in its heartbeat and pull them along into a swirling world of movement and feeling. Blithely, unaware of her surroundings, she allowed herself to fall into the dance, becoming attuned to her partner, his warmth, and power, the safety of his arms, his love enveloping her.

When he stopped to tip her back, ending their dance with a tender kiss, she was startled back into reality, hearing applause and a few cheers.

He led her off the dance floor. Several people around them shared how wonderful they had been. Lacey was still catching her breath and could only nod and smile at them.

Rumple found her a chair and a server came by with sparkling water for them both.

"Now we wait," he told her. "Whatever else happens, I don't think we embarrassed ourselves."

They weren't able to see the dance floor, but they were able to hear the music for the next couple, Viktor and Jefferson as Holmes and Watson.

"What is that music?" Lacey asked.

"The British Grenadiers, if I'm remembering correctly. It's a marching song," Rumple said listening a moment. "And now, oh my God, we've got Rule Britannia."

"Are they really dancing together?"

Rumple moved to get a better vantage. He sighed, "Yes, yes they are. And it's homoeroticism at its best." He watched for a while. "Maybe I missed out on something turning Jefferson down." He turned back to Lacey. "I think we can kiss off first place."

"They're that good?"

"Oh yeah. You know Jefferson. Always the showman."

Back Seat Confessions

They rode home, sitting in the back seat, cradling their second-place trophy.

"I'm proud of this," Lacey told him.

"Well, they did say the choice was very difficult this year. Who knew there's a fascination for gay men and their relationships? Holmes and Sherlock," he shook his head.

"I'm so glad for them. Jefferson, especially, has been such a wonderful friend," Lacey said. "I'm half in love with him, you know."

"I do know. And he's half in love with you. I think Viktor and I would be jealous if we thought anything would come of it besides friendship."

Lacey laughed and sat back. She was a little tipsy but not really drunk. "You know it's not true," she began.

"What's not true?"

"Well, all those mean things Milah said. I think she really might be regretting losing you . . . and she should. But . . . am I a terrible person? because I don't feel the least bit sorry for her. She created her own problems. And her loss is my gain."

"And my gain too," Rumple told her.

"Well, what she said about me getting bored and tired of you and that I'm just using you and all and I'm probably going to leave you – that's not gonna happen."

"I've decided that what I have with you is worth the risk," he shared. "I hope you don't go away, but if, for some reason, you do, then I will, at least, I will have had today. And knowing this happiness, now, is worth any price I might have to pay in the future."

"Oh, that's so sweet," she told him.

Dove pulled up in front of the apartment. He got out, surveying the streets and then opened the door for them. Lacey smiled at the somber, tall man.

"Thank you, Dove. I really appreciate you looking out for me," Lacey told him.

The man seemed a bit taken aback, but gave her a quick smile and a nod. "Ma'am," was all he said.

"He's another one who's half in love with you," muttered Rumple as he guided Lacey into the elevator.

"Well, he's very nice and ever so helpful," she told him. "What's wrong with letting people know how much you appreciate them?"

"Nothing, but when you do it, people think you mean it."

"I do," she said, wide-eyed.

They got to his apartment, Lacey turned toward him and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. She laid her body on his.

"Uh . . . Lacey," he began between kisses.

"Whut?" she muttered.

"I need to step into the shower," he told her.

"Sounds wonderful," she replied.

"Yeah, but . . . uh . . . Jefferson shared some leather pant etiquette guidelines with me."

"Some what?" she asked stepping back from him.

"Well, uh . . . listen, I'm a bit . . . uh . . . ripe," he told her. "My nads have gone from toasty to roasty to I-doubt-I'll-be-able-to-father-a-child-anytime-soon. Jefferson told me that when you wear leather pants, you end up. . . uh . . . marinating in your own sweat . . . and it's not pleasant."

"Wait a minute. Were you not wearing underwear?" she asked.

"Oh no. I had to go commando with these pants," he confirmed.

Lacey made a little whimpery sound.

"But when it comes to taking them off, well, at some point during Jefferson's instructions, the phrase 'swamp ass' came up. He suggested I peel these things off and step directly into a shower."

"Can I join you, please?" Her eyes were brilliant, nearly glowing in the dim lights.

"Give me five minutes after you hear the shower come on. Can you do that?" he asked.

She grinned. "Yes, sir."

Hot Shower

Getting the damn pants off was easier than getting them on, for sure. They rolled down his body, the cool air hitting his privates. He experienced a rush of relief. This whole thing had been an experience and not one he really wanted to repeat although he suspected if Lacey asked him, he would shimmy into the damn things again.

He totally got the whole 'swamp ass' thing – there was a definite sense of odiferousness. He turned on the shower and began to wash off.

"Can I help?"

He heard Lacey.

"It hasn't been five minutes," he complained.

"I couldn't wait. Let me help you out." She stepped into his spacious shower.

And he felt her hands on him, rubbing soap and a washcloth on him. His body instantly responded to her, rising hard and eager.

He stood passively while she addressed herself to washing him off.

"I like this patchouli and sandalwood soap," she told him, lathering it up and spreading it on his chest.

"So do I," he told her. Her hair was all wet, hanging dark and curling against her pearl-white body.

"It smells good." She was timidly lathering up his buttocks and delicately working around his burgeoning erection. She knelt and worked on soaping up his legs. The hot spray was washing off the soap and steaming up the shower.

He was stunned when he felt her hand, her fingers caressing his hardened cock.

"Have you just gotten a lot better or was Milah impossible to satisfy?" he heard her ask.

"Maybe a little of both," he told her and closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy everything she was doing, touching him, rubbing him. When he felt her warm, wet mouth he thought he might pass out. He felt her, every little nuance, her tongue lathing him, then flicking the head of his cock, then her mouth taking in his length. When she began to suck, he bit his lip, feeling the blood surge into his organ. He groaned.

"Lacey, please, I can't take much of this," and he reached down to pull her up and off of himself.

"You like that?" she asked, her eyes half-closed.

"Witch, sweet girl, you must know I do. Here," he sat down in the shower, thanking whatever gods there might be that he had installed a seat in his shower when his leg had rendered his balance tenuous. He pulled her on top of him, facing him, her legs coming up and wrapping around him.

In the hot spray, he caught her hair at her neck and turned her head to look at him.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Please," she answered.

He lifted her up and lined himself up, slowly dropping her down.

"Wooo," she said, "This is nice."

"Yeah, I like to be able to see your face when . . . when I'm . . . when I'm making love to you." He pushed up and caught her surprised expression. "You push down," he told her. "I'm going to be pushing up."

Lacey could only focus on how really good he felt, driving into her, stroking hard and long against her, kissing her, his mouth nudging hers open, his tongue gently insinuating itself, teasing her tongue, running along her lips, tasting her. Everything quickly dissolved into heat and skin and satisfying, deeply satisfying stimulation.

"Look at me," he ordered, pulling back, his eyes dark and shining. "I love you, Lacey. Come for me, my sweet darling."

And she couldn't stop herself, her body clenching around him, the intensity of her response making her cry out and there were wonderful, hard rolling waves of pleasure, causing her to collapse and cling to him.

"Rumple, I love you, too," she managed to gasp out and she felt his hands on her hips, clenching her, holding her down as he began to spew forth, his life's energies pouring into her.

They held onto each other, all the while the shower spraying them with hot, pelting water.

She recovered first. "All right. Maybe not so much a young man's game here."

She heard him chuckle. "Perhaps - the seat helps." He brushed the water out of his eyes and lightly kissed her. "Let's get out and go on to bed."

They lay together, arms and legs entwined in the dark, quiet of the bedroom. Lacey kissed him on the chest, following up her kiss with a quick lick of her tongue.

"You taste good," she told him. She got quiet and he knew she was thinking about something.

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" he asked her.

"Twice now, you've mentioned children."

He got still, "Have I now?" he said neutrally.

"Would you like children? Children with me?" she asked.

"I like children, Lacey," he told her.

"Children with me?" she asked again.

"If you want them. Yes, yes, I would very much want children with you."

"I would like that."

"I'm thinking six," he told her.

"Six! I was thinking two," she replied.

"Then we'll split the difference and have four," he decided.

"Four!" she said. "I don't know. I mean, I'll be in school, working on a degree, and all the while you want me to be making babies with you and taking care of them. It seems a bit much."

"Don't forget, you were also thinking about opening your own bookstore," he reminded her.

"And you think I can do all this and raise four of your babies?!"

"Of course, I do. We'll work together on the raising part. And I can help with your business if you want me too."

She sighed and nestled close to him. "Love you."

"Love you," he told her.

He lay in the darkness of the room, feeling her body go soft and pliant as she fell asleep lying against him.

He lay next to her thinking. In two days it would be Valentine's Day. He'd talked this over with Jefferson who'd given him some suggestions.

He wasn't going to mess this up. Well, he hoped he wouldn't mess it up. He wanted to propose marriage to her, a real, genuine proposal of love and faithfulness, respect and a promise to take care of her . . . and whatever children they might have together. He didn't want to continue as they were, with her as his . . . what? Mistress? Whore? No, he wanted her as his wife.

He could only hope that she wanted the same thing.

A.N. I have to thank the good people over on the Accuracy in Fiction Facebook site for all their guidance in the wearing (putting on and taking off) of leather pants. This is totally out of my realm of experience and I wanted it to be as authentic as I could make it. -twyla