Keeping Up Appearances

Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.

***

“Come.”

The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.

Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”

She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.

“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.

“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.

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Taking Liberties (I)

Erotic romance was how I started. This is definitely a slow burn. An actual story for once, but it is a departure from what I have posted to my blog so far so may take some adjusting.

Many years after the fact, I learnt he had finely orchestrated our first meeting. Sat beside one another at a dull talk on moral responsibility, he put his hand on my thigh. I slapped it away. He was thoughtful, and when the room grew rowdy once more he placed the hand higher upon my thigh. This time, when I made to swat the hand away again, he caught my fingers in his and held them fast, delicately stroking the palm.

Afterwards the speaker announced that they would be serving us tea and fruitcake in the ante room. I broke free of his grasp, and had been speaking with Lydia’s sister, when he approached me at the samovar and said,

“I do hope you didn’t think me forward.”

Always that impertinent grin about his mouth. His blonde-toned hair oiled but waved towards his brow. Eleven months and two inches between us.
“I do think you forward.”

“Oh dear, that wasn’t my intention.”
He stroked his hand along the length of my index finger, I looked about us and tempered my voice.

“You manhandled me.”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Your hand was placed upon my thigh where it had no place being. How could I possibly misunderstand that?”
His large, child-like blue eyes registered my scandalous words with some amusement.

“I was gripped, gripped by Professor Bradley’s rousing speech, of course. Had your thigh been that of the good professor himself, or even my dear, departed mother, my reaction would have been much the same.”
His speech was firm and measured. He looked me in the eye carefully. It could almost have been true.

“I can see you don’t believe me. Perhaps I could take you to dinner and explain in a more detailed fashion?”

“If I refuse, would you persist in harassing me?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He shrugged, turning to the samovar himself for his own refreshment.

He was infuriating.

I went to dinner.

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