“Spare a few bob fer a hungry man, luv?”

I didn’t even bother looking, there were far too many homeless and hungry people on the streets of London this winter.  I’d hoped to avoid the majority by running my last errand before dark but it appeared they were out early today.  The spineless militia wasn’t doing much of a job in keeping order these days, I thought in annoyance.

“Sorry,” I muttered apologetically.

I kept my head ducked down to avoid eye contact whilst clutching my package.  I’d learnt my lesson, don’t look at any of them, because anything could set a desperate Streeter off.  It had been getting worse and worse because of all the shortages.  At least things had improved somewhat since the riots, thank God.  That had been a terrible year, the worst I could remember.  And I’d been one of the lucky ones!  I’d had a job and a flat as refuge.  I shivered as I remembered that miserable winter of 1973 when everything had gone to the devil.  Five years had gone by since then, and yet the damage that had been done during the rioting was still present in the lives of everyone remaining in the city.

Well, I really couldn’t blame the past on this poor homeless man; it was hard enough to get by with a paying job, I shuddered inwardly to think of the hand-to-mouth existence the homeless were enduring.  Still, this fellow wasn’t my concern, was he?  Not as long as I kept my business to myself and avoided any unpleasantness. 

My discomfort and annoyance warred with sympathy for his plight, but I resolutely forbade myself from feeling too sorry for the gent.  I sidestepped to avoid his body as he blocked my way, and I snuggled deeper into my jacket while wondering if I’d ever feel warm again.

“C’mon luv, give it over, just a few bob?” the voice whined, then turned to a suggestive leer.  “I’ll make it worth yer while with a good tumble.”

Startled and frightened, I did what I hadn’t wanted to do; my head jerked up into the bitter, frigid air and I looked this fellow full in the face.  My fear and annoyance were immediately replaced by sheer surprise.

“John!  What are you doing here?” I asked in relief. 

It had been over six months since I’d seen him, and I really hadn’t expected I’d ever see him again.  Our parting hadn’t been very … pleasant.  Still, I suppose you could say that London was smaller than it had been because of the events of ‘73, and I probably should have guessed I’d run into John sooner or later.

“’Evenin’, Ro, thought ya might spot me t’ dinner,” he replied casually, grinning at my reaction.

If he was willing to let bygones be bygones, then I could do no less.  I grabbed his arm, glad of his supporting presence despite the fact that he was ragged and dirty looking.  Thankfully, the frigid air kept the stench of street living to a minimum. 

“I’ll even cook,” I promised.  “But in payment, you’ve got to provide me with escort on my errand for the boss.” 

I knew better than to mention my employer’s name, but felt John stiffen regardless.  Well, it wasn’t as if I could ignore my employment; it was the only reason I wasn’t a Streeter myself, and the reason I could spot him to dinner.  Unfortunately, it was also part of the reason we’d gone our separate ways earlier in the year, so I patted John’s arm soothingly, hoping he wouldn’t become belligerent and intractable.  I didn’t want to start this possible reunion by spoiling it in the beginning, but I had to finish my errand, and if he couldn’t accept that, then we’d best part now.  Perhaps a little cajolery would help smooth things over? 

“Come on, let’s get this over with.  The sooner we finish, the sooner I’ll have you in my nice warm flat, cooking a hot dinner for a hungry, handsome man!”

He loosened up faster than I’d thought he would, and I cynically thought that he must be very hungry. 

“Maybe we can cook up somethin’ other than dinner, luv,” he suggested.

The molten heat of desire flared immediately, and I felt its blush cross my frozen cheeks, thawing my face and utterly destroying my cynicism.  He smiled knowingly at my reaction and I blushed even hotter as I pulled on his arm and we began walking.

“Eager fer it, are ya?” he teased, his mood light.  “S’all right, good girls do it, too, y’ know.”

“I’m perfectly well aware of that,” I snapped back, the blush remaining on my face, warming me nicely.  Of course, the brisk walk had its part in that as well.  “And if we’re going to be doing any of … that … then we’ve got to hurry, because you’ll be bathing whilst I’m cooking, you stink, John.  And the hot water doesn’t last at night.  Unless you enjoy cold baths, you’d best be in a hurry, too.”

Grinning at my discomfiture and utterly unapologetic regarding his state of clothing and smell, he started out and I had to trot along beside him to keep up with his long stride.  I knew from experience that he wouldn’t ask directions of me, so I gently steered him the appropriate way at the street corners.  We didn’t speak on the journey, conserving both breath and heat.  Thankfully, my final destination was on the way home, and I wouldn’t have to backtrack to reach the building.  And thankfully, too, it was my last delivery of the day and no one was expecting me to return to work.  I had no illusions regarding the fact that John would desert me in a split second if we were going anywhere near my job site.  He and the boss were definite adversaries, although I’d never learnt the history of their relationship.  But I was grateful for the job, there weren’t many to be had in this day and age. 

Not since the Revolution.

I suppose it had all started back when I was a child, but I didn’t remember much of events going on in the world at the time.  Still, it was hard to reconcile my childhood memories of a vibrant and energetic London with the tired, dispirited and dangerous city in which I now lived.  So much had happened in ten short years, it seemed as if the world had simply gone mad.  Sometimes, when I had the energy, I wondered about all the changes that had occurred in England and the world. 

I remember that as a child, I had wanted to be a stewardess, flying all over the world and visiting exciting and beautiful countries.  Now, all I wanted was my own little flat and some comfort and companionship.  If the stories were true and the rest of the world was in an even worse situation than the UK, I didn’t want anything to do with it!  I’d just stay put in my own familiar city, thank you very much, even though it was a sad and dangerous place.  At least it wasn’t New York City, I thought with a shudder of terror, or Cairo.  And thank God I wasn’t anywhere near any of the new Soviet Republikas.  Old Moscow was still so radioactive that none could live anywhere near the city, even seven years after the bomb had detonated!  I ducked my head into my jacket as we walked, thinking that the entire world had been lucky that no launch had ever been discovered, and thus no retaliatory strike that could have caused a nuclear winter.  A normal bitter winter was bad enough; I didn’t want to ever have to face the possibility of a nuclear winter!

I darted into the studio as soon as we reached it, leaving John outside, stamping his feet against the cold, and I dropped off my parcel whilst breathing a sigh of relief that I’d completed the trip without any mishap. 

“Good evening, Byron,” I said.

“’evenin’, Ro, lemme just get th’ paperwork ready,” the guard said with a smile.

I was left to my thoughts while he rummaged for the proper forms.  Yes, no mishaps on this journey.  The last time I’d made the trek here for my employer, I’d foolishly left it until very late in the day and had been set upon by one of the roving street gangs.  Luckily, it had been one of the all-female gangs and they’d had no interest in me, only in the packet I carried.  When they realized the package held no food and that I carried no money, they’d merely roughed me up a bit and let me go.  I’d learnt my lesson with that, and never went about the streets after dark following that little episode.  I’d been very lucky.

I shivered, though my reaction had nothing to do with the cold that lingered whilst I waited quietly to sign the guard’s paperwork.  Lucky was an understatement.  I knew about the rape gangs in the city, and had seen evidence of their work.  My predecessor had fallen victim to them, poor girl, and her recovery had been slow and painful.  The boss kept her working at a desk now, as one of his numerous assistants.  She did no errand running at all, but the poor thing continued to jump at shadows.  Still, it was an ill wind that blew no one some good luck, and her misfortune was my gain.  I hadn’t expected to be hired on so quickly, and had resigned myself to fighting for my share of space and food, and fighting to stay away from the gang life that held the streets after the smug militia left them unprotected at the first sign of dusk.  Still, the Citizens’ Committees were the only government we had, and I suppose they were trying to do their best.  And things had been improving lately, a bit.

“Ro?”

I was brought back to the present by the guard’s prompt and I examined the paper he handed me, then carefully and completely signed my full name, “Rosalind Victoria Carter”, before I pocketed my copy.  Once that was accomplished, I said my goodbyes, then walked out of the building, taking John’s arm again and marveling at my fortune as we struck out for my flat.  Instead of living on the streets, I had a lovely little flat as part of my wages, and food to fill my belly.  And enough food to fill the belly of an occasional guest, I thought, eyeing my companion critically and thinking he could use some fattening up.  John looked as though he’d been living on hard times.  Most Streeters lived that way, of course.  I could have so easily been one of them. 

We kept to a companionable silence and a very brisk pace during the walk.  It wasn’t far, thank goodness, and we soon reached my building.

“Home at last,” I breathed, the vapour of my breath nearly turning to ice in front of my nose. 

“Movin’ up in th’ world?” John asked with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic smile, eyeing the polished doors to my apartment complex.

I’d moved in shortly after we’d broken up, but I didn’t want him to know that; John might assume I’d moved to escape the bittersweet memories I had of sharing a flat with him.  The fact that his assumption would be correct was beside the point.  So, for lack of anything better, I simply smiled mysteriously and rang the buzzer; John looked at me with narrowed eyes, but I ignored him.  The guard came to the door to look us over in leisurely comfort from the warm interior of the lobby.  I wasn’t happy to see this particular guard, but I smiled pleasantly enough, hoping to hurry his inspection.  He curtly motioned John away from me, and John obediently stepped two paces to my right, raising his hands to show he wasn’t holding me prisoner with a weapon.  Standard procedure, of course, implemented by the Citizens’ Committee Nazis … pardon me, I mean militia.

“It’s all right, Francis, he’s an old friend fallen on hard times, just come for dinner and a bit of a lie up,” I said reassuringly, standing on tiptoe to reach the speaker box.

The code word Francis worked as it usually did and the guard on duty, Jack by name, reluctantly unlocked the door for us.  We both pushed into the relative warmth of the lobby, allowing as little of the heat to escape as possible.

“Evenin’, Miss,” Jack grated grudgingly, sounding as if he were gargling and looking at me as if I were dirt from the street that needed to be swept out. 

He glanced over at John and sneered.  I held my breath, hoping that my guest wouldn’t react to the disgust in the guard’s face, but John was no fool.  He knew he was being allowed into the building only on my say-so, and could be ejected forcibly and painfully at the slightest provocation.  He smiled at the guard, but I could see the fire that was carefully kept in check and hidden behind his bland expression.  Jack turned back to me, and I was hard pressed to keep from laughing aloud as John made terrible, disgusting, awful faces and hand gestures behind the man’s back. 

“Hot water until half seven as usual, Miss,” the guard said sullenly.  “Lights go off at quarter past nine.”

“Thank you, Jack,” I replied, gritting my teeth and biting my tongue in an effort to keep a pleasant smile on my face. 

Trust the building guard to state the obvious, trust him to imply I was too feeble minded to remember the building rules.  Where had the landlord found such an unpleasant person to guard the building?  Without another word, I took John’s arm and pulled him toward the stairs.  I had ample time to revile the guard’s parentage during our walk up the twelve flights.  The stairwell was even more frigid than the outside air, if that was possible, but we warmed up quite nicely during our ascent.  Between the race up the steps and my cursing, I was quite out of breath by the time we reached my flat, but John maintained his good humour.

“Why let th’ bast’id bother ya, luv?” he asked as I unlocked my door.  “Fucker’s just a pinch above Streeter ‘imself.  Oh, lookit this,” he added when I pushed the door open.  “Yer doin’ well, Ro.  Good on ya, girl, couldn’t ‘appen to a nicer bird.”

He walked into the flat almost hesitantly, as if he were afraid to touch anything.  Meanwhile, I stood nearly frozen on the doorstep, blinking in surprise at the astounding statement he’d so casually made.  Couldn’t happen to a nicer bird?  John didn’t give compliments lightly, and the comment was nearly shocking, coming from him.  There had always been a reserve within John that I could never breach, and I knew from experience that his past continued to haunt him.  He held it as a secret, never talking about it and turning a deaf ear to any questions; he wore a mask at all times, hiding his true self from everyone.  This secretiveness had kept him from ever fully opening up to me, and it had been another reason of our breakup.  Did this compliment suggest a change in him?  Or was it simply a passing comment to someone he could count on to give him a meal and perhaps a tumble?  I supposed it didn’t really matter.  If the former, then I’d have to wait and see if more changes were forthcoming.  And if the latter … well, at least he was relying on someone beside himself, at least he was willing to open himself that much.  I wished I could get past his reserve, wished he would stop living in the past.  I wished most of all that he would remove his mask.

I shook myself as I watched John look around my flat, and I remembered my first view of the apartment with its kitchen, small living room, private bath and bedroom with closets.  It was heavenly, wasn’t it?  A veritable palace, it was, after life on the streets!  I breathed a sigh of relief as I bolt-locked the door behind us, thankful to be home sweet home.  Life was good, and I was luckier than I could have ever imagined. 

Clearing my throat, I tried to speak casually so that he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed.

“Look, you,” I said as I headed to the little kitchen, “the bath’s right down the hall, make use of it and put on my robe if you want, I’ll start dinner and then take my bath before they shut off the hot water.”  I eyed my mantel clock and considered.  “I’ll give you twenty minutes, but no more, so be quick about it!”

“You could join me,” John suggested, a half smile on his lips.

I laughed as lightly as I could, although my heart raced in response to the invitation.  Oh, if only we could.  The idea of a long, lazy soak with perfumed water and candlelight…..!  It nearly took my breath away.  There was no doubt that John wanted more than dinner tonight, and I was very happy about that!  But first things first!

“No chance of that,” I said with a determined smile.  “The tub’s too small and we’ve only got water for the next three quarters of an hour.  The landlord’s very strict about the water and power; he doesn’t want to be fined by the Citizens’ Committee for disobeying the mandates.  And anyway, you’re too dirty to soak with, John, even if I had a tub that was large enough.  Go on to your bath and I’ll start dinner.”

I resolutely turned my back on him and began working in the kitchen, listening to his footfalls fade as he walked the hallway to the bath.  I put my attention to dinner and tried to ignore the sounds of water running and vigorous splashing in my bath.  So what could I cook for a hungry visitor?

I hadn’t any meat, of course, but plenty of carrots and potatoes found their way into the soup pot with water and spices from the cupboard.  I fried up some onions with a bit of oil and added them as well.  I started some beans to heating and thought we could use my toaster, a recent gift from the boss, for the bread.  It might be Spartan fare, but I was certain it would seem a feast to John.  There wasn’t a great deal of variety available in this day and age, but being a nation of shopkeepers wasn’t such a bad thing, was it?  At least staples weren’t too hard to come by if one were lucky enough to have a job.  Thank God for that bit of stability in the UK

I paused in stirring the pot, wondering at what I’d just thought.  Stability in the UK?  Well, I suppose one could call it that.  At least it was better than it had been five short years ago when the riots had started.  But “United” Kingdom was definitely an old fashioned sentiment!  We were no longer united, that was a fact.  I tried to remember when Scotland and Wales had declared their independence from the UK.  Had it been two years past?  Or three?  Northern Ireland had claimed independence shortly before the riots began, hadn’t they?  Well, it didn’t matter, really.  But it was hard to believe that we were in better shape than the former United States of America!  They’d become the Divided States of America.   The fear of a third World War had caused mass uprising and the government in the States had been shattered following that disastrous mess in the Middle East from which their army had barely escaped.  The provisional government had tried to stabilize things, but it hadn’t lasted, and if the stories were true, the country had been split up into many small countries, much like Europe had been before the Revolution.  But what had caused everything to flare up so quickly all around the world?  And how had it become a world-wide phenomena?  It seemed that no country had been spared death and destruction.  Well, perhaps China, they’d declared a policy of isolation and had cut themselves off from the madness.

Returning my attention to our dinner, I added a little flour to the soup pot to thicken the stock, then looked through my cupboards to see what else could be added.  Standing on tiptoes, I saw a tin hidden in the shadows and pulled it out to check, nearly dropping it when I saw what it was.  Tinned beef in gravy?  I hadn’t known it was there, and it was a welcome addition to the pot.  I carefully scraped every drop from the tin and then guiltily licked my fingers.  A further examination of the cupboards found a small amount of rice and some hard pasta bits in the shape of letters, and I added those to the pot as well, setting it to simmer merrily on the flame.  This would be a feast, indeed!

True to my word, I knocked on the door to the bath after twenty minutes.

“John, can you toast the bread, please?  The soup should be ready by the time I have my bath.”

The door opened before I could knock again, but the puff of escaping steam didn’t detract from the view I had of my guest.  I gaped at John standing there, his hair dripping rivulets of water down his chest past ribs that were more prominent than last I’d seen.  I couldn’t help myself; my eyes followed a particularly hypnotic trickle of water as it meandered its way down his body, past his navel.  Blushing furiously, I looked back up into his eyes and tried to smile.  His answering grin was a sly one as he took a towel to his hair and rubbed it vigorously until satisfied it was dry enough.  Meantime, I looked my fill, waiting as he took my comb to his hair and got rid of the tangles. 

“Thought th’ fella normally stares at th’ bird,” he said casually, pulling on my robe and cinching it at the waist.

Well, at least the full monty was hidden and I could think halfway straight again!  I licked dry lips and coughed experimentally to see if I had a voice.

“Don’t stand about, I’d like my bath too!  Will you watch the stove and toast the bread?” I asked breathlessly.

He nodded as he walked out of the little room past me, brushing past me lightly.  I swallowed as shivers ran up my spine at the brief contact, then took his place in the bath and tried to keep my mind on inconsequential things.  I bathed carefully, using up every last bit of the hot water I was allotted; I think I’d wasted five minutes staring at him, and so I had to hurry.  I was just rinsing my hair when the hot water cut out, and I bit off a curse as the trickle of warmth disappeared, only to be replaced by a frosty stream.  My teeth began chattering as I hurriedly finished my rinse, but a good toweling soon put me to rights. 

With John wearing my robe, I was rather at odds for something to throw on, and thought I’d best scamper to the bedroom for an old shirt or something.  While the flat was warm, it wasn’t anywhere near toasty.  I cracked open the door and smiled a bit shyly as I saw that John was already there and waiting for me with a smile.  He looked me up and down as I stepped out into the hallway.  His steady appraisal set my skin to tingling in the cooler air of the hall, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.

“My turn t’ stare, luv.  Nice,” he murmured.  “All fer me?”

Without awaiting a reply, he took me in his arms and kissed me.  Any shyness or restraint I thought I might have vanished in a trice as his tongue slipped into my mouth, warm and probing.  I was no longer cold, I was burning up, on fire!  My breasts ached with my desire, I wanted to fall to the floor, pulling him with me, and make mad passionate love to him right there in the hallway.  His long, lean body pressed against me, threatening my stability and making me shudder with need.  I pulled my head back from his devouring kiss.

“John, John,” I moaned.  “Please don’t tease me!”

“Not teasin’,” her murmured softly.  “Enjoyin’…  I missed ya, Ro.”

God above, another compliment?  I think I melted against him, and I snaked my fingers through his long, damp hair when he moved to capture my breast with his lips.  I cried out involuntarily, oh, the pressure and pulling, it was exquisite pain and pleasure.

“Mmmmm,” he purred softly, the sound reverberating from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.  His unoccupied fingers trailed down my abdomen and soon occupied themselves in the nicest way possible.  My legs began to shudder beneath me and I was barely able to stand.

“John, let me turn off the burners,” I gasped, lightheaded and struggling to open my eyes.

“Already turned ‘em off,” he breathed, then attacked my breast again, ravishing it with his lips, alternately tender and ferocious by turns, whilst his fingers moved rhythmically over my body.  The delirium washed over me, making me shiver and press against him, urging him to fill me as I moaned with desire.   I whimpered in denial when he pulled his lips away from my over-heated skin.

“No…..,” I managed, opening my eyes with difficulty.

“C’mon, Ro,” he whispered, taking me by the hand and leading me towards the bedroom.  “Let’s do this comf’table, like.  We can eat dinner later.”

He tumbled me down into the bed and quickly followed as soon as he’d shed my robe, covering me with his warmth and arrowing into my willing body with a strong thrust and no further foreplay.  He pierced me so swiftly and near brutally so that I almost cried out as I moved to adjust myself to his welcome size.  Oh, God, it had been so long!  I’d taken no lovers since we’d separated, and this was simply heaven.  He hammered into me, strong and forceful, pushing me down into the bed with each plunge into my fevered body, his powerful thrusts coming faster and stroking me deeper as each moment passed.

I moaned, barely breathing, quivering on the brink of ecstasy with each hot, hard thrust.  I was … almost … there ….

The explosion swept over me, convulsing me, and I pressed my lips against his shoulder to keep from screaming.  I floated outside of myself in a gray fog, panting for breath, my pulse rapid and my blood hammering in my temples as the waves of pleasure shuddered through my entire body.  And still he didn’t stop, but continued to drive into me, over and over again, without even giving me time to catch my breath.  His thrusts were strong and forceful, nearly brute force, plunging into my yielding heat with vigor and power, rekindling the fire that had just been quenched.  I went from peak to peak, shuddering in reaction and turned inside out with his passion.  I moaned and opened my eyes to see him watching me with that curious sly smile on his lips.

“Again, Ro, give it over again, luv.”  He growled the command, thrusting into me so hard that I gasped in delighted shock, then gasped again when he withdrew nearly his full length before stroking deeply into me again.  “I’m almost there, c’mon luv, get there with me.”

If I’d been fool enough to not want what he said, I’d still have had no choice.  His rapid, deep thrusts were intoxicating, a drug bubbling through my veins and spiraling me closer and closer with each powerful stroke.  It washed over me again with little warning.  This climax was more powerful than my last and my convulsions must have caught him at the precipice as well, for he cried out, forcing himself deeper, his strokes fast and hard, vigorously pounding into me and extending my reaction until he joined me in bliss.  The bed rocked, I dare say the room rocked, and possibly even the building as well.  It was explosive, the combination of our tremors and cries, the force of his climax and mine mingling, joining closer together with each delicious spasm spurring my body on to unfounded heights of pleasure.  Where did his body end and where did mine begin?  I didn’t know and didn’t care; we were one, joined together wholly and completely, and his lips claimed mine in the final moment, sealing his possession of my body … and my heart.

I woke to find myself cradled in his arms, his fingers combing through my hair and brushing it away from my face.  I struggled to open my eyes and looked at him in a daze, his face was just over mine and we were nearly nose to nose.  His ever-present smile lingered on his lips, and the shadow that never left his eyes remained as well.  The mask was firmly in place, even now.

“Back with me, luv?” he asked, kissing me gently.

I nodded groggily, trying to make sense of his words and of my lax body lying in a sprawl; my limbs were not much interested in moving to my brain’s commands.  Delicious tremors faded away as gentle aftershocks.  Then my stomach growled.  Or maybe it was his stomach doing the growling.

“Hungry?” he asked with a grin.

I nodded, afraid to trust my voice.  I realized it was dark out and cleared my throat before attempting to speak.

“Electricity’s off, though,” I croaked.  “We won’t be able to toast the bread.”

He laughed and moved off me; I bit back a groan as my body complained of his absence.

“Th’ gas is still on, right?” he asked, and I nodded.  “We’ll toast th’ bread over th’ flame on th’ cooker, then.  Unless maybe ya fergot yer Streeter ways already, eh?”

Stung, I sat up and swung my unwieldy legs over the side of the bed, hoping I’d be able to stand.  “I know how to toast bread over a flame, I haven’t forgotten!” I snapped.

I stood up and then caught the bedpost to steady myself.  I grabbed a shirt from the closet and pulled it on against the chill, then stalked to the kitchen on wobbly legs.  John chuckled, following closely behind and tightening my robe around his thin body.

Our dinner was bowls full of hot and meaty vegetable soup, beans on bread toasted over an open gas flame, and an apple cut into slices and shared, and every drop was slurped or chewed and enjoyed to the utmost.

Dessert was even better. 

If there was a frantic haste to all this, it was only to be expected.  Who knew what the morning might bring?  After all the changes of the past ten years, and after the surprise of finding John back in my life again, I couldn’t begin to guess.

* * *

Well, the morning brought pain, as I should have guessed it would.  It began when I tried to crawl from our nest, my limbs groaning and my body aching in places I’d forgotten I possessed.  John’s fingers curled around my forearm before I’d done more than leverage myself to a sitting position.

“Where ya goin’, Ro?” he murmured, his eyes blinking, squinting up at me.

“I have to go to work,” I replied reasonably.

His absolute stillness should have warned me, but I was still sleep fogged and utterly sated with the loving I’d enjoyed during the night.

“Don’t,” he warned.

I looked down at him confused.  Don’t … what?  The question was on my lips when understanding dawned on me.  Don’t go to work, don’t go to see the boss, don’t work in his employ.  I tried to keep the fires of my anger tamped down, but it was useless.

“He’s the only reason I live off the streets, John, and the only reason your belly is full this morning and that you enjoyed a hot bath and a warm bed last night,” I said without thinking.

John sat up; he could move like a cat when he wanted to.  An angry cat, his muscles rippling beneath his pale skin, his back stiff and straight, the signs of our passionate night marking him here and there.  A scratch across his back when I’d lost control, a love bite colouring the skin on his neck.  I noted these marks in passing, feeling a sad lethargy creep over me.  Why did it always come to this?  I’d hoped for a few good days before the fighting began again, as I’d known it probably would.  It didn’t pay to expect too much in this day and age, did it?

“Why’re ya defending ‘im?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and anger.  “He’s a bast’id, plain an’ simple.”

“No, he’s not, he’s my employer, and he’s the reason I’m off the streets,” I repeated dully.  The same old argument.  “He’s the reason I have food in my cupboard and my flat…..”

“Yer sleepin’ with ‘im, aren’t ya?” he accused me.

I stared at him in shock.  I wasn’t, of course, but the shock of the accusation caused me to stammer, “Th…that’s none of your business!”

His eyes narrowed further, his lips sneering.  “’course it’s my business,” he snapped.  “I don’ wanna catch any diseases from ‘is castoffs.”

“Castoffs?”  Shock was replaced by numbness.  I couldn’t even bring myself to feel angry, although I suspected that would come later.  Along with the inevitable tears.

“Get out, John,” I said tiredly, reaching for my shirt to cover my nakedness.

I was shocked when his fingers bit into my shoulder.  He easily forced me back down onto the mattress, pressed me flat and straddled me to keep me in place.  His anger was plain to see and I lay silently in the face of his rage.

“What d’ya do for ‘im?” he growled.  “D’ya go into ‘is office an’ take care of ‘im between jobs?  Izzat why ya got such a posh place t’ live?  Izzat it, Ro?  Does he do ya whenever ‘e wants?  Does ‘e just snap ‘is fingers an’ yer there t’ service ‘im?  Or are ya whorin’ fer ‘im?  Does ‘e send ‘is friends over t’ spread ya out on yer soft mattress, jus’ like this?”

He kneed my legs apart, settling between them and pushing into me without pausing for breath, his anger visible despite the mask and his words cutting me like knives.  My tender parts protested the attack, and I tried to get away, but struggling was useless when he was like this.  I determined that he wouldn’t get a reaction out of me and I lay quietly, letting him do what he liked.  Unfortunately, he saw through my plan and worked to circumvent it.  His words ceased as his lips attacked my breast, urgent and rough against my tender skin.  His practiced fingers knowingly found the right spot to touch, rubbing me rapidly as he stroked me deep inside, and my resistance quickly crumbled.  The attack was short, nearly vicious, but it achieved the desired effect, and I was quickly writhing beneath his weight, panting for breath as he forced my response.

And respond I did, quickly and strongly, the desire spilling over towards a heady release.  I was nearly there, so close that I could feel the tremors beginning… and then it was over.

“No,” I gasped, shocked and angered, so close to being set free, stunned that he’d worked so hard to get me here, only to withhold the final treat.  “You … you bastard!” I gritted out between clenched teeth.  I opened my eyes to see him looking at me in sweaty and flushed triumph.  I moved to touch myself, intent on reaching the promised reward, but he slapped my hand away, grinning at me.  He captured both of my hands in one of his.

“Naughty, naughty,” he purred, the anger still evident in his tone, but the fire somewhat subdued by the breathless state he was in.  “Mustn’t do that, luv, not ‘till I tell ya it’s awright.”  He moved off the bed, but kept hold of my hands, held them crossed at the wrist, and leaned down to pull the belt from my robe as it lay on the floor.

“What are you … what are you doing, John?” I asked, my heart racing, my vision blurring even as my body continued to throb with thwarted desire.

I found out his plans immediately, as he made short work of tying me to the bed frame, my wrists securely held by the robe’s belt.

“Stop it, John, I have to go to work,” I pleaded.  “I can’t be absent, turn me loose…”

He stood up and stretched, and my eyes reluctantly wandered over his body, craving his touch as I’d never craved it before.  He’d never done this to me, never brought me so close to the edge and then not allowed me my own pleasure.  It was agonizing, almost as agonizing as the thought that he was keeping me from my employ.

“John, please let me go, what do you want?” I asked desperately as he walked naked towards the hallway.  “Do you want me to lose my job, lose my flat?  Do you want me living on the streets again?”

He stopped at the doorframe, turned back to look at me for a long, silent moment, raking me with his eyes, causing my flames of desire burn even hotter under his appraisal.  Oh, God, if he’d only touch me, for just a moment, I’d get there, please….  He came back into the room and my heart leapt with joy ... but he only stooped and picked up my robe, shrugging into it with a quick movement.

“Do I want ya t’ be a Streeter again?” he asked softly and bitterly.  “Yeah, if it means yer not working fer him.”

“I’m not your wife, you can’t tell me what to do!” I spat angrily, then inhaled sharply, wishing I’d kept my mouth closed.  The shutters dropped over his eyes and his face went cold and still, all colour draining from his flesh.  I’d never seen the shadow in his eyes so clearly as this moment.  The mask was impervious.  “John, I … I’m sorry, I … I didn’t…,” I stammered.

Without a word, he turned and walked out the doorway, leaving me alone with my wretched longings and my even more wretched self-loathing.  Why, oh why, had I said that?  The shadow in John’s eyes was a constant reminder of his loss, and I’d stupidly blundered into his pain with a statement I should have never made!  I knew his wife had been killed during the riots, and he’d never forgotten her, never got past the tragedy.  He’d never told me any of this, but I’d made inquiries when trying to discover the reason for his secretiveness, the reason for the mask he always wore.  This bit of information had immediately rung the bell of truth.  Oh, God, why couldn’t I have kept my stupid, bloody mouth shut?

I tried to ignore my thoughts, but it only made me more aware of my predicament.  Guiltily, I pressed my legs together and twisted in discomfort, wishing only for something, anything to take away the keen desire that raced through my veins.  I was torn between anguish over my unattained climax and anguish over being absent from my job, and I’m not sure which one was worse.  The idea of living on the streets again wasn’t pleasant.  But neither was this torture!  And neither was the knowledge that I’d stupidly caused John pain.  I nearly laughed at my chaotic thoughts, but it came out as a sob.

John came back in, the robe hanging open on his body and showing me what I so desperately craved.  He immediately saw my attempts at bringing myself some pleasure; the sheets were twisted beneath me and bunched almost into something I could rub against.  I felt hot with misery and shame as he shook his head and tsk-tsk’d whilst straightening the sheets.  Once that was done, he got two scarves from the dresser and tied my legs securely apart so that I couldn’t do that again.  I begged, I pleaded, I threatened, and I cried, but he wasn’t listening.  He rummaged through my closet, finding a jumper and an old pair of baggy pants that fit him well enough, pulling them on after dropping my robe to the floor.  As he left the room, I sobbed dispiritedly.

“John, why are you doing this?  Please, oh, God, please!”

He ignored me and left me alone for nearly an hour before returning.  I’d gone past tears by now and was angry and humiliated.  Not to mention frantic, I was due at work in half an hour!

“John, untie me, immediately!” I commanded as soon as he walked into the room.

“Be nice, or I might leave ya there all day,” he said.  His tone was absolutely expressionless and his face was blank.

“John, please untie me, for God’s sake!” I pleaded.

He settled down on the bed at my side, casually stroking me, re-igniting the fires that had only recently started to die down.  I struggled with my bonds, trying to get lose, but he put a negligent hand on my chest and kept me in position.  His lips took up anchor at my breast, the molten lava flowing through my veins and immediately settling in my groin.

“God, John,” I said weakly, “either finish me off or stop it, you’re killing me! Why are you doing this, why?”

He raised his head and his smile was cool, nearly brittle, his eyes hooded and cruel.  He left the room without another word and I cried for the next hour until he returned.  My desires hadn’t died down at all.  I was one throbbing mass of need, I wasn’t even thinking of my job any more.  I didn’t care if I was going to be thrown back on the streets tomorrow or not, I just wanted John to touch me and give me what I knew I had to have.

“Please,” I begged shamelessly.  “Please, John, don’t leave me like this, please ….”

“What d’ya want, Ro?” he asked tonelessly.

“You, just you, John,” I pleaded, throwing all caution to the wind.

“Yeah?  What about yer precious job?”

I hesitated, and it was my downfall.  He stroked me to a fever pitch once again, using his fingers and mouth to achieve in me a state of excitement so profound that I could barely think, let alone plead.  I was nearly incoherent with rage and desire when he abruptly stopped and left me alone.  Again.  Thrice denied.  I struggled uselessly against my restraints, damning him, begging him, needing him to complete the chore.

I heard the phone ring and heard John answer it, heard his angry, yet quiet voice saying something I couldn’t quite make out, but I didn’t care.  I needed him to put me out of my misery, and I managed a trembling smile when he looked in on me.

“John, please?” I begged softly.  “Please don’t leave me like this.”

He didn’t answer, merely stared at me, his sharp eyes like razors on my flesh, seeing every bit of me exposed to his hawk-like gaze.  He started to turn away.

“No!” I screamed.  “Why are you doing this to me?  Why, why?”

He came back long enough to pull two more scarves from my dresser, balling one up and forcing it into my mouth, using the other to bind it securely so that I couldn’t spit it out and couldn’t speak.  I looked my questions at him, pleading with my eyes, but he kept silent.  I started crying when he began to stroke me absently, my body screaming for the promised release, pushing against his fingers to hurry the process and hopefully reach it this time.  But he refused, once again taking me so close to heaven that I teetered on the edge, but he didn’t allow me to enter the gates, left me aching and hungry, empty and throbbing.

From the doorway, he turned again and watched at me as I struggled with my thwarted desires.

“Yer boss was on th’ phone.  Tol’ ‘im ya weren’t comin’ t’ work t’day.”  As I gasped at the news, he took a deep breath, his eyes undecided.  He finally blew his breath back out and nodded sharply, as if he’d made a choice.  “I won’t share ya with ‘im, Ro.”  He turned and left the room.

My gag effectively prevented me from telling him that he wasn’t sharing me with the boss, that there was no danger of that ever happening, that John and John alone held my heart and body in his control.  I sobbed quietly for a long time after that and my captor stayed away for several hours.

My situation didn’t change throughout the day.  John kept me restrained except when he led me to the toilet, humiliatingly standing by me to ensure that I only did my business and nothing more, easily preventing me from tearing the gag from my mouth and pouring out my protests to him.  When he led me back to bed, I followed him docilely, worn out from my struggles, uncomplaining as he tied me again.  Once back in bed, he ravished me with fingers, lips, tongue and body, bringing me almost to the point of no return, then stopping.  The hunger for that rush of freedom, that final stroke that would lead me into a blissful stupor, was so strong that I nearly fainted.  A snippet of an old song came to me, I was ‘a breath away from heaven’, and I couldn’t take that final breath to save my life.  I wasn’t allowed to reach it.  Oh, but I wanted it, I wanted it so badly.  Denied, denied again.

I barely heard the knock on the door; I was in a daze and crying quietly to myself, wondering if a person had ever died because of being prevented from climaxing before?  But my head jerked up when I heard John’s voice.

“What th’ fuck are you doin’ ‘ere?” he snarled.

My boss’s reply was calm and measured.  “I could ask you the same thing, John.  I came to check on my employee.  It was a helluva shock to hear your voice on the telephone this morning.”

Oh God, the boss was here?  Desire fled abruptly, giving me the first peace of mind I’d had throughout the entire long day.  The strength of fear replaced desire, leaving me cool-headed and calculating.  I kicked and fought my bonds, trying desperately to get loose.  Perhaps he hadn’t tied me quite as securely after my trip to the toilet?

“No more’n my shock at havin’ t’ talk t’ you,” John replied angrily.  “Las’ thing I ever expected, hearin’ you on th’ other end of th’ phone.  Ya got a lotta balls showin’ up ‘ere….”

“I could say the same thing of you….”

This was going to escalate to bloodshed before long!  I frantically chewed on the scarf in my mouth, and managed to loosen my jaw enough to spit the wet mass of linen out, then stretched to the utmost to reach my bound wrist, using my teeth to worry at the knot. Hurry, hurry, hurry!  I managed to get one hand loose and thanked God that John hadn’t tied the restraints any tighter.  My other wrist was quickly freed, then my feet as well, and I stood up on weakened legs.

“Where’s Rosalind?” the boss asked grimly.

Panic replaced my fear, and I grabbed up my robe from the floor, backtracked to the bed for my belt and tied it securely around me.  Smoothing my hair, I was out the room in a flash and into the hallway, certain I looked the part of being ill, what with my obviously flushed skin from continually hampered desire and my swollen eyes from steady bouts of crying.

“Here,” I croaked as I came down the hallway to the living room.  “I’m here….”

John turned, startled, but made no other movement.  I looked at my boss, cringing a bit from his appraisal.  I coughed several times, trying to appear even worse off than I was. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCartney,” I said humbly, “it came on me suddenly, and I didn’t want to bring illness into the office.  I apologize for not calling you myself, I simply couldn’t get out of bed.”

I looked sharply at John as I said that last bit, but he simply smiled coolly at me, and said nothing.

“You look terrible, love,” Mr. McCartney replied, his voice concerned, his eyes taking in my disheveled state.  “There’s no problem with you not being at work today, but I was worried about you…”

“Bast’id,” John grated out. 

My boss turned to face him, his face flushing with repressed anger.

“Excuse me?” he asked politely, his teeth clenched.

“Fuckin’ bast’id,” John calmly elaborated.  “Fuckin’ posh bast’id.  Ya sound like a poof, with yer oh-so-precise accent,” he added, mimicking the boss’s manner of speech with his last words.

I stood as if frozen; whatever was going on here was beyond my ken, utterly and totally.  It probably wouldn’t have mattered if I’d stripped naked and danced a jig, their attention was completely absorbed with each other by now.

“Tea?” I stupidly blurted, wishing only to break the tension, yet cringing when two pairs of angry eyes looked my way.  My hands were clammy with sweat and I suddenly felt as ill as I was pretending to be.  Unable to take a breath, I scurried into the kitchen to get away from the treacherous atmosphere in the living room.  With the counter top between us, I finally felt I could breathe again, and I busied myself with the tea kettle for lack of something better to do.  Besides, I was thirsty and hungry; it was evening and my last food had been dinner the previous night with John.  I put the leftover soup on the burner and filled the kettle.  The kitchen table shortly had bowls, spoons and mugs set out, awaiting the stove’s convenience.  Meanwhile, I listened carefully to what was going on only a few feet away from me and hoped it wouldn’t escalate to bloodshed.

“Look, John, don’t take that tone with me, it’s not my fault…” the boss blustered.

“Bloody hell, Paul, yer never gonna admit it, are ya?  It’s all yer fault, yer th’ one that started it, son!”

“Never did,” my boss replied stubbornly. 

Was it my imagination, or was his posh, upper-crust accent beginning to fade a bit?

“Admit it, Paul!  Puttin’ Revolution Number Nine out as a single was th’ stupidest thing ya ever thought of!”

“Look, John, that wasn’t even my song, why would I insist on it being a single?” Mr. McCartney sputtered.  “All I said was that I didn’t care if it turned into the best selling single in history!”

“Right, an’ I said not t’ do it!  But then ya pressed it without even askin’ me!  Ya pressed th’ bloody thing an’ sent it out free with every fuckin’ newspaper sold in every country ya could manage a deal with!  Then th’ pirate stations took up on it, an’ th’ indy stations.  Th’ damned thing got spread worldwide afore I even knew anything ‘bout ya pressin’ it!   Why th’ fuck did ya do it?” John cried.

The boss shook his head, his cheeks red with anger.

“Look, John, it’s not my fault that you were messing about with subliminal messages and mind control about fighting th’ establishment an’ starting a revolution!  I didn’t know that!  And it’s not my fault you disappeared fer bloody weeks an’ th’ single was worldwide before you told me about th’ shit you’d been playin’ with!  I tried t’ fuckin’ recall th’ record, John, I tried!  But it was too late.  But dammit man!  It’s not my bloody fault!  Face up to it, man, it’s your fault, an’ yours alone.”

The boss’s accent had definitely slipped.  Silence reigned after his last outburst and the tea kettle shattered it when it began to whistle.  I hurried to pull it off the flame and started the tea steeping, waiting for John’s reply.  Was what the boss said true?  Did all this, the city and the rape gangs, the riots, the Revolution, the madness that had swept the world, ‘owe’ their existence to something John had done?

It was a long time before John said anything.

“It was experimental, Paul.  Just a fuckin’ experimental recording.  I was just foolin’ around.  It was never meant t’ be released t’ th’ public.  And certainly not th’ way you did it,” John finally replied.  He sounded more tired than angry.  No, not tired.  Resigned.

I poured the tea and filled the bowls with hot soup during the ensuing silence.

“If you’d have talked t’ me, John, if you hadn’t been so damned secretive about everything, maybe I would have understood.”

“I told ya not t’ do it, Paulie, I thought you’d listen t’ me.”

John sounded hurt, and I’d never heard him sound hurt before.  He always hid his feelings so well, kept control of everything, especially himself and his feelings.  Was his mask slipping?

“Why would I listen to you?” Mr. McCartney asked bitterly.  “When you’d already shut me out entirely?  We weren’t even partners any longer, there was nothing between us.”

“If you hadn’t been so bloody insistent on tourin’, maybe I wouldn’t ‘ave shut ya out,” John shot in reply.  “But you were so fuckin’ determined t’ be th’ boss-man that I just stepped back an’ let ya have it.”

Mr. McCartney laughed briefly, but there was no humour to the sound. 

“Yeah, ya let me have it.  Ya let me ‘ave it with both barrels.  I thought it’d make you happy t’ have one of yer avante garde songs made into a single.  John, I was trying to heal the breach between us.” 

The admission was grudgingly made, and even I could tell that it had taken a lot for the boss to admit that.

“Well, ya fucked up, Paul,” John rasped stubbornly.  “Look outside now, th’ world’s a dif’rent place.  People livin’ on the streets since th’ Revolution, lives cut short, so many fuckin’ lives.....  It’s a bitter world these days.”  He sighed heavily.  “It’s … it’s all gone wrong.  All of it.”

Mr. McCartney sighed as well, nodding his reluctant agreement.  “Maybe we both fucked up, John.”

John merely looked away, and if I knew the man at all, that was as much an admission of guilt that my boss was likely to get out of him. 

I took the silence as a signal and entered the living room, taking each man by the elbow and gently steering them to the table, setting them across from each other with a full bowl of soup and a mug of sweetened tea in front of each.  I took my place at the foot of the table and bade them to eat and drink.  They followed my instructions, but without paying much attention to the food before them.

The silence was finally broken, and it was surprisingly John who broke it.  He kept his eyes on his dish as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, and asked a single question in a studiously casual tone of voice.

“So … you were really tryin’ t’ heal th’ breach between us?”

Mr. McCartney likewise studied the contents of his bowl as if it held the answers to all great questions of existence.

“Yeah,” he replied softly.

More silence fell, broken only by the sounds of spoons scraping against bowls in an attempt to keep busy.  When the food was finally gone, and they had nothing further to look at in their bowls, they busied themselves with their tea mugs.  They seemed almost afraid to speak.

“So…..” Mr. McCartney broke the silence this time, then fell silent before gamely struggling on.  “…errrr… yer lookin’ pretty thin, John….”

“An’ yer lookin’ like a fat….”

“None of that, not at my dinner table,” I broke in on John’s reply.  They both looked at me in surprise, as if they’d forgotten I was there.  I bravely trudged on.  “You can be civil and polite over my food, or else you can go beat yourselves senseless somewhere else.  I won’t have my dinner spoiled by your disagreement.”

John gaped at me.  So did the boss.  John found his voice first.

“Disagreement?  Didn’t ya hear what we were talkin’ ‘bout, Ro?  It was just a lark, an’ now....”  He shook his head sadly.  “Now it’s all … this.  Th’ madness.  All the deaths….” 

I could tell he was thinking of one death in particular when he raised those sad, haunted eyes to meet mine.  Be careful what you wish for, I told myself.  I’d wanted to see him without his ever-present mask, and that was finally what I was seeing.  The anguish, the regret, was terrible.  He’d been living with this for years.  My skin felt uncomfortably tight and I bit the inside of my lip to keep my tears from falling.

“Innocent lives lost, all th’ blood spilled, all of it on our hands.  WE’RE responsible fer what’s goin’ on out there,” he said quietly.  “Us, Ro.  No one else, just us.  Me fer playing with the subliminal shit like I did, and Paulie fer releasin’ it like ‘e did.  It’s our fuckin’ fault.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. McCartney’s head jerk back in surprise.  I imagine he was amazed that John had fully admitted their shared guilt.  But the admission had been made to me, and the boss looked down into his tea for guidance, wisely keeping silent.

“So?” I challenged John before taking a sip of my tea so that I could swallow the lump in my throat.  “Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, John.  As bad as it was, you’re crying over spilt milk.  It’s done and in the past, nothing can be done to change what happened all those years ago, nothing,” I said, looking directly into his eyes and hoping I was getting through to him.

I wanted desperately to say what I was thinking, but the words wouldn’t emerge.  The past is dead and gone, John.  Your wife won’t be coming back, but that doesn’t mean that life itself is over.  Oh, my love, you must stop living in the past.  I hesitated for several moments, wishing for the strength to say it aloud, but the strength that had gotten me this far had deserted me. 

I finally summed it up, “You can’t change the past, John.  The question is, what are you going to do about it now?  What are you going to do to make amends?”

I bent over my soup and applied myself to it whilst they thought about my question.  Perhaps a life devoted to public service, as atonement?  Perhaps ..... I didn’t know what, but surely there must be something he could do to heal the despair.  A cleared throat made me look up.

“John, do you…?” the boss started to ask.

“No,” John quickly replied.  “I don’t.”  He hesitated, then added, “But I know where it is.”

“What?” I asked stupidly.  They both looked at me as if I was mad.  “Don’t look at me like that, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said spiritedly.

John cracked a smile, his first real smile since my boss had arrived.  It wasn’t his best smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. 

“Th’ recording equipment, Ro,” he explained.  “Th’ shit I used t’ record Revolution Number Nine.  Th’ equipment I used t’ put all th’ subliminal crap on th’ recording.”

I looked at the boss.  He also had a smile on his face.  It was a pale shadow of his normal smile, but at least it was a smile.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough with all that subliminal stuff?” I asked, not quite comprehending what they were discussing.

John shook his head.  “Nah, Ro, ya don’ unnerstand….”

“Right!” Mr. McCartney broke in.  “If we can record something t’ counteract what we put out before, we can….”

“…make a difference?” John suggested.  “Fight th’ madness?  Give peace a chance?”

Mr. McCartney gave a short bark of laughter and then nodded sheepishly.  “Maybe.  Maybe,” he said quietly, hope lightening his eyes. 

I saw that hope mirrored in John’s face, the shadow lifting, and I ducked my head to keep my eyes on my teacup whilst they talked, anxious that they not see my tears.  Could this be the beginning of his healing?

* * *

It was very late by the time my boss left the flat, and in the time he’d spent there, we’d had flare ups and flare downs, but nothing close to bloodshed.  They’d even gotten around to talking about me.  Late in the evening, I drew a bath with the last of the hot water and lay soaking in the tub whilst I thought about that cryptic bit of conversation between them.

“If ya got any idears ‘bout some Posh an’ Becks with th’ girl, think again,” John had warned over another cuppa.

Mr. McCartney had looked surprised.  The surprise had finally been replaced by an open smile.  “Nah, got plenty o’ others ‘round fer that.  Don’t need th’ talent, she’s not me type.  Rosalind’s right out.”

I’d gasped, thinking I’d just lost my job and my flat, but the boss had looked at my face and hurried to reassure me.  I was almost amused in spite of my worry, when his ‘posh’ accent came on full force as he’d spoken to me.

“Please don’t worry about a thing, Rosalind, you’ll still be working for McCartney Enterprises, I can’t do without my best runner.”

John had growled, literally growled.  The boss had looked at him and grinned sheepishly. 

“Right.  I mean you’ll still be working for McCartney-Lennon Enterprises.”

John had growled again.  “Think again, Macca.  I’m gonna need an office assistant.  She’s mine.  An’ it’s Lennon-McCartney.  ‘member th’ agreement from way back when?  It ‘asn’t changed.”

It had been the boss’s turn to growl, and they’d argued good-naturedly about the name whilst I’d thought about what John had said.  Had there been a double meaning to his flat statement of “she’s mine”?  Had my words reached him?  Was he done with living in the past, was he ready to come to grips with the tragedy and to move past it?  Was he ready to perhaps … love … another woman?  Me?  I wasn’t sure, but was lightheaded with relief when Mr. McCartney had agreed that I would be John’s assistant.  There had been some desultory conversation after that, and the men had actually shaken hands when the boss left my flat.

A knock on the bathroom door woke me from my reverie.

“Did ya drown in there?” John asked caustically.

Sighing, I stood up and was reaching for a towel when John opened the door and walked in on me.  He eyed me speculatively and then handed me the towel.  He watched as I dried myself, and I tried very hard to keep myself detached from his admiring gaze.  I decided I should be furious with him for the way he’d treated me, so I pretended disdain as I hung the towel back on the rack.  His lips brushed across the back of my neck and my pretense slipped away like so many soap bubbles down the drain.  I shivered at his touch and leaned back into his warmth when he put his arms around me.

“What d’ya say we finish what we started?” he breathed into my ear.

I closed my eyes against the surge of passion that raced through my blood.  “Only if you promise to never treat me like that again,” I murmured.  The warm body at my back disappeared and I took a step back in surprise, barely catching my balance before turning to face him.  He had a wicked half grin on his lips, and he just looked at me, with lazily hooded eyes.

“Never?” he asked casually, stroking himself and drawing my eyes to his motions.

My body betrayed me, the blush racing across my face and chest, a blush of excitement and longing.  I knew I was setting women’s rights back dozens of years by my desire, but the torture had been exquisitely sweet and sinful in the most delightful sense of the words.  I’d been angry and upset whilst it was happening, but the very thought of it, now, set my blood to pumping in furious bursts.  Still, I had to make my demands.

“Never,” I replied adamantly.  Then I softened the restriction with a smile.  “Well, never when you’re angry, and never to that extent.  Teasing me by making me wait a little bit is one thing; keeping me waiting like you did is something else entirely.  Promise me, John.”

His lips curved up into a smile, and only a hint of shadow touched his eyes. 

“It’s a promise,” he agreed, taking me in his arms and carrying me to our bedroom to finish what he’d started. 

C.A.Jones is a long-time fan of The Beatles, but was never lucky enough to see them together in concert. An avid reader since childhood, C.A. only recently tried her hand at writing and now has another hobby with which she consumes her all-too-little spare time. She lives in the Western United States with husband and pets and computers.

James Ryan isn't worried at all, really; he's just stocking up the bomb shelter out back because he "is in desperate need of a hobby"....  His work has appeared online at both Rational Magic and Pyramid, and in print in Dragon, Lacunae, the Urbanite, The Dream Zone, the New York Times, and some of the better men's room walls across the state of New York.  His wife Susan and son Jamie just nod and smile when he starts to rant, which, all said, makes things that much easier.

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