7 comments/ 29297 views/ 28 favorites Well Played Ch. 01 By: Firebrain HARPER Nathan's voice was breath rushing over my collarbone. "Eventually, I'm going to have you, whether you like it or not. So... you'd best think about liking it." He punctuated that last word with a crisp spank on my bottom, and then strode towards the door of my office. Creak. There went the handle in his palm. It opened, he stepped out, and in that last second when he was half in my space and half in limbo, he cracked a grin that made my hands ache with emptiness. Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. Nathan Ironside. Is it me, or is there poetry to the mere sound of it? The jagged sort that hides a carnival beneath the shapes of the words. Not that I'd ever tell him that -- he'd struggle to make those suave little exits. His head wouldn't fit through the door. "Harper? Hello?" Ben poked me in the ribs and I almost dropped the folders Nathan had piled into my hands. I blinked at him. "How do you do that? When did you come in?" "I rode in on a steam punk pixie. Jesus. What does he do, sprinkle you with crack?" Ben scowled. "You've even got those puppy dog eyes, all glass-beady." "I didn't know you looked so closely," I teased. "It's hard not to when you're all swoony and doped up." He straightened his every-so-slightly metrosexual tie (Japanese cherry blossom). "Have you got those mock-ups for the Indella campaign?" I dumped the files on my desk and swung round to my notice board, easing the pin from the cork. "The nail polish? Right here. They're not finished, though -- I'm waiting for the edited copy." "They'll do for now." Ben smirked at me. "And tonight -- after dinner -- you can tell me all about your ickle crush on Mr Iron Balls." I blushed again. "It's not a crush, Ben --" "Oh? Is it lurve?" He laughed, and it was filthier than usual. "You'd best get some wine as well, then." "All you two is drink and eat." Caroline peered around the doorway. "I'm surprised you don't have to roll to work in the morning." I stuck my tongue out at her. "You be quiet," said Ben. "You're just jealous of the yuppie pad. We're hardcore." He glanced at me. "Harp...core." "If tolerating your bad puns is part of the deal, I think I'll stick with my spinster loft," she giggled. Caroline is possibly the only person ever who can get away with wearing pigtails in an office, and when she giggles, I feel like I'm reading Lolita all over again. Ben's a pervert, so even if he does feel like me, he probably enjoys it. "Do you have cats?" he said to her. "Only one." "That still counts. How about a shotgun?" "No gun." She twirled a soft bunch around her fingers. "No rocking chair or veranda, either. Sorry to disappoint. What about you two -- have you got a leopard print couch and a quirky Smeg fridge? Andy Warhol prints?" Ben and I looked at each other; I winced. In the corner, Caroline carried on laughing. "I sincerely hope it's only the fridge!" she said. "Fortunately," I replied. We did debate some Warhol-style portraits of ourselves though. Possibly after tequila. "I'll invite myself for dinner one day and take photos. Everyone thinks that you're shagging anyway -- I should count the bedrooms for research purposes." She wiggled painted nails in a wave. "Catch you later." "Do people still think that we're sleeping together?" I wrinkled my nose. "Yep," said Ben, "but that's probably because I don't correct them." "Arse." "What? It's funny! And it stops that awful Mimi from asking me back to hers all the time." He made a little claw with his hand. "She's evil, I swear. Somebody told me she's got a cauldron." Rolling my eyes, I grabbed Ben by the hips and steered him towards the door. "Go and do some work, Mr Everly. God knows, I've got enough of it." "Ok, ok! But I mean it -- I want the full story on Nathan later. I am ninety-nine percent sure I heard a spanking noise and if I did -- " I shoved him through into the hall. "I said, go! Be gone! Off with you!" Ben moaned aloud and clutched where I'd pinched him. "I'm glad we're not really shagging -- you're too bossy." When I'd wiped the smile off my face, I fell back into my desk chair and pondered Ben's words about Nathan. Is it love, indeed. Of course not. It's better. **** It's been two months since Nathan joined the creative team at Knoll & Co Advertising, and two months since he folded his arms, leant back against the wall of the boardroom and narrowed petroleum eyes at me. Let the games begin, they said. My hands trembled around the dice. I know that it's bad practise to lust after your colleague. I know it's even worse to sleep with him. So...I haven't. When he waits until everyone has left the office just to catch me in the lift; when he comes to see me with no excuse other than the trivial; when he lingers at the bar on work nights out so he can buy my drink before I get my purse out -- I say no. Not tonight, it's not a good idea, maybe another time, my cab is already here, somebody's waiting for me. But he keeps asking because he knows that I love it when he asks; he keeps teasing because he knows that I can't resist it when he teases. The breathy words in my ear and the pinches at my waist and his palm flat against my ass when nobody's looking -- oh. Well played, sir, well played. You know the score; every girl has her Mr Right, her Mr Right Now. Mr After Three Vodkas. Nobody told me it was possible to get so drunk on Mr Maybe, though. The sweetness of the edge, when you're not sure what he wants all over again and you don't know when the next tease will pounce on you -- it makes me woozy. When you think about it like that -- the simplicity versus the complexity of a relationship -- wouldn't it be a shame to spoil it? To let it end...? "You are going home, right?" Caroline was loitering in the doorway again. "Or has Ben chucked you out?" "We had a lover's tiff," I said sagely. "I'm sleeping in the toilets." "Sounds...fragrant. Want to walk down with me?" I gestured to the heap of fresh copy that had appeared on my desk at 4:59pm. Caroline cringed. "Ah. Maybe not, then." "I'll catch you tomorrow though, right?" I twisted open a bottle of Diet Coke and it fizzed pleasingly against my fingers. "Wherever I end up sleeping." She laughed as she turned. "Ok, ok. Don't work too hard!" It's not as if I couldn't have gone home. When it struck freedom o'clock, most people would have switched off their computers, tucked their phones into their pockets and hurried out into the high street massacre. But the only thing more depressing than going back to work on Monday morning is coming in to a heap of things you should have finished the week before, and who wants that? Besides, if I waited around for an hour, when I finally did step into the lift -- Nathan caught the closing doors and prized them back open. "This thing hates me," he said. "Tries to spit me out." I chewed my lip as I hit the button for ground floor; stopped me pouting. Hello, lift...do you swallow? "Good day?" I managed. "Pile of tentacle rape, actually." "Sounds...tickly." "You think rape sounds...tickly?" He was watching me: not casual, pretend-ignorance glances but properly analysing, as if his gaze was pinned to the faint ripple of pulse at my throat. He was looking for something that other people didn't see and getting an uncomfortable amount of pleasure from the way I was blushing. "I'm going to start asking you out for dinner more forcefully," he laughed. "What's your stance on fake kidnappings? Or Japanese rope bondage?" "Well." I rubbed one ankle against the other. "I suppose I wouldn't have much choice on the kidnapping, either way. And I prefer, erm...Mongolian squirrel felching." "I'll have to Google that one." A grin shattered the corners of his eyes to crinkles. "Are you busy now?" "I've got a date with Ben. I think he's cooking." "I think you should come to the White Club with me." "I promised him I'd be back in half an hour." I love the way my pulse dances when he asks me out. Staccato, peaky, pluck pluck pluck. "Maybe another time?" "I think," he said slowly, "you should come to the White Club with me." He cocked his head towards me. It was a fluid, tiny gesture, but it was enough to conjure flashes of desire: Nathan throwing me against the lift wall, tugging my skirt up in a bunch round my waist, stubble grazing my neck while his fingers plunged straight through my barely-there tights. God. Maybe I should start wearing stockings...? "Is it nice in there?" he said. I blinked furiously. "What? Where?" "In there." Hot fingertips brushed my left temple and I swallowed to stop myself moaning. Then the lifted pinged, the doors roved open and he stood aside; ladies first. "I guess I'll see you on Monday," I said. He glanced about the lobby, making sure we were alone; then he patted my ass again in three squeezing strokes. I know what you're thinking -- I should've stepped away. Smacked his hand. Sworn at him. But he was so brazen about it, as if this was how we always said goodbye. Our twisted little kiss on the cheek. "Have a lovely weekend, Harper," he said. I nodded. "You too." "Send me a message." The glass doors ahead glowed with raw evening sunshine, and I winced as he strode into the glare. "Why would I do that?" "Because I want you to," he smirked. I rolled my eyes; a grin was irrepressible. "You're such a slut." "I know," he called. "You love it." And he wasn't rejected. He knew that. No tail sagged between his legs as he left. No, he was waiting just as I was; tick tock, tick tock. I wondered where the sound was coming from: a clock, or a bomb...? BEN Cooking spagheeeeetti. Singing like a diiiiiick. It's the weekend-y...I can't rhyme for shiiiiit... I am the master of the kitchen. Captain cheese grater. I told Harper when we first got our apartment that my only goal for the next six months was to make her horrendously fat (just 'cause it'd be funny); so far she hasn't succumbed, but there's a whole pound of bacon in this carbonara and a litre of ice cream in the deep freeze, so maybe she'll magically inflate in twelve hours? My mum taught me to cook. She said it was a good way to impress a woman; I think she was secretly terrified that I'd be single for the rest of my life and would survive on Doritos dipped in boiled eggs (which is the food of Gods, by the way). She's still confused because Harper and I aren't a couple -- "but you live together all on your own!" she says -- and she doesn't understand why we don't just confess our secret affair and run off into the sunset (wouldn't that burn?). It'd be like marrying my sister. Well. Harper and I did kiss one rainy, grim Sunday evening. We were hung-over and dejected from our respective break-ups, and it seemed like it was worth a try. Half way through, I opened my eyes to find that she was watching True Blood over my shoulder; her tongue went limp in my mouth and then we were laughing, the kind that gives you belly cramp and makes your face crease and ache. When all that subsided, we swore to keep it secret -- I've had more fun being single with Harper than I did in my entire last relationship, and that's really not worth trading in. "Ben?" The front door groaned on its hinges and I heard Harper curse as she bent to take her heels off. Normally, I'd have hopped through and grabbed her ankles so she fell backwards, but my softly bubbling white sauce was more important. (That's less gay than it sounds). "I'm in the kitchen!" She padded through and folded her arms. "I forgot the wine." "Well, now you've done it. We'll have to crack open the tequila instead," I sighed. "Let me guess -- Nathan blinked three times in four seconds and you were too busy orgasming to remember?" "That sounds a bit painful. But no." She went to stir the carbonara and I smacked her hand out of the way. "Bad Harper! Do you know what happens if a woman touches this pan?" Her tongue clicked against her teeth. "It'll taste good for once?" "Screw you then. You're not having any of it!" Sticky spoon aloft, I chased her through to the bathroom, where she hid behind the door and shrieked with laughter. Twenty minutes later, we were slobbing out in the lounge with bowls of pasta; me in my sauce-flecked work shirt and Harper in her fuzzy pyjamas (this is how I'm certain the girl doesn't fancy me: nightwear in hedgehog print). "Tequila does not go with smoky bacon and cheese." She winced. "We can't drink lemonade on a Friday night, Harpcore. We're already staying in -- that's bad enough." "But it's part of our code, remember?" She leaned over to prod me with her fork. "We don't feel sad for not going out on the prowl. We're secure in our..." "...patheticness?" I said. "That's not even a word!" "Yeah, well. You've been on the prowl all day anyway, you whore. I've seen you." Harper swallowed without chewing properly; she was too busy blushing like a fourteen year-old in a sex ed class. "Don't feign ignorance -- it won't wash with me, missy. I saw you." It was my turn to prod her. "How long have you been flirting with Sir Alpha of Brooding?" "It's not flirting." She shrugged. "Oh? Is there a different word for it in Brooding? Is it being a pair of sickening asshats?" She grinned at me over her bowl. "Seriously -- it's not flirting. It's...a game." "Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred spanks?" I teased. The colour drained from her face. "Oh god. Did you actually see him spank me?" "No." I laughed. "But he really did that in the office? Fucking hell, I've got to shake his hand." Pasta coiled on my fork. "After he's washed it, anyway." "It's all part of it though, Ben. Like unwritten rules. He chases me like that and I keep saying no, but we both know that I like it." I tapped my plate. "Let me get this straight. He's sexually harassing you, and you like it?" "When you put it like that, it sounds kind of creepy." She pouted at me. "Trust you to suck all the fun out of everything." "But what's in it for him?" She sat back and gazed up at me, twirling blond hair around her finger. "I don't know, actually. I guess...he likes pretending to coerce me. Likes the thrill of it." "He thinks you're going to crack. That's why he's pursuing you. In the meantime, he's just getting off on harassing you, which is..." I cleared my throat. "Admirably honest." "I want to crack. Of course I do. But this is nice, Ben. You know the little thrills you get from having a crush on somebody? I get them all the time, and they're kind of half consummated with the way he plays with me." She smiled, bit her lip; tempted, wistful. "It's a perfect balance." "Only a woman would refer to a sexless relationship as perfect," I mumbled. "You don't get it. It's not sexless. It's the sexiest thing I've ever done." Another smile -- triumphant now. "And maybe I will crack, eventually. When the time's right. I mean...otherwise one of us will get bored and it'll all just go to waste, right? But until then, while it's still...swelling...I'm holding on." "Until he gets blue balls," I grinned. "Evil Harpie." "Anyway, enough about me. Who have you been lusting over this week?" "Caroline's tits were exceptionally perky today," I said slowly. "They're always perky." She rolled her eyes. "Stop avoiding my question." "Ok, ok. Well. There is one girl." Actually, there had been "a girl" for several weeks, but you can't mention these things until you've put the feelers out. My feelers went out last Thursday and they haven't come back yet...I'm guessing they found an abandoned KFC bucket and are probably lying face down in their own vomit. "Who?" Harper squeaked, suddenly alight with intrigue. "Does she work with us?" "Nope." "Does she go to our gym?" "Still no." I grinned. "In truth...there's not a lot to tell yet, ok? Give me a few days and I'll talk." "You'll get blue balls," she grumbled. "Will you suck them, if I do?" Harper launched a cushion at me. "Bleugh. No!" **** There's only one reason why I know what seven AM on a Saturday looks like, and that's this one girl. Well. That and Aidan; if I don't join him for a run three times a week then he threatens to turn up at my office and do one of his gay dance routines, and I wouldn't put it past the sly ginger bastard. "You're late." He snorted at me in disgust. "I'm not late. I'm...arriving later than normal." I bent to tighten my laces and the whole world whooshed forwards. Ugh. "I'm on hangover time." "Oh, I see. A few vodkas and you're Doctor fucking Who." He flexed his hands at me. "I can see it now: gracefully bounding towards your foxeh laydeh with your stripy scarf billowing behind you in the breeze --" "Sod off, will you? It's half seven! What are we doing here?" I glanced around at the deserted park. "I like it," he huffed. "It's all dewy and scenic." "Are you sure you're not gay?" "Whether I like cock or not is none of your business. Now run ahead of me so I can --" He gave my arse a sharp once over, "--make sure you keep up." I shook a feeble fist in the air. "If I wasn't so afraid of you, I'd still be in bed," I said weakly. "We both know you're not here for me, you perv. Quick -- on your left, near the willow." And there she was. There she was. We'd named her Nicole. I don't know whether you remember those sad nineties Renault adverts -- Nicole? Papa! -- but like her, she's youthful and groomed and shiny, with her hair all streaked with honey and slender little shoulders that lead down to...nnnghh. I can see the sun refracting off her lipgloss from here. I bet she's French, like in the advert. I think about her saying it all the time...Ben-sha-meen... "Legs like a school girl," Aidan sighed. "The slutty schoolgirl. The one who hikes her skirt right up to flash her history teacher, and gives blowjobs in the alley behind the corner shop." "What, like your mother?" I elbowed him. "Technically, we don't know that she's not a schoolgirl," he said dryly. "Well...I'll find out." I wished he'd shut up and just let me gawp at her. We'd got a nice spot under some trees where she probably couldn't see us and her tits were doing that lovely judder with every skippy step. Bounce and quiver. Bounce and quiver. I wondered if her nipples were chafing against that tight vest...wonder what shape they are... "Nicole! Why you dress like a whore for running? Why you not go ze gym like respectable femme?" Aidan's dirty old Frenchman accent wobbled into the squeak of a young girl. "But Papa, the boys, they stare at me in ze gym! Ze park, it is full of the beauty of nature, and I exercise in peace. One time, Rosemary say a weird advertising exec, he stalk me. But she had mouthful of brie, so maybe I mishear her." "Dude. Shut up." "I've had enough. Come on." Aidan tugged me by the arm and I couldn't not run with him -- if I didn't, I'd fall flat on my face. "What are you doing?" I hissed. "Exercising...in the beauty of nature..." He was dragging me towards Nicole. We were gaining on her. Fucking hell! "No, no, no!" I twisted my elbow but he wouldn't loosen his grip. "You are not going to make her associate me with you --" That was when she stopped. She must've got cramp in one of her quadriceps because she cocked one ankle a few paces forward and then slowly bent at the knee. Two firm, peachy globes spread before us as she sank to touch her foot. Every fantasy I'd entertained about lapping at her there flashed through my head, and blood licked the base of my cock with a sticky tongue. Please don't let her -- Well Played Ch. 02 Author's Note: a little heads-up, as it were. The character of Aidan appeared in another story of mine and you may or may not have met him. While he does in fact work in the theatre, he's also a male escort. Ben, as you might have guessed from chapter one, is not aware of this. HARPER Once upon a Saturday night, I'd be doused in the shadows of a smoky dance floor, half-draped over a man with skin turned to stained glass under the glare of the disco. We'd reek of cigarettes and cheap cocktails; we'd grind like we enjoyed the feel of sandpaper. But I am so much better than that. Then there were the weekends I spent immersed in him. We drove out of the city and went hiking (always with a Waitrose picnic); we had the same CDs that we played in the car over and over again. I remember watching the sun light the hairs on his arm as it sat on the window; the wind tickling auburn hair from the line of his sunglasses as he drove. The I love yous whispered into my neck as I straddled him on the backseat, parked up in the middle of nowhere. Until he left, with her. All at once, I had no boyfriend melt into, no best friend to drag to bars. I still go out -- nice restaurants, the odd wine bar, lots of cosy afternoon trips to the movies -- but I don't spritz on Eau de He'll Do these days and while Caroline's lovely, she's no substitute for the years of solid friendship I've lost. No...my very favourite way to end a Saturday now is to curl up beneath my Laura Ashley throw (heavy white cotton with turquoise silk accents), pour a glass of wine, flick on the laptop and -- "Oh God. You're doing it again. Sorry, sorry! Pretend I never came in!" "Ben --!" The door creaked shut again as he scurried off. I heard him stub his toe and shriek five colours of fuck! on his way down the hall: drunk again. He always barged in on me when he'd had a few. Ben thinks I'm masturbating to internet porn. I suppose I do look suspect, my laptop perched the way it is while I'm naked beneath my lovely sheets. But porn is not my dirty secret. It's...spa menus. It started when I moved to London after uni for my first job; I was a PR intern for an advertising company. I ended up in a noisy shared house full of boisterous rugby lesbians and to get to sleep at night, I had to be seriously relaxed. Three nights on whisky told me that life could not stagger on that way for much longer. I'd always enjoyed going for beauty treatments but couldn't afford them much; as the raucous evenings turned to insomniac nights, I found myself browsing for the decadent salons that I'd never dared to research since my budget wouldn't stretch as far -- and once I'd made that leap, I became addicted to the thrill of a tease I'd never taste corporeal. A certain Mr. Ironside is not an unrelated symptom. Let me tell you what it's like, though; how it feels when the world closes in and it's just me and the massage of my imagination. How flickering words on a screen make me purr. I have the lights low, just as they would be in a therapy room. I select a spa website and check out the scenery -- I like them quiet and isolated with archaic features and lots of greenery -- so I can imagine what it'd be like to arrive, and how I'd feel as I looked around for the first time. Facilities should include a large, tranquil pool (preferably with pillars); hot and cold plunge baths; scented saunas. Next, I survey the treatment section. The brand list is important. Guinot is my personal favourite -- their products always feel rich without smelling too pharmaceutical -- but Dermalogica and ESPA will do too, as well as concoctions mixed by individual spas (I once read about a strawberry and cream facial for Valentine's day -- gorgeous). I always read the body treatments menu first. Wraps, exfoliations, massages and hot stones...yummy. This full-body envelopment begins with a pressing, lymphatic massage...my temples turn liquid and cool, as if I'm about to pour out of them and be naked without flesh. Warm discs of stone are then applied to the soles of your feet while the oceanic mud wrap provides deep moisture for tired skin...Now my ankles rub together and my eyelids feel heavy. Sinking...sinking...on to the facials menu. Time for my second course.   A lifting massage is performed to aid circulation, before a poultice of lavender and fresh apricots is applied to scrubbed skin. Mmph. Shivers that ache in my shoulders before blooming to prickle down my spine. This hydrating facial includes steam therapy and acupressure to relieve tiredness and remove dry cells. I feel heady; almost aroused. I like the way I swell towards the tranquil images onscreen. Need more facial descriptions, or will maybe move on to manicures -- "Fuck!" Ben fell right through my door, collapsing in a groaning heap on the carpet. I shoved the laptop down in ridiculous paranoia and scooted over to him, a sheet clasped in my fist to protect modesty (ha). "Ben...what are you doing?" "I drunk. What's it look like, Harpcore?" He dry-retched and clapped a hand up to catch the sour air. "Fucking fucktard!" "Me...?" "Noooo...s'not you. Girl. Utterly fucked it." He sat back against my bedroom wall with his arms hugging his knees. "Over 'afore it even began. Thinks I'm a rapist. Had some beer." "Do I want to know why she thinks you're a rapist?" I cringed at him. "You weren't pulling a Nathan, were you? Harassing some poor girl because you think it works on everyone..." "Ha!" He rolled worryingly bloodshot eyes. "No. But new name. I'm Hannibal. Helloooooooo Clarice." "I think you need to go to bed, Ben." "Was trying..." I kicked him in the foot. "Try harder!" Then he unleashed the brazen super force of the boy pout, and I sighed. "If do," he slurred, "you go with me 'til I fall asleep? I'm all...on my own." "Ok, ok. But I'm not actually getting into bed with you. You might vomit on me." "Have some class left, y'know." A cough. "Some." Then he crawled back to his room on hands and knees, and I perched at the edge of his bed until soft snoring disturbed the chocolaty tendrils around his face. He was still flushed from the alcohol and the air was sweet with it. I don't think Ben is as comfortable with being single as I am. Even asleep, he throws an arm over his pillows as if it's a lover he can draw close. I wonder what he's dreaming about? I patted his thigh through the duvet and tip-toed out to the kitchen -- I'd been rudely disturbed, my atmosphere was ruined and that called for top-up of wine. When I spotted the unfamiliar shape at the dining table, I very nearly dropped my sheet. "Jesus! How...how did you --?" "Came home with Ben. I wondered how long it'd take you to sort him out." Nathan sat back and smiled brightly; he wasn't half as drunk as my flatmate. "Nice place, by the way. Smells like girlie candles." I wanted to re-arrange my sheet -- tug in the gape at my back, close the split at my thigh -- but I was afraid I might flash him. "Do you always put him to bed naked? Is there something I should know?" He raised a slick eyebrow. "Did you and Ben just have pity sex?" "No. We did not. We do not." I couldn't get my tongue around the words, gah. Here I was, feeling like a complete tool in my own home...and there he was, looking as if he lived here. He did the same when he came into my office at work: strode in and snatched the reins from my hands with a nod and a dirty grin. Yes, I liked that...but I expected it. Here, the perimeters were untested and I worried about when they'd dissolve. "Why are you here?" He shrugged, tucking up the arms on his shirt. "Couldn't possibly let Ben walk home alone in that state. What do you take me for?" "A huge whore." Nathan's laughter made his collar tremble. "No," I went on, "opportunistic whore. Fair enough, you brought Ben home -- but you stuck around purposely to --" "Catch you in the nude? 'Course I did. And looky -- it almost worked." He gestured to my lack of attire. "Add a belt, a few pins here and there...I could take you out in that." "Now I'm really starting to question what happens at the White Club." He stood slowly, empty mug in hand. "If you actually joined me one evening, you'd find out." Nathan took a step towards me and that was when I felt the charge. We were warring magnets; he, compelled closer and I, repelled back. Eventually, I was going to hit the kitchen island and there'd be no more space between us -- in the dark and quiet of the flat, it was a lot more unnerving than in daylight's waxy shadows. The problem with backing up when you're only wearing a sheet is that you're going to tread on it. When adrenaline is screaming at you to move quickly, you don't realise this problem until it's a second too late and you've already -- "Woah." Three things registered in very fast succession: I was about to be naked in front of Nathan. Nathan was suddenly moving a lot quicker than I was. And just when I clapped back against the island, thought I'd totally screwed it and would be exposed...he was the one gripping the sheet. His fist sat right in the swell between my breasts, nails grazing my bare skin. I remember thinking it weird that his hand was bouncing until I realised that it was my own breath forcing the movement as my chest rose and fell. His thumb rested just an inch or so from my left nipple and it seemed like the distance was measured in disappointment. He gazed down at me beneath hair the colour of maple syrup, the light splatter of freckles on his cheeks dancing as he blinked. "Wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable," he whispered. "Of course not." I peeled his fingers from the sheet reluctantly and he caressed my wrist. "Do I get a thank you?" Ugh, god. I could thank him in all manner of breathless and sticky ways. We were just a belt-click and leg-sweep away from him taking me right on the counter and the notion hung in the air, snapping its teeth. Clicking its tongue. Go on...fuck already. "Thanks for being a gentleman," I managed. "For once." "Is that what that was? Eesh." A mock shudder; he still clasped my wrist and I felt the tremble. Then his hand dived back and splayed right across my ass, scooping me towards a solid erection. I nearly dropped the sheet again in a feeble attempt at a protest; it seemed the ladylike thing to do. "Nathan!" I was smiling, though. My face ached with it. "There. Much better." His fingers dug in through the cotton. "I'm an inappropriate pervert again and the world is at rights." There was a moan blooming on my tongue; if I closed my eyes, it'd flood through my teeth and I'd melt into him. It felt like such precarious submission, though, and it wasn't until he pinched me that I remembered I was still mostly naked and just allowing him to grope me. Some lady. "How tired are you?" he mumbled. I felt the words smack against my neck, cling in the hollows. "I'm...I've had one glass of wine." "I'll call a cab and go home if you'll let me kiss you." There it was. We weren't going to bed -- it was too easy like this. He knew it, I knew it. But he wanted a trophy, a souvenir from the blurry realms of intimacy he'd so brazenly wandered into; the question was, would I break the rules if I gave it to him? Would we be able to leave it at that? When I looked up, he was grinning. The line was broken as he bit his lip. Nathan's mouth didn't look like it was made for kissing -- it didn't command or invite them. No...it was the way he showed me his teeth at that moment, the flash of firm tongue; Nathan Ironside had never kissed anybody in his life. But he had breached citadels, taken prisoners and hoisted remnants of desire up to flag posts. He had divided, conquered and devoured. The fact he was asking permission to do this was exciting, fascinating, ever-so-slightly terrifying...and about as logical as a zebra browsing the rails at Gap. He touched his forehead to mine experimentally and breath steamed against my cheek. One hand slid from my buttocks, along my arm, traced my collarbone -- Jesus -- and came up to cradle my chin. Now, my mouth was in bondage along with the rest of me. Oh crap -- he was really going to do it. "Sure about this?" he whispered. "No going back after..." It might ruin everything. No more crackling static when he got close to me; no rush of teasing hormones on my way to work. The world would be a lot less...safe. He thinks you're going to crack. That's why he's pursuing you.   Of course I want to crack. I do... "No going back," I breathed. His thumb parted my lips before he kissed me. It made sure I felt his tongue before his mouth. It was warmer than I expected, purged the way for him...and his lips weren't half as shocking as the force behind them. My head came back and he caught my ponytail just in time; the moan I'd been trying to repress slid back out with his tongue and I finished the kiss whimpering, berating him for the rough end. I think he looked me over; checked for flushes, glassy eyes. My observational skills were skewed by my frisky pulse and the tremble of my eyelashes (how lust-drunk do you have to be, exactly, to start cursing that your own eyelashes are in the way of the gorgeous view?). Then came the words that turned my blood to popping candy. "Harper...do you still want me to leave?" I want you to hoist me over the kitchen island, tear this fecking sheet away, kiss me like you bought me at a slave auction (again) and then -- "That's what you said." My voice was a sad little squeak. "You're right." He straightened, pulled his hands away. They dived into his pockets before I began to mourn them. "Sorry." I clutched the sheet up, suddenly embarrassed. "Do you...um...do you want me to call you a cab? I've got a number --" "No, no. Cheers though." I think he meant to smile but it didn't quite happen. "I'll let myself out, ok?" "Ok." I watched him peel his coat from off the plastic dining chair, tuck his wallet away, check his phone. Its little light cast milky shadows across our apartment as he moved. When he reached the door, he paused. "Sweet dreams, then." I nodded once. "I think so." A grin. A swagger. The piercing creak of the door. Then Nathan Ironside took leave of my space again, and it was infinitely emptier without him. **** BEN The phone was ringing -- no, screaming -- in my ear. I'm not sure why it was next to my head, but at noon on a Sunday, I'm generally not sure of much. Not recently. "What?" I mumbled into the receiver. Half of Man United had evidently been Russian dancing on my forehead before lining up to shit in my mouth. "Mpppfh." "Tell me you're not still in bed," groaned Bailey. "It's lunchtime, Ben." "It's the day of rest. Why are you disturbing my sacred slumber?" "I'm reminding you about Dad's birthday on Wednesday." There was an awkward beat of silence before Bailey cleared her throat; we didn't actually share a dad. Mine was dead, and hers had been an awesome stand-in -- but his birthday was always a dull reminder that my Dad didn't have one anymore. "I remember," I lied. "Nope, you don't. I bet you don't remember about his party on Sunday, either." She sighed. "Can you Paypal me the money for the cake?" "Will do." "Awesome. So..." There was that cloying tone again; the one that meant she was about to pry. "Bringing anyone special to the party?" I rolled over and rubbed my cheek against the pillow, the way cats nuzzle random people's legs. "Not really." "You could bring Harper," she chirped. "I want to introduce you to someone, anyway." Oh shit. Oh no. My little sister has not escaped the purgatory of rejection before I have. I'm way more suave (which isn't hard, actually. But don't tell her I said that).   "Have you become a lesbian?" I said, hopefully. "I won't lie. It was appealing for a while. But...no. Erm. D'you remember my friend Linc?" "Gay vampires Linc?" She giggled. "Yep." Nearly a year ago now, Bailey's YouTube star friends did some storyboards for the advertising agency. In the end, we didn't pick the pitch up, but they'd come in to present them -- a stocky, obnoxious beast called Olly and his evidently embarrassed mate. I was relieved that Bailey had picked the quieter half of the duo, but...she'd barely been single a few weeks and frankly, this was not fair. I tried to work out how to sound happy for her. No, wait -- I was happy for her -- just...jealous. "So it's definitely over with Craig?" Another awkward gulp on her end. "Definitely. Ben...it was like what happened with you and Kate. He admitted it. He'd been seeing her for months." "Oh. Bastard. You're well shot of him. Do you need me to kick-box his ass?" "If you catch him in the street, I wouldn't have any strong objections. Listen -- got to go. We're going to see some weird manga film at the cinema with Olly and Chan." "You have fun now." "I will." She made a faux-kissing noise. "I'll see you next Sunday, yeah?" "Yep. I promise to be more awake, too." There was a deep, male voice in the background as Bailey hung up, and a kissing noise that was disturbingly non-faux. This was not the way I wanted to wake up. When I staggered into the living area, Harper was curled up on the sofa with her laptop while a music channel hummed in the background. She was wearing the little work-out clothes that I always secretly perv over (shorts that cling to a girl's arse as if they've been sprayed on by a legion of adoring pygmies) but my vision was still too blurry to make out any chance flashes of nipple. "You're conscious," she said, not looking up. "I've got a bone to pick with you, Ben Everly." "Can it wait until I've ingested half a box of paracetamol?" "No." The laptop closed with a foreboding click. "Since when do you and Nathan go out drinking together?" "Since...?" I straightened, remembering. "Oh. That." It was true; we weren't exactly bar buddies. Last night, he'd been out with someone else from work...one thing lead to another...and we were wandering the streets of London together while I told him... ...embarrassing stories about Harper. Fuck. Come to think of it, he'd wanted to know quite a lot about her. He was quite possibly plugging me for info (but he did it with beer, so hey...can't hold it against the guy). "So there was a good reason for him being in our kitchen at one in the morning?" Oh. That. "He wanted to see the flat," I said feebly. "And you couldn't have warned me?" she squealed. "I was almost naked! He could've caught me doing anything --" "But you were saying how much you liked him. It didn't...it didn't cross my mind that you wouldn't want to see him. Sorry, dude." My hand hovered over the sink. "Wait. You didn't...fucking hell. Did you sleep with Nathan?" Harper blew her fringe up, her arms folded beneath her breasts. "No. Funnily enough, he asked the same thing about you." "He wanted to know if I'd slept with him...?" "If you and me were sleeping together, dickhead." She sighed. "But he did kiss me." Great. Everyone's getting some but Ben-sha-meen. "If you got off with him, why do you look so miserable?" "Because..." She leant forward on her elbows, and there it was...ahh. A teeny crescent of pink aureola just peeking out of her top. Harper is such an ace room-mate (hey, a bloke can look). "Because now it might all be ruined." "Pretty sure kissing doesn't fuck up a relationship." I swallowed two fat paracetamol with half a pint of water. Hangover cure stage one: in progress. "Fucking somebody else -- that fucks up a relationship." The fridge offered ingredients with a knowing hum: sausages, bacon, eggs. "That's if you have a relationship, mind. Processed meat products?" Well Played Ch. 03 HARPER Kate hovered by the reception desk and then strode towards me like a hologram split: once my best friend, now my arse nemesis. She was wearing heels with ankle straps; patent black stilettos made for puncturing the egos of impudent males. These were the kind of shoes that most women wouldn't wear to the office. These were the kind of shoes that scraped across Rory's back for God knows how long before I walked in on them that night. Her suit was a deep, damson purple, like the bites she'd left on his belly that one time. He told me they were injuries from his fencing class. (Ben told me this was my own fault for dating a guy who "pranced about with a sword like a French fry.") I still get an acidic lump in my throat when she walks past my open door; it's like she's coming to slap me all over again. The citrusy musk of Clinique Happy hits me first -- the perfume we shared as room-mates; the one I'd never spot on Rory -- and then I'm braced for the heat of her palm across my face. Don't you call me a fucking whore. It's not my fault that he wants me. Maybe if you paid more attention to him... Joanna, my line manager, took pity on me after that grim Thursday. She moved me on to Ben's team...and the rest, as they say, is history. "So how's your pitch going?" Kate hovered in the doorway. There were few things of mine she chose not to trespass on but fortunately, my office was one of them. Not that it stopped her from striking behind enemy lines. "Good." I tried to look normal. Perky, even. "We're done, actually." I was rewarded with a frosty nod and pursed, lined lips like a mockery of kissing. "I'd wish you luck, but...you'll probably need more than that." "Whereas you could stand to lose a few in the back." Appearing from nowhere, Nathan craned his neck and made a pantomime of checking out Kate's arse -- pained wince and all. I'd never seen her plucked brows sail so fast towards her hairline. "Cunt," she hissed, shoving past him. "No thanks, sweetie. But it's a lovely offer!" He waved theatrically as she tottered away. "So what crawled up her arse and died?" "She...um..." I was blushing so hard that my brain went vacant. "We don't get on so well." "Oh, I know that. I've heard all about...stuff." He closed the door behind him -- gulp -- and perched on the edge of my desk. "Why does she feel the need to rub it in? It's not the first time I've seen her do it, either. Evil bitch." "I think your last two words pretty much answer the question," I managed. Oh, he smelled good today: fresh and delectable. Almost minty. "You don't have to put up with it, you know. You could speak to HR." The smile caught my lips, and the tug of war spread them in a delighted crescent. "Or apparently, Mr Ironside will save me from her evil clutches by making disparaging comments about her bum." I knew how much Kate would obsess over that, too -- I wasted years telling her she wasn't fat, her legs didn't look short in that dress, her shoulders were definitely not manly... "She was asking for a low blow." He nudged my arm and I nearly dropped my coffee. "Speaking of which..." Feign innocence! If it's possible while staring at that mouth -- the one that did those things to me -- I blinked at him. "Hmm?" Either it just got darker at half eight in the morning or Nathan was a bit flush in the cheeks. "How many times?" "How many...?" I put the coffee down before adrenaline shook a spillage. "You know." He threw the door a glance, as if he needed to be sure we were really alone. "How many times...after Saturday...have you...?" "Thought about it?" The collar of my shirt felt stiff beneath my fingers. "Um...a couple of times." He chuckled, low and gravelly. "I'm not talking about thoughts, Harper. I want to know how many times you...played...thinking about me." Oh Christ. Did he really just ask me that? My blood bubbled a million magic eight-balls, and they all brought a wobbly yes to the surface. Nathan brushed a thumb beneath my hot chin. "No need to be embarrassed," he said. Unlikely, said the eight-balls. "You can't just go around asking people things like that. I mean --" "Three times." He folded his arms, eyes bright and playful. "The second time was probably the best, though." Now he was suppressing an impish grin. "And the messiest." I think a part of me actually preferred sparring with Kate. "Nathan!" "What?" There were those teeth, white and immaculate, playing over his full bottom lip. "I thought you liked our games." "I do, but --" But! Erm. But...? "But it was just a kiss --" "What it was isn't the point though, is it? It's what it wasn't." "That's true." I leant back in my chair; the air was cooler there. Safer. "But I...three times?" "It was deserving of more, but a man's gotta eat." He smiled. "Go on, Harp. I know you did." Sometimes, I want to stick a pencil through his hand just to punish the arrogance -- but then that's partly because I want his blood on my desk. Something that's been inside him, on something that's mine. The way he teases me, I'm never a hundred percent sure that his agenda is sex; there's an edge to it, as if the chase is what fuels him. Borrowed time and borrowed desire. Maybe that was why I found the courage to look him in the eye at that moment -- I'd spent too long these past few months being scared. "Yesterday afternoon," I said softly. His pupils swelled until there was barely a slither of green to suck round them. Outlook good, whispered the eight-balls. "Just once...?" "Once, but...I'm a girl, so..." "Oh." The pleasure softened his face but hardened everything else about him; squared shoulders, stiff elbows, skin pulled over his knuckles like it was stretched on a rack. Those fists rubbed together absently. "I have to get to work, but I want another little sparring match." I pressed a cheek -- still warmed by the froth of bravery -- into my palm. "You do?" "I'll send you an email. Be sure to read it. All of it." He got to his feet and scraped chestnut hair from his eyes. "I'll catch you later, sensei. Behave yourself." Oh...reply hazy. Try again later. **** Within an hour, I was sitting in a meeting with two turds from the FHM marketing department who only listened when Ben spoke. "We're concentrating quite heavily on fashion this quarter," said Turd Number One. He had a wet, rubbery mouth and a neck that swelled from his collar like bad sausage. "If we're going to place a spirit then it needs to be a young, sophisticated brand." "But something our audience has heard of." Turd Number Two jabbed a finger at my cleavage (he meant my face, I'm sure, but then he'd been talking to my breasts for the past twenty minutes). "Nothing especially...foreign." Ben took a sip of water. "Absolut has a multi-faceted image. It's classic, but there's an edge to it. Something just a little bit dark. If you're doing a work-wear feature then it'd be a profitable pairing; it conjures images of smart bars after the office..." My iPhone vibrated on my lap. I opened the email with a light tap of my finger and tried to glance down inconspicuously. Sent by: Nathan.Ironside To: Harper.Reid Subject: The first time... I want to tell you about the first time I got off yesterday, and how I thought about you for every stroke. Christ. I was going to need new knickers by lunchtime. I glanced up; Ben was showing the turds some artwork. Thank God they weren't interested in me in the first place... I started not long after I got in, when I could still taste you after that kiss. Lying in my bed, naked, the way I thought you would be too...I haven't been so hard in months. Since I'd just felt your mouth for the first time, you can imagine what I was thinking about. "Is that spray-on latex?" said Turd Number Two, cocking an eyebrow. "It is. Suits her, doesn't it?" Ben passed them another storyboard. "She's...quite something..." I thought about you sucking me, Harper. How I'd peel that sheet away from those gorgeously stiff nipples and have you rub them all over my cock. You'd be on your knees, of course. You're the perfect height...I worked that out the first day I saw you. "I like the colours you've used there," said Turd Number One. "Very this-season. Our readers are getting more adept at noticing things like that." Ben rolled his eyes at me -- yeah, right -- and I stifled a giggle. I bet you've got a tight little throat. Made for fucking. Your tongue was so warm and smooth when I kissed you, like it's just the right shape for lapping the underside of my cock. I won't lie...when I started to pump my fist up and down, that was what got me even harder -- you on your knees like a proper cock tease while I stroked those nipples. You moaning while you tried to swallow me, your hips bucking as I pulled on them. I very nearly whimpered as I read that last line. I bet you want to know what I'd be saying. That's it, mmm, that's the right spot. Suck me like that. Just like that. Good girl. I bet you're getting so wet for me, I can't wait to taste it... Oh, he was right there. I've never had such an, erm, productive meeting. "Harper?" I snapped up. "Hmm?" "What's the name of that photographer? The woman who did these shots." Ben passed me the case folder. The plastic cover was cool beneath my thumbs. "Oh. Let me check." Flick, flick. "Jess Appleby." Turd Number Two clicked his fingers and pointed at my chest again. "Yes. Yes. She did the Highstreet Honeys calendar with us in '09." I thought about fucking your mouth -- getting in deep, making you choke just a little bit. Pulling back and stroking your cheeks when you moaned in complaint. Such a good little cocksucker, Harper, aren't you? I know you will be. I know when I finally get you on your knees like this, you'll please me any damn way I want. Oh, will I, now...? I came all over my stomach -- buckets of it -- and I thought about my cum dripping down your chin, splattering on those pretty nipples. Wanted to lay you on your back and lick them clean -- really tease them with my tongue -- and then give you a long, hard kiss. Mmm. Would you like that? "I said, would you like that?" "What?" I spoke too sharply -- panic and arousal cracked my words. Ben gave me a strange look. "Would you like to have lunch with Mr Locker and Mr Fernandez? I'm busy, unfortunately -- you could take them around the corner to Chervil?" My nod was the slow lilt of relief. "I'll ring through and get a table booked." Lunch with the turds. Well. I suppose at this rate, I'd need the conversational equivalent of a cold shower... **** Now it's your turn, Nathan wrote. I sneaked off to the toilets as soon as the meeting ended and huddled in a stall to comply. I'd never written anything like it before. There had been a few dirty texts here and there, love letters written inside my high school boyfriend's maths book (sorry you had to read that, Mrs Hipkins)...but nothing so intimate. Nothing to a guy I'd never been intimate with, let alone deemed worthy of the secrets. Still, he did call the email first times. I started playing in the shower. Soapy hands stroking the nipples you like so much, then down my belly, in between my legs. I'd been wet and ready there since you kissed me. This is a bad idea on work email, my brain warned. I'll delete it afterwards, I retorted.. The eight-balls said yes. In my room, I towelled off and I was so sensitive -- it felt rough on my skin. Then I got into bed and trailed my fingers down to my... What word am I meant to use? Crap. What's sexy? What doesn't sound like a biology textbook or a bad vampire sex novel? ...pussy. And my clit. I made little circles over it and thought about what it would be like to have you there, stroking for me. I even thought about what your cock would look like, how big it would be, how hard it would be against my thigh. I felt little ripples inside at the idea of you on top, stretching me. The more I confessed to, the easier it got. It was almost cathartic. With every fork-tongued truth, I got just a bit wetter; what would his response be? Would he like reading this? Where would we go from here...? And I wanted to have you there so badly so you could lick me. It's what I love most of all...a slow, massaging tongue on the insides of my thighs. Moving up to my clit. Having you suckle it and rub it and play with it until I yelp your name, over and over. When my orgasm started to build, I slowed down so it would take longer, still just toying with my clit...and then when it hit me, I thought about how I'd push a hand into your hair and pull, pull, pull. The same rhythm as my hips. Do you like that? I laid back against the stall, breathing deeply. The image of him between my legs had materialised as I typed, pixel by pixel; I was reluctant to let it disappear. It was just so...pretty. It was a moment or so before I pressed send. A very dirty girl walked back to her office, her ankles wobbling on her sleek court heels. In the corridor, I caught sight of Nathan through the glass walls of a board room; he sat broad-shouldered and smart-mannered at the end of a dark wood table as he nodded along with Joanna. I lingered for a moment -- I couldn't not -- and realised that he was paying more attention to his lap. To my email. Then, he looked up and saw me. Sweat beaded between my breasts and mimicked the damp lower down. Nathan bit his lip. I was still breathing as if his hand was in my knickers, not spread on the table to remind me just how far his fingers spanned. The faintest flicker of a grin stretched my cheeks before I hurried back to my office and collapsed into the chair; I had articles to approve before my lunch date with the turds. A few minutes later, Nathan's reply landed in my inbox. Fucking delicious, it said. **** We'd been avoiding each other. It seemed appropriate; made the email notification tingle twice as hard along my spine. At the end of the first day, Nathan pointed out that I had an orgasm less than him to report on, and shouldn't I even things out? It was only fair... Just before five PM, a list of instructions arrived in my inbox. I'd spent the day in underwear made of candyfloss and barbed wire, and I was damned if I wasn't following them as soon as I got chance. It had to be in the bathroom; nowhere else had a lockable door to shield my indiscretion, or the soft bubble of a frothing tap to cover the breath spewing likewise. I waited until Ben went out to kick-boxing, ran a hot bath full of scented oils and with one leg hooked over the rim, came very, very hard for Nathan Ironside. Then I sent him an email and told him all about it. **** Tuesday was excruciating. He was stuck in a pitch with some awful IT company; I spent the day hiding in my office, awaiting the little bell-sound notification that made me quiver the day before. I'd had nothing by four o'clock and was contemplating an early escape for a bucket of wine. "What do you think?" I said to Caroline. "Could we get away with it?" She stroked her tweed dress absently. "Possibly...when Felicity's gone." She peered through my window at the manager's office door. "But she's still here. I'd bet she will be until Nathan's team are done with those phone app people..." My face hit my hands with a dull thump. "Ugh." "Bad day?" "Something like that." I rubbed my eyes. "We could still go drinking," she offered. "There's a new cocktail bar behind Topshop that needs trying out." "You know what? No. I'm not sinking to alcohol. I'm better than..." I gestured to my computer screen. "This." "Work sucks, huh." I pressed my lips together. "Yep, it does." It was cramped-in-the-tube o'clock when my iPhone went off and I knew it was him, knew it. I elbowed two disapproving businessmen on my attempt to fish it out of my bag. Sorry for the wait, sensei. Fucking work. I'd like to thank you for the excruciating hard-on I've had since last night x Reading his words public gave them a third dimension; the fizz of the private flashed in for all to see, just like the blood I'd longed to splatter on my desk. The way he wrote, I could hear him talking -- no text speak, no abbreviations. He didn't scrimp on a thing. I'm surprised you can walk, I typed, grinning. His reply sounded a moment later: Jesus, so am I! But you'll be a good girl for me tonight, won't you? Been thinking about it all day...ever had somebody listen while you played? No, I hadn't. The mere thought turned my skin to a playground for goose pimples, even on the clammy train. But Ben was going out again, I'd have the flat to myself...and God, I wanted to hear his breath rush down the receiver and muffle in the abyss of static. There's a first time for everything. I pressed send. **** T minus one hour until Nathan called, and Ben was still tarting himself up. "Where the hell are you going, anyway?" I said. He unbuttoned the third shirt he'd tried on that evening, snorting at himself in the mirror above the fireplace. "A party." "And is this Nicole going to be at the party...?" I've never seen him go so pale, so quickly. "Fuck. I hope not." He peeled the freshly ironed t-shirt off the hanger and wriggled into it. "Well...not exactly. But you know what I mean." "Sure do." I'd been umming and ahhing over whether to confide in him about Nathan, but Ben was hardly in the mood to dish out advice. So I snuggled on the sofa with the laptop, flicked the TV on counted the minutes until his lift arrived. "Fuck it. No." "Ben, you look fine --" "I look like a student!" He stomped back to his bedroom. The door slammed and I heard him cursing as he rattled through the wardrobe. There was a festival on the TV and I turned it up to drown out Ben's ranting. The lead singer of some new rock band was kneeling on the stage, a mess of dark hair obscuring his double-handed grip of the microphone; his clothes clung in the places Ben wanted them to -- bulky shoulders, narrow hips. If there's one thing I'm a sucker for (besides spa treatments) then it's a bit of metal man-candy. Tortured and brooding does it for me every time. A sizzle of nerves seared through me as I logged on to Facebook: Kate and Rory were having one of their painfully public spats. I know, I know -- I should have deleted them ages ago, but can you blame me for wanting to snoop? Ever since Rory swapped the picture of us from our hiking weekend in Wales to the smug one of him and Kate (in a seedy club somewhere, no doubt), I've checked his profile every day. I was never that fussed when we were dating. Maybe I trusted him; maybe I just wasn't that interested. But when we shared a bed at night, when I could still smell him on the pillows as I got up in the morning...it never felt like I could learn anything new from a silly computer page. How times change, huh. Kate and Rory's bickering usually started with a snarky comment under a status update. Not having a gud day today L Kate's would say. Her shallow new friends all swarmed like bees beneath: wat's up hun? U ok sweetie? Bleugh. Thanks girls, she replied. Just had the mutha of rows. Men! Xx