Fringe Benefits

[laceandcogs]

Dawson had enjoyed a positively perfect workday. Her mood had been upbeat ever since the morning confessional with Tyron, and many coworkers had quirked a brow to see the ice queen so chipper. Also, she had been able to eliminate two resumes from the pile- one candidate had wholesale invented an alma mater, something which struck Dawson as laughably quaint in this information age, and another had been quite negatively reviewed by all of his references.

Considering what her coworkers would have said about her, if prompted by a future employer, had given Dawson quite the food for thought. The answers would likely begin and end with "really rather a bit of a bitch, and high on herself too", though her anatomy would probably garner more sincere and accurate compliments. It wasn't such a problem, being proud of one's accomplishments, especially if they were, to be honest, impressive. Being attractive wasn't a sin either- and if it were, she'd be fucked before she'd put on weight and pleated slacks just to be popular. So honestly, all she had to work on was being a bit more friendly.

That could start tonight, conveniently. And so, when Tyron came out, gathering the sheep, Dawson closed up shop. She pinned a smile to her face, picked up her purse, and took two deep breaths.

Not too deep, of course. Despite the fact that she'd skipped both breakfast and lunch in the interest of thoroughly enjoying herself on Tyron's dime, there wasn't really enough room in these jeans for deep breaths.

"Absolutely, Tyron. Looking forward to it."

 

[marauder13]

He watched everyone gather together near the lifts, his eyes seeking out Dawson. She seemed completely different to the previous days where she was avoiding him like crazy, as well as being a little bitchy from time to time. He smiled, knowing that the bitchiness was mainly due to him pushing her buttons.

There was enough room in the lift for everyone, and the descent was typical of any elevator ride in the world. That awkward silence of people aware of the proximity of everyone else, and doing everything in their power not to violate someone else's personal space by talking. The doors opened, allowing everyone to spill out into the foyer. There was a slight scattering effect and conversations resumed now people felt more comfortable.

Tyron took to the lead of the group, heading down to the local that he had noticed earlier in the week. On arrival, he organized a table for them all, and asked for a staff member to come of and get their first drinks order, as well as food. He sat himself down, turning to the server as he appeared.

"Can we get some light food for us? Also, could you get me a beer, and see what everyone else is wanting. When you bring it all over, I'll pay for it." Tyron and the young man discussed the food options, and Tyron opted for a variety of foods.

"All right, kids. Tell the nice young man here what you want to drink, as this round is on me. But be nice to my wallet, or I will ensure that I get properly compensated later directly from your pays." He said it with a laugh, but there was a hint of truth to it. He didn't mind people having something above the lower shelf, but of they went all top shelf, then he would get a little piss off.

Orders were given, the young man shot off to get their drinks and organize their food for them. Tyron looked around at his team, wondering how things would go in the coming weeks as they all go settled into the new arrangement. That lead straight into his thinking of Dawson. She was tugging on things deep within him that he was still trying to get a handle on. He wanted to grab her, kiss her and do a lot more than just that. He wanted to more or less ignore what she wanted, and give her what he knew she would like. He wasn't that way with his previous partners, and there were no complaints in that regard, but when it came to Dawson, those 'old style' thoughts just did nothing.

He dragged his thoughts back from the overwhelming snippets of what they could do together as the drinks were placed on the table for everyone.

"The food will be another ten to fifteen minutes." Tyron nodded his thanks, and paid for the round, the food and a tip for the fellow. He lifted his beer, taking a good pull from it before turning his attention to the team.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have made it through the first week. I am confident that we will mesh well together, and be a pretty good group work wise."

He lifted his beer in a salute to the team, and got himself into the right frame of mind for the remainder of the night.

 

[laceandcogs]

Dawson wrapped the delicate fingers of one hand around her glass, giving her body heat a chance to melt the ice ever so slightly. Laphroaig 10 was her drink of choice- in fact, the only alcohol she'd touch since leaving behind the high school days of PBR and "punch". She admired the beautiful, pale gold in her cup, a color that always reminded her of summer, of hay, of heat.

Of course, there were many things making her think of heat right now.

Still, she wouldn't look at Tyron just yet. She felt exposed enough by her confession of the morning, whether it was a relief or not. And she had a lot of social catch-up to play.

Fortunately, Dawson had always been a charmer, and the lubrication offered by a nervously gulped first round always helped. So did, of course, the fact that she handed over her own credit card to buy the second. Add to the mix a keen eye for the intricacies of human interaction and a steel-trap memory, and Dawson could hold an interesting, "personal" conversation with almost anyone.

Taking her first savoring sip of the scotch, Dawson listened with a ready smile and a brow quirked in interest as one of the team told a decently funny story about the time he got trapped in a stuck elevator with Suzanne, a client, and a pizza delivery boy. Though Dawson had many, many stories she could share about Suzanne, something told her this wasn't quite the crowd.

One of the older women admired Dawson's boots, and then asked how she managed so well in the "skyscrapers" she used to wear. Dawson laughed lightly, toying with the idea of a fully honest answer. Who knew? These people certainly loosened up on casual night. Maybe they wouldn't be as horrified as she'd always feared. Of course, even if they weren't, Mr. Albertson would be, and that was one reaction she'd never have the confidence to endure.

"I was a dancer in college. Still have the letter jacket to prove it." This was completely true, while completely avoiding the truth- a skill any good litigator ought to have. Of course, the fact that the letter jacket was cheap flamingo-pink polyester, barely covered her tits, and was emblazoned with "Tattletale Gentlemans' Club Varsity Football League- No Rules, No Refs, No Tops!" would be unnecessary and potentially prejudicial information.

 

[marauder13]

Tyron was enjoying a beer while he listened, and laughed, at the tale being recounted. His team was relaxed, and talking amongst themselves when there wasn't anything worth listening to, like old war stories.

"Tyron," James said after getting a few "hurry ups" from his fellow team members, "have you got an interesting tale to tell?" Tyron looked around, seeing a lot of people genuinely interested.

"Well," he started to chuckle as he put the beer down. It had a higher alcohol content than he was used to, so he was a little more relaxed than he planned to be at that time. "I had taken over from a colleague who had been killed in a car accident, more correctly, taken over some of his clients. One of them was a Will. The client had passed away, so it was time for the Will to be read. The instructions were clear. His nephew and wife were to be present.

"So, I have a young man just shy of twenty, and a rather young widow of about thirty sitting in the room. I commence to read the Will, which is straight forward. The nephew was to inherit everything. I was a little surprised, along with the young man, but the woman was beaming. She didn't get a penny from the estate. But I read on further and to my surprise, the old timer included his 'wife' as one of the things inherited."

People around the table reacted accordingly to such a declaration. Tyron took a quick mouthful of beer, putting the bottle back on the table. "She wasn't really his wife. They had a very interesting living arrangement. He took care of everything for her, and she took care of him. He requested, she did it. No questions asked, no complaints. She just did it.

"Now I managed to keep my mouth shut, but the kid didn't believe her. So, she showed him how she woke him up every morning. I never thought I would see something like that happen in my office. If anything, I thought I would see it in a special club. The kid didn't take much convincing after she got her lips around his -" Tyron caught himself in time, remembering that this was a mixed company setting. "Well, they ended up both thanking me, and wandered off, hand in hand. Every now and again I get a message from him. He's quite happy with the arrangement, from what I can tell."

Tyron chuckled at the images pulled up in his memory of the rather luscious brunette rising from her chair onto some serious high heels. How she pulled on the bow nestled atop her cleavage, allowing the one piece dress of hers to easily slide off her naked body. How the well kept woman salaciously sauntered over to where one of the two stunned men sat, dropping gracefully to her knees and easily freeing the half erect cock of the young man. Her soft coo as she descended, taking him into her mouth so the young man was able to see everything that happened. Remembering how aroused and mildly scared Tyron felt as he watched, paralyzed and unable to move. The clear sounds of the two enjoying what was happening, before she managed to bring him to his peak. How they both watched in awe as she swallowed everything, making sure there was no mess. He also remembered how difficult it was to concentrate for the rest of the reading while she sat naked, openly displaying all she had to offer.

By the time the memories had run their course, Tyron was feeling a little wound up. His eyes found Dawson, picturing her sitting in one of his chairs opposite him, wearing only a smile that came from the knowledge that she was very pleasing to him. Given her background, nakedness was not going to be a grand issue for her. He found himself not just wanting to see what she had under her clothes, but to feel them all too. Run his hands over the well toned legs and taut ass. To know exactly how flat that belly was, and to get to know those magnificent breasts that she worked so hard to conceal.

"Whoever's organizing the next round, I'll have another of these," he lifted the nearly empty bottle, getting acknowledgment from a couple of the people. He made his way to the bathroom, relieving the pressure from his bladder, as well as giving him the chance to cool off his wayward, heated, lusty thoughts.

"Slow down, sunshine. No need to go trying to jump her bones just yet. But if she offers..." He shook his head and laughed to himself. There was no way Dawson Grady was going to offer herself up to him. Not after what his predecessor had done to her. He walked to the sink, looking at the mirror while he washed his hands. "Still, a fellow can't help but hope, right?"

 

[laceandcogs]

Dawson's pert nose crinkled in distaste for the story. It wasn't the idea of the woman's...service that upset her, but rather the idea that the women allowed herself to be given away. To acknowledge that you had met your match, that your struggles and arguments and refusals could be rendered meaningless by a man who knew better than to listen to your words when he could instead observe your actions- that, that was surpassing fine. Tempting. Wonderful.

To give that sort of surrender, to accept subjugation, to come to crave it- and then to be passed down like a pocketwatch, a string of pearls, a pretty bauble who would grace whomever chose to wear it? Like hell.

Potentially. Dawson had yet to meet her match. Hell, Dawson had yet to meet a man who met her standards long enough to get her into bed at all, let alone masterfully, addictively. Her continued virginity was a closely guarded secret, one she allowed to be concealed behind an artfully crafted and totally false disdainful, disinterested front.

After all, it was much easier to pretend that you didn't like a man at all than to admit, even to yourself, how much you liked him. This was clearly going to be an ongoing issue when it came to Tyron. Unfortunately, pretending to find him completely awful was going to be difficult. He had such a presence of authority, of certainty, of power, a presence that insisted on looming over her physically.

Dawson swirled her glass again and took a slow, savoring sip. She liked to hold the alcohol on her tongue, feel the prickling warmth turn into a deep sting, a self-imposed endurance test that she only quit when her cheeks burned and her eyes were close to tearing. Swallowing was done slowly, to let that heat trickle down her throat with an aching flame, the relative comfort of the booze unfurling in her stomach taken as a reward.

It was after just such a long, considered swallow that Dawson excused herself for the restroom, making her way toward the dark hall at the back of the bar. She wanted to check her makeup, fluff her hair, and berate the girl in the mirror for preening for Tyron.

 

[marauder13]

Tyron washed his face, letting the cool water leech some of the heat from his face. He took a deep breath, releasing it in a controlled manner. "Back to the peanut gallery, I guess."

He walked out of the restroom into the darker hallway just in time to see Dawson approaching. He slowed, gazing at her walk as she closed on where he waited. He stepped out, both arms moving to either side of her body, hemming her in between him and the wall. He angled himself so his lower torso was away from her, but his face was close to hers.

"Well, look at what I managed to catch? Why do you put on such a show of being a prude, Dawson? I'm amazed that others at the table didn't see you all but pant and drool over that little tale. I also saw your look of disgust, or displeasure at her being 'inherited'. Guess what?" Tyron leaned in closer, bring his lips close to her ear. He let his voice whisper between them. "She wanted that to happen. She wanted to be passed onto his nephew like that. She had been pleading to be allowed to go to the younger man. She had a bad case of lust for him." He pulled back, to look at her face. His eyes were bright with the lust he was starting to feel for her. "Anyway, it was interesting to see how you liked hearing about how she gave herself over to him. Are you looking for that in someone? Did your time with Suzanne give you a taste of something?" He leaned forward again, this time his lips paused dangerously close to hers. "Would you like me to claim these lips, as I know you are wishing me too? Just let my mouth ravish yours with the abandon that screams in the very core of your wicked mind?" Tyron let the moment drag out, their lips close enough to be felt over the intervening gap.

He pushed himself onto the other wall, a broad smile sliding gracefully into a cheeky grin. He pushed his hips forward, lifting himself of the wall easily. With a slight nod of his head, he headed back to the table where the others were sitting. He was trying to sort out where that had come from. He spoke truthfully, but normally, he wouldn't have spoke like that to a woman. Not that early into any potential relationship.

He sank into the chair, grabbing some of the finger food left in the table, and inserting himself into the conversations floating about the table. It helped him to not over analyze his efforts in the hallway.

Maybe I should have kissed her while I had the chance? Hah, that's the booze talking, not me.

 

[laceandcogs]

It was fortunate for her continued employment, Dawson reflected, that she had only begun to sample her drink. She'd sent men ass over teakettle for less smack than Tyron was talking, and even as the closeness of his whisper made her heart skip she felt her hands tensing, her eyes narrowing, her inner monologue attaining that sociopathically precise and detached affect.

Fortunate. Fortunate that he didn't kiss her, fortunate that he moved,fortunate that she hadn't opened that pretty mouth and made his retention decisions easier by one. Dawson slipped into the bathroom, her eyes leaving the thousand-yard sniper's stare long enough to adjust her hair and perk her eyeliner. She twisted and bent, inspecting herself carefully to ensure that everything was in place.

Externally, everything was- she looked fucking fantastic, and didn't mind saying so herself. Mentally, she was a snapping pit of vipers- hate and lust and rage and disgust, warring to the last drop of blood. He couldn't just move like that, take over her space, make her stay and listen! He couldn't talk to her that way, so closely, so confidently, so... so fucking -intelligently-! How dare he call her a prude, or assume she'd want a damned thing to do with him, with those lips, with those arms...

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the saints in Heaven. Allowing herself to finally feel it, Dawson leaned hard against the sink counter, knees weak, skin flushed. She wanted him. Dawson wanted Tyron to kiss her, to pull her hair, to ruck up her sweater and tear down her jeans and fuck her, then and there, in the half-dark hallway with their coworkers twenty feet away. She wanted to feel him supress a shudder of pleasure as he sank his cock into her, and she wanted to roll her hips and cross her calves behind his back and ride him, and she wanted to sink her little pearly teeth into his palm as he held back her orgasmic screams.

Dawson Grady wanted, frankly, to behave like a hormone-crazed porn queen, with a man she'd known for three whole days, until neither of them could think or breathe or walk.

What Dawson Grady needed, however, was a drink. Returning to the table, she presented a friendly, casual manner, paying no more attention to Tyron than was entirely necessary. Her scotch disappeared quickly, though, and she didn't wait for the third round order to buttonhole the server and request another- social slickness was one thing, calming her electrocuted nervous system another.

Halfway through the third glass, Dawson was sincerely sorry to see the first two drop out- Jennifer from copyrights and Mark, a forensic accountant who'd proven capable of a host of brilliantly accurate accents. They both had children to get home to, and Dawson knew that the rest of the team had similarly decent and reasonable excuses. Except, of course, for her, and Tyron.

If they were going to be the last men standing, she was going to need to find that server again.

 

[marauder13]

Try as hard as he could, Tyron couldn't stop himself from running a few scenarios through his head about what could have happened in the hallway. She wasn't going anywhere, and even though he was aware of the tensing up, there was something deep down that knew he was tracking the right path. He could have taken her mouth there and then, kissing her for all it was worth. She probably would have started to resist, then gone with the flow. But he knew he did it right. He had her, showed her he was in charge by choosing not to do anything then. He knew when she didn't slap him, or worse, before, during and after his 'catching' her.

The conversations continued as if nothing happened. Tyron did spend a little more time starring at Dawson than looking at the rest of the team. Given everything he had seen of her in her clothes, he was mentally stripping her whenever he could get away with it.

The first two bailed out early, but at a good time. The conversations shifted through the night as more people called it a night. Tyron was pacing himself, making sure he was with it enough to get home in one piece. Dawson, however, seemed to be trying to embalm herself in the shortest time possible. Pushing his lusty thoughts to one side, he started trying to think of how he would be able to help her if there was a need.

At what felt like an all too early time, he found himself alone with Dawson, after James finally called it a night and departed. Tyron was grateful that James finally left. He was getting on Tyron's nerves with the way he was keeping himself in Tyron's mind. His last thought concerning James was to make a note to review his work on Monday.

Tyron made no effort to hide his actions as he moved to sit closer to Dawson. The chair he got faced her side, as well as back lighting her slightly. He was duly impressed with her bust as it was outlined by the soft lighting. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair. "Dawson, you never verbally answered my questions earlier, though I think you managed to answer them anyway. I will say this much, you are one truly fuckable woman. I would sure like to be the one to give you that fuck you really want. The one that you desire more than any other. But to be honest, I'm not sure that I could walk the fine line that would permit it all to happen." Tyron leant even closer, imperiling his life on the edge of the chair. "Don't fear, though Dawson. I want the first time I get to have you for us to both be very sober so we don't miss out anything."

He fell back into his chair laughing. "Though I'm all for a little fun if the moment presents itself."

 

[laceandcogs]

Dawson couldn't hide the reaction of her body as Tyron moved closer. A flush crept into her cheeks, her fingers tensed around her nearly-empty cup, her eyes widened. He couldn't see the sudden rush of heat in her skin, or the instant ache and spreading slickness in her sex, but nonetheless, it was only fair to acknowledge their existence.

As he spoke, Dawson watched him, her expression dancing between hunger, fear, and anger. Still, she had no audience now, and a little too much liquor in her for anything less than honesty.

"Which fine line is that, Tyron? The line any boss fucking his employee needs to observe, or the one between talking to me, touching me, taking me the way we both want and making me want to pluck your eyes out?" Her voice had attained a scotch-soaked softness, a wickedness enhanced by the words and the casual tone she asked them in.

One brow arched conspiratorially, she lifted a hand and wiggled in a balancing motion. "That's going to be a tricky one, you know. I'm quite fiesty."

Fiesty? Really? Shit, Dawson, how much dumber can you sound? And what in the name of Christ has gotten into you, that you're even entertaining this discussion with this overblown swaggering pile of ego? You -hate- his boots!

Another slow sip drained the last of her cup and silenced, for now, that peskily sober internal monologue. "If you want to talk about walking lines, though, I'd appreciate it if you did so while walking me back to the office."

 

[marauder13]

Tyron wished that there was more light. he got the sense that there was more going on than he could see. It confused him how he seemed to pick up on those little things about her.

"Which fine line is that, Tyron? The line any boss fucking his employee needs to observe, or the one between talking to me, touching me, taking me the way we both want and making me want to pluck your eyes out?"

Tyron laughed at her reply, wincing slightly as he imagined his eyes being removed. "None of those, really. No, you need someone who can take charge of you, and give you the fucking that will blow your mind in a good way. But being able to get you to let go, that is where the challenge will be. Something tells me that there hasn't been anyone that has been able to unlock you enough to really enjoy what your body has to offer. And I mean for YOU to enjoy what YOUR body can do. I would be the greatest fucking liar on earth if I said that I wouldn't enjoy your body if I got the chance."

He drained the remaining third of the bottle of beer that he had left. He watched her hand wave about in a balancing motion, which brought a grin to his face.

"That's going to be a tricky one, you know. I'm quite fiesty."

Tyron laughed out loud, a deep hearty laugh. "Oh, I know you're very fiesty. Which is all the more reason for wanting to pin you down somewhere and have my wicked way with you." He looked at her closely, his eyes narrowed, sharp and hungry. "You really want to make sure that the man who gets you deserves everything that you have to offer. So you'll fight up to that special point when you finally know that the fellow is worth it. But he needs to know just how hard to push. If he pushes too hard, then he's not worth it either. You want to hold the veto while he has control."

He flagged down a server, getting himself a couple of sodas. Tyron needed to remain clear headed, otherwise he knew that he would cross a line that would bar him from ever having a chance with Dawson. He decided right then, that he would get her. If he couldn't fuck her while she was his employee, he'd fire her arse out the door, then scoop her up and drag her off to be fucked.

'Ugh. Me cave man. You cave woman. Me fuck you. Smack over the head with a club, and drag the shapely Dawson back to his cave for a life of sweaty sex. Oh, you need to slow down on the drinking, my lad.'

"If you want to talk about walking lines, though, I'd appreciate it if you did so while walking me back to the office."

"Sure thing. I can get you back to the office in one piece, safe and sound too. Once I have finished the last drinks I have ordered." When the sodas arrived, Tyron downed them quickly. He stood up, a little wobbly, but still reasonably sober. "Come on, let's get you back to the safety of the office." He bowed slightly, one arm extended to indicate that she lead the way. he was not being a complete gentleman, as he wanted to watch that magnificent arse of hers as she walked off.

 

[laceandcogs]

Though Dawson had seen the "ladies first" ploy in action once or twice, she accepted the offer gracefully. Well, mostly gracefully. The relaxation wrought of a good buzz, coupled with the desire to push him created by her lust, led her to roll her hips ever-so-slightly more than necessary.

The good bracing air of a mid-fall Boston evening smacked a bit of sense into Dawson, causing her to blink and breathe deeply. She loved the weather here, the way Nature refused to let you relax, lulling you into a false sense of security with a sunny, balmy day only to cripple the grass with a snapping night frost. It was an echo of the suggestions Tyron had made, that what Dawson really wanted, really needed, was a man who would push her hard enough to allow herself to snap. She wondered, briefly, if he could possibly know of her virginity.

Impossible, she resolved. It wasn't as though there was a line in her CV- Virgin, 1984-present. Contact for references.

The idea made her giggle, a spontaneous little burst of levity that held her up in her stride, giving Tyron the opportunity to catch up. Though she'd take the punchline to her grave, she'd let him enjoy the corresponding glow in her cheeks, the glimmer of pearly teeth behind her parted lips, the toss of her hair. She could be a sight, when she wanted to, a picture of wild, misbegotten youth.

Well, not -too- misbegotten. Not yet, anyway.

 

[marauder13]

Tyron was past the point of even trying to subtle about his admiration of Dawson's curvaceous body. The fact that the little minx was showing off only made it worse. The swing of the hips fueled his imagination of how she must have looked on stage, shedding her clothing. He shifted the focus a little so she was doing it in private, just for him. Somehow, the intimacy made it more exotic and erotic for them both.

He heard Dawson giggle, and he looked around to see what made her laugh. When he caught sight of her, he couldn't give a shit about what did it. While he lusted after her as any red blooded straight male would, the way she looked made her look spectacular. Fucking her could wait a little bit. Eating her raced to the top of the list. Kissing those apple red cheeks before slipping over the mouth that smiled so delightfully. Then those other key places to savour, hopefully driving her wild and having her cry out to be taken there and then.

He needed to find that narrow, winding path and walk it to the gates to the wonders that were hidden within. She needed someone to take the reins, to assume the command and make things happen. But then, she would not just hand them over to anyone. Too strong, she would close up and that would be it. Too weak, and the reins would remain in her hands.

There was a lot he wanted to say, but the way he looked at her, and walked beside her probably told her more than he could put into words anyway. She had seen men like him lots of times. Men who all but drooled over her body. Men who looked at her with one thought on their minds; fucking the daylights out of her. She probably had a few moves to stop grabby hands too. His fingers itched to get a hold of her, to run his palms over her body and read every curve and plane carefully. The big problem was that Tyron knew he had enough alcohol to allow him to do just that, and risk the inevitable backlash.

They finally reached the building of their office was located in, and soon enough, they walked through the front doors of the office. Tyron closed and locked them once they got through. It was a standard procedure for him regardless of where he worked.

"Now, just to get back to one of your previous points, Dawson. There is nothing in the company handbook that stops us from fucking each other. See, you are officially a junior partner. While you are on my team, and answer to me, I am not your boss. I am restricted from having a relationship with an employee of mine, that is true. But you are fair game."

His hands cupped Dawson's face, and he roughly guided her back to the glass wall of the front of the office. When she made contact with the wall, his lips found hers. He kissed her deeply, giving her little time to react to his oral intrusion. He felt his heart racing as he tasted her for the first time. The heady mix of Dawson and scotch fried any coherent thoughts. She was all that mattered to him right then. Kissing her, showing her what he thought, he knew, she wanted, needed and desired. He wanted to press his body against hers, to pin her to the wall, but his survival instincts told him such a move would be bad for his continued health. Even the kiss was high risk, bordering on dangerous, but the rewards far outweighed any repercussions.

He finally peeled his lips from from hers, rolling them to capture the taste of her before he lost it. His fingers traced along her cheeks to just the outer edges of her lips before he let them fall away. He raised himself to his full height and took a couple of steps back.

"I don't care what happens next, because that was well worth it, and then some."

 

[laceandcogs]

The walk back to the office should have given Dawson a chance to sober up, a moment to think about the situation she was putting both of them into. Yes, Dawson had seen men like Tyron before, men who ached to have her, to touch her, to know that the swing of hips and rolling, sinuous arch of back was just for them. She knew how distant the world could seem to such men, how the moment after could seem a million years away, something meriting neither consideration nor worry.

In short, she knew men could be dangerous. Especially drunk men, and -very- especially drunk men who had a good sixty pounds and the better part of a foot in height on her. On any other night, with any other man, that danger would matter to Dawson. She'd keep her distance, she'd roll her eyes and huff withering comments, become the cruel, safe ice princess they all thought she was to begin with.

Tonight? With Tyron? The danger -thrilled- her. The threat stretched hungrily inside her stomach, its lazily flexed claws pricking her throat, making her feel fevered and desperate and...alive.

"...fair game." The last words floated to Dawson on a delay, created by alcohol and the stomach-clenching, knee-shaking deliberateness with which Tyron locked the door. She hardly had time to process them, to follow the thread of the words she'd heard but taken too long to understand, before her back was against the wall and his lips were on hers.

For the first few seconds of the kiss, Dawson let herself drown in the power, the intensity, the -invasion- of Tyron's lust. Her lips parted on a half-shuttered gasp, a delicious little cry of "yes" and "no", delivered straight to Tyron's heart on a long bypass through his lips. She accepted his kiss, soaked in it, let herself lose the path of resistence.

But only for a few brief, trembling seconds.

Then, she returned fire. Her back, tense against the wall, softened, and she arched her hips only to find- disappointingly? she was disappointed!?!- that his weren't there to meet them, that he'd kept a respectful, maybe even fearful, distance between their bodies. Her lips shifted slowly beneath his, the kitten-curious slip of her tongue tracing the line of his mouth, tasting the beer and soda and Tyron beneath both.

And then he was gone. Gone, his lips and his warm, gentle hands, which, had she only more time to appreciate them, could have made Dawson weep with the mixture of tender guidance and tense control. He was almost an arm's length away, and looking like the cat who unfastened the canary's cage, scooped her out, sprinkled on a bit of seasoning, and then had a wrenching five-minutes-to-midnight stay of execution notice.

Of course, he could still eat her. And -damned- if Dawson Grady wasn't going to make him wish he did when he had the chance.

She raised her fingers to her mouth, letting them gently press against her lips, delicate movements that never quite managed to conceal the half-smile. With a very quiet laugh and a powerful, elegant flex of her hips, Dawson peeled herself off the wall and sauntered to the door, a glow of satisfaction lighting her face even as she unsprung the lock.

With a motion honed from a hundred nights on a narrow catwalk, Dawson looked over her shoulder. "Oh yes, Tyron, it was very, very worth it. Inspiring." She let him hear the gentle click-clunk, click-clunk of her jiggling the lock, slowly engaging, releasing. Engaging, releasing, letting him linger over which she'd choose. Her eyes betrayed nothing, at least, nothing of her decision- they writ lust and hunger and amusement and terror in neon and gaslights.

"I'm just drunk enough to let you get away with it, too. Almost drunk enough to come over there, wrap my legs around your waist, and make you do it again...and again... and again."

Here, the lock settled. On released.

"Almost. Try me again tomorrow."

Dawson could have winked and stuck out her tongue, or tipped up that fine little patrician nose and shook her curls, or chosen some other elegant, haughty fuck-off from her well-stocked arsenal. Instead, she smiled- a real, warm, slow smile, spread like hot caramel, and every bit as burning. Smiled, and pointed to a folded slip of paper fluttering even now to the carpet just shy of Tyron's feet.

Smiled, and pointed, and slipped out the door, and hurried out to the street and the safety of the T. And wondered what, precisely, what in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in Heaven, what on God's great earth had possessed her to put that slip of paper in her pocket before leaving the bar, the one on which her private, personal cell phone number was scrolled in her rounded, girly hand... and which demon in Hell's own host had inspired her to drop it.

 

[marauder13]

Not receiving a slap to the face was always a good sign after an unannounced kiss like that. But he was truthful when he said he didn't care what happened. She could have slapped him and it would have been worth it still.

But the dainty touch of her fingers to her mouth that curled just enough to make out the smile gave him a warmth in his belly that he enjoyed. The way she got herself off the wall made his knees a little weak and another part of him a little stronger. Her entire demeanor was one of pleased by what had happened, so much so he wondered if she wanted more of the same. He was hoping she was.

"Oh yes, Tyron, it was very, very worth it. Inspiring."

Tyron suspected that the look she gave him was one from her arsenal from her days on the stage. He didn't really care because it was a look worth getting. And when she played with the lock, his heart beat seemed to fall into the rhythm. He held his ground, enjoying the unspoken banter, the tease and promises made with each move of her wrist. He looked to her eyes, seeing a mix of emotions there that his booze fogged brain couldn't figure out.

"I'm just drunk enough to let you get away with it, too. Almost drunk enough to come over there, wrap my legs around your waist, and make you do it again...and again... and again."

'And I am sober enough to hold you to that, Dawson.'

Then the lock came to a final resting place. As he suspected, it was open.

"Almost. Try me again tomorrow."

He was gifted with a parting smile that was the most erotic thing he had seen in ages. How she managed to pack so much sex into such a simple action, he couldn't tell. Be he let her go without making even the slightest attempt at chasing her.

Mainly because of the little piece of paper that was at his feet. He picked it up, unopened, and locked the office door. He sauntered almost jauntily back to his office, grabbing a couple of sodas along the way. He fell into his chair, letting him mind roam through the nearly pornographic images and scenes involving Dawson. The paper slid and flipped between his fingers as he absentmindedly sipped the soda.

"Fuck! What a woman!" He opened the paper, smiling at the cell number listed there. Chuckling evilly, he entered the details into his own private cell phone, then quickly fired off a text - "Sure, if you want." followed by his cell number.

He leaned back in the chair, bringing forward an image of a naked Dawson lying on the desk, her lovely legs parted very wide, exposing herself for his initial viewing pleasure, and following oral pleasure. He wondered how far from his imagination she would be in appearance, fragrance and taste.

"I will find out soon enough, I think. That woman wants me as badly as I want her, and I think I can find out how to keep her interest enough to let me take her reins."

He spent the next few hours slowly sobering up, and racking up an inventory of things to do with Dawson when the time was right. With a bright smile radiating from his face, he left the office, shutting it up properly and heading home for what was going to be a rather fun weekend.

 

[laceandcogs]

Dawson woke to the gentle rays of sunlight teasing through her blinds. Instinctively seeking shelter in her pillow, she pawed one hand along her bedside table, looking for her phone. There was something she was supposed to do, today, someone she was supposed to call, and if the damned cozy sleep of the mildly inebriated would just release her brain already, she felt certain she could remember it...

Shifting onto one hip just as her hand connected with her phone, Dawson remembered. Tyron. Tyron was what she was supposed to do today.

Admonishing herself for the wanton thought, she drew her phone closer and flipped onto her back. She'd flung herself naked into bed last night, leaving a trail of clothing from her door on over, half-mad in her hurry to get under the covers- and get her own fingers between her thighs. Blushing to recall it, Dawson closed her eyes firmly, refusing to check to see if Tyron had texted until she played through her minds-eye porno booth one more time.

Hands. Wide, hard hands, ones that were used to doing much more than shuffling folders, hands just dark enough to really "pop" against the firm, white swells of her breasts. An insistent mouth, laughing darkly against her throat, half-indecipherable suggestions- no, instructions, and detailed ones at that, breathed huskily and with a very familiar accent.

That was as far as she had gotten before her own fingers found her clit and chased all story, all plot, all reason from her mind, leaving her an aching, bucking, shuddering, arching tangle among the blankets, a groaning, screaming, pleading mess, the word "Please" becoming a desperate mantra until she fell sweat-slick and satisfied... and asleep.

It was only in the light of day that Dawson could force herself to pretend that she'd whispered only "Please", and not "Please, Tyron". That those hands could have been anyones, that that accent wasn't really too familiar. Drawing upon all the artistry in bullshit she'd accrued over a lifetime of self-doubt and legal education, Dawson rallied a closing argument that could have made Clarence Thomas himself stand and applaud.

She almost, almost believed it, too. Until that little envelope icon caught her eye, defying all her insistence, setting her every counterpoint up in flames of sudden honesty.

The prick leaves -his- number! Just like him to force my hand, to make me show him I mean it... Slamming her phone shut, Dawson struggled to keep her head above the waves of nerves and ire. It took several long breaths, slow and deep and affirming, reminding herself that he doesn't know, he wouldn't know, and he won't know if you just keep your god-damned cool.

It also took three drafts of a message, the two discards painstakingly deleted, leaving no evidence of her coltish indecision, her sudden attack of self-consciousness.

"Morning. Hope I'm not interrupting a good hangover pity-party."

 

[marauder13]

Tyron was still buzzed when he finally staggered through his front door. He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat while he was mentally focused on the kiss he got to have with Dawson.

"She is going to be well worth the effort." The words ended in a half whistle, half sigh. "Damn, she has one helluva body under those clothes. I wonder what I'll get to see next." Even mildly drunk, Tyron had a routine before hitting the sack. He shed his clothing, dumping it all into a hamper. He then got a glass of water, draining it fairly quickly, which had the desired effect of prompting other bodily functions that were dealt with before collapsing into bed. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, toying with the idea of doing something about his built up lust, then decided against it. His mind starting running scenarios again involving the compact, curvacious Dawson and all the delightful things he would do with her until he fell asleep and dreams took over.

~||~​

Tyron yawned, stretched and took care of his rather hard erection as he rolled over. He chuckled to himself about the way his body was screaming about what he needed to do.

"I wonder what Dawson had to say in reply to my message? If anything." It took a little while for his eyes to focus properly, then he grabbed his cell phone and read the text.

"Morning. Hope I'm not interrupting a good hangover pity-party."

Tyron laughed. He was a little seedy, but nothing like some of his previous after drinking sessions. He rolled onto his back, the sheet tenting just as clearly as it had when he woke up. Pausing to get his thoughts straight, he quickly replied before leaping out of his bed.

No interruptions of any type of party, which is the pity. I'll see you as Pascelli's @ 11:00 for brunch.

But rather than send it, he saved it.

"Let's make it a little more fun shall we."

He knew that the little cafe was near to where Dawson lived. Google and having access to relevant personal details made it easy for him to find the place. He showered, shaved and got himself dressed in a polo shirt, jeans and plain, comfortable sneakers. Once dressed, he headed out to Pascelli's. He was there a little before 10AM. He grabbed himself a coffee, then pulled up the text and hit send.

He took his first sip of coffee, chuckling once more about how much he was going to enjoy his time with Dawson. "I bet she's going to think she'll get here before me and be waiting all regal like, in pose anyway."

'Since she's holding the cards, I need to make sure that she is not too settled. If she is, then she can lock herself down too tightly and make the entire process take too long. Keep her on her toes, and she will show more of her true self, and that line I need to walk will become much, much clearer.'

 

[laceandcogs]

Dawson's plans for the weekend involved a great deal of nothing. When she finally rolled out of bed and into the shower, she cranked the hot water to half-scalding, a low hiss of pained satisfaction parting her lips as she stepped into the spray. It was invigorating, challenging, and still relaxing, every muscle in that lush body succumbing to the insistence of the heat. When she finally shut it off, Dawson felt as though she could be poured out of the stall to form a happy, shallow puddle on the floor.

Flushed pink by the heat and the simple pleasure of such a shower, Dawson thrust herself wholeheartedly into the rituals of femininity. She shaved and exfoliated and masqued and plucked and moisturized, a series of sleek bottles and tubs and tubes marching out of her medicine cabinet like terribly expensive tin soldiers. And the instruments! Devices straight out of Saw IV, gleaming bits of metal and ceramic, employed in sure and practiced hands to make her brows neater, her eyelashes fuller, her teeth whiter.

And to think, she didn't even know she had a date yet.

It was a message she received with mingled terror and vindication. He wanted to see her again... in thirty minutes. Snapping the phone closed, Dawson stood very still in the center of her bedroom and fought panic and hate and self-doubt and loathing. She emerged, victorious and determined, with 25 minutes on the clock.

It would work in her favor, she resolved, to not have the amount of time she'd generally spend on selecting an outfit. She shouldn't look like she'd tried, like she'd... cared. This was a last-minute (humph!) invitation, she would look like a girl who'd only just decided she had a clear enough social calendar to answer it.

Of course, to a singularly fashion-conscious label-lover like Dawson, looking like she'd just "thrown something on" still put her leagues ahead of most women. She hit the street with fifteen minutes to make a five minute walk, her heels swapped for gold kid-leather ballet flats. Her perfect legs, still glowing from the morning routine, were bare to mid-thigh, gorgeous columns of sleek, lean tone. She wore a white cotton-eyelet sundress, the innocence of girlhood suggested in the color and fabric supplanted by the full, firm curves of the woman who wore it.

It was modest enough, cut in a sweetheart style that covered much more than men wanted it to, and it was a warm enough day to forego a cardigan or jacket. Dawson had kept her hair loose and natural, and spent the extra five minutes she'd earned there on a careful application of makeup- just enough mascara and lip gloss to make an observer certain she was one of those enviable women who didn't need to wear any makeup at all. Head held high and shoulders straight, Dawson ignored the eyes that followed her and beelined for Pascelli's.

Of course, she had been beaten, and the effort it took to keep her irritation and ruffled composure from showing as she realized it was momentous. Catching Tyron's eye, Dawson knew she'd been spotted. There was no hope now to duck back around the corner and hide in a shop for twenty minutes, turning her discomfort at being caught flat-footed into him worrying whether she'd show up. She simply had to walk over there, take a seat, and acknowledge that, this time, he had the drop on her.

And so she did just that, slipping into the seat across from him with a flirtatious smile, twisting to hook her purse onto the back of the seat.

This place had better make a good mimosa. I think I'll need two.

 

[marauder13]

Tyron had fortunately cup his coffee cup down as Dawson came into view. If he was still holding it, it would have slipped easily from his numbed fingers, dropping into his lap and generally ruining the remainder of his weekend, and possibly putting any hopes of getting Dawson beyond salvage. Her choice of dress was a subtle exercise in erotic innocence. The sun dress, in cut, colour and pattern, screamed to the world that the wearer was a sweet, innocent lass that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Yet, it made a very clear statement that the body within was created for very sinful purposes. And the way Dawson walked, made it clear as well that she knew the potential of the sins she could commit.

Any doubts Tyron may have had concerning Dawson's physique were blown away by the dress. He had to say that there would be many an envious person when she finally sat with him. She was simply stunning in a conservative manner. Her hair, freely framing her face, was just right for her. Her arms and legs, nicely exposed, were marvelous to look on and admire safely. Even her cheeky little grin as she slid into the seat opposite him just added that final little panache to the entire ensemble. His eyes flickered everywhere that was visible, not favouring any one feature apart from her eyes.

"Good morning, Dawson. May I say you are looking fantastic this morning. Thank you for last night. I enjoyed your company, as well as the kiss. I am looking forward to kissing you more." He lifted the cup to his lips, letting the cooling coffee drown the dry wastelands in the back of his throat. As the cup descended, he started to smile confidently as he turned his attention back to Dawson.

"Dawson, would you be so kind as to go and place the order for us? I'll have their classic breakfast, and you can order what you like. I'll be paying for us both." He looked at her, almost daring her to challenge him. He was not ordering her for any reasons apart from hormonally driven selfish reasons. He would get to see how her ass looked as she moved away, as well as looking at her legs, a sight he was not tiring off quickly.