The Seduction of Suzanne

by Amelia Hart

  She shed her shoes at the door so she didn’t track dirt inside, and he copied her, his jandals easy to cast off, his feet much more elegant bare than in the cheap rubber thongs.

  “The rest of the salad veges are in the fridge. You can chop them and make the vinaigrette. The recipe is taped to the inside of that cupboard door, and the ingredients are just inside. If you scan down the paper you’ll see there’s one there for a Thai-style dressing. That’s what I had in mind.”

  She washed her hands, heated a frying pan on the gas ring, sprinkled the fish fillets with finely chopped lemongrass from the garden, and set them to fry lightly in a little coconut oil.

  “Shall I lay the table?” he asked, finished with the salad and dressing.

  “Please. Placemats in that drawer, cutlery in this one, plates in the cupboard over there, and wine glasses above them,” she said, pointing. “Unless you’d prefer a beer. If so there are a few bottles in the fridge.”

  “A white wine would be great.”

  Inviting him into her house, her exclusive domain, had been such a barrier in her head. Now here he was, and he slotted into place like a missing puzzle piece. Where was the awkwardness for which she had braced herself? He worked quietly beside her and it felt good to have him there, barefoot and preoccupied in her kitchen.

  As the pounding of her heart subsided slowly from that kiss, and her awareness of him settled back to its usual active simmer, Suzanne dwelt on what he had said about an exhibition.

  Exhibit her work?

  Exhibit her work.

  Crikey, what a thought.

  Her pieces, the work of her own hands, hanging in a gallery like any professional artist. Her work with a pricetag attached. Going home with buyers to hang on the walls of their homes and be looked at every day, living a whole new life beyond the sphere of their creator. The idea of letting any go felt weird. She wouldn’t be able to get them back. But there were so many stacked in her studio unhung; a few would not be missed too sorely.

  Would it be better to send her favourites – and never see them again – or the ones she liked the least and could trade without regret. The latter were her earliest efforts, and she couldn’t look at them without wanting to do them over. But would those be the right ones to send out representing her talent?

  Probably some middle ground would be best and. . .

  Was the decision made then? Did it so quickly become ‘which ones’? It seemed so. She was amazed to find yet another barrier she had lived with had a door in it that she could open so easily; step through and be an artist making money from her painting. She frowned. What made the difference? Was it something he’d said? She sifted through his comments, looking for the words, the phrase that had made the mental transition so simple.

  There wasn’t anything specific. It was more the casual ease of it. A failure to perceive any problems: ‘You work is good. I have a contact. Sell your work through them. Done’.

  Maybe that was part of his charm. If there were obstacles in the world, he didn’t perceive them.

  With a conscious effort she pulled her attention back to the fish, which was nearly finished.

  Moving quickly she chopped a lemon into segments, and then served the meal onto the plates Justin had laid out on the bench. She carried them to the table, before fetching the wine.

  “This looks delicious,” he said, taking a seat and unfolding his napkin.

  She smiled in response, and for several minutes they each devoted themselves to their food. It was good, the fish delicately flavoured and the salad fresh and crisp, thought Suzanne with satisfaction. When they had finished, Justin leaned back in his chair and grinned across the table at her.

  “It was even better than it looked. Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  He turned his head so that he could see her landscape on the wall, the buttery light of the lowering sun tilted across it, turning it all to shades of gold and umber. Then he looked back at her, the warm wash of yellow gilding his skin and hair, sculpting his full lips temptingly.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  A blush rose under her skin at his intent regard. She was too shy to tell him how beautiful he was to her, too. There was a moment of silence.

  “I begin teaching again this Monday,” she said, apropos of nothing.

  “So soon?”

  “Yes, well, the beginning of February, the end of the school holidays.”

  “Of course.” His gaze dropped to his nearly empty wine glass. He stared contemplatively at it for a few seconds, and then lifted it to his mouth and tossed back the remainder. The base of the glass clicked as he set it back on the table.

  “I want to ask you something,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “If you had a chance to simply pack your bags and walk out of here tomorrow, would you do it? You could travel. I know you want to. See the world that you’ve only ever read about. Smell it, taste it, touch it . . . paint it. If you could, would you do it?”

  “Of course,” she said lightly. “Who wouldn’t? If it were possible.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  Suzanne was taken aback.

  “I couldn’t just leave. I have a responsibility to my pupils.”

  “If a replacement teacher could be found.”

  “They couldn’t find one, not on such short notice.” Yet as she said it, she thought of Marie, who had been teaching for seven years at the school at Okiwi before she became pregnant, and who wanted to teach there again. She was a perfectly suitable replacement.

  “I could never go all by myself,” she continued. “To leave my home, my friends, everything I know? I just couldn’t.”

  He pursed his lips slightly, his eyes narrowed, but he said no more, picking up his wine glass to refill it and changing the subject.

  That night after Justin had gone, Suzanne sat for a long time in the lounge, watching the day fade, her lips still tingling from the hard, hungry kiss Justin gave her as he left. He had been the one to break away this time, swiftly, as if determined she wouldn’t be the only one turning down, turning away. He seemed almost angrily abrupt, though he didn’t say anything, simply shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off to his car.

  She wanted to call him back, but shyness kept her quiet, still and watching as he left.

  She had let him into her house tonight for the first time, and in the space of hours he had managed to fill it so thoroughly it was now empty without him.

  Crazy but true.

  She wished she had invited him to come and curl up on the couch with her after dinner, rather than standing awkward and wordless behind her chair until he finally stood and went. Had he misread her silence? It seemed impossible all these feeling could churn away under her skin, so close to the surface, and be invisible to him. Surely he knew? Knew how much she wanted to touch him, wrap herself in him, drown in his nearness and surface somewhere new in her own soul.

  She could have leaned on him, let him wrap his arms around her, rested her head on his shoulder and let him kiss her and never stop.

  She could have pulled his shirt up his big body. He would have taken over, lifted it off his head, tossed it away. He might have taken her hands and put them on his bare chest. Or maybe she would just put them there herself, and run her fingers over the ridges of his abdominals, up and over his pectorals, stroke the flat male nipples there. . . maybe she would lick him. Would that make him groan? Clutch at her and kiss her, devouring her mouth-

  The ringing of the phone interrupted her mid-fantasy. Answering it, she discovered her friend Anita on the line, calling for a chat.

  Suzanne started to tell her about Justin and how things were going. After only a few sentences, Anita shrieked at her to shut up, as she was rushing over this minute to hear all about it in person.

  Suzanne smiled as she hung up the phone. There was nothing like Anita to make a person feel good.

  Sure enough, it was only minutes la
ter when she heard an urgent banging on the door.

  “So tell me, tell me! Start again from the beginning. Oooo, I’m so excited!”

  Suzanne did start again from the beginning, lingering saucily over all the bits she knew her friend would relish. Anita squealed and bounced up and down in her seat satisfyingly.

  “You’ve certainly waited long enough, you freak of nature. I don’t think I could hold out for a whole week with a man that hot on my tail. Let alone two weeks! I hope you and him don’t make it out of the bedroom for days. I brought this with me. You can wear it on the first night. Or day. With luck you won’t need anything else to wear for a loooong time.” she grinned slyly, her grey eyes sparkling.

  “I bought it before me and Mark fell through, but I never got to use it with him. So it’s unworn. I’m certain it’ll fit you. We’ve switched enough clothes before. It’s my gift to you. Happy redeflowering day.”

  Suzanne immediately guessed what was inside the black box Anita held out. It was sure to be some seductive piece of underwear. Anita was a woman who revelled in her own sensual nature and swore by the power of feminine clothing to make a woman really feel like a woman. She had always poured friendly scorn on Suzanne’s practical, unisex outfits, and no doubt saw this as an opportunity to encourage a little daring.

  Suzanne hesitated a moment, then took the box and set it down without opening it. She would open it later when she didn’t have an enthusiastic Anita hanging over her like a mother hen with one sex-deprived chick.

  “You are going to have so much fun,” Anita chortled happily. “He’s soooo hot.”

  “He has other attractions apart from the way he looks,” she murmured pointedly.

  Anita looked slightly surprised.

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” she said. “I know you. You wouldn’t even think of bedding some guy who was nasty. Or had cotton wool for brains. You’re not stupid. Now me on the other hand-” she shook her head regretfully, a teasing smile lurking in her voice, “-if I had a guy who looked like that come on to me, I’d be yelling ‘Yes! Yes, take me now!’ before I checked out his . . . credentials.”

  Suzanne smiled. Then she said, a wistful note creeping into her voice: “Yeah, but Justin’s incredibly perfect. He’s smart, and funny, and thoughtful, and so charismatic, and, well, just . . . perfect.” She shrugged a little helplessly. “I keep thinking he’s going to take off. Or that something’s going to go wrong.”

  “Well if he really is all those things, then I suppose he just might be your equal,” drawled Anita. “But then you hardly know the man. You give him a couple of months, and he’s going to start leaving the lid off the tube of toothpaste, or squeezing it in the middle, and you’ll be kicking him to the curb.”

  “Ooo, yes,” said Suzanne, giving a delicate shudder of feigned revulsion. “One bad toothpaste habit and it’s all over.”

  They giggled their way through the other half of the bottle of Justin’s wine and then Anita took herself home, leaving Suzanne to her empty house. The box of underwear she left on her bedside table.

  “If you’re too shy to pounce on him, just wear that and whip off your dress when the moment is right. I swear he will totally take it from there. Trust me!”

  Suzanne woke at dawn the next morning, feeling hyperalert, her mind as clear as if she had been awake for hours, not seconds. She bounced from the bed and headed straight for the shower. Mindful of the level in the water tank, which always fell during the summer months, her wash was brisk and brief.

  As she exited the shower cubicle, releasing her hair from the shower cap which had held it clear of the spray, she caught sight of herself in the slightly fogged bathroom mirror. With her body damp, naked and gleaming, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders and clinging to her wet, white skin, she looked vaguely druidic, the witch that Justin had called her. As if she had spent the night unclothed under the stars and moon, performing mysterious rituals.

  Today was the day.

  She wanted Justin to stay with her tonight. She was going to explore that beautiful body of his from head to toe. She felt the heat of her own blush rise under her skin as she imagined touching him intimately. Possessing him, bringing him pleasure.

  In her mind she explored the parts of him she had never seen, free to touch, enjoying his arousal, his response to her. Laying her hands on her own body and imagining this was his touch, his hands shaping her, moving her, smoothing over soft, damp flesh in a quest to bring her closer, to fit himself into her.

  Her body reacted sharply, desire surging through her, making her breathless and weak at the knees. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself, sucking air into her lungs as she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal, refusing to picture him naked any further when even in her imagination he was so overwhelming.

  When the sensual fog had lifted enough to think again, she swiped a fresh towel over her long limbs and then wound it around her. Then she returned to her bedroom. She warily unwrapped the single layer of colourful paper around the box of underwear, and then lifted the lid.

  Her instincts had not deceived her. Under a sheet of tissue-paper lay several delicate white lace garments. She was a little surprised at how sedate they were, in fact, until she held up the teddy and realised that it was almost completely sheer. Lying in the box against the mound of equally white paper, it had looked deceptively substantial. Suzanne swallowed nervously. Still, the only alternative was her own ruthlessly sensible cotton underwear. That was really no alternative at all, she decided.

  It took her several moments to figure out how to get into the unfamiliar garment. Once it was on she investigated the garter stockings. They took a little longer, but she finagled them on eventually. When it was all in place, she walked cautiously to her mirror, marvelling at the strange feeling of simultaneous constriction and. . .well. . .draughtiness.

  For the second time that morning her reflection caught her by surprise. This time there was very little of the witch in the image, and a great deal of the seductress. She looked like a woman who, caught midway between the implied virginity of white, and the feminine knowledge hinted at by the cut and transparency of the material, was very aware of her power over men. A woman who could confidently pick and choose her sexual partners, certain of her own allure. Suzanne stared, fascinated. She wasn’t entirely sure whether knowing that she wore something like this under her clothes was more likely to empower or terrify her.

  Should she take it off? Briefly her eyes strayed to the drawer which held her cotton bras and underpants.

  No, she decided firmly. Now was the time for fortitude and daring.

  “I will not be cowed by knickers,” she said forcefully, into the silence of the room. Then she took her dressing gown from its hook and put it on over the top of the underwear, pulling the cloth belt defiantly tight. Even alone in the house she was not prepared to wander around wearing only that outfit.

  Just then, she heard the sound of a car pulling up at the front of the house.

  “How’s that for amazing timing!” she exclaimed fretfully. Where, where was that green sundress? She’d brought it in off the washing line yesterday and put it. . .where? Running down the hall and peering into each room as she went, she couldn’t see it.

  “Ah, no,” she breathed in a panic as she heard the knock on the door, then the click of the latch as he opened it. She never locked it. Damn it!

  “Suzanne?”

  “Here. Here. I’m just here.” She tried for a casual saunter back up the hallway, though her hand held the top of her robe closed with a steely grip.

  Justin wore his usual board shorts and T-shirt. His face was clean-shaven and so amazingly beautiful in the morning light that her breath caught in her throat. An awareness of her woman’s body secretly, temptingly prepared for him rose in her; the image of the two of them entwined as she had imagined only minutes before superimposed itself over him; oh, the things she had planned. The decadent, naughty things. . .
>
  As she walked toward him, her sensual power was overwhelming. For weeks he had waited to see just that look in her eyes. That hot, knowing invitation. It had driven him nearly crazy to wait. But she had played her game of hot and cold. Over and again she had pushed him away. Usually he would have walked. He hated mind games. But he could find no smug cruelty in it. And Suzanne was so magnetic it was impossible to leave her alone.

  So he had teased and tested her with heated kisses, finding always that hesitation, a restraint in her that frustrated and fascinated. She was an enigma. Was it some sort of test of his worthiness, his male restraint?

  If so he would win it.

  He had waited, not pushing her too hard. Wrote his desire on her body with gentle hands, on her mouth with fervent lips. Waited for her to come to him. To choose him. To choose this.

  And here she was. It was written on her face, in the dilated pupils of her dark eyes, the parted lips and quick breathing.

  His blood singing exultantly in his veins he took the two steps necessary to bring him up hard against her. One arm went around her, one hand tunnelled deep into her thick, damp hair. She smelt like rain and mint and lemon, her lips were damp and pink, open over her straight white teeth. And he could just fall into those tawny brown eyes and lose himself.

  He kissed her hard, trying not to savage that soft mouth in the intensity of his desire, his need for her. Without breaking the kiss he swept her up against him and carried her unhesitatingly to her room. He knew which one it was, knew the sheets were a deep red under a snow white coverlet. He had glanced in through the doorway and seen the bed yesterday, the first time she had invited him in. He had seen the sheets then, and in his dreams last night.

  She felt so good in his arms. He was so hard, so urgent to be deep inside her. But he would be gentle. Oh yes.

  If it killed him.

  He walked to the bed, and set her easily in the centre, following her down so that they were in contact from chest to thigh, lying on their sides. There he paused. One hand came to her face, tracing delicately with a fingertip the arch of her eyebrow, the curve of her cheekbone, trailing down to skim the edge of her jaw.