If you haven't read "Two
Holts: Sisters of Steele" CLICK HERE.
A follow up to “Steele Committed” and my tie-in to the Two Holts/Diamonds of Steele Universe … because I couldn’t resist.
Steele’s Fan Dance
Mr. Steele’s first day back in the office after his foray to London was, to say the least, touchy at best. Mildred waffled between being thrilled he was back and annoyed at his departure and deception. Miss Holt was worse. She’d gone home Sunday morning, prim and embarrassed, after spending the night--chastely--in his arms and in his bed. He’d spent the rest of the day retrieving his clothing from Monroe and trying to avoid his not-so-chaste fantasies about her. Waking with her had been surreal … and lovely.
*****
Laura spent most of Monday returning phone calls and picking up all the balls she’d dropped to go to London. Some of those balls she deliberately rolled into her wayward associate’s office and let him deal with them. Petty revenge--but it felt good in a spiteful kind of way.
By the time they closed down at six--they’d had a great deal of catching up to do--she had to admit to herself that the office functioned best with him. She and Mildred worked well together and had managed the work just fine without him, but the sparks had been missing. The fact was that she looked forward to seeing him at the agency every day and had missed his dry wit and … well … him.
She had declined his invitation to dinner, mostly because she was still self-conscious about giving in and spending the night at his place--even though nothing had happened except getting a long-needed decent night of sleep. Last night, her dreams were filled with fantasies of him, and it had taken two cups of coffee this morning to be able to face him without blushing.
Mr. Steele rapped on her door twice before opening it without invitation. Mildred opened her other door at the same time. “I’m out of here, kids. See you in the morning.” To a duet of “good-bye” and “have a good-evening,” she ducked out the door and headed home, confident that things would soon return to normal.
“Laura, are you sure you won’t have dinner with me this evening?”
She nodded and rose, gathering her purse from her desk drawer. “I want to go work out tonight and go to bed early. It’s been a long week, Mr. Steele.”
“Yes, that it has.” He stroked his chin once and partially held out a hand to her. “Laura--"
She tilted her head, waiting while he paused. “Yes?”
“Would you … would you let me have … ten minutes? Or five even?”
“To do what?” She set her purse on the top of her desk.
“This.” He stepped into her space and brought his head to hers. Laura’s eyes darkened, and she raised her face to meet him in a searing kiss. For something between five and ten minutes, they took and gave with their mouths; her lips parted when his tongue stroked, and they fairly ravaged each other.
Steele was breathing hard by the time he broke off the kiss and hugged her to him long enough to regain control of his emotions. It wasn't just lust--though that was some of it--it was his need to possess every part of her that he had to restrain.
When he pulled away, Laura had to flex her hands to stop from drawing him back to her. Reluctantly, she leaned against her desk and fumbled for her purse. She tried to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t ruin the moment.
She didn’t have to speak. He gently nudged her toward the door and escorted her in silence to the Rabbit in the garage. Laying a last, light kiss on her lips, he said only, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Holt.”
Laura drove straight to the gym and spent the next two hours attempting to forget about the kiss that had burned straight into her brain and down to her toes. She pushed herself hard as she lifted weights and held difficult yoga poses that challenged her strong form.
She arrived home sweaty and sore and headed straight for the shower.
*****
Remington ate alone that night in his flat. It was getting dark when he gave in to a rare impulse and changed into his black jeans and shirt to do what he’d only done once before. He’d spent his whole life controlling his own actions and emotions as it was the only thing over which he had absolute command. He walked to Laura’s loft, a nearly forty-five minute process that had him shaking his head. As he climbed the fire escape to her place, he knew this was exactly the kind of thing he shouldn’t do.
The lights were on in her place, and the moon wasn’t up yet, leaving the space outside her loft drenched in darkness. He sat in the shadows and waited patiently, hoping to catch a glimpse or two of her before she retired for the evening. They’d had several arguments about the lack of privacy the windows granted her, but she’d remained adamant about not covering them on the premise that they faced a brick wall and only her neighbors knew she lived there, none of whom used the fire escape.
He could have changed her mind by snapping a few pictures and dropping them on her desk one morning, but it seemed rather sordid. But probably no more sordid than peering through her window as a Peeping Tom. He scrubbed his face and tucked his hands under his arms, noting the light straying through the cracks around the edges of her bathroom door.
She opened the door just then wearing only a faded bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her hair. He blinked. He didn’t think he would catch her taking a shower. He felt like a pervert now and closed his eyes for a moment before promising himself that as soon as she wouldn’t notice the movement outside her window, he would go home.
She puttered around the kitchen eating a carton of yogurt and an apple as an excuse for dinner. He nearly shook his head before stilling the movement. No wonder she preferred his cooking when she didn’t bother making a decent meal for herself.
As she slowly stretched her arms overhead, he assumed she’d worked herself hard at the gym. She moved to the stereo and had something with a driving Latin rhythm echoing through the loft. He couldn’t make out the words, but the rapid drumbeats definitely made up a salsa. Memories of Puerto Vallarta began bubbling up; he stuffed them back down and mentally shut the door with a firm thud.
Laura drew the towel away from her hair and let the damp ringlets fall where they willed. He clenched his jaw as his belly tightened. She began swaying to the beat and closed her eyes, losing herself to the dance. Her steps became more pronounced and her movements more precise. The tie to her robe loosened of its own accord and dropped free. That’s when he flinched and covered his face. This isn’t what he’d wanted. He’d needed to see her for a moment. Maybe eating. Or perhaps reading a book. Not this sensual dance. He was an intruder of the lowest kind and knew it.
The music changed to a tango. Involuntarily, he looked up as Laura shrugged off the robe and struck a classic pose. Her hips swayed while she strutted across the room, her body arched while her arms reached out. At this close range, he could see every freckle on her bare skin--and he could see that she danced for no one but herself. Her eyes were still closed, her expression sultry, and her body teased through the steps.
Not for the first time, he decided that Wilson was an idiot. Laura was passionate, sensuous, intelligent and frustrating as hell when it came to her feelings. And he wouldn’t change a single thing about her.
For a brief moment as the music ended, Laura paused with her hands above her head, eyes closed and fully facing him. Her nudity was as stunning as the aggressive, confident pose she held. The smile that drifted across his face had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with pride.
And then it was over. She retrieved her robe and shrugged it to her shoulders before snapping the lights off and going to her bed.
Grateful for the reprieve, he escaped and spent the long walk home cooling his ardor. Upon reaching his flat, he headed straight for his bedroom. There, in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he withdrew a pair of white beaded and feathered fans that he’d found in a little shop in San Diego over a year ago. From the same drawer, he pulled out a sketchbook that he had covered with images of Laura. Some he’d finished and dated; others were mere outlines of expressions and poses he’d seen her in.
In the small hours of the morning, his hand paused as he began to date the exotic picture he’d completed. He looked it over, appreciating again her slim beauty and the freckles splashed over most of her body. He'd drawn her in one of the poses she’d struck, looking over her shoulder with one arm behind her. Only he placed a fan in that hand where it just missed covering her assets as the feathers spread across her backside. The other hand was in front of her, and that fan only managed to frame a partially-exposed breast. Her hair was tousled and damp; her eyes were closed and sweat beaded her long neckline. He’d captured her as she’d danced--arrogant, sultry, and only for herself.
Moving his hand again, he dated the portrait 6-Oct-85, hiding it in the margin where it wouldn’t distract the eye. Then he did something he’d never done before with one of his drawings: in a bold print, he wrote “Steele” alongside the date.
* * * * *
It was rather silly how the sketchbook ended up in her loft. On what should have been a cool autumn day in early December, the temperature hovered around ninety-one degrees, and the air conditioner died in Remington’s condo. When repairs stretched into a second day, Laura suggested that he spend the night on her couch. Grumpy and grateful, he left the office early enough to beat the traffic and gather a few things from his place. He retrieved the sketchbook he’d used as of late and dropped it into his kit.
Only after she’d called to say she was on her way home did he flip through the pages and realize he’d picked up the wrong notebook. Wincing, he looked about for a place to hide it and settled on her nightstand. He rarely went into the bottom drawer of his own and hoped it would be the same for her. Judging by the faint layer of dust on the books stashed there, he thought he was safe. Now that he had a key to her loft, it was only a matter of time before he could reclaim it at his leisure.
He forgot about it though until months later when he suddenly needed a notepad to draw her happy family reunion. As he removed the sketchbook from its hiding place, he thumbed his wedding ring and grinned.
21 May 2009
edited 1 May 2010
Author's Note: If you want to understand the Puerto Vallarta reference, please read the following in this order:
Click here to read Steele Keeping Secrets (NC-17)
Click here to read Holting Out for a Steele (NC-17)
A follow up to “Steele Committed” and my tie-in to the Two Holts/Diamonds of Steele Universe … because I couldn’t resist.
Steele’s Fan Dance
Mr. Steele’s first day back in the office after his foray to London was, to say the least, touchy at best. Mildred waffled between being thrilled he was back and annoyed at his departure and deception. Miss Holt was worse. She’d gone home Sunday morning, prim and embarrassed, after spending the night--chastely--in his arms and in his bed. He’d spent the rest of the day retrieving his clothing from Monroe and trying to avoid his not-so-chaste fantasies about her. Waking with her had been surreal … and lovely.
*****
Laura spent most of Monday returning phone calls and picking up all the balls she’d dropped to go to London. Some of those balls she deliberately rolled into her wayward associate’s office and let him deal with them. Petty revenge--but it felt good in a spiteful kind of way.
By the time they closed down at six--they’d had a great deal of catching up to do--she had to admit to herself that the office functioned best with him. She and Mildred worked well together and had managed the work just fine without him, but the sparks had been missing. The fact was that she looked forward to seeing him at the agency every day and had missed his dry wit and … well … him.
She had declined his invitation to dinner, mostly because she was still self-conscious about giving in and spending the night at his place--even though nothing had happened except getting a long-needed decent night of sleep. Last night, her dreams were filled with fantasies of him, and it had taken two cups of coffee this morning to be able to face him without blushing.
Mr. Steele rapped on her door twice before opening it without invitation. Mildred opened her other door at the same time. “I’m out of here, kids. See you in the morning.” To a duet of “good-bye” and “have a good-evening,” she ducked out the door and headed home, confident that things would soon return to normal.
“Laura, are you sure you won’t have dinner with me this evening?”
She nodded and rose, gathering her purse from her desk drawer. “I want to go work out tonight and go to bed early. It’s been a long week, Mr. Steele.”
“Yes, that it has.” He stroked his chin once and partially held out a hand to her. “Laura--"
She tilted her head, waiting while he paused. “Yes?”
“Would you … would you let me have … ten minutes? Or five even?”
“To do what?” She set her purse on the top of her desk.
“This.” He stepped into her space and brought his head to hers. Laura’s eyes darkened, and she raised her face to meet him in a searing kiss. For something between five and ten minutes, they took and gave with their mouths; her lips parted when his tongue stroked, and they fairly ravaged each other.
Steele was breathing hard by the time he broke off the kiss and hugged her to him long enough to regain control of his emotions. It wasn't just lust--though that was some of it--it was his need to possess every part of her that he had to restrain.
When he pulled away, Laura had to flex her hands to stop from drawing him back to her. Reluctantly, she leaned against her desk and fumbled for her purse. She tried to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t ruin the moment.
She didn’t have to speak. He gently nudged her toward the door and escorted her in silence to the Rabbit in the garage. Laying a last, light kiss on her lips, he said only, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Holt.”
Laura drove straight to the gym and spent the next two hours attempting to forget about the kiss that had burned straight into her brain and down to her toes. She pushed herself hard as she lifted weights and held difficult yoga poses that challenged her strong form.
She arrived home sweaty and sore and headed straight for the shower.
*****
Remington ate alone that night in his flat. It was getting dark when he gave in to a rare impulse and changed into his black jeans and shirt to do what he’d only done once before. He’d spent his whole life controlling his own actions and emotions as it was the only thing over which he had absolute command. He walked to Laura’s loft, a nearly forty-five minute process that had him shaking his head. As he climbed the fire escape to her place, he knew this was exactly the kind of thing he shouldn’t do.
The lights were on in her place, and the moon wasn’t up yet, leaving the space outside her loft drenched in darkness. He sat in the shadows and waited patiently, hoping to catch a glimpse or two of her before she retired for the evening. They’d had several arguments about the lack of privacy the windows granted her, but she’d remained adamant about not covering them on the premise that they faced a brick wall and only her neighbors knew she lived there, none of whom used the fire escape.
He could have changed her mind by snapping a few pictures and dropping them on her desk one morning, but it seemed rather sordid. But probably no more sordid than peering through her window as a Peeping Tom. He scrubbed his face and tucked his hands under his arms, noting the light straying through the cracks around the edges of her bathroom door.
She opened the door just then wearing only a faded bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her hair. He blinked. He didn’t think he would catch her taking a shower. He felt like a pervert now and closed his eyes for a moment before promising himself that as soon as she wouldn’t notice the movement outside her window, he would go home.
She puttered around the kitchen eating a carton of yogurt and an apple as an excuse for dinner. He nearly shook his head before stilling the movement. No wonder she preferred his cooking when she didn’t bother making a decent meal for herself.
As she slowly stretched her arms overhead, he assumed she’d worked herself hard at the gym. She moved to the stereo and had something with a driving Latin rhythm echoing through the loft. He couldn’t make out the words, but the rapid drumbeats definitely made up a salsa. Memories of Puerto Vallarta began bubbling up; he stuffed them back down and mentally shut the door with a firm thud.
Laura drew the towel away from her hair and let the damp ringlets fall where they willed. He clenched his jaw as his belly tightened. She began swaying to the beat and closed her eyes, losing herself to the dance. Her steps became more pronounced and her movements more precise. The tie to her robe loosened of its own accord and dropped free. That’s when he flinched and covered his face. This isn’t what he’d wanted. He’d needed to see her for a moment. Maybe eating. Or perhaps reading a book. Not this sensual dance. He was an intruder of the lowest kind and knew it.
The music changed to a tango. Involuntarily, he looked up as Laura shrugged off the robe and struck a classic pose. Her hips swayed while she strutted across the room, her body arched while her arms reached out. At this close range, he could see every freckle on her bare skin--and he could see that she danced for no one but herself. Her eyes were still closed, her expression sultry, and her body teased through the steps.
Not for the first time, he decided that Wilson was an idiot. Laura was passionate, sensuous, intelligent and frustrating as hell when it came to her feelings. And he wouldn’t change a single thing about her.
For a brief moment as the music ended, Laura paused with her hands above her head, eyes closed and fully facing him. Her nudity was as stunning as the aggressive, confident pose she held. The smile that drifted across his face had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with pride.
And then it was over. She retrieved her robe and shrugged it to her shoulders before snapping the lights off and going to her bed.
Grateful for the reprieve, he escaped and spent the long walk home cooling his ardor. Upon reaching his flat, he headed straight for his bedroom. There, in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he withdrew a pair of white beaded and feathered fans that he’d found in a little shop in San Diego over a year ago. From the same drawer, he pulled out a sketchbook that he had covered with images of Laura. Some he’d finished and dated; others were mere outlines of expressions and poses he’d seen her in.
In the small hours of the morning, his hand paused as he began to date the exotic picture he’d completed. He looked it over, appreciating again her slim beauty and the freckles splashed over most of her body. He'd drawn her in one of the poses she’d struck, looking over her shoulder with one arm behind her. Only he placed a fan in that hand where it just missed covering her assets as the feathers spread across her backside. The other hand was in front of her, and that fan only managed to frame a partially-exposed breast. Her hair was tousled and damp; her eyes were closed and sweat beaded her long neckline. He’d captured her as she’d danced--arrogant, sultry, and only for herself.
Moving his hand again, he dated the portrait 6-Oct-85, hiding it in the margin where it wouldn’t distract the eye. Then he did something he’d never done before with one of his drawings: in a bold print, he wrote “Steele” alongside the date.
* * * * *
It was rather silly how the sketchbook ended up in her loft. On what should have been a cool autumn day in early December, the temperature hovered around ninety-one degrees, and the air conditioner died in Remington’s condo. When repairs stretched into a second day, Laura suggested that he spend the night on her couch. Grumpy and grateful, he left the office early enough to beat the traffic and gather a few things from his place. He retrieved the sketchbook he’d used as of late and dropped it into his kit.
Only after she’d called to say she was on her way home did he flip through the pages and realize he’d picked up the wrong notebook. Wincing, he looked about for a place to hide it and settled on her nightstand. He rarely went into the bottom drawer of his own and hoped it would be the same for her. Judging by the faint layer of dust on the books stashed there, he thought he was safe. Now that he had a key to her loft, it was only a matter of time before he could reclaim it at his leisure.
He forgot about it though until months later when he suddenly needed a notepad to draw her happy family reunion. As he removed the sketchbook from its hiding place, he thumbed his wedding ring and grinned.
21 May 2009
edited 1 May 2010
Author's Note: If you want to understand the Puerto Vallarta reference, please read the following in this order:
Click here to read Steele Keeping Secrets (NC-17)
Click here to read Holting Out for a Steele (NC-17)
Steele Holting On
Steele
Holting On
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