The idea for this flash fiction piece spawned from a photo I discovered on Pinterest, originally featured on Vogue Italia. I can’t reblog it for copyright reasons, but you can view it here (SFW).
I decided to try for something a bit more sensual this time, perhaps even subtle. As always, feedback is encouraged and greatly appreciated.
Enjoy ♥
He adjusts his tie, tightening and then smoothing it into the collar of his brown corduroy blazer. Delivery trucks and early commuters rumble overhead just as the sun’s first rays illuminate the iridescent swirls of grease along the river’s edge. He scratches at the coating of scruff upon his jaw, wondering if he should’ve shaved for the occasion. Jagged stones threaten to punch holes into the soles of his scuffed loafers. He checks his watch.
She’s late.
The sun reaches higher, reflecting off the train tracks that run beneath the bridge’s metal and concrete foundation. He folds his arms, compressing the package that lies tucked within the inner breast pocket of his blazer.
A car horn blares, drawing his attention to the bustling city above. Pedestrians and bicyclists have joined the fray. Scurrying off to their day jobs, they are oblivious to those who would conduct their business in the dark.
The crunch of rubber soles against loose rock jerks him back down to the depths of the bottom-dwellers. She approaches from the south, hair clipped high, wearing a taupe, knee-length trench coat, gathered at the waist with a silver buckle. Her tall, heeled boots are a poor match for the uneven terrain, and she wobbles slightly, holding tight to the briefcase in her hand.
She glances over her shoulder, then to either side, before coming to stand before him—near enough to reach out and touch palms, but not so close that she could not flee if provoked. He extends his hand.
“You’re late,” he says.
She clasps his palm and quickly withdraws. “I was detained.”
“By whom?”
“Who do you think?”
He smirks and gestures to the briefcase. “Is that all of it?”
“Most of it.”
His eyes narrow. “You know I don’t do charity.”
“You’ll get the rest once I’ve determined that your client’s work is adequate.”
He unbuttons his blazer and reaches for the breast pocket. His gaze roves over her shapely form, lingering on the hint of cleavage at the meeting of her lapels. She shifts her weight, skimming an errant curl behind her ear. His fingers brush the parcel. He pauses.
“Perhaps we should move somewhere less conspicuous,” he says.
“Such as?”
He nods towards the underside of the bridge. She cocks an eyebrow.
“Do you want it or not?”
She sighs. “Fine.”
They follow the tracks beneath the steel and stone edifice, circumventing the empty bottles, crumpled food wrappers, and plastic bags.
“So,” he says. “How’s life at the top treating you?”
“I can’t complain.”
“Bet you wrinkled your nose when I suggested we meet down here.”
“I did no such thing.”
He chuckles. “Right. I’m sure you’re just as comfy by the river as you are at one of those swanky fundraisers.”
“I adapt to my surroundings. Always have.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me, how much does that husband of yours make a year? Forty? Fifty mil?”
“Haven’t asked.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure it wasn’t too much of a hardship for you to ‘adapt’ to his lifestyle.”
She halts. “I haven’t forgotten who I am. Or where I come from.”
“Sure. That’s why you thought it would be a good idea to wear those shoes down here, yeah?”
“I’m keeping up, aren’t I?” She scowls.
“That you are.” He tugs at one of the loose threads upon his sleeve.
He leads them to a shadowy spot about halfway through the tunnel. Spray-painted exhibitions ornament the concrete walls, splashes of color eclipsing cold, industrial gray.
He turns to face her, a sly smile playing at his lips. “See? Much better.”
“Right.” She kicks a discarded soda can and sends it rattling.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “You know, on second thought, I think the price just doubled.”
“Did it?” She raises an eyebrow.
“You’re going to have to adjust your offer.”
She folds her arms, squeezing her breasts together. “I don’t have time for this.”
He steps toward her and she retreats until her back is flush with the concrete. Her arms drop. His hot breath washes over her as his fingers entwine with hers about the handle of the briefcase.
She swallows. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Her breath hitches as he captures her jaw, tracing her lips with his thumb.
“Because?” He slips the briefcase from her as their mouths collide.
She squirms as he moves closer, his chest pressed tight against hers. He tosses the case, bringing both palms to her cheeks. Whining into his mouth, she wedges her hands between them and shoves him back.
“No,” she whispers. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again.”
He strokes her face with one finger, starting at her temple and ending at her mouth. Pushing past her lips, he sides his fingertip over her tongue. She suckles him, her cheeks flushed. He unfastens her hair clip, letting the soft waves cascade onto her shoulders.
“I’ve missed you,” he says.
She closes her eyes. He slides his free hand between their bodies, locating the silver belt buckle. The slippery material of the trench coat gives easily. He sweeps the front flaps aside, revealing a wine-colored bustier and matching panties—and not much else.