An American In Aspic14:48 Nov 07 2007
Times Read: 1,104
The night had been long, winding country roads empty, as she drove the small, yellow Lotus Europa.
She’d only been in England two day, yet already cursed the ‘stupid English’ for having the her drive on the wrong side of the road: it was silly. And, a stick-shift? Hadn’t the rental agency ever heard of automatic?
She dropped a gear, grinding it home and allowed the car to cruise, suddenly aware just how low on gas she is.
“Oh great,” she groaned, “that’s all I need, to be stranded in the middle of nowhere! Damnnation!”
She’d have cussed worse than that, but it was a habit she was trying to get out of, particularly as she was on the way to visit relatives that she’d only heard of, in stories from her Father.
From out of her right eye, she spies lights and a sign, ‘The Wheatsheaf.’
A place to park up and ask where she can fill-up, ‘Good.’
She steered the car into the small gravelled car park surrounded by bushes and trees, turning her lights onto full beam.
Then manoeuvring her car into the space between the pub wall and a large olive-green Land Rover, she parked, turned off the ignition and lights, then slid the door open, eased out the bucket seat and stepped out.
Realizing there’s no auto-lock, she leant forward, fumbling with keys and lock, unaware of hungry eyes gazing her denim-clad derriere from inside the long white-washed building, with thatched straw roof.
Entering the pub by the Bar entrance, she nearly hit her head on the heavy oak lintel over the door-frame. But, Tracye ducked, just in time.
To the right, the long-lounge: and, to the left, the door to the small restaurant.
‘Really is Ye-Olde English country-pub,’ she mused.
She brushes her feet on the coconut mat, sporting the legend, ‘WELCOME’ and she enters, passing several empty, dimpled copper top tables, as she strides toward the bar, occupying the length of two rooms.
“Miss!” She call to the too-skinny young woman behind the bar, who’s tight no-belt loop jeans, hang from bird-bone hips: “I need assistance...”
“Be with you in a minute luv,” the teen calls back, “I’m on my own tonight and…” she gestured around the bar and the few patrons there, glancing at her mobile, as she poured a pint of Goblins Brew, a ‘real’ beer, as recommended by CAMRA, the campaign for real ale. She poured it for ‘Old Jake.’ He tipped well, especially when she wore, or rather didn’t wear, the brief black tee-shirt she wore now, that showed off her belly and a healthy good-portion of her bra-less tits.
Stella was the girl’s name: and like the lager, she was full of it. Gas.
It was busy, but she is waiting on a phone-call and her Dad had blagged her into working with the threat of no car for the weekend, if she didn’t.
Looking around the bar, as she waits, she glances over her shoulder and around the bar and that is when she sees him, watching her.
He watches from where he stands with his back to an open fire, part of the dividing wall between the bar and the lounge area’s, admiring her mode of dress; the blue-jeans just a little to tight, the shirt just a little too revealing, but still leaving much to the imagination. And, her black boots, to her knees; black and sexy: maybe the most STRIKING thing about her and what catches his eye, is when he sees her boots before he looks up and sees the rest of her, beginning with her auburn hair. Her light brown hair, a cascade of ALMOST curls, a beautiful frame for a pretty but unremarkable face that allows her glasses to be the centre of attraction, to her face, drawing a casual observer, which he was, to her dark, dark eyes.
As their gaze held, she saw herself in her minds eye, lying over HIM, quite naked, right leg curled up, over his obvious arousal, as she tenderly kisses his bare chest.
She bites her lower lip, embarrassed to be thinking like this, having thoughts like these, about a stranger in a bar.
Blushing, she blinks several times, shaking her head, to clear her mind.
“Strange,” she mutters.
The, all of a sudden, there he is, standing at the bar, to her right.
Again, ‘those eyes:’ they were mesmerizing.
Inside, she melts.
“You’re American,” he says to her, in that dark roasted voice she imagined all Englishmen to have.
“And what tells you that?” She queries, suddenly very interested, yet not wanting to show it.
“Easy,” he tells her, looking to her belt, then the back of her jeans, his gaze fixed: “The labels you wear. And, your accent…”
“I suppose that is the giveaway,” she admits grudgingly.
“Uh huh,” is his retort. That and a smile, guaranteed to warm the coldest Eskimo Maidens heart.
Again, she melts.
“So, do you want a drink?” He asks.
She smiles.
“My Mother told me not to accept drinks off strange men,” she informed him calmly: more calmly than she feels.
“You have a sensible Mother…”
“Had.”
“Sorry to hear that. But, she gave sensible advice.”
The stranger proffers his right hand.
“I’m Lance de Luc.”
“French?”
“The name, maybe…” he admits, with a laugh that somehow reminds Tracye of Summers past, with those her Daddy hadn’t approved of: and she smiles.
Those had been fumblings with boys: this one to her right, well he is a man.
She can’t help but smile. He’s so... so? English.
“You figure you’ll get served this year?” She asks Lance, as they shake hands.
“Before Autumn, at least,” he says with a grin: and lifts her hand to his lips.
He kisses the back of her hand, and then releases it.
Turning back to the bar, he gives his order to Stella, who stops, in her tracks, as she polishes a glass, before Old Jake, who’s counting out his change, to ensure he leaves a tip.
“I said, ‘I want to be served Stella!’” The voice has lost it’s soft-liquid centre and taken on a whole different sound and several of those in the bar and lounge nearby, make a point of not listening to anything else they might hear, away from the small area where they sit.
Stella abruptly walks away from Old Jake, frowning.
As she approaches Lance and Tracye, she hears Old Jake whining in the background.
“Well, if you’re going to be rude…”
“Yes, can I help you?” She asks, with a smile forced on her face; and briefly she wonders where it came from.
“Yes, I’ll have a Glenfiddich, double, straight…” He turns to Tracye.
“And you?” Lance asks her.
“J.D.” she replies.
“And a Jack Daniels for the Lady,” he adds to his order.
‘Right now I don’t feel like a ‘lady.’ I feel… positively wanton,’ she idly muses as she watches the teen at the optics stand, poring their drinks.
The transaction takes place quickly and soon they each have their drinks, while Stella stands before the till, looking bemused.
She had money in her hands and served the fellow, but there was something wrong and that disorientation lasted, as the couple at the bar clinked glasses together: it lasted until her phone rang. Now that she could understand.
“I’m Tracye, with an ‘e’.” Tracye told him, with a light smile.
“Well hello, Tracye with an ‘e,’” he responds with a smile, taking a sip of his whiskey and setting his glass down.
“Where did you get the ‘e’ from?” He asks her, touching her cheeks with light fingers.
She’s surprised she allows his temerity, yet she does. She likes it and that really surprises her. Normally she’d have told him where to go.
Yet she doesn’t. Instead, she answers the question, as his fingers leave her skin and she misses the, furthering her surprise even further.
“My Father gave it me. Told me later he wanted me to be an individual.”
“That you are,” He assures her, toasting her, with his glass, before drinking.
‘As are you,’ Tracye muses, aroused by his voice, dress sense and elegant manner: ‘There’s just something, about him!’
Lances smiles: and for a moment, she wonders ‘can he read minds?’
“So, asks the stranger, ‘what brings you here?’”
She can’t help but laugh.
“I’m nearly out of petrol,” she admits ruefully.
“Really?” he queries in turn.
“Yep, really…”
“There’s a garage about a mile straight down, by the Heswall roundabout,” Lance informs her with a wry smile.
Muttering, she shakes her head, in annoyance.
“Now that’s solved, why not come to my room, for a bite?”
“Huh?”
“Tracye, the restaurant is full. I have a room. Would you like to come up?”
She knows she should say ‘no,’ but doesn’t.
“Yes, I think I’d like that,” she answers, pronouncing each word carefully, while inside her mind screams, ‘why did you say that?’
Yet, casting her doubts aside, she follows this wholly singular sort of man, past a curtain, and up a small stairway, to one of four rooms above the pub.
Inside it is cosy and the whiskey he produces, warms them further.
It certainly warms Tracye, her gut: mind and elsewhere.
‘Take it out of the gutter,’ she reminds herself, as they stand close, but not too close. Not for her, not now.
‘But, this is against everything I do…I just don’t do one-night stands, ever…’ she muses, staring deep into his eyes.
‘And I don’t care,’ she finally considers, setting her glass down next to his, as he holds her, right hand behind her head, the left at the bottom of her back, just above her belt.
Lance holds her tighter and inclines her throat to his gaze.
For a moment, Tracye panics, a little.
The moment doesn’t last long, as she closes her eyes and gasps with pleasure, as he suckles on her earlobe.
“I want you,” Lance whispers.
“I know,” she replies, very aware of his arousal.
“And?”
“Just don’t stop, please?” She entreats, pleased when he continues his kisses, as he slowly undoes the heavy belt round her jeans and drops it to the floor.
Their lips meet and tongues mesh, as both his hands gravitate to her buttocks to knead their fullness within their material confine.
“I want you,” he says again, his words a breath against her skin.
“Oh yes,” she gasps, at his hand travails.
With a glint in his eyes, he draws from their embrace looks at her with lust in his eyes, as he stands an arms length from her.
“Turn round,” Lance instructs.
She turns round, as instructed, somehow pleased to be doing what he wants of her.
“Place your hands on the window-sill Tracye,” He tells her simply.
It was his voice, as soft as earlier down at the bar: soft, yet commanding.
With little thought, she does as bid, then smiles as he runs gentle hands over her denim-clad buttocks, while she looks through the diamond shapedleaded-panes of glass, to stare into the night.
Knelt behind her, Lance eases down her jeans, pleased that she wore something fine, something that Victoria would have been secretive about.
He holds her hips, leans forward and kisses her left buttocks, with several soft kisses, then moves to kiss her right.
Minutes pass, as Tracye closes her eyes, everything but the touch of his soft lips, on her flesh forgotten.
“Downstairs, they’re eating many cuts of meat,” he says against her skin: “but, I know what I like…”
Lance draws back his top lip, his sharp canine protruding, as he sees his meal, waiting for him.
“Some like neck, others back. As for me, I do so like a good rump.”
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