Heyes levered himself from the lush foam. The muscles of his arms tautened as he pushed back the dampened dark hair. Beads of water silvered a curving path over his finely honed jaw and neck, coming to rest in the nook of sweet, sweet flesh where the column of his throat met the first swell of his firm chest. Water misted the dusting of fine hair covering his belly and long, lithe inner thighs and glistened, still steamy with heat, trapped amidst the thickening hair of his…
“Hey, towel please! This story is strictly PG13!” The dark-eyed older woman, lying full stretch on her stomach upon the Emperor sized satin swathed bed, watched Heyes swathe a small, fluffy – and small – white – did I mention small – towel low and loose around his smooth slim hips. “That’s better,” she approved, returning her eyes from the damp and near-nekkid ex-outlaw to the laptop propped against her pillow.
Heyes strode gracefully over and sat beside Cally Coe.
“What are you writing this time?” he asked, bending close so his warm breath stirred the downy hairs on her neck. “Why am I dripping wet and…” he tenderly nuzzled her ear lobe, “…why are you cutting and pasting stuff you’ve used before about my …” nuzzle, nuzzle, nip, “…body?” Heyes shut up. His tongue was kinda busy.
“It’s supposed to be something for the ‘Fourth of July’ challenge,” said Cally, pushing Heyes back so he didn’t cast a shadow over the screen as she typed.
“Fourth of July!” came a disgruntled voice from the direction of the bathtub, “…Bit late, huh? It’s nearly August!”
“I HAD realised that!” sighed Cally Coe. She eyed the blond fella – whatisname – oh, yeah, Kid Curry, as he slowly unbuttoned his blue shirt. As each fastening yielded to his strong fingers, a little more of smooth, tanned chest was revealed, the muscles forming a firm wall against which a Kidette would love to nestle, safe in a tender embrace, inhaling a manly scent of leather and…”…I’ve got writer’s block,” Cally explained, sadly.
“That’ll be why I’m taking my shirt off, AGAIN?” grumbled Curry, continuing to take his shirt off.
“It’s not much to ask, Kid!” said Heyes, coming up for air. He gave Cally a warm smile, with a little wicked twinkle on the side. “…Would a massage help?” he offered.
“Can’t hurt,” accepted the inspiration short writer, allowing him to slide the silk robe a few inches down her creamy shoulders. Deft and finely tapered fingers began to work their magic on her upper back, sneaking a little lower with each gentle but masterful stroke.
“No ideas at all, huh?” asked Kid, still unbuttoning. He looked down at himself, confused. He had already tossed aside the blue shirt with a careless, though graceful, gesture. Now he was taking off a crisp white linen number.
“Oh I had TWO – count ’em – TWO ideas,” corrected Cally Coe, wriggling just a little further – though still a PG13 distance – out of her robe, to allow Heyes’ skilled hands access to a tension knot under her fictionally flawless skin.
“What were they?” prompted Heyes, usefully.
“Well the first involved the ladies of the Ex-Outlaw Appreciation Board,” she explained.
“Not THEM!” groaned Kid. “We always end up nekkid and up to our ears in bubble bath when they appear.” He looked down at himself. The white linen garment discarded, he was now unbuttoning ‘that dang pink pirate shirt’. He looked at the bubble bath he was about to step into. He rolled his eyes.
“It was going to be about Fourth of July box picnics,” went on Cally Coe. “One of the American ladies, here’s a clue – she has a silken pelt and howls, was telling me how it’s traditional for womenfolk to pack a picnic on the Fourth, then the men folk bid for which picnic box they want…”
“Without knowing which lady packed which box,” nodded Heyes.
“Exactly! AND, the man has to spend the day with whichever lady packed the box he chooses.”
“So I was thinking; either you and the other fella could be INSIDE two of the picnic baskets…”
Once again, Kid rolled his eyes. Then he got on with unbuttoning a checked flannel lumberjack shirt torn, strategically, to reveal tantalising glimpses of his honey-gold, broad and sinewy back.
“…OR, when you open the boxes, you find nothing but oysters, asparagus and other supposedly, er…” Cally Coe searched, “…SUSTAINING foods. Together with tactile – or should that be tonguile – items such as whipped cream, chocolate sauce, melting ice-cream…”
“Are you sure this was PG13?” checked Heyes.
“There’s nothing non-PG13 about licking ice-cream,” said Cally Coe, throwing Heyes a wicked smile over her nekkid shoulder.
“Depends where you’re licking it from,” he grinned back, straddling her storybook slender waist to ensure his purely therapeutic massage was delivered evenly.
Kid, finally nekkid, stepped into the bathtub. “Don’t see why I hafta be the one usin’ HIS second hand water,” he muttered. “I oughta be in one o’ them ‘Curry Romance’ or ‘Hurt’n’Comfort’ stories where I get to be the hero!”
Heyes dropped his hands to his hips and threw his partner ‘the look’. Then he thought better of it and dropped his hands to Cally Coe’s hips instead where they would do more good. Therapeutically that is.
“What was your second idea?” he asked, being perfectly briefed as to how to ensure an information divulging dialogue has to be helped along.
“The second idea was about the pair of you – probably when you were youngsters – entering a traditional Fourth of July greased pig contest.”
“That sounds like fun!” smiled Heyes.
“No it don’t!” objected Kid. He stood up in the bath to peel off yet another fine white linen shirt, this one rendered completely transparent by being sopping wet. “It sounds like the kinda story where Heyes makes a dumb wager, but somehow it’s ME ends up chasin’ some slippery porker through the mud an’ getting filthy an’ plumb tuckered out!”
“And proddy,” added Heyes, helpfully. “You probably get all proddy, too. And I probably try and talk you round with my silver tongue – y’know – a banter scene.”
Suddenly, Kid’s gun flew into his hand.
Startling ice-blue (or, possibly, glacier-blue) eyes rolled. The blond ex-outlaw heaved himself out of the bath and, leaving damp footprints from his puckered pink toes, padded over to replace the wet colt in its holster, hanging safe on the back of the door. “I wish it wouldn’t keep doin’ that!” he grumbled. Proddily. After stripping off another shirt or two, he climbed back into the water.
“Actually,” clarified Cally Coe, pressing save, “…my greased pig Fourth of July idea involved Heyes having TRAINED the pig in advance. It came to him on command. A sort of ‘Babe’ pastiche. I just never came up with a framing story.”
“Sounds good,” said Heyes, now massaging any potential stress points on Cally Coe’s thighs. “…And pretty much in character. Me being real sneaky, but not actually cheating.”
The writer shrugged, “…Never mind. I can always reuse it. I reuse most ideas.”
“Several times usually,” put in Kid from the tub.
“Waste not, want not,” admonished Heyes, supportively.
Kid’s gun flew into his hand. “Oh for Pete’s sake!” he groaned. “Oh well, I guess I oughta get dry, anyhow.” Stepping out, he reached for the towel rail. He looked down. “Why the Sam Hill am I wrapped in the stars an’ stripes?” he yelped.
“I think,” mused Cally Coe, “…it shows you are leeching into another writer’s story. Perhaps, subconsciously, there is somewhere you’d rather be?”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it,” muttered the gooseberry. Sorry; that should have read, ‘muttered the blond ex-outlaw’.
“If you pressed delete,” suggested Heyes, “…Wouldn’t that send – the other fella – into a Kidette’s fantasy world.”
“Yup,” confirmed Cally Coe. “…But that won’t help me write something for this dang Fourth of July challenge, will it? I need both of you for that – don’t I?”
“I have a story idea – for just two,” a seductive, deeply masculine, voice cooed in her ear. A seductive, also masculine, tongue tip followed the voice.
Whispering from Heyes. Cally Coe shivered in anticipation. It did sound appealing.
“But how does that have a Fourth of July theme?” she asked, tempted – but also rule-abiding.
“It involves…the pursuit of happiness,” breathed the former leader of the Devil’s Hole Gang, softly.
Cally Coe brightened as her conscience eased. That was true! Her hand hovered over the delete button, which would leave her alone with Heyes.
“It will definitely end in – fireworks,” enticed the silver tongued one.
Cally Coe brightened yet more. Fireworks – even if metaphorical – were traditional on the Fourth! Sounded good! Should she press the button?
“I think we could work in the line…” A finger slid down the writer’s spine. An exceedingly wicked look lit the melting brown eyes. “…’The British are coming! The British are coming!’
“Naughty!” reproved the British gal, who scarcely ever stooped to innuendo. Not more than once a sentence anyhow.
“Of course, we may have to give up on the strictly PG13 rule,” admitted Heyes.
“No story’s perfect!” decided Cally Coe, hitting delete.