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‘All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.’
― Julio Cortázar, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds
Phryne Fisher was, for all intents and purposes, frustrated. Highly frustrated. Almost irately so.
She felt somewhat like a fish on dry land, which was ironic when one considered her surname. She had her knickers in a twist, and not in any kind of pleasant way.
Over a man.
And it was getting the better of her. She figured that, with the way she had flaunted herself in front of him on many an occasion – most of them completely intentional to elicit some kind of response from the dour man – surely she must’ve caused him some kind of frustration from time to time. So just as surely, she should have seen it coming; the moment the tables would somehow turn on her.
But this was just utterly ridiculous.
Phryne Fisher did not get frustrated over men. Well, generally she didn’t, anyway. Of course, there were always a few bad apples in the barrel, but she was prepared to overlook them, given the wonderful, tasty specimens she’d had in her bed. And parlour. Boudoir. Bathtub. Kitchen table.
Men. Can’t live without them, you can’t hit them with an axe.
Yet, here she was. In the office of Detective Inspector John ‘Jack’ Robinson. Having brought him lunch at City South to go over the case details, going over the notable murder of Betsy Cohen once more after their visit to the morgue. Being terribly frustrated.
Why, you ask?
Well, you see, she wasn’t entirely sure. And this was what irked her. Tremendously.
There was nothing about him today that made him appear any different. He’d worn the same brown fedora and rather worn overcoat (the one with the orange lining), currently hung carefully on the coat rack. He’d not made any inappropriate barbs or comments (well, no more than usual). His dry wit had been the same as always. He’d sat down in his office chair the same way she’d seen him do so a thousand times prior. He was wearing a smart grey suit, waistcoat buttoned up, even his suit jacket was firmly placed upon his shoulders, hair cleverly pomaded. Everything was just as it always had been.
But, for the life of her, she couldn’t quite figure out why he looked so…so…hot today. Although her vocabulaire stretched far beyond the limitations of this term, she found it accurately described how he was making her feel right this very second. Although the air was humid and it was a particularly warm day, her sudden blush was caused by something else entirely. She could barely hold his gaze today, without feeling like one look of his would cause her to spontaneously combust on the spot.
If only she could pinpoint exactly what it was that made him so damn alluring today! Then again, there weren’t many things in life Phryne Fisher loved more than an investigation (although men, a good whiskey and Mr. Butler’s chocolate mousse were definitely on that list); she would get to the bottom of this. Figuratively speaking.
And if she were lucky, well then...
No. No.
She could not allow herself to become distracted.
A proper investigation relied heavily on proper observation. Thus began her discreet evaluation of the person sitting opposite her, behind his desk, acting as though nothing was the bloody matter. How could he act so aloof? How could he just be sitting there, eating his sandwiches (ham, cheese and mustard pickle) and sipping his coffee? All she could think about was that one tiny curl that had made its escape out of Pomade Prison – really, she doubted even glue would have been able to withstand the stifling heat in his office – and kept falling onto his forehead, as he continually brushed it aside with his right hand, wiping his damp brow in the process.
His hand...and his long, elegant fingers, so strong and assured.
She briefly wondered what it said about her as a person that just a casual movement of his hand could fling her mind into a vortex of inappropriate thoughts.
His demeanour was calm, almost relaxed as he read to her from the autopsy rapport on his desk, going over it again to ensure they hadn’t missed anything. She knew though, that beyond the calm exterior his mind was racing, scrambling to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She noted, with amusement, he skipped past the part where it stated the victim had not been wearing any underwear (honestly, she had read the file twice already).
Frankly, she was quite certain he would never want to discuss the Percussor ever again once this dreadful mess of a case was over. A shame, really. She was dying to find out more about his raid on the Chinese brothel, but so far had been unsuccessful in winkling out any new information. Surely he couldn’t have been all that traumatized? The man had fought in a war, and hadn’t he already been married at the time? She briefly wondered what a young, handsome Jack would have looked like in his cadet’s uniform but dismissed the thought.
For now, anyway.
Perhaps Jack simply wasn’t the adventurous type when it came to matters of the boudoir? Although Phryne had the sneaking suspicion this would have had more to do with his former wife; she had come off as rather frigid around Jack, with the exception of that one occasion at the station when—
Then again, most women would come off as somewhat distant, in comparison to the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher.
Jack on the other hand...well. If his manhandling while ‘arresting her’ during the Foyle case was anything to go by, she figured her (her?) dour Inspector might be more passionate than he let on, when it came to certain physical matters.
God, and the way he had looked at her during their visit with Mac...
Focus!
She needed to focus.
Her murmured agreements had so far kept Jack from getting suspicious, but she had to press on. Even though listening to the sound of his voice alone could open up a whole new tin filled to the brim with wonderful ways in which to use that wicked tongue of his...Not to mention the gravelly edge to his voice when he was tired, or worried. Or shouting for, or at her when she’d gotten her hide into trouble again. Or, well, not trouble really. Adventure, more like it.
Tearing her attention away from the sandwich on her plate, she allowed herself a peek at his ensemble. Chewing on his sandwich, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple caught her eye. She swallowed, audibly, to her own ears. How could he not see that all of these little motions caused her such grief? She’d always loved his strong jaw line, his broad shoulders, that thrice damned Adam’s apple as it moved up and down, reminding her of other movements that would be quite similar.
She’d suck the apple out of that godforsaken Adam. And dry, too.
But that wasn’t what had her so off kilter today. These were features of his that she’d simply adored for a much longer period of time than she cared to admit to herself.
Straying slightly from his Adam’s apple, it struck her as sudden as lightning.
It had been staring her in the face the entire time! Well, almost, as she was having a hard time focusing on any particular body part of Jack Robinson today, fearing she would turn into a giddy puddle of goo at his feet. Actually, she had been trying (and failed miserably) to not focus on the body part that she’d love to give a hard time, quite literally speaking, but that was a different matter altogether.
His top button was undone.
His top button was undone and it sent her mind reeling.
It was completely unlike Jack to appear before her in a state of dress that wasn’t impeccable. She liked that about him, because she had always (well, most of the time, anyway) strived to do the same thing. They had seen each other at their worst, but also at their absolute best. But for him to be at his desk, at work, and not dressed to perfection, unnerved her greatly.
A dull throb made its presence known at the apex of her thighs as she gave up on any pretence of eating. Although she was quite hungry, and it wasn’t for food.
That tiny strip of tan, exposed flesh, normally all buttoned up, a tie wrapped around his shirt collar...it was out in the open air and she found she couldn’t look away. He was still engrossed in his reading, and thank the heavens and Dot’s God, because she didn’t think her obsessive look would go over well. She was quite certain she looked just about ready to devour him whole.
Breathing suddenly was quite the endeavour.
She was forcefully reminded of the evening when she had tried to get him into the Marc Antony costume. Or, rather, she’d tried to get him out of his own clothes first and foremost. Although she had been toying with him before, looking back she could well and truly say that that moment, when looking into his eyes (and letting her gaze stray to his mouth, oh, that luscious mouth), was the moment when she’d desired him for the first time, body and soul. When all sound was drowned out, all she could see was Jack, all she could smell was Jack and all she’d longed to feel, with every fibre of her being, was Jack.
...I’ll take it from here.
And then he’d swallowed and that damned Adam’s apple had bobbed and it had taken every ounce of strength in her body to tear herself away from him, and that loose tie.
She could recall with perfect clarity the silent curses she had thrown at George Sanderson’s head when he’d barged into Jack’s office without so much as a polite knock or a cough when she’d been in the middle of tying his tie. She’d been fussing, unfocused, and the knot had looked a right mess but he’d smelled so good. He’d been so close as she’d stepped into the V of his legs, feeling the heat of his muscled thighs scorching hers through their trousers. They might as well have been naked for the intimacy the moment had carried with it.
There was a light sheen of sweat on his skin, and she was almost positive she could taste its tanginess in the air. How she longed to run her tongue across his skin, mapping him, claiming him as hers. For someone who claimed she’d never get married, she sure had quite the possessive streak about her. This revelation had come to her quite recently, after his short interlude with a certain Concetta. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, just yet.
Sure, he was allowed to meet with ‘old friends’, as was she.
She simply preferred he didn’t.
It was like having a really good piece of pie. She would not be jealous if someone else took a bite, it’s just that she’d rather not share the bloody pie in the first place.
Her skin felt damp due to the perspiration, the humid air causing her light blouse to stick to her like a second skin. Surely he must be sweltering in his suit? As for the inferno going on between her legs; she had no doubt she was producing enough of a flame to set the entire City South Police Station on fire. Rubbing her pant-clad legs together, discreetly so, did not help matters at all.
***
The rustle of fabric brought Jack out of his reverie, looking up into the face of what was quite positively the most lovely sight he had encountered that day. Miss Fisher, in his office, opposite him for once, a blush on her adorable cheeks, apparently having great difficulty focusing on anything.
And was she...squirming?
Jack was not used to having the upper hand when it came to his partner in crime (literally and figuratively, thank you very much). Although he had not witnessed many women in the throes of passion, he knew enough to know that her sudden warm appearance may have more to do with something indecent, rather than with the oppressing heat. He could hardly blame her, given the subject of their latest case, but still could not help a mildly admonishing look.
He decided the best, and possibly safest, course of action was to then merely raise a brow in mock challenge, although the hungry look in her eyes and her dilated pupils begged for something more than just raised facial muscles.
He felt a faint stirring in his loins.
Not quite ready to give up the upper hand (firmly convinced she still had it), yet aroused beyond reason she could not stop herself from breaking the heated silence.
“Jack, it appears your top button has escaped its...hole. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, however it is rather unlike you.” And also terribly distracting.
Well then.
Jack wasn’t even aware that he had forgone to button up before her arrival. She’d left shortly after their visit to the morgue to have tea with Miss Williams at Wardlow, while he’d headed back to the station. As it was an abnormally hot day, he’d loosened his tie ever so slightly to undo his top button, to allow for some fresh air. Also, he grudgingly had to admit to himself, the rise in body-temperature might’ve had something to do with reading about the Percussor, and thinking about the non-too-subtle-looks Miss Fisher had been throwing his way during their visit to Dr. Macmillan. The good doctor had implicated Phry-Miss Fisher would be able to explain...the workings of certain devices to him.
Although no longer a shy, blushing virgin, he’d never indulged in the darker, more adventurous sins of life and had been quite startled by this suggestion (even though he felt like he’d covered that up quite well). Startled, yet also...intrigued. And dare he say; a tad bit aroused? Miss Fisher was a woman of the world, a walking provocation, and he had no doubt that her steadfast determination, her sure approach to solving, for example, a murder case and her eye for detail extended to her boudoir.
Oh, how he longed to find out if his assumptions were indeed correct.
A darker part of him wanted her to show him the various applications of these devices, to give her pleasure and receive pleasure from her.
Their banter was back in full swing these days. The flirtations were even more suggestive after their little – shall we say – jaunts into the realms of relationships.
He wasn’t sure how to go about it, but he wanted her with a ferocity that scared him.
He’d just been rifling through the witness statements, mind wandering to thoughts of her boudoir, when Miss Fisher herself had breezed in, a hamper in tow, forcing him to have lunch. She’d closed the door behind her, allowing for Collins and Miss Williams – and he supposed now, the two of them as well – to have a private lunch. Not that it was any kind of painstaking effort on his part to indulge in Mr. Butler’s cooking, and it was a welcome distraction from the slight strain he’d felt in his pants, right before she’d waltzed in.
Apparently, his suffering was not over yet.
“Why, Miss Fisher. If I had known one loose button would silence you thusly, I’d have endeavoured to render you speechless ages ago,” he smirked, making sure his voice was low as he maintained eye contact, popping the button back into its hole at an excruciatingly slow pace and straightening his tie in the process. His mouth went dry at the sight of her, her eyes burning into his as she inhaled deeply – the rise of her chest almost impossible to ignore – but he maintained his composure.
For a second there, he was sure he had her. For a split-second, the upper hand was his. Inadvertently so, but still, it was his.
He could see the corners of her mouth moving upwards and realised he had been wrong. Playing along, putting her in her place, the tables suddenly turned once more.
She smiled, a saucy and salacious smile.
Then loosened the top button on her blouse.