It was a book that gave her the idea.

Home alone, the latest of a small stack of dime store paperbacks she'd picked up on a trip to London in her hands. 280 pages of cheap, seedy, brown pulp smut in the form of one highly beautiful, highly accomplished Ms. Miranda Weatherby, who discovers that her new CEO is an ex-lover. An ex-lover with eyes like sapphire sky and a strong jaw line who— for lack of a better term— becomes an oasis in the barren, sandy desert that is the accountant's ovaries. It's got typos and the plot's been repeated in at least five other novels that she owns, but it's still something to read on a lazy Saturday while waiting for her own significant other to come back from the mainland with Mr. Cantabella.

As the afternoon passes, the all-too-heroic Ms. Weatherby is seduced by handsome CEO in typical romance novel fashion, culminating in a candlelit dinner that, judging by its place in the book, will precede the first bout of sex. But when the unavoidable scene came where the two were necking in the elevator of the hotel (located next door for convenience), she was caught off-guard. Weatherby, who isn't the greenhorn lover she was the last time she and Sky Eyes got it on, turns the tables on him.

Sitting up from her reclining position on the sofa, she read with wide eyes as the heroine ties Mr. CEO up with his own belt, slaps him for daring to kiss her before she gave the O-K, holds him down to the bed and rides him for all she's worth. She read. She closed the book, processed, opened, and read again. She blushed, bit her thumbnail, winced, and grinned in the same three paragraphs. At the end, he's a quivering pile of mush and she finally manages to kick off her black heels before untying him in time for pillow talk and fancy wine. She marked the pages to read again later.

Shutting the book, a sudden thought popped into her mind, unbidden and yet not unwanted. I have black heels. It was immediately followed by a replay of the scene, but busty blonde Weatherby and her brunette male weren't the main actors. She immediately tried to banish it, but it was too late—she was lost to full-on fantasy mode of what she could, theoretically, do to her own lover. Just the thought of him begging her to let him kiss her 'breathlessly, with the wild abandon of a thirsty man pleading for water' had her squirming in anticipation.

But that would never work.

For one thing, he's always initiated everything. Ever. Even from the very first time, though she wholeheartedly agreed to it, she's never once asked him for sex. And when they were intimate, it was… not boring, per say, but the same. Expected. It didn't help that what she learned about birds and bees came from the awkward teachings of the secondary school teacher and the even more awkward conversation her father forced her—and himself—to suffer through. Though, admittedly, the latter was shorter and had even less to do with females as much as it was a warning against the untamed male, their hormones, and how they'd 'throw themselves at her'. As if that actually happened. The truth was that her father held her on a very high pedestal.

And how would she even bring up that sort of conversation? She'd have to talk it over with him, because the thought of just one-upping him in the bedroom without any warning, well…. While good for Weatherby, it just didn't sit well with her. And it would save any questions or concerns he had, and possibly bring up ones she didn't even know she had. But just the talking, the saying 'hey, let's try—' was daunting enough in her mind, much less doing it in person. They didn't talk about such things, other than his asking, her agreeing or disagreeing, and the inevitable post-coital affirmation that what they'd just done was indeed nice.

She thought on it as afternoon spilled over into evening. She convinced herself to talk about it on the sofa. She changed her mind as she fed Constantine. She changed it back while putting a potato in the oven for her own supper. She was dead-set against it when feeding the horses and cleaning the stable. She was all for it when taking her nightly bath and shaping her nails. Then, sitting on the sofa once more in her nightgown and slippers, she admitted to herself that she had no clue how she felt, other than the fact that she was torn between wanting what she'd read and wanting him to be comfortable.

Even more, she didn't want him to laugh at her.

"E-ve!" She'd thought the day away, and now he was home. Her hesitance was overridden, however temporarily, by the fact that she hadn't seen him in a business week; she rose to greet him as he entered the sitting room. He dropped his bag at the threshold, sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her forehead chastely before burying his face in her hair. "You miss me?" he asked, voice muffled.

"Yes. Did you?" Another kiss was her answer and then he pulled away, grinning down at her. He smelled of ocean and petrol, the not-entirely-unpleasant aroma masking his usual scent. She went back to the sofa and he joined her on the opposite side, letting his limbs fall where they may as he let out a deep breath of relief and exhaustion. "Long day?"

"I've been up since the crack of dawn. The Stor—Mr. Cantabella had two more meetings to go to before heading to the pier, and 'twas I who had to stand in for bodyguard and valet alike." He cracked his neck. "What did you do today?" Here it was: an opening. She cleared her throat, looking down at her lap. Would she have the courage?

"I read." She bit her lip, but forced her teeth to let it go. When she did, the next part spilled out on its own. "It was interesting. It gave me an idea."

"Oh?" He turned to her. "What sort of book? Did you pick up a new hobby while I was gone?" It was a vaguely amusing thought, and she managed a smile when she shook her head. The book was still lying on the side table, and she picked it up and held it tentatively in her hands. It was such a harmless thing, flimsy paperback and highly tacky with the two models intertwined in such a suggestive fashion, but it held such weight at the moment. She still could refuse to show it to him, to say 'never mind' and make him leave the thought be, but… she swallowed. If not now, when? And besides, he'd held her hair up when she'd had food poisoning after a festival, watched her slip and fall into the lake immediately after boasting about her light-footedness—hell, he'd even used the bathroom while she was bathing. There wasn't much he hadn't seen, since he spent the night often enough that it could safely be said they lived together. Surely he wouldn't laugh, if he didn't laugh at any of the other things.

"It was… this." She flashed the cover at him, letting him look a good long moment before putting it back.

"O-ohh…." He trailed off in knowing silence before licking his lips. "Hnn… I see." Another pause, shorter than before, and then he smiled. "Nice to know you were thinking of me, Eve. You weren't too lonely, were you?"

"No lonelier than you were, I expect."

"Hnn," he hummed again. "Well, aren't you going to tell me? Your idea," he clarified when she stared blankly. "Or would you rather show me?" he offered, trying for a sultry smirk that was more tired than sexy.

"N-no, not yet." She picked at a thread on the sofa. "Y-you might not like it."

"Huh?" He tilted his head, the expression one of slight bewilderment. "Not like… that?" He did chuckle then, shaking his head at the thought. "'Tis impossible. With you, at least," he added as an afterthought.

"In the book—" She looked at it, suddenly tongue-tied. "Here." She picked it back up, flipping to the dog-eared page she'd marked earlier. "Just read all of that." He took it hesitantly, staring again at the front cover before obediently smoothing the page with his hand as he read. He took longer than she did, and the wait seemed unbearable as he flipped one page, than another. His eyebrows rose and to her surprise, his cheeks actually darkened at more than one place. When he was through, he looked up at her wonderingly.

"I had no idea these were so… graphic," he stated. "A-are they all—"

"It varies," she explained, taking it back quickly and nearly throwing it onto the end table. "B-but… what did you think?"

"Uhm." He looked at the wall, scratching his head. "Hot."

"What?"

"I mean, it was," he paused, and she wondered if he was searching for an Olden Times word that would better explain his meaning. "Hot," he repeated at length with a shrug.

"But what if it were us?" Their eyes met, her fingers still plucking at the thread, his tracing the pattern on the back cushion.

"What if it were?" She looked away first.

"Would you… object?"

"You want to dominate me?" Blunt as always.

"I—I'd like to try. Yes." She licked at the corner of her mouth, resisting the urge to gnaw at her fingernails. "But… but what if you don't like it?"

"What if you don't?"

"I—" She stopped, having not considered the fact that she might be the one to call it all off. "I guess… we'd stop."

"Mmhmm." She stared down at her lap, jerking slightly when he reached over and took her hand. "Look, 'tis not like either of us have ever—I mean, we try cooking new things together all the time, right?"

"Yes…?"

"And if we don't like it, we don't eat it all and just go back to foods we both enjoy." She caught his meaning and tried to smile.

"Same difference?"

"Same difference."

"…Well, if you're really alright with this…."

"Let's try it." He gave her his most persuasive, dazzling grin. "And, if I might make a suggestion?"

"W-what?" To her astonishment, he began to blush and squeezed her hand even harder, mumbling under his breath. "What? I can't hear you."

"Glasses." He cleared his throat. "Wear your… glasses." He caught her eye and reddened from the roots of his hair down to his shirt collar. "Erm—that is—you look so—I always wanted to ask, and since we were already—you don't have to wear them if you don't want to—"

"I'll do it."