#ANYWAYS onto happier thoughts YEAH PREENING AS A FORM OF LOVE

[critterbitter]

Thinking about pokemon teams helping coparent… ahh.

Masterpost for more of my shenanigans!

[losille2000]

The Chocolate Affair, Chapter 1

TITLE: The Chocolate Affair CHAPTER NUMBER: 1/? AUTHOR: Losille2000 WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: AU!Tom, CEO!Tom,  GENRE: Romance/Drama FIC SUMMARY: When a mysterious—and gorgeous—stranger sends dessert instead of a customary drink one evening in a bar, Christine Callaghan can’t help but be intrigued, even though she’s on a diet... from men. RATING: M (sex, language) WARNINGS: Um, nothing yet. AUTHORS NOTES: Intended this to be a standalone one shot, with the possibility of more if it was well received. However, considering the response I got from a few lines, I decided just to go ahead with the full length story I had in mind. Also, it’s a new tense I don’t write in, so hope all is okay. Thanks for reading, everyone!

The Chocolate Affair

Chapter 1

No one expects to spend their honeymoon alone, in London, reading spy novels and eating dinner—also alone—at a bar. At least, I didn’t. I thought I’d be on a golden beach somewhere, soaking in the warm sun during the day, and having outrageous honeymoon hotel sex with my husband at night.

 Funny how things happen, right?

Okay, maybe not. I’m certainly not laughing. I still want to murder my once affianced, but the potent wine the bartender keeps pouring seems to be deadening my senses and my general distaste for matrimony. The words on my Kindle are beginning to blur and my head feels mushy, hazy, and comfortably numb around the edges. I’m not drunk—no, just buzzed and happier than I’ve been since discovering my dirtbag ex fucking my mother in a janitor closet at our rehearsal dinner.

 Yeah. That happened. You’re probably thinking, “Whoa, call Jerry Springer! Maury Povich! We got a white trash trailer park family here!”

 Contrary to popular belief, no, this stuff doesn’t only happen to the less fortunate of society. It happens to the ignorant. And you can be as rich as sin and still be the most ignorant person in the world. I mean, just look at the American president.

 My mom isn’t, in fact, my sister cousin, or whatever hick thing you might think about us. She’s just my mom, for better or for worse—mostly worse right now. I grew up in a solidly upper-middle class American family. She’s a high school math teacher, Dad’s a corporate lawyer. My siblings and I went to the best schools. We’re successful people with a lot of potential. We just have a really fucked up family, and, as I was so blissfully unaware until a few weeks ago, it’s easy to ignore if you don’t really want to see it.

 I didn’t.

 That is, of course, until you’re hit square in the head with your mother’s bra. The same bra your fiancé had just flung toward the door of said janitor’s closet. I thought, in the dim light provided by a single bulb overhead, that my mom had a banging body for someone of her age.  Then I realized why I was taking stock of her reasonably well kept physical attributes.

 Long story short, that’s how you end up in London on your honeymoon. Being ignorant. Or something.

 I guess it doesn’t really matter after your fourth glass of wine. As I polish off the fifth, the barman returns with bottle in hand. I shake my head and put my palm over the top of the glass. “Water, please?”

 “Sure,” he says. “Anything else? Dessert, perhaps?”

 He knows. He’s seen enough heartbroken people come through his bar to last a lifetime. I give him a small smile. Of course I want dessert. Alcohol and chocolate never fail me. They, like the bartender, understand me. “Try me again in fifteen minutes? Let me finish off this chapter.”

 He disappears down the bar to help another customer and I return to James Bond and his exploits. It’s not long after that I’m finishing a short second chapter and a large white plate slides into view to my right.

 A mound of chocolate cake rests in the middle of intricate swoops and loops of raspberry coulis; spun sugar floats above it in a wispy golden nest. Mixed berries masquerade as tiny multi-colored eggs resting inside it. The confection looks positively divine, but I’m still confused.

 “I didn’t—”

 Barman Joe shakes his head. “Compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar.”

 I frown. Oh, great. Just what I need. Should I tell Joe to warn the guy that I’m not going to be the best company? I look anyway, because I’ve never been immune to curiosity. Even though I know it always kills the cat.

 Fortunately, I still have a few lives left to use; I’m the proverbial cat.

 Sitting at the end of the long—and surprisingly empty— bar is a god. Or, at least, a man I suspect to be a god, or somehow celestial in nature, considering his face might as well have been carved out of the same marble as Michelangelo’s David. He’s all angles, lean muscled and golden kissed, as though he has just returned from riding a chariot close to the sun.

 Another man might be compelled to sit up straight and preen, once the woman he’s hitting on finally notices him. Not this guy. He sits completely still and stares, bright blue-green eyes—yes, those are gorgeous and easy to see, from my spot—blinking slowly. He has already preened, or maybe he’s just in a constant state of preen, but he makes it seem like it’s completely natural. There’s no over jelled, over tanned, over grown Jersey Shore man-child there. His silent confidence is staggering. It borders on arrogance, but never fully approaches it.

 And, damn it, it’s pretty fucking alluring.

 Then again, it could just be the alcohol talking. I turn back to Joe and motion with my fingers. “Two spoons, please.”

 Dutiful Joe procures the appropriate silverware and hands them to me. I stuff my Kindle into my purse and sling it over my shoulder before grabbing the plate and my water. And I’m off. I don’t know why I’m going to him. It’s stupid. Men are stupid. That’s why I’m in London, of all places, but he pulls me to him like a comet stuck in Earth’s gravitation.

 I set my things down, noticing the way his pursed lips turn up slightly into an assessing smile as I saunter over to him. He seems to appreciate what he sees; I don’t know why. I didn’t exactly dress up tonight. In fact, I didn’t bring any nice clothing with me, not caring to attract the attention of random men in bars.

 He stands to greet me, like we’re in some strange historical romance.  A stiff and uncomfortable moment passes as I try to remember where I am and what I’m doing. This is ridiculous. Okay, even if the standing to greet me means he’s a gentleman, it doesn’t mean anything else. I hate men, right?

 “Hello, darling,” he says in a dangerous rumbly purr.

 Be still my cold, dead heart. “Hi.”

 Classic opening line, if I do say so myself. I gulp and glance up at him. He’s tall, over six foot, and despite his lean appearance and godliness, he seems corporeal and solid with wide shoulders and a trim waist. He’s warm, too; I can feel the heat of his body standing a foot away from him.

 I wonder, fleetingly, what it would be like to touch him. I already know the answer, though. He’ll burn me. They always do.

 “I had intended for the pudding to be yours alone, love,” he says, distracting me from my mind.

 His voice. Damn. It’s… I can hardly describe it. The way he forms words with his mouth and then the way they roll off his tongue are like fleeting, enticing caresses. Warming—alarming—caresses in the richest, deepest, and poshest English accent I’ve ever heard. Frankly, it’s like I’m being dipped in chocolate sauce with every syllable.

 I shake my head at him. “No, you have to share it with me. You’re the one who did this.”

 He doesn’t seem entirely upset at the prospect, but I wonder idly if maybe he’s one of those guys who feeds people and gets off on it. Of course he’d have to be twisted somehow. No one’s perfect. Not even this glorious, sun kissed god of a man.

 Or, perhaps, I read him wrong and he doesn’t want further contact with me.

 He finally sits down in his seat and grabs a spoon. He holds it up for me to see. “I’ve never been one to resist a good pudding. Fair warning, however. I’m not liable to stop once I start.”

 For a minute, I think he’s talking about something else entirely. I roll my eyes and settle into the seat beside him, feeling the weight of his eyes as I do. He shifts on his bar stool and grabs the unused spoon, pushing it into my fingers.

 “Thanks,” I mutter through dry lips.

 He grins again. “You first.”

 “Cheers!”

 I clink my spoon with his and dig in with relish. Gooey chocolate sauce spills out onto the plate and coats the spoon and cake. My first bite is hot melted chocolate heaven. It’s not too sweet, but not bitter like dark chocolate, either. The tart fruit breaks up the heaviness of the cake. And there’s a hint of hazelnut. Perhaps Nutella? I flick my tongue across my bottom lip to grab a small drop of sauce that didn’t land in my mouth.

 I’m close enough to him that I watch his pupils dilate and nostrils flare. So he’s not feeding me to be kind. He wants more. I’m interested, too, but not an idiot.

 “You should know I’m on a diet,” I interject between delicious bites.

 A curious brow raises. “A diet?”

 I laugh and add, “From men.”

 His curious frown falls into a devilish smirk. “There’s nothing wrong in looking at the menu, though, is there?”

 “Perhaps,” I breathe.

 Then he leans in, close enough that I catch a whiff of his cologne—bright, citrusy, but masculine and heady. Expensive. But then, I realize, there’s not much about him that screams cheap. His fancy navy suit fits him perfectly, a silver tie bar adorns the sedated but fashionable tie. This is a man who has access to the finest of luxuries.

 “Perhaps,” he imitates me. A wicked gleam shines in his eyes. “I hear cheat days are beneficial to the long-term success of diets.”

 God, he’s good. Too good. Smooth. Like the chocolate cake I’m shoveling into my mouth to keep a whimper at bay. The cake beckons to keep eating; the intensity of his gaze refuses to relinquish control of my functions. Clearly, he doesn’t need a verbal acknowledgement to know how he’s affected me.

 He laughs a deep, low rumble in the back of his throat. Glances away, trying to seem sheepish. But I know, somehow within the few minutes we’ve chatted, that he’s not sheepish. There’s no way he can hide it. He fills up a room—and certainly fills up the space between us—with his sizable charisma.

 “Tom,” he says, extending his hand. That, too, is perfect. Long fingered, elegant and manicured.

 I swallow a bite and set the spoon down. Take a drink of water, dab my mouth. Like my mom taught me as a little girl. “I’m, uh… I’m Christine.”

 The grip on my hand is strong and sure. I can’t ignore the pleasurable sizzle.

 “Christine?” My name sounds positively sinful rolling out of his mouth. “Beautiful.”

 The name or—

 “What brings you to my fair city, Christine?”

 Somehow, I think he has an idea. I get the impression he does, at least. I don’t know why, though. Maybe he’s used to picking up sorry looking winos in bars.

 “Wanted to get away,” I answer. Succinct. Non-committal. Let him think what he wants.

 A wan smile ghosts across his lips. “Not with your husband?”

 The word is like ice on my warming nerves. I stiffen and set my spoon down on the plate with a clatter. “How could you possibly…”

 He reaches between us and touches my left hand, lifting the fingers into brighter light. I see, then, the band of pale ivory skin once covered with the diamond solitaire from my ex. I don’t tan well—or at all, really—being a true redhead, but the change in skin color is noticeable. Pulling my fingers from his unsettling grip, I clasp my hands together in my lap and move away from him.

 “We weren’t married,” I explain.

 Tom doesn’t retreat. He invades, pushing further into my space, not letting go. “A certifiable tosser, then, not to see the jewel he had.”

 I smile despite the tension in my shoulders. People have said this to me in variations, ad nauseum, since it happened, but it’s one of those pleasantries people say because there’s nothing else socially acceptable to say. It’s supposed to make me feel better. It does nothing but slap another tiny Bandaid on top of the giant fucking hole in my chest where my heart used to beat.

 Yet, I believe Tom. He’s serious. Maybe trying to get in my pants, only, but the sincerity he’s able to conjure in his tone puts a sizable gauze bandage over my wounds. One large enough to stanch the excessive bleeding.

 My face burns with a blush and I turn away from him for just a moment to force my emotions away. I’m torn between lusting after this guy and bawling my eyes out again and then hitting something—a lot—to relieve my pent-up anger.

 Tom is relentless in his pursuit and I feel the soft pads of his fingers on my cheek, gently pressing until I look back at him.

 “Forget him,” he implores. “He wasn’t good enough for you.”

 I give him a watery laugh and swallow around the lump in my throat. Whatever heat he’d built in me is now a smoldering ember about to be snuffed out, not the kindling just catching fire. It doesn’t extinguish entirely, though.

 “I know he wasn’t,” I offer.

 Then I think it’s strange that he would care so much or put such time into this subject. If he’s interested in a one night stand, he doesn’t need to know. People don’t care. They meet at the bar, romance each other, and do their thing without thinking of the consequences. It’s up to the individual person to stop the chase if they’ve got someone waiting back home.

 What’s he looking for, anyway?

 “Listen,” I hear myself saying, “the dessert was a lovely gesture, but I really need to get back up to my room.”

 If he was a cockatoo, he’d be folding his brilliant yellow crest back up with his other feathers right now. Instead he saves face and pouts playfully. “So soon?”

Clearly, he expects to move further.

 I shrug. “I’ve had too much wine. I don’t trust myself… and I have an early morning tour tomorrow.”

 Tom removes his palm from my cheek, but not before carefully pushing a long strand of hair behind my ear. His water-blue eyes assess me again—really look—connecting freckles across my nose and memorizing the slope of my jaw, the fullness of my lips. At least, that’s how I feel under his unrelenting attention. No man has ever looked at me so thoroughly. He’s utterly enchanting.

 He sticks his hand inside his coat and withdraws a white linen card, placing it face down on the bar. Next from the pocket is a pen—one of those fancy fountain pens with a wooden body, not a cheap plastic BIC, because why the fuck not—and he quickly scribbles on the paper. He slides it across the bar to me.

 “I have this thing tomorrow,” he says, “and I find myself without a companion for the evening.”

 I look down at the business card and gulp. Time and address. And a cell phone number.

 My logical brain is screaming NO! but everything else that makes me a woman is screaming FUCK YES! and I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

 Tom shakes his head. “Nothing untoward, I promise. There will be others there, so you needn’t feel singled out. Think of it as an opportunity to meet the locals.”

 “What’s it for?” I ask, my interest somewhat piqued now. Oh, who am I kidding? It was already piqued, but I can’t help all the warning bells going off in my head.

 He smiles. It’s a trustworthy smile. One of those expressions that makes people believe you. On him, it’s also dangerous. I know—I sense—there are Important Facts he’s not telling me. Am I selling myself to the devil or is he an angel offering salvation?

 “A private dinner for my friends.”

 “Yeah, because that doesn’t sound ominous,” I say. “I’m not going to end up as dinner, am I?”

 Tom throws his head back in gleeful laughter. Then he quiets and leans forward until he’s close enough that all I smell are the citrus notes in his cologne and all I feel is warmth radiating off his skin. A stubbly jaw rasps against my cheek as he lowers his voice to a whisper beside my ear.

 “Only if you want to be dinner.”

 A quiver of need shoots through my body and explodes out through my fingers, my toes, forces me to clench my thighs together. This is so wrong, but I can’t help myself. A part of me wants no strings mindless sex with a god, if only to get the ex fully out of my system. Another part of me knows I’m not this woman. After all, isn’t that why my fiancé slept with my mother? He agrees I’m a “frigid bitch.”

 “Think about it,” he says, this time at a regular volume as he moves away and stands. I watch his elegant fingers fiddle with the buttons on his jacket as he secures it around his torso. “If you show up, I’ll be happily surprised. If you don’t, no hard feelings.”

 I open my mouth to say something else, but I realize there’s nothing to say as he throws a wad of cash on the bar for both of our bills and thanks Joe.

 “If you do decide to come, wear a black cocktail dress,” he says like it’s an ordinary thing telling someone what to wear. “Oh, and heels.”

 “Are you kidding me?” I ask suspiciously, but I can’t ignore the second quiver centering low in my abdomen, clenching the glorious muscles there. I’ve never had a man instruct me on what I should wear, but there’s something sexy and challenging in his tone. Something commanding—and yes, dangerous again—that makes me more than a little curious. It makes me want to run right out to the nearest dress shop and find what he wants.

 I lift the back of my hand to my forehead. Nope, not hot. I can’t possibly be suffering fever-induced delusions.

 He’s leaving then, with a quick wink. The man glides through the maze of tables toward the door like he owns the place. He’s all confidence and grace, even with his long, potentially gangly limbs.  I wonder if he does, in fact, own the hotel bar; I turn the card over and look at the other side.

 Hiddleston Group LTD. It doesn’t explain anything other than his ownership of the company, or at least his position as chief officer. Judging by the way he acts and how he dresses, I don’t need more information, though I know I’m going to go right up to my hotel room and do an extensive Google background search on the guy. A girl can never be too safe.

 I reach for my things and sling my purse over my shoulder. Joe catches my glance and wastes no time stepping over to me. “Hey, Joe?”

 “Yes, my dear?”

 “That guy—”

 “Tom? Yeah?”

 I look again at the door as though he’s still there. He isn’t. Then I turn to Joe. “Is he, er… does he do this often?”

 Joe shakes his head emphatically. “He’s in here all the time meeting business clients, but you are the first proposition in the year I’ve been employed here.”

 My trust in men lacking, I still find it difficult to believe a man like Tom isn’t picking women up left and right whenever he’s out and about. Especially since he seems incredibly practiced in the art of the pick-up. Though, I remember, he did almost fail with me.

 “I don’t know a ton about him personally,” he replies. “His family is good English stock, I think. He keeps to himself mostly, but he always tips very well. And that always says a lot to me about the type of person you are.”

 I agree; having worked my fair share in food service, I am not immune to judging people based on their tipping habits. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

 “No problem,” he says. “Have a good night.”

 He turns around to attend a new person at the bar and I wave him off. My stomach is alternately tied up in knots and doing somersaults of anticipation. I want to throw caution to wind and see where this takes me—even if it is just an elaborate plan to woo me into bed—but I can’t fully shut down the warning in my head. Something isn’t quite right. No gorgeous guy sidles up to a bar, buys a dumpily dressed girl chocolate, and leaves without a promise of more. No one.

 Despite Joe’s glowing recommendation, good family and wealth isn’t everything. Hell, my bastard ex came from both, too, the all-American family, and look what happened there.

 I clutch the business card in my hands like it’s a lifeline as I step into the elevator up to my floor. I can almost feel the excitement bubbling to life in my hands, at the unknown. My life back home is ordered. Succinct. I don’t do frivolity. I go to work, I come home and feed the cat. Go to bed. Repeat. Here, though, in London, I realize I hold everything at my fingertips. Literally. I’m beholden to no one—no boss, no family, no demanding fiancé. I can just be me. I can experience life.

 I can take one humungous risk and go to a dinner party with a god.