Damaged Goods

Author: Romantique

Email: dolph1n@sbcglobal.net

Classification: Part of the "Scratched Coffee Table" Series)

Rating: WARNING - NC 17 – (Sexually explicit contents) No kids
allowed! This fic contains smut. It is not my intent to be
offensive to anyone. Nick's character is attractive, virile, and
passionate, and I wanted to explore these aspects.

Distribution: Archive anywhere, but please e-mail me at
dolph1n@sbcglobal.net

Summary: This is a 500 word short in response to the 2002 "The
Guardian Holidaze Fanfic Challenge." It is exactly 500 words from
the first word of the story to the end (minus ~fin~).

--+--

A ray of light glinted off the mahogany table in front of an
oversized, green sofa. A matching table stood behind the divan. He
had come today to see the lady of the house and was led to the parlor
to wait. His body sank into the plush, velvet cushions and now,
there was nothing to do but wait. He hated to wait, as it reminded
him of his childhood days in boarding school where he would wait for
his mother or father.

The grandfather clock in the far corner of the room ticked away the
moments. He was fast becoming impatient when, suddenly, several
small objects carefully placed on the coffee table caught his eye.
Of particular interest was a "Life Magazine" with JFK on the cover.
The bottom corner of the cover contained a type-written label with
the name and address of Dr. Paul Godsill.

"Nicholas Fallin?" a lovely, statuesque brunette asked as she quietly
entered the room.

"I'm Lydia Godsill," she continued, extending her slight hand to the
striking figure of a man before her.

Nick stood and took her small hand into his.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Mrs. Godsill
continued, motioning for him to be seated and taking her place to his
right. "My husband always speaks so highly of you."

"Dr. Godsill was one of my favorite law professors," Nick smiled,
returning the compliment. "I'd be happy to represent you in this
traffic matter, but couldn't Dr. Godsill take care of this?"

"I'd like you to handle the matter," Lydia quietly stated.

The woman was breathtakingly beautiful. Nick guessed her to be in
her early forties, much younger than Dr. Godsill. Her warm, soulful
brown eyes locked with his troubled, smoky grey orbs. Slowly, she
rose from her chair and sauntered over to the French doors, making
certain they were closed.

Lydia turned and slowly approached the muscular, young man . . .
moving closer and closer.

"I, I," Nick stammered.

<Is she doing what I think she's doing?>

"I'd like you to handle another matter, as well," she said smoothly
standing face to face with Nick, their body heat combusting between
them.

"I don't . . . ," his words of protest were interrupted with a slow,
sultry kiss.

Nick's body uncontrollably responded to hers as their kiss deepened,
and her nimble fingers loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his
shirt. He reached for her shoulders and pulled her closer, grinding
his heightening desire into her.

She pulled him down with her, as she cleared the coffee table with a
single swipe. They made love all afternoon with the coolness of the
darkened wood underneath their fire. Then, desperate writhing caused
Nick's belt buckle to scratch the coffee table.

"Don't worry," Lydia whispered, raking the blonde curls along his
face. "Whenever I see this scratch, I'll think of you."

Sadly, Nick thought the blemish on this magnificent piece was much
like Lydia, much like him . . . damaged goods.

~fin~