1

Abigail Coates never would have guessed it, but she looked great in leather.

She turned from side to side in front of the cheval glass in her old-fashioned bathroom, trying to see if she'd misled herself. But, no, the tiny black bikini still hugged her bottom in its loving clasp, showing off her high, rounded curves and baring the crease between her cheeks and thighs. Despite her diminutive five-foot-two-inch height, her legs looked long and strong; her reward for many early-morning runs along the dunes of the Outer Cape.

She put her hands on her hips. She didn't have a wasp-waist, but she didn't have love handles, either. Her belly was another matter. She touched its gentle swell. With all the sit-ups she did, you'd think she'd be flat by now. Still, it wasn't too bad. Sucking it in, she slid her palms up her ribcage and over her breasts. She pressed them together and watched the soft flesh swell over the edge of the bra. This bikini made her look like she actually had something up top. Better yet, her skin glowed milky pale against the dark leather, its translucence washed with pink.

She'd always thought someone as fair and blonde as she was should stick to pastels, but maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe Bill knew something she didn't when he'd bullied her into wearing this get-up—or perhaps 'pestered to death' was a better phrase.

Her Cupid's-bow mouth flattened into a frown. Abby loved Bill dearly but there were times when letting her long-time boyfriend have his way really put her back up. The fact that she liked the leather outfit, that it warmed her sex like a little electric coil, made her resentment all the more noticeable.

Why does it bother me? she wondered as she tugged the bra straps higher. A baby-fine lock of hair drifted over her eye and she absently smoothed it back. Everything she'd read said men needed visual stimulation to light their erotic fires. Why should she resent accommodating Bill now and then? Certainly, he could have asked for worse—a French maid's outfit, or having her dress him in diapers. She loved him, right? She shouldn't mind wearing this flattering leather bikini.

A quiet tap on the door told her she'd kept her partner waiting too long.

'Don't forget the shoes,' he said, his voice muffled by the thick old wood.

Abby bit back a sigh. She cast a reluctant glance at the five-inch, patent-leather heels she'd kicked under the pedestal sink. The same day she'd agreed to Bill's request to dress up he drove all the way to Boston to buy the things. He was like a five-year-old at Christmas when he returned, so excited he'd wanted her to ditch work and try everything on. He'd forgotten she couldn't leave the restaurant this close to tourist season, not when she was doing double duty as manager and chef. But today was Saturday. She'd caught up on stocktaking and balanced her accounts—such as they were—and renewed her chef-wanted ad in Restaurant Monthly. Short of getting on her knees and scrubbing the already spotless kitchen floor, she had no excuse for not being here.

'Ab?' Bill said, sounding worried now. She wished the worry were all she heard, and not his underlying petulance.

'Just a minute. I'm almost ready.' Ordering herself to be a good sport, Abby strode to the open window and slid up the screen. A delicious gust of late-May Cape Cod air blew a few blonde wisps off her face. She drew a deep, calming breath. This side of the cottage faced the ocean. She smelt salt and fish—the fresh, living kind—and some indefinable scent she could only call sunshine. Fat yellow roses climbed the weathered cedar shingles at the back of the house, then flowed in lush billows over the roof trellis. Honey bees hummed among the blooms, furry with pollen, giddy with spring.

She smiled at their drunken swoops. She'd never been stung and considered, perhaps irrationally, that she and the bees were friends.

Grabbing a face cloth to protect her hands, she leant out and carefully snapped off one perfect bud. A quick rinse under the tap washed off any blackfly and nail scissors dispatched the thorns. She tucked the flower between her breasts and stepped into the tottery black shoes.

Her toes pinching already, she checked her reflection. The brief minute in the breeze had blown her upswept hair into disarray, but she supposed it didn't matter. Her big green eyes blinked sleepily behind the tousled fringe. She looked different, sensual, not like her normal self at all. Following an inexplicable impulse, she removed the rose from her cleavage and slid it into the front of the black leather panties. The petals nestled against her navel, a fragrant, floral kiss.

For some reason, the change satisfied her nascent rebellious streak. The rose was her choice, not Bill's. She would wear it as she wished.

I'm ready now, she thought, and pushed the door open before her.

Copyright © Emma Holly 1998