A Breath 1/8
Only Dom is carried over from the movie. The rest of the characters are original. It is the tale of a middle-aged woman who takes a spontaneous vacation to Puerto Vallarta in Mexico and meets a sad, lonely and gorgeous man hiding from his past (Guess who?). They connect almost instantly, and set about healing one another through love, understanding, and damn good sex.PAIRING: DOM/OFC (TFATF) (NC-17)
TITLE: A Breath
AUTHOR: La Mamacita
FANDOM: TFATF
PAIRING: Dominic/OFC
RATING:Rated NC-17 for explicit sexual content.
DISCLAIMER: TFATF ain't mine - all original is
SUMMARY: Only Dom is carried over from the movie. The rest of the characters are original. It is the tale of a middle-aged woman who takes a spontaneous vacation to Puerto Vallarta in Mexico and meets a sad, lonely and gorgeous man hiding from his past (Guess who?). They connect almost instantly, and set about healing one another through love, understanding, and damn good sex.
Chapter 1
It had been about six months. Six months since Peter had left. Or, since
he’d been thrown out. Six months to the day, actually. And she sat,
knees up at her chest, holding her tea in a hideously oversized white
mug and staring out the window of her office building and into the
window of the next office building. Samuel Morgan was his name.
Apparently Faye, her secretary, had eyes for him, and had taken the
liberty of finding out who he was.
Samuel Morgan’s light went on every morning at around six, in the exact instant that Leah flipped on her own. It was earlier than his secretary was willing to work, earlier than Faye was willing to work, so he had his first cup of coffee, and Leah had her first cup of tea, alone. He never read the newspaper, just sat and pondered, and she did the same.
He wasn’t particularly attractive, though she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t make out his face with any real detail. His hair was very gray but his body seemed young enough. He dressed well and drove a Lexus. And he always seemed to be doing the exact thing she was doing. It was insanely distracting.
She leaned over and pushed the button for her intercom.
“Faye?”
“Ma’am?”
“Is the office on the west side still open? Phil’s old suite?”
“Number 285?” Faye asked.
“Yes.”
“Of course it is.”
“Call Angelo and see if he has any objection to my moving there.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t give a shi-“
“Faye. Call him.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had the supplies jerks help her, the young crass ones. The youngest and crassest was Eddie. He was seventeen, and his hair was shock red and his eyes were pale blue. He was slacking, pointing out what needed to be moved and handing out frequent thwacks to the other boys with a rolled-up newspaper. Leah snatched his weapon from him and shoved him in the general direction of her desk.
“I’m going to 285,” she informed them, “To start unpacking. If you have any questions, ask Faye.” She held the rolled-up newspaper in one hand on her way to the other office and tapped it in the opposite palm, frowning without really knowing why. As if she needed a specific reason. As if the past ten years of her life would not have been sufficient cause for any average, or even above-average, woman to eat a bullet.
Yet a new custodian passed and smiled and she answered with a broad, friendly grin. Such was Leah. And she held onto Eddie Riordan’s newspaper, subconsciously, until all of her belongings had been deposited in nothing short of a mountain on the posh jade-colored carpeting at the center of the new, enormous office. She sat and tested the black leather swivel-back and re-discovered the newspaper, still clenched in her right hand.
It wasn’t the Journal or the Times, but rather a travel agency’s periodical. And across the front of it was a sprawling, virginal-white beach with glinting cerulean water and a gargantuan hotel. “ESCAPE TO PUERTO VALLARTA.”
Ben rushed to meet her, jabber-jawing a mile a minute and grinning, deep dimples in his creamy cheeks, his dark hair warm under the winter sun. She embraced him and kissed him noisily, and he pushed her away with an indignant scowl.
“Everybody’s watching, Mom,” he said, and she laughed in the face of his stormy rebuttal. It had been only six months, and already his accent was next to nonexistent. He would be purely American in no time at all, but the thought did little to sadden her. He was doing wonderfully in school, was self-assured and popular. Missed his father, but was encouraged by the fact that Christmas was nearly upon them, and Peter would fly in to stay with them for ten whole days.
And if everything went as she hoped, Leah would be in Puerto Vallarta…
She got on the horn to the agency in the promotional as soon as she was through the door, speaking with a lovely service representative called Tammy. Tammy was exceedingly sorry, but the Puerto Vallarta trip was completely sold out and had been for weeks. Leah pissed and moaned amicably and Tammy laughed and said she was almost certain she could find a reasonable facsimile if allotted twenty-four hours, and of course Leah granted her the time.
Ben and a mate at school, Alexander, had placed a bet. Who could go the longest living off of only microwave popcorn and water? The loser had to pay the winner a dollar and a week’s worth of desserts out of their hot lunch. Leah was in the midst of explaining to her son that he absolutely would not be existing on microwave popcorn alone, not in this house, when Tammy rang her back. And Ben was (loudly) explaining to his mother that yes, he would, or he was going to live with Alexander until the bet was up, while Tammy told Leah the particulars of her upcoming vacation.
Peter arrived right on time, all understated elegance and feigned sanity in Ralph brown corduroy and Italian leather shoes, salt and pepper hair impeccably groomed, smelling of England and airplane and expensive cologne. Ben was thrilled to see him, throwing his arms around his father’s neck and crying, right there amongst the fifty thousand travelers at the airport in Albany. Leah had no tears left to cry for Peter, and she had refused to succumb to the temptation to dress up, fix her hair and makeup, etc. I’m alive, asshole, she seethed silently with a placid smile on her face. That in itself is a miracle. Eat your heart out.
She made it abundantly clear that she was not at all interested in a “for old-time’s sake” tumble that night, pulling her hand away when he reached for it at dinner, stepping back from a booze-induced before-bed embrace in the kitchen. Showed him where the spare room was, flipped the light on in the little adjacent bathroom.
“It’s a lovely pad, Leah,” he
said, scratching awkwardly at his thigh. He filled the doorway before
her and there was nothing but bathtub behind her, but she was not
afraid. There was no menace in him. He looked tired. He looked old. She
almost caught herself feeling sorry for the bastard, but then he leaned
in and stole an uninvited kiss, and she moaned, frustrated, and pushed
him away. Lifted a bottle of hand lotion from the countertop, thrust it
into his hands, and awarded him with a cold, tight-lipped smile as she
shoved past him, banging the guest bedroom door soundly behind her.
She reached San Pancho, which was a half-hour bus ride north of Puerto
Vallarta’s bustling tourist fanaticism near the tip of Punta de Mita
at a resort called Costa Azul.
It was eighty degrees and glitteringly sunny and she wanted nothing more than to sit on her bed and cry. The tears had not been there. In six months, there had been numb shock, long, defeated silence, a general hush after the deafening chaos that had been the past five years of their marriage. But now, in this beautiful place, in the midst of this beautiful thing she was doing for herself, with the beautiful butter cream bedspreads and the matching everything in the little moss-and-vine-covered storybook bungalow, she sank onto one of the twin beds, hung her head, and cried. Freely. On and off for hours. And then she fell asleep.
Leah woke with eyes crusty and nearly swollen shut, starving and feeling grimy and disgusting. She disrobed and ran a scalding shower, lingering until the hot water ran out.
The pool was packed and the beach was empty.
People made no sense…Couldn’t ninety percent of these people swim in their own pools at home? Despite her crying, sleeping, and shower routine, she still felt heavy and old and road-weary. There was a coolish breeze, and she was absolutely overwhelmed by the sensuality of it all-the glaring white of the sand, the blinding blue of the sea, the fresh, salty scent that seemed to permeate everything and fill her entirely, the whispering little wind fluttering in the crepe-y dove-colored cotton of her sundress. She had no blanket and no umbrella, just sat in the sand, kicked off her white oxfords, and tipped her face to the sun. She felt its warmth spread through her in a tingling wave, beginning in her cheeks and flowing softly to her fingers and toes. Suddenly, wordlessly, and without warning, she felt alive again. In this beautiful place, in the midst of this beautiful thing she was doing for herself, on that beautiful white stretch of sand, Leah felt beautiful, as well. And a different sort of tears streamed slowly, unhindered, down her cheeks. She had not just come to Puerto Vallarta to get away. She had come to heal.
She watched the sun set in a tangerine explosion over the lip of the world, sitting still and allowing darkness to pull a comforting blanket up over and around her. A muted rhythm reached her ears before the couple on horseback reached her eyes, the animals trotting through the wet sand at the water’s edge, a warm, distinctly mammal smell bathing her face as the pair whooshed by. Realizing she must have been sitting there for hours, Leah stood slowly, yawned, stretched, and turned to drink in the entire resort. Multi-colored Chinese lanterns blinked and then stayed on as the staff prepared the cabana for the evening festivities, and a Mariachi band was rehearsing there as well, warming up with a few jumpy chords. People were still in the pool, splashing and shrieking and moderately intoxicated, and she smiled a little, a genuine smile, not forced and not melancholy, the first unsolicited smile that had graced her face in far too long.
She would change her clothes. She would make herself look and feel pretty. And she would go to that cabana and have a good time if it was the last thing she did in her life and it killed her.
The majority of the other vacationers at the cabana were overdressed and overfed Americans, sitting all but motionless at tables piled high with faux Mexican food and gaudy mixed drinks. It was late, and the place was childless. The crowd was in varying states of blissful inebriation- some were relatively sober, some were approaching “drunk,” and the rest had very little blood left in their alcohol systems, teetering contentedly on the ledge of unconsciousness. And one man seemed to have cannonballed over the cliff completely, face-down at his little round table, all alone, fingers wrapped loosely around an empty bottle of Dos Equis. Leah smiled and chose the table next to his.
She was there for the atmosphere, not for conversation. And the atmosphere proved to be lovely. The musicians were wonderful, in the matching wide-brimmed sombreros, bolero jackets, deep-creased black pants, and gleaming onyx snakeskin boots. They were jovial and rotund, alternating between soft serenades with long, weeping notes and festive, foot-stamping, hand-clapping songs of celebration.
Look at you, Leah, she thought to herself. God damn you to hell if you’re not having FUN.
She stayed until the band was done and almost everyone was drunk and heading home, laughing and reaching up to give the paper lanterns a swing on their way. Leah sighed and sat back, just lounging until the place was empty but for staff and the poor passed-out soul at the table next to hers.
She rose slowly and patted the hard, muscular mound of his shoulder.
“Show’s over, love,” she said. “Best head home.” He stirred and moaned, and his voice was so deep and guttural that it startled her and she back-pedaled. He sat unsteadily and rubbed his face with giant paws, then ran one hand back across a close-shaven pate and blinked through black lashes, staring confusedly at her with eyes so dark they seemed pupil-less.
“Time to go?” he asked, and she nodded, turning and heading for the door only to wheel back around upon hearing a loud crash and a frustrated grunt. The man sat, quite stunned and helpless, on the floor, his torso swaying as if he could keel at any given moment, and Leah sighed.
“Completely shitfaced?” He nodded, with a sheepish, heavy-lidded grin, and she slung her handbag strap over her shoulder, and she approached him. “I can help you to your room. You look absolutely knackered.” He laughed then, a low rumble rolling from his chest and rising until he was very nearly hysterical, and she stood with a wry expression of unimpressed impatience on her face until he was silent.
“Are you through?"
“Knackered?” He almost started up again, choking on the word. “I like your accent.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, bucko. Come on. Stand up.” He did, and towered some ten inches over her. His arms were massive, his entire body rock-hard and perfect as stone sculpture, and his clothes were clean but very casual; faded jeans, white v-neck tee shirt, chunky black shoes. He leaned heavily on her but his weight felt good. Supporting him felt good, and he smelled wonderful, shuffling wordlessly through the sand. He was staying in a bungalow just two or three down from her own, and slipping the key card into the scanner was far beyond his current capabilities, so Leah snatched it from his fumbling grip and did it for him. He stood on his own, tested his own legs. “I think you’d better let me get you into bed.”
“Fuck it, I’m fine,” he said, and turned, took one step, and tripped on the threshold, sprawling face-first on the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered directly into the carpet.
“You want me to help you now?”
“I’ll just sleep here.”
“Bollocks. Come on, get your arse up. I’m putting you in bed.”
She helped him to the bedroom and he dropped down onto the mattress, closing his eyes, and Leah unlaced his boots and tugged them off and left, shutting his door behind her.
She slept late the following morning, stretched out atop the comforter like a cat, the humidity a pressing cushion on all sides, so she slumbered in a stifling, drowse-inducing envelope until well past eleven a.m. She nearly died of a heart attack when she looked at the clock. Seven days left, and she didn’t want to waste a single second.
It was next to midnight when she came back to the bungalow, a bit sunburned, her golden curls wild and windswept, a delicious ache in her legs from hours of riding along the coast. It was beginning to rain and she had an impulsive urge to throw her head back and hold open her mouth. She barely resisted, stopped only by a vaguely familiar voice, a dark, throaty bass that tumbled over her and awakened her, out of nowhere. Warningless arousal prickled between her thighs and she turned toward the source of the sound.
“What did you say?”
“I said, Would you like a drink.”
The young man from the previous night, in black corduroy trousers and a ribbed white tank top, rising slowly from a rocker on the porch, and she cocked her head, trying to locate something mocking and incisive to say, but all she found was a nod and a sincere smile. And the question she asked very well could have been mocking or incisive, had it been angled differently, but she didn’t use it as such. The cocky, beer-powered self-assurance was gone from him, and in the tipsy meathead dolt’s stead there stood a man who seemed bothered. Pained, somehow. Her previous aggravation was no more, so when she spoke, it was with a genuine concern.
“Feeling better this evening?” Leah reached back to the nape of her neck and freed her hair from its chiefly ineffective restraint, running her fingers through it.
“No,” he said, with a curt, dry laugh. “I’m sober now. Working on it, though.” He motioned for her to follow him inside, and the whole place smelled like him. Like sweat and sun and good cologne, like the wind and water and wanton wildness. He’d been there for a while. He was not a visitor in this place. He maneuvered easily in the dark to the kitchen, deftly making his way in the drawers and cupboards, emerging with tumblers and ice and leading her to a mahogany liquor cabinet. “Choose your weapon.”
Leah would have liked to stay inside, in his suite, in his smell, but he took her to the porch again and sat with his legs dangling over the edge. She smiled, slowly, and sat a good piece down from him. Looked down at her hands, and was surprised and yet not bothered by the fact that they were shaking.
“How long will you be here?” he asked, with a calm, dark glance into her.
“Seven days,” she replied, raising the glass to her lips. “You?”
“Not sure.” The voice killed her. Centered and thrummed in her belly, sensuous and melodic and guttural, and she was shocked at the sudden pounding of her heart. It had been months and months, years, even, since she had been even remotely stimulated by the presence of a man, except for Peter, and that was nothing like this; the desire to have Peter inside of her had, in recent years, stemmed from a clingy self-loathing, an intense feeling of inferiority, a neediness set into motion by his constant degradation and declaration of authority over her. This was not that.
This was a primal physical attraction, heady and instantaneous carnality, paired with a seemingly unwarranted want to comfort him, to put words to what pained him and soothe it away with soft caresses and easy oblivion.
His silence was lathering and thick and thoroughly enjoyable. She raked him openly with observant blue eyes, and he did the same to her, though he was more discreet. He was young. Not jailbait young, but quite young just the same - too young to be drowning drunk every night with deep-creased furrows splitting his forehead.
As their silence grew comfortable, amicable, she allowed herself to admire his physique. He was in impeccable physical shape, broad, hard chest, thick, well-defined arms and shoulders, trim, tapered torso, slim hips and long, muscular legs. He was lovely, the color of peanut brittle, and she guessed there was a bit of coffee in his cream somewhere not too far up the ladder. He moved well for a big man, wearing a leonine prowess about him like a second skin, all the brash, bullshit bravado having fled. She expected it to return as he drank, but it did not. The winsome wordlessness remained, and the heavy shoulders drooped with an oddly alluring melancholy.
Somewhere near to an hour after she'd joined him, he met her gaze and held it, and there was an invitation there. A deliberate openness. Yes, I'm hurting. Yes, it's time for you to make it go away.
Slowly though. She always seemed to break the dam with one touch, and that loss of control would frighten him off. She rose and knelt softly behind him, and he let weary lids drop further and further until the flashing obsidian pools were hidden by them, his chin bumping the center of his broad, hard chest.
She looked at him a moment before getting the nerve to touch him, splaying the fingers of her right hand on the back of his head and resting the left on his shoulder, closing her eyes and smiling softly.
Something had so utterly humbled him...Completely destroyed him...He was totally defeated, deflated to a slack, empty being, arms hanging limp at his sides, and his legs had stopped swinging and dangled still over the edge, shins and shoes slicked and soaked by the warm driving rain. She didn't massage or knead him, and had no intention of speaking, just lent him a mild yet tactile solace in the presence of her fingers on his skin.
He became so relaxed that Leah wasn't sure he was still awake, and slid one smooth palm down over the firm arch of his neck to rest between his shoulder blades and feel the steady, healthy thump of his heart.
The rhythm of the rain on the unquenchable stretch of sand had mellowed the streak of reckless youth, the rush of unadulterated adrenaline she'd existed on all day. She felt her age creep up on her, seep through her little body, and she was suddenly, solely exhausted. She permitted her own eyes to close. Just for a moment...Just...
Leah woke in an unfamiliar bed to the sound of a sizzle in a skillet and a cacophonous compilation of muttered superlatives.
She sat slowly, instantly assaulted by a vengeful throbbing in her head, and yawning only aggravated the situation. Where the fuck was she? And just how drunk had she been the night before?
Rising hesitantly to her full five-two, she was nothing short of delighted to find herself fully clothed. And the man in the kitchen was...?
Written by La Mamacita