Eliza Gray's Hotspots, continued...

At last, a quiet moment when I can resume my erotic bestseller. Now, where were we?

...‘You’re a writer too?’ He traced his finger along her arm. ‘I won’t disturb you then. Not now.’ He turned to walk upstairs and then turned back. ‘Come when you’re ready.’

'Come when you're ready.' The voice His soft husky gravelly tones echoed in her head, just as the skin on her arm still tingled from the lingering touch of his finger. I'm ready to come now! she thought naughtily. But, at 50, and brought up in at in at St Cecilia's Convent School for Girls, she was not
given to being so obvious chasing throwing herself at men. She gave it half an hour and then, tentatively, mounted the stairs.

She hovered behind the sign saying declaring Members Bar, feeling aroused at the very name trying to spot him without being seen. Ah. There he was. Play it cool, she thought, putting her laptop Prada bag down on a nearby table. She busied herself arranging her things on the table, then over the back of the chair, waiting for him to spot see her. Ah. He was looking her way. She sat down lowered herself provocatively into the chair, facing a quarter turn away from him.

She took out eased her double chocolate brownie from its brown paper bag, which was damp with from the oozing steam. emanating rising from the fresh-baked confectiontents. Checking in her peripheral vision that he was watching her, she raised the moist dark confection to her ready parted eager lips. Giddy Gagging Faint with anticipation, she gently parted her lips and ran her tongue over her lower lip to prepare it to receive before opening her cakehole mouth and inserting edging easing guiding slipping the brownie in, letting the oozing dark chocolate explode on her tongue.

Suddenly She jumped. She froze. The already familiar touch of his palm on her back. The soft tread of his riding boot, so redolent of racecourses and steaming stallions. The smell of fresh mown grass emanating from his fresh mown chin... She spun around a quarter turn. Before she could protest, he had locked her in an embrace taken her hand and pulled her from her chair, locking trapping her in his warm embrace strong arms. and nuzzled into her neck, murmuring, 'Come with me,' he murmured.

He took her roughly by the arm and Keeping a tight grip on her hand, he pulled her into the ladies' loo

Ah. Saved by the phone!

'I've been reading your steamy novel,' Franny launches in, 'but I'm not sure about the 501s.'

'I thought they had to be 501s.'

'No. They aren't that trendy any more - he should be wearing Diesel jeans. And I'm not sure about the leather jacket with the rakish white silk scarf. I thought that was a bit Rupert Everett.' 

Honestly. How come Franny's so up with current trends, living in the depths of the country where the height of fashion in a man is a pair of red trousers? 

'I'll tell you where that came from,' I say. 'I once met this very sexy guy who turned up to dinner on a Harley Davidson, wearing a white evening scarf with his biker kit.'

'No,' Franny admonishes. 'The white scarf is very 80s.'

'I suppose it was the 80s when I met this bloke.' 

'My pin-up would be lovely and tall,' she continues, 'with nice faded jeans, a T shirt and a baggyish chunky wool jumper - I don't like men who try too hard and look vain. Definitely cut the leather jacket and white scarf.'

'Anyway it's all immaterial,' I say. 'I've gone off the whole thing. The editor of the Erotic Review says I've got to push the envelope, so I'm doing lots of sexy M&Sy foodie bits which cross over nicely into the cookery book genre, but I need to put in some S&My bits. The hero was about to pull the heroine into the ladies for a quickie, but I've gone right off him now. It's all a bit seedy. Like cottaging.' 

'Oh no, he sounds a bit pervy. He should grab her mind first before he does that.'

'The trouble is, I can't think of anything for him to say.'

'He just needs to do more of a seduction act. He needs to engage her mind and make her feel gorgeous. Then they've got to go and have a coffee somewhere. I don't really want them cottaging in the loos at this stage.'

'You're right, I'm going to have to dig deep, like the editor said.'

There's a pause for reflection before Franny says, 'What about bringing an Alsatian into it? You were obsessed with them when we were in India.'

'What?'

'Something about an Alsatian licking you all over?'

'WHAT?'

'Or maybe it was a dream...'

Or somebody else entirely! Honestly! 'I've gone off the whole idea now. I was all fired up yesterday when he was looking like Duncan and being all mysterious and they were just going to look at each other meaningfully and eat chocolate brownies by the fireside, but now he's turned into a brute who's into bestiality.'

Franny chuckles. 'I think you just need to find a more homespun guy whose wife has died and he's got a little child and a beach house and he wears big fisherman's jerseys and lights a really good fire.'

'Oh yes, he sounds gorgeous.' I'm scribbling frantically. Franny really is missing her vocation.

'And make sure he has the right pants. Cotton check boxers.'

'What about those T-shirt-materially ones that fit snugly around their lunch packet?'

'They're ok, but they're a bit too much information. As long as he's not wearing Shreddies.'

'What are they?'

'You know, those Aertex pants that your father would have worn that come above your tummy button and they've gone grey in the wash. You see them hanging up on the Aga.'

There's a sudden volley of barking at her end. 'Oh! There's somebody at the door, hang on. Oh! Hooray! It's the rubbish men, I'm going to call you back.'

Hmmm. Shreddies. Daddy pants. Franny might have hit on something there. Love for the over 60s is going through a revival, what with Hilary Boyd's new book, Thursdays in the Park.

I know! A pot-boiler for the pot-bellied: 50 Shades of Grey Underpants!