PDA: Private Displays of Affection

A/N: Hi all. I want to thank you all in advance for taking the time to read my small contribution to the world of fiction.  I pray you enjoy it.

I want to send out a very special thank you to VeryLongLadder who used her wit and fine tooth editing to transform this once mediocre one-shot. Thank you also to KatieBirdos for the awesome cover.

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Black Versace Cocktail Dress... $1,280

Strappy Black High Heeled Sandals, Onyx Wrist Cuff... $432

Idiot Boyfriend's Net Worth... $106 million

Removing Said Idiot's Fingernails, Ripping out His Eyeballs, Shooting Off His Other Balls?... PRICELESS!

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Our story begins as all stories must: at the beginning. The beginning of a romance, the beginning of a problem, the beginning of a bowl of lasagna.

As was so often the case in Heather's kitchen, there had been no plan. Justyce, her best friend, and the boys had arrived at Heather's for an evening of poker, but after breaking into the wine it had degenerated into Robert's impromptu cooking experiment. It seemed there had been something he'd been just dying to try out, something he just needed to do. It'd taken him 15 seconds and exactly one of those pouts before she'd agreed, and he'd gone scurrying to the nearest shop with a grin.

The meal of course had been delicious. Robert and Heather had managed somehow to carefully position themselves at opposite sides of the table, but with the first bite Heather had made a noise that had him poised to lunge across the table. The entire group had gone silent, watching them, obviously enjoying the all new episode of the Robert and Heather Eye-Sex Show. It took a cough from Justyce to break the trance.

Naturally, their harmony didn't last; her kitchen had barely survived Robert's cooking adventures, with every single item of crockery, every last utensil dirtied in preparing the concoction. Upon seeing it Heather had turned to him, threatening the movie star's procreative capacity should the mess not be adequately cleaned. The noise from the kitchen spurred his pals to action, abandoning him to get to their respective homes and leaving Robert to tackle the disaster alone.

An hour and a half later, Robert stood and admired the spotless room. The dishes washed and re-shelved, the utensils relocated, the counters cleaned and the lasagna splashes removed from the walls. He'd rearranged the shrine to the Styrofoam deities in her fridge to make room for leftovers, and doing it gave him comfort. Maybe he'd annoyed her and almost ruined her kitchen, but he could make sure she ate properly for the rest of the week.

It was well past midnight as he trudged from the kitchen. His slave driver was fast asleep on her brand new rug, an open file from her security firm by her side, notes long forgotten. She looked uncomfortable, head resting on folded arms. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to bed, snuggle against her until morning. He was aware when watching her of a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with wine or lasagna. It was her.

After a few moments lost in quiet admiration he knelt by her sleeping form and shook the brunette beauty's shoulders gently.

"Heather," he whispered, "Heather."

"What?" She responded without opening her eyes or moving from her position.

"I'm all done. I need you to give me a ride." He paused, replaying his last statement in his head. "That sounded dirtier than I intended."

She groaned and rolled over, her arm folded over her face to cover her eyes. With the twisting motion her shirt began to ride up, giving Robert an unobstructed view of her midriff. Glancing up to check she wasn't looking at him, Robert began a leisurely perusal of the stomach on show. The room was lit only by a lamp, but even in the partial darkness he could see that she was as tanned and toned as he'd imagined: her waist a dramatic indent, a perfect navel on show. Robert felt his stomach tense, felt his mouth run dry.