Morning, Noon and Night blog tour: 5pm Somewhere
“Five pm Somewhere is everything I love about erotica. It’s smart, it’s clever, it’s original, it shows the imperfections and the people behind the tab A into slot B, and it’s hot.”
The idea for the story started with an itch I had to write a piece involving cocktails, simply because I like cocktails. I like the decadence, glamour and sense of occasion surrounding these small, elaborate drinks. Setting the story in a cocktail bar was too obvious so I went for the opposite of cosmopolitan chic and put my characters in an isolated chintzy cottage. I then cruelly took away their alcohol and prevented them from leaving the house, forcing them (and me) to get creative.
Cheyenne summarises 5pm Somewhere as “about a couple who celebrate their wedding anniversaries by recreating the cocktails they drank on their first date: whisky sour for him, dirty martini for her. Only problem is that Brynn forgot the gin. And they’re snowed in miles from the nearest grog shop. Kristina’s character gets pissy. She sulks, she takes a bath, and that’s when Brynn shows his creative side.”
Here’s an excerpt:
I felt myself thawing out in the bath, physically and emotionally. I recalled how, weeks after our first cocktail, when we were excitable and loved-up, Brynn had written me a wonderfully romantic email name-checking cities that had been in the 5pm time zone when we’d sat down for cocktails: Helsinki, Kiev, Istanbul, Beirut, Cairo, Cape Town. But, he declared, the only place he’d wanted to be was with me in a bar in Bromley.
Would he say the same thing now? Given my grouchiness, I could hardly blame him if he’d prefer Beirut. I was a romantic and a control freak, that was my problem. I got fixated on an ideal version of events and when life didn’t go as planned, I felt cheated. On the plus side, Brynn’s more laidback approach counterbalanced my rigidity. Our differences made us a great team – and a terrible one.
I soaked for a while, mulling things over. Brynn didn’t appear. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep in front of the fire like an old man. Well, if he has, I told myself, that’s fine. Go with the flow. I was about to step out of the bath when I heard his footsteps on the stairs.
“You ready?” he called. Enthusiasm twinkled in his voice.
I was weak with heat from the water but curiosity perked me up. “For what?”
Brynn strode into the bathroom and took a large towel from where it was warming on a rail. “It’s cocktail hour,” he declared. “And I’m about to make the world’s first alcohol-free dirty martini, no glasses required.” He gave a small bow, bath towel draped waiter-style over his arm. “Mr Mixologist at your service. Now if you wouldn’t mind stepping out of the water.”
Laughing, I did as instructed. Brynn quickly wrapped me in the towel and a tight embrace, rubbing vigorously at my arms and back. “Dry,” he said. “Because a dirty martini needs dry vermouth.”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone had dried me. The cotton on my skin, thick, brisk and absorbent, was both invigorating and comforting. Brynn took care to towel me all over, making me laugh hard when he knelt at my feet to dry my toes individually.
“It tickles,” I gasped, thinking how different it is when someone does something to you that you’d ordinarily do yourself.
He dried my legs, making me feel tall and strong as his hands rose higher, the towel lightly scouring my skin. I soon stopped laughing. When he rubbed at the folds between my thighs, my groin pulsed softly, similar to the tickle mechanism sparked by another’s touch. He stood, reaching behind me to dry the split of my buttocks. He rose higher, shifting the towel to find dry patches as he glided into the crease beneath each breast, nudged into my armpits and wiped the curve behind my ears.
“Dry?” he asked.
“Very,” I replied then added, smiling, “Well, not quite.”
Brynn smiled too, catching my drift as he tucked the towel around me. “The ice is outside,” he said, “and I reckon we’ve had enough of that today. Pre-chilled glasses. That’s what we made earlier. Too much ice dilutes the gin. Not good.”
He edged me back against the aqua green wall, lips teasing mine with fleeting kisses. Pressing me lightly in place, he leaned away to tug his jumper over his head. His dark hair went wonky with static and he returned to kissing me, his facing taking on that loose, serious look it does when he’s aroused. He kissed a track towards my ear.
“You’re all clean and pure,” he said. “And I’m dirty, unwashed.”
He slid a hand into my towel, cupping my waist, his thumb skimming below my breasts. My skin tingled and his unshaven jaw scratched my neck. I reached for his swollen groin, understanding that our lovemaking was somehow to be a dirty martini made flesh.
As I slipped into the softness of lust and Brynn stepped out of his jeans, I ran through the ingredients: chilled glasses, gin, dry vermouth, olives, brine, and someone to stir not shake it. Well, this certainly was high-concept sex. I hadn’t a clue how Brynn was going to pull it off.
He moved toward me again, his cock rising thick and hard. I nodded at his groin. “That your swizzle stick?”
Don’t forget to check out the rest of the blog tour, and cheers, everybody! It’s a little early in the day right now but as we know, it’s always 5 o’ clock somewhere.
Photo Alan Levine