DISCLAIMER: I do not own Guiding Light or the characters therein depicted. I do not seek to profit from this story.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This piece was requested specifically and the parameters I was given were "Established couple. Natalia publicly admires Olivia's ass in jeans." This is what Tanked Muse and I came up with. Also, Olivia's lifting restrictions at this point in her recovery are at 25lbs. Just so you know. And yes, I looked up post-transplant care and yes, that's perfectly feasible over two years out from surgery. LOL The Natalia in this story is not a virginal saint. Instead, she has a spine, a sexuality, a passing acquaintance with profanity, and is hopefully more like the Natalia we remember. Thank you: to Tiff, who approved the title. Dedication: to Jules, who requested this story. She pwns us with her accent, her charm, and her unreserved enthusiasm for all things Otalia. ;)
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

Coming Apart at the Seams
By DiNovia

It's a sunny Saturday in early September and time again for the annual Springfield Food Bank canned goods drive. Buzz has offered Company up as a collection site and you and I have rented a pickup to bring the boxes and boxes of soups and vegetables and fruit cocktail that we've been collecting all week at The Beacon.

"I'm really surprised our guests at The Beacon donated so generously to this drive," you say, lugging in a box filled with Green Giant Green Beans. I have a smaller box of Dole Crushed Pineapple in my arms and Buzz directs us to different spots in the restaurant to put our burdens down. Fruit to the left, vegetables to the right.

"I heard that--" starts Buzz but I make a slashing motion across my throat and he changes what he was going to say. "--that the economy is making everyone more charitable," he finishes lamely. I almost close my eyes. Lame response or not, at least he didn't tell you why our guests were so generous to the drive. You don't have to know that I gave a $25 discount on the per-night fee to guests who donated a canned good. The results, in my opinion, are doubly worth it.

Of course, the good being done here for the food bank is important.

More important is getting to watch you. In those jeans. All. Freakin'. Day.

This isn't just any pair of jeans, you see. This is a $350 pair of low waist, straight leg, manually abraded (in all the right places) Diesel jeans that hug you like I painted them on myself. Which I wish I had. Watching you crouch to put your box of beans in the vegetable section, I catch myself just before I groan out loud, making the sound breathy instead of guttural at the last possible second. It doesn't really help but at least the whole restaurant hasn't heard my very visceral response to your gorgeous ass in those jeans.

The whole outfit, in fact, is...truly inspiring.

In addition to the jeans, you're wearing your Harley Davidson motorcycle boots, two tank tops (one black and one white), a choker made of heavy silver links, and you've pulled your hair back with a blue bandanna. It's taking every iota of willpower I possess not to beg you to take me right here on one of these tables.

"Naughty, naughty," whispers Josh in my ear. He's laughing at me softly and I blush.

"We're all sinners in the eyes of the Lord," I point out defensively.

"There was definitely some sinning going on in your eyes, that's for sure!"

"Can you blame me?" I counter, gesturing at you discretely. "Look at her!"

And he does. Then he swallows. Hard.

"Point taken," he says thickly. "I have to...er...I should sit down, I think."

He picks a table and drops heavily into one of the chairs. I notice it has a perfect view of the vegetable section.

"Watch this," I tell him and then I head outside for another box. You follow almost immediately and watch as I grab a crate of peas off the back of the pickup. I fake a muscle spasm as I lift it, hissing with simulated pain, and you're at my side instantly.

"Baby, let me get these. You go back inside, sit down. Don't worry about this."

"You shouldn't be lifting--"

"I'll get the guys to help me, I promise. What good is having five ex-husbands if you can't occasionally use them for manual labor?" You kiss me on the cheek and--with the state I'm in--my control almost disintegrates. I close my eyes so you can't read the lust in them. Because honestly? If you saw what I was thinking, you might just do it. And the image of you fucking me up against the door of this pickup truck would be a lasting one for Springfield, I think.

"I'll send help," I say, my voice strangled. I'm desperately trying to bring my heart rate under control. And failing miserably. I go back inside, tell Buzz that you need help with the boxes we brought, take a seat next to Josh...and wait.

You don't keep me waiting long.

Buzz enters first with a heavier box and you follow with a smaller box of...something. I don't care anymore as long as I-- Oh God.

You bend over at the waist this time, depositing the box on top of a stack of them, and the movement creates a little gap between your tanks and the jeans. I catch my breath at the amazingly sexy hint of cleft peeking over the edge of the waistband. Josh must see it, too, because I hear him mutter "Jesus!" under his breath.

"What are you slackers looking at?" asks Jeffrey, coming up beside Josh. He follows our gazes and blanches. "Oh. You.... Yeah, that's uh...." He looks around for a second, as if checking for Reva, then pulls up a chair. When you rise from putting the box down, inspecting its placement, you cant your hip to one side and Jeffrey turns away. "Ouch," he says.

Satisfied with your work, you head outside again. More people come in, carrying more boxes. Bill arrives with the Lewis family contribution. He directs his minions toward the growing collection of canned goods, sees Josh at our table, and comes over.

"What's this? A bored meeting? Heh. Get it?"

Jeffrey flashes him an impatient look. "Trust me. We're not bored."

"Huh?" Bill's look of confusion is endearing. Almost.

"Watch," says Jeffrey, indicating the doorway with a slight rise of his chin. He turns just as you enter, your tanned and muscled arms wrapped around yet another box of I don't fucking care what. I just want those arms around me. Right now.

A slight sheen has broken out on your forehead and shoulders and--most likely--between your heavenly breasts and I am overwhelmed by the intense desire to lick that salty sweetness from your skin. All the way down to your--

I'm not going to survive this. What was I thinking?

Then you turn and crouch again, actually going to one knee as you place the box on the floor, beginning a new stack. Your tanks ride up even further this time, giving the four of us a tantalizing glimpse of the concave hollow at the base of your spine. My brain shorts out; I'm sure of it. Jeffrey groans quietly and Josh makes a sound like he's been punched in the gut. I lick my lips and wonder exactly how fast that pickup truck can go.

Bill laughs nervously and tugs at his tie. "We really shouldn't be--"

"No, we shouldn't," says Jeffrey harshly. "But we are. If you don't want to, go somewhere else. Otherwise, sit down and shut up before you get us all in trouble."

Bill sits.

"How many boxes did you guys bring?" he whispers to me and I glance at him. Ever the organizational guru, he's actually trying to work out how long he'll be able to sit there and ogle you in front of me.

This was a bad idea. Not only can I not keep my thoughts off my face, apparently, but I've also inadvertently lured three of your ex-husbands into my web of debauchery. Objectification and Leering, party of four? Your table's ready.

"Too damned many," I reply, my voice tight with painfully restrained desire and shame. Bill, startled by my sharp response, moves his chair away from mine.

You've gone back outside for more boxes and I take a moment to breathe. The sight of Alan Spaulding entering the restaurant, followed by Phillip, upsets the delicate equilibrium I've just reclaimed. Alan looks...piqued. Phillip is grinning ear to ear. He makes a beeline for me.

"Keeping the riffraff in line, I see," he says, smiling at me.

"Someone has to," I say, smiling back. I'm grateful for the distraction. Phillip and Josh are tied for the title of Favorite of Olivia's Ex-Husbands with me and it's Phillip's attempts at redeeming his past that give him a slight edge over Josh. I know it drives you crazy. Consider us even. "What's wrong with Alan? He seems upset."

Phillip looks over his shoulder and shrugs. "I honestly have no idea. He always seems upset, doesn't he? I'm beginning to think he just needs more fiber in his diet."

I laugh and it's exactly what my body needs--an emotional and physical release that helps to smooth the ragged edge of my frustrated lust.

"So what's with the convention of exes?" he asks, taking a seat next to me. You enter the restaurant at that exact moment, catching my eye over yet another box, and winking at me saucily. The temperature instantly climbs ten degrees and my stomach flips as all my searing need for you comes rushing back.

"Oh...my...." says Phillip, taking in the sight. You turn around and place your burden atop a medium-sized stack of peach crates, bending only slightly at the waist to do so. You keep one leg straight but bend the knee of the other one, which deliciously enhances luxurious curves contained by too-expensive (but well worth it) denim. The position also highlights the arch of your back and it's my turn to swallow hard. What do I always say? Thinking's the same as doing? If that's the case, you should be screaming my name right about...now.

"Something to see, isn't it?" Phillip asks. I drag my eyes from you--it's almost impossible to do--and look at your recently-returned ex with a blank, uncomprehending look.

"An artist at work," he clarifies, nodding toward you. "You've got to hand it to her, too. Very generous to her audience." When my jaw drops slightly but I can't manage a response, he says, "You realize that she's consciously putting this show on for you--for us. Don't you?"

My head whips back around to look at you and I narrow my eyes. You're taking way, way too long to position your crate and I realize that Phillip's telling the truth. Before I can react, however, Alan blusters over to us.

"Can any of you explain to me why you're all sitting here like lumps instead of assisting with this ridiculous charity event?"

All five of us point to you.

You're standing in profile and you choose that precise moment to uncurl your body, raising your arms over your head and stretching in a way that shows off every single curve, every single line, every single beautiful, glorious, lust-inducing inch of you....

Alan drops like a rock. If there hadn't been a chair there to catch him, he would have ended up flat on his ass on Company's floor.

You take your time with the stretch but when you're finished, you look over at us out of the corner of your eye. Then you give a little whoop and bounce twice, obviously cheering.

"Buzz!" you shout. "You owe me five hundred bucks!"

Company's long-suffering owner rushes in from the kitchen, looks at us with rounded eyes, and curses. "No, man, no! I thought for sure-- I mean there was no way--"

You saunter over to the flustered man and hold out one hand, palm up. "Come on, Buzzman, a deal's a deal. All five ex-husbands and my wife sitting at the same table, right? You owe me five hundred bucks." You waggle your fingers playfully. "Cash only, please. I don't do credit."

Buzz opens his wallet and takes out a wad of bills, counting them into your hand, his head shaking from side to side. "You're one of a kind, Olivia, my girl. One of a kind. I would never have believed-- I mean, Alan! I thought No way she gets him!

You know?"

"Oh, Alan was easy," you respond, winking at me with wicked green eyes. You lean closer to Buzz and stage-whisper, "Boob man."

I'm completely frozen in my chair. I can't seem to formulate a single coherent thought.

What the--? You...knew? The whole-- How much-- Oh, God! Did you know about the discount, too? You did! Of course, you did! You're Olivia Freakin' Spencer! You know everything!

I'm losing my composure fast, realizing that you knew the whole time what I was doing, what we were doing. You knew. In an effort to distract myself from my guilt and panic, I watch you put away your winnings, your hand sliding slowly into and out of your skin-tight front pocket. I begin to tremble. The view has distracted me, all right, but it's not helping to regain my composure. If anything, I'm waving good-bye to it as it flies out the window.

Then you meander over to our table, practically oozing smug satisfaction.

"Gentlemen, let this be a lesson to you. If any of your wives or girlfriends had been here, you would have had some serious explaining to do, don't you think? However flattered I may be by your...appreciation, my guess is they would view it with somewhat jaundiced eyes." You pin them each with a look and then grin. "But thanks! The cash will come in handy!"

They all sit there, silent as stones, all wearing different expressions of polite horror and embarrassment.

"You can go now," you say, making a shooing motion with your hand. "I'd like to talk to Natalia privately, if you don't mind."

They scatter like ball bearings on a wood floor and soon we're alone at the table, me still seated and you crouching in front of me. I can feel the heat of my shame in my cheeks.

"You're completely adorable, you know that, right?" you ask.

"Me??

After what I just-- Wait." I look at you, my disbelief melting into plaintive hope. "You're not mad at me?"

"Mad at you?

For what? For loving me? For appreciating my...attributes? For wanting to show me off?" You lean forward and whisper the last one in my ear. "For fucking me with your eyes?" I groan softly, my whole body suddenly engulfed by tingles and sparks. They ignite the liquid heat running through my veins and I'm instantly back to where I started: hot and bothered and hopelessly in love with you.

You take my hands in yours and look at me with those gorgeous green eyes, filled now with pride and pleasure. "How could I ever be mad at you for that, hmmm?" You lean forward and capture my mouth in a brief but tender kiss. "Any time you want a repeat performance, you only have to ask. I'd do anything for you. Anything at all."

"Anything?" I ask, intrigued.

You laugh. "What do you want?"

"If I make it worth your while, will you give that money to the Food Bank?"

I can see it in your eyes, that you were already planning to donate the money. Somehow you knew that's what I was going to ask you to do. But you're not about to give it up without some semblance of negotiation. That's just not your style.

"And how do you plan to make it worth my while, Mrs. Spencer-Rivera?" You rise from your crouch and hold out your hand, pulling me out of my chair and into your waiting arms.

"How long do we have that pickup for?" I whisper, nuzzling your jaw just below your ear. "And how fast do you think you can get us to that little out-of-the-way maintenance parking lot behind the park?"

"Why?" you ask and your voice wavers with equal parts trepidation and desire.

I pull back and look up into your smoldering eyes. "Because," I breathe, "I've been having this one fantasy all day. And it involves you, me, and the door to that pickup. I just think the parking lot here is way too public."

Your eyes close and you swallow. Then you swallow again.

When you open them, your pupils are dilated so wide your eyes are almost completely black.

"Let's go," you say, knotting your fingers with mine and pulling me out the door.

Oh, yes. Let's.

The End

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