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Douglas forced his eyes back to the control panel. The worst thing about all of this was that Martyn was oblivious. He didn’t know whether it was comfort, thrift, a lack of vanity or complete ignorance that drove Martyn’s clothing choice, but her decision not to wear a bra under the thin uniform shirt was, to say the least, distracting.
He shifted uncomfortably in his own seat. Even a vest or T-shirt underneath would have been something. Hidden the rosy pink nipples from where they brushed close to the fabric, clearly visible under not-remotely-opaque crisp white.
Not that he’d spent too much time thinking about this, but perhaps the trouble was that she only checked her – otherwise very professional – reflection when she had the full uniform on. Jacket buttoned and all. He was sure, if she could see what he could see – every damn time they flew – she’d do something about it.
And it had been too long now. He hadn’t said anything on her first day because she was nervous enough. And then he felt it a decent, private, revenge for all the times she’d demanded he respect her senior position. But now… he knew she’d be horribly embarrassed and he found his internal arguments at war; the desire to tell her and spare her any potential embarrassment in front of clients (well…further embarrassment. He certainly wasn’t the first person to notice the view.) was outweighed by the fact that the telling itself would no doubt mortify her. Not to mention he’d be hard-pressed to explain his failure to mention anything for close on eighteen months.
A small, very tiny, hardly worth mentioning, part of him also admitted he didn’t really want her to tuck those breasts away. They might not be the generous globes he generally preferred, but on Martyn’s petite frame, from what he could see…and imagine…they were a perfect fit.
A quick glance at his captain, occupied with an in-flight systems check, reassured him he was safe to tuck a hand down and subtly adjust himself.
The fact was, short and wiry though she might be, Martyn was built rather like a sleek racehorse. Or perhaps a greyhound would be more size appropriate. He suspected Martyn imagined herself to be flat-chested but he’d had the opportunity, only once, to appreciate her full range of assets at Carolyn and Herc’s engagement party. Martyn had shown up wearing a clearly borrowed dress – one of those bandage-style affairs that absolutely clung to every curve and angle and, in Douglas’s extensive experience as a hands-on observer, generally looked best without a stitch on underneath. Martyn hadn’t looked quite comfortable; no doubt unused to being dressed up, let alone in something so restrictive, but she had looked…stunning. Someone had helped her with her hair and make-up and made a decent stab at covering the van-job-related bruises that coloured her arms and legs. The dress itself had, by virtue of being so tight, held everything pert and in position. Suggestive, without being blatant. Douglas had spent a good proportion of the evening staring at her until Arthur had innocently called him out on it. Then he’d gone about systematically flirting with the many and various buxom women who were also in attendance.
He shook off the memory as Martyn leaned forward to flick one of the switches on Douglas’s side, then stretched to adjust one of the controls overhead. The motion pulled the fabric a little closer to Martyn’s chest, the curve just visible and the nipple teasingly erect from either the friction or the cool air conditioning; Douglas swallowed thickly and bit his lip against the urge to…
“All right there, Douglas?” Martyn’s forehead was furrowed.
He’d been staring too long. “Quite all right, thank you, Captain. Films with breas…d in the title, I’ll go first…”