Touch
Title: Touch
Fandom: American Idol RPF
Pairing: Simon Cowell/Paula Abdul
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Simon and Paula are clearly not characters, and this story and its author do not make any sort of supposition about their personal lives.
Author's Notes: This is some sort of sickness, I swear.
~*~
Simon's hands are large and manly.
To this day, Paula remembers it being one of the first things she noticed about him. Hollywood is all about soft and smooth - men she's dated in the past have been properly manicured and refined. But Simon's hands are rough, clumsy, and slightly oafish. It should be a turn-off.
It's not.
He slides an arm around her waist, lays a hand at her shoulder, her knee; casual, glancing touches that should mean nothing, and she forces herself not to react. She rarely succeeds in doing so.
It's when the focus is on the performer that he has his fun, scooting the wheels of his chair minutely closer. She swears she can hear them scraping across the floor even over the deafening combination of music and crowd. Beneath the desk, those big hands slide up the insides of her thighs. Sometimes the calluses catch on the fabric of her stockings. Sometimes he just rests his fingers there, casually stroking. Sometimes he traces the lacy edge of her panties. Sometimes he ventures underneath, and she gasps involuntarily; a combination of shock and arousal.
Simon delights in watching her squirm, though he'd never admit it - it's all a game to him, maintaining that cool sneer of disdain. Each time she swears that she's going to give him a piece of her mind. But then the end of the day rolls around, and as the kids shuffle nervously off the stage, he comes around behind her and kneads those deliciously skilled hands into the strained muscles of her shoulders. She sighs as he rubs and rubs and rubs, leaning back into him. Randy watches as he breathes into her hair and she knows that tomorrow, she'll probably be the one to move her chair towards his.
Fandom: American Idol RPF
Pairing: Simon Cowell/Paula Abdul
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Simon and Paula are clearly not characters, and this story and its author do not make any sort of supposition about their personal lives.
Author's Notes: This is some sort of sickness, I swear.
~*~
Simon's hands are large and manly.
To this day, Paula remembers it being one of the first things she noticed about him. Hollywood is all about soft and smooth - men she's dated in the past have been properly manicured and refined. But Simon's hands are rough, clumsy, and slightly oafish. It should be a turn-off.
It's not.
He slides an arm around her waist, lays a hand at her shoulder, her knee; casual, glancing touches that should mean nothing, and she forces herself not to react. She rarely succeeds in doing so.
It's when the focus is on the performer that he has his fun, scooting the wheels of his chair minutely closer. She swears she can hear them scraping across the floor even over the deafening combination of music and crowd. Beneath the desk, those big hands slide up the insides of her thighs. Sometimes the calluses catch on the fabric of her stockings. Sometimes he just rests his fingers there, casually stroking. Sometimes he traces the lacy edge of her panties. Sometimes he ventures underneath, and she gasps involuntarily; a combination of shock and arousal.
Simon delights in watching her squirm, though he'd never admit it - it's all a game to him, maintaining that cool sneer of disdain. Each time she swears that she's going to give him a piece of her mind. But then the end of the day rolls around, and as the kids shuffle nervously off the stage, he comes around behind her and kneads those deliciously skilled hands into the strained muscles of her shoulders. She sighs as he rubs and rubs and rubs, leaning back into him. Randy watches as he breathes into her hair and she knows that tomorrow, she'll probably be the one to move her chair towards his.