The Toast of the Town (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book III)

Imogen Inquires

"Ms. Fox, what a pleasure!" Mr. Oakby Snr greeted her.

"Good evening, sir," Imogen said and patted the Mayor's shoulder comfortingly. "I'm afraid John isn't feeling well, so I was wondering if I could come to the Hall instead. I understand, you're leaving for London tonight."

"Yes, we're driving there, and then tomorrow morning we're taking the plane to Egypt for– Excuse me for a second," the Titan interrupted himself. "Yes, dear? Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. Ms. Fox? Petra has gotten some books for you. She was planning to pass them to you through my son, but seeing you're coming, she'll just leave them for you in the library."

"Thank you," Imogen answered. "I have an errand to finish, and then I will take a cab to the Hall, sir. Would that be alright?" She quickly glanced at her watch. "I understand John was supposed to be at your place half an hour ago. He apologises."

"That's quite alright," the Titan rumbled benevolently. "We don't have any reservations. We're already living by a holiday schedule, meaning no schedule at all."

Imogen could hear Petra's melodious laughter in the background. The Titan and Imogen said their polite goodbyes, and by then Mr. Rogers parked his cab near the Firs. He helped Imogen to unload the slack and pendulous Mayor. She quickly unlocked the front door of the cottage, asked the cabbie to wait just a few minutes, and led the Mayor inside.

She steered him to the bedroom, pulling off his scarf, then his coat, jacket, and his waistcoat. She had to hop and tug, while the man wobbled forwards.

"But the sofa!" the Mayor protested weakly, throwing a mournful glance at said piece of furniture.

"I'm going to the Hall, remember?" Imogen said softly, leading him gently towards the bedroom.

Inside, he turned to her with a morose expression on his face, which allowed her to push him, the bed cutting him under his knees. He plopped down, and Imogen quickly unbuttoned his shirt.

"Oh that's making it worse. I'm undressed, and you're leaving," he whined, wrapped his fingers around her wrists, and pulled her palms to him, making her hands splay on his chest. "You're so cool... And leaving me to suffer..." 

Imogen giggled.

"Then you should take off your trousers yourself," she said.

The Mayor groaned and fell backwards, spreading his arms like the Christ the Redeemer statue. Imogen unbuckled his belt, and his head shot up.

"Darling," he purred.

"I'm needed at the Hall, John," she reminded him, took off his shoes and socks, and grabbed his trousers at the ankles.

"But I need you more!" he exclaimed with absolute certainty.

A delirious Mayor was a temptation most powerful, Imogen had to concede.

"Get under the duvet, John," Imogen said in a fake strict tone, tearing her eyes - with enormous difficulty - off his muscular thighs, his well-defined pectoral muscles, and his flat stomach.

Suddenly, she felt rather feverish too - but duty called, as they say. Grumbling and snuffling, the Mayor rolled on his side and then burrowed under the duvet. Imogen quickly brought him his medicine, and put a water bottle and his mobile on the bedside table.

"I won't be long," she said and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

That was a mistake.

With a rather convincing growl the Mayor scooped her and lurched her into the sweet trap of their lovely stripy bedding.