Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 15 - A Different Perspective

Angst, horny flirtation, turning points and a few Harry Potter references/character additions (as of course actors).

Updating again in a few days with a steamy one!

.......................................................................
Clad in my red dress and black heels, I feel less 'festive firecracker' and more like a bottle of ketchup, shaken, with the lid off as we journey to Knightsbridge in Alan's car. I could ask a million and one questions if I allow myself to, but it would only make me overthink more than I already have.

Alan, who was dressed in a black suit and white shirt looking utterly shaggable and smelling good enough to devour, graciously opened the car door for me, and arm in arm we walked up to an extraordinary home draped in Christmas lights.

"I'm so nervous," I tell him for the hundredth time.

"Don't worry, once we're inside the Mother Ship and they've probed you, you won't remember a thing."

"I'd rather you probe me," I flirt.

"That can be arranged."

There's that gorgeous throaty chuckle I love, and his hand smooths around to my backside.

"In this dress I think the probe is half way prepared."

Snorting, we reach the door. I appreciate his witty humour in attempt to break my nerves, but they soon reappear the moment a blur of colours appear behind the frosted glass.

I recognise her face the moment she greets us. It's Emma Thompson, (aka Sybil Trelawney from Harry Potter) Nerd-gasm.

"Alan!" she beams, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek, "Bloody late as ever I see."

"Fashionably," he replies.

Emma turns to me with a smile, "And who's this?" she asks, as if I can't talk, although I'm sure she meant no harm by it. At least she didn't tell me I had 'the grim.'

Perhaps I strike a resemblance to a frightened whelk as I jitter in the cold in my red dress, which by the way now feels skimpy compared to Emma's classy blue number that covers her legs and cleavage.

Oh god, I may as well walk into this party with a banner reading, 'I'M FUCKING A RICH OLDER MAN!'

But boy is that dick good.

"This is Rebecca Stone," Alan smiles, "a very close friend of mine."

Very close friend.

I'm pulling apart these words in my head as Emma and I kiss on the cheek.

We step inside the door and Alan squeezes my left ass cheek – an evident indication that we'll indeed be fucking later. I don't know how I'm going to last with him in that suit. I just want to rip it off.

We enter the room. Poise, calm, smile, breath... It suddenly becomes my mantra. My stomach is doing the can-can whilst on the outside I seem to have adopted the poise of Princess bloody Diana, politely smiling whilst Alan shakes hands and hugs what feels like everyone in the entire bloody room.

There are some gorgeous women here, women that carry an air of sophistication chatting casually in small groups with glasses of wine. I automatically feel I stand out like a sore thumb. I'm relieved beyond measure when Emma hands me a much-needed glass of wine - something to busy myself with and calm my nerves.

Alan politely introduces me to everyone who approaches him in the same fashion he did with Emma – a 'close friend.' Some - particularly women - don't seem to buy it. Though they smile politely and respond with 'Nice to meet you, Rebecca,' I feel they may as well slap a post-it note to my forehead 'GIRL ALAN IS FUCKING,' imagining they would only gossip about me later. 'Did you see how tight her dress was? Disgraceful.'

My face hurts from smiling at people I don't recognise, until...