Appeal Denied

2016-LA-25: Motion to Continue Hearing

March 29, 2016 A.M.

Tuesday passed in a blur as Harry "helped" me get ready for work, which meant I was running late by the time I sprinted out of the house. We had compromised on my wardrobe. No, I hadn't kept the expensive Yves St. Laurent outfit he'd bought for me. Instead, I paired my black pencil skirt with a brightly colored top with giant red flowers and a blue and red diamond-patterned pussy bow from his collection.

"Wore that to the Another Man 10th Anniversary party last year," Harry bragged, "And I'm working on a little something with them for this fall."

"You wore this?" I giggled, holding up the shirt on its hanger. I couldn't picture him in the clearly feminine blouse.

At my shocked expression, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through pictures, finally turning the phone to me. Good thing I hadn't yet put on the blouse because the drool that pooled in the corner of my mouth might have dripped down and ruined it. How could he possibly pull off that look? Yet he did.

It finally registered what he'd said. As I hung up the outfit in preparation for dressing after my shower, I casually asked, "So what do you have going on with Another Man?"

His cheeks flooded with the color of embarrassment, and I crossed my arms, leaning against the door jamb to give him my full attention.

"Harry?"

"Oh! You meant the magazine. Not an actual other man." Pretending to swipe away a bead of sweat, he smiled at me.

"Mhm, and what kind of man would interest you?" I asked coyly.

"Only one more handsome than me," was his dry reply, and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

"Whelp, there isn't one, so that's off the table," I remarked, and then smacked my forehead, "You almost had me distracted. What are you doing for the magazine?"

This time he squirmed under my gaze. "A little thing. Some pictures. An interview where I get asked some questions. No big deal."

"No big deal?! Harry! That's awesome! Who's interviewing you?" I turned on the water in the shower before grabbing a towel from the cabinet.

"Um....Paul...," he replied, and I wondered if he'd forgotten the name of the journalist.

"Paul who?" I pressed.

"Um....McCartney."

My jaw fell open and I dropped the towel, staring at my partner as he announced that Sir Paul Fucking McCartney of the Beatles was going to interview him. At his sly and nervous smile, I decided to be fake nonchalant about it. "Oh. You're right. No big deal."

"Brains....." he started as I stuck my hand under the water to test the temperature.

"Yeah. No big deal. I mean, he probably interviews loads of people. Has tons of time to just sit around chatting with new artists." I couldn't contain my excitement anymore though, "Holy fucking shit, Harry! How are you not freaking out?!"

He shrugged, and that's when I decided that internally he was doing a happy dance while terrified beyond words. Wrapping my hand around his neck, I drew his mouth to mine, kissing him deeply, trying to convey my pride and lend him my confidence all at the same time. "You're going to be great, Butterfly Boy," I whispered before climbing in the shower.

That wasn't what had me rushing to get out of the house on time, though.

Ten minutes later, I was applying eyeliner, not yet dressed as he approached me on his way to the shower. His hand smoothed over my ass, slapping it once with a resounding smack that most likely left a red mark. My eyes widened, and I made contact with his in the mirror.