by Donna Alam
‘I bet you’d have given him a backstage entrance pass.’
‘I’m not a concert.’
‘You’re sure? Because last night looked like his audition, but the question is, will he be getting a call back?’ When I don’t dignify this with an answer, she points an accusing finger in my direction. ‘I do hope so because you never show interest in anyone, and last night, I think you’d have shagged him on the dance floor!’
‘Can we not do this now,’ I groan, my mind filled with horror—flashes of movement, silhouettes flaring as though lit by a black light. ‘I’m not hydrated enough for a debrief.’ I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. ‘Stop!’ I say, holding up a hand. ‘That’s not what she said.’
Flo laughs. ‘Such movements. You should totes put them on your résumé.’
Her pronunciation sounds terribly French as I groan and plant my head in my hands. ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ I mumble.
‘I think I do.’
‘Please make it stop,’ I say, throwing both my eyes and hands heavenward.
‘You’re such a drama queen,’ she says, still laughing and thoroughly enjoying my pain.
‘Me? You’re the queen of drama. If you hadn’t made me dance, I wouldn’t be sitting here in yesterday’s clothes!’
Without dancing, there would’ve been no need for tequila. Without tequila, there would be no indiscretion to report. No stranger.
I’m not sure I welcome that thought.
‘You should be buying my breakfast as thanks.’
‘Where did you go, anyway?’ I ask, hoping to shift the conversation to her favourite topic. Namely Flo. ‘I can’t remember you being around much after I fell on him.’
‘Fell on his cock, you mean?’
So much for that plan. And why does the word sound so much naughtier in her accent? ‘Shush. Not so loud.’
‘Hungover, sweets?’
‘I can’t believe I went home with him.’ I also don’t realise I’m chewing my thumbnail until Flo pulls it away.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘I was there, keeping an eye on things.’
‘How did you know where I’d be?’ I ask, the thought occurring belatedly. The phone call is one thing, but meeting me here, nearby?
‘I insisted on seeing his driver’s license.’ Flo keeps her eyes on her tea as she stirs. ‘I knew exactly where you’d be.’
‘And you stayed—in the club?’
‘Of course. I was rather taken by the barman. Don’t you remember? He was a bit of a sort.’ London English was sometimes like another language. Why couldn’t she just say the barman was hot?
Folding her arms across her chest, Flo begins the dissection of our evening—the bits I’d missed. The problem started with an open tab at dinner; things had gone downhill very quickly, apparently. As she imparts last night’s hot gossip—who did what and with whom—I try to stay focused on the details, though my mind is overwhelmed by other things . . .
In the stranger’s house, after leading me down a hallway, he’d opened a bottle of wine and poured us both a glass. Soft music played in the background; the lights were low. His manner solicitous, throwing me off balance at the change of pace. What happened to the man who’d pushed me up against the door? I wanted him back. Hard. Fast. More.
He’s an academic, I thought he’d said. Something about teaching, maybe? That didn’t make sense today. There was a certain reserve about him; a power underneath. Something kept on a tight leash. I’ve known teachers in my life. People in the profession usually have an obvious authority about them, not one restrained. A need to be heard. The love of a captive audience.
Captive. My mind slides back to the question of the handcuffs again.
‘Tsk, tsk. A one-night stand,’ she admonishes, chuckling as she pilfers a piece of my breakfast and pops it into her mouth. How she can manage to chew and smile, I don’t know. Oh, for a toothbrush this morning. And a couple of Tylenol.
‘I’m not a virgin,’ I retort half-heartedly.
‘Oh, I know. Maybe just . . . revirginized.’
‘God, you’re so . . . ’ Perceptive?
‘Crass? Yes, so my mother says. But you haven’t had sex since you moved in with me, other than with yourself.’ Jesus, are the walls that thin? ‘What? Am I not supposed to notice?’ I open my mouth to protest—my vibrator cost me a fortune; its motor is as silent as the dead! ‘You work. You run. You knit furiously. Don’t tell me that’s not repressed sexual energy.’
‘That’s not true,’ I manage finally. ‘I’ve been out with you. Besides, knitting is a fashionable pastime.’
‘The pertinent word was “furiously”. And yes, we’ve been out, but you turn down drinks offered. And you ignore the studs at work.’
‘I never mix business and pleasure.’
She sends me a look that suggests I’ve no idea what pleasure is.
‘Sweetie, I find there are few things you can be certain of in life. But, in my experience, three things never lie.’ She begins to count off the items on her left hand. ‘Drunk people, small children, and leggings.’
‘Thank you, Flora. Why, that clears up everything!’ She can be so abstract at times.
‘Last night,’ she begins solemnly, ‘you said you didn’t want him. You’d said you needed him. If that’s not repression, then I’ve no idea what is.’
‘I did not.’
‘You mumbled something else about a bucket list. God knows what,’ she adds with shrug.
‘My bucket list? I’m only twenty-sex—six.’ Lord. ‘I’m only twenty-six, I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
Ignoring her, I carry on. ‘At this age, a bucket list is a bunch of vague notions of places I’d like to visit . . . things I’d like to do.’
‘Then I guess you can check off doing a sexy stranger. That man is hot. I like this new Louise,’ Flo asserts. ‘She should get laid more often. Emotional outbursts suit her.’
‘No,’ I reply quietly. ‘I’ve told you. Being in London isn’t about those kinds of experiences.’ Truthfully, I’ve been hit on plenty since I’d arrived from the States. I’d just promised myself I wouldn’t fuck, get involved, or any of that stuff.
I want culture, experience, and perhaps a promotion. Last night, I strayed from the path I’d set for myself.
Flo sighs. ‘You’ll have the memories. Good ones, I hope?’
Was he good? My bodily aches tell their own tale.
‘That was a hint, by the way. You Americans are so literal.’
‘I literally don’t know what to say.’
‘I know he was a good lay. Your turn. And don’t spare the detail.’
Elbows on the table, she cups her cheeks in her hands. Meanwhile, my latte turns sour in the pit of my gut. She knows he was good in bed? Does that mean she’s had first-hand experience? I can share breakfast but not my men. Or proclivities, I think more frighteningly.
‘What do you mean you know he was good?’ I ask casually.
‘Because, not moments ago, I was recounting some hilarious tale, and you were somewhere else—staring off into the distance. There wasn’t even a flicker of recognition as I told you I’d recently taken part in an orgy at the local rugby club. I told you I’d screwed the entire team. Then both of them—home and away! You were totally zoned out. Face it, you’re still fuck drunk, Louise.’
My relief is swift as I grab my cup, grimacing at the taste of cold coffee.
‘I imagine your vagina has had a thorough seeing to.’
‘And it’s now closed!’ The cup clatters against the saucer as I duck my head.
‘He was that good?’ replies a laughing Flora, her hand gesture the universal sign for “too hot to touch”.
‘I mean the topic of my sex life is closed!’
The next hour passes without further comment on last night, though I sense Flo is just biding her time. I’ve never spoken to her about my past, not that I’ve much
to tell, but this morning’s breakfast seems to have signalled to her that things are about to change. I’m sure she isn’t done with her interrogation.
As we walk home, the familiarity of the area surprises me. It seems my stranger and I live in the same borough. The realisation causes me a disconcerting thrill, especially as new memories and sensations continue to arise.
Last night, after he’d led me into his house, things had seemed stilted and awkward for a few minutes, at least from my side. Somehow, we’d begun a silly word game, and I’m not sure if we’d gotten off track, or if he’d meant things to happen as they did because not long after, he’d led me upstairs.
The Night Before
One
LOUISE
‘You seem nervous.’
The prospect seems to amuse him, but he’s right. It had seemed much easier in the club—easier in the dark of the cab. It felt natural to play along with his promises, the kind of promises that might sound like threats to other girls.
I want to fuck you until you can’t stand.
Sign me up for some of that, but do so quickly because my tequila bravery won’t last forever. Maybe the change of pace has me feeling off balance. His reaction is like the tango; quick-quick, slow. Is it natural to want to be pinned against the door? Held tight in his hands and fucked hard on all fours? And why is he watching me so? Whatever the reason, his eyes remind me of a tiger. And I’m feeling deliciously like his prey.
‘Do you play?’ I ask, my eyes alighting on a chess set. Expensive looking and highly polished, the set appears to be in the middle of a game. ‘What?’ I look up at his low chuckle. ‘What’s funny?
‘Oh, nothing,’ comes his reply, though his expression clearly says otherwise. ‘I do play. Chess and . . . other things.’
‘So cryptic.’ I take another sip of my wine as I continue my examination of the room. Pale, sumptuous sofas, a large oriental rug, and abstract, original artworks. From a chair, he watches me with a dark-eyed confidence as I move around the room. ‘I like games,’ I say, filling the silence. ‘Or at least I did when I was small. Mostly.’ At the incline of his brow, I realise my tone is tinged with bitterness. ‘My brother and I are the kind of fight to the death siblings.’
‘I prefer games of an adult nature and find wagers add to the appeal.’
‘I’ll bet you’ve made that an art form,’ I say, ignoring his meaning. ‘Such a sultry purr,’ I tease, my wave of wine bravery carrying me on. ‘I imagine you’re very popular with the ladies.’
‘I do okay,’ he answers, his eyes heated and hungry as they travel over me. ‘And some nights I do more than okay.’
A little overwhelmed and a lot turned on, I plant myself on the sofa opposite him. I have the insane desire to say let’s fuck, but instead, I manage, ‘Then let’s play.’
‘I don’t think you’re ready for the kind of games I play.’
‘Then why do you think I’m here?’
‘To fuck.’
‘And you’re quite particular in your tastes?’ Despite my cool demeanour, nerve endings seem to pulse at the surface of my skin as I recall his earlier words. I’ll tie you up. Watch every line of your body grow taut with an elegant distress.
‘I believe I said I like hurting pretty girls.’
‘Maybe I’m a pretty girl who likes to be hurt.’ I don’t think my voice has ever sounded so sexual.
‘Maybe you are,’ he answers reasonably. ‘Or maybe you just think you are.’
Oh, God, I am—I want to be. ‘Oh, a dilemma. Am I kinky or vanilla? Where would your money lie?’
‘I’m trying to decide.’
‘Play me to find out,’ I challenge, swirling the wine in my glass. ‘Cards . . . poker . . . you decide. The winner gets to decide how we fuck.’
‘To the victor goes the spoils?’
That sounds a little open-ended. I’m not sure I’m ready for that—all my openings would probably be ended, for sure.
He’s smirking as I look up. I hadn’t said that out loud, had I?
‘Terms to be negotiated following defeat,’ I add, ignoring the possibility.
‘I look forward to it,’ he purrs.
‘Don’t fret. I won’t be too hard on you.’
His deep burst of laughter resounds through the room. ‘I like a woman with confidence. Though I’m not sure I have any playing cards here,’ he says as his eyes drift from mine, scanning the room. ‘Something simpler, perhaps.’ His gaze moves back to me. ‘A word association game.’
‘That sounds like . . . ’ something my brother and I would play on long journeys in the car. Or in other words, not the kind of adult fun I was expecting.
‘Trust me.’ His smirk reappears. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘If you’re after a glimpse into my psyche, you’ll be disappointed.’
‘Sweetheart, by the end of this evening, I’ll know you inside and out.’ His tone drips with innuendo, but before I have a chance to parry, he lays down the rules. ‘The first word that comes into your head, and hesitation earns you a forfeit.’
‘What kind?’ I ask, frowning back at him.
‘You lose clothing.’
‘Oh.’ My frown eases. ‘Prepare to get naked, then.’
‘Peach.’ There was no hint of challenge in the word; I almost didn’t realise we’d started. I was expecting something smutty—rude or risqué.
‘Fuzz?’ Unsettled, my response sounds like a question. I get the sense he’s enjoying my reaction, laughing at me somehow.
‘Knife.’ Eyes are bright with amusement, and his tone gives nothing away as I think, I don’t recall Christian Grey playing these sorts of games, and almost forget to answer.
‘Oh, er, edge!’
‘Oh, dear.’ This sounds more taunt than a consolation. ‘That’s your first one.’ His gaze touches my mouth then dips to my breasts, his smile growing in depth and deviance, halting the breath in my chest.
‘What? No way!’ I more hot than bothered by his bold attentions. I find myself squeezing my thighs, desire coursing through me like an uncertain thrill. New feelings—powerful, too. ‘Well, barely,’ I add, tucking my calves closer to the chair as I reach for my glass.
‘Don’t mutter. It’s unbecoming.’ His accent seems to clip the words into a command, the admonishment making my stomach twist. I have to force myself to sit still—to not squirm in my seat. But, God, I want to. Far too much.
‘Rules are rules.’ He leans further back in his chair, spreading his arms across the back of it. His gaze dips from my face to my chest again. ‘Take it off.’
Nothing in the history of me has every sounded so darkly tempting.
‘Rules are rules,’ I agree, albeit a little breathlessly, as my fingers reach to loosen a pearly button on the placket of my blouse. ‘Even if I do think you’re making them up.’ My fingers shake with the weight of his instruction—with the position I’m about to place myself in.
It’s been a while since I’d had a one-night stand. Hell, it’s been a while since I’d had a man between my legs at all. Surely, it wasn’t supposed to be this unravelling. Surely, I wasn’t supposed to feel this pull to him. This isn’t the tequila; I’m lucid enough to know what I’m doing. Sober enough to feel the subtle zing of our chemistry, the electric-like pulse dancing in the air.
This night is confusing—his intentions hard to decipher—but the bulge in his pants suggests it’ll be worth it in the end. So worth it.
His dark eyes watch on as I pop the last button of my blouse. Unfurling my legs, I stand and slide it from my shoulders. It flutters silently to the carpeted floor. Half undressed, I perch myself back on the very edge of the chair, resisting the urge to hide myself by folding my arms across my chest.
And he just . . . stares. Doesn’t give me a hint to his thoughts, just watches silently. I don’t know what to think, and I don’t know what to feel, though my body seems to speak for me as my nipples pebble under the pale lace and between my legs begins to throb.<
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‘Come.’ The word is low and raspy, and my response is almost instant.
‘Yes! Please and often.’ As though magnetized, my eyes flick to his crotch. ‘Or I could lend you a hand?’ My mouth waters at the prospect, and that little snippet is new. I don’t usually think of blow jobs like lollipops. ‘You didn’t strike me as a brat.’ His brow furrows. ‘It’s a little late in the evening to start acting like one now.’ His gaze alights briefly on his watch as he slides his arms from the back of the chair, reaching to a side table and his own glass.
‘I thought it was an invitation.’ My words are flippant; I don’t like his cool expression—not one bit. I want to force a reaction and desire, quite viscerally, his hands on me.
‘An invitation to put you over my knee, perhaps.’ Taking a sip of his wine, he hides a slow smile behind his glass. ‘You’re making this too easy. Anyone would think you want to lose.’
‘No one likes to lose.’ As I cross my legs, his gaze follows the motion.
‘You’d be surprised,’ he replies cryptically. ‘I’ll say again, come.’
‘Here?’ I try not to cringe as the word trails off to a question. He’s barely touched me since we entered the house, and the longer we play this silly game, the more desperate I feel. I have the insane desire to push him back against the chair and climb all over him, to take control . . . But before the thought is fully formed, he speaks again.
‘Good.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I answer automatically, sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, my head simmering full of half-thoughts. An instant later, I bring my mouth to my hand to swallow my giggle. ‘Oh-oh,’ I sing. ‘I did it again.’
He sighs quietly as he places his glass back. ‘I’m beginning to think you aren’t taking this seriously at all.’
Despite his weary tone, I can almost see the cracks in his composure. So I goad. ‘Come on; this is supposed to be a game. Lighten up! I just—’
‘Thought you’d manipulate the situation?’ In an instant, his fingers are on my chin, his face so close that his breath blows over me, bringing warmth and whisky and want. ‘Were you hoping to make me laugh? Get me to fuck you on your terms?’ His lips brush my cheek so lightly in contrast to his words. ‘Try again, love, and this is your last warning. Good.’