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Easy Page 38

by Donna Alam


  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Images danced behind my eyelids as though shown on screen; cuffs, hands, teeth. Hot, heavy kisses. Discomfort. The chaffing of rope. An avid audience. ‘Can I j-just get over last night first?’

  Dan laughs, drawing me closer and kissing the crown of my head. ‘You never get over ropes, but I was referring to the rest of the day. How about brunch?’

  ‘Oh.’ My cheeks burn immediately. Seems this spiral is all of my own making.

  ‘Not that I don’t have a million nefarious plans rattling around in here.’ He taps his head. ‘If I can persuade you to stay.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got things to do. If you want me to stay, you might have to tie me to the bed . . . ’

  ‘If you ask nicely,’ he answers, leaning over me to glance at the bedside clock. ‘I might just do that.’

  As he moves, I get an inadvertent glimpse of his tattoo. The words in swirling script make me feel quite sick. Belle.

  ‘But I thought we might go for brunch first.’ When I don’t answer, Dan turns to me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What does this say?’ I ask carefully, reaching around him to draw a finger across the ink.

  ‘Sois belle et tais-toi.’ His French accent sounds perfect, but what would I know.

  ‘What are the chances,’ I ask carefully, ‘it translates to I used to be married to a cunt?’

  His smile is almost sad. The reasons behind I don’t want to think about.

  ‘I had stuff added to the original one. It more or less now says; Look pretty and shut up.’

  ‘That’s . . . not great.’

  ‘It was either that or some trite comment about beauty. Written above my arse, I might add.’

  His ass is worthy of the title, but I don’t tell him that. All this talk of his past? It seems a little too much. And why does it make me sad? Could it be because the woman looks like a china doll? Or that she bore him a son?

  ‘Why?’ I whisper, not quite daring to look him in the eye.

  He tilts his chin to his chest and looks down at me in confusion. ‘The tattoo? Because laser surgery wasn’t appealing.’ When I don’t answer, he adds, ‘Why brunch? Sustenance—a social ritual?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ Tell me why I’m like this. I can’t make sense of my thoughts, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. Instead, I hear myself asking, ‘What is it you like about me?’

  ‘You mean apart from your arse?’ He folds his body over mine, his hands sliding around my hips.

  ‘Be serious. What is it that—’

  ‘Drew me in? What’s not to like?’ he asks, incredulously.

  ‘Past experiences tell me kind of a lot.’ I don’t do relationships and can’t remember the last time I felt invested or involved. As for the rest, I’m passably pretty, I think, plucking at the sheet by my hips. I have a pretty good track record at attracting the opposite sex. For a little time, at least. But I’m not beautiful, not like Belle.

  Breathing out, long and hard, I can almost feel Dan’s displeasure. But I’m not trawling for compliments. I really just need to hear it from him.

  ‘Darling, you are beautiful, but in a very unapproachable way.’

  ‘That’s not right. I’m not—’

  ‘You’re prickly. And I like that.’

  ‘Like a hedgehog?’ My words are incredulous.

  ‘No,’ he scoffs, trying not to laugh. ‘Hedgehogs are cute.’

  ‘You’d better qualify that statement. I’m ready to push you off this bed.’

  ‘You’re cold—’

  ‘Not helping!’

  ‘On the outside, at least. But, by Christ, I’ve never known a woman burn so hot in my arms.’ Breath literally leaves my chest in a soft whoosh. ‘Most people probably don’t realise that stay away veneer you wear is because you’re not comfortable in your own skin. I think drunk Louise drowned all that out.’

  ‘Maybe drunk Louise was just out to get laid.’

  ‘Drunk Louise was unafraid and full of truth.’

  ‘Drunk Louise left your house with a smile on her face.’

  We both try to bite back our smiles. We both lose.

  ‘This Louise in my bed is all new. Full of challenge and daring, she’s burrowed under my skin.’

  ‘So now I’m a parasite. Prickly and a rash? I could be something you’re allergic to.’

  ‘I said under my skin, though I do like you naked and over my skin.’ His words come out in a rush as Dan sits up, swinging his legs out of the bed. ‘Come on, lazy daisy. Stop fishing for compliments and get dressed.’

  And with that, he bends and kisses me on my forehead, then bounces from the bed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LOUISE

  What if he breaks my heart?

  ‘Isn’t it called the British disease?’ We sit outside a café on a quintessential English spring day. The pale sun hangs low in the sky, providing just enough light to give the appearance of warmth.

  ‘Since when has spanking been considered a disease?’ One fine brow rises as Dan taps the article I’ve spread out on the table. ‘Le vice Anglais. I think I prefer that.’

  The article is in a Sunday supplement left behind by the previous table occupants. An article discussing the rise of kink and, more specifically, spanking clubs. It’s strange Sunday morning reading, for sure.

  What if he breaks my heart? What if he can’t make room for me?

  My heart beats louder, so much so that I can hear it pounding in my ears.

  ‘Vice, disease. Same diff,’ I say, flicking my hand with inconsequence. Inconsequence I don’t feel. The closeness of a couple seated at the next table makes me uncomfortable as thoughts run through my head like a pack of wild, rabid dogs.

  ‘I prefer vice to disease,’ he replies evenly. ‘Disease implies there’s something to cure.’ Dan places down his cup, folding his arms across his solid chest and stretching his legs under the table in satisfaction. ‘It’s a lifestyle choice, not an affliction.’ His voice, a touch loud, carries in the air.

  What if he hurts me in a way I can’t stand?

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I murmur, turning the page. My eyes flick to the suddenly quiet couple, gliding past them in an effort to seem unconcerned. It’s as if I can see their ears straining, not appreciating being part of their morning entertainment. Like a freak in a side show.

  What if he breaks my heart? Shatters my soul?

  ‘No one forces you, Louise.’ His eyes rise slowly, full of knowledge and filth, causing my belly to fizz. ‘More than you want me to. True?’

  ‘True. No hypothetical person or persons force me against my will. Much . . . much more than I can stand.’ So far.

  He turns his head to the couple, perhaps sensing their ears, too. He flashes the pair a dazzling smile before stating, ‘Safe, sane, and consensual; all the cool kids are doing it now.’

  The woman of the pair turns quite pink—by his attentions or words, it’s hard to tell. They’re effusive in the return to their own conversation, anyway.

  Dan’s chest moves in some semblance of a laugh as he turns to me again. His voice quieter now, he asks, ‘What’s bothering you?’

  Under the weight of his gaze, I sit very still, fighting the instinct to spit an unfriendly response. When I don’t answer, he slides a foot between mine as I decide it was a good idea to pack an overnight bag; skinny jeans, a long-sleeved tee, and her leather biker-esque jacket.

  Another nudge to my foot brings me back to his gaze. ‘Well?’

  ‘It comes easier to you guys . . . the British thing. You just have to watch a little TV to see how different your outlook is.’ Deflecting. I could at least try, though it might’ve helped if I’d thought things through rather than just babbling words.

  ‘You mean beyond the stiff upper lip, we’re all rampantly free? You’re elevating a bit of nudity and swearing on the idiot box to something that isn’t.’

  ‘You mean you’re as repressed as the next nation?’ My disbelieving brow lifts.
He’s obviously never watched anything recently on HBO.

  ‘If you’re a representative of a particular nation, then perhaps not,’ he says, chuckling. ‘But I do believe we’re getting there. Getting you there. Fuck, I’m getting hard.’ His eyes slide from mine as he discreetly adjusts himself under the tabletop.

  ‘The journey isn’t the issue. It’s the destination that frightens the hell out of me.’ My words are mumbled as I screw my paper napkin into a tourniquet around my finger.

  ‘The destination is wherever you get off.’

  If I had a dick, I’d be joining him in some discreet beneath-the-table rumbling. His cut-glass accent and honeyed purr. The double meanings. The suggestion of reprimand.

  What if he hurts me?

  ‘Torture’s in your blood,’ I whisper. ‘It’s easier for you to accept; it’s in your history.’ Fire, brimstone, and the wrath of hell is in mine. ‘The English vice, the Victorian vice. Everyone knows you Brits are a kinky lot.’

  More than I can stand.

  ‘You keep arguing the point like it’s academic, like you have no participation. I’m beginning to become quite offended.’ His tone holds a note of seriousness as he slides his hands towards mine. ‘Yes, I like hurting pretty girls, but you’re a pretty girl who likes to be hurt. I also like taking pretty girls—that would be you in this instance—out to dinner and the cinema, given the opportunity. I’d also like pretty girls— that’s you again, by the way—to be curled on my sofa with a book while I cook. We aren’t a nation of deviants any more than Americans are a nation of Bible-thumping extremists. Just because I like you over my knee doesn’t mean I resent my mother or that I secretly craved being buggered at school by the upper sixth.’

  This isn’t working. This isn’t talking either of us out of it.

  ‘Nature versus nurture.’ He snorts, raking long fingers through his dark hair. ‘It’s such bullshit. We are what we are just because we are.’ But his eyes slide from mine in an uncharacteristically reticent moment. ‘And I like who you are more than anything else. I like you and want to be with you. Can’t you just accept that?’

  My heart lifts as I swallow audibly. Not that it takes much to lift, malnourished and perhaps underdeveloped as it probably is. This isn’t the first time Dan had alluded to actual feelings, though it was the first time he’d done so outside the bedroom. But that he mirrors my own growing sentiments doesn’t help. Not one bit.

  What if I can’t do this? What if I hurt him?

  Without answering him, I reach for my coffee cup, hoping its bitter contents could dissolve the ache.

  ‘Not quite what you expected?’ His words are quiet, and there’s an almost rueful twist to his mouth. ‘An escape from the subconscious. Very much conscious, I’m afraid now. Becoming more so by the day.’ He clears his throat, straightening on his chair, his hand retracting slowly across the table.

  Are we falling in love?

  ‘I don’t even know what you do for a living,’ I say, hoping to change the direction of the conversation. How was it possible we haven’t discussed this kind of stuff? For the same reason you didn’t want to tell him your name, my mind whispers. Because you didn’t want this to be real.

  ‘Because you’ve never asked,’ he said, standing and holding out his hand.

  I thread my fingers through his; holding hands no longer foreign territory between us but feeling as natural as when he pins them to the bed. Things are changing. Maybe it’s time I stop lying to myself because casual isn’t the ache you feel when you’re home alone and wanting to be near him. It isn’t the clawing need to feel him between your legs. And it isn’t placing your teeth over his scar, desperate to overcome the brand with one of your own.

  We trace our path back to his home but barely speak. At the garden gate, ever the gentleman, Dan gestures me ahead, giving rise to a sudden thought. My mother would think him ideal. She’d approve of his looks and his beautiful manners. And his accent, of course. My father, though . . . he doesn’t believe in divorce. But then, he doesn’t rule my life anymore. It’s strange how I can hear my mother’s voice asking me, Honey, what’s the problem?

  Then I realise one of the problems stares at me from the door. A note in an immature hand.

  Pulling it from the door, Dan reads, ‘Gone to Benjamin’s house. Mummy says you’ll pick me up. Can we have pizza for supper?’ Pausing, Dan looks to be thinking twice about folding it into his pocket. ‘What in God’s name did he use to stick it to the wood?’ he mutters, his fingers rubbing through the sticky brown residue on the paint.

  ‘Looks like Nutella,’ I murmur as he pushes the door wide. ‘You should buy the boy a cell phone.’

  Closing the door with his heel, Dan wraps an arm around my waist. I feel him sigh against my back as he rests his chin on my shoulder.

  ‘Is it Hal that worries you?’

  I make to pull away, murmuring my denials as his arms tighten.

  ‘The idea of Hal? My responsibilities?’ I shake my head; it wasn’t really, was it? ‘Tell me what it is.’

  I set my jaw and tilt my head, turning swiftly to look at him. ‘This wasn’t supposed to get real.’ If it sounds like an accusation, it’s because it is.

  He sighs, this time with frustration. ‘You really are the most infuriating woman. This may have begun in the realms of fantasy—an unlikely scenario, absolutely—for the start of a relationship. But at some point between our first fuck and the last, things have become very real. For both of us.’

  My teeth feel the strain of biting back tears, my brow creases and my gaze not on him. What if? What if? What if?

  ‘Look at me.’ Harsh, his command leaks disapproval but not scorn.

  Aiming for defiance, I raise my head slowly, chin rising high and haughty. My battle armour. My push to his shove. My silent go fuck yourself hanging in the air.

  ‘We’ve spent more hours together than most people do through months of dating,’ he says, stepping into me. ‘What started out as you exploring what you like to think of as your ugly side turned out to be quite beautiful in the end.’ His dark gaze bores into mine. ‘Admit it, Louise. You like me.’

  Options, wants, and needs run quicksilver through my mind as his fingers tighten, his expression becoming fierce.

  ‘You’ll give me an answer,’ he grates out, ‘even if I have to take it out of your hide.’ He smiles almost cruelly. ‘But that’s right up your alley, as they say. And not how this is playing out today.’

  He spins me in his arms, pushing me along the hall to the base of the stairs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LOUISE

  Sitting on the chair in the bedroom, Dan draws one shod foot on top of his knee. A large hairbrush dangles from the fingers of his right hand. It’s a very utilitarian kind of piece with a wide wooden paddle and a mass of metal spines. It’s the kind of brush suited to a Rapunzel mane, the kind requiring a hundred strokes at night.

  I frown, disturbed by the brush but not for the reasons you might think. It isn’t the kind of hairbrush a man uses, but as he swishes the bristles back and forth along his thigh, the motion is mesmerising.

  ‘It has possibilities,’ he drawls, ‘but not much imagination, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ My voice is soft, the quiver in it audible as he taps the wooden back absently against his knee.

  ‘I was thinking I’d beat it from you.’ Angling the brush upwards, he shakes it a little in the air. ‘Extract an answer by means of this,’ he says, bringing it down to his thigh sharp and swift. ‘Smack your arse until it’s red and smarting and you’re just dying to tell me why you insist on shutting me out.’

  ‘For a minute, I thought you were going to threaten to take it out on my hair,’ I reply, pulling a distasteful face. ‘A brush is your answer? Surely, the metal spatula would’ve been worse.’ Excited? Nervous? More than a little scared? None of these cover how I feel right now, despite my flippant response.

  Flippant or n
ot, Dan smiles indulgently before throwing the thing onto the mattress where it lands with a soft thunk.

  ‘It’s not the weapon, but the arm that wields it. And the intent.’

  Reaching for the threatening item, I turn it in my hands. ‘It’s a very feminine piece,’ I state evenly, trying not to show my hand.

  ‘What’s feminine about it?’ Rising, Dan takes it from my hand as he lowers himself next to me on the bed. ‘I rather thought hairbrushes were unisex,’ he says, weighing the item in his palm. ‘It’s a solid piece of apparatus, this.’

  As though to prove a point, he slaps the pale wood against the palm of his left hand. My body jumps at the point of impact, my telling gaze sliding away. I don’t need to tell him how exciting I found that.

  ‘Long hair, that is . . . i-it’s a brush for long hair,’ I stutter, sliding a chunk of hair behind my ear, my tongue darting out to wet my dry lips.

  At the action, Dan’s fingers reach out, pushing the curl across my shoulder where he twists it around his finger. ‘No, it isn’t Belle’s brush. Nothing in this room belongs to her now. Actually, I bought this thinking of you.’

  As my brow creases, he begins to touch it to the very ends of my hair, toying with them at first before gathering the strands. I half expect him to fist it at the nape of my neck, but instead, he lets the weight of my hair fall over his palm as he begins running the brush from nape to ends. After a moment, my head falls back at the unexpected action. I don’t remember when someone last brushed my hair for me.

  Silence follows. I’m aware of nothing but the sound of the bristles slowly sliding through my hair. With each stroke, my spine liquefies until Dan’s chest is the only thing supporting me. Placing the brush down, Dan folds me in his arms, pulling my back flat against him.

  As we sit, I become aware of the differing layers of noises in the distance. A car passing, children playing in a nearby garden. My body and mind absorb the stillness, recognising it for what it was. Peace. I’m not thinking or overthinking. No fretting about what might be. I don’t need to as reality crystallises in my mind.

 

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