The Key

by Geraldine O'Hara

  He put his hands on my shoulders. My heart did this strange little skittery thing, and I was short of breath. I closed my eyes, willed myself to stop being such a daft tart and just pretend, for the time it took between now and getting home, that I was Chantal, more than just Jane Smith with a French accent.

  “Thank you for last night,” he said, then touched his lips to one of my shoulders. “Arc de Triomphe.”

  I was hard pressed not to cry. That had been a tender moment, one I’d never experienced before. I smiled, eyesight blurring, the door appearing as though it belonged in a watercolour painting. He took his hands away, and I heard him walk off and a door opening then closing. I turned, spotting the other door, and assumed it was his en suite. Leaving the room, I stood out on the landing and hurriedly dressed, leaving the stockings off, stuffing them into my raincoat pocket. One of the toe ends dangled out, reminding me of his tie. I smiled to myself and leaned against the wall, recalling everything about last night from the moment I’d peered through The Plough window until the time I’d fallen asleep.

  It felt as if it had been much longer, those hours, a whole day instead of just an evening. I’d had my first one-night stand, could only hope that it would be my last, that we had something worth pursuing. He liked me a lot, he’d said so, yet good things like this didn’t happen to me, so I expected it all to come crashing down the second he sped away after dropping me off at my flat.

  The door to his room swung open, startling me away from the wall. He came out, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, a tight-fitting black T-shirt stretched across a chest I knew to be muscled, firm and decorated with a soft pelt. I sighed, remembering the feel of it beneath my hands, and smiled at him as he saw me standing there.

  “Oh, I thought you would’ve gone downstairs to help yourself to coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.”

  “That would have been presumptuous of me,” I said. “And besides, your worktops are empty. I do not know where you keep your kettle.”

  “There is that,” he said, taking my hand and tugging me along the landing. “How are you this morning?”

  “Very well, thank you. And you?”

  “The same. More than very well, actually.”

  We went down the stairs, me finding it a bit of a job with the heels on, but I made it safely to the bottom, then went to walk to the front door. What else did one do after a one-night stand? His hand slipped from mine, and I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he was following.

  “So you don’t want coffee, then?” he asked, jerking his head towards the kitchen door.

  I estimated around five minutes had passed since I’d looked at the clock in his bedroom. I supposed I still had enough time to stay here a little while longer.

  “All right,” I said. “But I must be out of here by seven-thirty. I have been to the ball, turned back into a normal woman, and really need to get ready for work.”

  “We’ll be quick, I promise.” He turned away and went to the kitchen door. This time he checked to see if I’d followed.

  I hadn’t. I stood there staring at him, thinking how bloody easy it would be to share his life if he was as easy-going as he’d been so far. I had a brief flicker of a visual in my mind of us both reading via lamplight, glancing up occasionally to smile at one another before returning to our books. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  I pulled myself out of wishing and went into the kitchen with him. He opened a tall floor cupboard. The inside of the door was like a fridge, with shelving that held ground coffee and powdered creamer, breakfast cereals and other morning items. One of the main interior shelves had a coffee maker on it. He filled the top section with bottled water, added scoops of coffee grounds, then switched the machine on. I watched him, mesmerised as he got everything a person could need to start their day displayed on the table.

  “Will you join me?” he asked, drawing a chair out.

  I moved forward, conscious of appearing like a slut after a drunken bender, and sat, wondering how he could even look at me with my hair shrieking for a brush, my teeth, too, and my bare legs unsightly without their stockings.

  “You still look beautiful,” he said, sliding a bowl across the table to put it in front of me. “I can tell what you’re thinking, you know.”

  “I probably look disgusting,” I said, glad that I’d managed to inject a no-nonsense, this-is-a-fact edge to my words. “I do not like the morning after, not that I have had any with men I have only just met.”

  “Ah.” He sat to my right. “I had a feeling, despite you coming across as forward, that you weren’t really, that you hadn’t behaved like that before.”

  Shit, and there was me thinking I’d successfully pulled the wool over his eyes. “No, but it was fun being someone else. I would like to do it again, but I suspect that the moment you drop me off that will be the end, despite what you have said.”

  “Then you’d be wrong.”

  He got up and dropped a kiss on the top of my head, and from the sounds going on behind me, I guessed he was getting the coffee. The smell of it drifted towards me, and I longed for a cup to not only wake me up properly but smooth the ragged edges of my nerves that had decided to act a little torn. I was afraid of rejection, that was it, and the sooner he got rid of me the better. I could continue with my crappy little life and look back on this time with a sad smile and a Sainsbury’s carrier bag full of what-ifs.

  He poured me a cup. “Help yourself to sugar and whatnot. Something to eat?”

  “Thank you. I am not hungry, though.” That was a lie, I was ravenous, but like I’d told him last night, I wasn’t a dainty eater. The last thing I wanted was to have milk dribbling down my chin or oats and raisins attaching themselves to my bottom lip instead of going inside my mouth where they belonged.

  “Fair enough, whatever makes you happy.”

  He sat then filled his bowl with muesli, seeming totally at ease with having a Neanderthal-looking woman sitting at his table. All I needed was a leg of lamb in one hand and a club in the other and I’d be set.

  “What do you do for a living?” he asked, adding milk to his bowl.

  “I work in an office. I do not enjoy it, but it pays the bills, no? What about you?” I added two sweeteners and a spoonful of creamer to my coffee. Sipped and closed my eyes while swallowing.

  “Same as you.”

  “Ah. You do not enjoy it either?” I opened my eyes.

  “Yes, I enjoy it, although I hardly need to be there anymore. They can get along well enough without me, which is why I wondered if you could take the day off. But”—he lifted one hand to stop me repeating what I’d already told him—“I know you have to go in.” He paused. “Mind you, there’s always that thing called ringing in sick.”

  “Are you saying you wish to spend the day with me?” I asked, blinking, telling myself I’d made a rather massive assumption.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. What do you think?”

  “What would we be doing?” I kept my eyes down, drank some more coffee.

  “Whatever you want, but I thought it might be nice to have a walk by the river then have a pub lunch.”

  “That would be very nice. I need a moment to think about it.” And it would only be a moment. I could call in sick, but… God, I couldn’t walk down by the river in these bloody clothes. “Okay, I agree, but I still have to go home to change. I do not wear this kind of thing all the time. I am sure you are happy to hear that. I am also sure you would not want to take me out as I look now. People would think you had picked me up on a street corner.”

  “So?”

  I shook my head. “I will wear my usual clothes for this jaunt.”

  We sat in comfortable silence, and once we’d finished, I stood and allowed him to take me home in his red sports car. Discussing what books we liked on the journey was interesting, and I felt that at last I’d found someone of like mind. He parked outside my place and glanced out of the driver’s-side window at Mr Big Bollocks.

&
nbsp; “That your swollen neighbour?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “It is. He is waiting for me to come out of my flat to go to work. He will be surprised to see me get out of this car.” And you’ll be surprised if he speaks to me and I have to answer with an English accent. This had the potential of being a bit of a mess. I wasn’t ready to reveal Jane Smith to him. She belonged in my past, but I knew she couldn’t stay there indefinitely. At some point, if David wanted to see me more often, I’d have to confess that he’d been fooled into liking a French woman who was nothing but a fraud.

  “Shall I wait here or go into your flat with you?” he asked. “I’m quite happy to do either. Whatever you want.”

  “Come with me,” I said before I’d had a chance to think about it. “Perhaps then he will stop this silly gardening business if he sees another man is on the scene.”

  “I shall play the possessive boyfriend to the max,” he said and grinned.

  Oh. I really did like him. A lot.

  We got out of the car. Mr Big Bollocks straightened up. This morning he had a shovel instead of his usual little trowel. He stared at us as he dug the end of it into the ground and held the handle with both hands, using it as a cane.

  I scuttled past, not looking at him, and made it to the bottom of the steps, David swaggering behind me.

  “Morning, Jane,” Mr Big Bollocks shouted.

  I ignored him and went up the steps, fumbled in my raincoat pocket for my keys, then opened the flat door. Once inside, I sighed out my relief, stooped to pick up the mail then tossed it onto the coffee table. Turned to see David had come in, was closing the door, a frown firmly in place.

  “Jane?” he asked.

  My stomach plummeted.

  It seemed my lies had caught up with me quicker than I’d thought they would.

  Chapter Seven

  I would just have to tell some more.

  “He has me mixed up with someone else. Always getting us mixed up, silly man. No matter how often I tell him I am not Jane, he calls me Jane anyway.”

  “So who is Jane?” he asked, frowning.

  “A friend. She is here sometimes. She is the one he should be calling Jane.”

  His frown melted away and he smiled. “Ah, I see. That explains it then. For a minute there I thought you’d been lying to me, that you weren’t called Chantal Rossi at all.”

  “Lie? Moi?” I slapped my hand to my chest, hoping it didn’t come off as an exaggerated gesture. “Good heavens, no. I would do no such thing.”

  Oh, God, this was getting messier by the minute. I’d heard once that one lie led to another, and before you knew it you’d got yourself into a bit of a tangle, but until this morning I’d never seen the proof of the pudding. Now I was eating a great big serving of it—chocolate cheesecake if I had a choice—but it was far too sickly for my liking. I wasn’t enjoying lying, of course I wasn’t, but Jane Smith wasn’t his brand of female. She couldn’t be, because who the hell would want her? What man in his right mind…?

  “I need to take a shower and brush my teeth,” I said. “You understand, no? Last night was a little…dirty.”

  “Ah, yes, I do understand, and if it’s all right with you, I’ll come in with you.”

  “Pardon?” I said, thrown off guard. I’d planned to take my mobile into the bathroom and ring my boss from there. I could hardly phone in using a French accent, now, could I? Bugger.

  He shrugged and smiled. “I thought it might be fun. And that’s what I said in my ad, wasn’t it? That I was out to have some fun. Are you up for it? I didn’t have time to shower at mine, as you know, and I also got caught up in the dirtiness last night…”

  “Of course,” I said. “That would be acceptable.”

  I slid my raincoat and little jacket off, tossing them over the back of the sofa. Kicked off my heels and left them where they’d landed. Leading the way, swaying once again like a bitch on heat—the exposure of the corset had done that—I took him through to the little hallway that led to my room and the bathroom. Wondered what he thought of such a confined space. It was big enough to suit me and proved my point from last night. No one needed such a humungous place to live in.

  The bathroom proved a tight squeeze. We were sandwiched together—in a good way, although I did feel self-conscious about my front squashing against his as we tried to manoeuvre so we could both get undressed. At one point we banged heads, him bending over to remove his sweatpants, me leaning forward to toss my skirt into the laundry hamper. Nervous laughter ensued, and I called on Chantal to fully show her bloody self, otherwise I’d flounder once I got in that shower and he joined me. I unlaced the corset enough that I could step out of it instead of removing the laces completely. I threw it into the hamper as well, then, without looking at him as he began to lift his T-shirt off, I slipped my knickers down my legs and turned to switch the shower on.

  My knickers tangled around my ankles, and I skewed sideways, banging my hip on the edge of the sink. My face burned—God, that was so something Jane would have done, the silly little mare—then righted myself, kicking away the offending garment and stubbing my toe on the toilet pedestal in the process. I gritted my teeth so I didn’t let out a moan of pain and looked at David, who was thankfully still in the throes of removing his top, the fabric completely covering his face.

  Taking a deep breath then letting it out, I finally managed to press the shower button and vowed not to wear any knickers from now on, whenever I was with David. It would add to the sluttiness of Chantal, anyway, so there was always something good to come out of something bad. Every cloud had a silver lining. I was extremely thankful he hadn’t seen me stumble or the toe-stub that had followed, and went about climbing into the tub, praying I didn’t slip arse over tit and really give him a reason to get as far away from me as he sodding well could.

  The water hitting me was wonderful, and I closed my eyes, tipping my head back to let the stream soak my hair, completely forgetting about David. Until he got in, too, and his cock brushed one of my thighs.

  “Oh!” I said, snapping my head down to look at him through the indoor rain. “It’s you.”

  “Yes, who else did you expect? Jane?”

  I laughed, a little uncontrollably and for far too long, but he didn’t seem to find it the least bit off-putting. So I went for it and laughed some more, reaching for the gel and pouring out a good handful. I soaped him up, very Chantal-like, and watched his cock grow with every sweep of my hands. Goodness, either he was always up for it or he really did like me. I took the time to wash him, to explore him, get to know the planes of his body in an altogether different way to last night. He didn’t touch me, just kept his hands by his sides, and I didn’t dare to look him directly in the face.

  “This is nice, no?” I asked. “Me touching you, and you letting me without interference. Sometimes it is good to just take.” I slid one hand down to his erection and took him in a firm grip.

  “I’m discovering that,” he said, “although it’s a bit hard—”

  “Oh, it is more than a bit hard—”

  “It’s a bit hard to keep my hands off you. I’m finding myself unsure of whether I should just take you here and now, against the tiles, or wait for you to offer. I don’t like to presume, but God, I want to fuck you again.”

  I looked up at him, feeling all mouth and no trousers. Could I do this? “Fuck me then.” Why yes, it seemed I could. “Now. Against the tiles like you have said. Ravish Chantal. Yes, ravish her!” It seemed once again my alter ego had come out to play. She was such a dirty darling.

  “Will you allow me to give, and you to just take?” he asked.

  “Yes, do with me what you will. I am open to suggestions.”

  I stopped soaping him, regretfully let go of his cock and, in one of the boldest moves of my life, picked up the gel, squeezed out another blob, and started washing my tits. He widened his eyes then slipped his arms around me, holding me close, his hard-on pressed to my thigh. He looke
d down to watch me paying extra attention to the cleaning of my nipples, and his cock throbbed, the tip tapping at the apex of my legs as though asking for me to open the door to my more-than-eager cunt and let him barge right in. I opened my legs, twisted so my back faced the tiles, then raised one foot to brace it on the opposite side of the bath. He followed, settling between my legs, fondled my arse then, without warning, hoisted me up and impaled me on his cock.

  I sank down, the stretch so sublime I cried out. Head back, eyes closed, I carried on playing with my nipples while he shunted in and out of me, a rhythm that was so fast my back squeaked against the tiles. The hot touch of his lips on my collarbone had me imagining him bending his head, his hair getting soaked, the water rushing across his chest then down to soak my already wet pussy, his already wet cock. I couldn’t resist and opened my eyes to glance at where our bodies joined. Seeing him going in and out of me did funny things to my insides, sent them to mush, and an orgasm started growing, one that came on so swiftly it threatened to knock me seven ways to Sunday.

  “Oh, sacré bleu!” I said. “This is… This is… Oh!”

  It gripped me, took over me, and I became a shuddering, spasming wreck. As the sensations washed over me, growing in strength, he groaned, his cock pulsing. He held me by the waist, jamming me up and down onto him, and I couldn’t take anymore. Shocks of pleasure zipped through me, and I panted, moaned, panted again. On the upstroke he lifted me off his cock and pressed me to the tiles so I didn’t fall down.

  I took him in hand, worked his cock as fast as I could until he canted his hips and spurted over my lower belly. The sight of him coming on me had my clit tingling all over again, but I was still reeling from the first orgasm and didn’t have the energy for another. I looked up at him, at his eyes scrunched tightly closed, him juddering, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Why had fate finally decided she really ought to send me a man like him? What had I done to deserve this gift?