Justine Elyot - Fast And Loose

What was I going to do? Could I make something up? But what? Couldn’t I just say it was a news blog or a fashion blog or a…

He came back in with a bag of Bird’s Eye’s finest and rubbed them against my ankle.

‘Christ!’ I yelped, kicking away as fast as I could. ‘It’s freezing!’

‘You seem surprised,’ he said, laughing at me.

‘I’m not – it’s just…wouldn’t a bit of coldish water do?’

He rolled his eyes and left the room again, giving me a bit more time to play with.

A fashion blog? But then it would seem weird to be so concerned about its disappearance. And if I spun some yarn about a news blogger disappearing, he’d jump all over it and want to investigate.

Would it be so difficult to tell him the truth?

He returned half a minute later with a basin of cool water. I put my foot in it and he pulled up my dressing-table stool and sat on it, hands on his knees, leaning towards me with clear and eager expectation.

‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘You promised me something.’

‘It’s nothing really,’ I said, fidgeting with the keyboard.

He shook his head sternly.

‘I don’t think so, missy,’ he said. ‘Spill, or there’ll be trouble.’

Trouble, eh? Despite my nerves, a spark ignited between my tired legs.

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘You’re not too grown-up to go across my knee, young lady.’

Oh, my God! Did he actually just say that?

All I could do was stare foolishly at him, my jaw apparently frozen.

‘You think I’m joking?’ he said, his voice now low and seductive. ‘Come on, Foxy. Out with it.’

He was joking. He must have been.

I held my breath for the time it took to log on, a torrent of possible things to say rushing through my mind, all of them inappropriate and embarrassing.

‘So there was this blogger,’ I said, much too fast, my words pouring out with the long-held breath. ‘She seemed to be getting into some kind of weird stuff. And she was about to go on this maybe quite risky, uh, journey, and then she never updated and her blog has been taken down.’

‘And you think something’s happened to her?’

I nodded.

He put a hand on mine.

‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said, so gently I wanted to cry. ‘You’re shaking. You’re really that worried about her?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ I said, running a fishnetted forearm across my eyes. ‘Dunno. It’s probably nothing. Anyway.’ I made a dive for the off switch, but Tom was having none of it.

‘You’re worried,’ he said firmly. ‘So it isn’t nothing. And you can’t leave it there. You haven’t told me anything yet.’

‘I…it’s difficult,’ I muttered.

‘Why is it difficult? What’s the weird, risky stuff you were talking about? Is she an undercover journalist or something? Getting in deep with criminals? Terrorists? The government? MI5? Old TV personalities of the 1970s?’

I snorted despite my anxieties.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re miles off track. It’s nothing like that.’

My ears burned. They must have been bright red. I could always put it down to the vigorous activities we’d recently engaged in, but somehow I didn’t think he’d fall for it.

‘Oh!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Online dating. Meeting strange men off the internet? I’m right, aren’t I?’

I stared at my Ripper Street wallpaper. The lawmen of Whitechapel stared accusingly back out at me. They would have guessed it by now, I bet.

‘I’m right,’ said Tom, sitting back with a self-congratulatory grin. ‘Oh, Foxy. You haven’t resorted to Plenty of Fish, have you? You only had to call me.’

‘No,’ I said crossly. ‘Wrong again. It’s not online dating…not exactly, anyway.’

‘Wife swapping? Sex dungeons? A cam girl! Is it a cam girl?’

‘No, but you weren’t far off with one of those.’

‘Ooh. Come on. You might as well tell me or I’ll carry on making wilder and wilder guesses. You won’t shock me, I promise. You probably won’t even surprise me.’

He winked and I squirmed in my seat.

‘You think?’ I said.

He took hold of my hands and held them tight, looking seriously into my eyes.

‘I think,’ he said quietly. ‘So, here’s my theory. Would you say that you might perhaps be a little bit…kinky?’

I held myself still, not daring to breathe. The only things that might have moved were my pupils, which, I’m pretty sure, were dilated as fuck. If they were, they’d have matched his. He looked positively brimful of lascivious curiosity.

‘What makes you say that?’ I whispered.

‘I’m a journalist. I pick up on clues,’ he said. ‘The corset, the Victoriana, the subtle hints in the way you kiss…’

‘Really? It’s that obvious? It can’t be!’ I was horrified. I might just as well have been walking around town with a billboard marked SUBMISSIVE, if he was right.

His grave expression dissolved into something more puckish.

‘Nah, I’m kidding you. There’s, uh, a book in your bedside drawer, underneath the thesaurus. I spotted it when I was getting the painkillers.’

‘Oh.’ I smote my brow, cringing. How could I have forgotten? ‘Right.’

‘Right.’ His eyes danced with amusement. ‘And don’t tell me it was a present, or came free with a magazine, because you’ve admitted it now. Just tell me one thing. Are you top or bottom? Or do you switch?’

Interesting that he was so free with the terminology, but perhaps he’d just read one too many Fifty Shades articles.

‘I’m not a Miss Whiplash type,’ I said, unable to say the words ‘I’m a bottom’ to the most attractive man I’d ever got near.

‘No? You prefer a Mr Whiplash then? Sorry. I don’t mean to be flippant. Honestly, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Like I said, it hardly comes as a shock. More a…pleasant surprise.’

Pleasant? Was I dreaming? And he had said that thing about putting me over his knee. It had been bait! He’d been fishing for a confession, not just larking about.

‘Really? Why’s that?’

He cupped my cheek with one hand, stroking it, lowering his face to mine.

‘Why do you think?’

‘You…?’ The sentence remained unfinished. I could only ask the question with my eyes.

‘Let’s just say I enjoyed binding your ankle a little bit too much,’ he said. ‘I found myself looking for a bedpost to tie it to.’

I laughed nervously. ‘Perhaps I should invest in a four-poster then.’

‘Perhaps you should.’ He kissed me and the tearful feeling came back. Could this be real? I felt as if I were tottering on the brink of something potentially life-changing, for good or ill. There was danger inherent in letting him so far inside me, but also the potential for a new level of fulfilment.

He laughed, breaking the kiss and rumpling my already rumpled hair with two long fingers.

‘You should look at yourself,’ he said. ‘What a picture. Is my eyeliner as smudged as yours?’

I smiled. ‘Pretty much.’

A beat of silence followed, into which too many questions swarmed, each eager to get to the front of the queue. He got his in first.

‘So…have you done much of this kind of thing then?’

I shook my head.

‘No,’ I admitted, screwing up my face apologetically. Perhaps he was after an experienced player and this would be goodbye. ‘Just never seemed to…come up…You know?’

His eyes shone like blue crystals.

‘But you always wanted to?’ he said.

‘Yes. Always. What about you?’

‘I’ve smacked a few arses in my time,’ he said. ‘But it’s never been serious. Just part of the rough sex fun. I’ve always been interested in taking things further, but never wanted to freak anybody out by showing them the extent of my perversions.’