by Donna Alam
‘I just bet you are.’ This time, his laugh is absolutely indecent and the first indicator that our conversation is turning down Smutty Street.
‘Bad kitty,’ he scolds playfully. ‘Leading me neatly to the point where I just have to ask what you’re wearing.’
My stomach flips again, his words like fingertips playing down my spine. Unsure of how to respond, I laugh, aiming for flirtatious, though I’d settle for anything other than manic right about now. I glance down at my ensemble. Does he really want to know?
‘Cat got your tongue? You know, you instigated this,’ he says, drawing out the words.
‘I did?’ I glance down and answer with a deflated sigh. ‘I’m wearing my onesie.’
It’s his turn for a moment of introspection before he speaks. ‘I’m trying very hard to imagine but given that I don’t know what an actual onesie is, I may need a little help.’
‘It’s a sort of an all-in-one pajama thingy. Starting at my feet, which are covered in . . . little booties? And ends at my neck. With a zip.’ Shoot me. Please, somebody put me out of my misery. ‘A bit like what babies wear.’
‘You’re wearing a baby sleep suit?’ he asks in a slow tone of bewilderment.
‘Obviously not one an actual baby would wear, but yeah, a sleep suit sounds about right.’
‘Is this some kind of fetish of yours?’
‘What? No!’ He can’t be serious. ‘It’s just cold in the air con . . .’ I hate how this comes out in a whine. Why didn’t I tell him to bugger off and look at the Asos website?
He groans. Without passion. ‘Don’t you know how this conversation is supposed to go?’
‘Sorry.’ I giggle, rolling onto my side. He really is laying this on thick. ‘Would it help if I said it’s in a leopard print?’ That’s sort of sexy. I won’t tell him it has a hood with cute ears and a tail because that would be weird.
‘Strangely, no. A baby suit?’
‘What if I told you I was entirely naked under said suit?’ I can’t believe I just said that. Seriously. And in that tone, too.
‘Go on,’ he purrs. ‘Include the words wet and want along with that naked.’
His words curl around my ear, creep down my spine and explode just south of my navel. ‘I just got out of the shower.’ I’m not entirely sure where that came from, but I definitely feel a little wet and wanting myself, not to mention warm all of a sudden.
‘And?’
‘I’m all soft and smooth . . . shaven.’
I wouldn’t know seductive if I’d rolled in it.
‘Shaven where, specifically?’
‘The usual places—legs, underarms.’
‘Anywhere else?’
‘What?’ Where else? I don’t have hairy fingers. Ohhh. ‘No. Nowhere else. I don’t want to, er, invite ingrown hairs.’
Stop. Talking. Now. Or tell him I haven’t found a decent wax therapist?
‘Ingrown hairs.’ He makes those two words sound positively lewd.
‘I prefer waxing, despite a . . . recent hiatus.’ My shoulders are bunched around my ears. Who explains the intricacies of their toilette to a drop-dead gorgeous guy? I may have begun this conversation with the mention of bed, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
‘Would it be very wrong of me to say I’m quite aroused at this juncture?’ Arousal at the mention of ingrown hairs, or are we still on wet and wanting? ‘I’d say my mind is in the right region for arousal, but there are other regions worth . . . exploration, too.’
The smile in his tone distracts me from his allusion, though I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking geography. Or topiary.
‘You have such a beautiful body, Kate.’ His appreciation hums down the line. ‘I want to explore it all. Can you imagine?’
Can I? Not really, but it doesn’t stop the almost mesmerizing effects of his voice. Grasping the pen from the nightstand, I suddenly feel the need to underline my mantra again.
‘You looked so beautiful draped against the back of the sofa that first evening. It’s become an erotic flashback which makes me hard at the most inopportune times.’ He laughs softly and all I can think is, he’s seen me naked and he’s thought about it. More than once! ‘It’s such a rush to watch the things you’ve imagined, the moments you’ve planned come to life. I can’t help but picture how you’d look braced over the arm of that sofa. Held open. High and wide.’
My fingers fumble, sending the pen sliding across the pad as his words and their mirroring images flash through my head.
‘Have you ever . . .’
‘Ever what?’ I whisper back.
‘You’re fantastic.’ He chuckles darkly. ‘You want me to spell it out for you?’
I’m not being coy. Yes, an explanation is necessary. Accompanying diagrams might help, too.
‘I . . . erm . . .’
‘Close your eyes,’ he coaxes. ‘Imagine you’re wrapped in my arms, so close you can feel my heart beat against your back. And I’m hard, pressed against you and you’re wet, so wet.’ No problems with imagery so far. Please, do go on. ‘I bend you forward over the arm of the chair and step between your open legs, our hearts beginning to beat faster—mine with excitement, yours with a touch of trepidation. Fear. Then my thumbs trace your spine, moving down to break you apart like a soft, ripe peach.’ He doesn’t speak for a beat. ‘Before I push inside.’
Heat rises in my body, my own breath short in my chest.
‘You struggle a little, half deciding to pull away, but my hands are tight on your hips because, beneath the shame you think you should feel, you want this—know I want this. And with a little more pressure, you let me in. All of me.’ His final three words are exhaled in a throaty moan.
Oh. My. God.
‘Are you still there?’ he asks quietly.
‘Yes! I mean, no!’
My words are high pitched and strangled through indignation, a sense of panic and violation. Of stimulation, the ripple of my arousal swirling soft and silky, like caramel through ice-cream. I’m turned on. Inexplicably so. But, god, I’m so not going there. And neither is he.
‘No?’ he questions, laughing softly at my obvious discomfort.
I’m sure discomfort wouldn’t even cover the actual event.
‘No,’ I answer, my voice unusually high, still.
Where the hell can the conversation go from here? Is there a sliding scale for the depraved and debauched? My heart bangs in my chest, my hand squeezing the phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. Pardon the pun. But I’m panicked. And aroused. And that realisation just makes me panic a bit more.
‘Interesting,’ he murmurs. His next words, when delivered, are tentative and entirely sweet. ‘But I rang to invite you to dinner tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’ I manage to force the sound from my lips, not able to skip from one conversation to another with quite as much élan. And interesting. I wished he’d enlighten me. Did we really just have a conversation about that?
‘Well?’
‘Yeah. Yes, I’d like that. Dinner, I mean dinner. That’s what I mean.’
‘Understood.’ He laughs. ‘Rashid will collect you at 7:30, if that suits?’
‘Yes, of course. I can make my own way there,’ I garble, ‘by cab.’
‘Not necessary.’
Not wishing to revisit the whole car/cab/sweaty back thing, I agree. ‘Okay. So, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Then my brain seems to push words from my mouth. ‘You tie me in knots, you know.’
‘That sounds like an invitation,’ he purrs, ‘sweet dreams.’
Then he hangs up without a goodbye, quite possibly the only man outside of TV who can carry that off.
Did I just have phone sex? Probably not. I think that would involve conscious participation, and probably fluids. Pretty bloody close, though. My cheeks burn as I press disconnect, wishing I could detach my brain just as quick.
Sliding my phone across the nightstand, I glance down at the pad. Beneath my mantra,
printed in capitals and gouged repeatedly are two words.
BUTT and SEX.
Flinging myself back against the bed, I cover my eyes with one arm.
Must. Not. Think. About. It.
Can’t do anything . . . butt.
And who the hell doesn’t know what a onesie is, anyway?
Chapter Twenty
‘No worries, I mean that’s fine. I completely understand.’ My voice practically twinkles with artificial brightness as I cling to the handle of the classroom door. Closing it in small increments, I add, ‘There’s no need for apologies, Mrs . . . er . . . umm . . .’
‘Umm Abdullah,’ interjects the littlest Fatima—I have three Fatima’s in my class—supplying her mother’s kunya or honorific title. Mother of Abdullah.
I got the umm bit right, I suppose.
Fatima’s mother continues to murmur her apologies, repeating asif as I continue closing the door.
‘See you tomorrow. Let’s hope your driver isn’t late.’ Again. My cheeks ache from smiling but finally I manage to lean against the closed door. ‘School hours aren’t pro-rata, you know!’
Worryingly, the door screeches open from its swollen frame, but it’s just Huda’s assistant, the improbably named Baby, who’s fifty years old if she’s a day. She shuffles into the room, balancing a large, black box across her forearms. Sleek and glossy and wrapped in a cerise ribbon, it’s a gift box of the very luxurious kind.
‘Missus Kate, Huda tell me I must bring this to you.’ She shakes an admonishing finger having placed the box on my desk. ‘She say also to tell online shopping is not velcome for delivery at the school.’
‘I haven’t . . . never mind. Thanks.’
I haven’t ordered anything and definitely nothing as expensive looking as this. I run my fingers across its lustrous surface as Baby closes the door behind her. Even with the absence of a card, I know it has to be from Kai. Feeling excited—who doesn’t like gifts—I ignore the niggling sense that I should take it home before opening. Why I feel the need to be circumspect, I couldn’t say. Possibly its size? But I’m just a little bit too giddy to listen to nagging, sensible thoughts, so I lift the lid.
Inside is lined and layered in deep pink velvet. It’s an almost erotic colour, evocative of a certain sort of flesh. I run my hand across the plush fabric, revealing a sudden slash of black, which seems to be a silken scarf of some kind. The ends unfurl through my fingers, falling to my desk and I notice one side is embroidered.
In delicate ivory against stark black silk it reads:
‘Welcome, bondage, for thou art a way, to liberty.’
‘Miss Katherine, my taxi is here. I will see you in the morning time.’ Sadia bustles into the classroom, reaching for her purse. My heart is suddenly in my throat as I shove the ends of the scarf back into the box.
‘Ho-ly! Sadia, you gave me a fright! Yeah, see you tomorrow. Have a great arvo, I mean afternoon.’ I stand in front of the box with a rictus grin.
‘Are you feeling well, Miss Katherine? Red like a tomato you are being again. You have the fevers?’ Arm outstretched, she braces the back of her hand against my forehead.
‘No, I’m fine. It’s just a bit hot in here . . . ‘Cos I’ve had the door open. Yes, that’s it!’ I fan my face feebly, still worrying about the box as I duck to avoid her hand.
‘It is the cold water,’ she asserts. ‘No good in the hot season.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Cold water drinking gives the fever and body chills. I see you drinking from the cooler,’ she reproves, pursing her lips. ‘Room temperature water is much better for your well beans.’
‘Shut the fu—front door!’
She glances quizzically over her shoulder. ‘But it is closed already?’
‘No, I meant, what a surprise!’ It’s almost as though my hands are auditioning for a spot on kids TV.
‘It is a most diwicult time of the year for well beans,’ she adds in a motherly tone.
I bite the corners of my mouth, desperate not to laugh. ‘I’ll be sure to give warm water a go,’ I assure her. And I will. With a teabag. Because who wants to upset their well beans?
Her brows knit with scepticism and a lack of satisfaction. She sniffs loudly, beginning to gather her things, still muttering about the evils of cold water as she reaches the door.
‘I will off the lights?’
She wants to murder the lights? Ohh. ‘No, I’ll . . . off them myself on my way out.’
As she closes the door, I sag against my desk. I may well off myself.
At home, I eye the box from the kitchen apprehensively, wondering how long before I submit to curiosity. Eventually, I kneel down, lift the lid and pull on the scarf for a proper look. It’s not a small scarf, not the kind you wear—not that you would with this wording—but it’s more than long enough to say, wrap your waist a couple of times. Or maybe tie something. Or someone.
When I said he tied me in knots, it wasn’t an invitation.
A spiked heel peeks from the layers with a matching companion. Shoes. Though more specifically, stiletto sandals in black satin and suede.
Quelle surpris? Not really, given our discussions. The man has a serious hard-on for a girl in nice shoes. Uncurling my legs, I have my pseudo-Cinderella moment and shouldn’t be surprised that they actually fit. An even bigger surprise? The scarlet-coloured sole.
Louboutin’s. Holy fuck.
More tasteful than stripper heels, with a tie-me-up-tie-me-down kind of vibe, the shoes feature tiny crisscrossing straps and a large satin bow at the heel. The label reads Vampanodo, and I think as a description, it’s pretty apt.
Tipping the remainder of the contents on the floor, I’m beginning to sense a theme as I shake out a ribbon wrapped black satin bundle. Holding the unfolded item at arm’s length, I‘m not sure how I feel. I’ve heard of crotchless knickers, but these, well, they’re bottomless. From the front, a regular pair of undies, but from the rear they’re just a couple of strings and a large bow. Cute, but definitely kinky. The matching bra is much the same— under-wiring, no actual cups, just bands of satin tied in a nipple-level bow. Setting them down, I chew on my thumb and eye the final item—a small, square jewellery box. Please let it be earrings.
My heart thumps erratically as I balance the velvet square in my palm.
Nestled inside are two delicate silver butterflies, each a little larger than a jacket button. Beautifully crafted with filigree wings, they’re obviously some kind of adornment or accessory, but definitely not earrings. Noting a hinge, I squeeze the wings with some caution, and the tiny legs open in a pinching motion. Clipping them into my hair, they’re pretty but ineffective and slide right out. I feel as though I should know what they are as I clip and unclip one to the tip of my thumb. Not hair clips, but an accessory of some kind. One thing I do know is they’re a fine metaphor for the fluttering going on inside right now.
And while Kai may not have included a note, the theme for this evening has been printed in capitals and bold type.
Dusk draws in as I stare at my reflection; the underwear, the heels, the black satin and bows. Seems I’m all tied up with somewhere to go. I must’ve frightened him with the description of my onesie. A giggle bubbles in my throat, bordering almost on hysteria. Never in a million years would I have imagined I’d ever wear an outfit like this. Hell, my imagination couldn’t even imagine an outfit like this.
Contemplating a glass of something to cope with what is clearly delayed shock, an echo of Niamh’s words float into my head.
Be who I want to be. Do what, or who, I want.
Taking a second look in the mirror, I peer over my shoulder and straighten the ribbons across my arse. Despite feeling panicked and slightly theatrical, even I can see I look hot. I could almost unwrap myself . . .
I pull a dress from the closet. Empire-line and silver-grey chiffon, it falls demurely to my knees, balancing the kinky lying beneath. I only hope there aren’t any prevailing winds out
tonight. Would that kind of inadvertent flash be a weather or wardrobe malfunction?
Rashid arrives as arranged, ringing the intercom. In view, or rather, to avoid a view of my almost bare derriere and the potential for Rashid to cop an eyeful, I end up clutching my hands to my butt and wriggling into the car like a bug.
As we pull into the traffic, I wonder if I should strike up a conversation. Although a grey area, I’ve been told I should avoid talking to strangers, particularly men; a cultural stranger danger of sorts. Not that it seems relevant as Rashid stares resolutely ahead. He’s so unlike Kai, though if there is a stereotypical Dubai male, Kai probably isn’t it. All the same, I think I need to investigate Middle Eastern social mores . . . some more.
I try not to squirm against the leather, but I’m nervous, my body brimming with a kind of pent-up energy that begun when I opened the box. With every movement, I’m conscious of my almost covered behind and the satin sliding against my skin. My dress rustles quietly, the warm leather seat beneath my thighs. I close my eyes, head falling back as I recognise, uncomfortably, what I am is actually aroused. Sitting up, I smooth the dress across my thighs.
It’s a good job women wear the dresses and not men. The lack of subtly in the male anatomy would make a permanent tent of this dress.
Sniggering at the thought, I draw Rashid’s attention through the rear view mirror, turning the laugh into a tactic cough. It’s also good that it’s dark in the car. My dress swishes again as I clear my throat once more. Aroused, with an undertow of . . . trepidation? Excitement? Somehow, it all just seem to add to the effect. It’s not surprising I’m nervous, considering the borderline fetish I’m wearing at a guy’s behest. Not that it’s all about him. There’s something about him for sure, something that makes me feel incredibly bold. He’s pretty much irresistible, but is desire too simple an explanation?
His lustful, bedroom eyes tempt and challenge me. Make me feel brave. And around him, I’m so far removed from the Kate I left behind in Australia, which is seductive in itself.
Chapter Twenty-One
The same hotel, a different restaurant, this one dark and intimate, with an old-world gentlemen’s club kind of vibe. A pianist plays in a corner, an accompanying singer crooning softly about stormy weather.
