Temptation Close

by Scarlett Rush

  Slickness

  The winter evenings round there fell like heavy black snow, blanketing everything. The streetlights of Temptation Close went off at eleven to leave nothing but darkness except on the clearest moonlit nights. It could inspire cosiness, especially when the log burner was blazing away, but Shelley was alone and felt a little isolated and vulnerable. Her husband was away for the second night in a row and there was no one to protect her from the creatures of the night. Added to this was the butterfly mix of anxiousness and excitement that had been present even before her husband went away, rising close to nausea at its peak, waxing and waning over the hours as she either rejoiced or regretted her actions.

  The previous day had been a life-changer. It took all her willpower to go through with it but once she was in the hairdresser’s chair she felt strong. The weakness only came when it was too late, when the tresses were already on the floor. The hairdressing assistants all cooed at the transformation and she was ecstatic to see that the mind’s eye vision of how much better she would look proving true. Afterwards she shopped with gusto, feeling naughty and daring just buying things as unrevealing as jeans and sweaters. She even thought of purchasing some glasses, to add to the look of sexy sophistication, as Roni did so well. The injection of confidence was almost magical. She sensed all eyes upon her but it was different to before. The glances showed no judgement, no looks of distaste or blatant leering. She wasn’t that person anymore. She was unrecognizable from the woman who had left her house that same morning.

  The novelty did not wear off. Only the fear of how her husband would react stopped her from prancing around for joy. It didn’t stop her bagging up over half her wardrobe contents to take to the charity shops. She felt free and invigorated. The tired old shell had gone to reveal fresh thinking and optimism. Nesta and Roni had given little squeals of surprised delight when she had gone over to display herself to them. They had each held her in a tight cuddle for over a minute, perhaps rejoicing in her decision to finally take the steps to being herself, perhaps trying to instil comfort in advance of the storm set to break when her husband returned from his training course. By the end of her first day of freedom, the nerves and excitement had exhausted her and she had gone off to bed and fallen asleep without taking any of the advantages of being alone.

  That morning her husband had phoned before breakfast. She had promised herself not to say anything about her transformation, to leave it as a complete surprise on his return the following evening. The promise had been broken almost immediately. She had only given a tiny hint, idly mentioning a small change she had made to herself. ‘As long as it’s nothing drastic,’ he had replied, in that loud, domineering way of his. Her stomach had lurched and the adrenalin was set flowing once more, but there was anger mixed with her guilt this time. Why should she be denied this elation of spirit by someone who was meant to love her? How could he not see what it did for her? And when had she ever told him how he must look or dress? She knew the inference. Any alterations were likely to be frowned upon, so he was giving her fair warning to change back in time for his return. Well, she couldn’t change back. Nothing drastic? There couldn’t be anything more drastic.

  Hunter appeared out on his driveway shortly after breakfast, while she was still seething from the phone call and flushed from the untamed butterflies within. Surprise, surprise, he was loading wetsuits and other such paraphernalia into his car. This time, for the first time, Shelley did not feel an instant draining of strength from the legs at the sight of him. She felt even greater warmth and current inside, a burst of mischievous excitement. She was out the door and heading his way before he had a chance to escape and before she had formulated any excuse for going to him, other than simply to show herself off. It was only later that she realised that by going to him she was just as culpable, maybe more so, than he. Only later, when it was too late, would she see the irony in her actions: the fact that although, at last, she no longer looked or felt like a floozy, pretty much the first thing she had done in her new guise was to properly act like one for the first time in her life.

  She caught him just as he had the car door open to get in. She could tell it took just a moment for him to recognise her but when he did the eyebrows came up in appreciation. The exchange was brief but decisive.

  ‘What do you think?’ she had said, striking a classic pose in her jeans and roll-neck, with one hand on her hip and the other pushing the hair up at her nape. She even managed a pout. It was greater genuine self-confidence than she had mustered in years. She had forced a little smile from him but it didn’t stop him sliding onto the driver’s seat.

  ‘A resounding success,’ he announced. ‘Just as I’d imagined.’

  It made her heart jump to think that he imagined her at all.

  ‘So, better than before, then?’

  ‘Infinitely,’ he said, but he wasn’t to be waylaid. The key was located in the ignition and given a single right click to engage the electrics. The crisp sound of the CD player cut the hanging silence but he was quick to turn it down. Then the car door was closed, although his window was already sliding open with a little whir. ‘I imagine your husband is glad you defied him?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. He’s away on a course. I actually imagine he won’t be glad I defied him.’

  ‘Ah, so you are all alone?’ he said, almost absent-mindedly, his attention taken up in pressing buttons on the CD player to select his preferred music for the trip.

  ‘Yes, until tomorrow night. Then the sparks might fly!’

  He looked back at her, his lips tight, nodding gently, although it didn’t look like he was particularly listening anymore. The key was given another twist and the engine turned over, one loud vroom! followed by a soft purr. Now he was sporting a slight frown, as if he might be weighing something up. Then she realised it could also be a face that said I’m trying to go somewhere here, is that not obvious? Could you be a dear and just bugger off now, please? Suddenly the breath was stuck in her throat. She felt silly to have made her mistimed and brazen approach. She even hankered, just a little, for the return of the ditzy blonde, since such things could more easily be shrugged off in that guise. Worse, much worse, he clearly had no intention of doing anything to honour her changed appearance, despite the promise he had made to that effect. It was time for her to make excuses and leave, to sit at home to rue the episode and to try to hate him for the way he so casually played with her emotions. The first sound of her parting shot came out but he immediately cut across it.

  ‘Just think,’ he said, ‘if you were to forget to lock your door tonight, anyone could sneak in and find you in bed, all alone, with no one there to protect you.’

  His eyebrows raised up, a silent request for her to ponder this statement. Then the window was sliding closed, cutting him off from any reply she might have made, masking the detail of his face with her own reflection and the glare on the glass of the winter sun creeping up above the roof-lines. He then left, giving her all day to fret over and pick apart his final words. She knew this is what he liked to do: to give subtle clues as to his desires; short suggestive phrases that whirred the insides of the recipient, words to string them along. He probably did it out of habit, not even realising their effect. He almost certainly didn’t have any intention of ever following up his words with actions.

  She resolved to assume it was just an empty statement and therefore to do nothing about it, and yet she spent most of the day preparing for any surprise night-time arrivals. She told herself she would have tidied up anyway, even though her house was seldom short of immaculate. She reasoned that the long hot bath and the careful depilation of certain key areas were just part of her image transformation, an added delight for her returning husband. However, there was little excuse for scrapping the supper she had planned in favour of a different one, just because the first one contained garlic. She had a glass of wine with her meal and a lar
ger one after it; an indulgence she probably would have enjoyed on any evening she found herself alone. It was nothing to do with calming the nerves. Why would she need to do this, when she had no intention at all of retiring to bed without ensuring the house was fully secure?

  She watched a film and tried to concentrate, forgoing her usual mug of tea. This was purely, or so she kept reminding herself, in order not to miss any of the plot. It had nothing to do with not wanting a full bladder interrupting anything once she was in bed. Still, his words kept coming back, bringing imagined scenarios that had to be wilfully driven from her mind. She even started to get a little flustered in trying to decide when best to retire to bed, knowing her darkened house might send signals of readiness to external observers. The kitchen light was the key, as this was visible from the front. If she left that on all night would he assume she hadn’t gone to bed at all, indicating her resistance? Or would he simply think she was waiting up for him?

  Actually, she soon realised, it was irrelevant. The master bedrooms in all the houses of the street were situated at the front. Unless she planned to get ready for bed on total darkness, if he was of a mind, he could watch from his house until her bedroom light went on and then off again, a dead giveaway that she was tucked up all alone. He used to be a commando, or something, so leaving downstairs lights on wasn’t going to stop him. It probably just made it easier for him to break in. At eleven the film finished. She hung on for fifteen minutes and then decided to stop being stupid and just go to bed.

  However, the stupidity didn’t quite end. She locked up, including the kitchen door, which would be the obvious point of entry. She actually breathed out hard when doing this, relieved to have brought the whole charade to a close. Before she had even exited the kitchen she had returned to unlock the door. Then she locked it again and called herself a fool. She even made it out of the kitchen and turned off the light the next time, but then returned to unlock the door once more. Back and forth she went, an almost schizophrenic argument going on in her head about the rights and wrongs of it. In the end she just decided to let fate take its course, closing her eyes and turning the key rapidly back and forth, until she couldn’t remember whether it was now locked or not. When she thought she had done it for long enough she stopped, counted to five, and then did it again another few times.

  So, assured that she hadn’t purposefully done as he had suggested, she let go another heavy exhalation and went to bed. What her subconscious kept buried, and what she would never admit to herself or anyone, was that her husband had once pointed out something about keys and locks after once seeing her struggling to secure a door: however complex the mechanisms were, one thing always remained true. Such locks comprised of a bolt in the mechanism, which extended to fit into a mortise set within the frame. Therefore, if you turn towards the frame you must be locking it, and if you turn away, towards the door centre, you must be unlocking it. Remember this, her husband had told her, and you will never again find yourself fannying around with a key, wondering if the door is locked or not. Somewhere in her head she knew she had finished on a turn away from the frame of the door.

  She tried to do her ablutions in as relaxed and normal a way as possible. She thought of putting just a little spray of perfume behind each ear but then refrained, tutting at her own stupidity, although it helped her decision knowing that after her bath she had moisturised and then applied a body spray. She was hardly fragrance free. She toyed with the idea of keeping her pyjamas on, or maybe some knickers, as some kind of added protection. However, she always slept in nothing, always had since the time her kids were old enough not to burst into her bedroom uninvited. So off came the pyjamas and in between the sheets she slid, shivering at the cold of the cotton against her nude skin and the thought of being there so unprotected. She lay staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, breathing hard against another flow of adrenalin, her fingers poised on the switch to extinguish the light bedside her bed. Pressing it felt like pulling a trigger, like flicking the catch on Pandora’s Box. Once she had done it there might be no going back. Then she did do it, and blackness was instant and everywhere.

  The previous night she had been too tired to stay awake but now there was no chance of her sleeping. The darkness of the room was complete, not even murky shapes appearing where her furniture stood. Any intruder would sound like a drunken Mr Bump trying to negotiate his way through this blanket of impenetrable black. Still, her ears fixed on every tiny noise, the little clicks and creaks, straining to identify them. These houses were new builds though, little more than five years old, so there was none of the groaning woodwork and clanking plumbing of older houses. The silence became almost like a hiss.

  The longer she lay there the more foolish she felt in thinking that he would ever come, and the more she wanted him to. The sound of his door would be her early warning sign. The night was too empty and echoing to mask that. Hear that and she had one last chance to reconsider and run down to secure the locks against him. Instinct would thus decide her fate. She could feel her jaw trembling although her body was warm, hot even, enough to create an urge to throw the duvet off. But how would it look if she was there, already uncovered and open for him?

  The seconds crawled by as she struggled to clear him from her thoughts. Each passing moment was greater evidence that he wasn’t coming. The crush of this tightened her chest, weighing her lungs. She needed a way to divert her disappointment, to smother her shame. Well, if there was no chance of him coming then there was no harm in at least imagining what might have been. So she stopped trying to expel the image of him in her mind, letting the thoughts creep back and take shape. The scenarios began to expand, pushing out the despondency of his failure to show. Soon they had taken her over entirely and her thighs had fallen open, urging her to slide a finger along where she was already wet.

  The sound came whist she was already panting and squirming. It instantly froze the motion of her hand. There had been no early warning sign. This was a sound from downstairs, possibly the kitchen. The rush unloaded within: mainly fear. She had left the door open and anyone might gain entry, just as he had said, even those who lived miles away, whose front doors would not act as a signal that they were coming for her. She was static, flat on her back with her thighs still apart, too panicked, too shot through with expectancy to move further, straining her senses for another sign. There seemed to be none. Could it have been imagined? It had sounded for all the world, once her brain had time to process it, like the kitchen door being opened. Now nothing. Without a torch any intruder would have smacked into the breakfast table by now.

  More seconds inched by in silence. If someone was down there they were being beyond careful. It certainly didn’t seem like a sweep for valuables was in progress, although the closed bedroom door would blot some noise out. Two minutes, three minutes went by with nothing. She slowly exhaled and concentrated on gaining control of her racing pulse, staring up into blackness, still listening with intent. When would she feel brave enough to go out there and confirm she was otherwise alone? Not, as it transpired, before a single metallic click of her bedroom door handle was heard. She hadn’t any clue that he had come upstairs. How could he get to her without giving even a hint? If he had turned left at the top of the stairs he would have encountered the only creaking floorboard in the house, between the bathroom and the second bedroom. He hadn’t, which either meant good luck, or that he already knew the layout.

  The door was opening, sensed more as a change in pressure than as a noise. Still total darkness reigned, not giving even the slightest hint of him. There was no torch beam, so either he had switched it off at the top of the stairs or he was wearing some kind of night-vision goggles to find his way. But who owned or even knew where to get such a piece of equipment? Other than an ex-Special Forces operative, of course. The blood was still racing, the senses still trying to confirm his position, but the fear had almost entirely ebbed. The solidity of
the blackness should have petrified her, but somehow it was only cosseting. It hid her shame, her imperfection. He did not speak but she knew it was him. Who else could it be, unless he had divulged her vulnerability to some other, either by mistake or intent? Somehow, all day she had known he would not let her down. Even if he hadn’t come he would have watched over her unlocked house, to guard her while she lay in fevered fantasy, imagining him with her.

  Still she pulled the duvet closer around her neck, but her grip was almost instantly broken as the cover was slowly pulled away. She was left gasping and naked, her hand instinctively going down to cover her crotch, letting her feel with guilt the heat and dampness there. He didn’t pause. Weight came at the end of the bed and he was coming down onto her, gently dropping to bring his body into contact with hers.

  The approach was so measured that the last vestiges of fear changed to wanting almost in a single heartbeat. Her hand slipped from between her legs to help meet him. She was welcoming him in, suddenly dying for his touch, no trace of resistance rising to stop her. Her last chance to prevent this was passing in silence, and somewhere in the back of her mind she reminded herself she was giving in to a man she really didn’t know at all. In all her dreams he was gentle, but these dreams would do nothing for her now if she was wrong.

  Her hands went around his back and pressed on bare skin. The hairs on his legs brushed the smoothness of her own. His warm, hard stomach met the cool flesh around her belly button. He was already naked. He couldn’t have come there like that so somewhere outside this room he had stripped in readiness for her, ensuring nothing would delay this embrace. It meant she could feel the tantalising touch of his bare prick, still soft but slowly growing and pressing between the swollen and sensitive lips so ready for him. He would be able to feel the heat coming from her.

  She felt one arm sliding beneath her back to hold her and bring her up to meet him, and then they were kissing. It was gentle, which in itself was almost enough to make her cry out her joy. There was passion behind it but there was no crushing press to bang teeth or spread drool. The tongue flicked out to find hers but the touches were fleeting, little surprises to demonstrate wanting. The kiss was insistent but never too invasive. It seemed a little innocent and yet also somehow professional. She couldn’t remember one like it.