Читать книгу Follow Your Fantasy: Deeper - Nicola Jane - Страница 8
Оглавление2
Your nerve fails and you opt for the coward's medium of choice. You type, delete, retype and redelete a message four times before it sounds casual but daring enough.
Hey Giselle, hope you're having a hard night. I wish I was! Last time was amazing. If you've got any more bachelors you need a hand, or a mouth;) with, I'm all yours.
You sit back, now stuck with looking at your phone far more intently than you were at the beginning of the evening. It's nine thirty. She's bound to be busy by now and if she is, she's not going to be checking text messages.
All dressed up and no place to go. Now you wish you'd called but you can't call on top of sending an unanswered text. This is as fraught with rules as dating!
After an hour of waiting, you accept that your made-up reflection is as close to the reality of Giselle as you're going to get and wash your face back to the real you. The you who's going to bed alone.
The sun shining in through a gap under the blinds wakes you up but it's the beep of your phone that makes you open your eyes.
Yeah, last night was a pain in the ass – literally. Next time, call if you want in. I don't exactly have my hands free for text chats
Knowing Giselle, you wonder who it was, where they were. You close your eyes again and visualise her bent over, offering her ass with her skirt up around her waist and her panties shoved to the side. In your mind's eye her face is turned to the left against a wall, but it's your face at the same time. Someone is squeezing her breasts and then roughly separates her ass cheeks, leaving red marks. You mould the mental image of her until it's fully you you're picturing. You lie on your stomach and push back against the imaginary hands, your own hands opening yourself up to the fantasy.
Your phone beeps again, interrupting the scenario that has taken shape in seconds. You open one eye, reluctant to leave it behind fully but then the phone grabs your complete attention. It's another message from Giselle.
So, I'm bored.
Attached to the message is a photograph of a jumble of boxes and plastic packages. The contents aren't easily made out but some of the names are visible. The Bullet… Rabbit…Love Egg.
Even when she's bored, her life is more fun than yours! In typical Giselle style, she assumes you've understood that was an invitation and that you're accepting. Another message comes through.
You know the address.
She's right, of course, although you've only ever met her outside it before. You don't bother with an elaborate routine and just have a quick shower. Your mood is more relaxed than last night when you were dressing up. A simple sweater dress and tied back hair goes with the slick of mascara and lip gloss that are all you do for makeup. At this time in the morning, you guess you're about to see a more fresh faced version of her too.
Her apartment is in a low rise building on the other side of town. It's just urban enough to be trendy, but suburban enough that the last thing you'd think of as you pull up outside is a sex-worker. You wonder what the neighbours make of all the men who must visit.
She buzzes you up without checking to make sure who you are. It's all so normal you're nervous. Other times, you've always met her at night, slipping into a darker version of yourself. But today, everything is more relaxed. Everything except you.
When she opens the door, you see at least you've gauged your look just right. Like you, she's not wearing obvious makeup, her skin looks clean and shiny and her hair is tied in a loose pony tail. The only difference is she hasn't got dressed. She's wearing a loose fitting, silky robe with blue and white stripes, tied at the waist and crossed with a deep V at the neck. As she moves to hold the door, it slips and slides around her breasts, opening to the flat of her ribcage.
'Kind of overdressed for a pyjama party,' she says, even her voice seeming softer than normal.
You pull your eyes up from her cleavage with effort and she's smiling in a way that says everything you do and think is completely predictable.
'Hi,' you say, unable to think of any clever remark. She doesn't make any move to greet you and your automatic twitch to kiss her on the cheek goes undetected. Are you friends? You wonder if that describes your relationship but can't think of another. Co-worker? Lover? Fuck buddy? Some mix of all three for which there is no word maybe, but friends?
But, here you are – invited into her home, so today is a development in some direction or another. You follow her into the apartment, aware from the way the robe clings to the curves of her behind that she's wearing panties. You bet they match the robe. Lounging around the house in classy underwear is apparently not only for models in catalogues.
She takes you into the living room, a sunny space with a lot of pine and white and none of the boudoir feel you'd have expected. Cardboard and foam chips litter the floor in front of a long cream sofa. The plastic boxes from the photograph have all been hacked up with the pair of scissors that are lying on the floor amongst the mess. None of their contents are anywhere to be seen.
She picks something up from the back of the sofa and hands it to you. It's a slippery mass of silk in red and white stripes.
'Matching bathrobes!' You're touched and then embarrassed at how pleased you sound.
'Two for one offer at Nordstrom's,' she says. 'Chill out. There isn't an engagement ring hidden in the pocket.'
You cover the surface wound with a smile that you hope is convincing and look around, uncertain if she expects you to undress now.
'Shy?'
As usual, she calls you on any sign of weakness or hesitation, giving you that feeling of predictability again. You shrug instead of answering her question, which tells her that shy is exactly how you're feeling.
She doesn't seem to mind though and indicates a door to the side of the living room.
'Help yourself,' she says and curls her legs under her on the sofa. 'To whatever you like.'
You cross the room, slip off your shoes at the door and then open what turns out to be her bedroom instead of the bathroom you'd been expecting. It's exactly as you'd imagine the stereotype escort's room and is clearly designed for clients. Black satin sheets are stretched taut on the bed and piled high with cushions. A mirrored ceiling reflects the bed below and fake fur rugs surround it on three sides. There are photographs of nudes on the walls that manage to be both tasteful and explicit. You recognise Giselle in every single one. It occurs to you that, the same photographer could take those kinds of pictures of you with similar results since you look so alike. You're just not sure if you could pull off some of those poses with the same attitude of challenge and come-fuck-me expression.
The bathroom opens off to the side of the bedroom and continues the theme with subtly sparkling granite tiles and silver fittings. You automatically shut the door even though the adjoining bedroom is empty. You can't help feeling self conscious in someone else's house. Your hand is on the lock to slide it closed as if you're in a public place. You pause. Who are you trying to keep out? There's only Giselle here unless she's got a client hiding in her kitchen. Do you even want to keep her out?
