The Pact: A Mischief Erotica Collection. Justine Elyot
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I eventually say. ‘You’ll have to insert your own.’
‘Pity,’ he says with a smile and a shrug. It’s a chance for him to pop in a cheeky follow-up like ‘Your face would look great in my flat’, or even go for broke with something like ‘Your face would look great pressed to my pillow’. I’m a little relieved when neither come. I don’t actually know how I’d react to some serious chatting-up. As disarming as he is, I’ve been such a closed book in terms of relationships and romance that I’m not even sure when I’ll be ready to open it again. It’s a dusty old book now and placed on a shelf so high I’d need a set of steps to reach it. Anyway, it’s no matter because a killer line doesn’t come. Instead he tells me he thinks he’s found his favourite mirror.
It’s a nice one; he has taste. I stand beside him but refrain from looking into the glass and catching his eye. Just moving to his side brings a myriad reflections all around, like a crowd is milling about the room. I reach up to flick over the price ticket so he can see the damage. I am close enough to catch his scent. It’s as welcoming as everything else about him.
‘You are single,’ he says, his eyes on my hand. Well, that’s whipped the rug from beneath my feet. It is said as a statement rather than a question and it is a statement I cannot deny. Rings on certain fingers are one way we silently tell a part of our story to strangers, however much of ourselves we would normally keep hidden. Having no rings seems to tell just as many tales. The implication is loud and clear: I am available. And his statement was not just a passing observation but a declaration of possibilities. I almost reply that I once thought I was close to wearing one. But what is that to him or to anyone? It never happened.
‘Yes’ is what I actually reply, stopping at that because there is nothing to add. I am indeed available, although I hadn’t thought of myself in such simple terms. Worse still, I am already seeking out a reflection of his fingers, checking for rings, instinctively if perhaps unconsciously showing my readiness to collude with him in whatever naughtiness he has in mind in pointing out my lack of husband or fiancé. I spot no glinting gold. I, of course, have a fabulous reason for being single but what is his excuse? Maybe it’s a warning sign I need to heed. Then again he did say he was always away, always travelling back and forth, which isn’t exactly ideal for forging or holding down relationships. Maybe the timing has simply never been right.
And now we are looking at each other’s reflection in the glass before us. I am tight-lipped and a little flushed of face. He has those sparkly eyes. I’ve not informed him of any boyfriend obstacles so I’ve effectively laid myself open. My breath is not coming as easily as it should.
‘This mirror,’ he says, looking ahead to see me. ‘I know the size is fine. I’d just like to visualise it in my flat first. Would you mind if I came back to have another look at it?’
Despite feeling I could be getting out of my depth here, I still feel a pang of disappointment that he is going to leave. It’s offset by the prospect of seeing him again.
‘No, of course not,’ I say, trying to sound businesslike rather than desperate.
‘Would you mind if I asked you a question in the meantime?’
My cheeks continue to give me away. I am an amateur at this flirting malarkey and he can see in my face I am there for the taking. I couldn’t stop his question even if I wanted to.
‘No, of course not,’ I find myself saying for the second time, seemingly intent on sounding like one of the parrots they used to sell here.
‘Well, there is one thing I find completely irresistible in a woman – apart, of course, from her having eyes just like yours.’
Another warm surge goes through me. I’m starting to tremble a little but I hold his gaze. I can’t just let this hang there. He knows I have to ask.
‘And what might that be?’ I say.
‘It will shock you for sure if I tell you.’
Still that sparkle in his eyes. Still that self-assurance. I’m crumbling. Speaking via the mirror, having the ability to see yourself too, makes you so much more self-conscious. It is what makes customers run as you approach, or what can make them rush into a purchase if you can keep them there. And that same self-consciousness is drawing words out of me I might have felt able to subdue if we were talking face-on.
‘I think you have to tell me now,’ I say.
‘Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I’ll consider myself warned.’
‘Well, OK. What I find irresistible is when she shaves herself. You know, down there. The question I wanted to ask is whether you have ever tried this?’
We can both see the shock go through me and the bloom deepen in my already pink cheeks. How I remain upright is anyone’s guess. I am so surprised I cannot tell you what I feel. In an instant he sent my belly flipping and my bloodstream fizzing. My knees sagged visibly. Most crucially, the biggest jolt of all came between my legs. The heat has flooded there. In my shock I turn to look at the real him and I jump again when I suddenly see how close we are. I stammer out a response but my mouth has no idea what my brain thinks it should say.
‘Wha–? I mean … you’re … I mean … what? No! I … no …’
Have I actually just answered his question? How has he made me do that?
‘You should,’ he says calmly, still with that slight smile and those eyes bright with amusement. ‘And if it doesn’t make you feel sexier than ever before then I will buy every mirror in this place. I’ll make you a deal, in fact: you do it and I promise I will come back tomorrow.’
We are about a foot apart, looking straight at each other, and he’s said this. My pulse has never rushed so fast.
‘Oh, right, sure, yeah.’ I say. I’m trying to sound sarcastic and look unabashed but my cheeks are aflame, my heart is pounding and the adrenalin is coursing through me, jellifying my legs. ‘And I suppose I’m just meant to hoick up my skirt and show you as you pass?’
‘No, no. You place that mirror in the window, this time tomorrow. If I see it I will know, and I will come in.’
That is the deal then, and I just stand aghast, cheeks still burning, bloodstream still fizzing. I have half a thought to ask him, ‘Then what?’ but I already know then what. His smile broadens once more, his eyes give another cheeky twinkle and then he is off with a little nod. If he was a Victorian no doubt he’d have tipped his hat like a gentleman. Except that a real gentleman wouldn’t slay me with such personal, out-there questions and he definitely wouldn’t leave me in this state. I have to shut the shop immediately, of course. I am trembling and mind-shot and itching in places that haven’t itched that badly in years.
I’m not going to do it, obviously. I perch on the edge of the corner bath with my legs wide open. I have propped a little mirror against the tiled wall opposite so I can clearly inspect my most private place. I’ve been here a while. I made my shower so hot it will be a while longer before I need a towel around me. My skin is still steaming. I have never examined myself this intently. I can’t remember feeling this brazen before. I have even used my fingers to pull the lips apart to see her in all her lewd glory. Any excuse to touch myself there. I am holding off from doing more, despite her calling; some silly subconscious notion about saving myself.
I imagine he is seeing what I see now, in all that close detail. I imagine that I have shaved as he asked. The thought of laying yourself so bare to someone – especially one whose name you don’t even know. Of feeling that confident and unabashed. Is it ruder to imagine his fingers splaying me apart or my own? The breath and the tingle on my exposed, so delicate skin. The faintest tongue-touch, no barrier at all between him and my most sensitive nerve-endings. It might seem such a run-of-the-mill thing for some women, but to lay yourself so gratuitously naked – I cannot think of a more blatant come-on. Just to do it means you are gagging for it.
Which is exactly what his deal is about