Dirty Talk. Jane O'Reilly
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never been so aware of him, and I don’t know what to do with the way I’m feeling. It’s bound to spill out. He’s bound to notice. And then what will I do?
When the kettle flicks off, I turn to find him lounging in the doorway. ‘So,’ he says. ‘How are we going to do this?’
‘I haven’t worked out the details yet.’ Other than a very vivid, very hot dream last night that involved asking him to strip off in the middle of my living room, and I’m not sure either of us is ready for that.
‘Have you written anything?’ he continues, taking mugs off the tree and setting them out.
‘Six sentences.’
‘Amy.’
‘I know, I know.’ I pull open the fridge, take out the milk. ‘I’m seriously thinking about just telling Dave he wins. It’s easier that way.’
‘Do you really want to do that?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself either.’
‘You won’t,’ he says.
‘How do you know?’
He reaches out, touches my shoulder. That’s all it is. He’s touched me that way a thousand times before. There’s nothing sexual in it, I’m sure there isn’t, but I couldn’t have felt it more if he’d put his hand down my top. ‘Because I won’t let you,’ he says.
Milk slops onto the worktop. ‘Bloody hell.’ I set down the bottle, flap around for a cloth, clean it up. At least it stops me from having to look at him. But he doesn’t let me get away with it. He moves in, closer, and takes the cloth from me, and gently cleans up the mess. His hands are so big, so warm, and my gaze settles on that rose tattoo, and I can’t seem to make myself look away. I know he doesn’t see anything but a friend when he looks at me, and I don’t want to see anything other than that when I look at him, but I can’t seem to help myself.
‘These six sentences,’ he says. ‘Are they good sentences?’
‘They’re OK,’ I say. And something changes inside me. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what makes me say it. ‘I…I think reading to you helped.’
His hands stop moving.
We stand there like that, side by side, not moving. Neither of us speaks.
‘Would you like to read to me some more?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d like that very much.’
I turn towards the doorway. He moves back, and I move past him. I go into my bedroom, pick up my iPad. I take it back through into the living room. I don’t tell him to take a seat. Instead, I curl myself up in my armchair, which is my favourite place to sit. I tuck my feet under myself, keeping my gaze on the screen as I turn it on and open up Spank Me Sir.
The words swim a little before my eyes, then settle down. My heart doesn’t, though. My pulse feels strange, too fast. I swallow, as if I can eat my nerves, then I begin.
‘What do you want, Sally?’
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