Fast And Loose. Justine Elyot

him inside me. Like being owned and known in a way I could never take back.

      ‘That’s it, that’s it,’ he whispered with a ferocity matched by his thrusts. ‘Got you now.’

      Then he came too, his face at once so wild and so vulnerable that it pierced my heart.

      He stayed inside me for a while and we just held on to each other, waiting for our bodies to stop falling and our heads to clear.

      ‘Mm,’ he said, his eyes dazed and half-closed, as he pulled out and flopped beside me. ‘That hit the spot.’ He kissed my ear. ‘How’s your ankle?’

      ‘Ankle? Oh, yeah.’ I was suddenly aware again of the pain, though it was muted now, and seemed far away.

      He was amused. ‘You’d forgotten about it?’

      ‘I think I had. They should prescribe you on the National Health.’

      He smiled, running his hand over my fishnetted curves again.

      ‘You too,’ he said. ‘Take three times daily after meals.’

      ‘I think I could handle that,’ I said.

      He sat up and put his hand around my ankle.

      ‘It needs bandaging,’ he said. ‘Have you got anything?’

      ‘Not bandages per se,’ I said. ‘A dressing-gown cord is as close as it gets.’

      ‘That’d do.’

      The robe was hanging on the door. He took the satin belt from its loops and wrapped it slowly and carefully around the swollen area, down to my heel.

      I shut my eyes and imagined he was tying me up for real, about to hobble me or bind me to the bedpost. He would keep me spreadeagled here, ready for sex whenever he felt the urge.

      ‘Is that all right?’ he asked. ‘Too tight?’

      ‘A little tighter would be fine,’ I said.

      I opened my eyes to watch him pull it taut and let out a shuddering breath, excited again, despite my post-coital limpness.

      ‘Did that hurt?’ he asked, all concern.

      ‘No,’ I said unevenly. ‘’Sfine.’

      One side of his mouth twitched up, but his brow was furrowed, as if trying to solve me like a riddle.

      ‘Good,’ he said.

      I knew I was blushing. I felt I’d given something away.

      ‘Right, well, I’m going to get you a bag of frozen peas or something, to put against it, and then you’re going to turn on your computer and tell me all about this blogger of yours.’

      Oh, bugger! He was supposed to have forgotten about that. The mind-blowing sex had failed to blow enough of his mind.

      He helped me up from the bed, supported me over to my desk and sat me in the chair. My knickers felt cold and slimy and the fuzzy upholstery of the cushion prickled my sensitive skin. My hold-ups were clinging damply to my legs and I didn’t dare turn my head far enough to catch my reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

      He dealt with the condom and wrapped himself in my beltless robe, then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

      What was I going to do? Could I make something up? But what? Couldn’t I just say it was a news blog or a fashion blog or a…

      He came back in with a bag of Bird’s Eye’s finest and rubbed them against my ankle.

      ‘Christ!’ I yelped, kicking away as fast as I could. ‘It’s freezing!’

      ‘You seem surprised,’ he said, laughing at me.

      ‘I’m not – it’s just…wouldn’t a bit of coldish water do?’

      He rolled his eyes and left the room again, giving me a bit more time to play with.

      A fashion blog? But then it would seem weird to be so concerned about its disappearance. And if I spun some yarn about a news blogger disappearing, he’d jump all over it and want to investigate.

      Would it be so difficult to tell him the truth?

      He returned half a minute later with a basin of cool water. I put my foot in it and he pulled up my dressing-table stool and sat on it, hands on his knees, leaning towards me with clear and eager expectation.

      ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘You promised me something.’

      ‘It’s nothing really,’ I said, fidgeting with the keyboard.

      He shook his head sternly.

      ‘I don’t think so, missy,’ he said. ‘Spill, or there’ll be trouble.’

      Trouble, eh? Despite my nerves, a spark ignited between my tired legs.

      ‘What sort of trouble?’

      ‘You don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘You’re not too grown-up to go across my knee, young lady.’

       Oh, my God! Did he actually just say that?

      All I could do was stare foolishly at him, my jaw apparently frozen.

      ‘You think I’m joking?’ he said, his voice now low and seductive. ‘Come on, Foxy. Out with it.’

      He was joking. He must have been.

      I held my breath for the time it took to log on, a torrent of possible things to say rushing through my mind, all of them inappropriate and embarrassing.

      ‘So there was this blogger,’ I said, much too fast, my words pouring out with the long-held breath. ‘She seemed to be getting into some kind of weird stuff. And she was about to go on this maybe quite risky, uh, journey, and then she never updated and her blog has been taken down.’

      ‘And you think something’s happened to her?’

      I nodded.

      He put a hand on mine.

      ‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he said, so gently I wanted to cry. ‘You’re shaking. You’re really that worried about her?’

      I shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ I said, running a fishnetted forearm across my eyes. ‘Dunno. It’s probably nothing. Anyway.’ I made a dive for the off switch, but Tom was having none of it.

      ‘You’re worried,’ he said firmly. ‘So it isn’t nothing. And you can’t leave it there. You haven’t told me anything yet.’

      ‘I…it’s difficult,’ I muttered.

      ‘Why is it difficult? What’s the weird, risky stuff you were talking about? Is she an undercover journalist or something? Getting in deep with criminals? Terrorists? The government? MI5? Old TV personalities of the 1970s?’

      I snorted despite my anxieties.

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re miles off track. It’s nothing like that.’

      My ears burned. They must have been bright red. I could always put it down to the vigorous activities we’d recently engaged in, but somehow I didn’t think he’d fall for it.

      ‘Oh!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Online dating. Meeting strange men off the internet? I’m right, aren’t I?’

      I stared at my Ripper Street wallpaper. The lawmen of Whitechapel stared accusingly back out at me. They would have guessed it by now, I bet.

      ‘I’m right,’ said Tom, sitting back with a self-congratulatory grin. ‘Oh, Foxy. You haven’t resorted to Plenty of Fish, have you? You only had to call me.’

      ‘No,’ I said crossly. ‘Wrong again. It’s not online dating…not exactly, anyway.’

      ‘Wife swapping? Sex dungeons? A cam girl! Is it a cam girl?’

      ‘No,