Page 54 of The Rest is History
Who is Harry Styles? Thx.
I can never tell if you’re joking. You scare me sometimes. Laters xxxx
I rolled my eyes. A quick Google search told me that the thing Elodie was wearing when she unwrapped her neck for me like a gift was indeed a ‘pussy bow blouse’.
Deeply troubling name for it, but still, it might possibly be my new favourite item of women’s clothing. I pulled out my Amex and got to work. Later, I replied to Elodie’s WhatsApp.
Most welcome. And very necessary.
And, in case you’re wondering, unfortunately, I do know who Harry Styles is. I teach teenagers, for God’s sake.
When she walks in, I’m at my desk, having already done a weights session in the school’s excellent gym and showered. Zara’s not here yet, thank fuck. It’s exhausting trying to behave normally in front of Elodie, and more so when Zara’s sticking her nose in.
Holy fucking shit.
Yesterday’s blouse was pretty, but this is another level. She looks stunning. Elegant. Every man’s dream. The top is sea-foamgreen, and I was right. It’s a few shades lighter than her eyes and showcases them to perfection, rendering them even more hypnotic than usual.
The silk is lustrous. Glowing. It skims over her curves, the lengths of the bow draping modestly over her breasts and leaving everything to my imagination. She’s tucked it into long navy trousers that make her legs look endless, and her hair is tied back. Pearl earrings in her ears. The blouse’s high neck the perfect offset for her bare arms.
Zara was wrong. Yesterday’s ensemble didn’t saysexy secretary.
This does.
And to think she’s wearing something I bought her, and no one at school will be any the wiser. That turns me on more than anything else. Gives me an illusion of a claim far more than the marks I made on her skin do.
Before I realise it, I’m out of my chair, standing in front of her.
We stare at each other.
‘You look’—I clear my throat—‘beautiful. The—it’s perfect on you.’
‘Thank you.’
She shifts her weight and smooths a hand over the ends of the bow. My eyes fall to them. I wish so hard I could reach out and tug one end and unspool this length of silk. Unwrap her again.
‘I’m still overwhelmed,’ she continues. ‘I love it so much, Charlie. But it’s so extravagant. I mean—Gucci!’
I shake my head, embarrassed. ‘It’s not. You trusted me with’—I gesture awkwardly—‘your body, and I messed it up. I got carried away, and I marked you, and I wanted to send you something you’d enjoy wearing while it faded.’
Her face gets a sad, serious look on it. ‘I loved every second of you messing me up, you know,’ she says quietly. She puts a hand on my bare forearm before walking past me to her desk, and we proceed to sit in silence until Zara turns up.
I don’t know what to do, you see.
I don’t know how to square being committed to never having anything serious with someone like Elodie with being utterly crazy about her. Nothing’s changed. I can’t make her happy in the long run. I know that. But then I went and kissed her, and tasted her, and learnt the sounds she makes when she orgasms, and my addiction to her is coursing through my veins, and all I can fucking well think about is getting my next fix.
I’m being deliberately obtuse. Another thing has changed.
A big thing.
Because I now have pretty decent evidence that she’s interested in me. Or finds me attractive, at least—unless it was her Henry VIII kink playing out, of course. The heat between us, even here, in the office, is undeniable.
It’s more than heat.
It’s a weighty pressure of emotion.
The air is charged when she’s in the room.
I can barely remember my ownnamewhen she’s in the room.
