Alice After Hours (6 page)

Alice swallowed, shook her head and tried to focus. “I—”

“
And bring something to wear tomorrow,” he continued.

“
Sorry? Tomorrow?”

“
Yes. And it might pay to call your employer and leave a message to the effect that you won't be in for a few days.”

“
You've got it all wrong—”

“
Have I?” She could hear amusement in his voice.

“
Yes.”

“
Come down the rabbit hole, Alice. You may like what you find.”

The line went dead.

S
tanding on the pavement and watching the cab's red taillights disappear around the corner, Alice questioned what on earth she was doing.

The cold night air was made more so by the chilling breeze wafting through the trees of the residential park opposite. If it weren't for the low growl of traffic a few streets away, she might be the only person up on such a night. Gripping her overnight bag, she glanced up and down the crescent. No sooner had she crossed the pavement to the imposing four-storied townhouse than the door swung open and warm light flooded out.

“
Very nice,” she said, dropping her bag onto the drawing room floor. Rich dark woods and muted jewel-coloured fabrics glowed in the soft light. Music was playing—slow, bluesy, and acoustically perfect, as if created by a computer rather than an orchestra.

To her surprise she felt immediately at ease.

“
Glad you think so,” he smiled back. “Drink?”

He opened the doors of a glass-fronted cabinet.

“
Have you lived here long?” she asked, nodding at the bottle of bourbon held out for her approval. Two sofas at right angles to each other looked wonderfully comfortable. About to sit down, she stopped and instead cast her eye over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built into the chimney recess.

“
All up? A lifetime,” he said over his shoulder.

“
And do you live alone? It's a big house.”

Thrillers rubbed shoulders with autobiographies, while up higher the orange and white spines of Penguin classics were as iconic as any map of the London Underground. Lower shelves yielded larger tomes. Cookbooks, architecture, history, and sport.

“
I do now.”

She nodded. It was obvious, really, since both the library and the room lacked any feminine touch. But you could never be sure.

“
I know nothing about you,” she said, taking the heavy, squat glass from him.

“
What would you like to know?”

Alice shrugged. “What do you do for a living?”

It seemed as good a place to start as anywhere.

“
I'm a screenwriter.”

“
I thought you said you were an analyst.”

“
No. I said I did something similar.”

He pointed to the sofa nearest the fire. Settling at one end and taking another sip of her bourbon, Alice took a moment to consider his remark.

“
How can writing plays or films be similar?” she asked.

“
Inventing characters and setting scenes require as much consideration and rationalisation as analysing any mathematical data.”

“
Would I have seen any of your work?”

“
You might. A couple of projects have made it to the big screen in the last few years. Though like many others, I'm still chasing large-scale commercial success,” he said, smiling.

Alice felt he'd just answered a question.

“
You turn fantasy into reality.”

“
If you like.”

“
And is that what this is?” She waved her glass around.

“
This?”

“
My being here.”

“
Perhaps. Although since you're here of your own free will, wouldn't it be
your
make-believe, not mine?”

“
So where does that leave things?”

“
That's up to you.”

“
Okay. So what happens now?” she asked.

“
What do you want to happen?”

Alice thought about that too. Her stomach was churning. Sex, she wanted to say. You and me. Nothing outrageous. No handcuffs or whips. Just a good, old-fashioned fuck. On the rug. Right here. A glorious, take-no-prisoners, mind-blowing fuck.

“
I have no idea,” she said eventually.

It was as if he could see into her very soul.

“
If being here is making you uncomfortable, you can always leave. No hard feelings.”

“
No. I'm okay. Really.” Alice took another mouthful of her drink.

“
Are you sure?”

“
Perfectly.”

But she understood.

This was it. The point of no return. She could, should, say otherwise. No. Thanks, but no. You're right. I'll just finish this delightful bourbon, and then if you would call me a cab?

“
I'm sure,” she said.

His eyes, no longer open and gentle, were dark and penetrating. Or was that just her imagination?

He watched her over the rim of his glass; then slowly, precisely, he placed the tumbler down.

“
Stand up, and take off your clothes,” he said quietly.

It took a moment for the instruction to be sink in.

“
What?” she said, frowning and staring at him.

“
I believe you heard me.”

“
No. No. I can't.”

“
You can. Stand up and undress for me. And don't rush.”

Alice was holding her glass so tightly the pattern cuts and indentations were pressing into her fingertips. But worse, she was getting aroused.

And Gabe was waiting.

He looked so normal, she thought. Unbelievably attractive, and so darned
normal
.

Reaching over the back of the sofa, he switched off a lamp, and the room darkened a little.

Alice had no idea what to do. It was all too bizarre.

Well, go on. Get on with it, the little voice said with a smirk. You can't say he didn't give you enough opportunity to leave. You wanted to stay. You know that. Any why? Because you want this. Oh yes! Deep down you want to know what it's like to be dominated. To give yourself up to someone else and let him have control over you. Make you do things. Feel things. Emotionally. You want to be stripped bare and handled as if you were nothing more than an object for his pleasure. So what are you waiting for?

Placing her drink on the coffee table, Alice got to her feet and began to move a little, swaying to the music. Her eyes were closed and her chest was tight, as if she had forgotten how to breathe. She fingered the edge of her mohair sweater and drew it up and over her head in one smooth movement. Then she held it against herself, hesitating, as if in need of further instructions.

But when Gabe was silent—his eyes intent as if to ensure he missed nothing—she felt an unexpected rebelliousness surge through her, as if she were the one in control, not him. Discarding her sweater, she crossed her arms and peeled off her camisole to reveal her breasts, enhanced and displayed in a confection of satin and lace.

Hands on hips, she posed as if to say,
Well
?

He might have been smiling appreciatively, but he was also nodding at her jeans, and with a provocative lift of her eyebrows she perched on the coffee table to unzip her ankle boots. Pulling them off, she hooked her fingers into her socks and dragged them off too.

She retrieved her glass and took a decent swig of bourbon … and another. The raw liquor burned as it hit the back of her throat and then glowed red-hot on its journey down to her stomach. But it did the trick. Back on her feet, she closed her eyes once more, and scooping up her hair, began to perform a sequence of moves she'd observed in countless films, of touching and caressing herself. Dropping her hands to the waistband of her jeans, she teased the button and slipped down the zip. Dragging the unyielding fabric down, she kicked it away. Her performance was worthy of an Oscar.

Expecting a show of appreciation, Alice waited. If nothing else he should approve of her choice of lingerie. Part of a designer's private collection, the set had cost her a small fortune—and a trip to Knightsbridge a few weeks back.

But Gabe said nothing, and when she made as if to speak, he put a finger to his lips.

“
Now your breasts.”

Alice had never felt so vulnerable in her life. But that wasn't all. With each passing second, she was getting more and more turned on. After all, she still held all the cards, so why should she make it easy for him? She was the one who could make or break the game, and if she wanted to end it, all she had to do was put her clothes back on and walk out. What could he do then? She was seriously considering turning the tables—taunting him with what he wanted, then leaving him begging for more.

Why not?

Because you know that's not how it will go. What you really want is a demonstration of his power over you. And what better way than to challenge his authority by riling him up?

So go on. Do it!

Slipping her hands behind her back, she unclipped her bra. Though not her best feature, her breasts were nothing to be ashamed of. Both perky C cups with pinkish-brown areolas and slightly darker buds, they were a perfect fit for a man's hands.

“
Well,” she said, having eased the ribbon straps from her shoulders and pulled the cups away. With her breasts hanging free, she cupped one. Held it up for his approval. “You like?”

“
I do. They're beautiful.”

“
Want to see more?” She arched her brow suggestively. But despite her cocky behaviour, she felt off kilter, as if forced to give the performance of her life while not quite believing in her own power to carry it off.

Vulnerable and exposed as she felt, she had never been more aroused.

I
t took little effort for Alice to slip off the tiny G-string, though once she had done so and was upright again, she realised to her dismay that some of her new-found bravado had evaporated.

“
Turn around.”

She obeyed—on tiptoes, as if wearing heels, fully aware that stretching the muscles in her calves tightened those in her thighs and made her legs appear even longer and shapelier.

“
You work out.”

It was a statement, not a question.

From behind her came the rap of glass on wood as he set his tumbler down. Then he stood, allowing the sofa cushions to ease and re-discover their shape. He was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and he was turning her around.

His cotton shirt felt cool on her bare skin, but his jeans were harsh against her mound and the front of her legs. It was a new experience, for usually when she was naked, so was the man with her.

“
Get me another drink.”

He looked down to check her reaction, as if daring her to refuse. He also seemed highly amused, no doubt wondering if she would ask what his last slave had died of. But her nipples were hard and erect, and her clit already aching deliciously. That he would dare to order her around was turning her on far more than she could have imagined, and so when she bent down to pick up his glass, she did it with a graceful servility rather than a petulant flounce.

His eyes followed her, of course, all the way to the drinks cabinet where she filled his glass and then, when she returned and placed it down in front of him, they focused on the place next to him. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he eased her towards him.

She said nothing as her breast was cupped, held up, weighed, and moulded in the palm of his hand. It was as if judgements were being made. Did it please? Was the shape and size sufficient? His fingers seized on her nipple, rolled and tugged on it, then pulled it upward, dragging the full weight of her breast with it. Overcome by a heady mix of pain and pleasure, she felt her head fall back. Her breathing was erratic and laboured, and she reached blindly to pull his mouth down onto hers.

But he evaded her. Instead, his hand slipped down over her belly. An intense need rippled through her, engorging her cunt and the sensitive folds that surrounded and protected it. Lifting her hips, she groaned aloud. But he was pushing her back into the sofa and at last his lips were on hers—hard, unyielding, and demanding the very breath from her. A hand was on her inner thigh, the nails scraping feather-light on overly sensitive skin, down towards her knee and then back up. But not quite far enough. Parting her legs and hooking one over his, she begged and pleaded and jerked against him.

“
Is this what you came for?”

His mouth, hot and wet, was trailing down over her neck, leaving her gasping.

“
Yes … no ….”

“
Which one?”

Her neglected cunt spasmed and clenched, and she grabbed his hand. Tried to force it between her legs.

“
Please ….”

“
What do you want?” he murmured. “Say it.”