When he smacks her playfully on the ass, he can tell – she’s wearing no underwear.
Suddenly it’s his mind that’s traveling through space and time, processing moments across years, exchanges of dialogue in days gone by.
He sees both sides of her in that moment – the ambitious, friendly co-worker, the outspoken daughter, the kindly friend and the introverted girl who finds it difficult to explain what turns her on and why, the submissive who desperately wanted to clean his shoes, the slave who begged to taste his come, the pet who wanted the cage, the deviant who spurred him on to choke her.
The woman who can manage a business efficiently, solve problems to save her life, yet finds moments to pause when it comes to her own love life.
He loves her for all of her sides.
So when he can tell she’s not wearing underwear in her smart business-appropriate dress, she can tell that he can tell.
Their eyes meet, knowingly, and for the briefest of seconds he could’ve sworn he saw a wink in her eye, a mischievous glint that dared him on, to act, to say something, to create that force.
She can get this look to her eye, he thinks, that harkens back to the classy ladies of the 1940s and 50s, to the Grace Kelly’s and Marilyn Monroe’s – the look that says ‘Who, me?” if called out on deviant behaviour. The sort of baby-doll, innocent expression that comes with a sharp edge of knowing behaviour and wit.
He can tell she’s baiting him, just as she can tell he’s going to want to draw this out, to test her resolve and a part of her wants to see this through, to see if he’ll say something or nothing at all, and the other part just wants to be taken against the wall, neighbours be damned.
Neither of them act. They’ve got all day.