"Em." That is not Emilia's alarm. "Em? Cody is here. I need to go."

Emilia's eyes fly open. Oates is standing near her bed, fully dressed. They didn't wash his button-up last night. Emilia just rinsed off the most obvious 'residue' of their time together and threw it over the back of a chair in her bedroom. The shirt is visibly wet and wrinkled. After everything they've done, somehow the view still makes her painfully embarrassed; and she cowardly looks away and meets his eyes.

"What time is it?" 

She can't come up with anything else to say. Among other things, she's severely sleep deprived. It can't be past seven.

"Five forty," he answers. "I'm late."

Oh, right. The restaurant business.

Oates squats next to the bed.

Woah. Is that what it looks like when a man is in good shape? Emilia's half-asleep brain lunges into writing.

"He eased down, thighs tensing as he folded onto bent legs, the motion deliberate, powerful - controlled."

"With a slow, sinuous grace, he sank down, knees bending, as his eyes never left hers."

"He dropped to a low crouch, muscles bunching, the tension in his body coiling like a promise."

"Em?"

She blinks purposefully, trying to take the slew of descriptions under control.

"Sorry, you're just so fit, it looked very good. My brain sort of focused on it for my writing," she blurts out.

Oates' eyebrows jump up - just a tad, within the margins of his usual inexpressive countenance. 

"What?"

Emilia would properly like to change the subject, but she can see that he's already zoned in on what she said. She's definitely getting better at reading between the lines when it comes to his emotions.

"I'm not going to put you in my books! I promised, remember? But I never see men move!"

Emilia starts rising clumsily. Momentarily, she's mortified because all she's got on in a pair of knickers, and not anything sexy either. Apparently, yesterday, in her post-shag coma, she habitually pulled on a pair of white cotton full briefs.

"It would be creepy if I watched them in public! And I don't live with any, and―" A small, almost unnoticeable grimace flickers across his face. "Oh fiddlesticks, I'm sorry!" Emilia hollers. "You just said you were late, and I'm blathering! Sorry!"

She shambles off her bed, pulling her duvet after her, flailing, trying to wrap it around herself. Oates winces away and rises, significantly more gracefully.

"Oh and you're probably uncomfortable in the shirt! And late! I'm so sorry!"

She is fully intent on rushing to the hall to let him out, when his arm goes around her, and he pulls her in.

His cologne hits her nose. He feels firm and warm, even through the shirt, waistcoat, and jacket - and Emilia immediately sags against him.

"I can be late. I'm the boss," he says, his voice amused; and Emilia giggles. His fingers trail into her curls at the back of her head. "I love it that you're up for a cuddle right away."

"I love cuddling with you."

Somehow it's very easy to verbalise.

"And I do hate the shirt," he adds.

Emilia has noticed that his embrace is somewhat lopsided. He's probably trying to have as little contact as possible with the moist fabric.

"I'm enjoying this, but I should let you go," Emilia says. They did mention 'discussing things' and 'being open' last night, didn't they? "I'm not sure how to behave after the first night with a man." She glances up and gives him a shy smile. "But you hugged me, and it's all good now. And I properly had fun last night. All of it was brilliant. Sleeping together, too." It takes a tiny moment to steel herself, and then she asks, "When should we have our 'date dinner?'"

"Either tomorrow, or on the twenty-third," Oates answers without a pause. "I'm going to Brazil the day after tomorrow," he continues. "I'll be back in eleven days."

Emilia wholeheartedly congratulates herself on staying calm and hearing the most important part of what he just said: he would like to meet up with her as soon as he's back in the country!

"I've got a party to go to tomorrow," she says and strokes his chest - on the dry side. "My friend Elena's birthday. We're going out to a café with a couple of her friends from work. So, how about you give me a ring when you're back? I'll keep my schedule open for you," she adds, trying to sound just a tinge flirtatious. Who knows. It might not be a complete failure.

"Please do," he answers earnestly. "The evening, night, and the late morning the next day. I'd like to eat breakfast with you."

Her flirting didn't get through, apparently - but a direct exchange of information isn't any less valid.

"You've got a thing for me eating, innit?" she teases.

"God, yes," he says and pecks her lips. "And your arse."

Emilia barks a surprised laugh.

"Alright, that's sorted then."

Emilia lets him go and takes a step back. Cold licks at her legs, and she tightens the 'duvet doner' around her.

Oates isn't moving, his gaze fixed on her middle.

"Daniel?"

It's his turn to slightly shake his head chasing away the glassy-eyed haze.

"Is everything alright?" Emilia asks, instantly worried that she's missed something.

He nods. "I'll give you a call when I'm back." His tone is solemn.

"Please do," she mimics his earlier intonation.

Something doesn't feel quite right; but then he nods again, puts on his shoes and coat - and he's gone.

Emilia considers a shower; but the lure of a few more hours of sleep is stronger; and she crashes into her bed. The sheets and the pillowcase smell like Daniel Oates, and Emilia snuggles into them with a wistful sigh.

***

On the twenty-third Emilia doesn't receive a call from Daniel Oates. She gets a text telling her that he's delayed on his trip for another two days. He also asks her if she'd like a souvenir from Brazil; and she lets him know she'd love one.

Two days later she's on her way to her appointment with Mistress Eva when her phone rings.

"Daniel, hi!" she greets him, commanding herself to scale down the enthusiasm. 

That surely was way too loud and exuberant!

"Hi," he answers. "I'm back."

"You are!" she exclaims.

They are both silent now, and Emilia mildly panics. Thirteen days did a proper job on her confidence in this relationship. She can't quite remember how to talk to him.

"Would you like to have dinner tonight?" he asks, his voice noticeably less lively.

He must have felt the tension too.

"Yes, I'd love to!" she hurriedly reassures him. "And you mean a 'date dinner,' right?"

"Yes." He laughs, relief evident in his tone. "I just flew in. I've got a meeting; and then I'll stop by my place, and I can pick you up after. Would you like to go to a photo exhibition opening?"

Emilia comes to a halt in the middle of a pavement. She expected a dinner at her place, if she's honest. While she's gathering her wits, Oates clears his throat on the other end of the line.

"Or would you like to have a different sort of date?" he asks. "I do need to attend the opening." As the likes of her tend to write in their books, she can 'hear a frown in his voice.' "It's Max Ravenscroft." He probably thinks that he's clarifying it.

That tells Emilia nothing. She can see that it's important, though; which only adds to her nerves. Does he truly want to take a woman like her to an outing that carries some sort of a social significance for him?

"When is it?" Emilia asks, stalling.

"At seven."

So, she's got another six hours. Minus the two hours that she'll spend in The Top discussing her deep-rooted sexual complex and body dysmorphia, and crying her eyes out, in the company of a BDSM dominatrix.

If she decides to go, she probably should refrain from especially vociferous bawling. No amount of cold water splashing and makeup can hide the puffy eyes and blotchy complexion she can achieve when talking about the number that Paul has done on her self-image. 

"Can I let you know in a couple of hours?" Emilia squeaks. "I've also got a few appointments." She's fibbing a tad, but she needs a breather. "Depending on how it goes, I might not be up for—" A social engagement mostly consisting of catching surprised judging looks on her inadequate self as an unlikely companion for Daniel Oates? Unsuccessful small talk and forced mingling? Futile attempts to blend into wallpaper, while standing with a drink and existential dread? "—an exhibition opening."

"Of course."

They agree on the time of her return call and hang up. Emilia starts walking again. She's now in danger of getting in a terrible accident: she's googling a Max Ravenscroft and what one is supposed to wear to a photo exhibition. The latter is, conversely, pointless. There is no variety in her wardrobe; and there's no changing what she is, no matter how she matches pieces or accessorises.

Oh I know, I know the answer to this question! A charcoal-coloured blob! Kate chimes in.

Emilia huffs an exhale and shoves her phone into her tote.

She's still discombobulated when she marches into the lounge of The Top. She realises she's here too early, as usual; so she decides to sit on one of the club's lovely velvet sofas and research and freak out to her heart's content.

The room is empty, which is to be expected in the middle of a day; with the exception of a young man reading a paper in an armchair in a corner - and two people at the bar.

One of them is a young Asian woman. The other is Daniel Oates.

Emilia digs her heels into the soft carpet on the floor, and the only thought in her mind is that even a shoddy writer of rubbish romance such as her would never put this scene in their book.

It's pretty much identical to what happened last time! 

Oates and a fit, long-legged, sexy goddess. 

She's pressed into him; her arms around him, laughing and chatting amicably. He's half-sitting on a tall bar stool, one leg straight in front of him. Next thing, she'll wrap around him like a honeysuckle. And yes, bloody hell, all puns are intended here!

Emilia watches the bird stick her hand into the collar of his shirt and push her fingers onto his collarbone.

What Emilia finds shocking - the one, singular, most astonishing thing here - is that she realises that she is not upset. Nor is she doubting her eyes, or trying to come up with some feeble excuse for what she sees. She's not disappointed or disillusioned. Nor, which would make most sense, is she feeling resigned - since what are the chances that her relationship with a sex-on-legs, probably millionaire, alpha-male isn't a fluke and is in any way viable?

What Emilia feels is rage.

Possessive, unreasonable, jealous, anti-feminist, 'scratch her eyes out,' 'stay away from my man' rage.

Well I never.