Page 29 of Obedience

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A familiar rhythm against the hotel door got Greta to her feet. Pulling back the door, her hand remained tightly gripped onto the wood. Her outfit of high-waisted blue jeans and an oversized white shirt, loosely tucked at the front was a stark contrast to her usual bare skin and underwear sets, or her professional attire. With her hair down and lips glossed, Greta could see Dylan’s struggle to hold her gaze. Dylan sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, her hands pushed deep into her pockets as though she was fighting the urge to pull Greta into her arms.

‘You know you can knock like a normal person now?’ Greta said through a weak smile.

Dylan grinned. ‘A normal person?! What’s one of them?’

Standing to the side, Greta allowed Dylan to pass her. With her hand still pressed against the wood, Greta closed the door, waiting for a moment as Dylan’s scent hit the disturbed air around her. Greta's eyes softly closed, making her momentarily unsteady. Inhaling a steadying breath, she turned to face Dylan.

The room was small but luxurious, much like the hotel itself. The bed was huge, completely dominating the space. For a heavy beat, both of their gazes lingered on it for a second too long, before self-consciousness kicked in. Dylan dragged her eyes away and turned toward the window, the open shutters offering a view over a bustling Newton Street. Saturday traffic and shoppers made the Manchester street busier than usual, a blur of movement that felt worlds away from the quiet tension of the room.

‘Drink?’ Greta offered.

Dylan turned to face her. Greta tilted the bottle of wine she was about to pour from.

‘No, thank you. I don’t drink.’

‘You don’t drink? Jesus, wait until life kicks in,’ Greta scoffed, wincing at her condescending tone.

‘Hmm,’ Dylan hummed in disagreement. ‘I actually don’t drink because I… Never mind. I’ll have some water though please.’

Dylan accepted a bottle of San Pellegrino, her fingers briefly brushing against Greta’s—sending a frisson over Greta’s skin—and perched on the edge of the bed. Greta couldn’t stop herself from raking her gaze over her. She had no business looking so good in just a green jumper and jeans, when she—unable to settle on smart, casual or smasual—had changed three times before she left her apartment, congratulating herself as she finally walked out the door for achieving a ridiculous level of overthinking. Something she wasn’t used to.

Greta wanted to move toward Dylan, but she rooted herself to the spot. What was this pull Dylan had? This appeal? She knew, and admitting it to herself—even silently—made her chest tighten with something dangerously close to panic. Dylan was confident, self-assured without a single shred of arrogance. She was kind, gentle, oozed charm and aesthetically, Greta had grown to find her astonishing. Her brown natural curls, stopping just above her full eyebrows, were always perfect. The distinct lack of grey hairs and lines on her face and around her eyes was very apparent, as Greta stole furtive glances. With both feet flat on the floor, strong thighs parted, the denim of Dylan’s jeans sat tight against the muscle. Even the way she held herself was attractive; back straight, head high. Her rolled-up sleeves exposed her tattooed forearms; Greta’s eyes followed them to her strong, tattooed hands and fingers, which were now, for some reason, utterly mesmerising. As Dylan twisted the cap off her water Greta’s eyes followed as she brought the bottle to her mouth.

That fucking mouth.

Transfixed, Greta watched the bob of Dylan’s throat as she swallowed. It was enough to make her lose her poise altogether, but Dr Greta Vincent didn't lose her poise. Greta was ordered, controlled, and considered; at least she used to be. Dylan had a way of wordlessly pulling her to pieces.

Moments passed as the room fell into a heavy silence, neither of them ready, or willing to break it.

One leg crossed over the other, Greta sat still in a small over-stuffed armchair, acutely aware of Dylan watching her. Gathering up the thick waves of her hair, she shifted them over one shoulder, before bringing the wine glass to her glossed lips. She sipped slowly and lowered it back to her thigh, her pink manicured fingers fidgeting with the stem. With a restless flutter rippling over her diaphragm, she took another nervous sip, eager to moisten her dry mouth, noticing Dylan doing the same. Her eyes followed Dylan’s hands as she screwed the top of the bottle back on.

‘So,’ Dylan said, half a smile pushing into her cheek.

‘So,’ Greta echoed. ‘I suppose I should explain yesterday. I’m—’

‘No,’ Dylan interrupted softly.

‘You really don’t have to explain anything.’

‘Thank you for...’ Greta paused, the words feeling ridiculous as she formed them. ‘For taking care of me, I mean.’

Dylan smiled. ‘It was my pleasure, Greta. If I remember right, you had taken very good care of me, so...’ She trailed off with a shrug. Heat flooded Greta’s cheeks. She dipped her head, breaking Dylan’s gaze. The quiet room amplified the sound of Dylan clearing her throat and taking a long, steadying breath through her nose. ‘I suppose this is our chance to be honest, Greta.’ Dylan’s tone was as confident as she could muster. ‘Really honest.’

Greta’s gaze skittered over Dylan’s face. ‘What do you want from me, Dylan?’

‘Straight to it? Okay Dyl, this is it. Don’t blow it.’ Dylan ran a hand down her thigh and huffed out some air, drawing a soft huff of amusement from Greta. ‘I want to know if you think about me as much as I think about you.’ A silent beat passed until Greta blew out a slow breath. ‘Honesty. Remember,’ Dylan reiterated.

‘I don’t—’

‘Lie,’ Dylan interrupted, a smile tugging at her lips.

‘It doesn’t matter whether or not I think about you, Dylan, I— ’

‘Lie,’ Dylan repeated more earnestly.

With Greta’s eyes fixed on her every move, Dylan rose from the bed. She watched as Dylan reached the dressing table, put down her water and turned back. In a futile attempt to break the magnetic pull dragging Dylan toward her, Greta dropped her head. If she looked up, she would succumb and she couldn't allow that. Dylan moved with a quiet confidence until she was kneeling on the floor, her belly pressed into Greta’s uncrossed but firmly closed legs.