Page 87 of Obedience

Greta:

‘Do you ever stop?’

Dylan:

‘Have you tried switching me off and on again? A little bop on the head might do it - that’s how you fixed those massive tellies in the 80s, isn’t it?’

Greta:

‘Goodbye, Dylan. Gx’

Dylan:

‘Laters. Dx’

Greta:

‘x’

Greta moved through the day carrying a newfound belief that things might be okay. Instead of pushing the thought down, she allowed it to ruminate; she permitted herself a sense of hope she hadn't previously dared to consider. As she tried valiantly to concentrate, thoughts of Dylan consumed her. She replayed Dylan’s third orgasm from the night before over and over in her mind. The way Dylan had come while she was buried deep inside her, almost still, pleading to hear Greta claim her. The memory thrummed inside her chest, sending her heart into her throat to beat so wildly her cheeks rushed with heat.

Staring at her monitor, Greta drew in a deep breath, finally able to fill every space in her lungs. The invisible hand that had been slowly squeezing her throat for years was gone. After reviewing patient scans, blood results and making various case note entries, she sent her final email at around five o’clock. She wasn't finished, not nearly, but she could sit at her desk for weeks without clearing the Sisyphean tasks in her inbox, so she decided to log off. As the prospect of another night with Dylan washed over her in a wave of excitement, her phone vibrated on the desk with a message. She quickly swiped it open, a wide smile still etched on her face.

Dylan:

‘Margs is getting there, at last! Antibiotics switch has helped. She looks quite perky today. I need to nip home. Be at The Midland at 7pm. Booking is in my name. Please come in a short dress, commando. Knock and wait. I’ll text you the room number. Do not be late.’

Dylan:

‘I hope your day was kind. Dx’

Reading the messages again, Greta couldn’t stop smiling. Shaking her head at her own giddiness, she bit her lip as she typed her reply.

Greta:

‘Commando, Miss St John? Gx’

Dylan:

‘Commando, Dr Vincent. Dx’

She finished the message with a fire engine emoji, making Greta huff a laugh through her nose.

***

Pulling her spine into a straight line, Greta took a steadying breath before rapping three slow knocks on the hotel door. A beat passed before she was summoned inside.

‘Come,’ Dylan’s stern voice called from within.

As Greta pushed the door open, her eyes immediately fell to Dylan, stood in the middle of the room, face serious, hands crossed over the front of her fitted suit jacket. Her dark brown trousers tight over her thighs, the contours of her quads pushed against the fabric. The high collar of her crisp white Vivienne Westwood shirt fastened with three buttons against her throat. Biting back a whimper, Greta slowly dragged her gaze over her.

‘Close the door and turn around,’ Dylan barked, her gaze unflinching.

A smile tugged at the very corners of Greta’s lips as she canted her head, and quirked a perfect brow. Tossing her clutch onto the burnt orange velvet chair, Greta did as she was told as Dylan watched on, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. A few moments passed as Greta stood still, head held high, a slight bend in one knee.

‘Dyl–’

‘Did I say you could speak?’