Act of Exposure Read Online Free PDF Page A

illicit fear would turn to sensual
excitement. Later - when they got to where he was taking her.
    She stumbled,
so he let her hand go and slipped his arm around her waist. He led
her over wet cobbles. Their footsteps, even their breathing,
sounded hollow, echoing in the emptiness. Long and black, their
shadows fell across the streets, the tin and the yards. Behind
their makeshift barricades, the dogs in the scrap yards barked more
excitedly.
    Excitement was
also in Abigail's mind. Who was this man to assume she was his for
the taking in some dingy, dark hotel room?
    Sidelong looks
at his face, his height, revealed nothing. Good looking, dark
haired. Was it blue eyes? Sodium street lights were notorious for
mutating natural colours. She thought they'd been brown in the car.
But then, he thought hers were black. She smiled to herself. A
mask. Another mask.
    None of it
mattered. He looked good, he smelt good, and her body was on fire.
She wanted him, this man who had been dressed as a woman. Another
mask.
    Thinking about
that and wondering at his reasons for being in disguise, she
glanced down at the silk trousers that skimmed her companion's
feet. Instead of high heels, he now wore a pair of white trainers.
They looked new. All the same, they did nothing to enhance the rest
of his outfit.
    He seemed
suddenly aware that she was studying him. His gaze met hers. Yes,
his eyes were brown. Her thoughts went back to the white trainers.
She laughed.
    'What are you
laughing at?'
    'I hope they
don't object to your dress in the place we're going.' She glanced
pointedly at the offending articles sticking out beneath the
swirling silk of his trousers.
    He took her
point and laughed too. His eyes sparkled as they passed beneath a
streetlight that leaned at an odd angle. She liked the way he
laughed, liked his eyes and the way his hair left his forehead. He
squeezed her waist, his hand moist and warm. Then he kissed her as
one friend would another. 'I doubt it. Clothes might maketh the man
in the Red Devil Club, but round here, it's money alone that opens
doors - and no questions asked.' His voice was as warm as the palm
of his hand, its moistness diffusing through the fabric of her
dress.
    The neon sign
that creaked above the door said Railway Hotel. The sign was ugly
in design, and garish in colour; the transparent pink of plastic
sandals.
    A round man
with a bald head took the money and slid them the key. He did not
look up from the paper he was reading.
    By craning her
neck slightly, the woman who was Jezebel, Carmel, and Abigail,
could see it was open at a picture of a busty blonde. Below it the
caption read "Tracy Figures Big".
    A mathematician? she wondered, or has she just passed her maths A level?
Neither , she decided with a wry grin. She
just happened to have big tits and was probably screwing the
editor, an editor who purported to be the upholder of public morals
if his front page headlines were anything to go by.
    The room was
clean, but basic; a bed, a table lamp, dressing table, one chair.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar.
    As the net
curtain billowed before the open window, a goods train rattled by,
its wheels squealing as it inched slowly along the huge loop that
happened at that particular place in the rails. The noise it made
drowned out any other sound. Neither spoke. It was pointless to
try.
    The train
passed. The man bent and switched on the table lamp.
    'Turn it off.' Abby said the words softly, but hinted at
passion. This is Carmel's
voice , she said to herself. This is the voice of Jezebel Justice, a woman with
black hair and black eyes who only comes out at
night .
    The room would
have been completely dark, completely mean, except for the amber
glow of a sodium streetlight just outside the window. Just the hint
of its golden light lifted the decor of the room and made it look a
little richer than it really was.
    But her
surroundings were of no real consequence. It was this man who
intrigued her. Who was he, what