Romance Test

No Words

She was right earlier, she doesn't even manage to cross the threshold of his bedroom.

"You have a mirror here," she exhales in horror.

"Ah, yeah, I forgot about that," he says. "Is that a problem?"

Emilia chokes on a disbelieving laugh. "Only someone as fit as you can ask that."

"Good to know you think I'm fit," he says. "Do you want me to throw something over it?"

The mirror is so tall and wide it can fit two Emilias horizontally, or one and a half Daniel Oates vertically.

"What can you possibly throw over it? The holocaust cloak from Princess Bride?" she yelps.

"I don't know what that is," he says.

He leaves her by the door, comes up to the wall, and turns the mirror around. Even after his stunt in the kitchen, Emilia still can't help but note the amount of physical strength in him. It's both endlessly sexy - and mildly terrifying. Obviously, during the Stone Age his size and muscles would make him an attractive mate, since he could hunt and defend her and her offspring from predators. But these days, men are the predators. And this one also has an armoury in a closet.

"Better?" he asks and sits down on the bed. He then pats the cover next to him. "Do you want to join me?"

Emilia cautiously lowers her bottom on the bed near him and exhales slowly. Anxious half-formed ideas and questions swirl in her head. She's preoccupied with the thought that they probably need to discuss protection, while at the same time she's pondering the mechanics of getting under his duvet. If they start kissing right now, how will she ensure that she can hide once some of her clothes are off? And then a horrific realisation comes: had she known where her day would take her, she definitely wouldn't have put on high-waisted stretchy briefs and her favourite supportive seamless bra. At this stage she has zero pros - and a couple dozen of cons - to jumping up to her feet and running out of his flat.

"Emilia."

She whips her head to him.

"I'm just going to make sure one last time," he says softly, "before I take control, like you asked for before. Do you want to have sex with me?"

"I—"

Do you, Milly?

"I just wish I wasn't... me!" Words burst out of her, and she bites her bottom lip. "I'm fat, and I feel so ugly, and—" Yep, here's the first crack in the voice. Shut up, Milly! "And I'm wearing these giant knickers, you know, the ones they make fun of in Bridget Jones. If I was this confident sexy woman, and did something stupid, or didn't know how to behave, no one would care! You'd be too randy to care! And kink or not, how can anyone enjoy touching me? It's like I'm made of... flan! And I just can't stand it!" She draws a shaky breath in, trying to take her nerves under control; but her voice is trembling more and more. Don't you dare crying right now, you daft cow! You've probably arsed it up already. At least, don't go all sobbing and snotty on him. "It's my worst nightmare! To be seen as... disgusting!" she cries out. "I just imagine that people look at me and must feel sick. All this fat, and the drooping folds, all jiggly, and—"

She remembers to whom she's just confessed her biggest fear, and her throat constricts. She clenches her fists and keeps staring at his black carpet, unable to lift her eyes. What will she see in his face? Pity? Annoyance? Said disgust?

He says nothing, Emilia quickly wipes her tears and looks up at him. She was wrong: there's no pity or disgust on his face. There is virtually no expression on it. Emilia suddenly feels relatively offended: he could at least pretend to sympathise with her before he kicks her out.