She glanced at the man sleeping in her bed. His wrists and ankles were gently bound with white silk ribbons but his face was at peace. She covered him with the thin white sheets and gently ran her hand through his red curls. The thin morning light streamed into the small bedroom flat. It lacked the opulent charm of her former London residence, but she was oddly happy with the change. It was almost a monk-like existence for her after five years of living on the edge of luxury and danger. All her furniture was the cheap plywood kind from IKEA. She's living off her secret savings account which explained her frugality. Unlike a lot of professional blackmailers, Irene Adler was more interested in the thrill of the exertion of power than its rewards. She loved a challenge and living below her means was certainly a challenge.
Martin Crieff was anything but a challenge. He was absurdly easy to please. The man had no money, no real gifts and so very ordinary. He looked at her with a wide eyed expression of incredulity and worship. Such a look should not be so satisfying to her. He satisfied her completely. The way he begged. The hoarse whispers of please and more. The shivers that ran through his body when she ran her whip against his body ever so gently. The bashful requests to kiss her. To touch her. To please her.
In the morning, she would untie him. She indulged herself in the small luxury of buying an expensive silk dressing gown that she would lovingly wrap him in before sending him off to the kitchen. She would make him coffee and toast. He would ramble on about aeroplanes and compliment her on her cooking even though she didn't do much cooking at all. The poor man just liked to be taken care of.
She would wash and dress him. Comb his hair. Shave him. She loved buttoning his shirt and tying his tie. He was absurdly proud and pleased when she put his ridiculous hat on his head. She would kiss him on the cheek, whispering "My handsome pilot."
He blushed and stammered something protesting and incoherent about being a rubbish man. He would avert her eyes before she took his chin by her fingers and directed his eyes to hers.
"Naughty boy. What did I say about insulting and degrading my handsome pilot?"
"Only-only you have that permission...to insult and degrade me."
"Good boy."
"You're too kind," he mumbled. He blushed like an embarrassed schoolboy. Irene liked that. His eyes were bright and eager when he asked, "May I kiss you?"
She nodded. He kissed her. It was no longer tentative, but comfortable and warm. He trusted her. It had been years since anyone had trusted her. More importantly, it's been years since she lacked the desire to betray that trust. She breathed in his scent. Clean soap and toothpaste. Warm muscle, polite words and flight manuals. There were no secret bank accounts, USB drives, assassins, compromising photos and consulting detectives in the world of Martin Crieff. She made a decision.
"You'll be late."
Martin looked at the clock on the stove. "Damn."
He scrambled to find grab his keys and his overnight bag. He was checking the pockets of his bag to make sure he had everything he needed. "Diana, I won't be back in Fitton until Friday. Carolyn will be giving me my first paycheque this weekend. We could—"
"Irene."
"What?"
"Call me Irene."
Martin didn't look up. "We've never used that name before."
The warm and easy smile felt indulgent on her lips. "Darling, it's the only name you're permitted to use from this point on," she drawled.
Martin stopped fiddling with his bag and looked at her, stunned.
"Irene." He enunciated each syllable of her name as if to feel the way her name rolled off his tongue. He had the most brilliant and wistful smile on his face. "I like it."
He slung the bag over his shoulder and kissed her without asking. She was too pleased to protest. It was absurdly domestic. And she didn't mind. He repeated her name once more, low and reverently before dashing out the door. She smiled as she imagined the taste of his desperate cries of her name against her mouth. It would be delicious.