Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  She ends with an apology. “I can’t believe I just bored you witless, talking about my parents. I’m so sorry. What must you think of me?”

  “I think you needed to talk.”

  She reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. “I did, and thank you for listening, William. It’s been a long while since I’ve been able to really talk about my parents with anyone.”

  Her hand is warm, and she gently brushes her thumb across my wrist. It is as disconcerting as it is wonderful, to feel a woman’s touch.

  “You don’t have any siblings?” I ask.

  “No. I’ve got a few cousins who I see now and again, but we’re not close.”

  I’m not sure what else to say on the subject of families, and I’d rather we moved on to something less depressing. I offer to acquire more drinks and slink back to the bar.

  The only member of staff is dealing with another customer so I take a position towards the end of the bar and wait. It proves an opportunity to contemplate the fortuitous hand fate has played me after that car crash of a speech.

  A hand of an altogether different variety suddenly touches my left arm. Dragged from my thoughts, I turn to find Gabby stood beside me.

  “Have you ordered my drink yet?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Good. I was going to head back to the hotel and grab a bite to eat in my room.”

  Normal service, it seems, has been resumed. It looks like another evening sat alone in Fitzgerald’s.

  “Oh, right. Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Gabby.”

  I offer my hand and her brow furrows slightly. “I was kind of hoping you might like to join me.”

  “Oh.”

  “But honestly, William, if you’re uncomfortable with that then I totally understand. I just don’t like eating in restaurants.”

  I realise my hand is still outstretched, and my mouth is possibly agape. I pull myself together.

  “I wouldn’t wish to condone inviting strangers to your hotel room.”

  “I guessed you probably wouldn’t, which is why I feel comfortable inviting you. I’m a good judge of character, William, and I have no reason to think you’re anything other than a total gentleman.”

  I’ve been labelled a gentleman many times before and in my view, it translates as safe, dependable, and predictable — not exactly traits to set the heart racing. Perhaps it would be nice, just for once, to be thought of as roughish, a charmer, or even a bit of a bastard.

  “Thank you. I’d be honoured,” I reply, gentlemanly as ever.

  Gabby takes my arm and we head back on to The Strand, and the chilly night air.

  “Where are you staying?” I ask.

  “Just there,” Gabby replies with a nod towards the Montgomery Hotel opposite; the venue we left an hour ago. I hope we can avoid bumping into any of the delegates who will no doubt still be enjoying the free bar.

  We approach a pedestrian crossing and wait for the lights to change. I sneak a glance to my left, at my beautiful companion, and I immediately feel ten feet tall. I may have skulked out of the Montgomery Hotel with my tail between my legs but I will be returning with my head held high.

  Could this be the start of a long overdue new chapter in my life?

  Dare I even hope?

  7.

  The foyer in the Montgomery is quiet as we cross the polished floor to the lifts. Gabby then presses the button and we watch the lights on the adjacent panel change as the lift descends.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks as we wait.

  “Peckish,” I confirm, although a mix of apprehension and excitement have somewhat stifled my appetite.

  The lift chimes and the doors open, revealing a plush carpeted floor and mirrored walls. We step inside and Gabby presses the button for the ninth floor. The doors close and we turn to face the mirrored wall, and the odd couple staring back at us. We look every bit the parody of a middle-aged politician and a disproportionately young and pretty mistress, despite the fact I’m unmarried.

  I choose to look at the floor as the lift ascends.

  Another chime and the doors open. I let Gabby lead and she turns left into the corridor while extracting a key card from her jacket pocket.

  She stops outside room 904. “This is me.”

  I follow her into a room which isn’t quite a suite, but nonetheless grand with two huge arched windows dominating the rear wall. The decor is a palette of browns and creams, although I suspect the overpaid interior designer sold them as latte and cinnamon.

  “I’ve never been in any of the rooms here. Very impressive.”

  “I spend most of my time in grotty motorway hotels,” Gabby replies, placing her handbag on the dresser. “So I like to treat myself when I’m in London.”

  “You never said. How long are you in London for?”

  She bends down and opens the mini bar. “I’m not sure yet. Drink?”

  “Please.”

  Caps are popped from tiny bottles and gin and tonics poured before she places the glasses on a table between two wingback chairs.

  “Come and sit down,” she orders.

  I do as instructed, immediately reaching for one of the glasses. Gabby slips off her jacket to reveal a sleeveless white blouse beneath. Her shoes are then kicked away before she takes a seat.

  “God, that’s better,” she sighs. “A long day on my feet wearing new shoes. Not such a good idea.”

  She takes a sip of her drink and sits back in the chair, crossing her legs.

  “Are you comfortable there, William? You can take your jacket off, you know.”

  Perhaps a sensible suggestion as I do feel a little warm all of a sudden, not least because of Gabby’s blouse, which is virtually transparent; her lacy bra and ample chest clearly visible beneath.

  “Yes,” I concede. “Good idea.”

  I sit forward and slip my jacket off. As I look for somewhere suitable to hang it, Gabby gets up and takes it from me. “I’ll hang it up in the wardrobe.”

  I watch as she pads across the carpeted floor towards the wardrobe. I remind myself that I’m only here for a bite to eat and some company. I am a gentleman, and as such, I must banish the lecherous thoughts which are creeping ever closer.

  She closes the wardrobe door but doesn’t return to her chair.

  “Actually, I feel a bit grotty,” she calls across the room. “Do you mind if I grab a quick shower and change before we eat?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll be five minutes. Promise.”

  She disappears into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Moments later, I hear the shower pump whine and the splashing of water on tiles.

  It takes only a few seconds for a devilish voice in my head to suggest Gabby left the door ajar for a reason.

  Don’t be stupid, man.

  The devilish voice then sets a scene for me; one where I approach the bathroom door and open it. I stand for a moment, drinking in the picture of a naked Gabby, lathering her body beyond the glass shower screen. I quickly strip off and take a step towards the cubicle, just as Gabby turns; the full beauty of her body on display. She smiles, and beckons me to join her.

  A stirring in my underpants drags me back to reality, just as the whine of the shower pump ceases. I breathe a sigh of relief my fantasy was nothing more than that. Even the thought of making such a comprehensive fool of myself delivers a cold shudder.

  The bathroom door swings open and I expect to see Gabby exit, dressed in casual attire. I suppose attire doesn’t get much more casual than the white towel just about covering her modesty.

  “Silly me,” she grins. “Forgot my clothes.”

  The stirring in my underpants returns as Gabby swings the wardrobe door open. I take a large gulp of gin and tonic, and try my damnedest not to watch her scouring the contents of the wardrobe.

  I fail, and watch on before she suddenly stops her search, and turns back in my direction. “Would you be a sweetheart and pass me that bag
please, William,” she asks, pointing to a leather holdall at the foot of the bed, a few feet from my chair.

  This is not good. This is not good, at all.

  I am suddenly thirteen again, stood in line at the school tuck shop — the moment I first experienced an involuntary and extremely inconvenient erection. My erection on this occasion may not have been aroused by maize-based snacks, but the awkwardness is the same.

  “That bag?” I gulp, pointing to the only bag in view.

  “Please.”

  I rue the decision to remove my jacket as long seconds pass. With no plausible excuse not to, I tentatively stand and scuttle towards the holdall in a stooped, crablike manner.

  “You okay there?” Gabby asks.

  “Erm, yes. Just a slight twinge in my back. It’ll pass.”

  I grab the holdall and continue to shuffle forward, enacting a passable impression of Quasimodo.

  “Here you go,” I grunt, handing it over.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks again, more than a hint of concern in her voice.

  “Honestly, it’s fine.”

  I shuffle backwards which, in hindsight, was a mistake considering how unfamiliar I am with the layout of the room. As I smile at Gabby to indicate just how fine I am, my right foot catches the leg of a stool next to the dresser. My arms flail, and as I stumble backwards I trip over my own feet and crash to the floor, flat on my back, winding myself in the process.

  “Oh my God, William,” Gabby shrieks. “Are you okay?”

  I raise my head to look up at her, and then let my eyes fall south. I wish they hadn’t. In my supine position, the erection appears untroubled, standing proud like a pole in a wool twill tent.

  I look back at Gabby but her eyes must have followed mine, and she is now staring at the bulge in my trousers.

  I work with some of the most adept liars in the country, but even they would struggle to concoct a plausible explanation for my predicament. There is little I can say.

  I lift myself up onto my elbows and attempt to catch my breath. I’m expecting Gabby to scream at my deviancy any second, and I’m already plotting my escape once I find some breath.

  Much to my surprise, there is no verbal onslaught. Instead, Gabby steps across the carpeted floor and stands by my outstretched legs. I look up at her, apologetically. In turn she smiles, and does the one thing I would have least expected — she slowly peels the towel away and drops it to the floor, revealing her naked body in all its glory.

  My look of apology morphs into confusion as she takes two steps forward and kneels down next to me.

  “What caused that then?” she purrs, nodding towards my groin. “Were you thinking of me in the shower?”

  I look up at her, trying my utmost to focus on her face, rather than her naked breasts.

  “Possibly,” I wheeze.

  “So what do you think? Is it as nice as you imagined?”

  “Better. Definitely better.”

  “Maybe you should get up and take a proper look, just to be sure.”

  She stands and takes a few deliberate steps backwards before placing her hands on her hips. I require no second invitation and use the dresser as support to clamber up. Seconds later, we are stood five feet apart, facing one another; Gabby seemingly at ease with her nudity, and my trouser pole fully extended.

  The situation is beyond surreal and I have no idea what to do, other than gawk at the naked woman in front of me.

  “Well? Better?” Gabby asks.

  “Immeasurably.”

  She suddenly moves towards me, not stopping until there are barely inches between us.

  “Still hungry?” she whispers as I feel my belt being unbuckled.

  “No,” I whimper.

  Our eyes remain locked as she skilfully removes my belt and undoes the single button holding my trousers in place. As her eyes narrow a fraction, I feel a hand unzip my fly while the other slips beyond the waistband of my underpants.

  I almost pass out when that same hand grasps my phallus and tugs it free.

  “Jeeesssus Chriiiist,” I groan, temporarily forgetting the fact I don’t hold religious beliefs.

  I close my eyes for a second or two, and open them to a view of Gabby’s head as she ducks down. Despite being fairly sure what is about to happen, I am ill prepared when the actual event occurs.

  My first reaction is to make a sound I am unlikely ever to repeat, and it takes every ounce of strength to prevent my knees from buckling. The sensation is exquisite; unlike anything I have ever experienced. And while I have little to judge her technique by, I cannot imagine how it could possibly be improved.

  My only concern is the potential brevity.

  Fortunately, she stops just before I reach the point of no return. She stands up but keeps one hand tightly gripped around me.

  “Three minutes,” she says.

  “Sorry?”

  “I’ll give you three minutes to get undressed and shower.”

  “Then what?”

  She nods towards the bed. “Then we’ll see if that bed is as comfortable as it looks.”

  Gabby releases her grip and slowly moves towards the bed, maintaining eye contact.

  “Okay,” I blurt and make a dash for the bathroom.

  I hurriedly strip and hop into the shower cubicle. Twenty frustrating seconds are wasted as I try to work out how to turn the damn thing on. Eventually, a stream of water cascades from the shower head and I lather my body with the hotel shower gel, all the while counting seconds in my head.

  It is only when I step from the cubicle I take a moment to consider the situation I find myself in.

  Never, as I walked into the hotel foyer a few hours ago, could I have envisaged being in such a situation. This kind of thing simply doesn’t happen to men like me. Perhaps that in itself should be a cause for concern. Is this simply good fortune or could there be some ramifications I haven’t considered?

  I run through the possible consequences as I towel myself dry.

  Neither of us are married and we are both consenting adults. We are not doing anything even remotely scandalous, let alone illegal. What possible harm could come of any liaison?

  “How are you getting on in there?” Gabby calls from the bedroom.

  “Nearly there,” I reply, my voice an octave higher than I anticipated.

  I hang the towel up and draw a conclusion. I may never have this chance again and it would be foolish not to take it. And besides, who is to say this is a one-off event. Perhaps this might be the start of something — is that so impossible to believe?

  For once in your life, William, follow your heart.

  It is not my heart that leads me from the bathroom, to find Gabby lying naked on the bed.

  “Come. Lie down,” she orders.

  I am more than happy to take her lead, and do as instructed.

  Before I have time to consider any moves, Gabby takes the initiative and pushes me onto my back. In the same fluid movement, she straddles my thighs and grabs my phallus. That indescribable noise escapes the back of my throat once more.

  Before the first shock wave ebbs away, she shuffles forward and lowers herself onto me, inducing a second, more intense reaction.

  She stares down at me and begins to slowly grind her hips back and forth. The sensation, coupled with the view of her perfect body, is almost too much. My senses overload and I’m forced to close my eyes.

  The grinding continues, although I’m relieved the intensity doesn’t. With every thrust, Gabby emits a slight noise; somewhere between a mew and a groan. Assuming she isn’t in pain, I would hope it suggests she’s enjoying the ride, and that only serves to heighten my own excitement.

  Time passes, although I have no idea how long. I do know it could never be long enough, though. And then without warning, she stops and dismounts. I open my eyes.

  Gabby is on her knees next to me. She grabs my wrists, pulls me upright, and whispers in my ear. “Take me from behind.”

&
nbsp; Before I can question her on the mechanics, she turns, and assumes a position on all fours; her peach-like backside raised in readiness.

  She might be ready. I might be willing. Being able is the issue that now concerns me.

  I have only ever had sexual congress with two women. The first was in my final month of university and was as brief as it was unrewarding. A drunken fumble in the dark followed by seconds of penetrative sex. It was a performance so woeful, I never got the opportunity to try again with the same girl.

  The second occasion, I’m ashamed to say, was nine years ago. I had a brief relationship with Melanie Dawson; a quiet, unassuming girl who worked in Marshburton library. We dated for six months and practised sexual congress on seven occasions. Despite having the opportunity to improve my skills, I was never convinced Melanie’s heart was in it, and the missionary position was as far as we advanced.

  After Melanie, I came to the conclusion that perhaps I was just naturally inept at sex. I took solace in the fact some people are hopeless when it comes to learning to drive, failing test after test after test. In some way, I have the same issue with the multi-tasking required for love making — too many things to simultaneously poke, lick, grasp, and flick. I am, alas, a sexual car crash waiting to happen.

  But now it seems I have little choice but to learn on the job, so to speak.

  Getting to my knees, I shuffle towards Gabby’s raised posterior. I understand the theory behind this position, and the canine-inspired name if memory serves, but I’m less well versed in the practical.

  I position myself between her legs and grasp her hips. My phallus doesn’t appear to be at the correct level for entry, although I’m not entirely sure where that entry point is. Not wishing to keep the lady waiting, I throw caution to the wind and guide my phallus towards what I hope is the point of entry. My first attempt is a clear miss but the boat finds the harbour on the second attempt.

  I tentatively move my hips back and forth. trying to keep the movements minimal for fear I might reverse too far and have to begin the docking procedure again. Slowly but surely I find some rhythm and increase the frequency of the thrusts. I assume Gabby finds my technique agreeable as she becomes more vocal, occasionally murmuring a profanity.