by J. J. Sorel
I sensed that I’d affected him. Either that, or he was a great actor.
“Do you think I’m a slut?”
A subtle smile touched his lips, and I suddenly cringed at how childish I’d sounded.
“I think you’re a voluptuous woman who’s very fuckable and who I just want to get down and dirty with. It’s a natural desire. I’d be bored otherwise.”
“Really? You seem to like to talk about art. And we talk about all kinds of things.”
“You’re smart. That just makes me want to fuck you even more. I don’t tolerate stupidity and ignorance in anyone, man or woman. And dumb women don’t give me a hard-on.”
I gnashed my teeth. “That’s a compliment?”
“More than a compliment.” He stroked my hair. “The moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you.”
“Have me? You mean at that virgin-selling venue?”
“I definitely noticed you there. But it was at the exhibition. I saw you across the room.”
“What did you look at first? My tits or my eyes?”
“Your hair.”
“Huh?” I hadn’t expected that.
“And your ass.” He grinned. “You had your back turned to me.”
I chuckled dryly. “It’s hard to miss, I suppose.”
“It’s fucking sexy. And I love rubbing against it.”
“I’m not into anal sex.”
“I don’t want to fuck you up the ass. I’m not into that. I like your cunt. It’s hot and tight. A perfect fit.” He kissed my neck. “You’re perfect.”
“You’re coarser now that I know you.”
He sniffed. “Intelligent multi-syllabic words are called for when discussing politics, art, or philosophy. Decorum and proper English is a must when talking to the elderly and in formal encounters. However, we are talking about sex.” He cocked his head, which made me smile.
“Why did you pull out of my mouth? Wasn’t I doing it properly? I’ve never had a dick in my mouth before.”
He raised an eyebrow, and for some reason, my eyes landed on his cock which had started to thicken again. Blake loved talking about sex, which made two of us, judging by how inflamed I’d become.
“Because I didn’t want to drown you in cum. Let’s take that a little slower.”
“But I come in your mouth,” I said.
Blake’s lips twitched into a smile. His fingers walked between my legs and parted them almost roughly.
“You’re a banquet. Your flavor’s exquisite.” His eyebrow lifted. “I look forward to feeling your beautiful lips on my cock again. You’re a natural, Penelope. It felt too nice. I wanted to come inside of you.”
I looked down at his rising dick again. Oh my… The burn between my legs pulsed through me. Didn’t we just fuck?
27
* * *
BLAKE
OPTING FOR SOMEWHERE discreet, I met Peter Barnes at my club.
“This is posh,” he said, surveying the room.
I asked, “What would you like?”
He gazed at my glass. “Maybe a single malt. Since you’re paying.”
I turned toward the waiter, who came immediately. Since it was a Monday, the place was nearly empty, with just a couple of older gents in the corner—regulars—who were lost in conversation.
We sat at my usual table by the window. Ever since Dylan Fox had locked me in cupboards as a boy, I’d developed this manic need to see outside.
“Have you got a trace on the Serbian girl?”
He nodded. “She’s back with Fox.”
“They’re prostituting her again?”
“I’m not sure. But probably.” He gestured to the waiter, who set down his drink, which he took to with the thirst of an alcoholic.
“Bring us the bottle,” I told the waiter.
I’d met men like Barnes before—freaks of nature, who would put in a hard day’s work on a bottle of whisky.
“Do you know where she’s staying?”
He nodded. “I’ve traced her to a flat in Brixton.”
“Is she there alone?”
“Not sure. I’ve seen a few young women come and go. As I have older men.” He raised an eyebrow.
“They’re working from there, then.” I changed the subject. “What have you got on that estate in Southwark?”
“It’s filled with lowlifes. Supplies half of London with drugs.”
I nodded. My veins froze when I thought of Penelope living there, and it bugged me that she’d kept it a secret from me.
“I need to know more about who a friend of mine lives with.”
“I’ll need a photo of your girlfriend.”
I frowned. “I didn’t mention she was that.”
He smirked. “I know the signs. You stuttered a little. I could see it in your eyes.”
His perceptiveness became him, considering he was a detective, but my body still tensed. I’d always managed to keep my heart hidden.
* * *
IF EVER THERE WAS a place to share with a creative friend, it was Bath. With Roman Britain etched all over its cobbled paths and honey-colored walls, that city captivated me.
As we sped along the freeway in my car, I noticed Penelope’s fingers grip her seat.
“Am I going too fast?”
“A little.” She turned to me wearing a tight smile. “But it’s to be expected in James Bond’s car. I’m half expecting a seat to eject and pistons to fire bullets.” She giggled.
I smiled at her girlish silliness, which always made me lighter.
I turned off at the exit and slowed down as we crossed onto the one-lane road.
Penelope unwound the window. “Mm… country air.”
“How long has it been since you left London?”
“I’ve never left. I haven’t been anywhere.”
I glanced at her, thinking of her life at that run-down hovel.
As we drove over an ancient cobbled bridge, Penelope effused, “How gorgeous. I love old bridges. Do you mind if I take a photo?”
I slowed down, stopped the car, and glanced at my watch.
“Are we running late?” she asked, holding her phone in camera position.
“It’s fine. We’ve got an hour, and we’re twenty minutes away.”
She stepped out of the car. “I won’t be long—I promise.”
That rustic environment suited her. With her hair out, the sun streaked red highlights through her normally dark mane, which against my pillow looked black.
Her smile was wide, like that of a girl at a fairy theme park. She wore a voluminous skirt that on anyone else would have looked like someone’s hand-me-down, but Penelope’s natural flair and individuality made it work. As she walked, her tits bounced and my cock lengthened—a reminder of her on top with her tits in my face.
My sudden loss of control around Penelope startled me.
She slid back in. “Oh, it’s so photogenic with all that clinging ivy.”
I started the engine and took off. “This place is nothing but photogenic.”
“I want to do a series on bridges with figures of men in suits and historical women in flowing gowns.”
“You have a penchant for contradictions.”
“Not always. You’ve only seen the triptych. My earlier works were mainly ethereal figures. I’ve never really grown out of fairy tales. They were my escape as a young girl and still are when I paint.”
“What are you escaping from?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve always used art as an escape, as an expression of my inner world while giving me a break from the real world.”
“But isn’t your inner world a mirror of the real world, given that that’s all you’ve ever known?”
“That’s the scientific interpretation. I believe the subconscious is filled with symbols and registers with the soul. There’s a deep well of memories passed onto us.”
“That’s a very spiritual interpretation,” I replied.
“Art is that for me, although I�
�m not religious in the conventional sense.”
“You’re free-spirited and openhearted—qualities that one needs to make great art.”
She smiled sadly. “My lecturers are always on my back. I just like to enter a dreamworld and paint. My intellect is nowhere to be found.”
“But once you step away from the artwork, the intellect gets involved, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “Of course. But I’m more inclined to react emotionally.”
“You’re just sensitive. Which is what makes you special.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t like conceptual art?”
She scrunched her nose. “Not really. I just like to paint and draw. I went to art college to learn how to mix paints and to study technique. It’s overly intellectual. They’ve threatened to fail me. So far, they haven’t. I received a scholarship on the strength of my work, not because of this.” She tapped her head.
“You’re following the path of the masters, like Michelangelo and Raphael, who were apprentices. You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met, Penelope.”
A sad smile touched her lips. “Maybe if I was born in another time.”
“Female artists were a rarity in Michelangelo’s time. Artemisia Gentileschi, for example, had a hard time.”
Her face lit up. “She’s someone I’ve spent a whole semester reading about. I can’t believe you know about her.”
“I went to university, Penelope.”
“Did you study art history?”
“I did one semester on the Renaissance. I’ve read a lot. And I’ve traveled to Italy. I have a keen interest in art.”
“Is that why you like me?” she asked.
“One of the reasons.” I paused to choose my words carefully. “When I discovered you created that enchanting triptych, my yearning to fuck you rose considerably.”
Penelope laughed. “At least you’re a cultured sex maniac.”
I stared her in the eye. “I’m not a sex maniac, Penelope. I’m just insatiable around you.”
A grin touched those lips that had wrapped themselves around my dick earlier so seductively. “I am wondering how many women you’ve fucked, though.”
“I’ve lost count.” I paused for a response, but she remained silent. “Jealousy can’t be retrospective. I don’t even look at other women.” I stroked her warm, curvy thigh. “Let’s just say that you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to keep seeing.”
“What makes me that special?”
“You’re a very unique woman. I believe you’ll do great things.”
After a pause, I heard sniffles. Casting a side-glance, I noticed tears pouring down her cheeks.
I stopped the car.
“Why are we stopping?” Penelope asked.
I removed a tissue from under the console and passed it over to her. “Are you okay?”
“Thank you for believing in me.” She looked at me with those big watery eyes.
I held her, like a close friend would. As someone who didn’t normally hug, that was new for me.
Noticing her smudged eyeliner, I passed her another tissue. “Here. You might want to fix your makeup.”
She pulled down the sunshade and looked into the mirror. “Oh. Shit. Look at me. I’m a mess.”
“A beautiful mess.”
She dabbed her eyes and then fell into my arms. Her lips were sweet and salty. I’d never been much into kissing, but with Penelope, my lips were sore because they couldn’t stay away.
28
* * *
PENELOPE
THAT ANCIENT CITY HAD my creative juices flowing and other bodily fluids, too, thanks to Blake. I took endless photos, including some with Blake as the subject, looking devilishly handsome. It was the most relaxed I’d seen him. He was so patient as I positioned him in front of a jaw-dropping facade chiseled by the Romans. His hair was tousled, and he wore that sultry smirk so well. His eyes twinkled a breathtaking aquamarine after I’d asked him to remove his Mr. Cool shades, and my legs went to jelly.
After grabbing a quick coffee to go—we were running late thanks to my need to gawk at everything—we made a dash for Blake’s meeting.
As we drove through the lush grounds of the estate, I sighed at its beauty. The gray-stone mansion was surrounded by a garden of flowers and manicured shrubs that seemed to glow in the sunlight.
After parking the car, we walked up a pebbled path and were met by a flirtatious realtor, who giggled like a child and fluttered her eyelashes shamelessly. Once we’d done our initial introduction, she largely ignored me.
I left them to discuss business and headed down the embankment. The colors were so vivid that when I blurred my eyes, the scenery resembled a Monet painting, especially with the shimmery stream at the bottom of the garden, trickling under an arched bridge.
Blake gestured for me to join them. Dressed in a tan sports jacket, he had sexy rich guy written all over his handsome figure. I could almost smell the hormones pinging off the pretty blonde, who seemed to hang on to his every word.
After she wiggled off, I asked, “Can we look inside without her tagging along?”
Blake grinned. “That’s my intention. I’m not super keen on a salesperson at my heels, hyping up the property in my ear.”
“Something tells me she’d babble about anything.”
He chuckled. “Are you jealous?”
“Maybe.”
He took my hand, which meant a lot to me.
I gushed at the heavily ornamented ceilings and the wall of windows that led one’s eye to the garden. Persian rugs strewn about gave the place a warm vibe, and I sighed at the staircase, which snaked up to a stained glass window on the landing.
I left Blake and visited the main bedroom upstairs, where I stepped onto the balcony and breathed in the country air.
Blake returned to the bedroom. “Okay. I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”
I almost ran to keep apace. “What’s wrong, Blake?”
“We need to go.”
“You don’t like it out here?” I panted.
“I prefer London,” he responded curtly.
“What’s not to like? This place is gorgeous.”
“I’ll buy it and turn it into a hotel, giving Londoners a place to escape for a weekend.”
“But it’s beautiful. You’re not going to gut it?”
“I have a design team who come in and fit it out with the mod cons people demand. I can’t charge obscene fees otherwise.”
He seemed so cold suddenly. “But you must keep that lovely balcony, the carved ceilings, and the staircase. They’re works of art.”
He nodded. “Those stay. The kitchen will be renovated and a few walls knocked out here and there.”
“Here and there? It’s perfect the way it is. Places like this need to be preserved.”
“And it will, wherever possible.” He placed his hand on my back and moved me along.
I studied him. “I’m sensing something.”
“Penelope, too many questions. It’s business. Now, let’s have lunch, and then I must visit the Cotswolds.”
I followed him silently to the car. His brusque tone hurt. It was difficult to believe this was the same man who earlier had asked me to wear a lacy teddy, only to tear it off with his teeth.
Then, there was the awkwardness of the night before. After a slow session of lovemaking followed by a more debauched session, he’d held me while our panting eased and then had gone to sleep elsewhere.
I lay there wide-awake. He’d warned me, and I’d accepted the deal, so I had no right to bicker.
In the middle of the night, blood-chilling cries had me scurrying out of bed. As I placed my ear to the door, I was riddled with indecision. He sounded tormented like he was in real pain, so I snuck into the room and found Blake writhing, his face contorted in agony. Although instinct screamed at me to wake him, I held back, which was wise, because the cries subsided, and within a breath he looked peaceful. Although I’d ached to climb in and hold him,
as a mother would a suffering child, I had to creep out.
Blake’s sudden dark mood brought that experience flooding back.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked.
“No. It’s just me. It was probably a bad idea bringing you here.”
“What?” That issued out of my mouth like a missile.
“I have to visit someone. You can either come with me, and you can sightsee, or you can stay here. I’ll pay for an afternoon spa session if you like.” He turned to look at me, and his face softened.
“What’s at the Cotswolds?”
“There’s an old friend who I visit. She looks forward to it, so I can’t not go.”
“She?”
“She’s not a young woman.”
“Is she your mother or a family member?” I asked.
His brow contracted. “Milly’s an old friend of the family.”
I nodded. “I’d like to go with you. That’s if you want me to.” I paused to think. “Or maybe you’d prefer me to go back on the train to London.”
He shook his head. “Of course not.” He sighed. “I’d like you to come with me. Only, I’m not big on questions.”
“Sure. I get it. We’re fuck buddies.”
“You’re more than that.”
He turned and gazed at me with that remote expression of his that hinted at someone in conflict with himself.
One hour later, after Blake decided he wanted me with him, we found ourselves in a picturesque village with rustic cafés and gift shops selling locally crafted products.
After lunch, Blake peered down at his watch.
“You’d best be off, I suppose,” I said.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll just head over to that charming pub over there by the duck pond. I’ll have a glass of wine and do some sketching.” I smiled, liking the sound of that.
He touched my hand and lingered. I sensed he wanted to say something, but I couldn’t read him. “Would you like to come and meet Milly?”
I contracted my eyebrows. “Huh? I thought…”