3. Third time lucky. Instantly the blinds lift, opening up the enormous room to the outside world.
It’s 8.30 a.m., outside the road is wet and glossy with rain and the air is damp with November fog.
Old London town has been turned into a Victorian postcard, where lamp posts flicker and blur in the
city air and Big Ben reaches up to the rain filled clouds, claiming the skyline.
I’ll need a jacket.
True to his word, Ayden makes an entrance at 1.15 p.m., bare chested and hot-headed; something
has him spooked. I try not to stare but he really can’t come into a girl’s bedroom looking like that and
not expect to be gawped at. I wriggle into my jeans and give him a good-to-see-you smile.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, pulling up the zip and turning to face him. There’s an expression I
haven’t seen for a while, not since the book launch break-up have I seen him so anxious. Keeping my
T-shirt in my hand I sit on the bed, giving him my full attention. “Ayden …?” It isn’t like him to
loiter.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
Well, yeah …
“I thought we were going for an ‘open-book’ day, not a dinner dance,” I state smartly.
“We are but …” Oh dear, now his hand is reaching for his neck. What now?
“But what?”
“Nothing, as long as you’re comfortable…” He turns to leave, clearly not having said what he came
here to say.
“Hey, hold on a minute. What do you think I should wear?” I’m unzipping my jeans and stepping
out of them. When I look up his expression has morphed into something much more lascivious.
“Forget it! I’ve only this minute finished my hair and make-up.”
He’s approaching me and fiddling with the top button on his suit trousers.
Oh shit!
“I have no intention of touching your hair or make-up,” he mutters, kicking off his trousers. “Love
the lacy underwear.”
I try to slap his hands as he reaches for my waist. “Ayden, you love any kind of underwear.”
“This is true.” He smiles wickedly, anxiety beating a hasty retreat.
I begin to fold.
“What have you been up to all morning? Have you been thinking about me?”
“No,” I lie, feeling his hands slipping down the back of my panties and squeezing the cheeks of my
bottom, just a little too roughly. “I’ve had breakfast, emptied the dishwasher …”
Now he’s tucking his face under my chin and sucking on my ear lobe. I will not make that sound, I
will not … “Ah.” Now there’ll be no stopping him.
He tilts down his chin to assess the situation. “Now. How are we going to do this? Let me think …”
Thankfully his hands are giving my cheeks a brief respite, but the sensual mauling is only
redirected towards my breasts. Deftly, he unclips my bra and slides the straps down my arms,
watching my face for evidence of disapproval: he won’t find it there. My bra slithers to the floor and
the soft material is replaced by firm hands and persuasive thumbs.
I struggle to speak. “Don’t you think we should be getting ready…?”
“Oh, I’m ready Beth. I think you are too.”
This gorgeous man has my libido running like a motor, idling and then sparking into life with a
single word or touch. I feel his erection against my hip and his hand against my crutch massaging the
soft, saturated flesh beneath the damp material, his middle finger rigid against my vagina.
“I was right. You’ve been spending the morning thinking about me and what we did last night. Isn’t
that so?”
My body has already betrayed me, there’s no point lying now. “Yes,” I whisper, the air leaving my
mouth in a whisper, while he tunnels through my panties and licks my breasts.
“May I make a suggestion, or would you like to choose how I make love to you?”
My mind’s in a spin. What do I say to that? Two words. “You decide.”
“Then I shall.” He plants a soft kiss on my nose and takes me by the hand. “Come with me.” We
walk across the marble floor out of the bedroom and into the hall. “Wait here.” He kisses my hand and
leaves me, standing there full to the brim with anticipation. I hear the shutters lowering.
He returns, looking considerably more relaxed than he did ten minutes ago. “There. I have no
intention of sharing your orgasms with the neighbours.” He takes my hand and steers me into the
lounge like a child crossing the road: he’s a very attentive custodian.
The lamps I turned on earlier have come into their own. The lounge has a completely different aura;
it’s less clinical and actually quite cosy, which makes me feel a little less self-conscious as I plod
along in my panties towards the glass dining table.
Ayden is lifting the sculpture onto the floor, moving chairs and clearing an area, I think I know
why. I’m being positioned in the vacant space and the glass rim is pressed against my cheeks. Slowly
he descends, taking my panties with him, kissing my knees on route and giving me time to step, before
lifting me onto the glass surface. It’s cold and I jump when the smooth surface touches my skin.
He cannot contain his amusement. “Sorry.” His kisses my breasts, each in turn, as a kind of
apology. “Your body heat will warm the glass. Lie back.”
As I do, I catch sight of the unlit spotlights in the false ceiling, grateful for the lamplight. “What
are you going to do to me?”
He kisses my left thigh. “Wait and see.”
I observe his departure as he leaves me in this undignified position, stark naked on his dining table
with my legs dangling over the side at the knee. How on earth will we be able to eat off it and keep a
straight face? I suspect that’s why he’s chosen it; eating-in is about to be given a whole new meaning.
He announces his return with a long drawn out sigh. “You look and smell delicious Beth. I could eat
you up.”
I lean on my elbows and tip up my head to see the words leave his mouth, but my eyes settle on his
broad shoulders and I trace the muscles flexing around his well-defined biceps and pectoral muscles.
What a treat for the senses he is. He licks his lower lip and my attention shifts.
“In fact, I think I will indulge myself, by way of an appetizer.” Taking a step backwards, he
launches a serious stare my way. I feel myself swerving to avoid it but, it’s too late. It obliterates my
defences. “Spread your legs for me.”
I hesitate.
“I’m not asking …”
Slowly, I unbend my elbows and lower my head onto the glass surface. I can’t watch this. A
centimetre at a time, I open my thighs, feeling a cool gust of air where a second ago there was only
heat.
“Wider.”
I swallow hard and obey, screwing up my eyes to contain my vulnerability and concentrate on my
breathing.
“You’re a juicy morsel Beth and I can’t wait to taste you.”
Please don’t say things like that ...
The instant I feel his mouth on me I convulse, feeling an electric charge hit my clitoris, strong
enough to ignite a Christmas tree. He’s gone down on me before, but this time it feels different. As if
he’s taking great care to stimulate me.
In my flushed state, I open my legs shamelessly, arching my back to receive him. He uses the tip of
his tongue to seek out the tiny bud of pulsating nerves, fluttering over i
t and sucking gently, expertly. I
am done for. Every muscle south of my navel is tensing, aching, desperately in need of release.
“You’re so ready for this,” he growls, parting me with his fingers, giving this everything he has. In
an unexpected tour de force he enters me with a rigid, penetrating tongue. I cry out, forming my hands
into fists as they smear the glass, smudging fingerprints. With nothing to hold onto I grab at my
breasts, wrestling with a tortuous need to come, while his deep throated groans vibrate against my
saturated flesh and ripple through me like sound waves. I try to hold back the rapturous tide of
pulsating pleasure but it’s impossible. I’m drowning in a sea of pure ecstasy … I climax hard.
“Yes,” I gasp, pushing up, into him.
My high pitched cries descend into deep throated groans that last as long as the throbbing spasms of
agonising pleasure. As I lay, still twitching and boneless, Ayden cups his hands beneath my bottom
and sinks into me in one effortless movement. His hard cock rocks to the rhythm of my flexing
muscles and I clench against it, savouring the hot intrusion.
“Beth …”
I rise to meet his fiery eyes; overcome with arousal those familiar green flecks have been daubed
with darker shades of brown and blue.
“I live for this. You have no idea.”
I do …
In a languid in-out movement he takes pleasure in my surrender, echoing last night’s affirmation:
you belong to me. I feel every inch of his steely erection as he begins to increase the tempo and the
gentle plunges build into slamming thrusts. I’m witnessing him in action, in me and what an almighty,
fucking turn-on it is. The intensity of it has us both gasping for air. He’s watching me, watching him
as he climaxes and I’m so worked-up I come again, losing myself, letting go. I ripple around him,
feeling the stretching and tightening of internal muscles and, together, we suck the air from the room
before collapsing onto the table like two spent cartridges.
He stands and eases from me, pulling off the condom and tossing it onto his discarded boxers. “See,
I was right. You were ready,” he gloats, grinning from ear to ear with masculine pride. “Ready to pay
my adoptive parents a visit?”
What!
“Of course. Are you?” I pant, realising only now why he was so anxious. What does he think they
will reveal about him?
He nods shyly, small boy again, in a way I’ve not witnessed before. “They won’t be what you
expect,” he states.
“Why? What am I expecting?” Even I don’t know the answer to that.
“People like me.”
What does that mean?
I frown in response. “Like you?”
“Yes. They’re good people.” There’s a trace of self-denigration in that comment and it pains me to
hear it. I lift myself up from the sweat covered table top. “You’re good people Ayden. Have you
considered that might have been one of the reasons they adopted you?”
With his hands around my waist, I slide from the table and stand before him, lifting my head up to
see the lines of uncertainty forming around his eyes. “Come on. Help me choose a dress. I want to
make a good impression.”
With infinite care, he brushes back my hair, placing a strand behind my ear. “No. You choose. Wear
what you want. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” I’m treated to an affectionate smile. “In the sex
department I like to be the one in charge but, out there, I want you to stay just as you are: smart and
funny and beautiful. You. I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks.”
For a full minute I say nothing. I simply breathe him in, every flawless inch of immaculate
masculinity, inside and out. I trace the outline of his heart-shaped lips with my finger. “You were very
enthusiastic just now. Like a man possessed …”
He arches a brow. “What can I say? I am a man possessed; possessed by you.” He snaps at my
finger, making me jump and sucks on it hard.
When he releases it, I slide it nail first into my mouth, tasting the salty wetness of my own arousal.
“You devoured me.”
“Like I said, you’re a juicy morsel and I’m very particular about what I eat.”
I give the table a passing glance. “Well, you chose the right place ...”
“And the right time.”
I smile innocently. “And the right time, but that’s not hard to do. You’re always in my thoughts
Ayden.”
“And you in mine Beth.” He kisses my forehead, avoiding lip gloss and blusher. “But now you need
to turn your thoughts to the subject of clothes.” He takes hold of my shoulders and turns me around
until I am facing the opposite direction.
I feel a gentle push and a slap on my left cheek. I call out in surprise. “Hey. By the way, I’m going
to wear a dress and not because you said so but because I’m too sensitive to wear anything else.”
He calls out behind me. “And I wonder why that is.”
Bastard!
I’m treated to a naked bow. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
He smirks, licking his bottom lip, making a point. “You’ve got great legs baby, you shouldn’t hide
them in jeans, even if they are skin tight.”
All I can think to do is pout.
He picks up his boxers. “Don’t pout. You know what effect that has on me.”
I sashay off in the direction of my bedroom, a broad smile across my face. He’s impossible.
By two thirty we’re descending via the lift; one hand holding my overnight bag and the other
wrapped in Ayden’s powerful grip. We’re on route to the garage which, I’m reliably informed, is on
the ground floor, accessible through a door off the hallway.
“You look delightful,” he assures me, pulling up my hand and placing a noisy kiss on my knuckles.
“Sylvia will fall in love with you.”
Who?
“Who’s Sylvia?” I’ve not heard her mentioned before.
“She’s my adoptive mother,” he states, as if it’s perfectly natural to call her by her name.
I turn to face him, side on. “Then why don’t you call her mother?”
“I never have.”
“Then, I repeat, why have you never called her mother?”
Just as the lift stops he pauses and meets my curious eyes. “Because she’s not my mother.”
With that bombshell, I follow him into the garage. The fluorescent lights flicker and illuminate the
room and, forgetting what we’ve been discussing, I take a step back, speechless.
Like an excited adolescent he holds out his arms. “You like?”
What’s not to like?
There are four cars; the silver Rolls I recognise but the other three? I know very little about cars but
… even I’m smart enough to know these glimmering, aesthetically pleasing pieces of automobile art
are outrageously expensive.
“You’ve kept these well hidden,” I say, running my fingers across the bonnet of a silver something
or other. “What’s this little beauty?”
It’s a 2008 Bugatti Veyron Pur Sang, or thoroughbred. One of five and the only one with a light
interior.”
“The only one?” I feel myself grinning for some reason. He’s so adorable when he forgets himself.
He actually has a hobby. Who knew?
“It’s composed of polished aluminium and carbon fibre so it’s very light and fun to drive.”
it worth much?” I enquire out of harmless curiosity.
“Around two mill, give or take a couple of thousand.”
I look up, suddenly alert. “So I could afford to buy it off you then?” I tease, remembering the
additional money I now have in my account, courtesy of ASMI for my website idea.
“You could,” he chuckles. “But it’s not for sale.” He’s shaking his head and moving over to car
number two.
“I think I recognise this one,” I say, looking at the ice white rear bumper. “It’s a Ferrari, isn’t it? I
recognise the badge.
“Yes. It’s a 1962 Ferrari 330 GTO, not to be confused with the 250. There were only three of this
model made. See, you can tell by the hump on the bonnet.”
I turn to see the ‘hump’ and give it a nod of approval. It really is very beautiful. “It’s very
streamlined.”
“That’s because originally they were designed as racing cars, but they’re mostly collectors’ items
now. And over here, is my favourite.” In an excited dash, he scoots over to a soft top sports car in
midnight blue. What else?
“It’s a Porsche Boxster 981 convertible, 3.4 litre, six cylinder engine with TDK transmission, 0 - 60
in less than five seconds, six speed manual gear box …”
“Whoa! Slow down there, Sterling Moss, I get the picture. It’s your pride and joy?”
He tips his head to one side. “After you, yes.”
I blow him a kiss. “So, which one are you going to drive? I assume you’re driving?”
He taps his chin that way he does when he’s thinking through his options. “I don’t mind. You
decide.” He folds his arms and leans back on the wall, awaiting my decision.
I make a meal out of it, looking left and right and back again as if I’m a spectator at Wimbledon,
even though I know exactly which one I’m going to choose. It’s a forgone conclusion. “I like the
Porsche best.”
His face beams. “Good choice Miss Parker. I’ll get the keys.” He disappears to the far end of the
garage and unlocks a combination safe; from it he fishes out the keys, easily recognisable by the
Porsche key ring.
“Where can I put my bag?” I ask, lifting it to show him its dimensions.
TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) Page 20