Bad Case of Loving You
Page 16
I sat on my bed and undid the brown-paper wrapped packages. The smell of pastels triggered waves of nostalgia.
I’d bought a pack of handmade Fabriano Roma cotton paper, which had the most gorgeous tooth to it. The pastels were traditional style, thick in my hands, made in Northumbria. I’d bought fixative, too, and charcoals.
All of my real art supplies were in storage in the US, carefully wrapped and padded, left over from my marriage.
I’d thought, when I followed Kendra and Henry over here, that the time of my life when I painted was over, left behind in the past, along with diapers and breastfeeding and the slammed doors and unmet expectations of married life. But here I was, spreading violet and mauve and heliotrope across paper again, smudging the colours, sliding my fingers through the pigment, layering and blending and building.
This was making love to the paper, there was no other way to describe it, and I wanted to fill the house with these colours, cover the walls, feed them to Matthew, along with jasmine rice and Leonidas chocolate and Kilimanjaro Peaberry coffee…
I was making a mess; there were pastel smudges on my jeans, up my arms, and on the rumpled sheets, but I’d planned on changing the sheets anyway before Matthew came over, and the rest didn’t matter. When the first sheet of paper was covered in colour, I put it aside and looked up at the painting that was hanging in my bedroom.
When I’d come here, it had seemed important to bring the paintings over. There was a lesson learnt in each and every one. I’d painted this one while Kendra and I had been muddling through separating. She’d been composing music, spending endless days scribbling pages and pages of notes, playing fragments of sounds over and over, while Henry and I watched from a shared bemused exclusion.
It had passed, and she’d come back to our domestic world, tired and grouchy. I’d collected her pages and pages of drafts from the recycling bin, when she wasn’t watching, and painted over them.
I wasn’t sure any more why I’d clung to the painting so tightly, why I needed to be reminded that obsessions were bad for relationships. Perhaps it was to remind myself why the marriage had ended.
The new piece, with its riot of colours, made me smile. I took it out into the tiny courtyard, lit by the light streaming through my kitchen window, and sprayed it with fixative, then sat on the damp paving and waited for it to dry, guarding it from the sustained interest of the snails who obviously thought that Northumbrian chalk would taste good, never mind the lacquer.
It wasn’t subtle, not in terms of messages from my subconscious, but I moved the green and yellow painting from my bedroom to the closet in the study and tacked the pastel sketch I’d just done in its place. I was too happy to want to think about Kendra any longer.
The washing machine was chugging away, washing the sheets that Matthew and I had trashed on Sunday night, when Matthew rang.
He was sitting on his front step when I pulled up outside his house, and he tossed his pack, laptop and a shirt on a coat hanger into the back of the car, then clambered into the front.
Neither of us said anything, there really didn’t seem to be a need, then he leaned across the car and kissed me briefly. I touched his face, found his lips for another kiss, then he pulled back.
“Take me to your place, now,” he said, and he did his seat belt up.
* * *
In the shower, he turned me around and I spread my hands against the tiles, pressed my face against the hard wet ceramic, my breath coming out as a moan.
Matthew’s hands were on my back; touching, sliding across soapy skin, leaving trails of desire behind them. Then his arms were around my waist and his body was pressed up against mine from behind. I didn’t dare speak, because if I opened my mouth, all that would come out would be pleas for him to fuck me, right there and then.
He was breathing hard, too, and we were suspended in time. I closed my eyes and held myself still. I wasn’t prepared to make that sort of decision for him, or for myself, but I had no hope of making myself stop him if he slid into me.
I could feel the bead clearly as the underside of his cock pressed against the cleft of my ass and he said, “Andrew?” in a strained voice.
“Mm?” I managed to get out through clenched teeth.
“I think we need to go to bed now.” Then he stepped back from me and said, “Make sure you’re clean,” and he was gone.
My knees almost gave way completely, leaving me clutching at the grab rail and hoping like crazy it was actually securely anchored.
Chapter Forty
The bedroom was in darkness when I walked in, towel wrapped around my hips. I skirted the end of the bed, and turned on the bedside light, took lube, gloves, and condoms out of the drawer and dropped them on the bed, then looked up.
The musical note painting was gone, and in its place, Andrew had tacked up an abstract piece, a swirl of purples and blues. Only the painting had escaped from the paper and exploded across the cream paint of the wall, leaving trails of midnight blue up to the cornice, and iris purple tracking down to floor level. There were deep greens in it, too, and splashes of red, colours so intense I could taste them.
It was wild and intoxicating, and I sat on the end of the bed and stared at it. I didn’t need anyone to interpret this one for me; this was the exultation that had been on Andrew’s face that morning when he’d fucked me. This was the most intense visual description of pleasure I’d ever seen, and it left me breathless.
That it was on the wall, not on some giant canvas, amplified the impact. This was not going to be hung in someone’s lounge room or exhibited in a gallery. This was art that belonged to this bedroom, and to whomever Andrew trusted enough to bring in here. It belonged to us.
I was still sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, when Andrew came in, towel around his waist, impressive erection straining at the thick fabric. To his credit, he didn’t ask if I liked the art, just sat beside me and stared at it, too.
“Is it permanent?” I finally asked.
“Kind of,” Andrew said. “I’ve put a coat of sealant over it, but it’s a workable lacquer. I think stable, rather than permanent, is a good description. Why?”
“Because I want to fuck you up against it,” I said. “And if the paint’s wet or whatever, I can’t do that.”
“It’s pastel, not paint,” Andrew said, taking my hand. “And I’d love you to fuck me up against it.”
I lifted his hand to my mouth and kissed his knuckles.
There was pigment ingrained in the creases. Seconds later, we were on the floor, kissing so hard that our teeth clicked, grinding against each other, and rolling over until one of my knees got wedged under the edge of the bed.
Up until we got into the shower, I’d thought I wasn’t particularly horny, after the amazing sex of the past twenty-four hours, but it hadn’t taken much to persuade me otherwise. Now, it felt like I hadn’t come for a fortnight, and that I’d go crazy if I didn’t get some release soon.
There wasn’t any doubt that Andrew felt the same way, not with the way he was writhing around on top of me. I looked hopefully under the side of the bed, just in case lube and gloves had magically appeared amongst the dust sheep, but there wasn’t any, so when Andrew lifted his mouth off mine, breathing hard, I said, “On the bed, facedown on a towel.”
Andrew was so gorgeous like that, on his stomach, his hands kneading at the thick quilt underneath him. His eyes were closed, and there was such a look of peace on his face, where it was turned sideways against the bedding, that I didn’t want to disturb him.
Then my eyes tracked down his back to his arse, so tempting with one leg hitched up on the bed, ready for me, that the feeling passed, and I settled beside him, stroking his back gently.
There was fine hair on his lower back and across his buttocks, and I ran my hand across the skin, smoothing the hair, and relishing the feel of the beads of sweat that sprang up as I touched him. One day, I’d wax him, just for the feel of the skin afterwards.
I’d never rimmed without latex, either a dam or a slit-open condom, before, and I carefully switched off the part of my mind that had done micro. If Andrew could let go of conscious thought that completely, so could I.
He tasted clean, of soap and skin, when I leaned forward and licked my tongue down the crack of his arse. He shivered, I felt it clearly, and said, “Oh, fuck…” as I rimmed my tongue across his skin.
This was different without latex; I could press my tongue in, which made Andrew flail around briefly, and suck effectively, which obviously felt good, too, if the yelling was any indication. There was nothing like an appreciative partner. I spread his cheeks with my hands…
He thwacked my leg once, quite hard, and I figured that was as good as any stupid safeword. When I looked up at him, he was clenching the quilt so tightly his knuckles were white and he said, “Fuck, Matthew, I haven’t got a chance of waiting if you’re gonna keep doing that.”
I lay down beside him and stroked his arm gently. “And you were so polite before,” I murmured, then I grinned at him.
He grinned back at me. “Seemed that doing what you told me, and waiting for you, was more important than trying to remember to say ‘please’.”
“Of course you’re right,” I murmured, then I kissed him, long and slow, kissing all of his mouth, making sure he could taste himself.
He moaned and whimpered and trembled on the bed, and it took me a moment to realise he was coming, even though neither of us were touching his cock.
He didn’t meet my eyes when I lifted my mouth from his, just kept his gaze lowered, so I touched his chin, lifting his face. He lifted his eyes, and I said, “I’ve never had someone come just from being kissed before. That was amazing.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and it was moments like this that made me hate being a dom. Part of the dynamics included setting challenges for the other person, and I always consciously tried to chose something that was reasonable, but obviously he had been more turned on than I’d realised.
“Don’t apologise,” I said, and it came out as an order.
There was a flicker of something in Andrew’s eyes then, laughter perhaps, and it reassured me. I said, “I’m going to fuck you anyway.”
He placed his hands carefully, one on a moss green patch, the other on canary yellow, and I stood behind him pulling a glove on. I rubbed my fingers together, warming the lube a little, making Andrew wait, then pushed two fingers into him slowly.
He was relaxed; the only tension in his body was in his arms; biceps and forearms taut, holding him steady; and my fingers slid into him easily. He was open enough I could have just fucked him, but that wasn’t what we were there for.
He was making tiny noises now, involuntary responses that grew louder when I added a third finger. Fuck, I would have loved to fist him like this, but it wasn’t good practice, not unless he was pumped full of drugs and held steady by suspension wrist cuffs. Three fingers would have to be enough for both of us.
I was so focused on what I was doing, twisting my wrist to press my thumb against his perineum, working my fingertips inside him to give him maximum sensation, that it took me a little while to realise he was talking to himself.
“Yes… please, must… can’t,” he was muttering under his breath. “Need… must, you…”
“And you shall have me,” I murmured, leaning forward so my face was pressed against his neck, my cock against one of his buttocks.
He was trembling again and I reached around his waist with my other hand to stroke his cock. He groaned, and I knew I’d misjudged again, he was much closer than I’d anticipated. “Right now,” I added, and his moan was relieved.
Neither of us wanted him to fail again.
I withdrew my fingers, rolled a condom on, lubed myself up quickly, and moved to stand behind Andrew.
It was a damn good thing we were the same height, it made this so much easier, and I only had to bend my knees a little.
The bottom bead caught and I had to push a little harder than usual to drag the bead in. He cried out, sweet and sharp, and I eased myself into him.
With us both standing the angles were completely different and I had no control over them, but it felt amazing. I rocked into him, no finesse, just his weight holding me in as deep as I could go, and reached around to stroke his cock.
It took a moment for us to establish a rhythm, then we were rocking together slowly; him braced against the wall, my weight pressing against his back. We couldn’t sustain it for long, not without at least one of us cramping, but this wasn’t going to take long, not when it felt like this.
I closed my eyes, the colours on the wall burnt into my memory so strongly I could see them with my eyes shut, and bit down on Andrew’s shoulder without meaning to.
I tasted blood, metallic and hot, and it made me come.
Andrew slumped in my arms, completely drained, and I held him as well as I could, pulling out of him too roughly in my attempt to stop him from falling down.
He was heavy. We staggered backward to the bed, and it was a huge relief to be able to let us both fall safely into the quilt. Andrew looked utterly exhausted in my arms, and when I looked up, there was come streaking the painting.
It took effort to drag the quilt out from underneath Andrew and pull it over him, but I managed. I left him, already asleep, and did a quick tidy up, picking up the damp towels, getting rid of the condom, turning lights off downstairs, checking the security system was on.
I didn’t touch the wall, concerned that if I tried to wipe it clean, I’d disturb the colours.
Chapter Forty One
A strange beeping woke me, and it was Matthew’s turn to kiss me and say, “It’s just the alarm on my phone. I’ve got to get up, you go back to sleep.”
Going back to sleep… Now there was an unusual idea.
I didn’t go back to sleep, just stayed curled up comfortably under the covers, watching Matthew bring me a cup of coffee, wearing nothing but his shirt. If only all room service was this hot.
He let me pull him back down onto the bed for a smooch, then he said, “I have to go to St. Georges now. I don’t think that sleeping with all my supervisors, just to make sure I’m never in trouble for being late, is a viable option, so I’d better turn up on time.”
I let him go reluctantly and said, “The elevators at St.
Georges are well-maintained, so don’t plan on using that excuse either.”
He pulled on his trousers, no underwear underneath, and my eyes must have widened because he grinned at me.
“You’ve worked there?”
I shook my head and reached for my coffee. “No, but Tim, my ex, does. Watch out for a wandering vegan festooned in animal rights buttons.”
“Think my supervisor is a Dr. Clarke. That’s not him, is it?”
Matthew asked, sitting on the bed to put his socks on.
“Not him,” I said. “But you’ll be able to spot him in the cafeteria; he’ll be the only person eating a lentil sandwich.”
“Gross,” Matthew said, wrinkling his nose and making me laugh.
He came back into the bedroom a moment later, shaving cream on his face. “You are kidding, aren’t you? About the lentil sandwich?”
I shook my head. “Only person I’ve ever met who believed that you could make a pancake solely with rice flour and soy milk.
“You can’t?”
“No, that makes glue, not batter, and if you cook it, you have cooked glue,” I told him.
Matthew disappeared back into the bathroom again, making ‘yuckyunck’ noises.
It was quiet when he’d left, and I stayed in bed while my coffee cooled, enjoying my mini-holiday while it lasted.
At
nine, my phone rang, and it was Human Resources at London, asking me to bring in my CV that afternoon, and passing on an invitation from Olivia Holland, the senior oncology consultant, to visit her in her office.
I’d met Olivia several times at Jackie’s house, and knew her well enough to know that she had a passion for dachshunds, merlot, and Monty Python, having spent more than one boozy dinner listening to her and Jackie’s wife tell scurrilous tales about when Jackie was a young and ill-informed house physician.
She barreled down the depressing grey corridor, dodging wonky chairs and abandoned trolleys of files, waving at me.
“Andrew!” she called out, her voice booming. “Good to see you when I’m not blind drunk,” she shouted, slapping me hard on the back.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said to her, and she clamped her hand on my elbow and steered me down the corridor, whether I wanted to go there or not.
“Not a problem,” she said, pushing me into a great vault of a room and slamming the door after herself.
There was a desk in one corner, with the ubiquitous plastic chairs around it, and I sat down and stared at the ceiling with disbelief. Whatever the room had been before, the ducting, plumbing, wiring and scaffolding had been left undisturbed and merely painted white in a vain attempt to disguise it all.
“In the fifties they had some kind of hypobaric chamber in here,” Olivia said. “Not sure why they’ve never removed all the plumbing for it, just means I have the largest office in the hospital.” She grinned at me. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were looking for a job here. I even phoned that Jackson bastard to find out why he’d fired you. Turns out he hadn’t, admin had.”
“Yep,” I said. “Comes from being a union agitator.”
“That’d be the problems with that fuckwit Seagate, wouldn’t it?” Olivia said, and I just loved her for it. “Couldn’t quite believe it when the morons in admin here decided they wanted him on staff; the man is a lawsuit looking for somewhere to happen.”