She’d thought that feeling like she had today would have left her a nervous wreck; sitting, chewing her nails, wondering what was going to happen next. If they’d see each other again, if she’d get more involved than she wanted to, if she’d rush headlong into an affair that would leave her battered and bruised. And useless.
But it wasn’t like that. A strange feeling that was almost contentment cocooned her from the inside out. She felt – well, she felt … Happy was a stupid word. But it fit. She picked up a charcoal stick and absentmindedly started to draw swirling lines on the sheet of paper, then split it down with three vertical slashes. Yup, she was happy.
* * *
God knew how long she sat there, scribbling and planning until she was left sitting cross-legged in her silky soft emerald dress surrounded by a sea of black and white. The abrupt ring jarred her from her trance and, for a moment, she wasn’t sure what it was. Shit, phone. Where? She leant back, shifted frantically through the sheets of paper, trying to ignore the pins and needles in her feet. Bugger, not there. Bag, it must be in her bag; damn her feet really had gone numb. She rubbed frantically as she crawled over to the easel and fished the buzzing mobile out of her bag.
‘What are you wearing?’
‘What?’
‘Have you got changed?’
His soft tone drew her back into the world of want. ‘No.’ Since when had she been able to say one word in a way that made her sound like some wanton hussy? She forgot all about rubbing her feet.
‘Good, because I’m imagining you still looking just as you were when you left me. Where are you?’
‘At home Tom.’ She hesitated. Her studio was private, her innermost mind kept just for herself. ‘In the attic, my studio. Thinking …’
‘Thinking?’
‘Just thinking, sketching.’ She stretched out on the floor, rolled onto her back, and looked up at the darkening sky through the roof light.
‘I’ve been thinking too. About you. I haven’t stopped thinking since you went.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that silk dress and what might be underneath it.’
‘Oh.’ She lifted one leg, pointing her toe skywards, and the fabric slithered down, uncovering her thigh.
‘I need to slide my hand up over those black stockings, all the way up until I get to that soft, warm patch of your inner thigh; I love your inner thighs.’
She ran her hand down from her knee, towards her panties; panties that she knew were already damp just from hearing his voice.
‘What are your knickers like, Hayley?’
‘Black, silk, soft.’ She ran her hand in a circle over her mound, every sensation prickling through straight to her skin, and his groan sent a shiver over her stomach.
‘You’re touching them, aren’t you? Touch yourself, Hayley, tell me if you’re wet.’
She swallowed hard, slipped a finger in under the smooth fabric, and all she could do was whimper as the damp warmth bathed her. She was so swollen, open and ready, and he’d hardly said a word. Which was fine, perfectly fine, really.
‘You’ve got your fingers in, haven’t you?’ The sound of him unzipping echoed in her ear and she gulped, imagining his hard cock in his hand as she slid her fingers in deeper. ‘Slide them in for me. I want to hear you, ’cos all I can think about is pushing my fingers into that wet pussy, pounding in until you’re sopping wet, and then I need to lick you. I want to bury my face between your thighs and lap at your juices.’ She moaned and curled her fingers, rubbing against the uneven surface of her swollen G-spot. ‘I want to suck your clit, Hayley, until you press yourself hard against my face and scream for more.’
She was close; she pushed her hand in deeper, closing her eyes so that she could hear him palming his cock, imagine him pounding her with one hand while his other was jerking away. He was thrusting harder into her, faster, pulling at his swollen cock, and then he was coming, creamy come spurting over her, and she was coming too, shoving her hips higher as her cunt grasped at his hand, the orgasm shooting through her, her thighs tightening around her hand as she gasped for breath, her body rocking from side to side.
‘Oh Hayley.’
Oh Hayley indeed. She opened her eyes and looked up at the dark sky. He hadn’t even asked if she’d come, if it was good. He knew. Just like she knew he had from the way his breathing had raced, from the catch in his voice.
‘I wish I was there with you.’
‘So do I.’ She’d said it. The world hadn’t caved in.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Good.’ Well, no batteries required now. ‘Tom, do you think …?’
‘Don’t even think about thinking. Night, Hayley.’
He disconnected and she held the phone tight to her ear for a little bit longer. Stared up at the inky sky.
‘Goodnight, Tom.’
Chapter Four
She half expected her legs to tangle with his when she stretched and spread herself across the bed, but they didn’t. There was just a wide expanse of cold, empty sheets. Sleeping through the alarm was something she hadn’t done for ages, but the aching lull of her orgasm was still lying heavy in her body and she guessed it was raging happy hormones that left her light-headed.
So that was what phone sex could do for you, which was a revelation because it had been better than quite a bit of the “real-life, both in the same bed” type of sex she’d had. Which would make it a bit boring when she had to go back to relying on silicone and batteries. Stupid girl. She sighed. Why the hell was she worrying about the end? This was going to be an in the moment thing, if it was going to be anything at all.
She swung her legs off the bed, and headed for the shower. She’d wash every thought of him out of her body, out of her mind, and then she’d think about the paintings. Paintings that were for him, of him.
A strong jet of water shot straight out of the power shower, hitting the tense spot between her shoulder blades. The spot he’d massaged the other night. OK. She closed her eyes; he obviously wasn’t going to wash away that easily, so she might as well go with the flow.
She turned and the jet of water streamed over her breasts, down her stomach, as she soaped her body, stroking her hands over every inch of herself. Making love in the shower had always seemed wrong; showers were for getting clean, not getting down and dirty. But right now she wanted him here, could imagine his warm mouth on her breasts, his tongue teasing her nipples before he pulled her tight against him. His mouth hard on hers as his tongue delved into her mouth, skated over her teeth in a way that made her shiver, his hands firm on her bum, holding her close against him so that his hard cock nestled between her damp thighs.
She didn’t need him inside her right now; she just wanted his body against hers, wrapped round her, holding her close. It would be just enough to taste him, to have her fingers wound into her hair as the water streamed down over both of them. To run her tongue down his neck, to taste that salty spot at the bottom, for that smell of lust, lemon, and cedar to flood her senses.
She snapped off the water and wrung her hair out, grabbing a towel from the rail. Coffee. That was what she needed.
Her sketches from last night were strewn haphazardly across the floor, but they were good. She cradled the warm coffee mug in her hands. They captured that hint of old, of nostalgia, mixed with the vibrancy of new, of life today. A touch more than warm, just the right side of hot. She grinned. What she needed to do today was get a feel for the painting that he wanted in his office, the piece of him. How did you hint at a man with a background of restraint and corporate life, a man who simmered with power and control? Not grey and boring. Sheesh, how he could think of himself as grey and boring? He was all restless energy, coiled inside suited respectability. Yes, his office was a bit masculine and business-like, but the man himself was all edge, ready for the next challenge. Like leaping out of planes.
A shiver ran through her, sending goosebumps along her arms. Just think
ing about falling from the skies, free, made her stomach unfurl as anticipation spiralled through her body. As a teenager she’d ridden horses; galloping flat out had always sent an almost sexual thrill through her, anticipation, elation, fear. She wasn’t sure what did it, but was that what he felt when he jumped off cliffs, out of planes? That sense of being on the edge, not quite knowing; it sent a knot of desire straight to her stomach.
The mug went down with a clatter. She wanted to capture him, that mixture of thrill and responsibility, of challenge and monotony. She had to capture him. Or rather the essence of him, because she really didn’t want him. Really.
Hayley picked up a piece of charcoal and started to sketch absentmindedly. A perfect eye formed under her fingers; dark, intense. Him, looking at her as though he could uncover every little secret, every hidden bit, every hope and fear. Her fingers moved automatically, drawing rough lines, the square jaw, the cleft in the middle of his chin that made him somehow confident, sure of himself. His mouth danced across the paper, slightly lopsided, with that quirk at the corner that said he didn’t take himself too seriously, and then his straight, slightly flared nose. She darkened round his nostrils. He was a tiger. He had the strong, defined features, the same confidence and bluntness, but with the soft edge that made you want to reach out. Slowly, she broadened his features, darkened the lines, until power and control took over, until the man became beast, beautiful beast.
She tossed the pad to one side and flopped back onto the floor. She was supposed to be coming up with an idea for his painting, not drawing some fantasy creature. Not thinking about him.
She rested her head on her hands, stretched out flat on the wooden floor, and gazed up through the skylight at the odd white cloud drifting across the perfect blue. Shit, even with her eyes open she could see him, feel him, smell him. Imagine running her hand over his strong arm so she could feel every sinew, every muscle beneath her fingertips. Every part of him was a contradiction; hard and soft, gentle and strong, rough and smooth, all melded perfectly into a swirling mix.
She’d do rocky cliffs. Yes, that was him: danger, pushing to the edge with bright sky; bright figures abseiling against the dark, jagged danger. She could imagine the faint tremble in his muscles, the total control as he went over the edge. The way he’d looked when he’d been poised above her; total concentration, when he’d held himself, when he’d given her that brief moment in time to say no before thrusting deep inside her.
She could imagine those strong fingers finding a hold in the rocks, gripping the ropes, firm, slightly roughened fingers that had traced a path up her thigh, that had rubbed her with a mix of gentle sensitivity and harsh mastery. Fingers that seemed to know exactly where to search, exactly where she needed them.
Hayley sat up quickly, trying to shake the image from her head, and briefly saw stars. That bloody man might not be giving her lows but he’d totally invaded her brain, and her body. She should so totally not be thinking about him; well, not in the way she was. She just needed to concentrate on certain defining elements, the bits she needed. That was all.
She’d sketch a frigging cliff; surely she could do that without his rock-hard pecs flooding her brain? The blank sheet of paper stared back at her. It was easy; she was a trained artist. It wasn’t about him, just about hard and soft, control and beauty, the harshest, most defined aspect of the landscape wrapped in the forgiving colours of life and emotion. The contrasting aspects of nature that his business and personal life mirrored.
Hayley concentrated, using her understanding of form to mark in the initial shapes. She could add the life and emotion when she painted; this was just about getting an idea into shape. Form. Her teeth worried at the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t flowing like the other sketches had, but it would do. She’d make it work.
She dropped the charcoal stick with relief as her mobile gave a beep. OK, she wasn’t supposed to just take any excuse to stop, she should work through this, but what the heck.
Is my favourite artist free for lunch? x
Her heart gave a kind of undisciplined flip and she gripped the phone tighter. She didn’t want to be fighting a grin just because he’d sent a text, because that meant she wanted to see him. Thinking about him all the time was bad enough, but just one text and she was an infatuated 16-year-old all over again, which was bad. Especially as she’d never really been infatuated as a teenager; oh boy, no, she’d waited until she was old enough to know better. This was supposed to be a business arrangement; this was supposed to be friends and maybe a bit more. Not OMG I’m having palpitations because you texted me. And you put a kiss.
No, sorry.
Answering texts was one thing, abandoning ship altogether was seriously asking for trouble. Keep it light, keep it light, that’s all you have to do.
Doing some work for a v important man.
And it’s really not working because I wish he was here. The man who’s taken up residence in my head, the man who is making my body rebel against my brain.
I’m sure he doesn’t mind waiting.
The easiest thing in the world would be to stop. Let him interrupt. But that was where it all started going wrong, when the man became more important than her work, when her priorities slowly started to shift.
Later.
The mobile vibrated like an angry wasp, which was what it did when the ring tone was turned off. She was tempted to just ignore it. So she did. It stopped buzzing, so she had to pick it up, like you do. When you just have to know. No message, nothing. So she should be happy, mission accomplished, but she wasn’t. Shit, she should ring him back. She pressed the missed calls, stared at his number. She wanted him, but she didn’t. He scared her, she scared herself. And … Shit.
The doorbell rang. Which at least gave her a reason to stop staring at her mobile. It should have been a delivery man. Should have been. But it was him. Stood on her doorstep, leaning on the door jamb holding pastries and coffee.
‘Can’t have you wasting away.’ He grinned and shouldered his way in, his six foot against her five two.
‘Tom, I’m trying …’
‘To pretend I don’t exist?’ He had dumped his bounty and settled on one of the kitchen stools.
‘To work. You know, do my stuff? And I can’t and you’re making it worse.’
‘I’m not trying to tie you down, Hayley.’ He was opening the pastries, keeping his tone conversational and light, but he still frightened her, because she wanted to move closer. ‘But I want you so much that it’s giving me a pain in the gut.’ He glanced in her direction then, and all she could do was open her mouth and close it again. ‘You know I want you to paint.’
‘I need my own space, Tom, I told you that.’
‘I know you do, but it isn’t just that, is it? What are you so scared of?’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘You are. Why don’t you just start at the beginning?’
She looked at him. The beginning. ‘OK. Once upon a time …’
He smiled and pushed a pastry and coffee across the breakfast bar. ‘There was this man?’
‘There was this man.’ She pulled a piece of the pastry off, chewed it slowly.
‘Who you fell in love with?’ His voice was soft, and this time the question had an edge to it.
‘Who I fell in love with.’ He held her fast with his gaze. No way out. The pastry dropped from her fingers. ‘Who I thought I’d fallen in love with.’
‘And?’ His hand was next to hers, the barest of contact that asked for more.
‘His name was Chris. He was good looking, and popular, and clever and …’ She paused, and suddenly knew what it was that she’d been searching for. ‘And I felt like I wanted to spend every spare second of my time with him.’
‘So you stopped painting?’
‘Not at first, not completely, but I wanted to be with him. At first it was just in the evenings because he’d moved in, and the weekends, and then he’d have some wild idea for a day out and
we’d drop everything.’
‘Nice if you can do that.’ The dry edge made her glance up, and he shrugged sheepishly.
‘He was a musician.’
‘Ah.’
She tried to ignore the slight hint of censure. ‘He liked having me there when he rehearsed, there when he played, and I wanted to be there because I wanted to share everything I could with him. So the painting kind of got neglected for a while.’
‘Ah.’
‘What’s that ah for?’
‘Seems a bit of a one-way street, that’s all. Wasn’t he proud of your painting, didn’t he want you to do it?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose.’ Well, no, we were too busy doing other stuff, his stuff. ‘Well, I don’t know, I wasn’t really earning anything so I suppose he just thought of it more as a hobby. But don’t have a go at him. It was my fault, not his.’
‘Sure.’ Which didn’t sound like he meant it.
‘I paint when I want to, and I didn’t want to, OK? I’d start something and then – well, something would happen and I’d feel down and stop, and we’d make up and I’d be on a high. It was always kind of extremes with Chris; he was in the clouds or depressed, and he took me with him. Anyway, we had one row too many and it finally clicked that Chris didn’t want a happy ever after. He thrived on pain and unhappiness and –’ she slowly tore the pastry into small bits ‘– it just made me sad, I guess.’ She shrugged. ‘And he kept flirting with all the bimbos who followed him around which made me mad, which is –’ she paused for a moment, remembering ‘– partly why he did it, I think. So we split. And that should have been that. I was relieved, I suppose, but I still just couldn’t paint …’
Freefalling Page 4