PLAYED - A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE (10 page)

“Well, if that’s so,” I smiled, clutching onto his thick cock. To my
amazement, he was still mostly hard, with just the slightest limpness to it. I
knew how to clear
that
up, though.

I began to stroke his cock again, feeling it gradually stir back to full
power within my hand.

“What,
again?
You’re going to
spoil me,” Lex chuckled, starting to lean up.

“No, no,” I insisted, pressing him back down with my free palm against
his pectoral. “You just lay back and let me do all the work, okay? Let me take
care of you… the best way I know how to right this moment.”

Lex smiled softly.

“I guess I can’t argue with that…”

As his cock thrummed with power, I slowly lifted an ankle, shifting
myself into a straddle over him. But it was more convenient with the angle to
face away from him, and I thought he might appreciate the view of my ass,
bouncing up and down his massive cock…

Slowly lowering my wet, fulfilled lips down around his crimson head, I
gasped at how it stretched me. As I held his cock upright with one graceful
hand, I gradually sank my hips down his wet erection, inching my way down until
I was finally hilting him again.

“Gotta say, I quite enjoy this view…”

“Knew ya would,” I smiled over my shoulder, biting my bottom lip. “Now,
like I said, just relax and let me take care of you…”

Slipping one hand into my hair to hold it up and tug against a handful
of follicles, I slipped the other against one of his thighs for support. While
my hips began to rock against his, I felt his hands slide around them, the
fingers clenching in as he started meeting my motions with the sturdy, powerful
swaying of his pelvis…

Chapter 8

Lex

The convenience of being on vacation in the States and sleeping with a
self-employed painter was that we got to see a whole lot of each other as the
weeks dragged on by.

My scrapes from the alleyway incident cleared up rather quickly, and I
was back to my usual, robust self. This presented me with certain
responsibilities that it became time to resume.

Although hours of practically daily sex made for excellent exercise, I
made sure to return to my proper training regiment. A nearby gym accepted me
for a month’s contract, and I began making good use of the weights, the track,
and the indoor swimming pool.

Meanwhile, I didn’t see a lot of Jess. We kept in touch via text messaging,
checking in with each other every day. She grew highly attached to the landmark
New Orleans streetcars, eagerly riding down the Garden District through St.
Charles Street, or hopping onto the other lines and experiencing the downtown
views.

I, on the other hand, grew highly attached to my company here in New
Orleans. When I expressed an interest in seeing some of the historical spots as
well, Riley took it upon herself to arrange some tours.

We spent about half a week inseparable from one another; she took me to
see the National World War II Museum, the Audubon Aquarium and Zoo of the
Americas, the St. Louis Cathedral and Cemetery, the Jean Lafitte National Park
(where we enjoyed boat tours and wetlands trips), the cultural Frenchman Street
and Jackson Square, and much more.

At least now I had something meaningful to chat with Jess about, other
than
Yeah, fucking my American girl is
still fun as hell.

We took a taxi across the Lake Pontchartrain Bridge towards Covington –
the largest bridge over water in the world. The city on the other side was
sprawling and sparse, and I soon directed us back across to see the
magnificently large lake again. It was easy to imagine that I was actually
crossing an ocean, as the distant shorelines receded out of sight.

At my behest, Riley took me to see some of the museums in town as well.
Although she was far more hesitant about that particular prospect, I insisted
on it – and on her promising that we would visit galleries that held her art.

“Are you sure?” She asked tentatively as we stood outside a nondescript
building, wedged tightly between the others. A modest sign jutted from the
bricks –
Valliere Museum of Art.

“Positive,” I smiled radiantly.

“Well… okay,” she conceded, taking a deep breath. “Come on in, then.”

I followed her up the steps and stepped through the doors. As soon as we
were inside, the atmosphere
instantly
changed
– the museum was contemporary, playing soft, upbeat chillstep as the otherwise
dim rooms flowed with splashes of blue lighting.

“This is beautiful,” I commented warmly. “Are
all
American museums like this?”

“Like what?” She asked thoughtfully.

“So unassuming on the
outside
,
but so magnificently full of life and culture on the
inside
,” I remarked in response. “I can’t say I remember the last
time I’ve been in a museum, but I understand most of the ones back home to be
rather… stuffy. Stuffy and drab.”

“That would make sense,” Riley replied. “England is much older,
naturally. I imagine that the vast majority of the museums there have been
historic, cultural staples for many, many decades… perhaps centuries, a lot of
them. Things that old tend to be fairly resilient to change.”

“I would expect an institute such as a museum to adapt to the times,
perhaps,” I retorted as we took in a room full of vases and ancient tools.

“You might think that, but there’s a certain prestige and elegance to
the traditional method of representing things,” she told me. “Sometimes, the
old ways are better.”

After thirty minutes of strolling from exhibit to exhibit, we finally
came across a small room, filled with at least a dozen paintings. The styles
clashed a bit, including artwork reflective more of older art styles, paired
with contemporary landscapes, and several portraits of animals in various
painting modes.

“Well, here we are,” Riley chuckled nervously.

“These are
yours?
” I asked,
stepping forward to admire the work.

“They are.”

I glanced around the room, taking in the various pieces. Although there
were a couple that seemed like rather…
interesting
choices, the vast majority of the paintings were crafted with such talent
and care that it took my breath away.

“These are fantastic, Riley,” I whispered to her, trying to keep from
gushing.

Of course, she had
told
me
herself that she was a talented painter with artwork featured in various
museums around the country, but a part of me reserved interest for actually
seeing this with my own eyes.

My gaze fell upon a small sign near the doorway, featuring her headshot
and a short biography.

It was unmistakably her.

Riley Ricketts.

“You… don’t need to read that,” she quickly tugged me away, her arm
looped through mine. “Anyway, you’ve seen my art now. Satisfied?”

“The other museums, do they carry different paintings than these?”

“I sell them my originals,” she responded. “Some of them have taken it
upon themselves to license reproductions, but yes, virtually all of the museums
here in town that carry me have different selections of my work.”

“Can I see more?” I asked.

“You… really want to?” She seemed surprised, and I couldn’t imagine why.

“Of
course
I do, Riley,” I
told her. “This part of your life is one you haven’t shared with me yet, and I
want to see more of it… but only if you’re comfortable with the prospect.”

An approaching young man interrupted us. He was dressed immaculately
with his hair tucked behind his ears, a pair of thick glasses over his eyes,
and feminine charm in everything from his strut to his facial features.

“Oh, dear me, it’s really you, isn’t it?”

Riley stiffened up slightly, but put a mildly charmed smile on her face.
“I assume so, yes.”

“Oh, Miss Ricketts, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you,” he
emphatically told us. “I’m a huge fan of your work. I don’t want to bother you
for too long… but could you take a selfie with me?”

She blinked a few times, then laughed.

“You… want to take a picture.”

“Of course! If that’s not too much trouble, that is. My friends and I,
we’ve followed your skill for some time. My older brother bought one of your
paintings a decade ago, long before all this!”

He nervously chuckled, throwing his arms up to indicate the room. “Not
that, I mean, you completely deserve the recognition, I wasn’t saying–”

“Your brother,” Riley commented, putting his star-struck stammer to a
stop. “Who is he?”

“Jackson Wilcox,” he replied with a wide smile. “I think he said you two
went to school together a long time ago–”

“Jax? I remember Jax!”

Riley beamed with pleasure. “I think I remember you, too. I recall a
younger Wilcox, the one time I was over at his house.. a little rambunctious
thing in a Cookie Monster onesie, watching cartoons the entire time. Was that
you?”

“Guilty as charged. I used to love that thing.”

Riley chuckled, moving into position next to him. “Alright, then. One
selfie. Let’s do it.”

He smiled like a goofball, then whipped out his phone and flicked to the
camera app. Holding it outstretched in front of them on portrait mode, he threw
up a thumbs up with his free hand as she slipped her arm around him and
summoned up a smile.

I was used to this treatment, but I hadn’t realized that she was this
popular here. Sure, it wasn’t quite the levels of a World Cup football star…
but there was an incredible validation in a stranger off the street,
recognizing your skills, and wanting to freeze forever in time the moment that
they bumped into you.

My willingness to pose with fans had really worked in my favour,
although I’d always been fine with it. It was less an
ego
thing, and much more a
flattery
thing.

Well… maybe it was an
ego
thing
anyway.

After it was done, they examined the picture together. “Not too bad,”
she observed. “Anyway, I’m about to get going, but it’s nice to bump into you
after all this time. Tell Jax I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see him… and that
I’m still the better arm wrestler.”

“Will do!” He grinned, before looking from her to me, and then back to
her again. “Listen, Riley… if you’re not doing anything tonight…”

“I’m busy,” she robotically answered, “but flattered.”

“Right,” he quickly chuckled through the rejection, suddenly aware that
I wasn’t alone. “Right… well… it was great to see you again. You take care now,
alright?”

“Will do,” she nodded. “You too.”

We took our leave of the museum. “That’s the chirpiest I think I’ve seen
you yet,” I commented to her.

“Yeah, that was exhausting,” she confided. “It’s rare that I bump into a
fan, but it usually drains me to keep up the cheeriness for more than a couple
of seconds.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

“Definitely. I don’t have the energy for that. It’s a part of the reason
why I keep to myself… the longer I’m on the streets, the more that people
recognize me.”

“You aren’t flattered?”

“I don’t need the flattery.”

I shrugged. “Should we skip the other museums? If you’re worried about
bumping into other fans…”

“Could we, just for today?” She pleaded. “I wasn’t going to ask, but if
you’re offering…” She saw my expression change, and quickly rectified her tone:
“I will
absolutely
take you on other
days, but that was one of the smaller museums… I don’t think I want to deal
with that too much more for today…”

“Absolutely,” I embraced her with one arm, leading her away from the
museum. “I don’t see a problem with that at all… and if you’d like, just tell
me some of the other galleries, and I’ll go visit them independently of you.”

Riley looked up at me with an impish grin. “We’ll see,” she replied,
right before pecking her lips against my cheek.

We were feeling kind of hungry, and her Japanese friend ran a sandwich
shop, so we put two and two together. Luckily,
Witch Wiches
wasn’t further away than a fifteen-minute taxi ride,
and we strolled through the doors during its slow period.

“No, no,
no!
What is the
matter
with you?!”

One of the teenagers behind the counter glanced up stupidly from a
meat-slicing machine, which was making a vicious scraping noise. The Japanese
friend of Riley’s –
Reiko
, I think
I’d been told – was making an absolute fuss over the disaster.

“I don’t know what happened,” the kid dumbly told her. “I put it on the
right settings. This stupid thing is a broken piece of junk.”

Reiko glowered at him. “This
stupid
thing
is a
three thousand dollar
piece
of equipment that works
fine.
Parker,
you
are the piece of junk. Get the
hell out of the way so that I can fix this freaking thing…
again
…”

She fiddled with the settings as we approached the counter, and he
vacantly gazed over our way. “Oh, you’ve got it on the
fourth setting
…
and
you’ve
turned it up to
high?
No freaking
wonder it’s on the fritz… how you figured out how to damage an analog slicing
machine, I have
zero
freaking clue…”