Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (35 page)

I gaze up at him through dark eyelashes,
monitoring his arousal. He’s open mouthed, his breathing is ragged, leaving his
lungs in hot waves.

“Why do I let you do this … to me?” He
asks, struggling to complete the sentence.

“Because you want me to. Because I want
to.” I declare confidently.

Within seconds he hardens; gently takes my
head in both hands and puts me to work. I draw my tongue across my lips in
preparation and boldly begin by licking the moist crown while both hands hold
him in place. I mouth him, taking the rigid mass deeper and deeper into my
throat, feeling his body folding over me and his knees starting to buckle. He
outstretches his arms and presses his hands against the panelling to make the
shape of a giant T. This is his Titanic moment and he doesn’t even realise. I
press on.

Each long, drawn out suck causes him to
hiss with pure pleasure and causes me to squirm, wishing this rod of pure
muscle was inside me.

“My God Beth... suck me, deeper.”

His wish is my command. I take him to the
back of my throat and gaze up at him. I want to watch him fight for breath at
that moment when I consume him with my gluttonous mouth.

“You’re making me come so hard,” he
growls, watching me watching him.

The intensity of the connection is not
wasted on either of us. In a spectacular display of masculine virility, he
spurts into my mouth and I have to work hard to suppress a gag reflex. His body
shudders and pulsates around me, until his groaning sounds subside and I
release him.

He falls backwards onto the locked door,
out of breath and spent. For some reason, he doesn’t pull me close or offer me
one of his grateful smiles. He looks dejected. Why?

Feeling downcast, I rearrange my clothes
and take a hard look at myself in the mirror. I’m flushed, my lips are swollen,
the water-proof mascara I applied this morning is intact but my hair is a
tangled mess. I turn to Ayden, he’s fixing the buttons on his jeans. I pass him
his sweater, a little fearful of meeting his eyes.

“Have I done something wrong?”

He wriggles into his sweater in the
confined space, causing me to move left then right to avoid his outstretched
arms. “No. Of course not.” His head appears above the neckline. “You were ...”
He considers his words. “The best.”

I smile. “So were you, but then you always
are.” He pulls me close and I wrap my arms around him, feeling my ears popping.
“We’re descending. We’d better get seated.” I pull away.

With the force of a tornado he hauls me to
him, spins me round so I’m pinned against the door by his flexing hips, and arches
himself into me; he takes my face in his hands, then proceeds to consumes me
with feverish passion, kissing me until I am close to suffocation.

Scraping back my hair he leans backward and
prepares to speak but … thoughts take shape, I see then forming behind his
eyes, but he is unable to translate them into words. I wait. His face erupts
into a broad smile and I see he’s come to terms with whatever it was that was
troubling him. But what the hell was it?

“Let’s get ready to land.”

With a single click the door opens and we
tumble out, Ayden breaks my fall and we begin giggling, even our eyes are
laughing. I run my fingers through his hair, trying to rid him of that post
orgasmic look, but it’s hopeless. Even wearing a hat he’d still look the same:
utterly fuckable.

Whilst I salvage what I can from my
make-up and tame my hair with serum, I notice two extra coffee cups and saucers
on the galley shelf: that makes all four, present and correct. The co-pilot
must have returned them mid-flight. Shit! He will have seen the empty cabin and
put two and two together. I don’t have the heart to break the news to Ayden
but, there is no doubting the fact, we have become honorary members of the Mile
High Club.

Thankfully
, our landing into Fiumincino airport is
uneventful. Ayden takes my hand and we walk at a pace through empty hallways,
catching sight of queuing tourists as we go. By the exit door, a well turned
out gentleman with slicked back hair and a twinkle in his eye holds up a sign:
Stone. I don’t doubt it’s meant for us. Ayden makes that assumption too and
allows him to lead the way, leaving an airport employee behind us struggling
with our bags on a trolley that refuses to stay pointed in the right direction.

Quickly, the bags are loaded and we ease into
the traffic. The experienced driver weaves the limousine through parked cars
and scooters. Sounding his horn for no apparent reason seems to be an unwritten
rule.

After a stop-go, thirty minute journey, we
arrive at our destination: Hotel De Russie. From the outside it’s not very grand;
from the inside it’s a revelation. Two eager doormen dressed in morning coats
tip their tall hats to us and open the door to the ultra-modern reception which
is captured in light cast by an impressive chandelier. Neither of the two female
receptionists recognise Ayden, but they are quick to recognise him as a man who
does not suffer fools easily.

“We’re booked into the Nijinsky suite for
two nights, the name’s Stone.” With that, we are lead to the lift. There’s no
check-in, no handing over of passports or form filling; apparently we can do
that in our room.

A distinguished looking gentleman in a
well cut, black suit and shiny shoes escorts us to the elevator and presses the
button to the sixth floor. He leads the way into the suite, opening doors and
pulling back full length drapes to reveal an enormous roof top terrace with
panoramic views over Rome. There’s a hilltop castle to the left and church
spires to the right: it’s spectacular. I turn to catch Ayden’s eye and mouth:
‘Wow!” but he simply rolls his eyes and directs the maid to the bedroom where
she’s about to hang up our clothes.

He comes out onto the terrace to join me. I
saunter over to him and take his right hand in mine. “It’s lovely Ayden.” I
plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

“You haven’t even seen the suite yet,” he
replies, taking in the afternoon air.

“I know, but it’s all wonderful.”

The distinguished looking gentleman coughs
by the door. “Excuse me Mr. Stone, will there be anything else, Sir?”

“No, thank you ... Oh, is there Champagne
in the fridge?”

 “Yes Sir, but if you would prefer a
particular Brand or vintage, it can be arranged.”

 “Then send up three bottles of Krug
Grande Cuvée, with some cheese and fruit.”

 “Of course Mr. Stone, I’ll get that now
for you Sir.”

With that, he’s off and we are left to appreciate
Rome from a great height. “Shall we take a look at the suite?” I ask excitedly.

“Yes let’s,” he mimics with exaggerated
enthusiasm.

I give him a dig in his arm. “Are you
making fun of me, because if you are I’m going to have to get Elizabeth to sort
you out.” His raises a single brow and grins. “Stop that now. Be good.”

Once inside I see the suite in all its
glory; the larger of the two lounges is painted white, plush leather furniture
in cream is accented with cushions in dark red and purple. Out of one doorway
to the right, there’s an enormous dining table, big enough to seat ten people.
Off that, there’s a kitchen and a library leading on to a spacious bedroom
which is dominated by a king-sized bed, ladened with gold coloured cushions and
pillows.

The piece de resistance is the bathroom:
it’s stunning. Apart from the fact that it’s as big as my apartment, it’s a spa
retreat embellished with mosaic tiling and marble tops. It’s in a kind of Art
Deco design, worthy of a photograph. Everything about this suite is exquisite.
It’s the perfect choice for us.

After losing myself in the countless
rooms, I find Ayden in the study. I stand behind him, gazing over his shoulder
at his laptop.

“Have you seen how big this place is?” I
ask, my voice raising half an octave. “You’ll have to drag me out of here kicking
and screaming.” I smile into his hair.

“I’m glad you like it.” He carries on
reading and holds a conversation with me at the same time. “Do you want to do
anything in particular? It’s only four o’clock.”

“I’d like to make up for the time you’ve
been away and show you just
how
much I’ve missed you. Does that count as
anything in particular?”

“I’d say so.” His mouth begins to twitch.

“Or we could sit out on the terrace and
relax for a couple of hours, drink fancy champagne and nibble on fruit before
we get ready for dinner.” I brush his hair; the soft black flicks are soft to
the touch and smell of something delicious. “I’ll let you decide.”

“Thank you.”

I think he’s smiling but I can’t tell from
where I’m standing.

“As much as I like the sound of option number
one, I think I may need a couple of hours to regroup. It’s been a busy week.
Option two sounds good.”

I plant a soft kiss on his hair. “Alright
then, champagne on the terrace it is.”

I shift position so I’m perched on his
desk, I want to see his handsome face and invite him to watch my appreciative
words form and fall from my lips. “It’s like a dream, you know all this.” I
turn my head from left to right and then back to him. “Thank you for arranging
it.”

He dismisses what he’s doing and faces me
head on. His eyes are a soft diopside green, captivating. “It’s my pleasure. I
want you to be happy and this is just the start.”

I reach out and caress his cheek. “You
don’t have to you know. I don’t expect it.”

“I know, and that why I’m doing it.
Besides, it’s not an entirely altruistic gesture, I get to spend time away from
the office with you.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I
suppose you should be thanking me.” I kiss him softly. “You can thank me
later.” I squeeze his shoulder and head out towards the private terrace.

The sun is settling in the west and the
terracotta rooftops are starting to take on a different dimension in the late
afternoon light; shadows are forming and windows are becoming opaque. Families
are gathering around kitchen tables and small children are getting ready for
fathers returning home from work. Beyond this terrace, life goes on much the
same as it did yesterday and the day before, but here time stands still. On
this private terrace only the two of us exist and that’s a very evocative
thought.

Ayden directs both waiters to the table by
the comfortable chairs to the left of the terrace and follows them out. He
allows the more senior of the two to pop the champagne cork and pour.

“Cheers,” Ayden whispers. “… To memorable
days and unforgettable nights.”

I smile broadly. “I’ve heard that before
somewhere.”

“And that’s why I’ve repeated it, it was
apt then and it’s apt now.”

I sit beside him, sipping the creamy, gold
coloured champagne. The minute it touches my tongue, there’s an explosion of
flavour: it’s delicious. We chat about my final day at school before breaking
up for half term; having to throw myself across my case to close it and other
incidentals. Being around each other is easy. It feels like a weight has been
lifted from us, freeing our hearts and minds to explore the nature of our love;
giving us time to foster our fledgling affair, to nurture it and watch it grow
into … I don’t know what. Not yet.

They say it takes a storm to clear the air
and we’ve weathered our storm and come out the other side better for it.
Sitting on this terrace, with the world at my feet I feel so blessed. Being
here with this sexy, smart guy is beyond wonderful. He has no idea what he’s
done: he’s come along and rescued me from a life of utter misery. He has never
had or will ever have a white charger, that’s not his style, but he has me and
my heart: it sits in the palm of his hand like a pocket watch.

I’m going to ring reception and ask them
to book us a table at Ad Hoc on Via di Ripetta. It’s a quaint and romantic
restaurant that is renowned for it typically Mediterranean cuisine: I found it
on the internet and reviews were good. I know it’s not what Ayden would choose
but I like the look of it.

Having wasted a day, Dan is taking no chances. He’s
given his car a health check: oil, water, petrol, he’s even topped up the
windscreen wash bottles and that’s something he never does. Having received
some attention, his radiator is suffering in silence after its blow-out on the
A1 yesterday; two hours wasted, waiting for the steam and heat to disperse from
the metal casing and from his brain.

The journey home was mind-numbingly slow and he didn’t
arrive home until 1800hrs with a sore head and sore hands. With every agonizing
mile, the skin on his palms was becoming puffy and pink. He dug out some
antiseptic cream from the bathroom cabinet, 18 months past its ‘use before’
date but it was better than nothing. He massaged it into his palms and
flinched, watching the flesh deepened in colour from rose pink to the colour of
over ripe raspberries.

Now, he holds them out in front of him, catches sight
of himself in the mirror and laughs sardonically; he looks like a waiter
without a tray or a saint, seeking divine intervention. Just the thought of it
makes him smile. “I may be down, but I’m not out,” he tells his reflection, not
waiting for a reply. That thought is enough to lift his spirits. That combined
with a medicinal dose of lager.

Being unable to eat yesterday was down to loss of appetite;
not eating it today is not the result of psychosomatic tension, but physical
impairment. Even lifting up a spoon is painful.

“What kind of daft sod grabs a bloody car bonnet when
there’s steam coming off it?” Ernie’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“That stupid sod would be me.”

“Didn’t you think you’d get burned, it must have hurt
like hell?” His face pulls into a grimace.

“Not at the time, but now …” Dan overturns his hands
and blows onto his glowing palms.

“It pains me to say it, but you’re not much use around
here, if you can’t pick stuff up?”

Dan knows what’s coming and starts to shake his head,
annoyed with himself, with his stupidity. “Yeah, I know.”

“We’ll have to find something else for you to do or
Crowther will be handing you your P45. Thank God it’s Thursday, come Monday
morning and we’ll be up to our eye-balls in it.”

“You’re not wrong.” Ernie’s right. Unless he can be
seen to be working, he’ll be out on his ear.

Thinking out loud, Ernie comes to the rescue. “What
about some painting? The gates could do with a touch-up. Can you hold a
paintbrush?” It’s a serious look for a serious question.

“Sure! I’m not a fucking invalid. I’ll be as right as
rain tomorrow.”

“Don’t count on it. I once over-filled a flask and it
bubbled over onto my feet. Even though I had my socks on, it hurt like hell.
Took the bloody skin off and blistered. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you.” He
glances over to his feet and circles his ankles. “Alright now though.”

“It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse sunburn that this
and lived to tell the tale.”

“Maybe, but I’ll get you a pair of gloves and a couple
of pads.”

“Cheers.” Dan throws down the last drops of his tea,
holding onto the handle with the tips of his fingers like a Dickensian aunt.

They stand. Ernie pats Dan on his back. “No problem
champ. We’ll soon have you fighting fit.”

“It’ll take more than a pair of gloves and a couple of
pads for that.” Dan grins. “More like a fucking miracle.”

By lunchtime Dan is ready to punch the wall, so bad is
the pain seeping from his hands. He cannot think to eat or to speak. Instead he
takes himself off to his locker in search of two items: pain relief and light
relief in the shape of Elizabeth Parker. He swallows two painkillers in one
heavy gulp and checks for unwelcome bystanders. There are some habits that are
hard to kick: one is smoking and two is jerking off to her image. He needs a
couple of minutes alone with her to help him feel better.

He disappears into the cubicle and puts her picture on
top of the cistern while he fiddles with his belt and his zip. It takes longer
than usual and, before he can finish off what he’s started, he has unwelcome
guests. A couple of familiar voices start up a conversation only a couple of
feet from him about football matches and transfer fees, making it impossible
for him to concentrate. Looking at her and having to listen to them … it just
isn’t happening. He closes his eyes and tries again, but the minute she comes
into view he’s forced to break off. Their laughter is too loud and their
proximity is too distracting. He gives up. He dresses himself as quickly as he
can and looks up the moment he hears his name being called. It’s Ernie.

“Are you in here champ, I’ve brought a sandwich over,
in case you get peckish later. Dan?”

“Thanks. I’ll be right out.” For effect, he flushes
the toilet and flicks back the lock.