TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (25 page)

Forcing a smile she addresses him. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

The verbal sparring continues through dessert and does not peter out until coffee arrives, and Elise

has drained the last drop of wine from her glass. “We’ll go Dutch,” she announces.

Dan has no intentions of talking her out of it. “Fair enough.” He stands to leave.

“Aren’t you leaving a tip?” Elise is throwing a couple of pound coins onto the tray.

“I’ll give him a tip on the way out.”

A couple of yards away from the exit door, Dan calls the waiter over, stopping him mid-sentence

from ushering another couple to their table. “I’ve got a tip for you mate,” he says condescendingly.

The waiter nods expectantly. “Don’t give your customers chopsticks, they’re about as useless as tits

on a bull.”

Elise rolls her eyes. “An ex-boxer with a sense of humour? This must be my lucky day.”

The drive back to Hatch End takes thirty minutes, during which time nothing of any consequence is

discussed. Dan follows her directions and is quick to comment on her up-market address.

“Very nice. Lived here long? You must be making a pretty penny to afford to live around here.” He

catches sight of her car. “To own that car, and to wear expensive jewellery like that.” His eyes rest on

her gold rings and bracelet. “Got yourself a sugar daddy?”

Elise attempts to incinerate him with a stare. “That’s none of your fucking business. Let me know

when you’re ready to come clean about your hand and I’ll trade you secrets. That’s the deal. Take it or

leave it.” She steps out of the car.

“Thanks for the meal and the interrogation. I’ll be in touch.” She slams the door and strides

towards an impressive block of three storey apartments.

Without so much as a second glance, Dan signals and pulls out into the quiet street; the leafless

branches create a natural corridor but block out some of the light from the reproduction Victorian

lamps, giving it an empty, eerie feel. Knowing Elise had seen through his little ploy riles him, to the

extent he feels his temper catching fire, like bracken in extreme sunlight.

“I’ll give you a fucking trade-off,” he thinks aloud. “You suck my dick and I’ll tell you about my

hand. How about that for a trade-off?”

11

Last
night’s capers have left me stiff and in need of some caffeine. After discussing the finer points

of fancy dress and bedroom linens, Ayden reiterated the hell out of me for another hour until we

decided it was time to come up for air. The night ended quietly with a shower and us nestling on the

sofa. I read Pride and Prejudice, again, and Ayden read an ineffectual employee in Shanghai the riot

act. A perfect moment of intimacy followed and I fell asleep in his arms, in
his
bed.

I could only manage a bleary eyed farewell this morning when he left early, promising to be home

by one o’clock. In a 6am haze I marvelled at his delectable torso; watched him dress, feeling my eyes

widening and my pulse quickening. His hair, still damp, tickled my cheek as he leaned in to kiss me

goodbye, slipping away before I could free my arms from the duvet to beg him to stay for five minutes

more. I licked my peppermint flavoured lips and smiled, exactly the same way I’m smiling now.

I close my eyes and picture his secret smile; the one needing no translation but conveying so much

and momentarily, I’m swept away with the wonder of it all.

With little difficulty, I recall my baptism in fire. Ayden is a gifted lover, there’s no denying that.

Handing sex toys over to him is like giving a paint box to Monet and saying paint something. For

hours, I burned with a volcanic intensity, almost melting in his hands like an altar candle.

Last night I learned the potency of fear. For a designated period, Ayden played me for the novice I

am; set up the scene and had my imagination racing, my palms sweating and my heart palpating.

Then, when the fear had lessened, he spoke softly to me until my heart raced again but not with fear,

with unadulterated pleasure. My body succumbed and shuddered to those two powerful emotions. Like

the marks on my wrists they are paired as unlikely bedfellows, the difference being, the marks will

fade but the memory of
their
coupling will not.

Having sanctified our connection, confessions heard and new promises made, I look out upon a

world without perimeters with an open mind and eyes that are wide-open.

Today’s a big day for us. It’s Ayden’s open-book day.

Wrapped in my towelling robe, I scratch my head and attempt to make sense of the control panel in

the lounge. I press:

1. The TV materialises out of nowhere and clicks into position on the far wall.

2. Crossing my fingers that it lifts the shutters but, instead, the lamps come on; very nice but not

the intended operation.

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 it 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