When Blake left the room to take a call, she whispered that I was the first woman he’d ever invited into his home during her eight years there.
“Really?” I asked.
Wearing an apron tied around her waist, she placed her hands on her hips. “He’s a great man. Generous. He saved me you know.”
Blake returned, and she looked up at him with a smile and then continued to move about the kitchen.
She stood at a coffee machine similar to the ones found in cafés. “Coffee?”
He shook his head and looked at me.
“I’m good,” I answered. “This pasta’s incredible.”
Blake regarded Maria warmly. “So, what were you two whispering about?”
I looked up at Maria. Because of the way she’d stopped short when Blake returned, I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I was just telling Penelope that she’s the first woman you’ve ever brought into the kitchen.”
Blake sat at the table and poured wine into my glass. He held up the bottle toward Maria. She shook her head, and he continued pouring himself a glass.
He looked at me. “I don’t normally entertain.”
I smiled tightly at that abridged response.
“When did you move to England?” I asked Maria, who sipped coffee from a tiny cup.
“Nine years ago. I came here for a holiday with my husband, who I escaped from because he always hit me.” She looked over at Blake, before continuing, “Signore Blake saved me. He gave me a beautiful job, and I have a beautiful life because of him.” She came over and kissed him on the cheek.
Blake tapped her hand affectionately, giving me an insight into their closeness. It warmed me to see that, because in the little time I’d spent with Blake, I sensed he was a loner, although not in a sad way. I imagined he had enough power and charm to attract a crowd.
“Maria, please. I think Penelope’s heard enough.”
She looked at me. “I hope to see you again, bella.” I was about to remind her of my name, when she added, “If there’s anything, just let me know. I’m off to watch Fast and Furious.” She laughed. “I like big sexy muscle men saving the world. Don’t you?”
I giggled. “If I were in trouble, I suppose they’d come in handy.”
Blake squeezed my hand and looked at me with a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Ciao,” said Maria.
“She’s great,” I said to Blake. “Only she called me ‘Bella.’”
“That’s ‘beautiful’ in Italian.” His eyes smiled, and he looked the most relaxed I’d ever seen him.
Maybe having me around his domestic life had lifted that shroud he clutched onto. Or perhaps I read too much into it.
Blake leaned back and sipped his wine, watching me polish off the best pasta I’d ever had in my life. I looked up, and he smiled at me. It was so nice. He even looked boyish and sweet. I wanted to squeeze his cheek.
“What?” I smiled back.
He leaned over and brushed my cheek. “You’ve got a little sauce on your face. I like that you enjoy eating.”
“It’s hard not to. Maria’s an amazing cook. Is this how you eat all the time?”
“Sometimes. Depends.” He sat back with wine in hand, again making his answers short on details, like where he liked to eat or what his favorite food was. “Maria has made me healthier. She uses a lot of vegetables and herbs that she’s grows here in the back garden.”
“Oh really? That’s so cool.” I studied him. “I’d love to see that sometime. I haven’t really seen the whole of this house. It’s always night time.”
He remained quiet.
I continued anyway. “Did you have a similar home in Yorkshire?”
He shook his head. “No. It was a huge Gothic estate. My mother worked there as a maid, and we lived in the servants’ quarters.”
“That must have been so interesting. Was it like a castle?”
He nodded.
“Did you have any siblings?”
He shook his head.
“Are your parents still alive?”
Blake moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck, something I’d noticed him doing whenever questions were asked. “No.”
I left it there. Too many questions. I was letting a man I hardly knew fuck my brains out and treat me like a princess. For a twenty-three-year-old brought up around the stench of poverty, that in itself should have sufficed. But Blake felt real to me. There was something fragile in that tough exterior that made me want to know him.
All in good time.
* * *
IT TOOK ME A MOMENT to remember where I was. It was so quiet. Smooth silk sheets reminded me that those seemingly endless orgasms had lulled me into sleep. The last thing I recalled was clawing Blake’s muscular biceps while he devoured my pussy as he would a delicious treat, and then tormented me with slow, achingly pleasurable thrusts, deep and hard, leaving me breathless.
The raw, bone-melting passion left my tongue hanging out, proverbially speaking. I’d fallen into his arms, and out of his lips, which were carnal one minute and soft the next, had come the words “Thank you.” I’d thought that strange but sweet anyhow.
I stared up at the dark etched ceiling with its indistinct swirly patterns. Perhaps Blake had gone to the bathroom, I thought.
Tick tock—the clock marked time as though accenting silence. Wide-awake, I reached over to the lamp at the side of the bed and switched it on. The old French clock with its turning wheels, making time tangible, revealed that it was four o’clock.
I felt abandoned and, despite ample covers, cold. I craved the feeling of Blake’s warm body. I wanted to see what he looked like asleep and find out whether he was still beautiful when those perfect eyes were hidden and not smoldering all over mine.
Accustomed to ear-piercing sounds of cars revving, drunks singing, or angry murmurings clinging to the dark of night, I thirsted for noise. And while a bird chirping in the morning might have lifted my spirits, the messy sounds of the city comforted me. They reminded me that I wasn’t alone, which was how I felt in that room—isolated, as though that house sat solitary in the world.
I looked up at my paintings. The story had an eerie resemblance to mine. The maiden was adrift in a chaotic city as impenetrable and dangerous as any forest.
Rising out of the bed, I covered my arms. On the armchair, I saw a robe. I tiptoed to it and draped it over my shoulders, smothering myself in its luxurious warmth. Blake’s scent emanated from it, and that throb of longing was reignited.
I opened a door and found a walk-in closet. I turned on the light, and my eyes widened. It resembled a men’s clothing store. The rack held a long line of jackets in a multitude of textures and colors. I stroked them. Silk ties and shirts of every color—bar outlandish reds or purples, which would never have been Blake—were lined up in racks. Everything neat and in order, placed with precision. I thought of my messy drawers and cupboards. I had a terrible habit of not folding my clothes.
I crept out of the bedroom and noticed doors everywhere. I could almost imagine skeletons in the cupboards or sheeted ghosts whirling past.
Foreign environments brought out the detective in me. I liked to absorb small details which was nothing but curiosity driven by an artistic impulse.