“Your hair.”
“Huh?” I hadn’t expected that.
“And your ass.” He grinned. “You had your back turned to me.”
I chuckled dryly. “It’s hard to miss, I suppose.”
“It’s fucking sexy. And I love rubbing against it.”
“I’m not into anal sex.”
“I don’t want to fuck you up the ass. I’m not into that. I like your cunt. It’s hot and tight. A perfect fit.” He kissed my neck. “You’re perfect.”
“You’re coarser now that I know you.”
He sniffed. “Intelligent multi-syllabic words are called for when discussing politics, art, or philosophy. Decorum and proper English is a must when talking to the elderly and in formal encounters. However, we are talking about sex.” He cocked his head, which made me smile.
“Why did you pull out of my mouth? Wasn’t I doing it properly? I’ve never had a dick in my mouth before.”
He raised an eyebrow, and for some reason, my eyes landed on his cock which had started to thicken again. Blake loved talking about sex, which made two of us, judging by how inflamed I’d become.
“Because I didn’t want to drown you in cum. Let’s take that a little slower.”
“But I come in your mouth,” I said.
Blake’s lips twitched into a smile. His fingers walked between my legs and parted them almost roughly.
“You’re a banquet. Your flavor’s exquisite.” His eyebrow lifted. “I look forward to feeling your beautiful lips on my cock again. You’re a natural, Penelope. It felt too nice. I wanted to come inside of you.”
I looked down at his rising dick again. Oh my… The burn between my legs pulsed through me. Didn’t we just fuck?
27
* * *
BLAKE
OPTING FOR SOMEWHERE discreet, I met Peter Barnes at my club.
“This is posh,” he said, surveying the room.
I asked, “What would you like?”
He gazed at my glass. “Maybe a single malt. Since you’re paying.”
I turned toward the waiter, who came immediately. Since it was a Monday, the place was nearly empty, with just a couple of older gents in the corner—regulars—who were lost in conversation.
We sat at my usual table by the window. Ever since Dylan Fox had locked me in cupboards as a boy, I’d developed this manic need to see outside.
“Have you got a trace on the Serbian girl?”
He nodded. “She’s back with Fox.”
“They’re prostituting her again?”
“I’m not sure. But probably.” He gestured to the waiter, who set down his drink, which he took to with the thirst of an alcoholic.
“Bring us the bottle,” I told the waiter.
I’d met men like Barnes before—freaks of nature, who would put in a hard day’s work on a bottle of whisky.
“Do you know where she’s staying?”
He nodded. “I’ve traced her to a flat in Brixton.”
“Is she there alone?”
“Not sure. I’ve seen a few young women come and go. As I have older men.” He raised an eyebrow.
“They’re working from there, then.” I changed the subject. “What have you got on that estate in Southwark?”
“It’s filled with lowlifes. Supplies half of London with drugs.”
I nodded. My veins froze when I thought of Penelope living there, and it bugged me that she’d kept it a secret from me.
“I need to know more about who a friend of mine lives with.”
“I’ll need a photo of your girlfriend.”
I frowned. “I didn’t mention she was that.”
He smirked. “I know the signs. You stuttered a little. I could see it in your eyes.”
His perceptiveness became him, considering he was a detective, but my body still tensed. I’d always managed to keep my heart hidden.
* * *
IF EVER THERE WAS a place to share with a creative friend, it was Bath. With Roman Britain etched all over its cobbled paths and honey-colored walls, that city captivated me.
As we sped along the freeway in my car, I noticed Penelope’s fingers grip her seat.
“Am I going too fast?”
“A little.” She turned to me wearing a tight smile. “But it’s to be expected in James Bond’s car. I’m half expecting a seat to eject and pistons to fire bullets.” She giggled.
I smiled at her girlish silliness, which always made me lighter.
I turned off at the exit and slowed down as we crossed onto the one-lane road.
Penelope unwound the window. “Mm… country air.”
“How long has it been since you left London?”
“I’ve never left. I haven’t been anywhere.”
I glanced at her, thinking of her life at that run-down hovel.
As we drove over an ancient cobbled bridge, Penelope effused, “How gorgeous. I love old bridges. Do you mind if I take a photo?”
I slowed down, stopped the car, and glanced at my watch.
“Are we running late?” she asked, holding her phone in camera position.
“It’s fine. We’ve got an hour, and we’re twenty minutes away.”
She stepped out of the car. “I won’t be long—I promise.”
That rustic environment suited her. With her hair out, the sun streaked red highlights through her normally dark mane, which against my pillow looked black.
Her smile was wide, like that of a girl at a fairy theme park. She wore a voluminous skirt that on anyone else would have looked like someone’s hand-me-down, but Penelope’s natural flair and individuality made it work. As she walked, her tits bounced and my cock lengthened—a reminder of her on top with her tits in my face.
My sudden loss of control around Penelope startled me.
She slid back in. “Oh, it’s so photogenic with all that clinging ivy.”
I started the engine and took off. “This place is nothing but photogenic.”
“I want to do a series on bridges with figures of men in suits and historical women in flowing gowns.”
“You have a penchant for contradictions.”
“Not always. You’ve only seen the triptych. My earlier works were mainly ethereal figures. I’ve never really grown out of fairy tales. They were my escape as a young girl and still are when I paint.”
“What are you escaping from?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve always used art as an escape, as an expression of my inner world while giving me a break from the real world.”
“But isn’t your inner world a mirror of the real world, given that that’s all you’ve ever known?”
“That’s the scientific interpretation. I believe the subconscious is filled with symbols and registers with the soul. There’s a deep well of memories passed onto us.”
“That’s a very spiritual interpretation,” I replied.
“Art is that for me, although I’m not religious in the conventional sense.”
“You’re free-spirited and openhearted—qualities that one needs to make great art.”