Dark Descent into Desire

by J. J. Sorel

  I finally arrived at the lane where the bar was situated. Victorian lamps painted a subdued warm ambience over the cobbled paths. Each of the intimate bars that lined the alleyway was lamplit, making for a discreet meeting place.

  Taking a deep breath, I stood at the doorway. Being ten minutes early, I lingered indecisively, wondering whether I should go for a walk, when I saw him through the window. Even with his back to me, I knew it was him. I almost chickened out. Fear had taken its grip. Or is that anticipation? Butterflies had invaded my belly the moment I heard his voice on the phone.

  Blake Sinclair must have sensed me at the door, because he turned and his eyes found mine. My heart raced. I could barely walk to his table. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background. I recognized it because one of my lecturers often played it.

  His eyes spellbound me. I attempted a quivery smile and crossed my arms to hide my hardened nipples, which seemed to have a mind of their own.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m a little early.”

  “As am I. I always like to arrive early or at least on time.” His eyes lingered, waiting for a response, as though he’d given me an insight into a habit he didn’t normally share.

  Before I had a chance to stop him, he rose from his chair and held out a chair for me.

  Dressed in a white linen shirt over loose-fitting beige slacks, his casual look was effortlessly sophisticated.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “A G&T, I suppose.”

  He beckoned a waitress, and she was by our side in a flash. Something told me that Blake Sinclair could make anyone jump to action.

  After he ordered, his attention returned to me. “I trust you found it okay?”

  “Yes. I took the tube.”

  “From college or from home?”

  I gulped. And now for the gritty details of my life. “I was in Soho.”

  “That’s where you live?”

  I nodded. I had to extract my eyes from his hypnotic stare. I looked down at my hands and then slowly looked up at him again. He was so handsome that each time I visited his face I learned something new about it. With that tanned, smooth skin, he looked around thirty, but his vibe seemed like that of someone older, adding to his sex appeal. I’d always had a thing for older men.

  “You seem to have a lot going on in your head, if you don’t mind me saying,” he said.

  “How would you know that?” I asked, feeling naked all of a sudden.

  “I’m not sure why. But you seem very familiar to me, Penelope.”

  “Please call me Penny.”

  “Penelope suits you. May I call you that?”

  I had to admit my name sounded sensual issuing from those fleshy lips.

  “Do you live alone in Soho?” he asked, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

  “Um… no. It’s Sheldon’s house. He’s been kind enough to let me live there. I also use his studio, which is up the road.”

  “Sheldon Sprite. I know his family.”

  “Oh, you’ve met them?” My voice was unintentionally high-pitched.

  “Just at a few gatherings. I don’t know them well. I’m familiar with Sheldon’s work.”

  “He’s an amazing artist.”

  “As are you, Penelope.”

  The waitress arrived with my drink, and not too soon either. My hand trembled as I lifted it. I wished I could be cool, calm, and collected, fluttering my hand about, just like the other women in the bar.

  I gulped down my G&T like it was water.

  “We ended on a bad note the other night.” He studied me. “I’m not the big bad wolf you might think I am. I didn’t remain at the Cherry Orchard. I’d like you to know that.”

  “I believe you.” I took another big sip.

  Blake must have noticed my hand trembling. “Am I making you nervous?”

  I nodded. “I’m not very confident around men I don’t know well. Especially men like you.”

  “Men like me? There are others?” he asked with a subtle grin, which he wore well.

  “No. You just give off an air of sophistication that makes me feel inferior.”

  His eyebrows drew in. “You see me as arrogant?”

  “Not exactly.” I played with my glass. “Although, I suppose you could come across as that to some.”

  “You’re not the first to accuse me of that.” He cast a tight smile. “I don’t suffer fools, and I’m choosy when it comes to company. I’m probably more like you than you think.”

  I jerked my head back. “How would you know that?”

  “Your art. There’s something in it that speaks to my soul.”

  I caught a glint of softness in his eyes, making me wonder if in fact he was sensitive and wore that air of superiority as a shield.

  “You’re moving in the realms of mysticism, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I like those realms, Ms. Green,” he retorted, with a flicker of a smile that weakened my knees.

  “If you didn’t resemble a male model, I’d say you possess creative spirit.”

  “Can’t I be both?” His lips moved up at one side, revealing a dimple.

  “Beautiful people can be a little vain.” Thanks to the gin, I’d finally relaxed.

  “Are you vain?” His eyes plowed in so deep that it was impossible to hide.

  I shook my head. “I have nothing to be vain about.”

  “That’s not true. You’re very beautiful, and you’re extremely talented. You’re in a league of your own. You have plenty to be vain about.”

  “I don’t see myself like that. I am overweight. And my technique’s somewhat underdeveloped.”

  “I disagree with all of that. Technique’s important, but one doesn’t want to become a slave to it.”

  I opened my mouth in surprise. “My lecturer said something to that effect.”

  “I think I read it somewhere,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

  I shifted subtly in my chair, hoping I wouldn’t leave a damp mark because I was melting from his steamy gaze.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Um… for success?”

  His lips curved. “I meant to ask whether you wished to eat.”

  I appreciated that he hadn’t made fun of my naivety.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “No need. Be yourself, Penelope.”

  That wasn’t easy around him, especially with that deep husk caressing my name as though he were making love to it.

  “I’m not hungry. But I probably should eat,” I said.

  “Good. I’ve made a reservation at the Ritz.” He looked down at my empty glass. “Shall we go?”

  I rose, hoping that the heat coming out of my vagina wasn’t obvious.

  He towered over me and placed his hand gently on the middle of my back as we exited the bar.

  The night air was refreshing and welcoming. I took a deep breath and tried to walk steadily, even though my high heels, being new, gave me grief as they dug into my ankles. We arrived at a shiny black Bentley, where a very tall man awaited us. He greeted me with a nod and opened the door for me.

  I slid in, and my skirt, sticking to the leather, rode up, revealing my chubby thighs. I lifted my body and wiggled the skirt down.

  Blake gave me a subtle smile.

  11

  * * *

  BLAKE

  NORMALLY, CHEAP PERFUME made me recoil. But radiating off Penelope’s milky skin, it was an aphrodisiac. Her ill-fitting silk shirt did little to hide those curves and those tantalizingly erect nipples, which had me salivating from the moment she entered the bar. In an effort to hide my rising member, I adjusted my position.

  Sitting so close to her had made me ravenous. That was new for me. I didn’t usually feel this way around pretty women. It took more than an attractive face and beautiful curves for me to have that reaction. But knowing that Penelope was pure added that extra allure. I’d never had the desire to fuck a virgin before, but Penelope had become an
obsession.

  Penelope looked out the window like a child at Disneyland.

  “It looks different at night with the lights,” I said, admiring the impressive sky-piercing spires of Westminster, flooded in soft light that revealed crevices and everchanging shadows adding to its architectural mystique.

  “It is.” She turned to face me. “Do you always get around in this big car?”

  “When I go out at night, I like to have a driver. I also have my own car that I enjoy driving on long trips. I like speed.” I grinned. “That’s one of my bad habits—driving too fast.”

  “One?” She grinned.

  I shrugged. “We’re all entitled to a few, aren’t we? We wouldn’t be human otherwise.”

  “You’ve got me curious now.”

  “The clean version—I’m not into coke, just the odd cigar here and there, and I like single malt.”

  “The dirty version?” Her dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

  I mirrored her cheeky grin. “Penelope, we’ve only just met.”

  Her gaze lingered as though she was trying to understand something complicated. “I’ve never been in a car like this.”

  “I hope it’s not too old-fashioned for you.”

  “No. It’s a novelty, I suppose. And I do like the leather seats.” Her hands slid over the upholstery sensuously. I imagined it being my skin, and blood gushed down to my groin.

  “Are we going to be there soon?” she asked.

  I turned to study her. “Are you still nervous?”

  She nodded with a tight smile. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Just be yourself. I’d like to know the real Penelope Green—the artist who paints like a master.”

  “A master?” Her brow creased.

  “I’ve seen a lot of art. Yours is a rare talent.”

  Her big dark eyes massaged something deep inside of me. She might have been young, but the longer I looked, the more an old soul shone through.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  “Because you’ve got a witchy face. If I’m not careful you’ll enchant me.”

  “Witchy? Enchant? Oh my God, Blake. You sound as though you’ve stepped out of a gothic novel.”

  I sniffed. “I have a thing for the past. I mean not so much my own.” Oops, too much information.

  “How so?”

  I shrugged and forced a fleeting smile.

  She stared at me for a moment and then looked away.

  We pulled up at the curb as well-dressed folk climbed up the stairs to the theater across from the restaurant.

  Patrick opened the door for Penelope, and I helped her out.

  I took her by the arm gently, and we stepped into the busy restaurant and the maître d’, who knew me, showed us to my regular table by the window. One of my quirks—or perhaps it was a phobia—was that having people too close to me constricted my breathing.

  I held out the chair for Penelope, and again, she frowned. Waiting until she was comfortable, I asked, “You’re not used to men opening doors and pulling out chairs for you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s never happened. It feels strange, as though I’m incapacitated in some way.”

  “It’s meant to be chivalrous. A gentlemanly gesture. But hey, I’ll refrain if that makes you feel better.”

  “No. I kind of like it. It’s just a little dated. But then, everything about you seems old-fashioned.”

  “I’ll take that as a criticism.”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m not into guys who air punch or get around in packs, yelling at football games. I’m kind of fascinated with the past too.”

  I nodded. “You’re a romantic, then. That’s clear enough from your art.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, looking from me to the waiter who’d just arrived.

  I took the wine menu and went straight to my favorite choice. I was a man of habit. Being that way saved time and offered a predictably satisfying experience. “Would you like red or white wine?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I like both.”

  “The fish is excellent here, and with that, white would be the choice. Would you like to look at the menu?”

  Penelope shook her head. “No need. I like fish. Just whatever you’re having.”

  Good. She wasn’t fussy. I liked that. It gave me control.

  “We’ll go for the seafood cocktail for entrée. The salmon for the main course. Vegetables. And the Gustave Lorentz Pinot Gris.”

  The waiter nodded. “Very well, sir.”

  “This is such an amazing place,” she said, looking up at the ceiling, which boasted a fresco of dancing nymphs in diaphanous robes.

  “I like it here. The lighting’s subdued, which suits me. A lot of restaurants tend to go for bright lights.”

  She nodded. “I hate bright lights.”

  We smiled in that way people do when discovering they have something in common.

  12

  * * *

  PENELOPE

  “OH LOOK, THE MOON’S reflecting off the window.” I pointed at the antiquarian bookshop’s bay window.

  “The moon always brings poetry to a night,” he said, staring up at the sky.

  My body melted again. Who is this guy? He had a soft, artistic side to his nature that surprised me. Even when walking, he switched from doing a supercilious strut to ambling elegantly close by my side.

  He turned to face me. The big shiny black car waited for us. Although I was tipsy, I wasn’t sure what to expect. After such a delicious dinner and the best wine I’d ever tasted, I’d finally relaxed. Blake had even laughed a little. His handsome face, which looked gorgeous no matter what mood he was in, lightened, and he almost let me in. But there was also something guarded about him.

  Looking the part of rich tycoon in a fitted blue sports jacket, he regarded me. “What would you like to do now?”

  I shrugged. “Have you got any ideas?”

  “We could go for a spin around the Tate. Or we could go back to my house, where I could try to seduce you. Or…”

  “Or?” I asked, my face burning from his audacious suggestion.

  Am I ready to go to bed with him so quickly? I couldn’t deny it—Blake Sinclair had woven a spell.

  “I can almost see the thoughts ticking away in that beautiful head of yours.”

  “The Tate sounds good,” I said, disappointing the wild cat within.

  He nodded neutrally with no hint of disappointment. Unlike me. I wanted Blake to express his urgent need to ravish me. I liked knowing he was hungry for me after I’d been staring at his mouth all night, wondering how his lips would feel against mine.

  I looked up at Blake. “Can I change my mind?”

  He opened his big hands. “As long as you grace me with your company, I’m happy for us to just walk if you like.”

  “Okay.” I looked at the Thames with the moon’s reflection rippling away. “It’s a beautiful night, and after that dessert”—I touched my belly—“I probably should exercise a little.”

  “You’re still young, and you’re not overweight, Penelope.”

  He stopped and looked at me. Under the lamplight, his blue eyes had gone dark, almost black.

  “I’m not that young.”

  “You’re twenty-three.”

  “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “I know a lot about you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Now you’re creeping me out. You’ve had me investigated?”

  He shook his head. “It’s on public record. You’re an artist. You sell art.”

  “Oh… really? I’ve only ever sold a few works.”

  “It’s still registered. Date of birth and the like.”

  “What, even my address?” I didn’t hide my alarm.

  “Not that. But hey, I’m not the big bad wolf.” He smiled, and those dimples made me want to slap and kiss him at the same time.

  “So you’ve said,” I replied d
ryly.

  His grin faded into a serious expression. “You still seem a little uptight toward me. Is it because of the Cherry Orchard?”

  “Not really. You’re just a little intimidating.”

  He took my hand and stared deep into my eyes. “Your beauty intimidates me too.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “How?”

  “You’re innocent. You’re like a fragile flower. I want to keep drawing it in, but in order to retain its beauty, a flower shouldn’t be plucked.”

  “But it eventually withers.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever withering.” He drew me close.

  I breathed him in, and his masculine scent, infused with subtle cologne, made me melt into his embrace. I looked up, and before my next breath, his head lowered to mine. My lips parted in anticipation.

  He ran his tongue along his cushiony lips, and then they touched mine.

  My brain shut down, giving my body total say.

  His mouth, soft and moist, gently caressed mine. He tasted of wine and honey. His arms held me tight, and I floated on a cloud. His tongue touched my mouth. I allowed him in, and he entered, his tongue twining around mine.

  Pulsing with desire, I pressed against his strong frame, and then I woke out of my aroused haze and gently pulled away.

  He brushed a strand of hair from my face, and the burning need in his eyes matched my body’s. “You’re going to destroy me.”

  I searched for lightness in his tone, but his face remained serious. A shiver ran through me. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I’m weak around you. I’ve thought of little else since meeting you. Maybe your art has bewitched me.”

  “There are no spells embedded in my work.”

  “Of course, there aren’t… but you have power over me.” He pulled away to look at me under the street lamp.

  “You make it sound painful,” I said, trying to understand him because his expression was so intense.

  Am I really tormenting him? He was tormenting me with those gorgeous blue eyes that I kept falling into.