by Ellis, Dee
Adjacent to the kitchen was an elegant baronial-style dining table with seating for twelve. It looked like an antique, as did the high-back chairs. A matching sideboard stood along one wall. The juxtaposition between the dining setting and the highly modern kitchen was not as jarring as might be anticipated.
Dark timber blinds were drawn on the several windows along the walls. A timber-panelled door near the dining area, Sandrine guessed, led to the rest of the apartment.
“Nice place,” she said.
“It’s comfortable.” Understatement suited him, she noted.
She browsed the artwork hanging on the walls. There were a few beautifully framed lithographs along one wall, French, most likely early twentieth century although Sandrine did not recognise the signatures. One in particular caught her eye and she moved in closer to examine it. It was large, vaguely Cubist in nature, showing a stylised representation of Venus and Cupid. She’d been cataloguing a number of recently-arrived art books a few weeks before and this image in particular had appealed to her sense of humour; the Venus figure had an absurdly small head, resembling a cartoon teddy bear, in proportion to the rest of her body. The signature in the right hand bottom corner was in bright blue and looked to be crayon. She was certainly no expert on art but it appeared genuine.
Jack had noticed her examining the signature. He handed her a glass of champagne. It was cold and mildly cloying.
“Is it the real thing?” she asked.
“That what I was told. The client couldn’t pay my usual fee so I took this instead. I’m not sure if I believe him but I liked it anyway. It’s supposed to date from 1960, long before the avalanche of dodgy Picassos began to smother the market.”
Along the next wall, near to the large screen television, shelves reaching almost to the ceiling held hundreds of records. They were carefully stored in heavy plastic sleeves, arranged alphabetically by artist in such categories as jazz and blues. There was a profusion of ‘60s and ‘70s rock and, as much as she knew about modern music, which was appallingly little, there didn’t seem to be anything beyond the mid-1980s.
“Anything take your fancy?” Jack asked.
She didn’t want to disappoint him too early in the evening but she hadn’t found a single record she wanted to hear. It was all a bit too boys’ toys for her.
“Something neutral, then,” he said. There was already a record on the turntable. He carefully lowered the tone arm; Sinatra, unmistakable, backed by lush strings and a jaunty confidence, started in on “You Make Me Feel So Young”. Sandrine nodded. She’d been mistaken. There was something of interest. It immediately brought back memories of her aunt, who loved Sinatra and had all his records. It, and others of the Nelson Riddle era, would play nearly every day when she was growing up.
“Music has the ability to transport us back to happier times,” he said, gently nudging her train of thought.
“Indeed it does,” she agreed.
Jack looked her up and down. He changed tack.
“I’m so sorry. I should have taken your coat.”
They’d been inside less than ten minutes. He played the gentleman well, she thought impishly.
While the charcoal grey trench coat with its zip-out quilted lining was perfect for venturing out into cold winters’ nights, it was getting decidedly warm inside the cosy apartment. He took the coat and mohair scarf and draped them over a chair. She’d spent some time working out what to wear and settled on a mid-weight silk tweed pencil skirt and matching Chanel-style jacket. A cream silk blouse hugged her figure and perfectly moulded her breasts. A vintage Pucci silk scarf was casually knotted at the open neck, a bright cascade of pink, mauve and white that counterpointed the muted silk tweed. The overall look was conservative, like most of her wardrobe, but feminine. She had a pretty good idea what sort of signals she was sending out and figured that she’d soon find out how they were being interpreted.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Jack said.
“Starving.”
“Good. Dinner is almost ready.”
Sandrine asked the location of the guest bathroom. A hallway was beyond the door near the dining area; the room she was looking for was the first on the left. She stood before the mirror, checked her make-up and reapplied her lipstick. She wondered what the evening would hold, whether he was as good a cook as she assumed he would be from the confident way he bustled around the kitchen and the mouth-watering aroma that filled the room.
She was only half joking about being so hungry. She’d had only a light lunch and a growing nervousness had put an edge on her appetite.
“What are you up to?” she asked more of herself than Jack. Her reflection gazed back with a calm, even glacial, detachment. A smile caressed her glossy red lips. How did she feel? A little giddy from the champagne on an empty stomach, if truth be known. That, in itself, could be a danger. Although she generally held herself in check, there was something deeper percolating away inside her.
She held the reflection a few long seconds, raised an enquiring eyebrow at herself and nodded.
“If he asks, why not?” she said quietly. God, I’m horny, she thought and her smile bloomed even brighter in the reflection.
Jack was carrying the plates to the table as she emerged back into the room.
“Just in time,” he said.
“Not quite,” she countered in return. “But we’re getting there.”
There was a momentary flash of confusion on his face but he put it aside good-naturedly. As she sat at the table and he guided her chair in, Sandrine faked a demureness that would not have looked out of place on Scarlet O’Hara.
Dinner proved to be every bit as wonderful as she’d anticipated. The slow-cooked beef cheeks were restaurant quality and she greedily mopped up every last skerrick of the dark, rich gravy with sourdough bread. The freshness of the steamed vegetables complemented the meat beautifully. Wisely, she had sipped at her red wine, consuming no more than half a glass.
Their conversation ranged through general matters. Art, movies, books, gently probing explorations of likes and dislikes, the sort of dinner chit-chat that occurs in such situations and can either lead to something more or not. There was no concerted effort at avoiding matters of a personal nature but Sandrine was pleased she didn’t have to talk about her childhood or growing up.
“You’re an amazing cook. It was delicious. Thank you so much,” she said a little too earnestly as he cleared the plates.
He chuckled, deep and low and throaty, and his eyes crinkled intently. Damn, he’s sexy, Sandrine thought. Is all this happening too quickly? This was our first real date, I’m alone with this beautiful man in his apartment, I’m horny as hell and I feel like spreading him across the couch for dessert.
She had always been the one in control, some men had even suggested she was icy, but not only was she actively responding to his flirtatiousness, her body was reacting as well. She’d had no more than two glasses of champagne, and small ones at that, plus half a glass of red so she couldn’t blame the alcohol. It was a combination of so many things. The excellent dinner. The conversation, so filled with easy laughter and the occasional graceful silence when they both realised they’d been spending perhaps a few seconds too long staring at each other across the table. The lighting had softened and the music had transitioned into Chet Baker’s forlorn and moody trumpet almost without her noticing.
Is dinner finished so quickly?she thought, but she checked her watch when Jack was rinsing the dishes and was surprised to discover they’d been sitting at the table for more than 90 minutes. He suggested they move to the couches and that was when she expected him to make his move. Too smooth, too worldly, too good at saying all the things a girl would want to hear. He’s set the stage magnificently, Sandrine thought, and now it starts getting serious.
She wasn’t sure, however, that she would rebuff him. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man. Sandrine had gone through life never quite sure what she wanted out of a
man. Companionship wasn’t one of them; she was more than happy with her own company. The lovers she’d had in the past were few and far between. She’d get disillusioned once she realised how little they had in common beyond an interest in first editions.
Appearances can be deceptive. Although she looked shy, even introverted, she unashamedly loved sex. She had a voracious appetite, yet most of the time she was content to take care of her own needs. Ultimately, as she generally concluded on those rare occasions when she’d take the time to review her previous relationships, it was better that way. Less complicated in the long term.
Having to fend for herself from an early age, to make decisions and act on them, to view the future as something that demanded careful planning, had certainly moulded her attitudes. The choices she’d made along the way, and where she now found herself, well, she didn’t regret anything. Not even dodging the socially-accepted course of boyfriend, lover, husband and companion.
So she viewed with a certain wry detachment the next stage of the evening. She just hadn’t made her mind up on how it would end.
They both stood at the same time and walked to the couches, Jack close behind her, guiding her with a hand at the small of her back. She felt his warmth through the fine fabric of her tweed jacket and was more than aware of his masculine smell, which she found immensely attractive. He moved her towards the closest couch, the one facing the large-screen television mounted on the bare brick wall. She expected that he would sit close beside her and the seduction would begin.
Sandrine was surprised, and not a little disturbed, when he took up a position on the adjoining couch. Between them was the long low coffee table dominated with three short stacks of books. She’d noticed them when she first arrived, automatically flicking her eyes down the spines and noting they were all Taschens, including several volumes of Helmut Newton photographs.
She sank into the soft cushions, arranged herself comfortably in the middle of the lounge and crossed her legs. Miffed, certainly disappointed, although she didn’t allow any anything to cloud her expression.
He sat easily on the edge of his couch, angled towards her and regarding her passively. She was sure at that moment that he could read her mind, that he knew exactly what she’d been expecting and was playing this out as a prank. She felt her face flush slightly.
“Would you like coffee?” he asked innocently. “Or tea? I have Earl Grey.”
It was like a whip crack. Earl Grey was the only tea she drank. How could he know?
“Tea. Tea would be fine, thanks.” She fought to maintain her composure.
“Excellent,” he said. “Be right back.”
He stood quickly, towering above her. His lanky frame, in a tight-fitting black wool turtleneck and slim-legged black jeans, was a streak of drama in the softly-lit room. For a moment, Sandrine’s line of sight was squarely on the not inconsiderable bulge in the front of his jeans. It was fascinating and she had to drag her eyes up to his face.
Then he was gone and she could hear him rattle around as he made tea. She sat small and alone in the feather-bed comfort of the vast couch. As she recrossed her long legs, the silk lining of her tweed skirt rustling imperceptively; she was aware that her heart was beating wildly and she was wet, wetter than she had been in a long, long time.
“You dress like a librarian and I find that extremely sexy,” Jack said when he returned with a tray bearing a tea pot, cups, milk and sugar. At last, she thought, maybe we’re making some progress.
“I am like a librarian, really,” she countered simply. “I work with books.”
Again the deep chuckle.
“Do you like taking chances, Sandrine?” As these things so often do, the tone of the evening changed in a second.
“What sort of chances are you talking about?”
“The fun kind.”
“That depends on the circumstances.”
“Then let me put it another way. Do you trust me?”
That, Sandrine concluded, was most likely the question of the century. Maybe it was all happening too quickly but she’d enjoyed the evening so far, Jack’s company, the surroundings, the conversation and the insights she’d gained into his personality. She was shocked by how fast she’d relaxed in his company and she certainly wasn’t ready for the evening to draw to a close. The prospect of going back to her apartment didn’t appeal to her. Heathcliff would have to do without her a little longer. However, she had to be frank.
“No,” she admitted finally.
“Then why are you here?”
She had no answer.
“What do you want?”
Now’s the time, she thought. What do you really want, girl?
“You.” She was a little surprised by how quickly she answered.
“How?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. However.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Stand up.”
This was it. She’d reached the point of no return. Sandrine’s head swam with a dangerous mix of confusion and lust. There was a small, lone voice of responsibility telling her she still had time, she could walk out right now and it would all be over. That was her logic. Her body spoke louder; no, it said, this was what you want, what you’ve wanted from the moment Jack walked into the bookshop. She needed this even if she didn’t know exactly where it would go. The element of danger spiked the heat between her legs even further than mere arousal ever could. She was not just moist, and far more than wet. She was saturated and she needed Jack’s touch, needed his hard cock driving inside her, pushing into her body. The thought of it occupied the entirety of her existence at this time.
There was no choice to make. She stood.
“Undo your scarf,” he said, his voice deeper and huskier now, the gentleness of the evening now replaced with a steely purpose. The Pucci was long and narrow; she’d wound it several times around her neck before knotting it. It fluffed her hair slightly as she took it off but she didn’t try putting it back into place. The atmosphere had changed dramatically. Jack was assuming a dominant role and she immediately adapted to it. The tension was building. She averted her eyes downward as she handed the scarf across. Her gaze lingered on the front of Jack’s jeans. Amazingly, tantalizingly, the bulge almost appeared to be throbbing. The sight was transfixing.
“Turn around.”
He placed the scarf over her eyes, and tied it snugly. The smell of Monyette, her favourite perfume, was overpowering. It was only a minor distraction to the turmoil her body – and her mind – was going through. She couldn’t see. There was total, enveloping darkness.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No matter where it goes?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say what you want.”
Her voice, when it came, was soft and small, something she hardly ever heard.
“Do what you want to me, Jack.”
“Anything?”
There was something in the way he said it, a shifting darkness in his tone that frightened her. At that moment, a last brief spark of clarity surged through her, begging her to get the hell out. Then she thought of her life and her previous lovers and how nothing had even come close to exciting her as she was now. A door was opening, to what she wasn’t sure, but she was determined to go through it.
“Anything, Jack. Anything and everything.”
“Do not move. Do not say a word.”
She felt a gentle tug on the waistband of her skirt. The zipper was being lowered. He gently pulled it down her hips and held her elbow for balance as she stepped out of it, carefully avoiding snagging the skirt on her high heels. She was secretly pleased she’d chosen French-made cream silk underwear and relieved it was a matching set. He slipped the panties down her hips and threw them aside. The hem of her blouse barely extended to her hips. She was now fully exposed; she could feel herself
flush with embarrassment.
“Don’t move.” His voice was even harsher and deeper now. “Put your hands behind your back.
Heavy footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The sound of a door opening and closing. Silence. Stillness. The warmth of the room. The lingering smell of their meal mingling with the Monyette. Her lip quivering ever so slightly. The cool moistness between her legs contrasting with the heat of her skin made more prickly with embarrassment. The tension writhing in her stomach like snakes in a basket. The torturous feel of her maddingly sensitive nipples rubbing against the lace of her bra as she breathed.
She jumped as she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. He was winding something around her wrists, tying them firmly but with an underlying gentleness. He brushed his fingers through her hair, grabbed a handhold and tilted her head sharply back and to the side. His lips touched the exposed skin of her neck.
“You are so beautiful, Sandrine.”
Hands on her shoulders, he turned her around and unbuttoned her blouse. Kissing her neck again, slowly, seeming to savour each moment of contact, down her chest to her breasts, beautifully presented in the palest cream lace of her bra.
“Such wonderful taste in underwear.”
She would have answered, she was sure she had a smart rejoinder but at that moment he delicately bit down on one nipple though the lace and her train of thought speared into a deepening tunnel of red-tinged lust. All that escaped from her lips was a disembodied moan.
“Stand very still.”
She waited, wondering what would happen next. Seconds began to tick into minutes. She waited longer, not hearing or feeling anything, the tension building. Then there was a soft clink and she strained to identify the sound. The realisation came suddenly; it was the delicate contact a fine china cup makes against its saucer. Her anger flaired. The bastard is finishing his tea while I’m standing here half naked.
