by Mandy Lee
Or else what? I wonder. You’ll punish me? I feel both of his hands on my stomach, holding me firmly around my midriff.
‘Now, open your eyes and look at me.’
I do as I’m told and find him sitting back on his haunches, smiling down at me. He’s got me right where he wants me and good God, he’s pleased with himself. But then again, he’s got every right to feel that way. The man is physical perfection. And what he can do with his lips and those hands. I can only shudder at the thought of what he can do with his cock.
‘Have you ever come during penetration?’ he asks.
Why? What are you? Some sort of amateur gynaecologist?
‘No,’ I admit and now I feel small. I almost want to apologise, but then again why should I? It’s not my fault if nature made me this way. I place my hands on my stomach. Right now, I’m totally uncomfortable, completely exposed, and I know that my subconscious has just fired out an order to protect myself.
‘That’s a shame. I’ll have to see what I can do.’
He leans across my legs, chooses the tie, throws the belt onto the floor and motions for me to return my hands above my head. I look up to find that he’s not the owner of a big brass bed after all. In fact, it’s a big wooden bed, complete with a thick, slatted headboard. Oh shit. This really is going to happen.
‘It’s okay,’ he says gently. ‘I’ll look after you. And we’ll start small.’
He takes my hands in his, loops the tie gently around my wrists in a figure of eight and pulls them together.
‘Feel alright?’
I nod.
‘I don’t want to cut off your blood flow.’
‘It’s fine.’
He takes the ends of the tie and secures them to the headboard. So, that’s it. I’ve gone and done exactly what I vowed I wouldn’t do. I’ve let a power-hungry, super rich control freak tie me up. And now he’s going to go and fuck me senseless. Oh, shitty, shit, shit. I’m in trouble. And I’m squirming too at the very thought of it.
‘Lie still,’ he orders me. ‘I need to make sure there’s oil in this engine.’
‘I said enough of the car talk. It’s naaa ….’
The final word disappears into a haze as he slides a single finger inside me. I don’t know whether it’s the shock, or the sudden ripples of pleasure that are pulsing through my abdomen, but I can barely breathe. His lips are lowered to mine and while his finger circles gently inside, his tongue begins to explore my mouth. At last, I gather together at least some of my senses.
‘Oh Lord,’ I mutter around the edge of his mouth, ‘you’ve had a lot of practice at this.’
‘Lots,’ he confirms. ‘Now shush. Don’t make me gag you.’
I stare up into his eyes, marooned in the swirls of blue.
‘You wouldn’t,’ I gasp.
‘I would,’ he says darkly.
***
And then all hell lets loose. A clap of thunder. A flash of lightning.
‘Shit!’ I scream. ‘Shit!’
‘Maya! What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?’
‘No, you twat. It’s a fucking storm.’
‘And?’
‘I fucking hate thunder and lightning. Untie me now!’
‘What?’
In an instant, he leaps up and frantically loosens the tie. By the time I push myself up on the bed, he’s standing next to me, his eyes wide with confusion.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I gasp. ‘I can’t do this! Not while it’s thundering.’
He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. And then there’s another almighty crash.
‘Shit!’
Instinctively, I curl up into a ball. I feel the bed dip, the warmth of his skin as he wraps himself around me.
‘Maya, you’re shaking. You’re petrified.’
‘Of course I’m fucking petrified you fucking dickshit.’
Oh Lord, I’ve just called my naked boss a dickshit. I really shouldn’t have done that. I half expect him to kick me right off the bed and sack me on the spot, but he draws me closer, resting his palm across my chest.
‘Fuck me, your heart’s thudding.’
‘I’m not putting this on, Dan. I don’t like storms.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re scary!’ I shout.
Another flash of lightning cuts across the window. I cringe, waiting for the next crash of thunder to tear its way through the air. It’s not long in coming. Two seconds.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whimper.
He plants a kiss on the top of my head.
‘No need to be sorry. Just tell me what I can do.’
‘Nothing. Just hold me. Please.’
He strokes my head slowly. Another crash of thunder rips through the sky. My body wants to jolt, but I’m held firmly in place against him, clasped tightly by his arms. And there’s something strangely reassuring about being restrained like this, something curiously relaxing about letting him take control.
‘Have you always been like this?’ he asks.
‘Ever since I can remember. When I was little, my mum used to make me a tent. Two chairs and a blanket draped over them. She promised it would keep me safe. She’d get in it with me and we’d ride out the storm in there. I’m a bit too old for that now.’
Several seconds of silence pass between us, broken only by the sound of rain crashing down against the skylight.
‘You’re never too old for anything,’ he says at last. ‘Stay where you are. I won’t be long.’
He peels himself away and I turn to see what’s going on. He opens a wardrobe door, disappears for a moment and returns with a sheet and a duvet. Throwing them onto the chaise longue, he sets about dragging it across the room, positioning it right next to the bed. He shakes out the sheet, draping it half over the back of the chaise longue, the rest over the side of the bed, pinning it into place with a pillow. He takes the duvet and disappears inside the makeshift tent.
‘Chuck me the pillows,’ he calls. ‘Now.’
I pull the pillows from the bed and throw them onto the floor. One by one, they disappear inside the tent. Finally, he emerges, looking distinctly pleased with himself.
‘Will this do?’
There’s another crash of thunder. My muscles turn rigid.
‘Well, it’ll have to. Get in,’ he orders.
I crawl inside his thunder tent and find myself on the duvet. He slides in next to me and positions himself on his side.
‘Come here,’ he murmurs.
I smile weakly and crawl into his arms, feeling them close around me.
‘This isn’t exactly what you had in mind tonight, is it?’ I ask stupidly.
‘Not exactly.’ He kisses the top of my head and pulls me into his chest. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’ll have to check the weather forecast next time I see you.’
‘There’ll be a next time?’
‘Of course.’
Chapter Ten
I hardly know where I am when I wake up. Above my head, I can see sunlight dancing against a white sheet. It takes a moment or two for the previous evening to filter through into my memory, another moment or two for me to realise that I’m lying against a warm chest. I turn my head slowly, carefully taking in the smattering of hair, realising that I’d like nothing more than to run my hands up and down that chest right now. I’d like to take it all in: the tight definition of his pecs; the taut lines that lead my eyes down towards to his crotch; the firm muscles that curve across his abdomen. This man does some serious workouts. That much is obvious. But what else do I know about him? Very little, is the answer. Apart from the fact that he owns a construction company and drives a German car, that he’s a serial womaniser and a control freak to boot, I know absolutely zilch. Taking a slow, deep breath, I remind myself that I’ve had enough warnings. Whichever way I look at the situation, nothing good can ever come of it. I’ll only end up falling for this man and in spite of all his words, he’ll drain me of what he needs and then move on to hi
s next conquest before my tears have dried. I gaze up at his face, relieved to find that he’s still fast asleep. I can tell that from the deep rhythm of his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his rib cage. He seems so innocent now, so completely at ease. But he isn’t innocent at all. In fact, he’s far from it. And I certainly shouldn’t give him the benefit of any sort of doubt. Instead, I should simply get the hell out of here before he wakes up and challenges my common sense.
As quietly and as gently as I can, I crawl out of the tent. My pulse is racing as I retrieve my clothes from the floor. I tiptoe my way downstairs, skitter through the living area and fumble to dress myself in the kitchen. Any minute now, he’ll wake up and find me gone. Any minute now, he’ll be thundering down those stairs demanding that I get my backside back up to his bed. I have to act quickly because I know I’d comply … and that would be the mother of all mistakes. I take no time to examine my surroundings because there really is no point. I’m never going to come here again. Tugging open the door, I make my escape, my heart pounding like a pneumatic drill as I enter the lift, frantically punching the button for the ground floor. I turn and watch as the doors close, encasing me in mirrors, leaving me to stare at my tousled hair and faded make-up while I wrestle my breathing back under control. A few seconds later and the lift opens onto a small lobby. I’m almost there now, almost free of the danger. Launching myself out of the lift, I push my way through a set of heavy glass doors and stumble out into the early morning sunlight.
It takes me forever to find the nearest tube station, but soon I’m scurrying down the steps at Vauxhall. I hardly know how I make it to Waterloo, how I manage to navigate my way back onto the Northern Line. Seeing as I can barely focus on the real world, it’s a complete bloody miracle. I sit bolt upright, rigid, watching the tunnel walls as they slip by. Before I even make it to Camden Town, there’s a ping from my mobile. With a shaking hand, I pull it from the depths of my handbag. Sure enough, it’s him. Still just a number … and no name.
Where are you? Are you OK?
Really? Why are you asking? Do you really care? My fingers hover across the keypad. So what should I say? Actually, Mr Foster, no. I’m not alright at all. You see, I’m severely attracted to you and really, bloody scared of what you might do to me if I spend any more time in your company. I’ve only spent one night with you so far, and that’s reduced me to some sort of quivering, indecisive mess. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to call it a day. Finally deciding that it’s best to simply ignore the text, I thrust the phone into my handbag and go back to staring into the blackness. Finally, the tube draws in to Camden Town. With my head down, I make my way along Camden High Street, silently ashamed of myself. I’ve done it again. I’ve caved in to a one night stand. And that’s all it was ever going to be. Well, at least we never got round to the sex. That’s a plus point. I turn the corner into Mornington Crescent, slope past the last few houses and finally come to a halt in front of our flaking front door. I push the key into the lock and head for the kitchen where I find Lucy, dressed and ready for work, knocking back a morning cup of tea.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demands.
‘I live here.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Yes, but nothing. Are you working today?’
I sling my bag onto the table, flick on the kettle and grab a mug from the cupboard.
‘Yes, I am. But only until three.’
She stares at me expectantly. And I stare back.
‘Well, what happened?’ she asks.
‘Nothing much,’ I lie.
‘Oh come on. Tell me everything … now.’
‘Okay.’ Opening another cupboard door, I take out a box of tea bags. ‘We went for dinner in an expensive restaurant, only we didn’t have dinner because before we’d even ordered anything, he dragged me back out of the restaurant and took me home to his apartment.’
‘Oh my God. Did he roger you?’
I shake my head and Lucy’s face is spattered with confusion. I decide to be pithy about this.
‘We had that thunder storm and I got scared.’
I pull a teabag out of the box.
‘Oh God,’ she groans, looking distinctly panicky now. She knows exactly what I’m like in storms. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve watched her faff about with sheets and chairs while I count the gaps between the thunder and the lightning bolts. ‘I thought about you last night. I knew you’d lose it.’
And I did lose it. In fact, I lost it big style.
‘I called him a dickshit, Lucy. I called him a dickshit and he made me a tent and I fell asleep.’
‘He made you a tent?’
‘Yep.’
‘You called him a dickshit and he made you a tent?’
I chuck the teabag into the mug.
‘I didn’t make him do it. I told him about it and he just did it.’
‘Well, that’s sweet.’
Sweet, my arse, I want to scream. Because what you don’t know is that he spent most of the evening ordering me about or interrogating me. Is that sweet? Really? There’s another ping from my mobile. I glance at my handbag and decide to ignore it. Lucy, on the other hand, seems to have other ideas. I watch in despair as she swoops down and claims the phone. As soon as she opens the message, her bottom lip takes a dive.
‘Look at that!’
She turns the screen towards me.
Did I upset you? Are you home?
‘Is that him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And? Don’t tell me you ran out on him.’
‘I left this morning. He was still asleep.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Lucy whines. ‘Why did you do that? What’s the problem, Maya?’ Her eyelids tremble. ‘No! Don’t tell me! He’s got a little willy!’
‘Anything but.’ I watch as the kettle rumbles its way towards the boil.
‘So, he’s just boring then?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
The kettle clicks itself off. I pick it up and fill my mug.
‘So, he’s got a girlfriend?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
I rummage in a drawer for a clean teaspoon.
‘Then what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I slam the teaspoon down on the counter. ‘I like him, Lucy. I like him a lot. I just don’t trust him and that’s the problem. I can see myself falling for him big style and I can see him shitting on me.’
My mobile pings again.
Lucy opens up the latest message and stares in awe at the screen. ‘So, you like him a lot. And he obviously likes you back.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Well, I do.’
She holds up the mobile, displaying the message for me to read.
I’m on my way to yours.
‘Shit!’ A surge of panic explodes in my gut. I can’t bloody deal with this. I just can’t. I’m really not in the mood for a confrontation. I can’t risk seeing him today, and that’s all I know. ‘Lucy, I’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Why? What? Where are you going?’
‘I’m coming into work with you.’
I’m changed in record time. A fresh pair of knickers, combats and a strappy T-shirt. Teeth brushed, a quick wash, a smattering of deodorant, and I’m ready. I practically drag Lucy out of the front door, leaving her to scurry behind me back down Mornington Crescent and up the High Street. Scanning the traffic for a black Mercedes, I feel like a member of the SAS on some sort of special operation. And my heart’s thumping the whole way. By the time we reach the tube station, Lucy’s totally out of breath and I’m a nervous wreck. As we descend into the station, I’m overwhelmed with relief. If he’s prowling the streets of North London and seeking me out, then he’s going to be severely disappointed. There’s no way he can find me now.
‘So, what makes you think he’s going to shit on you?’ Lucy asks, finally breaking the silence somewhere between Warren Street and Tottenham Cou
rt Road.
I stare at the empty seat in front of me. ‘Oh, just everything.’
As the tube draws into Tottenham Court Road, Lucy springs up from her seat. I follow her blindly through the tunnels and out onto Oxford Street. It’s still early and the crowds haven’t formed yet. It’s not long before we hang a left, winding our way towards Soho Square, past the strange, tiny, mock-Tudor gazebo at its centre, veering to the right and further down into Frith Street. After another couple of minutes, we finally arrive at the gallery.
‘Maybe you should just give him a chance.’ She places her hand against the glass door. ‘He’s hot and he’s rich. He’s got a big willy and he’s not boring.’
‘For God’s sake, leave it out,’ I grumble.
‘You can’t hide in here all day,’ she grumbles back.
‘You just watch me.’
With a huff, Lucy pushes open the door and we enter the rarefied atmosphere of Slaters. As the door swings to a gentle close behind us, the constant noise of Soho is blocked out. I make my way over to the window where a pair of deep red sofas face one another across a glass coffee table. Throwing my bag onto the floor, I slump into one of the sofas, satisfied that at least for now I’ve escaped the wrath of Daniel Foster. With a deep breath, I take in the ground floor of the gallery: the pot plants and the padded seating; the oak flooring and the clean white walls; the canvases, landscapes and portraits. That’s all that Little Steve and Big Steve are interested in, and for the last thirty years, it’s kept Slaters going. All sorts of influences fly around the place: impressionism, expressionism, realism, abstract. You name it, it’s here. But whatever the picture, whatever the influence, there’s always talent, and real talent at that. Over the years, the two Steves have built up a reputation for discovering new artists, for encouraging them, for helping them make their names. And now, younger artists than me are exhibiting … and I often wonder if my time has already passed.
‘I’ll put the kettle on. And then you can help me. I’ve really got to sort that bloody basement out today.’ Lucy totters across the wooden floor, disappearing into a room at the back.
I hear the tapping of footsteps, a puffing and panting, and I realise that someone is climbing the stairs, making their way up from the basement. After what seems like an age, a small, grey-haired man appears at the top of the stairs. He’s no more than five feet tall, and distinctly overweight. He looks like Santa. Dressed in his customary check shirt and brown corduroys, it’s Little Steve.
