Anything For Him

by Lily Harlem

  I tried to envisage never meeting him, never having his hands on my skin, his breaths tickling the back of my neck, his cock inside me. I couldn’t do it. I had to meet him and, like we’d said, if we didn’t like the look of one another then there wouldn’t even be a meeting – not one that went anywhere anyway.

  It’ll be all right. Honestly, it’ll be fine.

  The bus lurched to a stop, the movement shunting me forward, and I flung my hand up to grab the back rail of the seat in front. A middle-aged man got off, stepping down onto a residential street strewn with litter that had undoubtedly been jostled by the wind from an untied refuse sack. As he walked off up the road, a white paper napkin chased him, winding around his ankles like a starving cat unwilling to be ignored. He stopped walking, bent down to catch a hold of it, then balled it into a meaty fist. As the bus started up again, I stared across the bus and out the opposite windows at him, wishing he’d see me so I could gauge his reaction to my looks.

  Since when had I become so in need of assurance?

  Since I knew damn well this wasn’t a game any more. Since I realised he was serious in wanting to meet.

  I was serious too, but deep inside, even though I’d gone along with it, even though I’d told myself we’d be meeting, I hadn’t quite believed it. Easy to be swept along, just like those pieces of litter, and easy to convince myself I could do this thing. And here I was, taking the initiative, a step outside what we’d agreed. Why? Because I wanted to gain the advantage, of seeing him before he saw me. Perhaps, if I did manage to catch a glimpse of him today, and liked what I saw, it would give me the courage to go home and press for a real meet. The problem was, Liuz tended to call the shots. Even though I played the game too, gave the right answers, behaved as though I had all the confidence in the world, it was clear he was the more dominant one.

  But wasn’t that what I liked so much about him?

  Absolutely, and the idea of him being so dominant in person, in bed, had me squirming in my seat. My face flushed at the images flickering through my mind, of our sex-sweat bodies, hands slippery from that and my juices, his cum. Of my hair, lank and damp from exertion, held tight in his steel fist. Of his lips, barely touching my earlobe, filthy words spilling from his mouth in a torrent. Filthy enough to make me come without him touching me.

  The bus bell, loud and abrasive, jerked me from my reverie, and I looked about, feeling foolish for having indulged in fantasies when I was supposed to be watching out for the first of my stops. Relieved to see I hadn’t missed it, I paid attention to the streets outside, swallowing to combat the sudden dryness in my throat. Another stop and it would be time for me to get off.

  That stop came all too quickly, but conversely, not soon enough. I was a tangle of emotions, the threads of them writhing inside me to form several knots that rested hard and dull in my stomach. I wanted to spy on him and I didn’t. I wanted to spot him and I didn’t. I wanted – God, I wanted far too much. He’d made it that way too, with his dirty emails that set me on fire and gave me a taste for needing more out of sex than a quick fuck that always left me feeling like something was missing. As though what had happened hadn’t quite been enough. I wanted more than five minutes of fumbling foreplay, a few sloppy kisses and a cock only sliding in and out enough times so the man could come. I wanted to be lavished with attention, used in ways I’d only ever dreamed about – and left so spent I couldn’t walk without my legs almost giving way.

  Liuz would give that to me. He’d told me he would.

  He’d promised.

  A church spire in the near distance caught my attention, its bricks ancient, that dirty grey only old buildings can wear and still look good. Clouds hung around the stone cross on top, their bellies almost black, distended with rain that would pelt down sometime soon. I quickly checked in my bag, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. With no time to chastise myself any longer, I reached up to press the bell then gripped the blue metal pole until the bus stopped once again.

  I stepped onto the pavement, its surface ravaged by cracked tarmac, and thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t opted to wear heels. I couldn’t cope with them on a day like today, where I’d possibly be doing a lot of walking and standing around. With the knots in my belly tightening, I made for the church.

  The first address was quite close to it, and I arrived in short time. I stared at the house, one that didn’t fit my image of Liuz at all. It was clearly owned by someone well-to-do, all mullioned windows and a nicely tended front garden that spoke of the owner having fingers even greener than the short-clipped lawn and the animal-shaped bushes. He couldn’t live here, could he? He’d mentioned a bedsit not a home like this. Unless he’d been lying?

  Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the white-painted gate and walked up the short gravel path to a front door that came straight out of a magazine I’d written an article for entitled Perfect Homes. It was a double effort, the glass panels diamond-leaded and coloured in transparent hues of red, blue and green. I reached the three steps in front of it and went up, nerves thrumming, my mind screaming that I could do this, that I could pull it off. I was a journalist, for God’s sake! I couldn’t begin to count the times I’d knocked on someone’s door in the hope they’d give me the information I sought.

  But I hadn’t wanted to fuck those people. I hadn’t said rude things to them, exposed my disgusting desires. Exposed my nipple in a picture.

  Biting my lower lip, I raised my hand and, before I could talk myself out of it, pressed the brass bell button. The chimes rang out inside, a melody only the rich could get away with without coming across as crass; the echo of each note indicating the house either didn’t hold much furniture or it stretched back quite a way, bigger than it appeared from outside.

  A blur of movement behind the glass from the far reaches, and then a figure appeared, a slim female if I wasn’t mistaken.

  Shit. What if he’s married?

  The door swung open on silent hinges, and I saw I had been mistaken. A slight male, maybe mid-twenties, stood on the threshold, hair immaculate in a swept-back style that oozed hair gel and the obvious half hour it must have taken to achieve that look. His nose bordered on being too thin, and I quickly gave him the once over, noting he wore shorts that showed off a knobbly knee that was nothing like the one in Liuz’s picture.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, tilting his head.

  ‘Liuz?’

  ‘Yes?’ He frowned, his expression that of someone wondering how the hell I knew his name – puzzled confusion, lips slightly parted, tongue darting out just that little bit to wet the seam of his lips.

  I hadn’t thought this through properly and had no idea what to say next. My mouth worked, no words of explanation as to why I was there emerging.

  A surname. I needed a surname.

  I eyed the brass doorbell. ‘Liuz Brass?’

  ‘Uh, no. I think you have the wrong person.’ He pursed his lips, cocking one hip to rest it against the door edge, his frown deepening.

  ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry!’

  Before he could ask me what I wanted with Liuz Brass and how I’d come to be at his house, I dashed down the steps and path, the gravel crunching obscenely loudly. The gate closed behind me with all the finality of a don’t-return-here-anytime-soon snap, and I ran down the street towards the bus stop. I only allowed myself to breathe once I got there, plonking my ass down on the seat beneath the rain shelter.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I didn’t know. What I did know was that obsession drove me, obsession was my master, and that I’d get on the bus when it arrived and continue to my next stop. Although that first encounter had been a mountain-sized cockup, it could only get better from here on out. Right?

  The bus came, and I perched on the seat nearest the door, determined to keep my attention on the road and not what lay ahead. I told myself off for losing my cool, for forgetting my journalism training. I was supposed to be fearless, able to work under pressure, and
get any and all information needed for a story.

  I needed to pretend I was just doing my job. Call on the next Liuz but don’t knock on the bloody door this time. Just observe.

  Back on the street, I walked on uneven flagstones, the colour indiscriminate and without a name, glancing in my notebook to check the number I needed to find. 78 Woodstone Road. Stuffing the book back in my bag and casting a wary glance at the sky, I kept going until I came to a residence that perfectly matched my thoughts of where Liuz would live. Victorian, four stories, the dusty windows of the first floor visible through a black, high, rusty iron-railed fence with a matching gate. I peered at the front door, pleased to note a grey metal casement surrounding several buttons. This was obviously a set of apartments or bedsits.

  Bracing myself for a bit of sleuthing, I walked through the gate and up the short path to the plain wooden door, painted sunflower yellow, streaked with swathes of dirt and a muddy footprint. I studied the name-tags beside each button. A couple of full names were there, but the rest were first-name initials with the surname. And only one initial was an ‘L’. The surname was Biros. Possibly Polish?

  A quick movement inside to my right, behind one of two windows, snagged my attention. Bushes grew in a row beneath, stout, unruly branches decorated with an abundance of leaves. I looked at the small patch of grass in front of them, then at the bushes, trying to work out whether they would take my weight without me falling. The windows were too high for me to see through otherwise.

  I moved in front of the bushes and gave a silent prayer. Before I could talk myself out of it, I scrabbled on top of them, my footing stable, if a little buoyant. I reached up and gripped the stone windowsill, pushing up to press my nose to the lowest part of the pane. A man sat at the back of a long living-cum-bedroom, at a desk boasting stacks of paperwork, a keyboard, and a large monitor that emitted the glow of a website I couldn’t make out. He hunched over, studying the screen, a lock of dark hair flopping forward to cover the eye closest to me. His jeans rode low at the rear, giving me a glimpse of a rather delectable ass-top, and his naked back tapered from a trim waist, expanding to broad shoulders, his muscles prominent and well-toned.

  Was that my Liuz?

  He reared back in his seat, lifting his arms to lace his hands behind his head, and swung his chair around so he faced me, eyes closed. I caught my breath as I scanned his sharply angled face, long and unshaven, his mouth soft and wide. I studied his chest, a scribble of black hairs at its centre. Straight hair covered his armpits, their direction every which way, and I found myself breathing deeply as though I could capture the scent of maleness just from my imagination alone.

  And then, to my horror, he opened his eyes. After a brief flash of surprise he stared at me with a look of indignation that burned my cheeks with the shame of being caught spying.

  I started, letting out an insipid yelp, and gambolled about trying to get off the bush. It had other ideas, the branches seeming to sprout hands that gripped my ankles and wouldn’t let go. To top it off, the heavens opened, a torrent that fell without mercy, uncaring that it peppered my hair with fat, bullet-like drips.

  ‘Fuck!’ I scrabbled some more – and fell backwards onto the grass. ‘Oh hell!’

  Panicked, I managed to stand on unsteady legs and make it to the short path. A few more steps would see me down the road, out of sight, catastrophe averted. I wanted to be at home so badly I could taste it. I should never have come out.

  Rain pelted down harder, bouncing off the path, and an ominous grouse of thunder warned of a bad storm in my future. I reached for the gate, getting the hell out of there my only concern. A creak sounded above the patter of the rain, and I couldn’t resist looking back. The man I’d spied on stood in the doorway, arms bowed at his sides as though he thought me a thug that needed a good pasting. Still staring over my shoulder, I fumbled with the now-slippery gate, adrenaline surging through me.

  He glared at me. They were the blackest eyes I’d ever seen.

  I almost whimpered.

  He moved to step outside, and I wrenched the gate back.

  He bunched his fists, and I made it safely out onto the path.

  Breaths gusted from me, and my pulse quickened, the sound of its thrum meshing with that of the slapping rain. I looked at him again as I prepared to run, but something made me remain in place.

  He frowned and brought one hand up to the smattering of dark stubble on his chin, and the brief thought that if this was my Liuz, he’d do very nicely, thank you very much.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked. ‘And what do you want?’

  Chapter Three

  His voice came as a shock, deep and husky and inflected with an accent I didn’t recognise, lilting and rapid, almost sing-song. And the way he said ‘fuck’ was quick and joined to the words after it, as if they were one.

  But something about his voice and aggressive tone injected me with flight instinct. I had to get out of there. This was not how it was meant to be between us. Fate hadn’t planned this kind of confused, dishevelled meeting. I had to erase it, now, quickly, before it became irreversible.

  Clutching my bag, I turned and covered the side of my face with my palm. How could I let him see me for even another second? My mascara was no doubt running down my cheeks – I could imagine its black dribbles streaking over my wet, burning flesh. My clothes were wet and scrappy. My battle with the shrubbery had left its scars – a small rip in the knee of my jeans and several leafy twigs poked from my socks and sneakers.

  I picked up a rapid pace, slapped one foot in front of the other on the pavement, not daring to look backwards for fear of doing even more damage to our destiny. But with each step something told me that I’d just met my Liuz. I couldn’t deny what I knew in my heart. Not only his accent, which could be Polish, but also the layout of his bedsit was exactly as I’d imagined. Masculine, sexy, and so damn alluring in a sleazy, impersonal, functional way.

  After pounding around the corner, past a paper shop, a hairdresser and a tanning parlour, I finally slowed. His long, toned body screamed athletic. He would be swift, energised. If he truly had wanted me, he would have caught me.

  A double-decker bus came with merciful promptness. I stamped up the steps, hurled myself onto the empty backseat and slunk low. Shutting my eyes, I cursed the drips of rain snaking down my neck and soaking through my jeans. Behind my lids, the image of him masturbating came to mind. I swallowed a glut of realisation. The darkly stubbled jawline I’d just seen was in keeping with his picture, as were his long limbs. The wall behind the bed in his room was a dirty, murky green, the bedcovers a nondescript mud-brown. That was where he’d been when he had clutched his cock, worked his shaft, spunked out his cum. He hadn’t been at a friend’s bedsit at all. He’d been at home, on that bed. The bed I had just seen with my own two eyes.

  Why had he lied? Did he rent it from his friend, was that it? Or was he ashamed at the state of the place so didn’t want to admit it was his?

  I dropped my head into my hands and sucked in a breath. Torment twisted within me. Everything I thought I knew about Liuz was up in the air yet at the same time it was all exactly as it seemed. Exactly as I’d hoped.

  His face, dark, brooding, dominant, was the mirror image of the one I’d dreamed of night after lonely night. His body, controlled, honed, was the stuff of my horniest fantasies. Both fear and delight seared through me, jumbling one lust-infused thought to the next then winding it with the knowledge that I’d been dealing with a man so gloriously beautiful, so innately masculine that he surely wouldn’t be interested in me.

  How could I have entertained the fact that I wouldn’t be attracted to him?

  The bus jostled to a stop and I stared out the window, gathering my bearings. Lights glowed from houses and lampposts as evening spread over London earlier than expected because of the rainstorm. I was getting nearer to home, moving further from him. Another ten minutes and I would be back in the safety of my apartment, awa
y from the dismally orchestrated meeting with the man I wanted to fuck me more than I wanted to take my next breath.

  * * *

  My pillar-box red sweater was made of the finest cashmere, an indulgence born from a lucrative story in January, and as I pulled it down over my bare breasts the fluffed material tickled my nipples and smoothed over my flat belly like a soft cloud. I scraped back my hair and snapped it into a bobble, hitched up the base of my favourite sweats and sank my shower-hot toes into woolen socks. I had long since mastered the art of booting up my computer and checking for my emails as I went about mundane tasks such as dressing and drinking.

  Sipping a glass of Merlot, I checked for a message from Liuz.

  Nothing.

  I set down the wine and reached for my pale-blue artist’s coat. It was thin cotton and dotted with every shade of acrylic paint imaginable. After shrugging into it, I squeezed out several generous blobs of paint onto my board. I had to commit the images swimming around my head to canvas. The compulsion to do so gnawed at me. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to eat, rest or work.

  I stared at my blank canvas collection and nibbled on my bottom lip. Nothing seemed big enough. My desire was to have Liuz as large and as real in the room as possible.

  I glanced around.

  With a flourish of decisiveness, I tugged off a poster I’d bought recently in New York of the Empire State Building. Ripped at a signed picture I’d had for many years of Paul Weller playing his guitar.

  A tall, thin unit, bursting with books, stood to the left, by the door. I heaved, tugged and shifted it to the centre of the room, finally freeing up a large, plain cream wall.