by Dae, Harlem
Who obeyed her? Was it just Carlos or was it all of her lovers? Friends, too, maybe. Was that what she wanted of me? Absolute obedience?
Well, she wasn’t going to get it. I’d do what I wanted when I wanted to do it, not because she told me to. I was a man, a man in charge of my own actions and destiny. Bossy Zara would not have me wrapped around her little finger. It might be Carlos’ thing, but it wasn’t mine. He liked being on his knees, submissive, taking whatever she doled out and hankering after any small bit of attention. Surely a bloke with his physical power could do better than that. He should man-up a bit.
I waited until I’d finished my meal before texting back.
See you at ten. Don’t be late.
I’d added don’t be late, just to show her that I, too, could be demanding. I also didn’t add an X as she had. This was an arrangement, not a romance. She was teaching me stuff, in theory, and I was sticking to my word and sitting through all of her crazy lessons.
Damn, my address. Quickly, I fired off another text.
As I paid the bill, waited for the machine to connect to the bank and approve my PIN, I realised why she was coming at ten. She was working first.
Later on, while I was preparing her meal, she’d be on stage, legs akimbo, pleasuring herself and being wank-fodder for a group of dirty old men.
I shoved my wallet away and left the restaurant, banging the door a bit too hard behind myself. The wind was bitter, and I ducked my head and strode back to the office, the soles of my shoes slapping on the frozen path, my mind full of thoughts of Zara in my home, my personal space. Seeing my stuff.
I’d have to stop off at Marks & Spencer. Buy some food for dinner, some nice wine too. Red or white?
Ten hours later my apartment held the scent of garlic and tarragon. I’d made chicken pasta in a creamy herb sauce for our main course along with a salmon mousse for starter and chocolate pudding for dessert.
The chocolate pudding was a bit of speciality of mine. Whipped cream and melted Lindt, a dash of vanilla essence and a layer of blueberries at the base. Served in fat wine glasses so you could see the layers and with a sprinkle of icing sugar on the top.
I’d set the table—well, the two seats at the end nearest the floor-to-ceiling window. The table could comfortably fit twelve around it, not that it ever had. I thought Zara would like the window end with its views over Tower Bridge. The majestic turrets were lit to a golden hue, the traffic a constant stream. I could make out a large Christmas tree on the opposite bank of the Thames, blue lights twinkling as the wind shivered through the branches.
Christmas. Soon it would be that time of year again.
I did a quick calculation. Zara would be gone from my life by then; it was five weeks away. Who the hell knew what I’d do for the festive season this year? It would be my second without Helen.
After lighting the candles on the table, I brought the fire to life in the hearth with a click of a switch and then flicked the TV to a music channel. I found some Einaudi and left it on; his flowing piano music always calmed my nerves.
Heading back to the kitchen, I paused at the mirror. Checked my hair. I’d had it trimmed earlier. The girl had done a good job, it was neater. It had been starting to get a bit wild and the mad professor appearance didn’t suit me.
I stroked the wisps of grey at my temples, wondered if I should invest in a brown hair dye. What had Zara said? Guys his age. What did my age have to do with anything? Perhaps if I looked younger she’d stop treating me like I was an old fart. But then if I looked younger, she’d be even worse with the whole virgin thing.
After straightening the soft collar on my navy Tommy polo shirt, I went into the kitchen area. The pasta was just coming to the boil so I lifted it off, not wanting it to overcook.
Where was she?
I remembered my pill, knocked one back with a mouthful of water then checked my watch again. Ten.
The doorbell rang.
A tremble of anticipation steamed through me as I raced to the hallway. Once there I paused. She’d kept me waiting a whole five minutes when I’d picked her up last night.
I counted to five. Slowly. Five long seconds. Then opened the door.
“Wow, swanky address, you’ve even got a butler.” Zara stepped in without being invited.
“He’s not a butler, he’s a doorman. He keeps an eye on who’s coming and going in the tower.”
“He’s cute.”
“He’s eighty-one.”
She shrugged. “He’s cute and he was nice to me. Told me where to go.”
I should have told you where to go the minute I saw you.
“It’s his job to be nice to my guests and make sure they don’t get lost.”
She seemed bored of the conversation, turned her back to me and slipped her furry animal coat down her arms. “Nice place.” She let out a low whistle.
I caught her coat, hung it on a hook and let my gaze slide down the short black dress she was wearing. It hugged her tits perfectly and stopped at the very top of her thighs. “Thanks, please, go through.”
“You design this?”
“Yes, eight years ago. It was one of my first super-sized projects.”
“And you gave yourself the best apartment?”
“Bought myself one of the best apartments.”
“One of the best?”
“Yes, there are eight penthouses.”
She stepped out of her skyscraper-height red stilettos and wandered through the living area. Ignoring the fire and the antiques, she went straight to the window. “But you’ve got the best view.”
I followed her, my attention shamelessly on her arse. I spotted a flash of black; she had black lace knickers on, proper ones, not a thong. I wondered if the gusset was damp.
A rush of interest invaded my groin. “Probably, if you like the bridge, that is.”
She flattened her palms on the glass and leant forwards until her nose touched it too. “I love the bridge, and fuck, it’s high, isn’t it?”
“Tends to go with the territory when you have a penthouse.”
“Mmm, I suppose.” She turned, lifted her chin and twitched her nose. “Something smells good.”
“Yes, it’s nearly done. Please, take a seat. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starved. I’ve been busy.”
I didn’t let myself dwell on what she’d been busy doing and hurried to the kitchen. I retrieved the salmon mousse from the fridge and reached for the white wine, a nice Chablis that had won awards. When I swivelled to face her, Zara was standing directly behind me, examining the tiny bottle of vanilla essence I’d added to the dessert.
Of course she’d followed me. She wouldn’t ever do as I asked, even if it was just taking a damn seat.
“White or red?” I asked.
She set down the ingredient, a small smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “White’s good.” She pulled open a drawer next to the fridge. The contents rattled and she laid her hand straight on a corkscrew.
“How did you…?”
“I know your logic, Victor. Stands to reason you would have cutlery between the dishwasher and fridge.” She reached for the wine. “Do you want some?”
“Definitely.”
We sat at the table, opposite each other. I made sure Zara had the view over London.
“Great mousse.” She scraped a thick wedge onto a piece of melba toast. “You make it from scratch?”
I laughed. “No, but I did buy it, carry it home and then decant it onto a plate if that earns me any Brownie points.”
She smiled as she munched. “I think you’re doing okay for Brownie points.”
“I am?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Yeah.” She kept her gaze on me.
I stared into her eyes. The lights of the city twinkled in their dark depths. A thrilling feeling of achievement wound through me. I’d pleased her. I was scoring Brownie points. Taking a sip of wine, I wondered what it had been that had got me into her good book
s. Perhaps it was my stern text, telling her not to be late.
She tore her gaze away, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth.
“So how did, er, work go?” I asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
I shrugged and set my knife and fork on my now-empty plate. “Just wondered.”
“Do you wish you’d been there, to see me again?”
“I saw you last night.”
“And it turned you on.”
I nibbled my bottom lip. She knew damn well it had turned me on. Well, the second part, when she’d masturbated, not the first bit, with Carlos. “Did you use Carlos tonight?”
“No.” She rested her chin on her hand, her elbow pressed onto the table. “Why?”
“I told you, I just wondered.”
“Did it make you jealous to see me with another man?”
“Well, you were hardly with him.” I stood, collected the plates then walked to the kitchen. Dumped the crockery on the island.
She followed me. “I was hardly with him? What the hell do you think that was then, Victor?” Her tone was incredulous.
“You were using him, like a puppet in a show.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“Yes, it’s not like you had sex with him or anything.”
“Fucking hell.” She shook her head, her hair drifting over her shoulders, covering her tits.
I scowled and drained the pasta.
“I think Carlos would dispute that statement,” she said. “Do you fancy bringing it up with him? I could give him a call right now.”
“I can’t see what that would achieve.” The creamy chicken was bubbling and I added the pasta, gave it a stir. Took it off the heat.
“You don’t know what it would achieve? How about it would open your bloody eyes.”
“I have my eyes open.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
She took the bowl of steaming food I passed her. Made no move to go to the table.
“Come on, let’s eat while it’s hot.” I walked past her and hoped she’d drop the subject of Carlos. The image of him with a dildo up his arse was making my cock stir. Not that I’d found it arousing to witness, it had just been…shocking.
Zara followed, sat, put her bowl down, reached for her fork and pointed it at me. “If you asked Carlos he would say that he’d had sex with me last night. I turned him on, penetrated him, made him come. Spectacularly, I thought. If that isn’t having sex with someone, what is?”
“Fucking.” I speared a piece of penne. “Fucking is having sex. Not whipping someone on the arse and playing with toys.”
She blew out a long, low breath, shook her head. “It’s a good job you met me when you did.”
I frowned. “That’s up for debate.”
Stabbing at a chunk of chicken, she scowled. “Victor, that’s not nice, you’ll hurt my feelings.” Her gaze dropped and she worried at her bottom lip. Her shoulders slumped slightly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t?” She looked up.
I instantly felt bad. “No. I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Even though I hurt yours?”
“You don’t.”
“Good.” She smiled, a wide, genuine smile that flashed her teeth. “Because I only want to make you feel nice. That’s what all this is about, pleasure.”
I stared at her lips stretching, and an image of them wrapping around my cock filled my mind. That had been really fucking pleasurable all right. I shifted on the seat, my dick thickening, and carried on eating.
She sighed. “No, tonight it was just me and Fifi on stage. We did a girl-on-girl show. The men seem to like that, especially when we ride one another’s faces.”
I struggled to swallow the chunk of pasta. Girl-on-girl. Fuck, now that had me hard enough to hammer bloody nails.
Chapter Eleven
“Would it have turned you on to see me with Fifi?” Zara asked, twirling a strand of her silky black hair around her left index finger.
Hell. I couldn’t deny that. My cheeks had heated just thinking of Zara sitting on pixie-like Fifi’s face and writhing to orgasm. I could imagine her back arched, her head tipped towards the ceiling and her tits jiggling, Fifi gripping her thighs, working industriously with her tongue and lapping the moisture spilling from Zara’s pussy. The sight, the noises, the scents, they all swirled around me like an erotic mirage. “Yes.”
She smiled, tightening the strands of hair on her finger. “Perhaps you’d like a private showing.”
Really? Fuck, Christmas had come early. “Well, I wouldn’t like to put you out.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be. Fifi and I are always happy to get together if the price is right.”
“The price?”
“Yeah, you’d have to pay. I can’t keep giving you freebies, Victor, and let’s face it, you can easily afford it.” She waved her hand at the room, the curled strand of hair falling over her shoulder.
“Well, yes, I suppose.” I took a slug of wine and wished I didn’t have such a straining hard-on. “Have you had enough?” I nodded at her bowl. She’d left a few mouthfuls.
“Yes, thanks. It was delicious, you’re a great cook.”
“It was pretty simple, really.”
“Don’t put yourself down, it was lovely, really tasty and just what I fancied.” She stood, reached for her wine and wandered over to the fire. Her dress had ridden up a little, revealing the bottom curve of her arse cheeks and showing that sexy black lace. “I like being here, Victor, with you.”
“Well, er, good and thanks.” A lovely warm feeling went through me as I walked, a little stiffly, to the kitchen. “I’ll just get rid of these.”
I didn’t bother to sort out the dishes. Keen to get back to Zara, I filled my wine glass and took the bottle to her.
She was staring into the flickering flames. The shadows danced over her pretty features, and her small feet were almost hidden by the deep pile of the taupe hearth rug.
“Here.” I topped up her drink then set mine and the bottle on the mantle, next to a clock and a paperweight my cousin, Ollie, had given me for my birthday last month.
“Thanks.” She took a sip then placed her glass next to mine.
As she moved her arm I caught her scent; amber spice, mulled wine, musk—the musk of woman. Turned-on, sexy woman.
She was close to me, really close, and without her wearing shoes I realised that I was quite a bit taller than her. I looked down into her eyes. Her pupils were wide, her lashes long and dark. She poked out her tongue and licked her lips, coating them in a soft sheen.
I reached out and slipped my fingers into the hair at one of her temples. The strands were fine and soft, threads of silk. I repeated the action on the other side of her head, felt the delicateness of her skull as I angled her face upwards, to mine.
She was crass and officious, sure, but she was also a woman. A woman who wanted to be here, with me. It was time to stop this game and show her what I was all about.
I touched my lips to hers, gently, marvelling at the fragile texture of her and the sweetness of our first kiss. She responded enough for me to know she wanted me, but it was as though, like me, she was enjoying the first meeting of our mouths.
I held her a little firmer, slanted my head and searched for her tongue with mine. Absorbed her wonderful flavour, creamy and wine-laced, no doubt the same as mine.
She slipped her hands up my chest, over my shoulders and linked them at my nape. I shivered, desire prodding me like tiny forks, and squeezed our bodies together. My erection strained against my jeans, and the added pressure of her stomach made my balls tug with an urgency for us to get naked.
Which was the only thing that was going to happen next.
I broke the kiss. Stooped and swung her into my arms, hoisting her high and surprising myself at how little she weighed.
She gasped and then smiled. “Victor
?”
“I’m going to make love to you.” I’d said it in a way that left no room for argument. She’d teased me, tempted me, made it pretty damn clear she wanted to have sex with me, and now the time had come.
“Make love to me?” she repeated.
“Yes.” I headed towards the bedroom, kicked at the door and stepped into the darkness.
“Why?”
“Because I want you, and I’m pretty damn sure you want me too.” I sat her on the bed, dragged off my top and began to shove at my jeans.
“Oh, so you want to fuck?” She slid her gaze over my chest, down to my stomach and groin.
The heat of her appreciative look left a trembling trail of awareness on my flesh.
I booted away my clothes. My cock bobbed high and proud, face-level with her. I tipped her chin so that she had her attention on my eyes and not my dick.
“I’m going to make love to you, Zara. My way.”
I kissed her again, taking control of the heat and the passion, peeling off her dress and then laying her back on the bed. Her head nestled in the pillows, hair spread out, a black fan. I glanced down at her tits, at her nipples tight and hard, and the pretty black knickers.
“You’re beautiful,” I whispered, peppering kisses down her throat.
She stroked my hair and gave a breathy moan in reply.
“So beautiful, and so soft.” I swirled my tongue around her left nipple then sucked it into my mouth.
She reacted with a small squirm and her nipple tightened further, becoming a hard teat for me to flicker and play with.
My pelvis was heavy with want, my cock damp at the end, a drip of pre-cum having leaked onto her thigh and spread about.
I headed lower, slipped my fingertips in the elastic of the panties and drew them down her legs. Once they’d landed on the floor I stared at her, sprawled, sacrificial almost, on my bed. Her skin was pale against the dark bed sheets, and the lights of London, seeping through the window, showcased one side of her face. She resembled a goddess, her expression calm, her eyes heavy. Her breasts were damp from my kisses, a little shiny, her nipples still hard. She had the most exquisite breasts I’d ever seen, and I’d been right, they were the perfect fit for my palms.
