He opened his eyes. He felt quite rested but lay still. With a slight sideways glance he saw she was still asleep. The curls of her long red hair draped like silk across the pillow. The curve of her hips visible even before he lifted the duvet. She didn’t stir. He looked at her longingly, remembering the previous evening. It would be so easy to stay, to rouse her, to have her astride him again. He gently let the corner of the duvet back down, got up, pulled on his boxers and left the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.
After meeting at the club, they’d arrived at her apartment in the early hours wrapped in each other’s arms. Their hands already on each other in the taxi – to the driver, two well-heeled, slightly intoxicated and very probably high, high fliers heading home after a night on the town. He’d kissed the back of her neck as she took her key from her bag, and opened her apartment. As she’d dropped her bag on the hall table and turned to face him, he’d pressed her hard up against the wall, devouring the scent of her neck, his hand exploring the leg of her panties. Her left hand worked him and their breathing increased in unison as their desire for each other grew. Her eyes remained closed as they kissed. He noticed this as he watched her right arm stretch intuitively to punch in the alarm code before she broke off to guide him to the lounge.
Once there, she had brought him wine, good wine, from her kitchen and their crystal glasses stood now on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, one still full, the other empty. Her lipstick colouring its rim had him recalling where else those lips had been. He caught himself dreaming in the mirror and quickly turned his concentration back to the room, his eyes landing on the Hockney on the opposite wall. Very nice. Management consultant, she said.
He slowly walked the room, taking in what he had first seen when she was getting the wine. Moving to the art on the far wall – a collection of 20thC British watercolourists he noted now - he ambled past the top the range Sony HD TV towards the mahogany display cabinet. “Sheraton possibly”, he thought. It had to be a family heirloom, as it certainly didn’t go with her modern décor. A closer look this morning revealed it to be packed full of more crystal and glassware - some stunning Art Deco pieces, his eye resting for a moment on black enamelled dripped liquor set; some 19thC Chinese Peking Red glass bowls; numerous 19th, potentially 18th, century glassware judging by what looked like a series of goblets with folded feet – “No, it couldn’t be a Ravenscroft, could it?”
Back in the corridor lined with a series of political cartoons , he recalled her glorious sense of humour that had made him genuinely laugh so much the previous evening. He checked the other rooms – a second bedroom, a third – no, a home gym. No wonder she was fit. He’d first felt that taught bum on the dance floor and later he’d held it in both hands as he had carried her along this corridor, her long lithe legs wrapping round him before he’d laid her on the bed, turned her over and thrust himself into its firmness.
The next door opened onto an exquisite wet room, the next to a sauna. Thoughts of her wet warmth flooded his mind. He could sense her in every room. He wanted her in every room. He envisioned himself licking her off in that sauna. This woman, he thought, had really gotten to him, was already becoming a distraction.
On the other side of the corridor, a door opened to her home office. Very neat, well organised. A few papers were out on the desk, some business magazines lay on a chair. The far wall housed another painting, this time an oil. She certainly liked her art, exquisite modern with an irreverent edge, just like her. He’d already noted a Peter Doig and a Bridget Riley in the apartment. He deftly slipped his thumb and finger along the base then looked at his finger as if checking for dust.
He headed for the kitchen and put the percolator on. He diced up some fruits and berries into a bowl, topped them with granola and a couple of spoonfuls of the yogurt he’d found in the fridge. He squeezed some oranges added a passionfruit for a touch of panache, and loaded up the tray. Tiptoeing in, he placed it on her bedside table and sitting on the edge of the bed, he stroked her hair and kissed her gently on the cheek. As she roused, the relaxed softness of her face beamed up at him. “You’re up? Come back to bed.” As he bent over to kiss her again she pulled him down. Amidst their embrace, his hand found its way under the duvet and between her legs. Morning glory. He headed down and made her come. He looked up to that smile he was finding so alluring. “I have to go” he said rising. Once standing, her effect on him obvious. Her eyes moved from his face to his penis then back to his face. They seemed to playfully say “Do you really?”
He dressed as she watched. She nodded approvingly as conjuring up a silk tie from his pocket, he tied a perfect Oxford knot without the aid of a mirror. He acknowledge her with a blown kiss, turned and walked out the door, grinning. The unsaid words bellowed after him. At the apartment door he instinctively checked his jacket pocket – the new mould nestled in the pink silicone within a small cigarette style case in his inside pocket of his Armani jacket. Mobile phone in hand he walked out into the summer morning feeling on top of the world. This job would be sure to bring in a good finder’s fee. Work had its up sides occasionally. She would be one of them, for a while, a bonus till he cashed it in.
Posted 6th November 2016
© Sheila Ash, 2016.
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