Given their conversation at the bar, he hadn’t expected pink walls and Laura Ashley drapes, but the cold, modern functionality of Her apartment still took him by surprise.
‘So, what do you think?’
He walked around her living room, taking it all in.
‘It’s great.’
‘Liar.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you weren’t thinking it was great.’
‘Yes I was. It’s a great apartment.’
‘For a guy.’
He thought of protesting, but decided against it. She had him.
‘I do have a rather masculine way of seeing things. I don’t see the point in filling up half of my living space with things I’ll never use just to pretty it up. More to dust, if you ask me.’ She locked the door and joined him. ‘Something tells me you could do with a good polish, yourself.’
‘Excuse me?’
She ran a finger down his shirt front and held it up to the light. ‘Dust. You’re covered in it. Remnants of a past relationship, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps,’ he smiled.
She took his hand and ran it down her dress, then held it up. ‘Seems we both have some cleaning to do.’
She kissed him.
‘Let’s get started, shall we?’
She led him to her bedroom, which turned out to be just as clean and modern as the living room, save for the sumptuous fur cover on her king-sized bed.
‘It’s a bit of a James Bond cliché, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘Fur on the bed. That was how I felt the first time I saw it, but then I tried it out.’
She slipped out of her dress, which turned out to be the only thing she was wearing, and fell back onto the bed. He undressed and joined her. It wasn’t the feel of her perfect body against his, or the undeniably divine sensation of fur beneath his knees that moved him; it was the smell. The bed cover was ripe with it. Body sweat, perfume, and aftershave seeped into it, creating a scent so irresistible, the sex was very nearly over before it began. It was the scent of an animal marked for death, an animal still carrying the trace of a previous predator too weak and too stupid to make the kill. He was victor; he was King. It was this thought that sustained him as he nibbled her neck and shoulders, the lion toying with his prey. Then she was on top of him, and he found himself at the mercy of her teeth, her tongue, her fingers and her lips. Pleasure ripped him open and doubt stole its way in. He was a confident and more than skillful lover, but he would have to rely on a lot more than prowess with this one. She oozed sex; radiated it. Her mind called a tune which her body interpreted in a dance that was effortlessly free-form, but choreographed to move a specific audience – him.
The old woman who almost ruined him knew how to pleasure a man too, and was so adept at it that for a few fleeting moments, gratitude had almost compelled him to let her go. But then she sullied things, as women invariably did in his experience, and the lesson it taught him was brought home like a cat-o-nine-tails on bare flesh; pain and pleasure were his to dispense. He indulged his new quarry a while longer, so as not to arouse suspicion. As she used her tongue to rouse his nipples, he heightened his enjoyment by thinking of the simple girl from the library, and the way she reacted when he did the same thing to her.
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