Eighty Days White by Vina Jackson Page B

his throaty tone with its edge of humour and hint of lasciviousness would have made me arch my back and squirm against the bedspread.
    ‘I want you to come for me.’
    His voice deepened when he said this and his fingers found their way lower down, where he experimented until he discovered the exact rhythm that would drive me over the edge.
    He leaned forward and scooped me tighter against him so that I was caught in his embrace as I began to tense and reach the cusp of an orgasm.
    ‘That’s it … Once you’ve come for me, Lily, I’m going to fuck you. But not before then. Do you want to feel my cock inside you, filling you up?’
    ‘Oh God,’ I moaned as I felt my muscles spasm and I convulsed against him and then collapsed, limp into his arms.
    ‘Good girl,’ he whispered.
    He was still fully dressed. His stubble scratched my cheek lightly as he bent his head to kiss me again.
    ‘Now,’ he said, ‘how many more times can you do that for me before I have to catch a plane?’
    That day he introduced me to more sexual positions than I knew existed, let alone had considered before. My favourites were the variations in which I could see him and watch the range of expressions that raced across his face as he truly let himself go.
    Most of the time he hung onto an element of reserve, a persona of either careless nonchalance or all-knowing Lothario who was utterly certain of his ability to bring me to orgasm. But when he was deep inside me and on the verge of his own release, there was something animal about him, as if the real Leonard was straining on a leash and he would show me flashes of feeling so intense that I trembled.
    And I decided to set about finding a way to get him to let go.
    ‘My darling girl, you don’t know what you’re doing,’ he said as I pushed him down onto the bed and then rode him, holding his wrists down over his head.
    When he said that, I just pushed down harder, even though I knew that the grip of my small hands was pitiful against his strong arms. It gave me a thrill to turn the tables and be the one on top for a change.
    The hotel hadn’t allowed him to check out in the late evening, so he had another night booked and paid for, andinstead of commuting back to my own lonely bed in Dalston after Leonard showered and packed his bag hurriedly, I stretched out like a starfish and wallowed in the lingering damp patches and the scents of our lovemaking. The scent of him and me, together.
    ‘Oh, Lily,’ he said as he kissed me goodbye. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

3
Eighty Days of Leonard
    Of course it felt good being with Leonard.
    But it also felt wrong in a thousand ways.
    On the one hand, I now knew what it was to be with a man and not with a boy. There was nothing tentative about his lovemaking, or callow, or inexperienced. His gestures were determined, his appreciation of the moment intense and patient, and I found myself at ease with him like I had never felt with anyone else before. I would have expected no less from a man who was more than double my age.
    But, on the other hand, I also knew he was not the sort of man I could take home to my parents or openly advertise to friends and acquaintances as my new boyfriend without attracting much in the way of disapproval. Not that I had any intention of parading him around. I enjoyed the clandestine nature of our relationship. I liked having a secret lover.
    By common agreement, we would meet in hotel bars, none of which were in geographical proximity to our places of work. Sometimes we would go to his empty office where we would feverishly fuck on the carpet behind locked doors, while on other occasions we would take shelter in a hotel room close to one of the airports if he was flying out onbusiness the next day. My flat-share was out of bounds. I never saw his house in Blackheath, and neither of us ever suggested it as a venue for our dates. It was as if our relationship was in a vacuum and it suited us both. It never