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I remembered his cry of delight as he filled me, planting his seed high in my drenched pussy. Having untied me, he buried his head between my legs and with his tongue brought me to my final climax, as amazing as the first time he used his mouth on me, barely five years ago. Sometime after midnight, he finished with me. Perhaps two or three hours of incredible kink wrapped around amazing sex. My man had left indelible marks on me in many ways, inside and out.
He took the time to bring me out of my trance, bathing me while whispering words in my ear. “Babe, your master is pleased. I love you.” The dominating voice that had sent me into my submissive goo of sexual depravity slipped away, and my indulgent, loving husband remained behind.
The relief of his words flooded through me and I cried, uttering words of love between my sobs. Those weren’t tears of sadness but a wonderful, cathartic cry of liberation. All those weeks of stress and sleepless nights were done. Things were not going to be plain sailing, but I would survive. I’d made my future, and it was vibrant, plentiful, and alluring.
My tears dried up, sleep descended, and we knotted together in an enduring embrace.
Chapter 28. Closure
I came out of the kitchenette delighted to discover a small crowd milling about my gallery. Some I recognised from the previous day but most were first timers. The extra publicity paid off nicely. The location of the gallery had been published in numerous artsy magazines, newsletters, websites, and local newspapers.
Nicholas bounded up to me. “Somebody wants to offer more for your Gondolier picture.”
“It’s not for sale any longer.” I didn’t want to explain why, but Nicholas didn’t push for an explanation. After all, they were my paintings.
“Pity. Could have slapped a lot more onto the price tag.” He shrugged and wandered off.
I spotted a tall, burly man amongst the crowd and froze.
He’d had his back towards me, and when he turned I caught a glimpse of his face. Older, with unshaven bristles and hair longer than I remembered, he wore khaki cargo pants, which weren’t in keeping with the plain suit jacket he wore over the top. An art gallery wasn’t a place I’d ever imagined he would come to visit. He’d disappeared years ago. Why was he here?
The rush of adrenaline sent shockwaves through my body, my legs wobbled, and nausea hit my belly. Instinctively, I stepped backwards. Through bustle of people, he hadn’t seen me yet, but he wasn’t paying much attention to the exhibits. No, he hadn’t come to view the pictures. He’d come to find me.
He emerged from the thicker throng, and his eyes widened when he spied me. Halting, he removed his hands from his trouser pockets and clenched them into fists. My throat constricted, preventing me from crying out. He had to be seeking revenge. Nothing else about his sudden appearance made sense. The man must detest me for what had happened to his friend, regardless of the fact it hadn’t been my fault.
Gibson strode in front of me, forming a barricade between us.
She kept a close eye on him, but spoke to me. “Mrs Lucas, who is he? I saw him come in and heard him asking for you. He’s got a military tattoo on the side of his neck, not exactly an art lover, I assume.”
He stepped a fraction closer, and Gibson glared at him, holding up the palm of her hand. He halted. Now I could see a small scar on his cheek and the tattoos on his neck, which she’d assessed at a glance.
“His name is Dougie. I never knew his surname.” I spoke breathlessly, determined to hold my ground and not run. “I haven’t seen him in six years or so.”
“A friend?” Her eyes narrowed into slits.
“Back then, yes. Now, I don’t really know.” How to judge a man I’d not seen in years, who’d vanished at a critical time in my life.
“Gemma, please, I want to talk to you.” His hushed tone barely carried over the few metres.
I shook my head, battling my fears. He knew far too much about my past. Would he shout it out across my gallery—declare me a whore and ruin my reputation in one second?
He clenched his hands, and a strange kind of smile formed on his face, almost a genuine one, however his lips remained pressed together. I knew his smiles, and they usually were toothy grins, but this one was forced.
“Please, sweetie. I mean you no harm.” He crept another metre or so nearer.
“Don’t come closer,” warned Gibson.
He adjusted his posture again, lowering his stiff shoulders, and gave me an imploring expression. He’d started to look like Dougie always did: a charming and playful character who enjoyed a good night out. Except, standing in my gallery, he had a worn out and weary appearance, thinner, too.
My curiosity at his presence overshadowed my anxieties. I had to know why he wanted to see me. “Not here, Dougie.”
“Sure, where then? Let me say what I have to say, and I’ll go.”
His words drifted over the hubbub of voices. I felt like a statue in a playground, locked into a different world while those about me chatted and circulated.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, the café across the street. One o’clock.”
He nodded in confirmation, almost punching the air with delight with his reformed fist.
