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“Wouldn’t you have sex with any woman that suits your fancy?”
“Play around on you, no,” he replied. He stroked her back with the washcloth as the water poured over their naked bodies.
“Then you think this is a true relationship?” she said looking up at him through the water.
“It could be,” he said. “If you’d allow it.”
“But we don’t love each other,” she reminded him.
“That doesn’t matter right now,” he answered her. “Because eventually our love will blossom. I trust that as surely as I trust that you need me now. That need will grow to something more.”
“So you really think I’m a whore?” she asked, remembering that accusation.
“I certainly think despicable things of you when you misbehave,” he said. He made her turn so he could look at her face as the water beat down on her back. “The truth is,” he softened much as he spoke, “I find you so gloriously perfect, I can’t stand the sight of anyone having you without my directing that moment. You are so precious to me, Jocelyn. I regret that I ever allowed you to leave. And I will do everything to keep you with me this time. If it should take a lock and key, poetry, begging, loving you to death. I will do it.”
He was stroking her hair, running his fingers through the wet locks that stuck to her drenched skin. Kissing her, he seemed intent on swallowing her up. She didn’t tell him that she orgasmed as he massaged her ass and pussy. He was being strictly sensuous and tender, but with such fervor and sincerity, she took from him something sexual that she needed.
Chapter Eight
The opening for Will Kozak’s photographic expose was held in Dunning Sharrow’s loft which had become a first class art gallery. Dun had moved in all his favorite works of art. They now covered the make-shift walls inside the open spaces of the old industrial building. One entire floor of the gallery was highlighted by ceilings reaching into the heavens, fitted with pipes that went to nowhere any more, and dangling with old light fixtures that added classy elegance to the mix of contemporary styles sitting side by side in that venue. A warm glow of light from the old fixtures eased the stark quality of the black and white photography. It was Will’s most stunning showing to date. The images on paper were scenes of poverty, restless children attempting to laugh, bums on the street with sagacious smiles as though they knew something the rest of the world did not, and the heartbreak of institutionalized stupor on other faces—of men and women in a rundown old-folks home where meaningless lives ticked off the last ticks of their terrestrial clock.
The hard-edged quality of Will’s stills should have led to a somber mood in the gallery. But this opening was one of those affairs where few people took in the content of the work, except for the critics that had been invited to a more subdued showing that afternoon. By eight in the evening however, the showing turned into a party, and Alexandra Kozak could begin to relax and greet her husband’s guests.
She looked like a flower in the middle of the expanse of black and white. Her dress, a small summer shift showered with colorful flowers, was enough to accentuate the blonde hair she left long and falling to her shoulders. Will had asked her to keep her attire simple and casual, despite the black tux look of many that poured through the doors for champagne and hors d’oeurves. Will himself was dressed in black silk, draping pants and a collarless shirt, his graying hair shorter than usual, recently cut. He had a strong nose, soft yet deep-set eyes and a broad masculine smile. Alex noted how his face had aged over the seven years she’d known him. He aged with style as an artist would, and was for this night his most animated speaking with people who cared about the work he cared about. There was no clue about the man who could brood endlessly, sometimes leaving her feeling distant from him and edgy for that fact.
By the time the gallery was full of patrons, Alex was weary, something she wanted to avoid. And yet on nights like this it was almost impossible not to feel the strain of three weeks preparation catching up with her.
It had not been three good weeks for their marriage, but at least the event was almost at its end.
Will was at the far end of the loft, discussing a book of his photography with a publisher that had unexpectedly made a proposal. She wouldn’t be seeing her husband for at least an hour. Just as she was deciding where to take her amiable smile someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.
“Reg!”
Alex gave the man a generous hug. The instant their bodies touched, a surge of submissive passion rendered her almost weak—as if she was expecting him to order her to the floor to take some man’s prick in her mouth. As long as she’d known him, the feeling had never changed. From the time she first stepped foot in his house as a nervous innocent on her way to being trained as a sexual submissive, to later in their acquaintance when she could call him a true confidant, that aspect of their relationship endured. Her previous submission to him, however, was often forgotten, since Reggie was also the husband of her favorite female lover; and he’d always been her husband’s best friend.
Parting from his embrace Alex noticed the woman at his side.
“This is Linda Holly,” he introduced a brunette with short, wispy hair, flawless white skin and full lips painted Chinese red. Alex despised her instantly and gave the woman a perfunctory nod. A little knife stabbed in her heart knowing that it should be Jocelyn beside him.
“And do you work with Reg?” Alex asked.
“I met at him the Steiglitz Museum opening a few weeks ago,” she said.
“I see,” Alex answered. The woman was not Reggie’s type being much too arty and dour. Those white white cheeks without a hint of blush, she looked ghostly—in an earthy sort of way. She was dressed in black, not the typical vision of beauty that would attract Reggie Harold’s eye.
“You know he’s married,” Alex stated flatly, the fact blurted out without thinking at all.
“Yes, I do,” she answered looking bewildered by the uncomfortable turn of the conversation. Alex was as glacial as an Arctic breeze.
“So, you’ll look around,” she said, speaking to them both as she pasted a surgery smile on her lips.
“Of course, and we’ll talk later,” Reggie informed her.
“We will?” Alex asked.
“Yes, we will, Alexandra,” he replied. He didn’t explain himself, though the use of her full name was some indication of his frame of mind. He never called her Alexandra unless he was thinking of her as a sexual submissive.
A few hours later, Alex took a breather from the chattering crowd and made her way downstairs to the relative quiet of Dunning’s private apartment. The night was almost at a close, just a few hangers-on remaining, and she saw no use in staying until the last guest was out the door.
