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We spent one night together, promising each other our passion would only last a day. But it turned out not to be enough—for either of us. Franny just couldn’t get enough of me, and taught me things I didn’t dream were possible. With gentle encouragement, she taught me how to go down on a woman, how to use my lips and my tongue to bring the most exquisite pleasure imaginable. She taught me how to make a woman climax just by saying the right words, in the right tone of voice.. Most of all, she taught me how to fuck properly, how to use my dick as an extension of my desire; how to hold back and control my reflexes in order to bring as much satisfaction as possible.
By the time Franny was through with me, I truly felt I had become a man.
Shaking my head, I push the past from my mind and return to the current moment.
Picking up my towel, I return upstairs and spend the rest of the evening in a gentle haze of euphoria. I think about Carly every second of every minute. I don’t know how I’m going to endure a week without seeing her.
Sometime around twelve, I turn in for the night and try my best to sleep, but it’s no good. She’s taken complete possession of me.
Finally, I can bear it no longer.
Dressing quickly, I grab my coat and keys, jump in my car and head straight for Battersea. Even if I can’t see her, I figure I can at least be near to her. I need to be close to her to retain my sanity.
Around two in the morning, I arrive on Carly’s street and park across the road from her house. It’s a modest place—a nondescript semi with a blue door and messy front garden. All of the lights are off, and I wonder which bedroom is hers. Instinctively, I suspect it’s probably at the back of the house.
Closing my eyes, I lean against the headrest and imagine holding Carly in my arms, caressing her sweet face, keeping her safe and warm. I imagine kissing those delectable lips, running my tongue all over her body, and it’s all I can do to keep from exploding.
My God, I simply have to see her again.
I stay outside the house till daybreak before reluctantly returning home.
The next day is a total blur. I go into autopilot, lost in a stupor of sweet daydreams. I see all of my regular clients, behave impeccably, but deep down I feel completely detached from everything. I think of Carly constantly and wonder how she’s spending her day. I wonder if she’s thinking about me. Wonder if she’s yearning for me. Dear God, when will this torture be over? I’m literally counting down the seconds until our next meeting.
When I get home from work I pray I’ll have some news from Strickland soon. It’s agony waiting for the phone to ring and I find I can’t focus on anything. Finally, at around eight-thirty, I receive a text message telling me he’s parked downstairs.
Elated, I throw on my coat and head outside. It’s stopped raining and the street is ominously quiet. Instantly, I spy his battered red Ford parked a few blocks up. Rubbing my hands together, I race up the street to the car, open the passenger door and get in.
“All right, Boss?” Strickland grins, licking icing off his fingers. He’s still as fat as ever, his huge gut poking out of his shirt like an overstuffed sausage. The floor of the car is covered with doughnut crumbs and a crumpled box ofKrispy Kreme’slies near the brake pedals.
“So, what do you have for me?” I ask.
Wordlessly, Strickland reaches in the glove compartment and pulls out a clear plastic folder. He hands it to me and flashes a broad smile. I try not to laugh. He’s got bits of doughnut stuck to his teeth.
“Carly’s father is a writer called Steve Singleton. Ever heard of him?”
“No,” I reply, leafing through the folder. “What does he write about?”
“He’s sort of a New Age writer,” Strickland explains. “In 1994 he wrote a book about Transcendental Meditation calledPath toEnlightenment: Six Ways to Change Your Life.He and Carly share a house together. That’s him, right there.” Strickland points to a picture of a man with John Lennon specs, high cheekbones, and locks of lank, grey hair swept back in a ponytail. For a second I stare at the photo, seeing little resemblance between this person and my angel. Regardless, I privately thank him for bringing Carly into the world.
I leaf through a few more papers then, frowning, I lean forward and scrutinise Steve’s picture in more detail. “Hey, you got this from Wikipedia!”
Strickland laughs. “Don’t knock it. Some of the most accurate information I’ve ever had is from Wikipedia. It’s the 21stcentury Encyclopedia Britannica.” Reaching in the glove compartment again, he takes out a copy ofPath toEnlightenmentand gives it to me. “I picked that up from Waterstones’s, just in case you wanted some bedtime reading.”
“How thoughtful of you. Okay, so what else?”
“Carly grew up in Fulham—an only child, no brothers or sisters. She attended a Catholic girl’s school called Christchurch, before studyingTextile Design at Luton University. It seems she quit before she finished her foundation course.”
“Do we know why she quit?”
“Search me. Maybe she got bored. You know what kids today are like. Since then, she’s worked as a receptionist for Midas Media, a company based in Charlotte Street. Her best friend is a guy called Ronan Hewitt. Don’t worry, he’s gay so I don’t see him as much of a threat. Apart from that, Carly doesn’t appear to have any other close friends. Her last serious relationship was with a guy called Andrew Saunders, but they broke up over five years ago.”
“Interesting,” I murmur. “Anything else?”
“No, nothing else of note.” He pauses. “Oh, but here’s a bit of trivia for you. At university, Carly was classmates with Dylan Daniels.”
“Who’s that?”
Strickland looks at me like I’m from outer space. “Come on; don’t tell me you don’t know Dylan Daniels, the Radio One presenter? He’s only the highest paid DJ in the country. You can’t open a magazine without seeing his smug face plastered everywhere.”
