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Wrapped in nothing but a towel, I wait for him to come home.
Chapter 35
Jack
‘Isee you’ve been paintingflowers again.’
My heart nearly leaps out of my throat. ‘Jesus Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack!’ I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Leyna is standing absolutely resplendent in my upstairs bathroom, smiling coyly at me. Her hair is still wet and she has a towel wrapped around herself. She’s clearly just had a shower. ‘How are you here? How did you get in?’
‘Plant pot,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘I thought I might be able to help you de-stress. I may have heard that you have a lot of work to do,’ she says, walking slowly towards me.
‘Where would you have heard such a thing?’
‘Being a secretary with access to your diary has its perks.’
‘Does it ever,’ I growl. My heart is pounding at the unexpectedness of seeing her here like this. Any thoughts about avoiding her this past week evaporate and my heart takes over. I close the distance between us and kiss her fiercely. ‘I missed you,’ I admit. ‘Being at work is so much more difficult these days. I hate pretending like I don’t know you.’
‘Lorna watches my every move. I saw you once and then, to avoid you, I had to return to my desk and Lorna just stared at me like I was some sort of idiot. But... I have an idea.’
Leyna’s eyes sparkle as she looks up at me and I wonder, for the millionth time, why on earth I’m not coming home to her like this every single evening.
‘I was thinking I needed to take matters into my own hands.’ Leyna reaches out and slowly traces the hard line of my cock bursting against my trousers. She slides her whole hand up and down the front my trousers and I’m having trouble focusing.
‘Is that why you’ve come here? To showmewho’s boss?’ I reply through the delicious spell she’s casting over me.
Without a word Leyna drops to her knees and when her intention becomes clear my heart begins to pound against my chest. I am once again reminded of the electricity that sizzles between us. I look down and play with her still-damp hair as she undoes my zip and takes me mind-numbingly slowly into her mouth.
‘You’ve been busy,’ she says in between mouthfuls. ‘There are flower paintings everywhere in this house.’ She goes back to working my length and I can barely focus on anything she’s saying. What on earth is she talking about? Her hot mouth teases me. ‘So.Many.Flowers,’ she says in between each slippery slide. I have no idea why we are talking at this point. My head starts to roll back with the unbelievable pleasure.
Suddenly she stops and I want to cry out in anguish.
‘But why flowers?’ she persists. ‘I’ve always pegged you for a portraits sort of guy. Maybe the occasional landscape thrown in. But flowers... What does it mean?’
Despite my raging lust I try to collect my thoughts. You can take the art historian out of Oxford... ‘Seriously?’ I respond, as though I’m chastising her. ‘Flower, why do I paintflowers?’
I can see the exact moment the first realisation dawns on her face. ‘Me?’ she says. I look at her pointedly and she takes another moment to ponder the paintings one more time. ‘Oh. Ohhhhhh,’ she says again, understanding finally blazoned across her face. She grins, like she’s been caught in some sort of compromising position that she doesn’t mind one bit. ‘I like that,’ she says finally. Very Georgia O’Keefe, although, reportedly, she hated that people thought that about her paintings. Mapplethorpe achieves something similar, but through photography. Maybe next time you could try something along the lines of a Gustave Courbet.’
