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¨The underground?¨
¨Yes. Probably do some art viewing around here first.¨
I show her a few pictures of us from last night. I study her facial expression as she looks at us, looking great together. I wonder what she thinks deep down as she studies each photograph harder than I did.
¨We…really look great.¨ She clears her throat.
¨And that’s us after a long flight.¨
She simply nods.
¨We had so much potential once.¨ Her words are jabbing.
¨Grateful we can relive it for our growth.¨ I move it along.
She washes out her plate even though she doesn’t need to. Her back spine has always been one of my favorite spots. Its crease is slick and strong, and there’s something distinctively sexy about her lower back. Always has been. This is why I couldn’t resist putting my hands on it last night. And there she is, standing with her back against me, dressed in her halter top, scrubbing her plate.
Standing up, I walk to her, grazing my thumb at the bottom of it.
¨You don’t have to do dishes.¨
¨Why not? Aren’t I as human as your help around here?¨ Her body shifts; she rests her weight on the foot closest to me, letting me know she likes where my thumb is.
¨Of course.¨ I respond, my mouth grazing her ear.
Instantly she turns around, places her index finger against my mouth, and states, “No. Never. Never ever again.¨
Chapter 7
MICOLA
I’llneverfeelashamedabout fulfilling my body’s needs. I know life is short, and it’s been a dusty road these past three years. If I place all that happened early this morning into that fact, I will be alright.
But it’s Alexander. And he always feels like a god.
Alex and I had to let go for old times’ sake. I thought about it early this morning when I scrubbed the lust off my flesh with a washcloth only the wealthy attain. My body takes control too often. The countless times I’ve moved from an uncomfortable setting due to the demands of my body should be an example of how powerful it is. I wish I was someone who could disassociate themselves from their bodily feelings, and I do know that Alex is aware of this. He knows how to trigger me.
But I had a much-needed taste. It reminded me of his endless capabilities, but hopefully, what we’ve experienced is sufficient enough to carry us through the summer. Fuck, too bad I didn’t demand his magic mouth to give me more pleasure. If only I could replay that moment, I’d make sure he’d hit all the buttons I know he knows how to push. Sex with him was always sensational. And just to imagine what his natural angry face looked like when he watched me pleasure myself makes my blood boil. Damn it! This better not get any more complicated, or we may have to secretly step out of our supposed relationship. Ha. Although the idea of that sounds a little grimy, I hope the couple of vibrators I brought will be enough this summer. They’ve worked out plenty of orgasms during my dry spell.
After my shower from my speed walking with Kilo, I find Alex freshly dressed, pacing back and forth in his first-floor garden. He’s on the phone drafting up a proposal with his assistant for Panther Duke. I flash him a bright smile and gesture that I’m heading out. His dark, borderline cryptic eyes thin into sexy slits before he nods at me, paired with a wink. Such beautiful arrogance.
I take the underground tube to a youthful art walk in north London. This mid-June day provides a lukewarm sun and a comforting breeze. Drafts of wind crawl up my high-waisted billowy pants, and the sunrays cuddle my exposed shoulders. The art of the youth highlights the various immigrant experiences their parents and grandparents encountered. Families from the Caribbean, Africa, Asia, and Turkey are predominately shared through variations of mixed mediums.
One particular young artist whose parents are from Syria created the road to England through the use of charred textiles, highlighting the fiery experiences that “burned their old reality.” I wasn’t expecting the usage of poetry to be so prominent in these depictions, but it is a lovely surprise.
I get the feeling I’m not the only artist who’s studying these framed pieces. There’s a man who appears to be British, and I hear him briefly excuse himself as he slides past me. Blond striking man with a pair of mesmerizing blue-green eyes wearing Harry Potter glasses. Oddly attractive, as I can tell just by looking at him, he’s probably layered with artistic banter that’ll inevitably make him more appealing.
I have a hunch to speak to him as many viewers swiftly scan the artwork and carry on. Together, yet apart by only a photo, we move in correspondence to the artists’ stories.
¨I can stay here all day.¨
He turns to me and says, confirming he is indeed British. His accent doesn’t sound particularly from London; perhaps he comes from northern England.
A small smile graces my face as I nod in agreement, ¨Art is so limitless when we allow it to be.¨
¨Yes.¨ He agrees firmly.
¨Are you an artist yourself?¨ I ask.
