Читать книгу Anything For Him - Lily Harlem - Страница 6

His voice came as a shock, deep and husky and inflected with an accent I didn’t recognise, lilting and rapid, almost sing-song. And the way he said ‘fuck’ was quick and joined to the words after it, as if they were one.

But something about his voice and aggressive tone injected me with flight instinct. I had to get out of there. This was not how it was meant to be between us. Fate hadn’t planned this kind of confused, dishevelled meeting. I had to erase it, now, quickly, before it became irreversible.

Clutching my bag, I turned and covered the side of my face with my palm. How could I let him see me for even another second? My mascara was no doubt running down my cheeks – I could imagine its black dribbles streaking over my wet, burning flesh. My clothes were wet and scrappy. My battle with the shrubbery had left its scars – a small rip in the knee of my jeans and several leafy twigs poked from my socks and sneakers.

I picked up a rapid pace, slapped one foot in front of the other on the pavement, not daring to look backwards for fear of doing even more damage to our destiny. But with each step something told me that I’d just met my Liuz. I couldn’t deny what I knew in my heart. Not only his accent, which could be Polish, but also the layout of his bedsit was exactly as I’d imagined. Masculine, sexy, and so damn alluring in a sleazy, impersonal, functional way.

After pounding around the corner, past a paper shop, a hairdresser and a tanning parlour, I finally slowed. His long, toned body screamed athletic. He would be swift, energised. If he truly had wanted me, he would have caught me.

A double-decker bus came with merciful promptness. I stamped up the steps, hurled myself onto the empty backseat and slunk low. Shutting my eyes, I cursed the drips of rain snaking down my neck and soaking through my jeans. Behind my lids, the image of him masturbating came to mind. I swallowed a glut of realisation. The darkly stubbled jawline I’d just seen was in keeping with his picture, as were his long limbs. The wall behind the bed in his room was a dirty, murky green, the bedcovers a nondescript mud-brown. That was where he’d been when he had clutched his cock, worked his shaft, spunked out his cum. He hadn’t been at a friend’s bedsit at all. He’d been at home, on that bed. The bed I had just seen with my own two eyes.

Why had he lied? Did he rent it from his friend, was that it? Or was he ashamed at the state of the place so didn’t want to admit it was his?

I dropped my head into my hands and sucked in a breath. Torment twisted within me. Everything I thought I knew about Liuz was up in the air yet at the same time it was all exactly as it seemed. Exactly as I’d hoped.

His face, dark, brooding, dominant, was the mirror image of the one I’d dreamed of night after lonely night. His body, controlled, honed, was the stuff of my horniest fantasies. Both fear and delight seared through me, jumbling one lust-infused thought to the next then winding it with the knowledge that I’d been dealing with a man so gloriously beautiful, so innately masculine that he surely wouldn’t be interested in me.

How could I have entertained the fact that I wouldn’t be attracted to him?

The bus jostled to a stop and I stared out the window, gathering my bearings. Lights glowed from houses and lampposts as evening spread over London earlier than expected because of the rainstorm. I was getting nearer to home, moving further from him. Another ten minutes and I would be back in the safety of my apartment, away from the dismally orchestrated meeting with the man I wanted to fuck me more than I wanted to take my next breath.

* * *

My pillar-box red sweater was made of the finest cashmere, an indulgence born from a lucrative story in January, and as I pulled it down over my bare breasts the fluffed material tickled my nipples and smoothed over my flat belly like a soft cloud. I scraped back my hair and snapped it into a bobble, hitched up the base of my favourite sweats and sank my shower-hot toes into woolen socks. I had long since mastered the art of booting up my computer and checking for my emails as I went about mundane tasks such as dressing and drinking.

Sipping a glass of Merlot, I checked for a message from Liuz.

Nothing.

I set down the wine and reached for my pale-blue artist’s coat. It was thin cotton and dotted with every shade of acrylic paint imaginable. After shrugging into it, I squeezed out several generous blobs of paint onto my board. I had to commit the images swimming around my head to canvas. The compulsion to do so gnawed at me. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to eat, rest or work.

I stared at my blank canvas collection and nibbled on my bottom lip. Nothing seemed big enough. My desire was to have Liuz as large and as real in the room as possible.

I glanced around.

With a flourish of decisiveness, I tugged off a poster I’d bought recently in New York of the Empire State Building. Ripped at a signed picture I’d had for many years of Paul Weller playing his guitar.

A tall, thin unit, bursting with books, stood to the left, by the door. I heaved, tugged and shifted it to the centre of the room, finally freeing up a large, plain cream wall.

The perfect canvas.

I reached for a dense brush and daubed it in dark-brown paint. Lifted up high and splodged an outline of Liuz’s head. Just the barest shape, no detail – that would be added later.

I carefully angled the brush to create the sharp line of his jaw and the dent in his chin, leaving a space where I would come back to his ears. My heart raced and sweat popped between my breasts. For the second time that day, anticipation reeled within me. Soon I would have him before me, in my room.

His neck was next; not too thick, not too thin. I loaded up more paint and with steely determination squared out his shoulders, my breaths rapid. I was hot, the jumper no longer comfortable with all my twitching, stretching movements.

Frustrated by the necessary interruption, I dropped my brush and pulled shut my curtains. Peeled off my artist’s coat and dragged my expensive sweater over my head. Tossed it into a corner. Next came my pants and underwear, and finally my socks. Not bothering to put on my paint-speckled coat again, I lunged for my brush.

Naked and free, I set about painting a chest that rose outwards from the sternum, showing off broad pecs. A neatly tapered waist, lean and stretched. When I reached my favourite place of all on a man’s body I paused, rubbed a paint-stained hand across my hipbone and sucked in a breath. Even from a distance and through rain I could tell Liuz had adorable oblique muscles.

As I slowly committed the perfect shape to the wall, I stroked my tongue over my upper lip. The delectable angle between bricked abs and the start of his groin had to be just right to make my picture the masterpiece I wanted it to be.

What would that part of his flesh taste like on the tip of my tongue?

My brush was an extension of my mind, my memory and my lust. High on creativity and spurred on by the image unravelling, I added a low-slung waistband. I’d seen him wearing worn jeans – he’d looked dishevelled but at the same time comfortable in his own skin. An intoxicating mix of self-assured sexuality.

Again I paused.

Stepped back.

I shook my head, tutted, and tried to ignore the dampness between my legs as my plan formed.

Bypassing the first part of clothing I’d begun to draw, I continued downwards, flared the outline slightly at his hips and sketched out muscular thighs. The jeans were no longer part of my image. I wanted him as naked as me.

When I reached the knees I concentrated higher again, adding in the smooth balls of his shoulders and powerful arms hanging at his sides. I was completely lost in my task. My mobile rang and I ignored it. A siren screamed on the road below and I took no notice. My limbs felt free, and my skin buzzed as my swift movements caused air to breeze over it. All that existed was myself and the image of Liuz I was creating. An image that surpassed the photo I had hanging in the room, because it included his face – because soon it would include his cock.

His face was my next stage. With a smaller brush I created a proud nose and eyes that held a lazy, devil-may-care look, the visible lids a fraction big, the brows craggy. His mouth was a severe slash, a bit like when he had shouted at me. It was how I wanted it. I didn’t want Liuz smiling. I wanted him stern, commanding. A force to be reckoned with.

I squelched out more paint, not caring about the amount I was using. It was worth it. My stomach growled with hunger and I set about sketching his flopping tendrils of hair. My strokes were thick and heavy, the black paint shiny and textured. Carefully, holding my breath, I swirled a strand over his right eye so that it hung in front as I’d seen it do in his room.

Stepping backwards, I surveyed the effect.

Perfect.

I added the hint of an ear. My laptop tinkled to tell me mail had arrived.

Instantly, I was distracted from my fake Liuz to what could possibly be the real thing. Balancing my brush by the paints, I wiped a caked blob of black from my index finger onto my stomach and brought my screen to life.

I was not disappointed.

‘Are you there, Aniolku?’

I whipped my messy fingers over the keyboard. ‘Sure, been in all day. Waiting for you to say hi.’

That should cover my tail.

There was a several-minute pause. I sipped nervously on my wine and shoved Simply Red into the CD player. Mick’s dulcet tones filled my study.

‘You said you were going out to cover a premiere in Leicester Square.’

‘I was, but I got involved in a project about Uganda’s fair trade imports and lost track of time.’

‘Do you do that often?’

‘What?’

‘Lose track of time?’

‘Yes, when I’m working.’

And when I’m painting full-size naked men on my wall.

‘And you have been working all day?’

A tingle ran up my spine at the undercurrent of the question. Did he suspect? ‘Yes, busy, busy, busy, got to pay the bills. What about you? Have you had any sexy thoughts about me?’ I reached for my wine.

‘I did, sort of. I was looking at a website about female ejaculation and wondering if you were a spurter when a weird thing happened. This woman appeared at my window, staring in at me, even though it was starting to rain.’

Wine burned the back of my throat. I inhaled but no air went in. With my fist I thumped my chest and eventually dislodged the offending dribble of Merlot. I spluttered and coughed, wheezed and gasped. Finally, breath returned and I re-read his last words.

A woman appeared at my window.

There was no doubt about it. Not now. Today Liuz and I had met. Breathed the same air, walked the same path, connected our eyes in a glorious moment of two fates colliding. But it had all happened so fast and I hadn’t been the woman I wanted to be.

I sat my bare ass on the chair and willed sane thoughts. I had to play it cool. There was no way in hell I was going to let him know that had been me studying him as the rain began to pour, balancing in a very unladylike way on his shrubbery and looking through his window like some crazy Peeping Tom.

‘That’s odd,’ I replied. ‘Did you know her?’

‘No, I had never seen her before. But she looked at me as though she recognised my face.’

‘That is strange. Then what happened?’

‘She ran off, towards the High Street.’

‘Didn’t you chase her? Find out what she wanted?’

Thank goodness he hadn’t.

‘No, I was only half dressed, couldn’t be bothered.’

‘Why were you only half dressed? Been jerking off again?’

Change the subject.

‘No, not today. I was just hot, must have been the humidity before the storm. I might jerk off later, though, thinking of you, thinking of fucking you, from behind, my hands in your hair, pulling your head up to the ceiling so that your spine feels like it will snap under the force of my thrusts.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’ My pussy clenched at the image of my back bowed by the severity of his tight grip on me. I loved it when he put images into words like that.

‘I can imagine how your pussy would feel on my cock, but what about your hair, how would that feel in my hands, Aniolku?’

Ah, I knew what he was doing. I wasn’t a journalist for nothing. Probing questions were my business. ‘Why?’

‘I need to know so I can build up the picture in my head.’

I pulled at my long blonde ponytail. A stab of regret tugged my heart. It would have to go. It was exactly the same as the woman who’d looked through his window this afternoon. ‘It’s black, and barely enough to sink your hands into. It’s short and spiky.’ As I spoke I reached for a pair of scissors from my pen pot. Letting my hair loose, I gulped the rest of my wine then began to cut.

‘I love black hair,’ he responded. ‘Short black hair I can grab and pull by the roots. I want to hold your head firm, your ass firmer as I fuck you.’

Shivering with desire, I glanced at my feet. They were splattered with dark paint and each slice of the scissor blades delivered a new creamy tendril to the floor around them. As I watched, several thick strands landed over my toes. On the rise of my left foot, an exceptionally long piece fell and balanced.

‘Would you like me to fuck your pussy from behind?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I think you would do it good.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘It is?’

‘Yeah, I know you by now, Hannah. You’re a slut, a dirty bitch. You would like me fucking you from behind because then it’s impersonal. I could be anyone taking you hard and fast, using your body to get my release and satisfy my big, fat dick.’

OK, that was it, the time had come. I’d had enough of skirting around the main event. I knew what Liuz looked like and I was more attracted to him than I could have ever dared hope. If we didn’t move this on soon I would combust. One-handedly I typed back. ‘Why don’t I come over tomorrow and be your slut?’

‘I never thought you’d ask, Aniolku. I’m getting so bored of my own hand.’

He thought I would never ask!

All the damn time I’d been waiting for him to pose the question and all I’d had to do was ask.

‘So whereabouts do you live in Brixton?’ I dropped the scissors on the desk and ran my fingers through my short hair. It was about two inches all over, including the fringe.

’78 Woodstone Road, flat 2.’

‘What time?’

‘Nine.’

‘OK.’

‘One more thing.’

‘?’

‘I will leave something on the door handle. You will wear it the entire time you are with me.’

‘?’

‘Trust me, Aniolku, I know what you need more than anyone else you have ever been with.’

I waited another minute to see if he elaborated on this detail. He didn’t, so I went back to painting. My mind whirred as my brush flew over the wall, adding in symmetrical abs and long, hairy shins.

Finally.

Finally we had a meeting set up. At his bedsit too. I could hardly believe it.

I glanced at my watch. It was early evening. This time tomorrow I’d be getting ready to take the bus to Brixton once more. With a sudden flourish, I reached over and displayed Liuz’s jerking-off photo on my screen. Hit print, ten copies.

Soon, within hours, I would hear him coming, feel him tremble as his cock spurted into me. There was no doubt in my mind we would fuck tomorrow. Too much had passed between us for it not to get carnal and dirty on our first meeting. Sexual tension sizzled through cyberspace with each email we’d sent, right from the word go. He’d coaxed out my secret thoughts about sex. I’d felt safe somehow, telling him sordid fantasies anonymously. His reactions were always positive, encouraging. When I worried I was kinky he’d replied: ‘Aniolku, it is only kinky the first time you do it.’

So now, after all my soul-baring, Liuz knew I had a seedy desire to be taken roughly. Degrading, dirty sex was my thing. He knew full well that a dinner date and movie was not necessary for him to get a fuck. Just a series of perverse, crude emails and an address would get me wet and slippery and spreading my legs.

I was a slut.

I was a wet, slippery slut right now.

As I moved between paint and wall, my thighs smoothed against one another. My clit swelled, peeking from its hood as I started work on Liuz’s balls. My breaths were short and gasping, and I was bombarded with images of us fucking in every position. Noisy, sweaty, animalistic.

Within minutes I’d created soft sacs, heavier at the base and the skin loose and hair-coated. I could almost feel them, cool, slightly prickly, a perfect cupped palmful.

Briefly, I paused to look at the photos whirring from the printer. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I hoped it would give me a clue as to what his cock would be like. Would he have a generous length but a slim girth, or a fat, wide dick and a mushroomed head?

Sloshing more wine into my glass and gulping fast, I had a sudden inspiration; it would be like the rest of him, perfect.

Starting above the testicles, I created a thick, upwards-pointing shaft, then, a fraction before I reached his navel, I fashioned a capped head. Something told me he would be circumcised and this was how I painted him.

With a smaller brush I added in shading, bulging veins and a rim beneath the glans. The slit was central and wide, and I placed a blob of perfect snow white in the middle to look like a pearly drip of pre-cum.

Done.

I squeezed and strummed at my nipples as I admired my full-size mural. Liuz stood before me, brooding, naked and hot enough to sear my skin.

Grabbing the pile of photos from my printer tray, I then spread them on the floor around myself, covering my cut hair and the new splatters of paint with the photos’ cool surfaces. There was only one thing on my mind – an orgasm.

I had to climax, now.

After knocking back the last of my wine, I delved into the desk drawer and pulled out my favourite long black vibrator. I never used to keep it in there, but since talking to Liuz on email, it had made its way into the room I now masturbated in with the most frequency.

Dropping to the floor, flat on my back, I stretched my legs wide. Propped the soles of my feet on the wall either side of Liuz’s painted knees. Stared at his cock and delighted in the sliding photographic paper beneath my back and hips. I was surrounded by him. Above me, beneath me. All I needed now was to imagine that greedy, determined cock pumping into me.

I spent only a brief second spreading my natural lube around the satiny plastic head of my vibrator; then I shoved it in, hard and fast, just how he would do it. I arched my back and cried out, and I did not take my eyes from Liuz’s cock.

Jerking my hips and ramming the vibrator upwards, I imagined him taking me over and over. I could almost hear the hard panting breaths he would groan out as he forged in, not stopping until he’d penetrated me to the hilt. I snarled through the pain, even though it was my own doing. I didn’t want comfortable fucking. I wanted to be ravaged by lust, consumed by desire. I wanted it to be as basic and primitive as it was possible to be.

I clicked a button at the base of the shaft and allowed the vibrating plastic ears to embrace my clit. The action was a signal for my body to seek out release. Within seconds I was climbing, climbing high and rapidly. I wanted to shut my eyelids, and my body was ready to fold in on itself. But I wouldn’t let it. I had to come with the image of Liuz before me.

I did. In an explosive burst of contractions and spasms, I allowed my orgasm to rake through my core. I stared at his painted cock, wishing it was in me for real. Pounding, thrusting, jettisoning hot, viscous cum into my pussy.

All too quickly the vibrator had served its purpose and I tossed it aside. But I kept my feet planted on the wall; my pussy, swollen and sopping, opened wide before Liuz for his sulky, unblinking gaze to feast on.