that she’s grows here in the back garden.”
“Oh really? That’s so cool.” I studied him. “I’d love to see that sometime. I haven’t really seen the whole of this house. It’s always night time.”
He remained quiet.
I continued anyway. “Did you have a similar home in Yorkshire?”
He shook his head. “No. It was a huge Gothic estate. My mother worked there as a maid, and we lived in the servants’ quarters.”
“That must have been so interesting. Was it like a castle?”
He nodded.
“Did you have any siblings?”
He shook his head.
“Are your parents still alive?”
Blake moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck, something I’d noticed him doing whenever questions were asked. “No.”
I left it there. Too many questions. I was letting a man I hardly knew fuck my brains out and treat me like a princess. For a twenty-three-year-old brought up around the stench of poverty, that in itself should have sufficed. But Blake felt real to me. There was something fragile in that tough exterior that made me want to know him.
All in good time.
* * *
IT TOOK ME A MOMENT to remember where I was. It was so quiet. Smooth silk sheets reminded me that those seemingly endless orgasms had lulled me into sleep. The last thing I recalled was clawing Blake’s muscular biceps while he devoured my pussy as he would a delicious treat, and then tormented me with slow, achingly pleasurable thrusts, deep and hard, leaving me breathless.
The raw, bone-melting passion left my tongue hanging out, proverbially speaking. I’d fallen into his arms, and out of his lips, which were carnal one minute and soft the next, had come the words “Thank you.” I’d thought that strange but sweet anyhow.
I stared up at the dark etched ceiling with its indistinct swirly patterns. Perhaps Blake had gone to the bathroom, I thought.
Tick tock—the clock marked time as though accenting silence. Wide-awake, I reached over to the lamp at the side of the bed and switched it on. The old French clock with its turning wheels, making time tangible, revealed that it was four o’clock.
I felt abandoned and, despite ample covers, cold. I craved the feeling of Blake’s warm body. I wanted to see what he looked like asleep and find out whether he was still beautiful when those perfect eyes were hidden and not smoldering all over mine.
Accustomed to ear-piercing sounds of cars revving, drunks singing, or angry murmurings clinging to the dark of night, I thirsted for noise. And while a bird chirping in the morning might have lifted my spirits, the messy sounds of the city comforted me. They reminded me that I wasn’t alone, which was how I felt in that room—isolated, as though that house sat solitary in the world.
I looked up at my paintings. The story had an eerie resemblance to mine. The maiden was adrift in a chaotic city as impenetrable and dangerous as any forest.
Rising out of the bed, I covered my arms. On the armchair, I saw a robe. I tiptoed to it and draped it over my shoulders, smothering myself in its luxurious warmth. Blake’s scent emanated from it, and that throb of longing was reignited.
I opened a door and found a walk-in closet. I turned on the light, and my eyes widened. It resembled a men’s clothing store. The rack held a long line of jackets in a multitude of textures and colors. I stroked them. Silk ties and shirts of every color—bar outlandish reds or purples, which would never have been Blake—were lined up in racks. Everything neat and in order, placed with precision. I thought of my messy drawers and cupboards. I had a terrible habit of not folding my clothes.
I crept out of the bedroom and noticed doors everywhere. I could almost imagine skeletons in the cupboards or sheeted ghosts whirling past.
Foreign environments brought out the detective in me. I liked to absorb small details which was nothing but curiosity driven by an artistic impulse.
As I turned a knob ever so quietly, the door’s squeaky hinges threatened to give me away, so I snuck in without opening it any wider.
Moonlight streamed through the window onto a desk. It was obviously a study—the smell alone told me that. Switching on the green-shaded reading lamp, I soon discovered a room with wall-to-wall shelves filled with books.
The room’s warm appeal had me enthralled. I stroked the surfaces and stopped at the leather-topped desk. A leather chair had been positioned by the window, where I imagined Blake