Read Online Eighty Days Blue by Vina Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vina Jackson
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I got to know him better and realised that wealth doesnât necessarily equal sophistication, although I still wasnât really sure whether Dominik had money or not. Maybe heâd spent his life savings on buying me the Bailly and lived the rest of his existence on the ordinary wage of a university professor.
The man whom I had pulled introduced himself as Derek, a native New Yorker with a job in insurance. I told him that my name was Helen and that I was a legal secretary. Experience had taught me that most men respond well to secretaries and nurses, and it saved me worrying that they might track down my musical connections and turn up at a concert.
Derek really was called Derek, I noted, glancing at a pile of mail resting on his countertop.
His apartment screamed of money but smelled of recently fried salmon mixed with nicotine. I noticed that most of the windows didnât open. He probably smoked indoors, to save himself the trouble of going out onto the balcony.
âHow do you like it?â he asked.
At first, I thought he was offering me a drink, but then realised, as he had made no move to turn on a kettle or get any bottles out of the fridge, that he was referring to how I liked to have sex. The bluntness of the question caught me off guard.
âEr . . .â
He moved forward and broke the ice with a kiss. He wasnât at all a bad kisser, but I couldnât banish the smell of his recent fish dinner.
I considered calling it off, but ever the optimist, hoped things would improve once we got down to it. Besides, I was trying to cut down on taxis to save money, hoping to spend some time travelling later in the year, and if I stayed over, Iâd be able to get the subway, or walk home, in the morning.
I barely suppressed a wince as Derek probed my mouth with his tongue, using the sort of deeply exploratory manoeuvres that might be better placed further down.
These thoughts reminded me of Dominik, who did have quite a knack for it, and I wondered if his skill had been dormant since he left New York or if he was having a tête-à -tête of his own back in London. The thought of Dominik with another woman spurred me on. I pushed Derek out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the air was fresher.
âOoh,â he said, âa woman who wants to take charge. I like that.â
This was not turning out at all how I hoped.
Derek cautiously slipped the spaghetti straps of my dress over my shoulders and ran his fingertips over my skin as if he were stroking a kitten. Every touch was soft, delicate. Probably the result of reading myriad books about how women prefer liberal doses of foreplay before sex, ideally dipped in chocolate and followed by a warm bath, the sort of nonsense perpetuated in media of all sorts, as ridiculous as assuming that all men want porn, blowjobs and a hot dinner.
I had hoped that Derek might rip the dress off me, push me up against the glass and take me from behind, in Hollywood-movie billionaire style, but the reality was far less exciting. After some wrestling, I managed to unbuckle his belt and his trousers pooled round his ankles inelegantly. I should have taken his shoes off first, as his legs were now locked together, rendering him virtually immobile from the knees down.
We shuffled backwards into his bedroom, and he eased me tenderly down onto the bed and kissed his way softly from my neck down to my navel, looking up and grinning before he buried his head between my legs, oral sex likely his party piece, the trick that he saved for women he wanted to impress. He was eager but gentle. I tried to muster a vision of Dominik in my mind engaged in the same act, but along with his tongue, heâd have four fingers inside me exploring roughly, occasionally probing my sphincter and promising in an ironically polite tone that soon his cock would follow. Dominik and I hadnât yet had anal sex, and I wondered why he didnât just do it, not that I
The man whom I had pulled introduced himself as Derek, a native New Yorker with a job in insurance. I told him that my name was Helen and that I was a legal secretary. Experience had taught me that most men respond well to secretaries and nurses, and it saved me worrying that they might track down my musical connections and turn up at a concert.
Derek really was called Derek, I noted, glancing at a pile of mail resting on his countertop.
His apartment screamed of money but smelled of recently fried salmon mixed with nicotine. I noticed that most of the windows didnât open. He probably smoked indoors, to save himself the trouble of going out onto the balcony.
âHow do you like it?â he asked.
At first, I thought he was offering me a drink, but then realised, as he had made no move to turn on a kettle or get any bottles out of the fridge, that he was referring to how I liked to have sex. The bluntness of the question caught me off guard.
âEr . . .â
He moved forward and broke the ice with a kiss. He wasnât at all a bad kisser, but I couldnât banish the smell of his recent fish dinner.
I considered calling it off, but ever the optimist, hoped things would improve once we got down to it. Besides, I was trying to cut down on taxis to save money, hoping to spend some time travelling later in the year, and if I stayed over, Iâd be able to get the subway, or walk home, in the morning.
I barely suppressed a wince as Derek probed my mouth with his tongue, using the sort of deeply exploratory manoeuvres that might be better placed further down.
These thoughts reminded me of Dominik, who did have quite a knack for it, and I wondered if his skill had been dormant since he left New York or if he was having a tête-à -tête of his own back in London. The thought of Dominik with another woman spurred me on. I pushed Derek out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the air was fresher.
âOoh,â he said, âa woman who wants to take charge. I like that.â
This was not turning out at all how I hoped.
Derek cautiously slipped the spaghetti straps of my dress over my shoulders and ran his fingertips over my skin as if he were stroking a kitten. Every touch was soft, delicate. Probably the result of reading myriad books about how women prefer liberal doses of foreplay before sex, ideally dipped in chocolate and followed by a warm bath, the sort of nonsense perpetuated in media of all sorts, as ridiculous as assuming that all men want porn, blowjobs and a hot dinner.
I had hoped that Derek might rip the dress off me, push me up against the glass and take me from behind, in Hollywood-movie billionaire style, but the reality was far less exciting. After some wrestling, I managed to unbuckle his belt and his trousers pooled round his ankles inelegantly. I should have taken his shoes off first, as his legs were now locked together, rendering him virtually immobile from the knees down.
We shuffled backwards into his bedroom, and he eased me tenderly down onto the bed and kissed his way softly from my neck down to my navel, looking up and grinning before he buried his head between my legs, oral sex likely his party piece, the trick that he saved for women he wanted to impress. He was eager but gentle. I tried to muster a vision of Dominik in my mind engaged in the same act, but along with his tongue, heâd have four fingers inside me exploring roughly, occasionally probing my sphincter and promising in an ironically polite tone that soon his cock would follow. Dominik and I hadnât yet had anal sex, and I wondered why he didnât just do it, not that I
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