swiftly from the cafe through the flooded streets to the gallery. He was drenched through to the skin by the time he entered it. There was no one there except Cecile and her assistant. She took Garfield to her flat above where she towel dried his hair, cared for and attended to him as he remembered bitterly that Eden had never made such loving gestures towards him. That was, of course, not true, merely a selfish stretch of the imagination so that he might dislike her that little bit more. Hold her in contempt of his heart.
Cecile kissed him on the cheek, then his lips. She removed his wet jacket and shirt and, drying him off with a fresh warm towel, she caressed his chest and kissed his nipples. He gazed deeply into her face, so well cared for for a woman her age. But her eyes gave her away. They were old eyes, dimmed by age, hardened equally by success and disappointment. He knew what she wanted, what price he must pay for her devotion to his work, her passion to keep him as friend-painter-lover. He unzipped his trousers and turned her over the back of the easy chair, plunging into her forcefully. He fucked her deeply, roughly. She begged him to slow down, he was hurting her, but he placed a hand over her mouth and continued. He felt her give in to her orgasms. They came repeatedly and swiftly and Cecile was lost in ecstasy, moving to the rhythm of his every thrust.
Garfield was lost in the acts of hatred and sex. In his mind he was having sex with Eden, dissolving her into a puddle of need for him to fuck her to death, which in fact was almost how it had been between them. He could not, did not want to, stop. He continued for a considerable time before he came into Cecile with a powerful orgasm. Release sent him collapsing to the floor still holding on to Cecile who was crying: from fright, pleasure, pain and gratitude.
They were both gasping for breath. Tears were brimming in Cecile’s eyes. She loved him. That she could inspire such passion in Garfield inflated her ego. He was hers, this younger man, still sohandsome and virile. He could have any woman he wanted but enjoyed her beyond all the others. She knew that he was a hustler of women and what the price was to have him as a lover. She paid it, not too gladly, but paid it nevertheless. It was his love and adoration of her and fucking such as they had just had together that made it all worthwhile.
Cecile needed to bathe and change her smart little black dress. The violence of Garfield’s sexual assault had left her bruised, quite undone. When she returned to the sitting room where they had had their tryst, she found him sound asleep on the carpet in front of the open fire, naked, his thumb in his mouth, looking like an innocent child. Cecile’s heart pounded. Her mouth went dry. She loved him too much. No matter how much she deluded herself, she knew that to be a fact but she could live with it. She covered him with a cashmere blanket, stroked his hair, caressed his cheek and left her flat.
Laurent Touvier had not seen Eden Sidd for more than a decade when Max Kerwood approached him. The two men met in Paris at the Le Grand Vefours for lunch on that same rainy cold spring day. It was by no means an awkward meeting. They had always been great friends, accepting their respective roles in Eden’s life. If anything they had missed each other’s company during the parting of the ways after Eden had rejected Laurent’s offer of marriage and run off with Garfield.
They embraced each other and were ushered directly to their table. Max was amused by the number of people who rose from their chairs to shake Laurent’s hand and introduce him to the other guests at their table. Max walked ahead, smiling at this show of success and popularity, remembering when Laurent had been an unknown, a protégé of Leonard Bernstein’s.
Laurent had not disappointed Max. When the two men first met fifteen years before Max had earmarked him as potentially one of the greatest
Cecile kissed him on the cheek, then his lips. She removed his wet jacket and shirt and, drying him off with a fresh warm towel, she caressed his chest and kissed his nipples. He gazed deeply into her face, so well cared for for a woman her age. But her eyes gave her away. They were old eyes, dimmed by age, hardened equally by success and disappointment. He knew what she wanted, what price he must pay for her devotion to his work, her passion to keep him as friend-painter-lover. He unzipped his trousers and turned her over the back of the easy chair, plunging into her forcefully. He fucked her deeply, roughly. She begged him to slow down, he was hurting her, but he placed a hand over her mouth and continued. He felt her give in to her orgasms. They came repeatedly and swiftly and Cecile was lost in ecstasy, moving to the rhythm of his every thrust.
Garfield was lost in the acts of hatred and sex. In his mind he was having sex with Eden, dissolving her into a puddle of need for him to fuck her to death, which in fact was almost how it had been between them. He could not, did not want to, stop. He continued for a considerable time before he came into Cecile with a powerful orgasm. Release sent him collapsing to the floor still holding on to Cecile who was crying: from fright, pleasure, pain and gratitude.
They were both gasping for breath. Tears were brimming in Cecile’s eyes. She loved him. That she could inspire such passion in Garfield inflated her ego. He was hers, this younger man, still sohandsome and virile. He could have any woman he wanted but enjoyed her beyond all the others. She knew that he was a hustler of women and what the price was to have him as a lover. She paid it, not too gladly, but paid it nevertheless. It was his love and adoration of her and fucking such as they had just had together that made it all worthwhile.
Cecile needed to bathe and change her smart little black dress. The violence of Garfield’s sexual assault had left her bruised, quite undone. When she returned to the sitting room where they had had their tryst, she found him sound asleep on the carpet in front of the open fire, naked, his thumb in his mouth, looking like an innocent child. Cecile’s heart pounded. Her mouth went dry. She loved him too much. No matter how much she deluded herself, she knew that to be a fact but she could live with it. She covered him with a cashmere blanket, stroked his hair, caressed his cheek and left her flat.
Laurent Touvier had not seen Eden Sidd for more than a decade when Max Kerwood approached him. The two men met in Paris at the Le Grand Vefours for lunch on that same rainy cold spring day. It was by no means an awkward meeting. They had always been great friends, accepting their respective roles in Eden’s life. If anything they had missed each other’s company during the parting of the ways after Eden had rejected Laurent’s offer of marriage and run off with Garfield.
They embraced each other and were ushered directly to their table. Max was amused by the number of people who rose from their chairs to shake Laurent’s hand and introduce him to the other guests at their table. Max walked ahead, smiling at this show of success and popularity, remembering when Laurent had been an unknown, a protégé of Leonard Bernstein’s.
Laurent had not disappointed Max. When the two men first met fifteen years before Max had earmarked him as potentially one of the greatest
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