Cold Blood by James Fleming Page B

aroma of vinegar as she prepared herself.
    She said, “I’m assuming you don’t have any contraceptives. Anyway, they’re clumsy and expensive... How far have you got?” A white arm appeared and threw me a white towel. “That’s for your feet. At a minimum.”
    It was warm in the room, warm and cosy among the flickering candles. Even with that small amount of coal, the fire was throwing off good heat. Outside, the street was quiet. Directly above us, someone else was also preparing for bed.
    She called out, “I want you completely naked. Don’t think you’re just going to undo your buttons and fuck me against the wall as if I were a station whore. I know what I like. I likethe weight of a man on top of me. His skin, his hair, his strength—his bruteness. It’s the differences I want. That’s what gives me pleasure.”
    â€œAny rules?”
    â€œNo Frenchmen. Once was enough. A pervert of the worst type.”
    â€œWhat about doing it alone?”
    â€œI’ve told you, I’m after the differences. With a man I feel warm and confident for days after. When I look at the Neva I know I could swim it easily. If there was a mountain in the city I’d be able to run up it like a fly going up a window. With a man I feel good. Alone—nothing.”
    Her fingertips appeared in the gap above the curtain rail. What was she up to now?
    â€œAre you sure you’re not just a talker? I didn’t think so when you came out of the station. Virile, that’s how you looked, a proper man. If I was wrong, you should have said so before I gave you that bit of meat. I can’t afford to waste anything.”
    A stopper came out of a bottle and again the tang of vinegar flooded the room. Was she trying to pickle it?
    Suddenly it infuriated me that this horny little thing should be calling all the shots, hectoring and lecturing me. I peeled off my coat in a rush and ripped that footling curtain aside—sent it zinging down the rail.
    â€œAt last! Quickly, grab me. I’m getting cold. I don’t know how they ever get babies in Siberia.”
    Her underarms were black as Tartary and her underbrush— tarantulas could have lived in it and never been glimpsed, or goatherds playing pan pipes as they wandered around. I thought, Christ, what must it be like in spring when everything’s warming up and it’s growing like fury? As she turned to dive into bed I grabbed her rump. She held still. With my other hand I unbuttoned myself. My cock bounced out—stood up, looked around.
    â€œI know what’s going on back there,” she said, and whipping round she led me by my tether to a low footstool which she mounted to make easier between us what nature had made awkward by the difference in our heights. With one arm tight around my neck she slid her neat belly down mine till she had me nudging her groove.
    Watching her eyes change colour, I prised apart the folding gates and entered my full length. We shuffled around. I kicked away the footstool so that her thick calves were against the side of the bed.
    â€œShamans,” she said, “that’s how they do it. They hire out for people in Siberia who want to make babies.”
    â€œWith mushrooms from the forest, special ones that get a man going in really low temperatures... You know, you’ll come off worse if we fall like this, with you underneath.”
    â€œIt’s quickest.”
    â€œSlow is best,” I retorted.
    We uncoupled—hurled ourselves into the icy bed where I made love to her thoroughly and she to me, all the while amid the reassuring scent of brown vinegar. When we’d finished we lay back, well pleased with each other. I said, “But you can’t have my heart.”

Eighteen

    H ER NAME was Xenia. As it got light she lit a tallow candle. It smoked and smelt of mutton fat. She looked lovely lying there, her small pale face sunk deep into the