Unmasked by Natasha Walker Page B

and when you want. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.’

THIRTEEN
    Marco and Emma arrived back at his house around three in the afternoon. They hadn’t slept and they had to be at work again in a few hours. They climbed off the bike and walked down to the water. Elena never rented out their private inlet and when they got down there they found the little beach empty. Marco stripped off his shirt and jeans and walked across the sand and pebbles into the crystal water. He had lost his boxers somewhere. His tanned arse was the last thing she saw before he dived under the water.

    Emma wasn’t far behind him. She stared up at the sun and then out at the boats cruising by about half a kilometre off shore. There was no breeze. She undid her jeans. Every muscle in her body ached. She felt more tired than she could ever remember having felt, but she also felt something else. She had been fucked by two men for hours and hours. They had not given way. Each had surpassed themselves, coming again and again without respite. She was filthy from end to end. Not one part of her body was untouched. Her skin had been kissed and bitten, licked and caressed. Her hair was a knotted mess. Her lips were swollen. Her breasts felt bruised. Her pussy was throbbing. She pulled off her top and undid her bra then stepped out of her jeans and her g-string, and sank into the water. Neither cared much for what the world might think if they were sprung bathing nude. They had passed out of normal life a few hours ago.
    This was the life Emma had been looking for. This was why she had walked out of Mosman. She never wanted to feel normal again. David might come for her but she would never return to that life. She wanted only to feel as alive to sensation as she felt now. The cool salt wateracted as a balm to her skin, her sin. She swam out to where Marco was floating on his back and pulled his face to hers and kissed him with great passion and feeling. He wrapped his arms around her and she her legs around him, and they clung to each other in the neck-deep water and kissed. Emma felt him rise beneath her and though it hurt she let him enter her. They did not move but kissed, deeply, long, lingeringly. Emma’s lips were swollen and sore but this didn’t seem to matter. She was having the time of her life.

    ‘You are a puttana ,’ Marco declared with a smile from across the room where he lay on his bed, a few days later.
    ‘Are you calling me a whore?’ Emma asked. She had been getting dressed.
    ‘ Si ,’ he said. ‘A whore.’
    ‘That isn’t very nice.’
    ‘You are not very nice,’ he replied.
    ‘I am very nice.’
    ‘How many men you fuck?’
    ‘Not many. But they remember me.’
    ‘Not many?’
    ‘How many women you fuck?’

    ‘ Tanto ,’ he said with a grin.
    ‘You are a puttana ,’ she said.
    ‘ Sì, io sono un prostituto per l’arte .’
    ‘Ahhh, you only fucked all those women for art …’
    ‘ Si , I paint.’
    ‘You don’t paint anymore.’
    ‘ Si . I no paint.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘ Perché …’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘ Non lo so .’
    ‘You don’t know,’ said Emma, crawling across the bed. She took hold of his cock through the bed sheet under which he lay. ‘You are a painter. Your whole life has been devoted to art. That barn is filled with your work. You paint. It is who you are. If you don’t paint, who are you?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘If I leave your bed will you paint?’
    ‘No,’ he said.
    ‘I think I’m the reason you don’t paint. I don’t want to be that woman. I shouldn’t let you come near me for a week to see if you take up your brush.’
    ‘No,’ he repeated.

    ‘ Si ,’ she said.
    ‘You fuck other men.’
    Emma grinned. ‘Other men? Like that American? Ooh, yes. Good idea. Where is his number?’
    Marco blanched.
    ‘I promise. I no fuck men. Not without you,’ she answered, feeling his cock grow in her hand. ‘We make test.’
    He groaned as she tugged at him.
    ‘One week. No fuck.