Indigo Skye: Ink and Art: Warm Up Your Winter Nights with "Strangerlove," A Sizzling Free Read by Justine Elyot

Indigo Skye: Ink and Art

Welcomes Author Justine Elyot

Justine Elyot never thought she'd see her name on a book, but somehow she has two on the top shelves now. On Demand was the last ever full-length book to be printed by the legendary Black Lace, while The Business of Pleasure is her first - but not last - outing with Xcite Books. Additionally, she has had short stories and novellas published by Black Lace, Xcite, Cleis Press, Total E-Bound and Noble Romance. She leans towards the kinky side of things. The left-hand side. The sinister.

Strangerlove

By Justine Elyot

Do you ever ask yourself, “How did I get here?”

I mean, of course I know how I got here – I bought a ticket and jumped on a train; easily done, although the destination on the front said Waterloo when it should have been The Unknown. But how did Adela Howard go from being a nice girl who dates losers to a woman who is prepared to meet a stranger in a hotel for no-strings sex? That is a bigger question altogether.

This is the right hotel, I think. The Luxe Noir, a big, intercontinental type of place. For the ninetieth time I recheck the email on my phone.

“Hotel Luxe Noir, Reception, 5.00 pm sharp. Give your name at Reception. Bring only yourself; we will provide everything else you need.
-StrangerLover.”

StrangerLover – the enigmatic mastermind behind StrangerLove.com. I think back to how Gabe described it – a dating agency in reverse.

“None of the awkward smalltalk, none of the waiting by the phone, none of the wildly promising dates that lead to disappointing sex and the inevitable hunt for an exit tactic.” The blurb had made it sound exactly what I needed.

I look back; the taxi is still there. I could jump back in. I am under no obligation to go through with this…but if I don’t, I will wonder forever where this might have led. Before I can think myself out of it, I take a brisk trot up the steps and across the lobby towards the Reception desk. The girl behind it allays my fears with her complicit smile; its warmth persuades me that I am safe and all will be well. “Room 344,” she tells me. The Unknown has a number.

The door of 344 is opened by a woman. I stand staring at her perfect skin and glossy dark hair for a stunned moment before she smiles and ushers me in, showing me to a chair before seating herself opposite.

“Hello, Adela. I’m so pleased you could make it. Before you take fright, I should explain that I am not your match for the evening – I am simply a facilitator.”

I leak out a punctured laugh. “Oh…ah. I see.”

“My role is to make sure that you are completely aware of the rules and happy with them. Do you understand, Adela, that you can call off the meeting at any time?”

“Yes.”

“There is a panic button behind the headboard on the right if it should come to it – but let me reassure you that this has never happened before, and we are extremely careful about who we will accept on to our database. We have every confidence that you will be a very satisfied customer today.” She smiles conspiratorially and I giggle. I am very, very nervous. “Now I must just run through our few rules one final time, Adela. You understand that neither of you must give your name or any personal details to your match?”

“Yes, I read that.”

“If you are happy with the outcome and want to see your match again, you may make arrangements to do so through the website. We do ask you not to reveal personal details until you have enjoyed five successful encounters. Then, if you both wish, you may continue your relationship in private. If you decide to do this, do please let us know at the site. We love success stories.”

She stands, smiling again, and gestures me up with one elegant hand.

“I am going to go now, Adela, but I have one last stipulation. For this first meeting, we always ask that our clients wear a blindfold.”

“Really? Why?” I widen my eyes as the woman produces a length of black satin from her expensive clutch.

“We at StrangerLove believe that sexual compatibility runs much deeper than looks. You might remember from our application form that we did not ask any questions about your preferences on the basis of appearance. We simply asked what you found sexy in a man. We believe we have found you the perfect match, but we would be so very disappointed if some trivial prejudice against, say, moustaches or ginger hair caused you to miss the lover of your lifetime.”

“Are you saying this man has a ginger moustache?”

She laughed. “No. I am not saying that. I think you know what I am saying.”

I nod slowly. In a way, this is a huge relief. I had no idea how I was going to meet his eyes anyway. She moves behind me and I shut my eyes obediently, allowing her to fasten the stretchy material around my head until I am freed from the distraction of sight.

I allow her to lead me to the bed and perch me on its side. Two of her fingertips rest, coldly and briefly, on my cheek before she wishes me a very gentle good evening. The door clicks and I am alone.

In enforced darkness, I am aware of the cling of my blouse and a stiffness at the back of my neck. I try not to breathe, training my ears to pick up any and every sound, but the room is quite quiet. After a long time, which could be five minutes, or less, or more, I put my hands up to my face, thinking I might remove the blindfold and leave.

It is then that a tiny click and creak from the direction of the ensuite bathroom causes my shoulders to jump. It really is the faintest of sounds, but to my taut nerves it is a thunderous roar. What do I hear? A swishing sound, and the fibres of the carpet flattened by footsteps. The room is warm, but my skin goosepimples at a wavelet of air at my front. I hear more swishing, which I guess is my mystery match crouching down on his haunches. I work hard on keeping my back straight and my mouth from wobbling. The gentlest suggestion of heat radiates from the solid presence before me; I find I am guessing at height and build just from this. Tall, I think, and broad.

I sense the hand moving towards me before it makes contact with my skin. To my shame, I flinch as it touches my cheek, exactly the spot that the woman had chosen earlier.

“Ah. You are here.”

The voice is seated somewhere deep in his chest. He sounds educated, professional, successful, perhaps a bit sporty. A hint of self-deprecating humour lurks behind the spoken message. Strange how much you can deduce from four words, when you cannot see.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” I ask. There is a pause, during which I imagine he is making the same guesses and estimates as I just did.

“I never assume,” he says. “I’m glad I’ve found you though, before I broke my shin on something.”

I giggle. “This is strange.”

“Stranger,” he says. “Shall we save the talking for later? If that’s all right with you?”

“It’s…” I trail off. Even though I know the drill, it is still surreal to be living it. I feel as if I should apologise for my shameful lusts, or qualify them. “I suppose we should.”

“If you have cold feet, you have only to say so,” he says. He reaches blindly for one of my hands and finds it. “Though these are warm enough.”

“No. I don’t want to back out. You seem…right.”

“Good. Talk later then.” He puts a finger to my lips and drags it along, first the lower, then the upper, before pulling me suddenly to my feet and into a kiss.

Not the kind of first kiss I am used to; this is more like the third or fourth – the ‘in your stride’ kiss, the ‘I can’t wait to get you to bed’ kiss, the ‘I know my way around your mouth’ kiss. Full-lipped and confident, my unknown ravisher presses me to his body, which is naked apart from a satiny dressing gown of some kind. I move my hands up beneath it and my knuckles glide against the sheeny fabric while my fingertips explore his pectoral muscles, his strong back, his shoulders. I am having to crane my neck to engage in this kiss, so I am right about the height, and his hand feels large and hot and possessive on the back of my head, holding it still under the insistent pressure of his tongue.

There are wiry hairs around his nipples and a scar at the shallow inlet between ribcage and pelvis. I investigate intently, trying to fix his body in my memory, moving down to his hips. He breaks the kiss and places a hand on mine, halting its downward quest.

“You’re still dressed,” he whispers.

He knows how to undress a woman in the dark, and that really impresses me. He does not forget my cuffs, or try to pull my shirt over my head or wrench my skirt down without looking for the button – elementary things that so many men seem to lack the instinct for. He moves in for another thorough scouring of my mouth once he has me down to bra and knickers, and his hands are everywhere, unpredictable in their pattern, rough and hot against my skin while his forearms tighten around my back, jolting me hard against him.

He has a smell about him that is not too fragrant; when I rub my nose into his neck I can discern London fumes, coffee, sweat and arousal beneath the delicate aftershave, although it is becoming more difficult to distinguish between my aroma and his. I am melting against him, my bones softening and my sex liquefying as the neverending kiss finds depths beyond those I have ever imagined. We are connected by touch, no more than that, and yet it is so strong.

His thumb yanks the cup of my bra down so that a stiff nipple pops out; he gives my lips a final nip before moving his head down and lapping greedily at my breast. My hands work through his hair – short, thickish, neatly trimmed – while I begin to moan encouragement. The other nipple is redeemed from neglect, and then his hand slips through the waistband of my knickers, pausing slightly as if for permission, which I give by thrusting my hips upwards. His fingers rush downhill to their lush destination, sliding luxuriantly around in the welcoming wetness. I take the opportunity to remove one hand from his hair and stroke the stiff length that has been denting my stomach. Its proportions are more than respectable, I find. I encompass it with one hand, rub a thumb over the rounded head and squeeze.

“Oh God,” he gasps, releasing my nipple from his mouth and tumbling me down on to the bed. He wrenches off my underwear, splays my thighs and drops down to devour my juices. His chin grazes my thighs and lower lips with incipient stubble, stoking the fires between my legs while his tongue probes and flicks, sucking on my clit as if it is manna in the desert. Two, then three, fingers stretch my opening, rotating and scissoring until the stimulation becomes painful, then unbearable, then blissful and I lose myself in the starburst of orgasm.

I hear him growl, then chuckle, then his tongue, tasting of me, is in my mouth again, and then he is sitting up, getting something from his pocket.

“You’re good at that,” I say in a satiated purr, while the telltale stretch and snap of rubber sings in the air, an unambiguous sound that foretells my fate. He is going to fuck me now.

“Yes, I am,” he agrees immodestly. “I’m not bad at this either.”

He slings one leg over a shoulder, and then I am rigorously and unceremoniously shafted, pierced, penetrated, his hands cradling my bottom and pushing it further down and down and down on his seemingly endless cock. He manipulates my body with skill, finding the angles that sweeten the friction the most, filling me with sensation as if the excavations of his cock light up my secret passage. Every sense, barring sight, is stretched to its limit; the furious sounds, the salty tastes, the ripening smell of our mingled bodies, all leading towards the climactic flood that will roar and froth into every extremity. He holds himself off for as long as he can, mindful of my pleasure in a way that is so unfamiliar to me that I almost want to cry, until, fifteen minutes of thrusting and strumming and squeezing and gasping later, he can hold off no more.

We yell and shake and cling fast to one another under the cataract, swept off into a distant shore where only we exist for those few precious moments.

“We should do this again,” he says eventually.

“Yes. We should.”