Helen
Soft sheets and warmth and morning light. And him.
I smiled before I opened my eyes, and he was there waiting. “Rise and shine, sleepy head. Big day today.”
“Every day with you is a big day.” “You flatter me, Helen, you really do.”
He was already up and showered, his skin damp as I pulled him back into bed with me. Wet curls tickled, trailed a path to my stomach as he pulled back the covers and kissed his way down. He stopped when his warm breath teased my pussy, and I groaned.
He laughed a gentle laugh. “You are an insatiable little vixen.” “You do this to me.”
He got to his feet, and pulled me with him. “Later.”
A fizz of excitement zipped up my spine. “So, tell me, Mr Roberts. Where are we going on our big day?”
I watched him towel himself, and it was magical. The tiny things were magical. All the little routine things I’d dreamed of for so long. Mr Roberts was such a proper man, strong and lean, and all grown up. His legs were long and toned, and his shoulders were broad and finely angled. And his ass. His ass was just perfect.
He reached into his wardrobe and pulled out a shirt. “Are you checking me out, Miss Palmer?”
I smiled, and felt the flush on my cheeks. “I can’t help it, I’m liking what I’m seeing.” “The pleasure is entirely reciprocated.”
And that’s when I realised the nervousness had gone from me. I was standing, naked and morning rough, in front of a man that made my heart dance in my chest, without even the slightest concern for modesty. And that was him, too. His calm appreciation, his loving touch, his praise and flattery and his integrity. I felt safe with Mr Roberts. Safe, and loved, and confident.
He made me feel confident.
It felt so nice to feel enough, where before I felt so lacking. It felt so nice to be me.
My skin still felt soft and cherished, lathered in citrus body wash and peppered with kisses as he’d washed his patterns away before bedtime.
He pulled on a pair of dark jeans that paired perfectly with the lighter blue of his shirt.
“Dress warm today, Helen. We’ll be doing a bit of walking.”
He had a sock drawer, and it was colourful and cluttered and zany, and it made me smile. He raised an eyebrow. “What?” “Just you,” I said. “Just everything.”
“Are you envious of my collection? Life’s too short for boring socks, Helen.” “Nothing about you will ever be boring.”
“Say that when you’ve watched me do a crossword for three hours straight.” His eyes looked me up and down and he sighed, and it sounded happy. And then he clapped his hands. “Time waits for no one, Miss Horny, you’d better get your pretty little ass into some clothes before you tempt me back out of mine.”
I could hardly sit still in my seat, my tummy a ball of excitement as we joined the motorway. “Where are we going?” I put on my best smile. “Surely you can tell me now?”
He shook his head. “Wait and see.” “But I’m excited!”
“I should hope so. That’s the intention.” “Somewhere far away?”
“Hopefully far enough.”
The thought made me soar. Far enough. Far enough to be together. To hold his hand, and kiss him, and smile and laugh and be a proper couple. A proper couple. It was a dream. A crazy dream.
I watched the signs pass us by as we headed further north. Up past Worcester and Droitwich towards Birmingham.
Birmingham was big. Big enough to be anonymous. Maybe that’s where we were going.
I asked him a zillion questions. I asked him about his best memories, and his most embarrassing moments. I asked him about films, and music, and childhood holidays. I asked him about his childhood art projects, and his favourite animals, and the ten things he’d put in room 101.
And then I told him mine.
And he laughed, and he smiled, and he listened. And he really wanted to know. I could see it in his eyes. He wanted to know me.
“Sachets,” I finished up. “I hate them.”
“Hate them enough to abolish them forever? Why so? Surely they have a convenience, no?” I shook my head. “Firstly, they never have enough actual sauce in them to achieve anything.”
He held up a finger. “So, you’re talking purely sauce sachets. Not salt or sugar. This needs clarifying, Helen. You couldn’t just blanket abolish sachets and regret it later.”
“Ok, Mr Sachet-saver, sauce sachets. You need at least three to actually get enough, and then they’re all sticky and go over your fingers, and you can hardly open the latter ones. And then, where do you even put them when they’re empty? It’s a mess. A stupid, pointless, fiddly, ridiculous waste of time.”
He pulled a face. “I don’t think I can rubber stamp the sauce sachet abolishment, Helen. I’m not convinced their downsides are so heinous they deserve a ban.”
“You’re so wrong.”
He laughed. “I am, am I?” I nodded. “Totally.”
“So, I’m not allowed to put stupid mobile game apps in room 101, but sauce sachets deserve a spot?” “Yes. That’s correct.”
He indicated for the motorway exit. Birmingham it was. My tummy tickled.
“We’ll have to take this up another time, Helen. Don’t think for a second this debate is done. ” His eyes sparkled.
He drove us into the outskirts and parked up by the university train station. And then he took my hand, and I couldn’t stop smiling. There were people all around us, going about their business without giving us a second glance, and it felt amazing.
“You going to tell me now?” I said as we took our seats on the train. “I’m taking you somewhere beautiful.”
And I knew. I just knew. And I was right.
Birmingham Art Gallery was sprawling and busy and absolutely fabulous. I let out a little shriek as we stepped into the foyer.
“I haven’t been here since I was little,” I gushed. “I made Mum and Dad bring me here for my birthday.” I squeezed his hand.
“I remember. You told me all about it.”
“They have the largest collection by Edward Burne-Jones in the world, and I love his work. I love it. And baroque, they have a whole baroque display. And David Cox, too, they have so many of his watercolours here. His landscapes are just incredible. They take my breath away.”
He smiled, and I knew he already knew. Of course he knew. He knew better than me.
“I love the baroque display,” he said. But I already knew that, too. I knew he loved baroque. We’d already talked about it a hundred times.
And that’s when the air shifted between us, and we found that place beyond words, where there was just us, seeing the beauty in the same things, without need to explain it, or dissect it, or rationalise it. We just felt it. Felt the same things.
I watched him as he soaked in the beauty of the paintings around us, and he watched me. Some of those pictures reached inside and grabbed my soul and gripped it tight, and they gripped his, too. I could feel it in his fingers, in the way his hand held mine. He’d smile and it would speak to my heart, and make it flutter. His pleasure made my spirit dance and sing and twirl.
In that wonderful place he was my teacher again, pointing out the detail in some of the finer watercolours, and the depth of the palette in the more dramatic baroque pieces. In that wonderful place he was also a fellow artist, an admirer of talent and brilliance and flair. But mainly in that wonderful place he was my lover. He was the man whose fingertips loved mine, and whose eyes shone with shared delight.
In that wonderful place that wonderful man was all mine, and he completed me.
We were admiring The Finding of the Saviour in the Stable by William Holman Hunt when I felt eyes on us. Mark felt them, too, and for a second he was nervous, I could tell. I dropped his hand on instinct, just in case. It was a couple, an older couple, and they were smiling.
“Beautiful piece,” Mark acknowledged, and they stepped closer. “We love his work,” the woman said. “He’s Ted’s favourite here.” Ted nodded and gave a little smile.
The woman placed her hand on her heart and looked at me like I was made of porcelain. “It’s so lovely,” she said. “To see you share such a bond with your daughter like this. What a treasure that you appreciate the same things. Our son was never interested, was he, Ted? We tried so many times to get him to come along with us.”
I couldn’t look at Mark, I just couldn’t.
“I guess I’m just very lucky with Helen,” he said. He placed his hands on my shoulders and pressed himself to my back, and I could feel him. His voice was so calm. “I take such joy in showing Helen new experiences. She is such a delight of mine.”
He swayed his hips, and I felt the swell of him press against my ass. My cheeks burned up, but I smiled. I just kept smiling. “That’s lovely,” they gushed. “So lovely.”
I didn’t know whether to be amused or mortified when they walked away, but Mark was smiling, seemingly nonplussed. “Alright, Dad?” I poked my tongue out.
“I thought I looked pretty young for my age, clearly I was mistaken.” “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I look like a pre-teen.”
“You certainly do not.”
He took my hand again, and it felt better. “Does that bother you?” I said. “The age gap thing?”
“That other people notice it?” He shook his head. “No. My guilt has to do with my professional standing, not the difference in age. Quite frankly, Helen, I’m not too concerned with convention for convention’s sake. Age means little to me.”
I saw them out of the corner of my eye, stopping at a painting further along. “Kiss me,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Go on,” I said. “Please.”
“Are you trying to cause mischief for those poor old people, Helen?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Just kiss me.”
He cleared his throat, and looked around the room, and then he pressed his fingers under my chin, and tilted my face to his.
It was slow. So slow. There was the softest brush of his thumbs across my cheeks, and the most tender sigh before his lips pressed to mine.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, and pulled him close, and his hands found my waist and gripped me there. His tongue pushed inside my mouth, and I sucked at him and breathed him in, and wriggled against the swell in his jeans.
And the couple were gone when I opened my eyes. “You’ll be the ruin of me,” he said.
“So you keep saying.” I smiled.