Blind Carnival || Chapter 3. Cards on the Table

~ Chapter 3 ~

Cards on the Table

His flat was closer, and they tumbled in, jerking off coats, his hands on the sides of her face, hers on the button of his trousers. He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs, his lips skillful and demanding. Then he pulled at his tie, and she pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders.

Except that’s not what happens.

According to the laws of the genre how they get to either of their flats doesn’t really matter. Most readers just want the characters to finally ‘get to it,’ so it’s usually he pulled her into a passionate kiss – forty miles away from the nearest bed – and then their bodies fell into the sweet trap of his silken sheets. By the way, silk sheets are horrible for shag. Olivia has once bought a set specifically to check. And she and Bea tried rolling and jumping on them. Not good.

No one wants to read about the awkward moment when you finally detangle from his grabby hands and have to find the keys in your handbag. Given, in Olivia’s case he’s standing there panting, delectable as it gets, but still reality is never smooth.

And then she somehow needs to get into the car, drive for ten minutes, and preferably not kill them both. Allan died in a car accident. Driving for her is an emotional equivalent of sticking her head into a freezer.

She concentrates on the road. He clears his throat.

“What do you write?” he asks. “My mother mentioned you’re a writer.”

She looks at him sideways. He’s calmer now. Also, he has none of his previous put together, moderately stylish look any more. His hair’s funnily sticking out; the tie’s askew.

“I write trashy erotic novels. The paperback stuff with a ripped bloke and a maiden with a generous bosom on the cover.”

He hums and settles on the seat more comfortably.

“‘He pulled her into a searing kiss, and the universe opened her its secrets’ type of thing?” he draws out.

She gives him another quick look.

He’s smiling again. The crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes are adorable. Is it his perpetual condition – being mildly amused by everything that’s going on around him?

“Are you one of my readers?”

“I reckon, my Mum is. I was bored once and flipped through one of her favourites. Rather unnerving material.”

“Unnerving?”

“Yeah. If that’s what women expect from men, then you lot have to be in a constant state of disappointment.”

She sighs. She has this conversation with herself more often than she cares to admit.

“I don’t think women realistically expect that from men. Most of the stuff in there would either hurt or be itchy afterwards, if you tried to translate it into the real life. Like shower sex, for example.”

He looks sincerely interested.

“What about it?”

Are the two of them actually having this conversation?!

“Water gets into your mouth if you open it there. If you have soap there, it’s plain dangerous. If you don’t, then there’s… friction.”

She feels blush creep onto her cheeks.

“Hm…” He seems to be actually considering it. “Right there, by the way. That’s my building.”

So, the two of them are now standing in the lift; and it’s a bit awkward but not painfully so. They walked through the hall decorously; said ‘hello’ to a nice elderly concierge, who looked clearly surprised to see John bringing a girl home – and here they are. He opens the door into his flat and flips the switch.

It’s nice, neat and cozy. Lots of books, a sofa, and three stylish armchairs in the living room.

“Could I use your lavatory, please?”

She tries not to stare around – or at least to look like she isn’t.

“Sure, second door to the right.”

They never tell you that the protagonist needed to pee when she’s finally alone with the male in the vicinity of a bed; but let’s face it, many of them are definitely dying to run to a loo. She had a large lemonade at the fair. What do you think her bladder feels like right now?

***

She comes out, and he’s still standing pretty much on the same spot. Then he smiles again.

“Now you have to excuse me. Feel yourself at home.”

He goes to the lavatory, and then the washroom. She giggles. Besides the obvious, they both really needed to wash their hands. Cotton floss is a mess. She wanders to the bookshelf and looks at the spines. Mystery novels, architecture stuff, Dickens, Star Wars novels, some contemporary stuff. Some architecture magazines on the table, a plant on the sill. As normal as it gets.

He comes out. He took off his jacket and the tie; and the pause is hanging in the middle of the room under his stylish shipyard style pendant lamp.

She considers her celibacy for the last seven years. If she doesn’t push herself right now, she’s going to lose her bottle and flee. She steps closer and wraps her arms around his waist. He smiles and kisses her.

That was easy. They both heat up very quickly, his hands in her hair – surprisingly just the right way. He’s not pulling; just sort of lets her curls run between his fingers. He then steps back; the edge of the sofa cuts him down; and he flops down pulling her with him. Coincidentally, to actually turn her on fully, that’s the best position. She’s straddling him and pushes her hands into his hair. It’s short, silky and heavy; it hasn’t been cut for a while, so it curls behind his ears and at the nape. The beard is a whole new question. She will swoon over it later. She’s in control of the kiss, quickly starting to grind her pelvis into him, her hands switching between grabbing handfuls of his gorgeous semi-curls and scraping her nails on the back of his head. Judging by the throaty moans, it’s working for him too. Where is this ballsiness coming from, Olivia? Who cares; it feels ace and it feels right.

“I haven’t had sex in seven years…” she pants out, into his lips – and then freezes.

Why exactly she said this eludes her.

She stops kissing him and looks into his eyes. They are this gorgeous blue that changes depending on the mood. Right now they are Carolina blue. She has eidetic memory for colours.

“I’m boring in bed.”

He’s still smiling, but this time it’s a bit self-conscious.

She slightly moves away and gawks at him. “Sorry, what?”

He puts his large hands on her hips and strokes her skin with his thumbs.

“After the divorce I had a few pulls, but it was… mediocre.”

He rubs the tip of his nose with the right index finger. It’s a very funny gesture on him, shy and vulnerable; and she giggles. He lifts his eyebrows.

“Oh no, sorry!” she rushes to reassure. “I’m not laughing at that! It’s just we are an interesting couple.”

“Yeah, I’m a second rate shag, and you write erotic novels.”

“And I’ve been mourning my dead husband for seven years.”

He looks at her tenderly.

“And no one since then?”

“Nope, never felt like it.” She picks up a button on his shirt and twirls it. “And as for your second rate shagging, sometimes it’s just not working with a random stranger. I mean, if you just picked up those birds in a bar…”

“My wife wasn’t impressed either.”

Oh… She lifts her eyes at him. He doesn’t look particularly upset, though. Sort of just letting her know that’s how it is.

She shifts on his pelvis. The hardness’s still there; and the size’s impressive as much as she can gather. More than impressive. So, no performance issues then. She thinks she should be deeply disturbed by how much this situation actually works for her. Surely, that is not a normal reaction to this information. What would a protagonist of yours do in this situation, Olivia? Sympathize? Promise to help? Mock? Poppycock. One doesn’t need to be a psychoanalyst to understand what’s happening in her noggin. A dominating man especially of this size would scare her brainless right now. And by size she doesn’t just mean his height and the width of his beautiful shoulders.

“So, what exactly was the nature of their complaints?”

She opens the top second button on his shirt.

He chuckles and looks a bit surprised. Did he think she’d just climb off his lap and go home after his astonishing confession? She’s breaking her celibacy for him! She might as well follow through. Plus, as it’s been mentioned above, she’s immensely turned on by his passivity.

“Apparently,” he says, while she pops the next button, “I don’t take control, don’t let go, follow the same old moves.”

She hums to show she’s listening. The shirt’s now fully open.

Blimey, that’s a glorious chest. Hard muscles and thick black chest hair. The one a heroine will be happily sighing on after a rough, overwhelming, life-changing physical love on silk sheets. Which, according to him, is not on the menu.

“And I’m too careful,” he adds. “But have you seen me? I am six four and pretty heavy. Wouldn’t want to crush some vertebra or something.”

She decides it’s time to act. She leans in and kisses his jaw; then she bites into it, the beard adding an exciting dimension to the experience. Then she slides her mouth on his neck and suck. His hands, previously gently stroking her waist, clench her dress; and he’s breathing really really heavily. Interesting. She catches his mouth, rakes her nails on his chest, and his body jolts. So… this is working for him. She digs her nails a bit harder; and his hips buck.

And what does it tell us, my lovelies?

She unfastens the buckle on his belt and unbuttons the trousers, while biting and sucking on his bottom lip. And then she lowers her lips to his ear.

“Have you considered that you just need guidance and education in the area?”

She looks into his eyes – and this time he’s not smiling.

And then he nods.

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Katya Kolmakov
Katya Kolmakov. Mother. Writer. Artist. Fanfiction and Wattpad. First novel on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XJ16W7W.

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