Free A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA by J.P. Bowie

he experienced such a physical onslaught, and he gasped as her lips and tongue brought him to the brink of orgasm.
    “W…wait,” he muttered, pulling her head away from his throbbing cock.
    Jesus, he thought, she’s like a madwoman. He pulled her down on top of himself and held her fast in his arms, then he rolled her over onto her back. She gazed up at him, her eyes blazing with desire.
    “Fuck me,” she said, her voice thick and sensual. “Fuck me, Luke. Make me feel whole again.” Her hand guided him in, her legs wound around his slim J.P. Bowie
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    hips as they began their rhythmic ritual. “Ah yes,” she cried against his shoulder. “Take me, cowboy…fill me up…”
    Afterward, as they lay spent in each other’s arms, Luke dozed off while Olivia lay gazing up at the bedroom ceiling. Not bad, she thought, not bad for a first time. He needs some refining. He’s no Brad Kingman, that’s for sure, but he’ll do—for a while. The corners of her mouth lifted in a lazy smile as she thought of just what she could teach him. Once she was through, he’d be doing things he never dreamed possible—never in his wildest imaginings.

    Peter pulled his Corvette into the assigned guest parking outside Olivia’s building and, after a deep sigh of resignation, climbed out of the car. It had been two days since the debacle at Jeff ’s birthday party, and despite her apology, he was not looking forward to seeing Olivia again.
    Still, at the moment he had no choice. Two more sittings were required for the portrait and then, the final shooting of the show. At least the camera crew would be there today, so he could avoid having to listen to any kind of deep confessions of contrition from Olivia—should she feel so inclined. Of course, Peter still felt that Olivia really didn’t give a rat’s ass about what had happened at the party, or for what she had called him. Somehow, he knew that just wasn’t really part of her character.
    As he stood patiently waiting for the elevator, he became aware of a presence at his elbow. Looking round, he saw a sweet-faced older lady gazing at him, a little smile working at her lips.
    “Hello,” Peter said, returning her smile.
    She looked up at him, coyly. “You’re the artist, aren’t you? The one on her show.”
    Peter nodded. “Peter Brandon.” He held out his hand, which she touched with tiny, gloved fingers.
    “I’m Winifred Owen.” This was said as if Peter should immediately know the name. “I live below Miss Winters. We don’t speak though…She’s not what you’d call neighborly.”
    Peter could quite believe that. The elevator door opened and he stepped aside to let Winifred precede him.
    “Thank you,” she murmured. “Nice to meet a gentleman. So rare these days.” She winked at him. “I like your friend…Jeff, is it?”
    “That’s right.” Peter grinned. “I like him too.”

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    “I could tell. You both remind me of my brother and his friend…when they were alive. They were very close…” She paused as the elevator stopped at the second floor. “This is where I live. Would you like to come in for a moment? I’d like to show you their picture.”
    Peter glanced at his watch. “I am a little early—so sure, just for a minute.”
    “Oh good,” Winifred said, almost skipping out of the elevator. “I’m right here.” She indicated the door to the right, and handed him the key. He opened the door and she ushered him in, tugging lightly at his arm.
    Inside, Peter looked in amazement at the myriad of framed photographs that covered every wall. “What an incredible collection,” he said, gazing around him. Some of the faces appeared familiar, some not.
    “My friends,” Winifred said with pride. “All the years I was at Silver Screen Productions I got a photo from everyone I ever worked with—and some I didn’t,” she added, giggling. “See, there’s Rock and Tab and Bill Holden—so wonderful to work with—all of them—so