Free The Blue Guide by Carrie Williams

of him, inside me. The feel of my manicured talons on his arse cheeks must excite him, for suddenly he’s plunged into me, not thrusting but just pushing, pushing, to the point where I’m worried that the limo door might not be locked and that I might be forced out onto the pavement. I’m soaring like a bird now, being lifted higher and higher, already sensing the approach of one almighty orgasm, like the pre-shock of an earthquake.
    I inch my bum backwards, over the leather seat; there’s not much room to manoeuvre but it’s just enough for me to set myself in motion, to start sliding myself up and down his pole, which is well lubricated by now. He’s still trying to hold off, I can tell, but he hasn’t got a hope in hell now; within moments we’re working in synch. I ride him beautifully as he saws in and out of me, matching his movements, keeping my pussy walls tight around him.
    As the first moans start escaping from his throat, I too start to wail, half afraid I’m going to go out of my mind with it all. I feel that I’m on a precipice, that there’s an edge beyond which madness lies. But something inside me knows that this madness, should it be provoked, is the price to pay for this pleasure, this pleasure that comes liberally dosed with a kind of sublime pain.
    He hits the spot, all of a sudden, and I’m thrashing in his arms almost as if I’m trying to fight him off, bright lights flashing behind my closed eyelids like fireworks. He comes too, pulling himself out of me while my orgasm is still rippling through me, whimpering something in Spanish. Then we lie in a crumpledheap on the back seat, clothes strewn around us, the rich, salty smell of his semen around us.
    After a minute he splashes me down with champagne, where he’s come on my tits, and then leans forwards to lap it off.
    â€˜Where next?’ he smiles.
    We drive around the City for a while, happy, for a time at least, to be aimless. We look at fragments of Roman walls, at old churches, at modern skyscrapers, sometimes accompanied by a little running commentary by me. Paco, for his part, talks a little of his native Madrid and tells me I should go there sometime. He also speaks lovingly of Chicago, where he lived for five years during his training.
    On the way back into central London, I have the driver stop by Liverpool Street Station, and we walk through into the plaza behind it, where office workers are sitting eating packed lunches or takeaway sushi in the sunshine. I point out the sculptures dotted around the place.
    â€˜An open-air art gallery,’ I say. ‘Free to everyone. And you can not only look but touch. Neat, huh?’
    We stroll around Exchange Square for a few minutes, looking at the various pieces. Paco confesses that he’s not wildly into art, that he’s much more at ease with music, which he claims is in his blood. But he is much taken by a voluptuous reclining figure on the east side of the plaza, hips swathed in fabric but otherwise naked: the
Broadgate Venus
.
    â€˜I don’t like skinny woman,’ he muses as he admires the figure. ‘Slim, yes, but a few curves are essential.’
    I remind him that he’s been photographed on the arms of some of the world’s most emaciated women.
    â€˜Ah yes,’ he smiles. ‘My supermodel phase. But you’ll notice it didn’t last long. I was just making a name for myself. My agent encouraged me, said it would get my name about. And he was right. But it wasn’t a whole lot of fun. I prefer women who love life, and that includes good wine, good food and making love. Making love spontaneously,’ he adds, ‘not because of some cocaine buzz.’
    He pauses, looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Like I said,’ he continues, ‘the last thing on my mind was being unfaithful to Carlotta. But when I came in and saw you on the bathroom floor, when I saw how you sent yourself into some