He was close enough to tear the denim from his trousers. T. Blasted through the smallest of gaps between two cabbies and through the red light. Without a care, he leaned himself almost completely off the left hand side of the bike, angling away from Commercial Street and towards Old Street without the slightest drop in speed. His path was marshalled by interfering amber. He had no mind to see them become red. T. tipped the front end of his Street Fighter 848 into the Old Street roundabout, cutting within inches of the car approaching with right of way. He flicked his weight to the right, his toes perched on the tips of the foot pegs. His right knee pushed out, the shocking pink and black helmet leaned far beyond the width of the handle bars. Red – Old Street roundabout had become an apex and T. hit its sweet spot sideways. Out of the bend he stood her up with all the drama of his twin Termigoni exhausts and parted a sea of pedestrians under the gaze of two red eyes. He tore a route towards Kings Cross.
T. was late with intent, because he knew it would frustrate her, unsettle her, and put her in her place. As such, he decided to turn this into an excuse to test his Ducati's performance.
The entire length of Euston Road to the Marylebone flyover was a conveyor belt of metal - tightly packed cars rolling off the production line of congested misery. T.'s red Ducati made a way through the grid like a ball-bearing dropped through a maze. His left hand held the clutch in mid-release, his right smoothly rolling on and off on the throttle. The torque of the twin cylinder Testastretta engine in the lower gears threw him into any space he looked. The toes of his right foot tapped the rear break leaver like Morse code. The stopping power in the rear Brembo discs allowed T. to turn on a knife edge between side doors and bumpers. He filtered through to the left, through the hot exhaust of a heavy goods vehicle, kicking up into second gear as he passed the lights, and finally had clear road in front of him. He pushed the front wheel back to the tarmac as he opened the throttle and allowed the Termigoni exhausts to announce his presence on the Marylebone flyover.
A little while later T. eased his bike into the rear entrance of Nigella Lawson's Notting Hill mansion, and caressed the throttle to an easy purr before coming to a stop. Kicking the side stand down, he swung his left leg over the tank and turned to face the rear of the house. As he took off his helmet, he excitedly awaited confrontation.
He was sorely disappointed, as on the inside of the glass extension he could see her arguing with another man. He was grey, old and rather ratty in appearance despite his fine garments. Their hands waved and jabbed at the air in accusation. Knotted brows, fists hammering tables – the man advanced in threat. She pointed in T.'s direction. He shrugged and moved closer. She stood her ground. An envelope pushed into her chest. She let it drop from her without even looking. A clenched fist shook in front of her nose. T. casually knocked on the glass.
Nigella, wearing a figure hugging black Channel dress, broke from the argument to open the door for T.. Her eyes glared fiercely, "You're late." She turned away from him, and went to the kitchen work top, decorated with a half empty bottle of Château d'Yquem, and a large glass. Nigella casually filled it to the brim as she introduced her guests. "T., this is Charles. He was just leaving." Without looking up, she gently placed the wine glass to her lips and drank it down, steadily and thoroughly until empty. She ended with a relieved gasp, and a minute wince at some unknown bitter sensation.
Charles assessed T. with accusation. Nigella Lawson's ex-husband practiced much greater restraint in front of T. than he did in front of his former wife. There were loose things about the kitchen, and as Charles continued his silent profiling, T. became expectant of the old crank hurling a plate or knife his way. He seemed the type, a person who would not trust his own hands to defend himself.
"I know what's going on here," Charles said, seemingly held back by an invisible grip. He turned to Nigella who remained with glass in hand. "You disgust me." He collected the envelope from the floor and slammed it on the kitchen worktop. "You know what – fine! You want to whore yourself to this dumb shit? Go ahead – but you're not doing it in a house I still own." Jabbing a stern finger on the seemingly pivotal piece of white folded envelope paper, Charles' lips recoiled to spit some other curse – but he thought better of it. He flung his hand in front of him as though swatting the sight of his ex-wife from his eyes, and then left, slamming the front door in an attempt to put closure on the situation.
Nigella's head silently fell into her hands. T. couldn't see if she was crying, but he guessed she was. A voice told him to comfort her. Put a hand on the fair skinned shoulders that rose from the edges of her black dress with smooth invite. Glide her raven locks from her neck and press his lips along their warm and sweet scented length. He was to press himself to her and reassure her with his warmth.
But there was another voice, one that spoke with greater volume. It told him to stay exactly where he was, and continue to watch her as he now did, with eyes that said nothing of his carnal desire, lips held easily together, not speaking of the events that had just transpired. He would lean on the kitchen worktop, and without speaking, tell her that he was not interested in her affairs.
She at last looked up. The mascara around her eyes had melted into trails of charcoal black paint. The hazelnut hue of her pupils glistened with fragile anger until at last she could look at T. no longer. She filled her glass with the remainder of the golden white 2001 vintage.
"...So are you enjoying yourself?" Nigella tilted the full glass enough to sip its overflowing contents. "That wouldn't have happened if you just got here when I asked."
T. denied her a response, save for his calm countenance.
She leaned back, her eyes wide, and brows raised in surprise. Her free hand gestured towards T., telling him it was his turn to speak and explain himself.
He would do no such thing. He did not owe her an explanation either. Her unspoken words implied a covenant to share more than their bodies. It was an agreement that was neither necessary nor mutual.
Realising an answer was not forthcoming she swallowed a mouthful of wine and then delicately touched her red tipped fingers around the wet streaks on her cheeks. "The taxi is waiting outside. We should go... when you're ready." She turned from him, took another mouthful of the pale drink and then stared at the remainder in her glass, looking for something at the bottom of the well.
Good, T. thought, perhaps now she gets it.
Deciding enough damage had been done for the time being, he removed himself from the kitchen and went upstairs to the master bedroom. Inside, things were as he had come to expect them since he began this affair. Nigella loved the passion implied by red over white, and so the duvet and pillow set bled over white sheets, just as the curtains cut a gash along the matt white walls. All of this on top of a soft cream carpet so thick, its comfort could be felt through the soles of a shoe. All together the effect was distinctly feminine, but subtly vampiric, and T. rather enjoyed it. He closed the door behind him as he entered, noticing the soft swish of her red silk bathrobe. Aside from this all her other clothes were neatly away in the walk-in wardrobe. Intentional, T. thought, especially as the air was still sweet with Channel Chance. He could anticipate her, quietly waiting beyond the door, choosing the moment to enter and seduce him.
On top of the tidy red duvet sat two black boxes with T.'s name on them. Removing the lids, he found in the larger box a black blazer jacket by The Kooples, a white Hugo Boss shirt, as well as a pair of well fitting mint green Dockers chinos.
T. was somewhat disappointed that he actually liked the arrangement – he hoped when he had allowed her to buy these for him, that she would have got it fantastically wrong, but she hadn't. Despite his best efforts to retain a purely carnal affair, Nigella had a way of doing things that were to him magical. It was like her maternal experiences had birthed in her the ability to be a better lover. She could percept his needs, guess his size and his worries. She was close to his ideal – mature, intelligent and beautiful. It was because she was so desirable, so comely that he found it so difficult to break her. T.'s issue was simple - as magnificent as she was, she was better as a wreck than as a woman. And so he found himself taunting her, denying her and stretching her longing until warped into desperation. T.'s pulse raced at the image of her, kneeling before him, delicate hands pawing at his belt, hazelnut orbs looking up at him - wanting him.
T. began to undress, stripping off his shirt, and immediately becoming aware of the bedroom door gently opening with the softest of creaks. Without turning, he could see Nigella slipping through the barely open door reflected in the bedroom dressing table mirror. Her reflected eyes met his as she still cradled her half full wine glass. Her cheeks were still smudged in mascara, and the eyes above them told of a longing. Wine glass in the right hand, she began to explore her Channel dress with her left.
Her index finger and thumb slid along the edges where the black fabric met the top of her breasts, and then towards the open shoulders. She inspected the faultless skin on display and sighed. T. threw his shirt to the floor, and then stepped out of his shoes. Nigella's hand smoothed along her sides, checking her womanly hips were still evident through their black wrapping. The hand slid to the front of her thigh and down to the knees where the dress ended and the translucent red of her tights began. She pulled the ends of the dress up with her hands, slowly revealing the lace bands that held her tights in place. She explored the space between her legs, rolling her head back to expose her neck. She tightening her inner thighs around her hand and moaned deeply, dropping her gaze to catch T. in trance.
T. broke away from the reflection, stripped his jeans off, and took the trousers from the box. Pulling them up to his waist, he found the fit so exact that a belt would only be a decorative measure. He adjusted the waist, and made a deliberate show of doing up his zip.
In the reflection Nigella pushed herself against the edge of the door so that the frame pressed against the centre groove of her back and into the space between her buttocks. Not enough, she pulsed up and down firmly against it, her hand massaging her breasts. Her teeth bit into the bottom of her red lips and her tragic eyes opened from their self indulgence, searched for T.'s reciprocation.
T. zipped his chino's, and took the shirt. He had only put his arms through the sleeves when he saw her bitterly down the remainder of her wine. She carelessly dropped the glass to the floor, and glided over to T.. Hands that could form deliciousness so effortlessly stroked across his chest. He felt the firmness of her breasts pushing against his back. He could feel her face rest against his shoulder blades. Her fingers trickled from his chest and down his stomach to his waist line. They inquired while her warm presence soothed. He could turn and take her – forget the waiting taxi – he could take her until he passed out... Could she sense such a thing?
T. began to button his shirt - a simple gesture that repulsed her cool touch. Her hands ceased their play, and she forced the cinematic drama of her face in front of him. He could suck the anguish from her mouth so readily... "Go fuck yourself!"
Nigella stormed out and in to the bathroom just outside.
T. finished doing his shirt up, and tried to cool his obvious heat. Throwing on the jacket, and then stepping into the brown leather Ted Baker shoes with no laces, he crept to the bathroom door. It wasn't closed and easily he could hear the frantic rummaging of hands searching for sugar to sweeten the day's sour dough. Without intruding he could envision her furiously rectifying her makeup, eyes wide, mascara brush in one hand flicking at her lashes while her other hand reached for the powder box in the draw beneath the bathroom mirror - the secret ingredient to T.'s attraction to her.
Her relationship with the Charlie at first repulsed T., greatly. But within a few weeks he had been exposed to more of it than at any time in his life. Initially he seldom partook, but now he utterly refused to – although he now no longer objected to Nigella's indulgence with it. At times, such as now, he was guilty of fostering her use, pushing, tormenting, with surgical subtlety. How all this made him feel – he wasn't sure. But his mood towards the afternoon's activities had greatly changed. How much longer could he resist a charged and vigorous woman such as her - a woman keen to feel the rush of youth inside her and the firmness of a virility pressing against her, exercising the passage of time and preserving her classic beauty from climax to climax?
T. could hear her cutting her lines with a precision only a woman with her delicacy could muster. Just the one – she snorted it in with a polite series of sniffs. She let out a long and luxurious breath.
Nigella emerged from the bathroom bright and focused. Her makeup had been restored to what it once was, and she took care to make sure her nose was clean. She presented herself before T., who smiled knowingly at her. Without further ado, they made their way downstairs. Nigella collected her handbag, red patent leather, Jimmy Choo, just like her shoes. The taxi parked began its diesel engine's guttural call as they stepped outside, and they silently got in.
The cabbie was only a pair of deeply lined eyes in the rear view mirror, and a balding crown to anyone sitting behind. T. sat on the left, Nigella on the right, both looking out of their respective windows as the cab rolled around the corner at the end of the street with much drama. They were soon onto Notting Hill High Street. and moving with little hindrance from traffic. T. sat back into his seat and closed his eyes in an effort to pass the time in rest.
Her touch was so subtle, only catching T.'s awareness when her red nails deliberately bit into him. He kept his eyes closed, and made his best attempt to ignore her, to vex her just that little bit more. His body struggled to follow plan.
Nigella's hand discreetly massaged T.'s growing interest until she could grasp him like a baton wrapped in cotton. T. couldn't help but stir as her grip tugged, longing to wrap fingers fully around. T. removed his eyes from the passing scene of Bayswater to the developments occurring between his legs. Nigella had slid closer and with sincere softness, she unzipped T.'s chinos. A flutter came across his heart as her soft palms caressed at him. Experienced hands that they were, they wasted no time gripping his length and hauling it out before an expectant audience. T. watched her hands at work, unable to tell her no. The cabbie's eyes met T.'s for a brief moment and then quickly returned to full focus on the road.
Nigella moved her body closer, slinging a leg over T.'s lap and opening the route for his hands to reach her in turn. Her firm breasts pressed against his arm as the cab turned with labour. She breathed gently towards his ears. While she maintained her strokes, T. clasped her by the inner thigh, pushing the lip of her dress further up her legs. He could feel the warmth on his finger tips before they even began to pull aside the lace of her French knickers. Her forehead came against his cheek as she let go a sigh of relief following the pressing massage and the dive of his index and ring fingers. They withdrew, massaged again, and then went back in, until they had disappeared down to the knuckle.
T. pressed his fingers against her upper wall in the motion of a man beckoning a kitten. She twisted herself so that she faced him from the side. As she continued to stroke him, she threw herself astride his lap, plunging his longing mouth into her breasts. A joyous gasp left her, and she began to thrust back at T.'s stroke. His hands were wet to the wrists in passion that now marked the seat and the crotch of his mint Dockers. Directly her hazel eyes came before him in full dilated frenzy. She seized his hand, and with open mouth, slowly pulled it out of her to the sound of a wet kiss. Without taking her glare away from T., she guided his fingers to her waiting tongue and licked the length of them. She swallowed them whole, and then with avarice, licked up all trace of her up to his wrist. She returned his fingers to her mouth, holding them with a gentle bite. As though she wished him to see it all, she pushed her own hand deeply inside, shifting on top of it with minute jerks, and removing it in a generous lashing of her rosé.
With this she returned to her strokes with a precise and smooth vigour, blending the sensuality on her fingers with T.'s weeping prelude to pleasure. It was coming to the head. T. pulled her mouth to his, letting her tongue enter and play. The slow rise was making its way from deep within. No attempt at composure could stop his break from their kiss to breath out joy. He would melt in her hands in but a moment.
A jolt brought the cab to an unglamorous halt, shaking the pair into some sense of awareness for their surrounds. T. checked outside, not exactly recognising where they were. He looked at the lowered eyes present in the rear view mirror.
"We're just around the corner. Thought you might want to get ready..." The cabbie spoke flatly, and didn't turn around even once.
"Thanks." T. gathered himself, easing Nigella off his lap, and tucking himself away. Nigella, straightened her dress, and with her dark hair falling about her T. could just about discern a smile.
As the cabbie slowly moved off, Nigella turned back to the window. "Are you deliberately trying to make me feel like shit?"
T. busied himself tidying his shirt – his chinos were stained, but, and he smiled to himself at the thought, it was a good stain, along with the perfume on his fingers.
"...Ok, fine!" She turned to him with a sky high look of urgency, "I want you to fuck me. I want you to throw me down somewhere, rip the clothes from me, pin me down or tie me to the floor. I want your hands to pull my hair, while you do me from behind like a dog." She stared at him, wanting his acceptance of her desperation.
The taxi at last arrived at their destination. Outside the entrance to the Tate in Pimlico had been made up to look barbarically elegant, with red carpet and open flame torches flanking the entrance. The short walk to the main door was decorated in gold and green up-lighting, casting the concierge assigned to escort guests in an enigmatic hue.
Nigella still watched T. for a response. She was edged forward, almost hanging off his next choice of words. To deny her pleasure was enjoyable only to a point. But as she was now was exactly how T. enjoyed her. This woman of so many wondrous layers – T. would do all she would ask – but only on his terms. And then what? And then to where? There was an end to this that T. could anticipate. But he was sure he would be well away from her life by that tragic moment.
...To be continued.