Close Up and Personal (14 page)

From behind the dark of the mask, the world has taken on another hue. And it’s filled with James Berkeley. The heat of his body, the scent of his skin. I realise suddenly that every cell in my body is heightened, crying out for him to touch me.

Did he know it would have this effect?

“Is this how you take all your dates out?” I ask in a poor attempt at humour.

He doesn’t laugh.

“The back of this car has been made to certain requirements,” he says. “The driver can’t hear or see us from the front unless I press a switch enabling it.”

He’s silent for a moment, allowing this information to sink in.

“Have you had a lot of women in here?” I can’t help myself; the jealous memory of Lorna and all the other girls who must fall over him has risen to the fore.

“Yes,” he says, and there’s humour in his voice. “I have fucked women in the back of this car. You are the only woman I have taken blindfold in it.”

“Oh.” I chew at my lip nervously, wondering what my face looks like half-covered with the blindfold.

Sud
denly James’s mouth is at my ear, blowing gently.

“Words cannot explain what an effect you’re having on me, b
lindfolded like that,” he says.

A wonderful fragrance fills the air near my nostrils, and I realise he must be holding the rose close to my face. Then the soft petals touch my forehead and sweep slowly down my face.

My lips part slightly as the bloom runs gently over them. And then James sweeps the rose slowly downwards, across my collar bones and then down to where my green halter-dress meets the tops of my breasts.

Wherever it touch
es seems to make my skin hypersensitive.

“Tonight
, I am going to teach you what it means to be obedient to me,” he murmurs, as the petals touch where my breasts meet.

I gasp as he dallies with the flower over the sensitive skin. Every cell in my body is yearning for him, for his touch.

His hand is on my thigh. I tense and then relax.

“I’m going to make you come now,” he whispers, stroking his hand slowly upwards, so it slides beneath my skirt. “
I’ve been thinking about it since you left last night. I want to touch you. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” I whisper. There’s no point in lying. Desire is coming off me in waves.
It feels as though every part of my skin is extra sensitive.

“Good.” The hand moves higher. “Open your legs.”

I part my thighs a little, and he plunges his hand between them, pulling them forcibly apart. I gasp.

“You needn’t be anxious
, Isabella,” he says. “No one can see us, and you haven’t given me permission to inflict any pain on you.”

He works his hand higher, gently trailing his fingers along the inside of my thigh. “And as you can see
, Isabella, you bring out a gentle side to me.”

My thighs tense at his touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” He whispers it dangerously. I shake my head.

“Say it,” he commands.

I shake my head again. “No,” I whisper, “I don’t want you to stop.”

As his fingers reach the apex of my thighs
, I almost cry out loud.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs. “I’m looking forward to fucking you later.”

His fingers slide in and out of me.

“Turn around,” he says,
“and lie on your front.”

I hesitate, uncertain of what he wants from me. And then he takes me by the hips and turns me so I am lying face down on the leather seat of the car, with my legs parted either side of him.

“I’m not going to fuck you now,” he murmurs. “But since I’m about to afford you pleasure, I think it’s only fair that you give me a view to make it worth my while.”

He pushes up my skirt, and then tugs at my hips, pulling me so my rear is lifted off the seat.

“Very nice,” he says, tugging down my panties.

I feel a confusing mix of excitement and shame course through me. Facing down with my naked behind waving upwards is thrilling and embarrassing at the same time.

Then I feel his fingers slide in between my legs and up over my clitoris, and all thoughts of embarrassment leave me. With the blindfold closing off my vision, the sensation is heightened everywhere. And as he strokes his fingers, faster and faster over my wetness, I feel the orgasm build.

With his other hand he plunges inside me, and the combination of two movements is too much to bear. I tumble over the edge, letting out a deep moan of pleasure as he thrusts at me faster and deeper.

I collapse forward on my belly, panting.

“So quickly,” he says admiringly. “I like that I can have such an effect on you.
”

He pu
lls me around and upright again, breaking me out of my post-orgasmic bliss. My hands move to my blind-fold. I want to kiss him, to reciprocate in some way, but he gently restrains my hands.

“We’re nearly at our destination,” he says. “Better you stay in a presentable state in case there are any paparazzi.

Paparazzi? Where is he taking me?

He slides up my panties and I wriggle gratefully back into them, wishing I had a spare pair.

“I hope this evening changes your mind,” he says, “because if I don’t fuck you later tonight, I’m going to explode.”

I’ve been wondering about that myself. Even for a man of
Berkeley’s obvious self-control, it seems a lot to ask that he stay celibate whilst bringing me to orgasm.

The car veers to the side, then slows and stops. My heart begins pounding out of my chest.
Where the hell is he taking me?

His strong fingers tug off the blindfold, and I am greeted with the welcome view of his perfect features staring down at me.

He looks amused as I blink up at him.

From behind the tinted windows I can’t see anything much.
A London street with more warehouse type buildings. Are we back at his apartment?

“We’re in Shoreditch,” he says to my unasked question. “Can you guess why we’re here?”

I shake my head.

“I’ll give you another clue,” he says,
reaching under the seat. “I realise you have raised an objection to my buying you clothes, but these, I’m afraid Isabella, are a necessity.

He tugs out a shoebox and opens the lid. Inside
is a pair of beautiful handmade shoes. They have a low heel and are made from deep red satin.

Wonderingly
, I take them out.

They look like… dancing shoes.

“We’re going dancing?” I guess.

His face breaks into a smile. “I am taking you to the
La Catedral de Tango
,” he says, his voice rolling expertly over the Spanish words. “And you will understand what it means to be an obedient partner.”

Chapter 13

The
Catedral de Tango
is a large building in the London Regency style, with a grand entrance of Greek columns. But rather than the glitzy frontages of London’s west end buildings, the
Catedral
looks a little scuffed and work-in. We enter a black marble lobby, which has been decorated with works from local artists.

A modern sculpture depicts two tango dancers in an abstract way, and pictures on the wall are cartoon sketches and works of graffiti. The combined effect is young, contemporary and boutique.

“This is a part of London the tourists don’t get to see,” says James with a gleam in his eye. “The artist’s quarter and the music scene. It’s hidden. Only known to a few.”

James pays our way in, handing a banknote to the punk-looking girl taking money, and leads me into the main room, still clutching my shoes.

“You can leave your footwear there,” he says, pointing to a large shoe rack which has been artfully wrought from old bicycle parts.

I lean on his arm, removing my footwear and taking in the room before us.

It is only half-lit, with enormous ceilings leading up to a huge chandelier fashioned from car hub caps.

Towards the back are
a few large tables which obviously provide the bar. They are lined with chic-looking bottles of spirits.

In the main body of the room is a huge circuit, and parading around and through it are hundreds of young tango dancers. They are dressed in a mixture of
indy clothing, vintage and classic tango dresses and suits. And they whirl around the room at their own pace. Some are slower, still getting the feel for the dance. Others are expert, and dance at a dizzying pace, the men tumbling the girls so they sweep inches from the floor. As my eyes follow the edge of the group, a beautiful girl in a green dress is held low by her partner. Her whole body slows, and her leg sweeps a large elegant tango circle outwards against the floor.

Then her partner rights her, stepping her back in time to the music, and they dance away in dizzying perfection.

“You took dance at college?”

James mouth is by my ear, and I’m jerked out of my fascinated study of the dancers.

“Yes,” I say, still mesmerised by the scene. The couples are so beautiful.

“But not Tango?” he guesses.

I shake my head and return to exchanging my shoes for the lovely hand-made pair he’s given me.

Fumbling
, I tighten the straps. My feet now look perfect for Tango dancing. It’s the rest of me I have to worry about.

I straighten up and find myself locked against James, his arms holding my elbows, my eyes staring into his.

“You took modern dance?” he asks.

“No.” It’s hard to concentrate with his face so close to mine. Is the rest of him this perfect? I realise that although he’s seen me naked, I’ve hardly seen any of him. “My focus was on Spanish dancing,” I say.

“Spanish dancing, at college?” his face contorts in confusion.

“I learned it from my mother,” I say, still lost in his features. “Continuing my training was part of the conditions of my scholarship into
drama college. Spanish dancing was what won me the audition.”

“You must have been very good,” he says, “to win a drama scholarship for dancing.”

“Spanish dancing,” I correct him. “It’s like an act all in itself. A lot of the dance is about the expression on your face.”

I haven’t thought back to my first audition for years.
It’s a fond memory.

He looks impressed. “Then you already have much of the requirement for Tango dancing,” he says. “Tango is the dance of love. The best dancers show in their features how the feelings are moving inside them.”

I give him a little grin. “Then Spanish dance is the dance of sadness,” I say. “So perhaps I am not so adept as you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Real Spanish dancing – from my mother’s part of Spain – it is a story of loss. You let your body move through a tale of pain and betrayal.”

He gives a half smile, and his voice drops. “I would very much like to see you dance your own way.” He has pulled me a little closer.

“Mr Berkeley,” I remind him, in a prim voice, “you have brought me here to dance your way. And I am not even sure I will be able to do that.”

“Of course.” His face breaks into a smile. “How un
-gentlemanly of me to forget. Well then, Miss Green, it’s time I put you through your paces. What do you understand of Tango?”

“Not very much.” I am looking out onto the whirling dancers, feeling unease tighten in my belly. Spanish dance is performed solo. I have less experience of dancing with a partner, although it was a class at school. We learned the waltz – standard acting procedure since this dance is the most common in movies.

“Isabella. I brought you here to show you how pleasurable it can be for a woman to submit to a man.”

The words bring a tingling fear to
my body.

“In Tango,” he says, “the man takes the lead. Do you understand?”

I nod, feeling my mouth dry. I’m not used to dancing with a partner.

“There are certain simple steps which I will teach you,” he says. “These steps are always the same, but the direction in which we dance them is determined by me. You dance backwards, always. You must put your total trust in me that I will not lead you into danger.”

Into danger? I look out into the dance floor and realise what he means. In the quick steps and movements of the dancers, plotting a course so as not to knock into anyone is tricky.

“It is an exercise in submission,” he continues. “You submit your will to me. And in return I pledge to protect you and steer you through a pleasurable dance. Does that sound like something you can do?”

“I… Um. I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will show you the steps.”

It takes James under ten minutes to decide I have grasped the basic steps, and he seems pleased with my physical memory. “College dance has obviously served you well,” he says as he walks me
through the eight step dance for the final time.