I enjoyed posting a chapter a day last week and finding appropriate images to share with you, so this week for
Operation Author: 365 Actions to Becoming a Successful Author
I'm going to continue to serialize chapters from Solomon's Secrets. Today I'm sharing three chapters; 8, 9 and 10 - because 8 and 10 are really short.
Warning:
Things start getting saucy and this content is not suitable for under 18's
Bristol
She’s a liar. She knows
things. Sees things.
I know it. I
see through her.
But it makes me
want her.
She carries
herself like the world can never touch her. Never lets anyone in. But he’s
getting closer. A kiss, a contact so fragile it could shatter in seconds. It
melts, but leaves its scent. A whiff of desire.
A little more. Just
a little push. If he could only have the courage to do it. Jon is my way in.
He will work
his way in. He can open her up in so many different ways.
Then I can
tease out her inner self. Bring her to the surface. Bring her to truth. Bring
her to climax. I’ll feel her inside me. He will step aside and I’ll know her
completely. We can strip away all the pretense. Force her honesty.
Her soft,
alabaster flesh will be pressed into mine. Her warmth and sweat right there,
next to me, swallowing me. I’ll fill her. Push myself in. Work deeper. Her body
under mine, our bodies as one. She’ll want it. She may resist, but I will have
what I want from her. Jon’s time will be up and she’ll be mine.
Harbourside,
Bristol
“I’m
so glad to get those shoes off!” said Sasha, clambering onto the settee beside
him and resting her feet on a cushion. She took each foot in turn and massaged
her toes.
“Thank you for coming to the party with
me. I appreciate it,” said Jon.
“Hey, no problem. As soon as you told me
there was a free bar it was a no brainer!”
They laughed together, then settled into
quiet comfort.
“Seriously, Sasha. Those awards
ceremonies are no fun without someone to share them with. If it hadn’t been for
you I’d have been stuck with a bunch of boring old farts in ill-fitting suits.”
She smiled and tipped her head back into
settee.
“They weren’t so bad. For accountants.”
Jon chuckled and shuffled back into the
opposite corner, his eyes passing over her.
“The coffee’s smelling good,” he said,
making conversation.
“The machine will be a couple more
minutes. Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?”
“No, no. I have work in the morning.
I’ll have a quick drink then head on back to the hotel. I just wanted to make sure
you got back safely really.”
He idly twisted his fingers through his
hair and she was fascinated by his movements for a moment.
“You tried to tell me at the party, but
am I right in thinking you’ve tracked down Assim Hadad?” he asked.
“I have. I managed to charm his
secretary into revealing his schedule,” she was still feeling pleased with
herself, “He’ll be leaving his Paris apartment in a few weeks to fly out to
Alexandria for a week. There is a window of three days when the place will be
empty without any danger of his housekeeper interrupting. It’s worth a shot.”
He smiled and nodded.
“I knew you’d get there,” he said, “What
about the manuscript, or the other rings – any progress?”
“Nothing much. But if we follow the
clues to the rings I have a feeling they will lead us to the manuscript.”
He smiled in satisfaction.
“So when do you set off?”
“Me?”
“Sure. Why not? Fancy a bit of breaking
and entering?” he winked, “I can get you there, but you need to get in. Are you
alright with that?”
“I guess so. All I need to do is sneak
in, look around and sneak out. As long as his schedule doesn’t change it should
be easy. But I have a busy couple of weeks, I’m not sure when we can meet next
before I set off.”
She returned to massaging her feet and
winced, finding a particularly sore spot.
“I’m heading back to Nice tomorrow
afternoon, but will be back in London at the end of next week. Where will you
be then?” he said.
She stopped rubbing her feet for a
moment and looked up at him, “That works out rather well actually. I’m working
at the British Museum for the next two weeks, assisting them with some research
for a joint project with the University. I could meet you in London?”
“Excellent. I’ll find you.” He smiled
and watched her go back to rubbing her feet.
“What are you working on at The British
Museum?”
“Some artefacts from a copper age burial
mound was recently unearthed in Wiltshire. Contractors stumbled across it
preparing the groundwork for a new housing estate. Bristol University sent a
team over and they’ll be using some of the resources in London to examine them.
I’m there just to advise and help train the students.”
“So you do still get involved with
archaeology then? I always thought it was something of a diversion for you,
working on this manuscript?”
“Well, it’s what the university pay me
for!” she said, grinning.
“So why are you so obsessed with finding
the rings and the manuscript? Is it because of the box?” he asked.
A flash of panic ran through her. Why is
he asking about the box? She forced a smile, trying to mask her guilty
conscience.
“What do you mean?” she asked, then
looked away.
“I think you know what I mean Sasha. What
happened in Varna with David?”
She laughed nervously, “Let me grab
those coffee’s for us.”
She got up but he gripped her arm to
stop her. The grip was gentle, easy enough for her to shake him off, but he was
determined to get an answer from her.
“Leave the coffee for a moment,” he said, a
note of irritation in his tone, smiling to try to mask it. She had to give him
some sort of an answer, he was suspicious enough already.
“You already know David and I had an
affair, so what do you think?”
She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.
“Actually, up until this point I didn’t
know for sure, but now I do.”
She felt her cheeks flame. Shit - now
she had no chance to hide her guilt. She slumped back down onto the settee and
rubbed her feet once more.
He laughed quietly then smiled at her,
“It makes sense now. You admired David Thornton when you worked with him, you
were a young student archaeologist and you idolised him. He took advantage of
that, and perhaps of you and you feel you owe it to him to continue what he
started.”
“It wasn’t quite like that.”
“But he’s the reason this is important
to you, isn’t he? There are rumours he stole something from the Varna dig, and
soon after he was dead.” He raised an eyebrow and searched her eyes. He knew
she was hiding things from him.
“David was no thief,” she said, leaving no
doubt in her tone.
He looked at her, silent for a moment.
“I’m sure he wasn’t,” he said and a
small smile flickered across his face. He watched her as she rubbed the balls
of her feet, trying not to make eye contact with him.
“Come on,” he patted his lap, “give them here.
I’ve been told I have magical hands!”
The mood had shifted, as if both of them
were making a conscious effort to be convivial.
She laughed, “Magical hands! Well, the
mind boggles!”
He smiled broadly and gestured to her
feet.
“Are you sure?” she said, her voice
challenging him to reveal the punchline of the joke.
“Absolutely, come on. Let me. Consider
it an apology for pressing you before.” A contrite smile on his lips.
She slid her feet onto his lap
hesitantly and he wrapped his hands around them.
His fingers were soft and warm, like
sliding her toes into woolly slippers on a cold night, “oh, that does feel
good!”
She slid back and stretched along the
settee as he got to work on her feet. Circling his fingers with firm pressure
around the knuckles of her toes then slowly working the circles over the balls
of her feet. He pressed his fingers into the tender flesh of her instep,
cradling her calves gently across the impeccably smooth cloth of his trousers. The
soft, luxurious, fabric sent shivers of pleasure along her legs as her skin
brushed against him. She closed her eyes, enjoying the gentle tickle of his
fingers along her toes.
“How’s that?” he said softly, his voice
as soothing as his hands.
“Mmm. I agree on the magical hands.”
“What can I say, I’m a man of hidden
talents.”
She chuckled quietly, the tensions
melting away, the last vestiges of the evening’s wine still lingering, making
her feel pleasantly woozy.
“I’m sure you are!” she muttered and
stifled a yawn, “I suppose in your line of work, touch is important?”
“It is. I like to feel the quality of
the silks I trade with my own fingers. I’ve been told I have a knack for
picking up minute flaws only the most receptive sense of touch would notice.
Flaws so insignificant most silk traders wouldn’t blink. I however, strive to
experience perfection.”
He spoke almost reverently, his tone
lyrical and enthralling. She could feel herself becoming more and more aroused
by the patterns of his speech and the feel of his touch on her skin, working
fluidly together to pull her deeper and more completely into the moment. It was
the closest she’d had to intimate contact for a long time. Not since Tom.
“How do you experience perfection?” she
asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Moments. Snapshots. An enveloping
sensation. It’s intangible, it’s infrequent but when you experience it, it
swallows you completely.”
She could almost taste his words. Like
sliding a beautifully cooked piece of meat around your taste buds or sinking
into a bath of warm scented water. Was she experiencing perfection, right here,
right now?
He had worked the circular movements
further now and was pressing his fingertips into the voids bedside her Achilles
tendons. The flexible skin sliding along the bones, the warmth of his touch
rippling over her flesh. He methodically, hypnotically, rolled his fingers
further along her leg, massaging her calves now, his touch moving rhythmically
along the contours of her muscles. She groaned involuntarily. He slid his hands
back down the front of her feet, trickling his fingers along the bones just below
the surface, her skin undulating under the pressure. Then swept them back up
over her shins. She slid further down the settee, her feet moving further
across so her knees were almost over his lap. As she shifted her weight, she
brushed her foot across his groin, feeling the hard mound in his trousers. She
felt herself blush, hoping she hadn’t crossed an unseen boundary. She opened
her eyes and looked at him, ready to apologise if necessary, but his face was
set with a contented smile. There was a flicker of something in his eyes,
something lustful. He continued to work his hands in warming circles along her
legs. They slipped under the hem of her dress then into the dip under her
knees. She allowed her knees to fall away from each other, opening her legs a
little.
“How are your feet now?” he asked. She
opened one eye.
“I’d forgotten about those!”
He let out a soft laugh.
“If you want me to stop. Please say,” he
said, pausing briefly.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed the words.
He applied a little more pressure and
moved his hands to concentrate on one of her legs. He enclosed his hands around
her thigh, moving further up. Levering apart her legs and tracing his hand
along her inner thigh. His fingers worked slowly up, edging closer to her most
intimate self. She was tingling all over. The room around them seemed to melt
away as she allowed him to explore the contours of her skin.
Part of her longed for the intimacy, to
feel good, to release herself to him - but something stopped her.
Her eyes snapped open.
“Stop,” she tried to say, but the words
seemed to wrap around her tongue. She said it again, forcing the word, as if it
had come from some deep primal part of her body, long forgotten.
“Stop.” This time it was unmistakable.
She closed her legs and pulled them away
from him as if he had burnt her.
“What is it?” his voice full of
distress, “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”
“No, no. Not that.” She shook her head
and hid her face, pulling her knees up to her chin and hugging them, closing
herself in.
“Sasha, I..” his hand hovered inches
from contact, ready to reassure her. She shrank back, putting space between
them.
An awkward silence lingered before she
looked up at him. His eyes were filled with unease, anxiety – and something
else. A darkness. For a split second she wanted to run. A strange sense of fear
gripping her. She shook it away. Ridiculous, she told herself, there was no
reason to fear him, it wasn’t logical. And yet…and yet?
“Forgive me Sasha. I’ve gone too far. I’m
sorry.” He fumbled his way off the settee.
He paused, hovering beside her until she
looked up and their eyes met.
“Should I leave?”
A weak smile fluttered across her face
before she eventually answered him.
“No. I’m sorry Jon. I’ve had a lovely
evening. I have, I’m just…I’m not ready for…” she offered him an apologetic
smile.
Again, that darkness flicked across his
face, before he wiped it clean with a tender smile.
“Please. Don’t apologise. You’re right.
The timing is wrong. We’ve both had a drink. Let’s end tonight before we spoil
it. Goodnight Sasha.”
He scooped up his jacket and left her
apartment.
Bristol
Cruelty. Such cruelty. Why?
Why does she do this? Does she get a kick from it? Does she enjoy making him
squirm? Does she want to hurt him? Does she want to hurt me? I’ll show her
hurt. Real hurt.
No.
No. I can’t. I
won’t. She’s too precious.
What would
Gabriel do? He was always more of a man than Jon.
Gabriel would
tell us to be patient.
I must be
patient.
My time will
come.
*
Sasha's fear of commitment, but also a nagging sense that Jon Solomon is not all that he seems, drive her to push him away. She could easily have had a sexual encounter with him in this chapter.
Can you guess who Jack is yet?
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| Tom Hiddleston as Jon Solomon (image from: http://thetomhiddlestoneffect.tumblr.com) |
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| Kate Winslet as Sasha Blake (image from: http://www.public.fr) |
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