Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
I did notice.
“Friends,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Well, then, friend,” he said. “I’d better take you home.”
***
“You can pull in here,” I said. “There’s an alley that runs along my backyard. Saves going all the way around.” He pulled in, engine still growling. “Thanks, for the chat… and everything.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
I pressed the handle down, ready to swing my legs out into the rainy outdoors, but a hand on my arm stopped me.
“Why bondage? Why shackles, and ropes, and cuffs?” His voice was low. “Have you done those things, Helen?”
I shook my head, smiled self-consciously. “I don’t know why. I just like it. It’s what I want, even when I try to pretend I don’t. I can’t.” Words clammed up, and I had to take a breath to free them. “I’m not innocent.”
“An artist’s soul rarely is. Your soul craves what a lot of artistic sprits seek, exploring the duality of pleasure and pain. The promise of freedom in submission and surrender and sensuality.” His gaze was heavy. “Just be careful, Helen. Boyfriends can get out of hand, situations can escalate.”
I rolled my eyes, like the most streetwise clown on the street. “I will.”
“Like I said, this kind of coach relationship isn’t exactly on the national curriculum. I think it’s best we keep it to ourselves. Agreed?”
I nodded. “Agreed.”
He leaned across me, leaning so close I could feel the heat of his body through my blouse. His fingers closed around mine on the doorhandle, and eased the catch, offering me up to the rain and the world outside.
“Goodnight, Mr Roberts,” I whispered, and my breath teased his hair.
He turned his face to mine, and his eyes were dark, glistening like an ocean full of secrets.
A flutter between my legs and I clenched my thighs tight. He felt it, too, I know he felt it. He shuddered almost imperceptibly, and his brows deepened.
“Goodnight, Helen.”
***
Mark
Oh, to be just a man.
The Jag purred as I put my foot down, taking a detour across the heart of the Herefordshire countryside. The trees were turning, nature’s own canvas; glorious ochres and russets and paprika, glowing in a sunburst against the grey of the rainclouds. I love Autumn.
I love Autumn’s memories.
And now I had a fresh one.
I could still smell her in the car.
A dithery, nervous girl called Helen Palmer. Hypnotic and mesmerising as she struggled to articulate her raging hormones.
Helen Palmer was a beautiful thing.
And I should have been cruel to be kind and told that beautiful, sweet thing No, I didn’t want her. No, it would never work. No, she was simply too young, too different, and our professional teacher pupil relationship could never change.
That’s what a good teacher would have done. A good teacher would have made his excuses and made it ok. A good teacher would have set Helen Palmer free, free to live her life and discover idiotic, fumbling boys her own age at university. Free to make mistakes in love, free to complete the rounds of mediocre sex until she found someone to make her tick the way a young woman like Helen Palmer should tick.
Someone other than me.
I’m a good teacher. Just not today.
Today I was just a man.
A man who wanted something he should never want.
I headed for home, rumbling up the lane towards Deerton Heath, easing on the brakes to take the corner onto the home straight. Mine was a cottage in the wilderness, straight out of Middle Earth, with its overgrown hedgerows and rambling vines, as though nature had swallowed the building whole, and me with it. The car churned up fresh leaves on the mud track, growling as it gained traction and propelled me up and onto the flat. I could see the whole of Much Arlock from up here, a perfect vista over the treeline to the south. I fell in love with the view every single day.
Anna had loved it, too.
I gathered up my marking from the backseat, breathing in one final taste of Helen, and then I made my way inside, backing in through the creaky oak front door and clearing a spot on the dining room table amongst the freshly-stretched canvasses.
Once upon a time I’d dreamed of being a professional artist, driven by nothing but the muse and the inner calling to express life through paint. I’d never caught my lucky break, but that was ok. The thrill of nurturing creative brilliance in those younger souls blessed with the aptitude for it was more than enough to fulfil me. It did fulfil me, and still left me time to indulge my muse.
I walked on through to my art room. Once it had been a simple conservatory, housing nothing but some old bamboo furniture. These days it was so much more. The windows gave a panorama of the countryside, huddles of trees shadowing the skyline, thinning out to open fields, and the hills in the distance. A perfect backdrop for my work.