Stephanie Wilson.

Who was she really?

I had thought a fabulously sexy, exotic dancer, but a landscape artist? A bloody good one too. Her painting captured a moment in time that we had never truly forgotten.

Ok, I had a name, but she had carefully contacted me on a withheld number. Smart lady. I’m smart too.

I opened my laptop and googled her.

Stephanie Wilson. Renowned Yorkshire artist.

Graduated with distinction, Royal College of Art, London

Born in Hebden Bridge on January the First 1985

Studio “Works by Wilson” Kettlewell, Yorkshire.

Bingo!

I was not going to waste another minute. Even if it meant sitting outside that studio for a week. She would turn up sooner or later.

I grabbed a shower, dressed in the black jeans and tee shirt from the previous night. Threw my few possessions into a bag and carefully re-wrapped that wonderful painting, which showed that unforgettable episode.

I took a last look at the unmade bed and smiled as I remembered easing that ten-year itch. Eased but not fully satisfied.

Would the next occupants of room 424 have a story anywhere close to mine to tell?

Now I am in my car, heading towards that village in the Dales. My mind is filled with her and exactly what I am going to do with her. Innocence of Youth and Urgent Gratification won’t get in the way this time. Hopefully, I can last longer than last night’s frantic but fabulous fuck!

……………………………………..

I was restless after scrutinising “Decade’s End.”

Hardly surprising. The intensity, and yes, lust, was depicted in every stroke. I decided a long soak in my huge, Victorian, claw-footed bath would help.

Soon, the scent of roses filled the air. I stripped off and immersed myself in the fragrant suds.

Was that faint bruising on my left breast? I smiled as I remembered how that probably happened.

I began to relax; I was in control. I had delivered my message, my thank you, but a goodbye gift.

Really???? Who was I trying to fool?

It wouldn’t take the skills of Poirot to track the artist down. Of course, if I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit that. He, of course, may not want to play at Detectives. I do hope he has another game in mind and that it includes me. As the saying goes, only time will tell.

Reluctantly, I got out of my rose-scented waters because they had gone cold. After drying, I applied the same rose-scented lotion to my body. I have a fondness for Rose. Before I was Siren, I was called Rose Red, partly because I wasn’t willing to use my childhood nickname, Red.

I’m not sure why, but I dressed more carefully than usual. Midnight blue lacy underwear, navy blue cashmere sweater, and denims that actually were respectable, with no rips or holes or paint splashes. I didn’t dry my red tresses, but efficiently sorted them into a French plait. A pair of gold stud earrings and a small amount of makeup completed the look.

Steph, you are not a naive child. He is not going to appear at your door like a love-struck teenager. Chances are you pissed him off last night when you left like you did. Maybe you blew that second chance?

Impatiently, I shook my head of these unwelcome doubts. I went into my snug living room. It felt chilly despite the Aga and heating. There was frost outside; it’s always cold up here in the dales at this time of year. The fire was set with paper and logs, so I lit it. Soon, the satisfying crackle of wood burning and flames leaping in the grate filled the room. The sight always mesmerises me. Of course, Sam was lying out on the rug in front of it!! Typical male.

Thump! Thump!Thump. A determined knocking at the door brought me swiftly to my feet. I glanced at the clock. Just after 10. It couldn’t be him, not this soon. It must be Jim, the postman delivering art supplies. Sam never moved.

No, not Jim, Steve stood there, dressed in black, looking as dangerous and sexy, if not more so, than before. My mouth went dry. My underwear certainly was not!

He didn’t ask to be invited in; he moved quickly, and I was in his arms, being kissed with a fervour I had rarely experienced. Any watching neighbours would be smiling happily, they all love me and think I need a good man. I’d rather have a bad one, but I don’t tell them that.

Once inside, I took his arm and led him into the living room. I took a deep breath and said,

“We need to talk”. He said the same words in unison with me. We have never spoken, only looked, lusted and remembered. Steve spoke first.

“Ten years ago, I wanted a 16-year-old girl more than life itself. Walking away was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. I still believe it was the right one, not for me, but for you.”

He then told me of his life and how he had been educated way back then by his older tutor at the University, Victoria. His sexual needs were complex and unusual. He wanted me now as much as he did back then, but wanted me to know exactly what being with him would involve. Seeing me at The Purple Plume meant he had been given a second chance. It meant that I had changed, and perhaps our needs were similar.

It was quite a story. The whole time he sat opposite me, his eyes never left my face, he never touched me. The atmosphere in that firelit room was palpable.

I took a deep breath and told him my story. How I had never regretted that encounter, and that I always considered him to be my first, though in reality, he wasn't. My sexual needs were varied too, hence no commitment and a variety of different friends, most of them male, but not all.

I stood up and asked him to come with me. He took my hand, and I led him to my studio.

There, in vibrant, bold erotic hues, was my masterpiece “Decade’s End.”

He was stunned at the graphic detail and the expressions on the lovers’ faces.

“Let's make this happen now.”

I led him upstairs to my bedroom under the eaves. The room is small. My bed is not.

I turned to him and said, “I have never brought anyone here. No one has ever been special enough. I wonder if, deep down, I was waiting for you.”

We gazed at each other, determined not to rush this. He pulled my sweater over my head, unzipped my denims, then unclipped my bra and slid it off my shoulders. My breasts swung free. I stepped out of my denims and slowly undressed him too. He lifted me onto my bed, kissing me slowly and deliberately, his hands moving downwards, caressing my breasts and nipples, which were craving his touch. My hands, too, were stroking his chest, but I wasn't as patient. They were inside his boxers, finding and fondling his erect wet penis. I pulled them off in one swift movement. I am an expert at removing clothing. He groaned, and his hand moved underneath my wet panties. He rubbed my pulsing clit and plunged his fingers into my wet pussy, finding my sweet spot instantly.

We moved simultaneously, I guess we are both expert practitioners, his tongue and mouth were inside me while I took his throbbing dick into my mouth, where my tongue knew exactly how to take him to the edge. Our bodies perfectly matched the painting dominating my studio.

The patience was starting to vanish in both of us, as our tongues and hands worked feverishly on each other. Every nerve in my body was jumping, and my body started to buck. Again, we moved in tandem, as I straddled his now naked body. Somehow, my panties had vanished too!

Then he was inside me, grabbing my buttocks and thrusting. Warmth flooded me. I knew I was going to come, but I tried to hold back. It was no use. My body shuddered and released its moisture, seconds before he filled me with his. Our timing not quite matching. I fell on top of his heaving body, we rolled together, clinging to one another and kissed deeply.

When he spoke, his voice was husky and low

“Stephanie, will you be my wife, my soul mate, my partner in every way ?”