Katie In Love: full length erotic romance novel by Chloe Thurlow Page A

moors; or Daphne du Maurier with Cornwall. Did you know, it was her grandfather, George, who wrote Trilby .'
    'I haven't read it.'
    'I have, twice, actually. He invented Svengali. You remind me of him.'
    'Me?'
    'Yes.'
    'In what way?'
    'You must read the book.'
    'I've got a lot to catch up on.'
    'Me, too, there's never enough time.'
    'Time for what?'
    'For anything...writing, Twitter, working as a waitress at stupid events. I'm trying to write a blog, so the whole world knows how interesting I am, which I'm not. I've got, like, a million half-written stories; the emails keep coming, more every day. I worked it out. I'm going to have to live for 200 years and I'll still never catch up.'
    'Poor baby,' he said.
    I had turned to look into his eyes. I didn't want to talk about what I did, where I lived, why I had moved. I lowered my head and our lips met. He was a good kisser, a give-and-take kisser; relaxed, leisurely, kissing like someone eating melon at a picnic. I sucked his finger when he put it in my mouth and he wriggled the digit back between my legs. Life has few perfect moments. This moment was perfect, naked in a mask, his mouth roaming the nerve endings of my mouth, the pad of his finger nursing that mysterious place, so precious and vital it makes me believe that it isn't all random, all chaos, that there is some universal purpose to our lives; to everything.
    Perspiration ran off me as if I had become a bubbling stream. The monkeys in my mind were still. I threw back my head and wedged my legs across the arms of the chair, his finger a hovering presence over my clitoris. I moved languidly like a dancer at two in the morning, like a leaf caught in the breeze. That small fist was opening and closing inside my belly. My breath raced. Contractions ran through me; it felt as if my insides were a length of wet cloth growing tighter as it was wrung out. The drummer in Hotel Costes filled the room with pulsing heartbeats.
    I had a fleeting vision of myself in the black mask spread naked with the flame of my clitoris glowing and erupted like a burst balloon filled with water, the arc of silky discharge squirting in a shower of raindrops down my leg. I was proud and ashamed, I always had those twin feelings, and happy, too, happy in a way outside the normal register, like the first daffodil of spring can make you happy, or a snatch of Bach or Bizet.
    My breath came in gasps. A snake slithered up my spine. Aftershocks raced down my legs, the ripples a flowing tide. My heart was bursting. Liquids flooded from me. I felt the same and different, my body retuned, recalibrated, replete. At the moment of orgasm you are living fully and totally in the present. An orgasm is anticipated, like the sunrise on a new day, and unexpected, like winning a prize in a competition you can't recall having entered. Time freezes and there isn't a feeling of loss, a void, a little death, but a reminder that of all human activity, none is more perfect. The orgasm is my driving force, the random consequence of meeting a stranger in a bar or at a ball and taking him home to warm the bed sheets.
    The music switched to the next track. I turned in the chair so that I could kiss him again. I squeezed one of his nipples hard enough for him to recoil in pain and our teeth clashed. He bit my neck and I squirmed down across his chest until my knees touched the carpet. He went to pull me back, but I wriggled free. I loosened his belt, his jeans, his boxers. I pulled off his shoes, desert boots suitable for wandering in far away places. He was hard and I sensed his body relax as I licked the length of his cock. It was pretty, playful, the head pink, the column creamy white with thin blue veins like spider thread. I ran my tongue along the groove; the taste was feta and olives, Mediterranean, and I wanted to feel his sperm on my face.
    I often ask myself why I like being down on my knees in this way and assume the appeal was grafted on to my DNA by the repetition