'Don't you like?' he croons, his breath steaming in my ear. He jiggles his cock a little, making sure I don't forget it's there. 'Are you worried the people in the penthouse might be able to see you being buggered on a balcony?'
'No,' I moan. 'I like it. Oh God. I really like it.'
'I knew you would.' He begins to unsheath, slowly and effortfully, almost all the way down, then he jolts back up, banging me into the balcony with a metallic clang. 'You don't care where, do you? Just as long as you get your arse filled. Could be over my bar or in the middle of the road down there. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere, as the advert used to say.'
'Though,' I grunt through the rattling and the forceful in-and-out, 'anyplace and anywhere are the same, surely.'
'Stop deconstructing, Sophie, and open that arse as wide as you can for me. That's it.'
I need one arm to attach myself to the bar, the other to somehow wedge between the balcony and my body so I can bring my clit to the party too. It is sweaty and bangy and rattly and achy but so seething with filthy goodness that I do not notice the minor inconveniences, the bruises forming, the diamond shapes on my knees, the straining of my muscles. I only know what is happening behind me, and in the unlikely event that I should forget, Lloyd is keeping up a running commentary.
'Oh, yes, that's it, Sophie, take it all, all the way, keep it spread, keep it stretched wide . . .' His words become indistinct, disappearing below a rude whirring from the sky, then we are buffeted by an un -forecasted high wind and I remember how cold I am before I realise that we are directly in the sights of . . .
'The eye in the sky! Stop, Lloyd!'
'Nothing it ain't seen before,' yells Lloyd, who is beyond the point of no return, continuing to slam while the gigantic metal bird hovers above us, close enough to see the reporter with his earpiece.
He is looking at us. He is speaking into a microphone and I imagine him telling the entire city that a traffic jam by the park is caused by Sophie Martin having her arse fucked by Lloyd Ellison on the twenty-first floor of the Hotel Luxe Noir – come along if you want to watch, but don't expect to find a parking spot. And then I come, deliriously, imagining my howls speeding down the radio waves to half the households in town. 'Dirty mare,' clucks a woman, while her husband wanks furtively behind his evening paper.
The helicopter wheels to the right and flees towards the financial district, leaving Lloyd and me to pull apart and stare at each other, hands on mouths, scarlet with exhilarated shame.
'Can you believe that?'
'I don't know – I found it added something to the experience,' says Lloyd, insouciant as ever in the face of adversity. 'I'd like to know what he was saying though.'
'Do you think he mentioned i
t?'
I am at the French doors now, in a race against hypothermia. Somehow I win.
'I need another drink.' I pour us both another glass of champagne and slide under the marshmallow duvet, hugging it around my bitter body. Lloyd joins me a few minutes later and suggests ringing down for room service.
'Let's eat,' he says. 'I'm in the mood for one of those triple-decker sandwiches held together by a cocktail stick. Or maybe a big plate of steak and chips. How about you?'
'Hmm. Maybe a turkey dinner. Seeing as you ruined my Christmas lunch this year.'
'Did I really?'
'The whole day was a farce. I could barely walk. I had to wear a scarf around my neck to hide all those bloody love bites. I nearly fell asleep face first in the sprouts and gravy.'
Lloyd chuckles. 'Mine wasn't the best. Had to finish with the girlfriend, for one thing. Not that it was ever serious. She was seeing two other men anyway.'
'You didn't have to finish with her.'
He leans over and robs my lips. 'I did,' he says.
We drink our champagne in companionable silence, which he breaks with a soft chuckle.
'We should have a toast. To the new managers of the Hotel Luxe Royale. Sophie Martin and Lloyd Ellison. Bottoms up!'
We clink our glasses and drain them, fizzing with more than the sparkling wine.
'So can I make you a cocktail, Sophie? Anything you'd like?'
I nestle into the crook of his arm and rub the top of my head against his chin.
'I never thought I'd ask you this, but how about a Sloe Comfortable Screw?'