Shadow Girl Read Free

spikes of the Opera House. From her Kirribilli apartment, she can see the bright, bold signature domes almost head on. They curve up against the sky like two sets of giant sails poised between water and land. At least that’s how she visualises them when she is in a maritime mood. Ships under full canvas, ready to launch into the future.
    But right now, she is not in a maritime mood. So right now, she does not see two sets of sails. Or the curves of giant shells. Or surf about to crash on a golden shore. Or the helmets of forgotten marine gods. No, through eyes mellowed by her steady, comforting arousal, she sees a pair of wings deployed for flight. Wings that spread out in powerful sweeps over the Quay. Wings that rise with eagle-like grace into the azure, conjuring up whirls and gusts, swelling the calm harbour waters.
    And through her haze, she contemplates the sleek body of the horse soaring with them. A white stallion, glittering, flamboyant. Rearing with equine ebullience.
    She presses her hips into her lover, her eyes locked upon her dream. Her smile broadens as she spots the rider on the horse. A golden girl, naked, hair flowing behind her in long blonde spirals. A warrior, brandishing an Amazon’s sword above her head. The figure turns towards her and her mind zooms in on the distant face: striking almond eyes, delicately chiselled cheekbones, top lip arching appealingly over its lower twin.
    Sandra is staring at her own reflection.
    She utters a soft moan in sedate approval.
    The sword sweeps in graceful arcs above the horse’s head, splashing streaks of rainbow colours across the sky.
    She sways with more vigour, to the rhythm of the blade. She is floating up, rising with the golden rider. The glow between her legs has turned into a moist mist. A mist, a breath, drifting up in the tinted ether, dampening the flanks of the climbing horse.
    And then, as the arcing sword draws another crescent of muted pinks, her chest heaves up in one long sigh and contentment blows across her loins like a gentle zephyr.
    She savours this genial, discreet climax.
    This will have to do , she tells herself. She does not remember when the earth trembled for her. When it properly wobbled and shook. But she does not mind. She likes it this way. She likes the smooth, aerial feel of these brief ascents, for she is in charge. On top. Setting the pace.
    She pivots on her hips and glances behind her. Mark’s face, almost hidden between the pillows, has that familiar crumpled look. He too has just come, apparently. Lucky, for they usually don’t peak together.
    She rises onto her knees without a word and his half-swollen cock slips out noiselessly, before collapsing on the curve of his stomach. Semen is oozing from its tip. She steps into the en-suite bathroom, also dripping a little of his gift.

3
    â€˜France? You’re flying to France? You lucky, lucky thing!’
    Jenny is looking at her across their small café table, envy glazing her eyes.
    â€˜I so wish I was you. Well, not you in all respects, you’re far too driven and focused. I’d go nuts if I was in your head. But you for just a few hours, to board that plane and get to Paris. Then it would be back to me! Undriven, unfocused, unstructured little me!’
    Jenny giggles, then takes a sip of her cappuccino. Before Sandra has time to respond, she launches into an animated tirade.
    â€˜I had such a blast last time I was there! Zipped from one expo to the next, the Louvre, the Quai d’Orsay, Pompidou Centre, Musée Carnavalet. Rubbed shoulders with buskers, mingled with the street artists. And — wait for this — there was this guy, somewhere on Butte Montmartre, who just begged on his knees to draw my portrait. Begged, I tell you, in that sexy accent — ‘oh pleeeze mademoiselle, let me mék a sketch of you, you ’ave such a special fess. Incredible feetures. Pritty little nose. Let me mék it, I beseeech you. I ask