The call comes at 10:02 p.m. - the buyers are flying in from Cairo and want their Vermeer now. Be at the drop point by 11:00 p.m. or find someone else with $2.5 million to burn on a Dutch painting of some people putting on a concert. The warehouse is 35 minutes away, but I’ll be there in 20. Easy money, now that the hard part is done. Selling? Not difficult if you find the people with the money. Acquisition, on the other hand…well let’s just say it has its fun little moments. I’m a bad, bad man.
Twelve minutes later and I’m more than halfway there. The phone again, that singular disturbance in my otherwise perfectly silent drive. It can’t be Cairo, nobody flies this far to cancel a deal. Especially one this hot. And only I get to change the plan. The sneer on my face fades to nothing short of a smirk as I check the number. It’s her. I love Caller ID.
“Hey darlin’” I say, a little southern drawl in my voice because it makes her smile.
“My place. 11 o’clock.” Her voice is warm toffee on hard chocolate. Bad for you in all the right ways.
I’m cringing. These are not words I like to ever have escape my lips.
“I can’t, baby. I have some place I have to be at 11. Can we make it later?” I know the answer before the question mark leaves my mouth.
“I’m wearing something satin. And a smile.” She hangs up.
Fuck.
The first crack of lightning parts the sky momentarily illuminating my exit like some sort of sign from beyond. Exit 61. Just a long road with a lot of side streets to other side streets. Dark places where people do quiet things they aren’t supposed to do while hoping that no one notices. Someone is going to be very, very pissed off at me. What the hell? They can afford to fly out here to buy stolen art, they can afford a hotel.
The rain is coming down in sheets by the time I hit Exit 74. I pass through the empty intersection regardless of the light. This time the lightning in the sky comes from the strobes on the traffic camera but I couldn’t care less. The plates aren’t mine anyway. I take my time down her road; it’s dark and slick and people live here. 10:58 and the thunder drowns out my soft tapping at her door. I’m already wet from the rain. I’m already wet in general. God she’s hot.
She answers the door despite my soft knock in something of a slip…it’s black and floral, clingy but not too tight, simply forming little curves in all the right places, teasing me in all the right ways. I pause in the doorway a bit too long, lost in the supple lines of her breast beneath the satin…a tented line to her hip from the cool air or maybe something more. She knows I’m lost in her and turns showing the slip is too short, too. She knows that, too and walks that walk that makes a man feel underaged. The reaction is almost instantaneous. She doesn’t have to turn around to know. I always react that way when I see her.
I close the solid door behind me and watch that feminine sway, following her curious path…why the kitchen?
The answer lies around the corner and it just stops me. The kitchen is a scene of light and shadows, the subtle illumination of scented candles making patterns across her neck and deep blonde hair. Her lips, that color with a playful name that fits them are slightly parted and beckoning. She won’t tell me what she wants but she knows I’ll figure it out. I always figure out what she wants. I’m a smart boy she says. Sometimes.
I look, ever so shiftily at the closed refrigerator and watch as she bites her bottom lip…I likes being right about her.
I leave my soaked shirt on the tile at the corner; I won’t be needing it. The smile in her eyes is deep and dark, a promise of sensual kisses and mouths devouring each other. A simple step backward is all she takes as I approach, it makes it easy to open the refrigerator door. My first thought is 9 1/2 weeks…Mickey Roarke and Kim Basinger, devouring every food they could find and each other on the kitchen floor but not this time. The ethereal glow of the door shows only red and white: strawberries and whipped cream.The icy air meets my flesh and in an instant she’s not the only one cutting glass with her perky skin.
Perfect.
I step forward quickly, a cat-like movement I learned from her and her mouth is pressed to mine before I can take a breath. The satin seems like it should melt between us, the heat that grows here so easily is nothing short of unreal. I worry about the strawberries in this temperature but she bites my lip to bring me back. If she’d pressed against me a little lower, she’d know I never left. Not for one second.
Despite my fears, the satin won’t melt. It will however slip off of her shoulders and over her smooth hips, revealing exactly what I wanted to see: the only thing between us right now are the jeans she’s taking off of me and warm air. The line from her belly down is smooth, clean, the recent work of a steady hand and a good razor. My mouth waters at the site of her just like it always does, and maybe even a little more.
Underwear were optional on this trip like they so often are with me and my pants barely hit the floor before she has me in her mouth. It’s not for real, not yet. Just a note that she likes the way I look and taste, that she likes having me inside of her. A reminder…I won’t forget.I love it when she moves this way: hands clawing their merry way up my chest as she rises, small kisses, bites…sometimes just licking her way up, only to meet my mouth with hers. The refrgierator kicks on that familiar hum as I reach for the whipped cream with my left had..my right moving up her spine to lose itself in her hair. It’s a familiar dance we both know the steps to and do so well. The cap comes off with a simple movement of my finger…I’ve always had talented hands…she giggles in my mouth as she hears it hit the floor. She never breaks a kiss until she’s ready.
Candlelight and appliance light guide us to the sink as she walks backwards, unpainted nails playing ever so gently over her body as she moves. I watch. It’s a show meant to be watched.
The can has to be shaken but it looks too much like another action and she’s trying not to laugh as her waist meets the counter’s edge, elbows back, relaxed and waiting.
“You think that’s funny do you?” I ask, wicked grin half submerged in a playful smile.
“Mmmhmmmm.”
The spray from the compressed can hits her across her belly and she shrieks from the cold, but it’s gone as I drop to my knees and lick it off in one clean swipe. I can tease, too. The game is on.
She’s waited for this for so long and I won’t rush it, but cream melts quickly…so I have to take care. A small drop on the toe of her right foot…a cool line working its liquid way up her left calf. She must have shaved this evening in the shower; her skin smells of perfume and body soap, but just a tiny bit, the way a woman’s should.
I look at her thighs and watch as her feet shift, her body sinking a little lower as her legs part. I smirk, she sighs deeply. I draw a small heart in frozen cream on the inside of her right thigh, and make a line up from there along that thin path that runs between her thigh and all the fun places she has to offer. I don’t want any in her…that’s a place for me, not dairy…and I intend to be there.
A circle on her belly, a dab on each already erect nipple…I’m standing in front of her, firm and almost reaching her in the shallow distance. She doesn’t even look when she grips me, a thinck clear drop escaping and running down over her hand. A little dab of cream on her neck for later before I go back down to the floor as she starts to lick her hand clean. Meow.
The sigh that escapes her lips when she does that never ceases to make me shudder from the sheer pleasure of it all. No one makes me throb and swell the way she can with a single word or sound and I wouldn’t have it any other way. At all.
The cream on her toes quivers as she raises her red nails to my mouth. I take them one at a time, cleaning off only the ones I made messy. Efficiency at its finest. Her legs part when she does this, they don’t need to but she does it anyway, knowing just how much I like to see. It’s hard to lick her calf while I’m smiling that wicked smile but I manage. I know where it leads.
I swallow, but then, I always do. The heart on her thigh is still in its perfect place. I work it slowly, deliberately with my tongue, stalling as my left hand moves up her already clean left leg. I could play it off, like I didn’t mean to touch her this way yet, but she’s waited long enough. My palm reaches that soft, smooth fold and it’s all I can do to keep from slipping inside her, playing. She’s so wet already, I can’t resist. Only for a moment though…
4 fingers covering that firm mound as my thumb glides over and into her. She presses against my hand, telling me how it makes her feel when words fail. I decide to leave it there and finish cleaning off her thigh…clean thighs are a beautiful thing, but I really plan to make them messy again later…so no worries.
Thunder rocks the walls and we both sigh deeply. I have to kneel to put my mouth on her belly, to suck away all the frosty cream I put there, but I like where my hand is…it’s a gliding motion to turn, slipping my thumb out only to put my middle finger back in…her bottom lip is still in her teeth, or in her teeth again. I lose track as I make my way upward. That happens. A lot.
There are graceful ways to take whipped cream off of a woman’s breasts, and I’m sure I know them, but when she’s grinding against your hand and looks like she’s going to sink her teeth into your shoulder at any moment, the best way is simply to take her full into your mouth and suck, moving your tongue over the nipple, letting the heat soften it only to harden it again with your teeth and cool air.
That’s exactly what I do. I want her, and I want her now.
She closes her thighs tightly on my hand as the first wave moves over her. It’s tight and hurts a little but I won’t let go for the world. There is nothing more sexy than feeling her beneath me, watching her like some erotic starburst, feeling the warm dampness that flows so easily over my fingers and drips ever so gently down her thighs.
I completely forget about the whipped cream I left on her neck. It might have melted away but I can’t see because she’s turned so quickly, ass pressing against me, hands braced against the counter, standing on her toes…I swell again at the sight of her looking back over her shoulder, tossing that long blonde hair to the front so that I can see the line of her neck.
I take myself in my hand, squeezing a bit, making things wetter to spread over her, to mix with her, the tip of my body meets the first soft, silken fold of her and we can both feel that ache, that draw for me to be inside. She’s impatient, but no more than ever and presses back against me, opening her slightly…patience sucks anyway. She’s so warm…the scent of her body, wet like this is intoxicating and heady, and it swims through the air around me. I press on.
There is something so perfect about the tightness of her body, I savor every satin inch, slowly entering her, feeling that ridge slip over every curve, now so swollen and red that it almost aches for release…
A little deeper, and it’s all I can stand. I thrust the last inch, as much because I can’t NOT thrust as it is because I want to hear her shriek with pleasure. It’s just a little trick I play, but she knows a few, too. She’s still on her toes, and letting her feet to the floor drives me that much deeper, deeper than I thought I could go. My body is so inside of hers it’s hard to tell where one of us begins and the other ends.
One hand on her back, just above the line her thong would have made had she worn one, and one reaching around to play as we move and she’s slipping down to the counter, hands out, cheek pressed against the top, watching…smiling. The movement is fluid, and my fingers move gently over that sweet spot, coercing her body to sing for me again.
Her hands reach back, nails clawing first into her own ass, then into mine. Anywhere she can reach is marked as we move, the cool air of the open refrigerator wasted in the heat we’re making by the sink as her hands reach upward, grabbing for my shoulders. She wants me deeper still and this is the way to do it. She has so much control like this, tightening her body inside as she moves, elevating herself on her toes to control my depth. The only thing she can’t control is the way I’m swelling inside of her, but somehow I dont think she would if she could.
I bite into her neck as she brings her head up to me and it brings the orgasm over her in a shock. She wasn’t prepared for it and it doesn’t seem to want to stop. 20 seconds becomes 40 as I mark her neck badly and thrust as hard and fast as I can. The sound is incredible, wet body to wet body, slipping in and out in a frenzied rhythm. 40 seconds becomes 90 and her breathing is ragged. She’s listening to mine, too, and feeling those final swells as I near my own moment. I wanted them separate this time, I wanted to be in her mouth for this and she knows it. My body stiffens as her orgasm finally starts to subside slightly and she slips me out so quickly, the tip of me quickly sliding over her, bringing that prolonged orgasm back to full throttle. I guess we’ll get to come together afterall…
The difference between being between her thighs and being in her mouth is incredible. Both are so damned perfect, neither can be compared to the other. Her tongue is strong and she has the most incredible ability to work it over the length of me without taking me out of her mouth. It doesn’t take long though, I can never resist this. My body shudders as she puts one hand at the base of me, her lips kissing her hand as I start to bite my own lip. Her other hand loses itself below and her closed eyes tells me where it went. I love knowing her fingers are inside, feeling where I’ve been. I can hear the muffled moans from her throat as she continues her play. A slight shift of her mouth around me, her fingers in her and we can hold out no longer. I laugh when I cum, but only if it’s intense. She knows this and is ready for it this time. It’s always intense with her.
A shudder, then another and she’s swallowing me. The feeling moves through my whole body, starting from her deep kiss and emenating outward. As it reaches my mouth I laugh, it’s deep and dark, and naughty as all hell…
She slips me out of her mouth as I continue to release…I like to see it, to see her watching me and it brings more. Her fingers haven’t stopped as she stands to kiss me, sharing the tastes of both of us, kissing, biting…she quiets my laugh with her tongue and teeth, kissing and biting still, our bodies pressed together in her kitchen, whipped cream melting from her neck, the wetness of our act slipping over her thighs. I think about licking that clean again as I remember.
“We still have strawberries…”
She laughs the way I laughed and is giggling madly as I scoop her up into my arms and carry her off toward the stairs. She remembers to grab the bowl of berries as we pass the fridge and I kick it closed as I pass. No reason to waste all the whipped cream.
Strawberry kisses, drenched in the tastes of her and of me fill my mouth as I walk, her body pressed against mine, one arm around my neck, feet kicking playfully as we go. It’s not a long way up the stairs, but then, any distance is a long way to go when her tongue is in my mouth. 2 steps and she’s biting my neck. My eyes start to close, let it fill me, let it swell through me. I love when she’s like this. 2 more and her free hand is reaching down beneath her, gripping me tightly, moving with the sweet slippery sheen that she made on me, the bowl of berries resting precariously on her belly.
The landing finds us on the carpet, her flat on her back, legs wrapped around me, crushed red fruit dripping from out mouths as we kiss, engulfing one another in our passion. A slight shift and I look below: she’s open, ready and before I can think about all that I’m inside of her again, the simple result of a simple yet perfect movement of her hips. It’s all just as warm as before and a hell of a lot more wet. That slick, wet sound always gets me. She can feel what it does to me and it makes her giggle. It’s playful and inviting, like the way I gyrate my lower body, an arc in two directions at once, grinding the sides of me against the silken walls inside of her, and pushing me deep so that we can feel every curve. We play like this, the rain our accomplice, the thunder our diversion until we both want her in control.
It’s an awkward motion to flip me to my back without leaving her and we laugh at our clumsiness, but smile that the bowl of fruit remained safely upright next to us. It’s served its purpose. Knees come up and hands come forward as she stars to move. The floor is hard beneath me so the only way for me to move is up, and up I go, penetrating her deeply as she pushes downward. I relax on her upward motion to pull almost completely out, the feeling of my ridge opening her and moving inside again is something close to heaven and we both know it. I want her to use me, to grind, forget about everything except me being inside, rigid and smooth. She can feel the hint as I stop dropping back and stay firm against her.
Thick and silky, her hair glides across my glistening chest as she moves upright…she comes quickly back down to bite my neck, to kiss my face, to bury herself in my mouth before she starts. She’s telling me she knows what to do. I trust her.
It’s an incredible thing to watch, the clean line of the shaft of me, lost inside those slick folds. I shudder deeply as she starts to move, back and forth as if she would erase me with her lower body, like a belly dancer in a seated position. He knees move further away and she drop deeper, as deep as we can go now, and it’s faster, a rhythm she hears and we both feel. I move my hands to her nipples, hard and erect and play my thumbs over them, slick with perspiration and other things, and trace a line from them down to play with her as she moves.
She never makes much noise unless she can’t stop herself. She’s never needed to scream out more than she felt or make a scene of what wasn’t. But she’s never quiet with me either, no matter how hard she tries. So I know the sounds that escape her are just the truth of how she feels. She’s speaking volumes right now, a testimony I’m listening to, lost in that truth. I pick up the soft pace with my fingers as her hands claw 10 red lines across first her chest than mine. It’s coming and we both know it, that final blow, the one that takes us both out.
Lightning comes first, then her, and she’s still in the throws when the final release escapes powerfully from me. She arches back, trusting me to hold her hips so that she doesn’t fall back to far. I do my job, saving her from gravity and pressing her down hard as she grinds, the pressure inside hot, slick and surreal.
She screams. I laugh. We collapse, me still inside, her hair a tangle across my face and neck. We stay like this for forever it seems. Neither of us can move anyway. I lay listening to her breathing, feeling myself slip softly from her into the cool air. It feels good to leave that way, nothing rushed. She falls asleep before the cool air hits me.
4 a.m. and I carry her to her waiting bed and tuck her in. She’s half asleep and half awake and knows I can’t stay. I love the way she smeels, that sweet perfume of her and me, sex and strawberries. I breath it in deeply. Somewhere there’s a very pissed off Egyptian thinging much less nice things about me. I’ll call him tomorrow and make something up. I need sleep. Badly.
10 a.m. and the phone rings again. This better be really freaking important. It’s my partner. Fuck. He never calls before sundown. Vamp.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I know. Caller ID dipshit. What’s up?”
“Yeah, I love you too, sweetie. Listen. The Egyptian’s in jail. It was a set up. Cops everywhere. Joe’s missing.”
I’m awake now. My partner’s better than coffee.
“Fuck.”
“Eloquent, Richie, eloquent. I gotta go. Glad you got away.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Me, too.” He hangs up. He never says good bye. Some superstition. Who am I to judge?
My place. 11 o’clock. Warm toffee on hard chocolate. I wonder. And I’ll keep wondering, you never ask questions about things like this. Fate favors the prepared, and hates to be tempted. I fall back asleep, jailed Egyptians, set ups and snitches lost as strawberries, whipped cream and her pressed against me float through my dreams. Maybe I’ll just send her the painting for Christmas.