Quintic (46 page)

“
And how was
your day
, Christopher? From the smell of
you, you did some pretty dirty work,” she asked with a
smile.

He looked
mighty fine sitting there. She was trying hard not to look below
his chin. Don’t stare at his chest, she kept telling herself, he’ll
know. Self-restraint. They had time. It had been a while since they
had spent an evening together, just the two of them, cosy at home.
Unfortunately, she was not relaxing. She wanted him next to her,
touching her, kissing her. She wished to put her hands on his
shoulders, his arms, his thighs, his back, his butt. His shaft.
Inside her. She wanted to see him flinch from pleasure. Instead,
she was eating cream puffs. Sometimes, she truly was acting
silly.

“
I spend the
afternoon with Ham and the rookie. You know, to see how
they’r
e getting along.”

“
Is that
so?” Like that was all he had done. On a Saturday for crying out
loud! And he had smelled funny. Smokes. Beer. Something else she
couldn’t identify. Hamilton knew all those creepy places, and
Christopher knew quite a few holes himself. They better not have
dragged Charles to some dump; the guy wasn’t ready.

She
imagined caressing his leg with her foot. She
had almost slid off one of her shoes but stopped. If she touched
him, even if only through her stocking, she was a goner. She kept
her shoe on and stroked his leg with the side of her shoe. Ate a
cream puff.

N
ot only did the Big guy not
flinch but he kept right on talking. “Know any good books on child
psychology? I need pointers for Ham and Charlie.”

Her foot
stroke
d his leg from ankle to knee. To
ankle. To knee. She held it there for a spell. She brought her
chair closer to the table and slumped lower discreetly. Her foot
brushed along his outer thigh, midway, then back to his knee. She
paused and stroked his leg again, ankle to knee. His thigh. She
stroked his inner thigh and again paused halfway. She inhaled.
Exhaled, before softly extending her leg forward, careful not to
sting him with the heel of her shoe. Thankfully, he sat with his
legs slightly apart.

Chris
stopped talking and held his breath, waiting to
see where she would stop. She rested the tip of her shoe against
his balls.
Stop
teasing,
I’m so fucking ready
for you, Dollface
. He swallowed a
growl.

She saw him
wince.
About time, mon chéri,
I’m running out of patience.
Her panties
were wet. He looked down at her shoe teasing his groin. Glanced up
at her, a slow smile creeping on his mouth.

“
Do I only
get the one shoe or can I have more?” She smiled demurely.
“Patricia Darling. There is no way in hell I can walk. Your
call.”

She removed
her shoe from his testicles, brought her foot down and stood up.
Her knees were a little shaky, probably from sitting too
long.
Bien
sûr
. She followed the perimeter of the
table, her hand trailing on its wooden surface, turning one corner
then the next until she reached his side of the table.

He had one
hand on the table top, one on his thigh, apparently unperturbed as
he studied her approach. When she lifted her skirt, his gaze locked
on her thighs. She slid between him and the table, legs on both
sides of his. He did not move. She was eager to straddle
him,
très
eager. She lowered herself, leisurely, holding her breath.
He moved his right hand to her ass, searching, grabbing the edge of
her underwear, twisting the fabric aside. He held his shaft for
her. She grabbed his shoulders to steady herself as she impaled
herself on him.

“
Touch
yourself,
Patricia.”

She didn’t
have to.
Taking hold of her hips, he
rocked her quickly up and down his length and climaxed. He broke
the frenetic pace to plaster her onto him when her orgasm
came.

Her arms
around
his neck, his cheek on her hair,
breathing softly, they sat for a time, holding one another;
finally, she felt peace. His arm around her waist, his left hand
held her nape under her hair while his right hand rubbed her back.
She relaxed further into his embrace, content to be held. His lips
on her skin, next to her collarbone, could he feel how fast her
heart was beating? They didn’t talk but murmured, each unwilling to
break the spell. No more games.

“
That meal
was fucking torture
, Angel of mine. Good
foreplay, though. Veal and chocolate puffs might become my
favourite meal. Any leftover? How about we have the same
tomorrow?”

P
atricia felt Christopher smile
against her skin. He was relaxed now, not unnerved and edgy as he
had been when he arrived earlier. During the meal too, he had been
tense in a big way. Big, big way.

She smiled
back, hiding her smile in his hair.
“Cute.”

They sat a
while longer, each thinking of the other. Fluids were trickling
from her sex, down on him, and he knew soon, too soon, she would
become self-conscious about it. He didn’t. They were going to get
sticky wet again soon, so why worry about it? Love making was
messy. Arousal made her silky for him, and his cum drenched her
even more. He fucking liked getting her wet like that. Very macho
but hell, he was macho when she was concerned.
Possessive.

Sure enough,
she tried to get up. He held her to him. “Christopher,” she
whispered in a little voice, still out of breath. Couldn’t she feel
him hardening between her legs? “I have to get up.”

No, you don’t, Darling of mine
.
He rose, lifting her with him, propping her ass on the table. He
jerked out of her and lowered her to the tabletop, next to the
half-empty dessert plate. She had wrapped her legs around him
instinctively, drawing him closer.

“
More
dessert, Pussycat?”

He stroked
his cock against her folds, stiff against her moist sex. Pushing
yet holding back. Rubbing without entering. For now. He stretched
her collar to bare a shoulder; he pulled some more to reveal her
left breast draped in silk.

“
Now,
Dollface, I eat my apple. Like Joe in the song.” He unclipped the
shoulder straps and the back hook and removed the bra without
taking off the top. She leaned on his dining room table on her
elbows, hair messed up, lips slightly parted, legs spread wide, one
breast revealed, one breast covered by her top; she was offered.
Exposed. Dessert. Spectacular.

He circled
the exposed nipple with his forefinger. It stood erect. So
sensitive. Over the fabric
, he circled
the concealed areola.
Barely
brushing as if I was flirting, Angel
. She
moaned and closed her eye, dropping back down flat on the tabletop.
He closed his lips around the exposed nipple, sucked on it, nibbled
it, bit it softly, licked it. Apple candy. He flicked his tongue
over it in quick little thrusts.

“
Please,
Christopher, enough.” Breathless.

He pulled
the top back over her shoulder to cover the sensitised nipple
before stripping the other one. Played with it until she whispered
again, “Christopher, please, it hurts.” Breathy.
Pleading.

“
Shush,
Angel.”

He covered
her breast. Holding her waist gently, he
thrust into her bit by bit, sinking unhurriedly as he
watched her face. He stripped a breast again, his lips tugging, his
tongue teasing the hardened bud while his hand palmed on the
fabric-encased breast. She rocked back and forth against him,
around him, her frantic pace telling of her increasing impatience.
He liked.

His lips
went to tease the taut nipple, his tongue wetting the fabric,
circling the areola. Mouth and fingers teasing, pinching, rubbing,
softening, soothing, stroking. Playful. Making the nipples hard and
soft as he pushed on them, stroked them, caressed them. Enjoying
his French apples, again and again. She climaxed, moaning his name,
pleading him to stop, ordering him not to, her cries incoherent. He
liked. Immensely.

Their Time
Out

L
ater, they settled on his couch.
She had slipped into one of his t-shirts; she looked pretty damn
good in it too. The oversize shirt barely covered her ass. He
bought cheap shirts expressly for her (he had not consulted her on
such purchases, though). Through the thin fabric, Chris caught the
curve of a breast, the outline of a nipple as it brushed against
the fabric.

He
for one wore a pair of plain dark-blue boxer
short and a white t-shirt. Not that she would notice his fucking
nipples, now, would she? They sat side by side on the couch, far
enough so they each had enough elbow room but close enough so to
feel each other’s body heat and bask in each other’s scent. He had
made coffee, a double espresso for him, a latte decaf for her.
Hence, here they sat sipping serenely, looking at some action
flick, making fun of the action part, commenting on the
moves.

With
Christopher not saying much about his day, she figured he truly had
worked, and since he had spent the day with Hamilton and Charles,
the only case the three of them would investigate together was
Lemieux.

“
How are the
guys these days? The work is not getting to them, is it?” She
dropped hints and waited. “You think I could call Charles? See how
he’s doing,” she suggested, hoping for him to pick her
insinuations.

Nope. She
wouldn’t learn anything like that
, of
course. If the Big guy thought she intended to get involved, he was
going to be less talkative than a tomb. Although she found it a
teeny tad offending that he didn’t trust her with information about
the case, she was too comfortable right now for it to truly bother
her. After all, she told herself, Christopher was not entirely to
blame; obviously, he still thought she had resigned.

Chris
observed her unobtrusively. She was engrossed in the lame film,
half sprawled on the couch (but not him, though, unfortunately).
Her comments about the scenes made him laugh as much as her futile
attempts at getting the details of his days. No way was he going to
get into that.

After the
coffee and the movie, when she
started to
doze off and half-sleep turned her soft and pliant, he planned on
making love to her again.
I’ll have you under me in, Princess
. The position might not be original, but it was one of his
favourites nevertheless. He got to see the whole of her like
that.

She
smiled up at him, the dark-blue colour of her
eyes saying that she was aroused or had been not long ago. He liked
to believe he was the only one who had ever made her eyes so
fucking dark. Her eyes flicked back to the screen.

He rested
his head against the couch and closed his eyes. He wasn’t feeling
tired yet, just very languid. Patricia kept on
making fun of the film; he kept on answering with two-word
quips, eyes closed. His mind wandered as it followed the path of
her hands, at times on his leg, then on his arm for a beat, back to
his thigh.

Like the
rest of her, her hands were always in motion. She communicated with
her hands a lot, but, for now, he wished she would put one
somewhere between his arm and his leg, between his leg and his leg.
He liked her touching him when she talked, briefly, a second or two
at a time, a butterfly caress.

Her
fragrance lingered in her hair, on him too probably, and when she
leaned closer, her perfume enveloped him. She had a five or six
different perfumes she wore according to her mood or the weather or
whatever. He had no idea how she picked which to wear on any given
day, but she never hesitated and never fell to choose the right one
for the moment, or so it seemed to him. Although, frankly, as the
hours passed, they all smelled the same to him. Her.

He liked
the
scent of her; it was much more
tantalising than the cheap perfume that had given him a headache
that afternoon. His headache was long gone now, but because of his
last fucking question, the ache he felt inside hadn’t
subsided.

He had done
the c
op shit; going back to the stripper
had been a hunch. One simple question. It could have waited. Ham
and Charles would have received a list of all the other girls. For
sure they would have checked them all, but he had wanted to
know.

“The night you saw Lemieux and the other dude fight, were
other girls around?”
He had
asked Bunny.
“We might be
looking into curly brunettes, a little taller than average, slim,
medium breasts?
”

“
Only two dancers that I know fit that description.
Jewel and Barbie
.”

“Have you seen them lately?
”

“They were working last night
.”

On his way
back to his place, he had called Ham with the info. Chris didn’t
have to explain the details, Ham understood what he
wanted.