by Tessa Vidal
Don't flatter yourself. She's playing you.
Yeah. Playing me like a fucking violin. And she's the whole fucking orchestra.
How could a simple tongue waltzing its slow dance down feel so damn good? It never felt like this with Bailey. Not even in the beginning. We were fast and efficient and done.
And somehow, for fourteen years, I'd put up with fast and efficient and done.
No more.
I too deserved to know what it felt like to be appreciated. To have someone lick me inch by inch and step by step. To have someone there with me in the moment instead of rushing onward to the next new thing.
Forget Bailey. There was no Bailey. Not anymore.
Clary whimpered softly as I squirmed around beneath her. “Both of us,” I said, which wasn't even a complete sentence. But somehow she understood. Laughing, she got up on hands and feet, pushing herself high to let me turn beneath her. Then down again. And there we were, the two of us in a classic sixty-nine with Clary still on top.
A dream. A fantasy. Too much, too intense.
Overwhelming.
I wanted the overwhelm of being tasted while I was tasting. I needed it, I welcomed it, and sixty-nine done well chokes out all other thought. You can't coordinate the action unless you're totally there with your partner. And she was here with me, oh, fuck, she was here with me, and I was here with her, and...
Words were just words. You could say we started by flicking our tongues at each other's belly buttons, a preliminary tease as we got our bearings. You could say Clary had a teeny, tiny notch in her navel― a place where she must sometimes wear a piercing. You could struggle to describe how her tongue scooted in a tight circle to demonstrate its control.
Where are the words to tell how it felt when she sucked harder? The words to describe the special teasing tickle that rocked me to my toes?
I needed her lower.
And she needed me lower too.
Yes. That's it. Walk it down.
Our tongues moved in the kind of shared rhythm you'd think could only come from long practice. Funny how well we understood each other's bodies, even though we'd had no real time together, and what little time we had was twelve years ago.
Funny how much we understood when we were both deceiving each other.
She thought I didn't know she was Malory Maine, and I knew she didn't know I knew she was Malory Maine.
It could make you dizzy, if you let yourself think about it.
And so I didn't.
It wasn't a time for thinking, but for feeling. Our tongues reached the plush velvet of each other's mounds. Like many Hollywood women and perhaps all actresses, Clary had one of those expensive Brazilian waxes that left her smooth and hairless as a living doll. Her supple flesh was slippery and completely open to my exploring tongue. I could lick everywhere with reckless disregard.
My own bush was kept trimmed fiercely short, but it was there. Short fur against flesh. To my surprise, she rocked her whole face against it. Apparently, she liked the feeling of it brushing into her cheeks, her chin. Our hot, panting breaths sounded loud in the small room. We were both breathing deeply, the better to savor the rich scent of each other's desire.
Twin tongues in folds. Twin tongues sliding easily to tease the nubbin at the peak of those folds. Twin tongues probing deep for the source of wetness. It wasn't like one of us was copying the other. It was like we knew, stroke for stroke, and lick for lick, exactly how and when to move in tandem. The little licks and teases were soon followed up by harder, longer sucks. The juice was running down my chin. Every time she thrust her tongue inside of me, I thrust my own tongue more deeply inside of her.
If we timed things right...
But there was no if...
We timed things perfectly.
We rippled together, our bodies shaking. The collapsing walls of my orgasming pussy tugged her tongue hard and deep, just as the collapsing walls of her orgasming pussy tugged at my tongue. We came together for a long time, much longer than you'd think possible. It felt like we'd both decided to replace breathing with moaning.
At last, we lifted our heads a little, the better to gasp for much-needed air. She was still reverberating. I could feel it in the way her entire belly, delta, and inner thighs vibrated against my face. Hell. I was reverberating just as hard.
A snatch of air, and our tongues were back in the game. She'd started out juicy and only gotten juicier. I too was drizzling halfway down my thighs. The second round was messier than the first, and it felt all the more intense for being so messy. Wet, damp, hot.
There came a time when we tumbled over. Now I was on top, my head rolling enthusiastically between her sleek thighs. She groaned into my pussy, her face slotting itself eagerly into its new position. We were two pieces of one puzzle. Already, the pressure was beginning to build again. Higher and then higher. Every little spasm was an encouragement to spasm again.
I SLEPT MORE DEEPLY than I had in years― more deeply than I should have. This house was offline and out of the way, a place known to Clary's people but not to mine. Our athletic endeavors of the night before had drained the tension from every muscle in my body, including some I'd never known I had.
Just blowing off steam. Just getting the obvious sexual tension out of the way.
Yeah, right.
The room was too quiet when I woke. Where? I sat up in a rush, the soft if somewhat damp sheets sliding easily down my nude body. The cool of the air conditioner, which had gone unnoticed in the heat of the night before, suddenly felt arctic. I shivered, and not in a sexy way. Goose pimples stood up on my arms.
Where was she? Her side of the bed was empty.
Her side of the bed?
It was all her bed or meant to be.
Maybe she'd slipped away to sleep in the other bedroom.
One-date Clary.
Fine. Now we've got all that mess out of the way...
Hollow words for a hollow thought. I got up and padded naked to the open door of the bedroom. I couldn't throw on a robe, since my own things were in the other room. Well, it was silly to be modest now.
“Clary? Clary?”
There was a clatter of dishes from the kitchen. And a high, thin voice like a baby bird just learning to carry a tune. Clary had such a sultry speaking voice that I never realized she hadn't studied music. Singing was something private for her, not part of her career path as an actor. Something spontaneous.
I hung back from the open arch leading into the kitchen, close enough to see her and Yukon busying themselves with a tray.
The leftover Beef Burgundy. A silver pot of coffee.
I couldn't spoil their surprise, so I slipped back to the bedroom. My eyes had barely closed, and my body had barely slumped into the sheets before Clary came in with the tray. Happy Yukon tagged along at her heels.
“I know you're awake,” she said. “I hope I'm not the one who disturbed you.”
I sat up. “You're an angel.”
“Ha.” It was meant to be a laugh, but a micro-expression of sadness flickered across her face.
Did she feel bad about deceiving me? Or was I flattering myself?
Coffee and protein. And Clary. She was dressed in another pair of lace boy-shorts matched with another fancy brassiere. Last night's lingerie was Key lime. This morning's was aquamarine. How many colors did she own? I'd like to see them all.
She took away the tray and the dog. I lingered in bed. Her clear voice warbled in the distance as she urged Yukon to explore the dog run while it was still the cool of the morning. Then she was back.
“What happened to just one date to blow off steam?” As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't.
She laughed. “It's all the same date, isn't it? The same twelve-hour period?”
“Hmm.”
She squirmed on top of me, still in her boy-shorts and bra, me still naked. Well, even more naked than before, since she'd kicked away the sheets. Her greedy hands pushed my arms up over my head
and out of the way, and I let her do it. So easy to be lazy with Clary on top of me.
“You're so beautiful.” It wasn't the first time she'd said it, but hearing those words still touched something deep inside of me.
“Me. I'm not the beautiful one.”
“Oh, don't be all modest.”
“You're the movie star.”
“There are ugly movie stars.”
“Old ones. Male ones.”
She laughed. “All right. I'm going to gag you now.”
“You are not.”
“Am too.”
She had a long wisp of silk, something from the treasure chest. It wasn't a gag, and she had no serious intention of putting my mouth out of commission. Instead, she wiggled on top of me to bind my wrists together out of the way before she secured the tie to the nearest bedpost. I could have flexed two muscles and bucked her off, but where was the fun in that? I let her bind my arms and do what she wanted.
My legs sprawled open. “I'm at your mercy.”
“Bwah hah hah. And now I am going to perform the first of many experiments.” She puffed her cheeks at me and popped something out of her mouth and between her lips.
A metal ball. It chimed softly, so it had a bell or a weight of some kind inside of it. What the hell? Where had it come from? Well, obviously from the treasure chest, but I'd never seen it go into her mouth. Now it was there, ready for her to roll it merrily down my suddenly ticklish belly from my navel to my triangle.
“You tease,” I said.
She groaned, her nostrils flaring, her mouth working, but she couldn't formulate words. Not when she was busily making her metal ball rub into my clitty, where it chimed again and again, at shorter and shorter intervals. The metal, cool at first, warmed within seconds to body temperature, the hard material providing a strange contrast with her velvet lips. Two kinds of pressure rolled around the area of my clit, hard and unyielding, followed up by melting and teasing. Steel versus tongue. As she rolled it faster and faster, I wondered that the ball didn't go flying free of her mouth altogether, but she had perfect control.
“Please. You're going to make me come. It's too much. Too intense.”
Her laugh came from low in her throat. She wanted to give me that intensity. That rush. And I could not resist her.
Chapter Ten
Clary
I hadn't thought through the political realities of driving a baby blue Cadillac cross-country. As we descended in the direction of the interstate, we turned a curve and found ourselves at the back of a line of traffic that seemed out of place in the country.
“A pop-up checkpoint.” Ronnie was already removing her sunglasses.
Two uniformed officers on horseback moved quickly down the line of cars. Braking, I took off my ball cap to shake out my long red movie-star hair. As one of the men on horseback moved closer to my window, I slowly and theatrically pushed my sunglasses on top of my head to reveal my famous green eyes.
“Is there a problem, officer?”
He grunted and waved us on.
We drove in silence a long time after that.
I-10 East itself was clear. Another sunny day with a sky made of unbroken blue. It would be easy to drive faster than we should. All things considered, though, a visible vehicle like the Fleetwood wasn't really meant for open law-breaking. I set the aftermarket cruise control to the speed limit.
Yukon, lulled to sleep by the smooth ride, let out a snuffle of a snore. I giggled in spite of myself. Then Ronnie laughed too. Her hand found my knee. Delicious. Distracting.
I forced my daydreams away from memories of the night before. We had lots of open highway ahead of us. Lots of time to talk. I shouldn't waste the opportunity.
“I haven't driven this way in this car before. I should have realized...” My voice trailed off.
“You have a right to drive the car you want. It's still America.”
“He didn't approve. He pretended not to recognize me.”
Ronnie laughed again. “It's possible he really didn't recognize you. Not everyone watches the movies.”
“Oh, yes, they do.”
The highway kept unrolling. She squeezed my knee a second time.
The post-sex awkwardness we'd both feared wasn't happening. I felt easier with her than I'd expected, and she felt easier too. Her confident touch told me that.
Dive in. This is your chance to get the agent to open up.
My hands rested easily at ten and two on the steering wheel. My eyes were on the road. My knee flexed under her hand, the only hint of how keenly aware I was of her physical presence.
“To make the most of this role, I need to understand the law enforcement mindset. I need to know everything there is to know about what it feels like to be a female FBI agent. What your motivations are, what obstacles you face.”
“I can't say I've faced any obstacles any other special agent doesn't face.”
“Because you're exceptionally well-qualified.”
“Everybody recruited to work for the FBI is exceptionally well-qualified.”
“All right, but you're super exceptional, am I right? You have a suite of skills that's pretty unique.”
She didn't answer but then she didn't need to.
“You stand out from the crowd of navy suits. You can't deny it, Ronnie.”
“I suppose I can't. All right. Where do you start? Yes, I have a unique set of skills, but there are some specific challenges when you work with art, antique, and gemstone fraud. There's a mindset that these crimes only impact the rich and that they are...” She waved her hand as she searched for the right words. “A relatively trivial kind of crime. Insurance fraud, money-laundering... it seems like clean crime to a lot of people. The glamour crimes attract the media and most of the funding.”
“Terrorism. Armed robbery. Serial killers. Drug smuggling. Human trafficking.”
“Sure.”
“Serious issues.”
“Sure.” She looked out the window, so I was getting the back of her head every time I sneaked a glance in her direction. This line of questioning shouldn't make her so uncomfortable. “But it takes money to run a criminal network worthy of the name. Arms dealers, terrorists, and drug distributors can't build a large-scale operation without a way to launder lots of cash.”
“That's where the gems come in. That's what makes it bigger than some socialite who misplaces the family jewels.” I hardly knew what I was saying. Instead, I was sneaking looks at her sneaking looks at me.
She was as aware of my physical presence as I was of hers. I wasn't kidding myself about that.
“There's no more compact form of wealth than a rare gemstone. Do you know what five million dollars cash weighs in hundred-dollar bills?” Ronnie didn't wait for me to answer. “Well over a hundred pounds. Whereas the five-million-dollar Hooker Emerald weighs less than seventy-six carats― around fifteen grams. It's a life-changing fortune you can slip into a pocket.”
“I saw a movie...”
“I'm sure you've seen a lot of movies.”
I flicked a glare in her direction. “In this one, they had a way of stealing the real painting and replacing it with a fake. Nobody noticed the real picture was missing sometimes for months.”
“That was definitely the movies. There are such things as alarms.”
“But it happens with gemstones. That's what you think Patsee tried.”
“I can't talk about an open case.”
“Sorry. But it's pretty easy to get a fake made. That guy...” A look from Ronnie shut down further discussion of any guy who testified in Patsee's case. I scrambled. “Um, so. There are jewelers who cut copies of valuable gems so people can wear the fake and store the real stone in a vault. They get a better deal on their insurance.” There. That seemed harmless enough.
She nodded warily.
“So the real reason they own the gem isn't to wear. It's for investment. Or for portable wealth, like you say. They've got millions in their pocket even if
they have to leave everything else behind.”
“You got it.”
“I'm struggling to understand my script. Did they let you have a copy?”
She shook her head. “Just a summary. But I get the general idea. They don't quite say so, but the plot was clearly influenced by the so-called Bahia Emerald case.” The custody dispute over the four-hundred-million-dollar emerald had been unfolding in local courtrooms for years.
“Right. It's going to be billed as one of those ‘inspired by true events’ pictures. But the actual case is too messy to make good film, the stone is too large, and anyway most of the people involved are still active in various litigation in Los Angeles, so...”
“So the scriptwriter pretty much made it up out of a whole cloth.”
“You understand perfectly.”
A black sedan pulled up alongside us on the right. The back driver's side window came open, and a hand stuck out a phone. Somebody else grabbing a picture of the Cadillac.
And then they were gone.
Ronnie chuckled and squeezed my knee again. “The price of fame.”
Did she know what her touch did to me?
Oh, of course she fucking knows.
“There are different descriptions of the Bahia floating around.” I used every trick in my actor's playbook to hold my voice steady. “In some paperwork, it's seven hundred fifty-two pounds. In others, it's eight hundred forty. So maybe there were two different rocks. Somebody switched them out. One of them is fake or, even if it's a real stone, it's less a valuable stone.”
“An amateur is not going to solve this crime.”
“I am trying to think like a cop. You're supposed to be helping me.”
The road kept unrolling. Yukon snuffled behind us. Her hand stayed on my knee, and I liked it there.
You're supposed to be seducing her. Not letting yourself be seduced.
“Where is the Bahia now? Have you been allowed to see it?” There. That was a good question. I needed to confirm how easy it was for her to swap fine gems for fakes.
“As far as I know, it's still in a Los Angeles evidence locker. The government of Brazil wants it back. Until that case is settled, that rock isn't going anywhere.”