‘You talk too much.’ He let go of her wrist and reached for her hips, twisting his fingers into the silky ties, snapping one of them roughly as his hands pushed her to her knees. The thong fell away. Naked except for her stockings and high-heeled shoes she knelt between his legs. He unzipped his trousers and she saw that he was already huge and erect. She glanced up at him.
‘I’d say this qualifies as a decent hard-on.’
‘Don’t waste time admiring it,’ he said. ‘Do something with it.’
She reached for him, hoping to tantalize him a little more before giving him relief.
He pushed her hands away. ‘Use your mouth,’ he said thickly. ‘I want to feel your mouth. And do it slow.’
She turned her head and smoothed her lips up the length of his erection, flicking the rounded end with her tongue. She sucked, gently at first, and then harder as she felt him respond. He groaned and shifted in the chair, opening his legs wider, his hand on her head with just enough pressure to make sure she did not move away and leave him unsatisfied. She slid her mouth up and down his cock, lightly tantalizing him with the edge of her teeth, teasing, watching his response, wishing that he would let her use her hands as well. He groaned again. She moved her head and caressed his balls with her lips and tongue.
Suddenly he pushed his hands under her arms, lifting her up, her legs widely straddled across him. Pleasuring him had turned her on and she was already deliciously wet. His hand explored between her legs.
‘You’re ready for it, aren’t you?’ His voice was hoarse with excitement. ‘Really turns you on, doesn’t it, someone watching you. Can’t wait to be fucked, can you?’
She caught his prick in her hand, and felt it hard and throbbing under her sliding fingers. ‘How long do you think you can wait?’ she asked.
He let her handle him for a few more moments, but she could feel his body begin to shake.
‘Not much longer,’ he admitted. ‘God, you’ll have to stop doing that. I don’t want to come yet.’
She let go of him and waited as his breathing steadied. He put his hands on her bottom and pulled her towards him, guiding her onto his shaft, pushing his own hips forward. It wasn’t the most comfortable position but she began to move with him.
‘That’s good,’ he said, softly. ‘That’s really good.’ His eyes were half closed and as she thrust towards him she was able to watch his face. His expression reflected the pleasure he was feeling, the pleasure she was giving him. She really felt like a stripper obliging a member of the audience. In her mind there were others round her, watching. The fact that she was naked and he was fully clothed made the mental picture even more erotic.
‘Keep it slow,’ he murmured. ‘Make it last.’
She was willing to try and prolong his pleasure, but she could already feel his body begin to shake, and suddenly he cried out and pulled her closer. For once he did not consider her needs. He thrust into her, intent on his own satisfaction, but she found this lack of control arousing. It fitted her fantasy scenario. It was her job to give, not receive.
Nevertheless she was near to orgasm when he came. He cried out again, and she felt him plunge even deeper inside her, while his body convulsed in spasms of pleasure. Her own sensations, robbed of their climax, subsided slowly as he withdrew. His breathing gradually returned to normal. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face.
Genevieve eased herself into a standing position and watched as he zipped his trousers and pulled himself up in the armchair.
‘I hope you’re satisfied, sir?’ she said, lightly.
‘And if I’m not?’ he asked. ‘Are you going to get me hard and start all over again?’
‘Your wish is my desire.’ She bobbed a mock curtsy and he grinned.
‘Be careful with your promises,’ he said. ‘I recover fast. But you needn’t worry. Right now I’d like a drink.’ He pointed to a cabinet. ‘You can pour me another brandy and then get yourself something from over there.’
She obeyed, bringing a bottle of wine and a glass back with her. He watched her as she sat in a chair opposite him. He was staring at her intently and she felt strangely disconcerted, wondering what was going on in his mind.
‘I think I’ll keep you here,’ he said, his eyes moving lazily over her naked body. ‘Stripped and ready. While you’re waiting for me to come home and fuck you, you can do the housework. Does that sound good to you?’
She realized, much to her own surprise, that she thought it sounded fine. At least, as a fantasy. The idea of belonging to him was increasingly attractive, and this knowledge suddenly disturbed her. These fantasies might be fun, but this was still strictly a business deal. She was in danger of letting her emotions blur her common sense. If she was not careful she could end the ninety days by being badly hurt.
James Sinclair was obviously not a man about to involve himself seriously with any woman. He had the money, the contacts and the free time to indulge himself in his own particular brand of sexual playacting. He had probably arranged these adventures before, and would undoubtedly do so again when another woman either attracted him or needed something from him. There was no reason for her to suppose that she meant anything special to him. When he had finished with her, she could expect nothing more than what he had already promised: a signature. He would walk right out of her life without a second thought.
It was ridiculous of her to expect anything else. He was cultured enough to make their meetings civilized, but she had to accept the fact that to James Sinclair she was nothing more than an erotic toy, someone to be stripped for his pleasure and used in his fantasies.
Sometimes when he looked at her she thought there was more than just lust in his gaze, but looking at him now, lounging back in the leather armchair, she decided that it was simply her imagination.
‘I hate doing housework,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘All right, forget the housework. Do the cooking instead.’
‘I presume you like burnt toast?’ she countered.
‘Isn’t there anything at all that you’re good at, Miss Loften?’ The tone of his voice was still light and teasing. ‘Apart from servicing me?’
It was tempting to believe that he was really interested in learning more about her, but she discounted the idea. He was just playing games. She deliberately kept her voice cool, determined to remind him that she had not forgotten why they were together. To remind him that they were not lovers, seeking to learn more about each other. This was strictly business.
‘I’ve been told that I’m very good at my job,’ she said. She saw his expression change and knew that she had made her point.
‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘Your job. This is part of it, isn’t it?’
‘That was the arrangement,’ she reminded him.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t complain. We’re two of a kind, you and I. We both know what we want and we’re willing to pay whatever it takes to get it.’ He paused. ‘Or that’s what you’d like me to believe, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ she agreed.
‘I wonder if that’s really true?’ His dark eyes surveyed her curiously. ‘Would you really do absolutely anything I asked?’
The look on his face made her suddenly nervous. Was he planning to test her? To try and find something she would refuse to do? She knew that there were plenty of sexual games she would not enjoy playing. She remembered a friend once telling her about some activities she indulged in with her current boyfriend, and which she euphemistically described as ‘water sports.’ Genevieve had innocently believed this involved sex in a swimming pool, or maybe the bath, and had been genuinely repelled by her friend’s unashamed account of the actual details. She had not found them remotely erotic, although her friend obviously did, and had even suggested that Genevieve might like to make up a threesome.
What would she do if Sinclair asked her to get involved in something like that? She looked at him, relaxing in the armc
hair, elegant in his black suit. He looked infuriatingly self-assured. So far she had enjoyed everything he had suggested, but what if he asked her to do something she found, if not totally repugnant, at least unpleasant. Would she agree, if he insisted? Did the completion of her business deal mean that much to her? She was not sure. This was unmapped territory. How far would she really go to get what she wanted?
Sinclair seemed unaware of her inner turmoil. He surveyed her for a few seconds more, then smiled.
‘I promised you a meal, didn’t I? Do you like Chinese?’
‘I love it,’ she said, with genuine enthusiasm.
‘Good.’ He looked round the room. ‘I think we’ll eat in here.’
She went to pick up her dress. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You stay as you are.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘But you’d better keep out of the way when the caterers arrive. I wouldn’t want Mr. Ho and his friends to be shocked.’
She waited upstairs while the food was delivered, listening to the vague hum of voices in the room below. The upper corridor of Sinclair’s house was deeply carpeted and pleasantly warm. She wandered about, pushing open doors and peeping into rooms. Two were obviously guest bedrooms, the others were clearly unused. Wherever Sinclair slept, it was not on this floor.
She wondered what his bedroom would be like. A huge waterbed? A four-poster? Mirrors on the ceiling? Erotic prints on the walls? Her imagination began to run riot. A brass bedstead with chains so that he could spread-eagle his latest girlfriend and indulge himself in whatever sex play he fancied? She had surprised herself by enjoying the sensation of helplessness when he had tied her to the door during their first meeting. What would it be like tied to a bed? What would he do? Would he have a collection of exotic sex toys? Or a collection of whips?
When Sinclair called her downstairs again she was in a pleasantly aroused state of mind. Several small tables held a selection of bowls containing Chinese delicacies. He had placed two armchairs opposite each other and indicated that she should sit in one of them.
The act of eating, while dressed in nothing but her high-heeled shoes, was unexpectedly erotic, all the more so because Sinclair sat watching her with undisguised pleasure as he helped himself from the various dishes at his disposal, and entertained her with stories and gossip about the various theatre and television personalities that he had met.
She deliberately tried to tantalize him by moving into seductive poses, crossing and uncrossing her legs, squeezing her arms close to her body so that her breasts swelled out provocatively, hoping to tease him into losing some of his studied self-control.
She did not succeed. He remained the perfect host and did not touch her until it was time for her to leave and she had dressed again. As he helped her on with her fur coat his hand strayed to her bottom, stroking it with an insistent circular movement.
‘I enjoyed your performance,’ he said. ‘All of it. You’ve got talent. It seems a pity not to share it. I think I’ll arrange a professional booking for you. Keep practicing.’
She did not believe him, although the idea intrigued her. She thought about it during the taxi ride home, remembering the warmth and glare of the lights, and the strange feeling of power the act of stripping had given her. What would it be like to have dozens of pairs of hidden eyes watching her as she performed? She thought she would enjoy it.
She wondered what professional strippers thought about when they were on stage. Were they really reviewing their next shopping list as they gyrated to the music? Or did they imagine they were dancing for their husband or boyfriend or even, as Thea had suggested, a favorite actor or a pop star?
What would she think about? She knew the answer to that. She remembered the erotic thrill of knowing that James Sinclair was watching her every move, enjoying the slow exposure of her body. She would picture him lounging in his leather armchair, the bulge of his erection pushing against the zip of his trousers. She would think about the taste of him in her mouth. She would think about what he would do to her after her dance had ended.
Yes, she would definitely think about Sinclair.
The following day there was a large brown envelope on her doormat when she returned home from work. Inside was a letter headed Club Bacchus, with a London address, confirming that she was booked to appear on the tenth of that month ‘as arranged.’ The second letter was from Sinclair:
As you see, I’ve arranged your professional appearance. Taxi will call at seven. Bring your music. Georgie is making you a mask.
Chapter Six
The sports-club bar was crowded and noisy but Genevieve hardly heard the jumbled sounds of conversation and laughter until Lisa Hadley brought her back to the present with a snap of her fingers.
‘Wake up, Gen. Your orange juice is getting cold.’
‘Sorry.’ Genevieve picked up the juice carton and toyed with the straw.
‘Your mind’s been wandering all evening,’ Lisa said. ‘It certainly wasn’t on our game, otherwise I’d never have won. If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were in love.’
Genevieve smiled. Love was certainly not the emotion occupying her mind at that moment. Sex, yes. But not love. ‘I haven’t time to fall in love,’ she said.
An overweight man pushed past their table, his face bright red and sheened with sweat. Lisa watched him with undisguised amusement.
‘He was in the weight room, can you believe?’ she said. ‘I always thought the weight room would be full of hard, young, male bodies, all glistening and muscular, and when I peek in, what do I see? Humpty Dumpty, puffing like an engine. Disgusting.’
‘Perhaps you just picked the wrong night,’ Genevieve suggested.
‘Believe me,’ Lisa said, ‘I’ve tried every night. It’s always the same. Middle-aged flab trying to turn itself into Schwarzenegger in five quick sessions.’
‘Have you seen the two women who seem to have actually managed it?’
‘Women? You’re joking?’
‘I’m not. These two had muscles a lot of men would envy.’
‘Sounds horrible. Were they really hideous?’
‘No,’ Genevieve said. ‘They were really nice looking.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Well, it’s true. Take a look during the ladies session. See for yourself.’
‘No thanks,’ Lisa said. ‘I prefer looking at men. But not the ones in our weight room. Do you know, I think I’d actually pay money for a few hours of passion with one of those hunks you see in the bodybuilding mags, if I could ever find one.’ She glanced quickly at Genevieve. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Genevieve said. The overmuscled bodies, their veins standing out like cords, skin gleaming with fake tan and oil, always seemed to her the ultimate turnoff. Sinclair’s body had always felt lean and hard. His muscles were those of an athlete, sinewy and strong under his skin.
She realized, with a little shock of surprise, that although she could picture his body she had never seen him naked. He stripped her, but kept himself fully clothed, allowing her access only to his cock and balls, as if this was the only part of himself he was willing to share with her.
‘You’re doing it again,’ Lisa said. ‘You’ve got that faraway look in your eyes. Come on, who’s the man?’
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you,’ Genevieve said, ‘that I might be thinking about work?’
‘Knowing you, I can believe it,’ Lisa agreed. ‘Don’t you ever get frustrated?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You’re weird,’ Lisa said. ‘I do.’
‘But you’ve got a boyfriend,’ Genevieve said, in surprise.
‘Dear old Bart.’ Lisa nodded. ‘The original once-a-week man. I can tell you exactly how Bart’s going to make love to me. He’ll touch my ear and then kiss it a few times. Then he’ll move down to my neck. After about a minute there he’ll undo my blouse, or push up my T-shirt, or whatever. And if my nipples aren’t hard enough for h
im he’ll say “What’s the matter? Aren’t you in the mood?” and make it sound as if there’s something wrong with me. Two minutes of foreplay and I’m supposed to be panting with lust!’ Lisa grinned wryly. ‘If you’re telling the truth about not having a special man perhaps you’re lucky. You’ll be less frustrated with a vibrator.’
‘But you’ve been with Bart for ages,’ Genevieve said.
‘I know,’ Lisa agreed. ‘That’s the bit I don’t understand. I like him. Maybe I actually love him. Sometimes I think I do. I certainly can’t imagine life without him. I just wish he’d liven up in bed. I wish he’d surprise me for once. Tip a bottle of chocolate sauce over me and lick it off. Anything for a change.’
‘Sounds awful,’ Genevieve laughed.
‘Perhaps not chocolate sauce,’ Lisa said. She thought for a moment. ‘How about wine?’
‘Still sounds awful. And think what a mess it’d make of the sheets.’
Lisa grinned. ‘You’re just too conventional, Gen. You and Bart would make a good pair.’
Genevieve wondered what Lisa would say if she explained why she had not been concentrating on their squash game. She had checked the Club Bacchus by telephone and discovered that it was a genuine venue. But the receptionist’s reaction to her suggestion that they were staging a strip show was distinctly frosty. Club Bacchus, the cool voice informed her, was for wine connoisseurs, and membership was by invitation only.
So, she thought, Sinclair had not been completely honest with her. Either the club was just the starting point in his plan or he had hired the venue for a private party. Would she be expected to strip in front of his friends? Was that his idea of a ‘professional booking’? Was that why he told her to wear a mask?
She had already received an elegant leather face hood from Georgie’s workshop. It covered her hair completely and strapped round her neck, leaving only her nose and mouth free. The eye holes were outlined with tiny diamond studs. It was exquisitely crafted, comfortable, and disguised her completely.
The Ninety Days of Genevieve Page 16