“Well, I’ll be,” Sally whispered to herself. She’d have pulled back inside if it wasn’t already too late—if that upstart boy hadn’t already seen her. He stood under a tree, watching as if he’d been waiting for her to appear.
She didn’t even know his name. He was a new member of the household staff. Not that she had any idea what he did. Yesterday he’d sauntered past her, his sweet ass tight inside Jeans washed so thin, she could see the shadow between his cheeks.
First she’d followed him through the oaks until she had a chance to speak to him alone. Then she’d taken him to the old gazebo, and it had all been so much fun—until he turned rough. He’d scared her and she’d told him to get lost, but there he was, smiling up at her.
Tonight there would be a big fund-raiser for Wilson’s campaign. The old house and its sumptuous gardens would ring with music and laughter, and the clink of fine crystal and china. Deals would be made. For a “small” consideration, Wilson would remember his friends who helped him get to the senate. Already the pot was gratifyingly huge, but it had to be a great deal larger. And Sally would be the gracious hostess, the bestower of sisterly confidences on rich women, suggestive winks on rich old men, and, as the hour grew late and the company became drunker, sly crotch squeezes on rich men who were not too old.
But that was tonight.
Sally deliberately ignored the boy—she didn’t even know his name—and studied the men at work threading lights among live oaks draped with Spanish moss. She glanced behind her and saw Wilson propped on one elbow, his expression rapt as he watched the only god he worshipped almost as much as himself, and money—the media.
She turned to the gardens once more. He was still there, and he was looking right back at her. Standing in the shade of one of the oaks closest to the house, he sank his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared up at Mrs. Sally Lamar. Insolent boy. He’d pushed her down, ripped her underwear. Oh, he’d been good—good enough for her to want more—but there was something about him that made alarms sound in her head. Besides, she was thirty-six. This sun-tanned, hard-muscled, eager-to-be friend might be twenty-one or two, or a little more. Or he might not. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful young thing. Possibly a dangerous young thing. She would ignore him.
His finger, pointed at her, mesmerized Sally. He kept right on pointing and strolled from the shade into the light.
Heading for the house. He was heading for the house!
When he reached the bottom of the front steps, he sent her a knowing look and folded his arms. He nodded toward the entrance, then disappeared beneath her, through the front door.
Sally felt the beat of her heart in her throat. She went back into the bedroom, keeping her steps slow. Wilson continued to stare at the TV screen that all but covered a wall, and acknowledged her presence only by letting out an exasperated breath and shifting irritably when she walked in front of him and out of the room. She closed the door quietly behind her.
From the balcony that ran around the second story there was an unobstructed view of a central hall. Tessellated black and white marble tiles, walls hung with dark red brocaded silk, white stone urns overflowing with hothouse flowers already put in place by the florists—a small gold-draped dais where a harpist would serenade arriving guests. Daddy would have approved. Sally approved of it, but she didn’t have time to admire her taste while the sinuous, fluid-limbed man approached the stairs with the kind of nonchalance that belonged only to the foolish or the self-confident. Everyone was too busy working to notice when he climbed upward, one large hand on the gilded banister. His light denim shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, showing plenty of black curly hair on his chest.
And the way those soft jeans dipped and bulged over his crotch.
Heat and cold chased across her skin. She had to get rid of him. He was young, and wild, and could be difficult to control. Control was Sally’s thing. She always controlled the men she chose to play with.
This time she’d control the boy too. She’d show him who was in charge, enjoy him, and make sure he didn’t come near her again unless she did the approaching and the asking.
One of Opi’s Jelly Roll Morton tapes burst to life from the dining room. Sally snapped her fingers to “Black Bottom Stomp” and turned her back on the man who climbed the stairs. Sashaying to the music, she made her way into one of the guest bedrooms. She dropped her robe at the entrance to the bathroom and began to hum and clap. There were always plenty of big, fluffy towels in every bathroom. Sally pulled two from a cupboard and hung them on a rack near the shower before turning on the water.
Yes, this time her strong, young lover would learn about being used, and he’d want her again so badly that he wouldn’t dare to put another foot wrong.
The bedroom door slammed shut.
Sally boogied, her bare feet beating a rhythmic tattoo on the cool, deep-water-green tile.
He entered the bathroom, hovered by the door, watching her. Then he locked them in.
His eyes were dark, but dark blue, not brown, and maybe she’d misjudged his age.
“How old are you?” she asked softly.
“Old enough, me.” His liquid voice was deep, the cadence heavily Cajun. “You?” he asked.
“Old enough, me too,” she said, making herself laugh. He was too sure of himself. “Where did you get all that chutzpah so soon? Come on, how old? Twenty?”
He raised his chin. “Twenty-three. That too young? Or too old? I show you it’s just right, lady.”
Sally danced toward him and locked her wrists behind his neck. “You aren’t going anywhere until I say so, and I don’t say so. I call the moves around here. Dance with me, baby. Show me how you can move.”
He swallowed, and his neck jerked sharply, and a thrill ran down her spine. He talked a great story, but the big boy was a bit nervous this time. Sally kept one hand behind his neck and used the other to play with the hair on his chest. She stood on her toes and ran her tongue along his square jaw and into his ear. He made a moaning sound low in his throat.
“You’re going to make love to me,” she whispered. “And afterward you’re going to go away and you’ll never do what you did out there again. No one saw you—at least, I don’t think so. But you will never risk arousing my husband’s suspicions. Next time, you wait for me to send for you.”
He shivered, actually shivered.
“Now let’s get close,” she said. “You can do anything you want. And I’ll do anything you want. And you’ll do everything I want. Do we have a deal?”
“Maybe.”
Sally stood absolutely still. “Maybe?”
‘You want somethin’ I got. What you want I don’t give away not unless I’m offerin’
She slapped him hard across the face. She didn’t get a chance to hit him again.
He grasped her wrist, spun her around, and pushed her arm just far enough up her back to make her bite down a scream. The face Sally saw above her own in the mirror was very confident. He smiled at her, a tight, downturned smile, and his eyes narrowed against steam from the beating shower.
Placing his mouth on her left ear, he said, “Probably we should make no loud noise, no?” and eased the pressure on her arm. He slid his free hand around her waist and splayed his darkly tanned fingers over her belly. “You should be polite, you. Thank the guest for comin’. Ask him if he got everythin’ he want. Maybe he say yes.” He rested his mouth on the side of her neck but never lost eye contact in the mirror.
She had judged him right the first time. Dangerous. He could cause a lot of trouble. The “boy” had shivered with excitement at the promise of a chance to dominate a woman who should have been beyond his reach.
“What you say, Mrs. Lamar?”
Sally placed a hand on top of his on her stomach and smiled at him. “Tell me your name.” She dipped her head slightly, let the smile slip away slowly. The little touches that went into seduction came naturally.
“You love sex,” he said bal
dly. He bared very white teeth and sank them lightly into her shoulder. “Perhaps you love sex almost as much as Ben.”
“Ben.” Not a name she would have expected. Perhaps the white ball had landed on black after all. Despite the steam, she began to feel cold. “You’ve been gone from your work a long time. They’ll wonder where you are.”
“I work for myself, me.” He spread his legs, pressed her bottom into his pelvis. “Aquariums. You remember the new aquariums Mr. Lamar order? Today I stock them. Nobody watchin’ me. Nobody know if I leave for a while.”
She considered and discarded the notion of threatening him with an accusation of unprovoked attack. At least until she was safely away from him. “You are very handsome, Ben. But you know that, don’t you?” Her mouth was so dry. “I’m sorry if Ι offended you by thinking you’d want me.”
“I do want you. You’re lots of woman. Yesterday was very good. Any man want you. But I don’t like to be told what I want.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you not sorry, you are frightened of me. I like that too. Fear bring respect, and a man is not a man if a woman he fuck don’t respect him.”
Sally’s legs weakened, but she locked her knees and stood firm. Damn Wilson for ignoring her all the time. This was his fault, but if he ever found out, he would probably laugh and say she’d got what she deserved. Wilson wouldn’t find out; nobody would. Her dear husband never came looking for her; if he did, he might have walked in on her with a man long before then.
She wished he would walk in now.
“You like this?” Ben asked, stroking downward between her legs and making the thin silk gown instantly wet. “Tell me how you like?”
Sally grew warm again, then hot. What the hell. She could handle a twenty-three-year-old with a big head. “I like it a lot, Ben. But I want you to tell me what you like. I thought you were going to tell me.”
“I like it here, in this house. Ι get sick of aquariums.”
Horrified at what he might be suggesting, she covered his probing hand. “What do you mean?”
He trapped her tightly against the green marble counter. His penis might as well have been naked—she could feel its hard outline and its pressure on the small of her back. Her breathing grew shallow and her breasts stung.
“This what I mean,” he said quietly. “I want you give me a job, you. The pool. I look after the pool, maybe—and other things.”
He began to terrify her. “I’m not sure—”
“You sure.” Releasing her arm, he cupped her breasts and pinched her nipples between his fingers. “No man better than Ben. And all yours. Whenever you want, you come to me.”
“Live here?” she asked. “Is that what you mean, you want to live here?”
“No.” He laughed. “I got my own place. Like my own place. I show it to you and you come when you like.”
Then why did he want a job here?
“And I be here to give you surprises when you bored, yes?”
No, she wanted to shout, but he was tightly wound, a steel coil of energy inside, and she’d be a fool to risk unleashing the cold rage he’d already shown himself capable of.
The pressure on her back became a rhythmic bumping. He darted his tongue in and out of her ear and bared her breasts. “Great tits,” he said, scraping the edges of his thumbnails over them until she tossed her head restlessly. She burned from her breastbone to her knees, and throbbed heavily where her labia swelled.
“You like it hard, maybe? Fast? You tell Ben what you like.”
Her breath came in pants now. Apart from beads of sweat on his brow, he seemed in control. “You tell me what you like,” she countered. “I want to make you happy.”
“Oh, I’m gonna be very happy, Mrs. Lamar. I gonna plan so many surprises for you. So many new things.”
Why had she picked him out? Because he’d been everywhere she looked yesterday, and because he was the kind of beautiful she couldn’t resist. Even as his hands and body sucked at the last vestiges of reason, she struggled against panic. Rather than what she was accustomed to, an exciting, forbidden encounter quickly forgotten by both parties, she was threatened with a tough opportunist who knew how sexy he was, and who was sharp enough to also know he might have hit pay dirt with Mrs. Lamar.
“You tell that Opi he hire me to take care of the pool, yes? And Mr. Lamar’s aquariums, of course?”
With no effort he spun her to face him and bent to suck at first one, then the other breast. He took his time, took long, heavy drags, and eased the gown up to her waist. His thumbs settled in the cleft of her bottom and he held the cheeks, forcing her against his jeans once more.
She looked at his thick black hair, his slanting black brows. He didn’t close his eyes while he worked over her breasts. Sally had never seen a man who didn’t close his eyes for that.
He was menacing.
But he was so damn good.
“What you say?” His blue eyes rose to hers. “We gonna have a whole lot of fun together, Mrs. Lamar?”
She stopped herself from asking, What 1f 1 say no? Instead, she passed her tongue over her lips and nodded. Her breasts felt bruised, but she wanted more of what he’d bruised them with. “We’re going to have lots of fun, Ben,” she said in the husky voice she could summon at will. “I’ll speak to Opi.”
“Good. You tell him I come recommended, me. And you not satisfied with the pool, huh?”
“You bet,” she told him. “I’m going to tell him exactly that.”
His intent expression became immobile. Concentration drew his mouth down at the corners again. “You never bored, Mrs. Lamar. I promise.” With that he sank to kneel, parted her thighs, and used his tongue. A tongue that wasn’t practicing a thing. A tongue that was a well-developed muscle like a small jackhammer whipping back and forth until she came. And she came so fast, there was no step between the start and the finish line.
“Hush, you,” he said, clapping a hand over her mouth when she screamed. “You a lady who need a lot of attention, a lot of surprises.”
On his feet again, he shrugged out of his shirt, unsnapped his jeans, and turned her to face the counter again. “Hold on, lady,” he muttered, laughing very deep. He tipped her forward and she clung to a faucet while he pushed inside her.
“Oh” was the only word she could speak. She hadn’t stopped throbbing from his tongue. “Oh, oh.” Twenty-three, huh? Thank God she’d kept her body in the kind of shape that still made men drool.
Long, deep strokes became faster until he crossed his arms around her and held on to her breasts—and rested his face on the back of her neck.
His control wavered only with his own release, and even then he gave just a single keening moan before spilling into her.
Ben knew how to play a woman who was a connoisseur.
They breathed hard, and together. Slowly Sally became aware of how short a time had passed. He hadn’t wasted a second. He’d made his demands—not that she intended to grant them—and then he was in, and out. But she would want him again once she could figure out how to do so and still call the shots.
“Nice,” he said, stepping away from her. He stripped off his jeans—under which he wore nothing—and his shoes and efficiently removed the gown that was twisted around her waist. “When do I start here?”
Her stomach turned. “I’ll have to talk to Opi.”
“Opi make decisions like that? I don’t think so. I think if Mrs. Lamar say she want Ben, Ben get the job, yes?”
She gave him a modest smile. “Probably.”
His mouth covered hers so unexpectedly, she had no time to take a breath. Still kissing her, he lifted her, wrapped her legs around his waist, and carried her into the shower. Placing her head immediately beneath the pounding water, he ensured she kept her eyes squeezed shut.
“Probably, yes,” he said. “I come tomorrow and Opi expect me. Your good friends recommend me.”
He couldn’t do anything to her, could he?
&nb
sp; Ben showed just what he could do to her at that minute. He jerked into her again and held her around the waist to pump her up and down on him. When she squirmed, and whined, “I’m too sore,” and meant it, he wrapped her against him and gave her his first complete surprise. A finger where she least expected it, massaging, horrified, then thrilled her. He sent her exploding over the edge while he laughed some more, or, more accurately, while his chest moved with silent laughter.
“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Oh, damn, oh, yes. Don’t stop.”
When Sally went back into the master suite, she avoided looking at Wilson and went directly to her dressing room.
“Get out here,” he told her, his voice angry. “Now. Shit, this is a goddamn mess.”
She looked at herself in the dressing room mirror. Even after toweling off and combing her hair, she still looked used. She’d left the gown hanging in the shower to dry and put on the robe. Now she grabbed a pair of orange cotton sweats and dragged them on over her still red and chafed skin. She trembled inside. Pulling her hair back, she secured it at her nape with a piece of ribbon, then pushed her feet into gold flats.
“Sally! Get here!”
“Sure, lover,” she said, going as briskly as possible to his side and kicking the shoes off again to lie beside him on the bed. “What’s eating you, Wilson?”
“That.” He pointed at the television screen. “What the fuck do I pay all these people for?”
Sally looked at the set and saw the front of a familiar building in the Quarter. “Royal Street. Was there an accident?” There was always something going on in the Quarter, some drama.
“For God’s sake, Sally, shut the fuck up.” Wilson snatched up the phone and dialed. He waited, still naked but sitting up and leaning forward. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. And you know why I’m calling anyway. Yeah, so why not let me say my piece fast? The faster, the sooner we hang up and pretend you never heard from me today, right?”
Not just Royal Street, but that Errol Petrie’s place. Sally strained to hear what was being said, but Wilson had turned down the sound while he made his phone call.
“Okay,” Wilson said. “Maybe I need to speak to someone else. No. Shit, no, I’m not being funny. There’s nothing funny about this. What’s all the fuss about Petrie? Why the big TV splash? You’re supposed to make sure this doesn’t happen.”
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