by Nikki Steele
The neck and inside of the arm, too, provide sensations that arouse. The feet, when stimulated, transmit feeling via their nerve endings to all over the body. I would do that to you. I would bath you and massage you, then begin my kisses at your toes and travel slowly upward, lips pressing against your skin, till I gently tickled the underside of your knee. I’d travel further up, but I wouldn’t stop at your waist. No. I’d keep going, kissing up the side of your body until I reached your neck, where I’d linger.
I couldn’t help it—my free hand went to my neck, feeling his kisses as brushes upon my skin, imagining him before me.
I’d nibble you gently, careful not to leave a mark—that will come later—then begin my downward journey once more. But this time, my mouth would find your breasts. My tongue would circle gently.
My hand slid from my neck slowly as I read, until it was gently tracing a nipple. I was getting shivers—my body turned on from the words before me.
With my hands I’d knead your other breast, enjoying its fullness, the feel of it between my fingers. I like your breasts; I dream about them. I’d pinch each nipple sharply, then cover them again with my mouth; sucking the brief, pleasurable pain way.
I squeezed my nipple between thumb and forefinger, mirroring his words. I wanted him so badly. I wanted him here, right now, to do the things he was describing.
Then my hand would move lower, my mouth remaining where it was; your senses splitting to reveal electricity slowly building within your bosom as the skin over your thighs began to goose bump in anticipation of the hand moving slowly toward it.
My hand slipped between my thighs with a whisper. I knew what was coming. And I knew I had to keep reading until I got there. The beating of my heart, the quickness of my breath; neither would let me turn away now.
Only now that my hand has reached your most tender of places does my head, too, slide down. My hand pauses in its caress, to part your legs, allowing room between them. Your center is open to me, a beautiful rose, with a fragrance that I need to inhale. My lips kiss it lovingly—soft kisses that lap against its edges. Above, I can hear you begin to moan.
A hiss of air escaped my lips as my legs widened in the bath. The water eddied gently against them, creating delicious ripples that tantalized as they washed upon me.
My fingers began to circle. If I closed my eyes I could imagine him there, between my legs. The water swirled like his tongue, smelling of roses and feeling like heaven. The pressure from his mouth would get firmer as he listened to my breathing, as he noted the tension in my thighs. He’d know the effect he was having on me. My fingers began to circle faster as my eyes opened.
I take your bud within my mouth and begin to suck gently, teasing it out, letting it slide between my lips before taking it within once more. I love the feel of it in my mouth, this opportunity to show you the pleasure you have already shown me. My hands find your opening and one finger inches gently inside—just the tip, running around the edge. I can tell you want more. You’re so wet. And so suddenly I do what your eyes have been begging for. I thrust inside, my finger entering you all the way.
I moaned as my own hand followed suit. The heat of the bath was nothing to the warmth growing between my legs, the excitement building within my thighs. I began to tremble with each slide of my finger in and out.
You want me to finish you, I know it. But we’re not done yet. We’ve only just begun. You beg me, but in answer I slide a second finger within. They curl slightly toward the top, placing pressure within you as my arm begins to move.
I could feel him within me. Pleasuring me. The water in the tub began to slosh against the sides. My toes began to curl.
The movements get faster. Faster. We’re on the home stretch now, I can’t stop myself. You can’t, either.
My back began to arch. This was it. The heat was a bonfire raging inside me.
Your body is on fire with the pleasure I’m producing within you. You start to buck upon my fingers. You start to screa-
I threw the book to the floor as I screamed in pleasure, every muscle in my hips suddenly contracting in desire. Flames of delight were ripping through my body, clouding my mind to everything except the delight this one man had wrought upon me.
It felt like forever until I slumped back against the bath; breathless, replete and satisfied like I hadn’t been in weeks. I lay there until my breathing returned to normal.
Then I reached to the floor and pick up the book once more, turning to the very last page. I was weary yes—that blissful, floating laziness which only happened after the best of times was slowly creeping upon me—but I wanted to read the end. I had to see how the book finished.
I smiled. The last page had just three words, printed in neat text in the center of the white page. Then I closed the book and placed it, more carefully this time, onto the floor. Three little words.
To be continued…
CHAPTER SIX
In the light of day, the hopes and dreams of last night began to fade. So what if he had written a book just for me? So what if he knew me so well that he could make me orgasm not just once, but again and again as I lay in bed later that night?
A knock sounded at the front door. Who could be calling this early on a Sunday morning? I leapt toward it eagerly, earlier thoughts forgotten. “Book-”
“Oh.” A tall gentleman dressed in trench coat and ratty face stood before me. “Um, hi. Who are you?”
“I might ask the same question of you, Miss…?”
I frowned. “That’s none of your business. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”
A foot wedged between the door as I closed it. “But I think you do, Clara.”
I paused. “How do you know my name?”
His body pushed against the door, and then he was inside. “I know a lot about you—librarian, divorced, no kids. But what I don’t know—what I want to know, is what happened several weeks ago when you were stuck in the library overnight with one Booker DeVale.”
“DeVale? Is that his last name?”
“I work for Mrs. Stacey DeVale, the gentleman in question’s wife. You may or may not be aware that Mr DeVale is a very wealthy man; they are going through a very messy divorce right now.”
A hand went to his pocket. He pulled out a cigarette, but didn’t light it. “I have been charged by Mrs. DeVale to investigate the truth behind rumors that her husband may or may not have been unfaithful to her during the course of their contract.”
The first thought to enter my mind was a question. “Have… there been other women, then?” I didn’t know if I wanted to know the answer.
The private investigator’s mouth screwed up like he’d ingested something distasteful. The cigarette went back in his pocket. “No. Not as of yet, more’s the shame. That’s why I’m here.”
“Wait, what do you mean, ‘more’s the shame?’”
“My apologies, a slip of the tongue. My client saw you two together in the snow when she picked him up. She is hoping you may be amendable to giving her some information on the matter.”
My hand was starting to tremble. I held it firmly with my other, before he could see. “Is she angry?”
He shook his head. “On the contrary, she would be delighted. Very little love is lost between the two right now. She’d be willing to pay you very handsomely for any information you might be willing to give her.”
I hated Booker. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. But I wasn’t going to poison that one night between us with something like this. “I’m sorry Mr… what did you say your name was?”
“Simon Wickson, Private Investigator,”
“We’ll I’m sorry Mr. Wickson. I can’t help you.”
He looked at me, eyebrow arched. “Really. Even though he’s been back to your library every day since? Even though you opened the door saying his name?”
“I believe he’s overseeing the renovations next door,” I said, quoting words said to me by Booker himself. “And last t
ime I checked it was a free library. Are you going to tell me he’s not allowed inside?”
“Not at all.” He placed a calling card in my hand. “But please, if you do see him again, or you remember anything else, give me a call. I can make it very worth your while—and I promise after, you’ll never see him again.”
“I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe,” I whispered. “Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.”
“What was that?”
“It’s from Romeo and Juliet,” I said, closing the door behind him. “You wouldn’t understand.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I awoke that night to the beautiful strains of instrumental music. I lay in bed, confused. Noise was common in the street below my second floor apartment, but it was always fast and angry—the reverberations of an engine, or the blaring of a stereo. This soft music, in comparison, was as if spring had been distilled and then left to air beneath my very window.
I wrapped myself in a dressing gown and shuffled to the balcony, the music growing louder as the door slid open.
My mouth opened in shock. A string quartet was arranged on the lawn below, their suits dark against the white snow in the starlight. Standing behind them, dressed in the most immaculate tuxedo with hands clasped behind his back, was-
“Booker? Is that you?”
He looked up, a smile lighting his face. From behind his back he drew a single, long stemmed rose. “Clara!”
“What the heck are you doing? It’s one o’clock in the morning!”
He performed an elegant bow, and then indicated the rose. “Serenading you, of course.”
“You’re what?”
“Serenading you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading romances, it’s that the heroine always falls for a gentleman if he serenades her by moonlight.”
“Are you out of you mind?”
“I tell you as much, because I do not wish you to think that my illness is feigned. But supposing the illness had been a mere trick to frighten you, what a risk the rascal would have run!”
I paused briefly to process that last sentence. “Are you quoting Casanova now?”
“As the good man himself said, ‘Love is a great poet, its resources are inexhaustible, but if the end it has in view is not obtained, it feels weary and remains silent.’”
Lights were beginning to come on up and down the street. The old lady across the road was already on her front step, hand on her heart.
“Booker,” I said flatly. “Go home.”
“No. Not until you let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain. You’re married.”
“I will begin with this confession: whatever I have done in the course of my life, whether it be good or evil, has been done freely; I am a free agent.”
“Booker,” I said, exasperated. “Stop quoting Casanova.”
“Because a few thorns are to be found in a basket full of roses, is the existence of those beautiful flowers to be denied? No; it is a slander to deny that life is happiness.”
Across the road, the old lady gave him a thumbs up.
“Booker!”
“I will not stop until you let me up.”
I crossed my arms. “No.”
“Would the great lover himself have taken that answer?”
I glared at him.
“Then I won’t either,” he said, ignoring my look. He opened his arms wide. “And I threw myself into her burning arms, passionate with love, and gave her the most ardent proof of this for seven hours straight.”
I blushed, knowing exactly at what he was hinting. “It wasn’t quite seven hours, sir.”
“Five then. What can I say? Time seemed to stand still. I wished it would never end. And yet I dreaded each passing moment, for it brought us closer to the morning. ‘We kissed whatever took our fancy, and just as she applied her lips to the mouth of the pistol, it went off and the discharge inundated her face and her bosom. She was delighted, and watched the process to the end with all the curiosity of a doctor.’”
The old lady cackled loudly. “Let him up dearie! Or move aside and let me have a go!”
I turned instantly bright red. “Booker! You’re embarrassing me.”
“Nonsense. I’m simply telling the world that I love you, and you love me, despite what you protest.” He raised his voice, arms in the air as if speaking now to the street. “And if that love happens to include the most amazing sex I’ve ever had, then so be it.” He grinned, a cheeky thing that made his eyes sparkle. “I’ll freely admit it, and I’ll keep on admitting it, loudly, until you let me apologize, and explain.”
I stomped my foot in the cold night air. I really should have wrapped something warmer around myself than this flimsy dressing gown. “That’s not fair!”
“Life is not fair.” He took a deep breath, about to quote more verse.
“Oh shush!” I said, cutting him off. “Get up here. You’ve got exactly five minutes.”
I swear the old lady was cheering as I opened the front door.
* * *
I couldn’t help it. I made him a cup of hot chocolate.
He took an appreciative sip from the steaming hot mug, then winked at me. “Thank you,” he said warmly.
“You can thank me when you leave,” I said archly. “Right now, I want to know how you found me, what you’re really doing standing in the snow, and why the heck you haven’t gotten the message yet.” I paused, considering my words. “And not, necessarily, in that order.”
He put the cup down, lifting a hand to tick points off on his fingers. “Firstly, money can buy almost anything. Second, the one thing money can’t buy, is love. And third,” he said. “You’re giving me the wrong message. It’s not what I want to hear. And I know it’s not what your heart wants to say.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know we spent a night together that I didn’t want to end. I’m trying to stop it from ending. I’m hoping you feel the same way.”
It wasn’t a question I was prepared to answer. “Then why didn’t you come to the library yesterday?”
His hand went to the back of his neck. “There were, ah, complications I had to attend to.”
“What kind of complications?”
The hand rounded his head to brush over his face.
“You’re married,” I said for him.
He nodded.
“You know how I feel about that.”
“I do, now…” he paused. “What I mean,” he said, holding his hands before him, “is that most people, myself included, don’t like the idea of cheating. I’m not asking for forgiveness for that.”
The hand reached to rub the back of his neck once more. “But something, I’m not sure what, happened in your past. I’m sorry I didn’t know about that. I’m sorry I didn’t know how my actions would be taken.”
He took a deep breath. “Clara, my wife and I are together in name only. We haven’t been in love for a long time; she already lives with someone else. I thought to explain, but just never found the right time. And then I thought, well, the paperwork would be through shortly. If I didn’t tell you, it might not even matter.”
“Shortly?” I asked. “But not yet.”
He grimaced. “It was supposed to be signed the night I crashed. That’s why I was flying in the storm—anything to get this over and done with.”
There was something he hadn’t told me. Not yet. I asked the obvious question first. “Then why hasn’t it happened by now?”
His eyes met mine. “You.”
“Me? What do I have to do with this?”
He leaned forward. “There was a pre-nup Clara. Something I signed when I was young and stupid and poor.”
“And?”
“And it has a clause. One that gives everything to my wife should I ever be unfaithful.”
“But… didn’t you say she’s living with someone already?”
He shook his head. “The clause is very specific.” He closed his eyes, recitin
g. “Should either party engage in relations of a sexual nature with a person outside of the marriage, that person will forfeit all wealth, including land, stock, and cash reserves, to the other party; on the proviso that concrete evidence can be presented in a court of law incriminating either the cheating partner or their mistress.”
I shrugged, puzzled. “What’s the problem—it seems you both have a case against each other, shouldn’t they cancel out?”
“Listen to that last line again,” he said. “Either the cheating partner, or their mistress.”
The issue dawned like moonlight on a murky night. “Their mistress. It only counts if you cheat with a woman.”
He nodded. “When I couldn’t make it that night, we were arranged to sign the following morning. That’s why she picked us up. But then she saw you, and she put two and two together… and well, now she’s hungry.”
For a moment—the briefest of moments, I felt compassion for the man sitting before me. What must it have been like, to live years with someone you don’t love? To finally see the end in sight, then have it snatched away?
But then my resolve hardened. I couldn’t answer that. But I could answer something else. What must it be like to be the third party?
And then suddenly, desperately, I needed to know the answer to one more question. “This money you’re fighting over. Is it more important than me?”
He sat back. “Clara. No, of course not.”
“Then tell your wife about us.” I’d heard too many promises in my life.
“Clara, you don’t understand.”
I rose, trembling. “I think I do.” I’d seen too many promises broken already. “You’re still married, and whether it is only by the letter of the law or not doesn’t matter! All I see is another cheating bastard that guarantees the world but shows up empty handed.”