What?
“That’s what a man has said to you? Fuck you right into the carpet?” He couldn’t believe this. Into. The. Carpet. What an idiot.
Joan nodded as she lifted her hand and wrapped it behind his neck. “Didn’t do much more than make me laugh. I don’t think he was going for that response.”
“Guys are idiots,” Archer sighed, shaking his head. “No, what I’m talking about when I say ‘sexy talk’ has nothing to do with what I’ll do but how I’ll do it. And why.”
“Why?”
“Mmm. Why. For example, ‘I’ll caress those gorgeous breasts of yours’. That’s not bad but it won’t make you gasp. Any guy with half a brain can come up with that. But how I’ll do it, now that’s the interesting part, that’s stimulating. So. I’ll caress your breasts with my hands, with my mouth, and treat them like the juiciest fruits I’ve ever tasted. Much better. No?”
She nodded once quickly.
Good. Phase Two.
“And the why is this. Because I want to watch your skin blush right here.” He pressed an index finger between her breasts. “I want to watch goose bumps rise here.” His finger traveled to her shoulder, brushed down her biceps. “And I want to taste some of that right there.” He made his finger as light as he could down her belly, followed the natural curve and cupped her mons. The tiny discs clinked when he pressed his palm there. “Ulterior motives. Call me an opportunistic prick. But that’s my goal.”
Joan chuckled and began to turn toward him but he stopped her by pressing his hand harder over her mons while he squeezed a leg between hers. “You never turn your back on the audience. You keep yourself open to them. Facing them. That’s stage presence and it’s what makes or kills a show.”
She mmm-ed. “But I’m not giving a show right now.”
“You’re always giving a show. Everyone is.”
Archer used his hands as he would shawls, ran them in quick and long passes over her belly and sides, her hips, her thighs, while his mouth brushed against the little vertebra jutting at the base of her neck. He loved that spot on a woman. A tiny bump for the more slender women or a smooth curve for the bodacious ones. He could—and had—done this all day, all night. Just kiss the back of a woman’s neck. With lips and breath alone, and whispers too. Or with his tongue and teeth for the more eager moments. And Joan’s was just perfect. Not too bony and not hidden.
Mmm.
She really was perfect for his tastes.
With the angle, he knew some people down in the street would eventually notice. He banked on it. Not that he wanted to share Joan with any other man, but the thought of someone watching her and him together made him hard and eager.
Not want to share a woman? When did that happen?
He’d never been the jealous, possessive type. He’d always shared his lovers and they’d returned the favor. He loved how a former flame would sometimes float back to him with new skills or tastes or wants. Nothing more exciting than a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it! Especially if she’d enjoyed some new thing with another lover and Archer was lucky enough to try to raise the bar and “beat” that guy at his own game.
You’ve always been a competitive asshole, Archer.
All part of his charm!
She shivered, looked left and right then back over her shoulder at him. A blonde eyebrow was raised high.
“I’ve kissed both your mouths, Joan, you’re not getting shy on me, are you?”
“No but someone will see us.” She didn’t sound overly worried, just stating a fact.
“It’s good practice for Saturday.”
“What if it’s someone I know? What if it’s another cop? My precinct isn’t that far.”
“You think people you know, men or women, haven’t already undressed you in their heads? We all do it, we all look at someone beautiful or alluring or interesting and think ‘Mmm, I wonder how she looks under those clothes?’ It’s the best part of imagination. Wondering and guessing. And when you’re lucky enough to test your theory for real, well, that’s just…rawr.”
“Rawr?”
Archer laughed, shocked he’d act in such a silly way. She must have been rubbing off on him.
“Yeah, well, don’t quote me or anything. But this, you can take to the show.”
With one hand against her hip and the other pressed against her mons, he began to rotate his hips, slowly, letting her find her own rhythm, her own technique, while he’d provide the ooh la la factor from behind.
Joan gyrated those lovely hips in small circles at first then must have found her natural measure because she accentuated the move, the reach of each rotation, until she was curving her butt up into him with each roll. Enough so that Archer seriously considered throwing all that Feng Shui shit “be one with your thong…you have to be the thong, to be the thong” out the window and pushing her against the wall for a disorderly coupling backseat-of-a-1971-Charger style. Hot damn!
He followed her, let her take the lead, kept his hands light on her so she’d have freedom of movement. Something told him he’d be well rewarded.
“How’s that?” she murmured after linking both her hands behind his neck.
“Perfect, just perfect.”
“Do you think someone’s watching?”
“Someone always is.”
And Joan couldn’t think of anything more titillating than the thought of someone, somewhere, watching what she was doing with Archer, watching them grind against one another, watching his hands on her breasts—and both of which he’d popped out of her top too—her butt pressed back against his hard-on. Watch them up in the window of a lingerie boutique on the second floor of a Montreal downtown building. She never would’ve guessed she was the exhibitionistic type.
Who’da thunk it?
While Archer’s fine, fine hands slipped underneath her penny belt and converged over her pubic bone, caused a veritable surge of juices to slick her, the heat from his palms seeped in through the double layer of sports panties. She’d have to get some metallic gold thong or something. Man, she wanted her panties off like yesterday!
He accompanied her hip rotations, didn’t try to impose his rhythm, just followed hers. Quicker she went. Undulation, gyration, a bit of hip popping on one side. Behind her, his breathing accelerated. She felt so powerful, so in control.
When he abruptly released her so he could pull her panties down around her ankles, Joan gasped but didn’t try to stop him. He stood behind her again. She felt him fiddle with the closure of his jeans. To help, she reached for the penny belt and meant to untie it.
“Don’t you dare! Keep it on.”
She felt his jeans crumple around his legs, brushing the back of hers and triggering a series of shivers. Who knew denim could do that! Instincts forced her butt harder and higher against him to espouse his firm belly and the rock-hard cock pressing downward into the juncture of her cheeks. Little clicks from her garment provided perfect musical accompaniment when Joan felt him tilt his hips. She parted her legs a bit wider, held on to the window frame with one hand.
“Do you feel bad?” he asked. “Bad in a good way?”
“I feel very, very bad. Bad in a great way.”
“Attagirl.”
“Are you just going to ta—”
Then Archer was inside her.
“Mmmm.”
Smooth, so smooth and silky, his entrance pulled a long sigh out of her.
“Are you still watching your audience, Joan?” he whispered in her ear, rising into her sex, unfolding her around him.
She nodded for indeed her gaze was still turned outward and down, followed a man crossing the street, his raincoat opened in front. He wore dress pants cut just right. She left this man to set her gaze on another who looked Mediterranean with wavy black hair glossed back on his skull and talking animatedly on a cell phone she couldn’t see. He flicked it shut against his thigh and leaned on the wrought iron garbage can to adjust his shoe. His gaze traveled up. Ac
ross the street. Up at her. Their gazes met.
Strangely, she felt as if he’d been looking for her not just at her.
“Do you see him? With the pink T-shirt?” Archer asked as he started pulling away. “He’s looking at you. Make him part of your show. Share yourself with him.”
Joan knew the Mediterranean man could see what was going on, if only for the rising grin on his lips. He straightened, his eyes still turned to her, accepting her gift, watching her show. She’d pinned him.
Archer pulled out almost completely then pushed back in. Joan wanted to close her eyes, loll her head but did neither. It’d mean breaking eye contact. She couldn’t do that. She didn’t want to. The man on the street expected a show. She’d give him one.
Archer put his chin on her shoulder, seemed to be watching the man across the street as well. “Tell him you enjoy his watching. Thank him for accepting your gift.”
Joan nodded to herself, to Archer, but also to the man on the street below, who’d lost the smile and watched intently as she used her free hand to touch her breast, weigh it as one would a purse full of change before releasing it and grabbing the other side of the window frame.
Archer’s thrusts accentuated, lifted her heels off the floor. Still she watched the man. And he watched her.
“Harder,” she murmured for her lover’s benefit. Or hers. Or that of the audience.
“Make him feel it,” Archer whispered hoarsely. Thrust, thrust, thrust. “Bring him in with us. Take him.”
Heat radiated down along her thighs, up her back. Archer’s muscled legs moved like pistons, one almost between hers, the other pressed behind, his hands secured around her waist, the safe enclosure of his arms sheltering her from everyone and everything, even if she did offer a view. No one would touch. Not with Archer.
Sounds from the street below reached her muffled and dimmed, as did everything else except the man in the pink T-shirt across the street. She saw him lick his lip. Both hands hung at his sides while he stood perfectly immobile, seemingly unsurprised a couple was going at it across the street from him. As though he’d known all along she’d be here, known what would happen. Strange.
“Watch him,” Archer panted. “See? He’s all…yours.”
“Mine,” she repeated through her teeth.
“I’m taking…you.” Archer swallowed hard, huffed a curse before letting out a tight grunt. “And…you’re…taking…him.”
It was like having two men at once.
Archer’s breaths came harshly now, quickly. Into herself, she took him. Deep. Welcomed him, the best lover she’d ever had. She was getting close. Shivers tightened her neck, spread downward to encompass her whole body. Deep and slow penetrations now, the entire length of him, every inch and every ounce. Slowly. Profoundly. Joan bit her bottom lip.
“He’s waiting…the finale,” he panted in her ear. “Give it to him.”
Joan ahh-ed when Archer did a sort of figure eight once he’d reached the end of her pussy, retreated to his glans and pushed straight upward.
“Ohhh.”
“Give it to him,” he whispered. “He’s been good.”
With a moan, Joan kicked one foot out of her panties and spread her legs wider, grabbed the windowsill harder and rose on the balls of her feet. Pelvis tilted to make her cleft that much more accessible, she threw her head back, rode Archer’s measured drives. Fire in widening rings spread from her distended pussy. She cried out. Came like a bomb.
Across the street, the man in the hot pink T-shirt put a hand to his chest, stepped back by a pace.
Joan let her head fall to her chest, hair partly obscuring her vision of her “audience”. Behind her, Archer huffed and puffed while he kept his arms encircled tightly around her waist, his chin pressed against her shoulder. Each breath ruffled her hair.
When she looked back up, the man in the pink T-shirt was gone.
Chapter Six
“I’m hungry enough to eat lettuce,” Joan announced with a grin as she paid Raphaëlle. “Worked up some appetite, whoo.”
His star pupil was much too smooth to take the bait but she did raise an eyebrow. Joan, obviously satisfied with herself, pocketed the change—another woman in need of a purse—grabbed the bag and slung it over her shoulder. She must have misjudged for it hit something behind her.
Of course she misjudged. It’s Joan.
A rack of long Mardi Gras bead necklaces teetered dangerously for the half second it took Joan to whip around and catch it. With a tight smile and her cheeks darkening to a charming rose, she set it right.
“Oops.”
Raphaëlle just seemed to be glad the pair left when Archer opened the door for his sexy companion and followed her down the stairs.
“Do you want to eat something?” she asked, turning around before she’d reached the last step. “There’s a little place not far. It’s cute.”
Damn. That grin could power half the city.
“Be care—”
Arms flailing, Joan missed the last step, thudded hard on her heels and only remained upright because Archer had leaped the last three and grabbed the back of her belt. Fear squeezed his balls as if he’d been dunked in ice-cold water. She was going to give him a heart attack!
“Shit, Joan, fais attention!”
Man, he was sweating and shaking too. And why the sudden anger? It wasn’t as though she’d come close to killing herself, just maybe injuring an ankle or her pride. Yet the fear had all but made him leap down the steps to catch her. She was going to get him killed, never mind herself.
“I got the first word,” she replied through an awkward smile while yanking herself upright. “But not the rest. It didn’t sound very friendly.”
He rolled his eyes, took a deep breath. “I said to be careful.”
“Yeah, that too I’m sure.”
“It’s all I said. ‘Shit, be careful’, verbatim.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Ah, for crying out loud!
“You’re stubborn, aren’t you?”
“Part of my charm.”
Isn’t that my line?
Outside, sunlight hit roofs of parked cars. Wait, these weren’t parked. Just stalled in traffic. Why didn’t people use the goddamn metro? Oh shit. She was going to drive again.
“So?” she asked, turning to him. “Want to eat something?”
“If we walk there, sure.”
A mumbled reply he didn’t get made him grin. Teasing her was so much fun!
A pair of women walked by—sashayed by more aptly—gave him the once-over and the cocky grin and the hip salute and everything. Signs he usually accepted with his own special smile and a raised eyebrow, the one that made women want to fan themselves, buy him a drink and have him fuck their lights out. An offer he always refused. The drink-paying part anyway. Because he was such a gentleman. A Gentleman. Ha!
“You must get that a lot.”
He shook his head, refocused on his companion. She was grinning. Again. Man, she was hot and she had a sense of humor too! Although he could detect a bit of unease on her part and wondered why.
“Get what?”
Oh, but he knew exactly what she was talking about.
Yeah, but I just want to hear it. So sue me.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Archer.”
There you go. No fooling her.
“Ladies’ attention, you mean?” he asked innocently. Did it bother her, he wondered, in a way hoping it did while the rest of him recoiled at the implications.
“Attention? Is that what it’s called, the look they gave you?”
For some reason needing to adjust himself, Archer pumped his chest, winked at Joan and slipped one panel of his shirt in his jeans. Only one. Vogue had been very clear on that. Fall required a laisser aller attitude. Beige was the new black. Bling was in. So was cologne. But there was no way in hell, all however many levels of it according to Dante, he’d be caught dead in leggings. Guys! In cropped leggings, for fuck
’s sake! No wonder sects thought the end of the world was nigh.
“Are you jealous?” He threw her a quick glance in case she tried to hide it.
A bout of hearty laughter settled it. And pissed him off. Not even a little bit jealous? Unless she was acting.
Hey! You’re the one always wanting to share your lovers. You’ve just shared Joan with some guy across the street. She can share you with chicks who only walked by. Plus, she’s not yours and you’re not hers. Settle down.
“…sushi makes a big mess…”
“Huh? Pardon?”
“Where were you?”
Joan’s eyes sparkled like brown gemstones. Hottie-hot-hottie!
“I was proposing places,” she replied, doing a one-eyebrow frown he thought was the sexiest thing since lip gloss. “Pizza. Fries. Sushi, but it makes a big mess. For me it does anyway.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Hey.”
“Sorry.”
They had lunch at a smoked meat sandwich place—well, it was Montreal—ate and drank their pops, root beer for her, diet cola for him. They argued over the bill. She won. He let her. She drove him home. He nearly died of fright and thought for sure he’d lose his life on the northbound Boulevard Décarie when she passed a truck that decided it wasn’t going to take that exit but the one right after, swerving back into the flow of traffic, nearly ramming the tiny, tiny BMW 325i in the side. Passenger side. His.
I should’ve taken the metro.
Back in his studio, they practiced until it was clear Joan couldn’t hold on to the pole anymore so they called it a day, made a date for the next morning at seven. Their last day of practice. All in all, he’d had the best day he could remember. Joan was funny, knowledgeable, dedicated. And one hot chick!
* * * * *
“So why do you feel like shit then?” Mel demanded as she crossed her legs on the sofa and leaned her pointy chin on her fist. She hit the mute on the remote and interrupted the news anchor just as he was about to announce the following day’s weather. Joan had been right. They had great timing, the two of them. How the hell would he know what to wear now?
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