After a quick look down, Archer’s eyes flared. Planting both palms against the wall, he curved his hips until his penis rested against her bottom lip then slowly, as he would her pussy, he penetrated her. Gently, smoothly. Joan made room for him, stuck her chin out. Man, she wanted to bite down hard! In and out he slid. When his eyes closed, Joan knew he was nearing his peak. He pulled out completely, angled his hips away and came.
Moaning under her breath, Joan cupped his burning semen in her hand, worked it back around his shaft, rubbing and rubbing to her heart’s content and letting water rinse it all off.
“Joan,” he murmured looking down at her. A grin tugged at his lips. He looked so much younger this way without the cockiness and the smirk.
“Do you need a break?”
He snorted. “I’ll make you pay for asking me that.”
Joan whooped when he leaned over and trapped her mouth under his while both his hands held her by the back of the neck. She had nowhere to go when he slipped a foot between her knees, nudged her sex until the top of his ankle pressed directly on her pussy, which throbbed demandingly.
His tongue flicked and whipped, his teeth pinched and trapped, and despite the occasional sharp twinge of near pain, Joan wouldn’t change a thing in the world. A moan left her when he suctioned her tongue out, bit it then began to suck it as she’d done his cock. Black hair came down in thick ribbons over his eyes, yet he still managed to stare down at her with those twin chips of ice for eyes. So intense!
He abruptly pulled away. Her mouth pulsated from the force of his kiss. Such a skilled tongue!
Water made rivulets on either side of his neck. He reached over to the corner shelf and retrieved a tube, from which he squeezed some gel into his hand. He frothed thick lather that he let roll down along his leg, between hers. After a little flick of his foot that corded the muscles and parted her sex, he smiled wickedly. “Roll your hips.”
Joan did. She ground herself unabashedly against his ankle rendered smooth with the creamy soap. Because her eyes were closed, she didn’t see Archer go for her hands until he’d gripped them and brought them high over her head so he could pin them against the wall. Kneeling at the foot—on the foot—of a lover, her hands trapped up high with steaming hot water all over. She had such a hard life.
“I want you to roll your hips, ma belle,” he said, bending over so he could put his face almost right over hers. She opened her eyes and could only watch when he bared his teeth, licked his upper lip. “Roll them nice and wide for me.”
Joan arched her lower back off the wall and began to gyrate her hips, each rotation mashing her vulva against the top of his ankle, which was stiff and oh-so smooth. He helped by raising his foot every time she’d reach the front of her roll, raise his foot to bring her that much closer to the full-blown orgasm that peeked around the corner. Each twist was pure torture. She wanted that big cock hanging right by her face. She wanted it in her cunt! Right now! Not his goddamn foot.
Then it hit.
“Ahhhh.”
Archer’s wicked grin announced he was damn proud of himself. “Keep going,” he urged, her hands still trapped in his. “Show me what you got.”
Show him what…
Oh man!
Joan couldn’t withstand the fiery wave without a moan and a sharp thrust against his foot. Figure eights proved even better and she went at it with a vengeance.
“C’est ça, ma belle. That’s it,” he said through his teeth. “That’s it, Joan, give it.”
So she’d crush her pussy harder against his foot, Joan spread her knees. They chafed on the rough tiled floor. Did she care? Not one bit! In brisk passes now, she brought herself right on the edge. Just as she was about to give the potentially finishing touch on her orgasm, Archer slipped his foot out.
“Hey!”
She barely had time to gasp when he dropped to his knees, released her hands so he could encircle her waist and tilt his hips right against hers. Their teeth connected when their mouths collided for a fierce kiss. Making room for him, she welcomed Archer into her, cock sliding in effortlessly.
Archer threw his head back. “Ah, goddamn…ahhhh.”
On the verge of coming and doing it hard and loud, Joan gripped his ass and crushed him to her. If he messed up, she was going to get some DNA under her nails, dammit!
“Come on,” she urged between frantic kisses and neck bites. “Come on, come on, come on!”
Like a snake, Archer undulated until she felt as if he were using his abs to whip himself into her deeper than she’d ever had it done before. Man, he was good! Better than good. The best. For a split second, Joan wished they could see each other again after her thing was over, after Laramée was behind bars. A particularly potent thrust brought her moaning back to the here and now. She came. Boy, did she ever!
Each shove punctuated by a grunt, Archer must have been using every shred of muscle in his body for he was really but really giving it to her, which tore from her a swelling cried of ecstasy, until she was filling the shower with her voice, his as a counter beat.
“Archer,” she kept repeating to his obvious delight for he grinned, made the motion of biting her shoulder but didn’t.
“Don’t want to mark you for your big show, huh?” he murmured after he licked her neck. “Come on. Level Two.”
“What?!”
Without waiting for her response, he leaned back, pulled out and lay supine, cock a pink flagpole. Or a dancer’s pole. The analogy made her smile, despite the very real urge to smack his ass for leaving her while she was still climaxing.
He fisted himself, pumped once. “Come on. We don’t want to let it cool.”
“Let it cool, eh? I’ll show you cool.”
Joan threw herself at him, mounted him facing his feet and picked up right where he’d left her, right as she’d been about to explode and make a complete, incoherent fool of herself.
And there you go, woman…riiiiiiiiiiiiight…NOW!
She fisted him with her pussy as she pulled upward then spiraled down the length of him, hips rolling. If she could judge by his sharp yelp, she’d done good work.
“Joan! Ooh man, that’s just, whew!”
She did it again. Then again.
Muscles burned with the exertion, her thighs cramped. Still she rode him. And when his hands clamped around her hips, his fingernails digging in brutally, she knew she had him. Her eyes closed against the monstrous wave surging over her, she climaxed just as tiny jets of liquid fire shot up inside her. Violent twitches squeezed his muscular thighs. He practically lifted her off the floor when he came. Again?!
Both their voices rose, dipped, filled the shower then lowered to whispered and incoherent ramblings, promises and revelations. Joan collapsed onto his legs to rest her forehead against his shins. Behind her, Archer rubbed her butt cheeks ‘round and ‘round.
“You know—” he said after a while.
She turned to look at him when he didn’t finish.
Archer was looking back at her. Water still ran and was getting increasingly cooler. It hit his face and body, made a playing ground of rolling droplets and satiny rivulets. He smiled at her. Unguardedly. Affectionately.
“Yeah?” Joan asked, unsure if she wanted to hear it or not.
“You’re a good person. We need more people like you to compensate for those like me.”
“Wow, er, thanks,” she stammered. “You’re a great guy too, why do you say that?”
He shrugged.
“I think we need more people like you, free spirits you know, where it doesn’t feel as if there’s all kinds of dust bunnies hiding under the rugs.”
His face tightened and Joan wondered why. With a tap on her hip, he indicated he wanted to get up.
Joan rolled off him. They washed in silence. After he checked to see if she was done, he fisted the control. Water suddenly stopping created a strange void and burst the happy bubble as effectively as if either one of them had said something incred
ibly embarrassing. Just as she was close to doing. She liked her fitness instructor, that spoiled-rotten, bad boy of a George B. Archer. She liked him a lot.
Chapter Eight
Archer swore inwardly. He’d been about to spill his gust at her feet. What the hell was wrong with him? It was no goddamn time to tell her about Gentlemen Inc. Not right now. He had to wait until after the job, to make sure that if she were pissed off, it wouldn’t reflect in her performance and keep her from doing her job. That’d mess everything up. Already he could sense she felt a bit awkward as she dried herself. He hated himself for it but he’d hate himself even more if—when—he’d tell her the sort of guy he was. If Adriano expected Archer to give Joan one of the golden cards, he could take a plane and come do it himself. Archer would probably be busy dodging bullets. Hers.
After he retrieved the tub of cocoa butter from underneath the vanity, he wrapped a towel around his waist so he could give her a bit of time to prepare. “Here,” he tapped the orange tub. “Slap it on. Where’s your gym bag?”
“In the kitchen by the breakfast counter.”
He smiled. His real estate agents of parents would’ve appreciated a girlfriend who knew what stuff was called in a house. But then again, she wasn’t his girlfriend, was she? No, she was only one of Adriano’s Ladies. A contract.
Talk about pissing in my own Rice Krispies.
The mood definitely back to a more platonic level, he retrieved her bag, passed it to her without meeting her gaze and announced he’d wait for her at the studio. He didn’t think he was strong enough yet to look at her and not start drooling and humping her leg. Although she had humped his. Ha.
He left her in the bathroom, went to his own room—he should’ve taken her there instead of the shower, but he hadn’t had a girlfriend in his bedroom since Vickie—pulled frayed jeans and a T-shirt on and padded barefoot to the front door. When he opened it, Mel was there, her face white as chalk, holding her PDA facing him. She looked ready to stab him in the belly with her key.
Archer jumped back by a step.
“Man! It’s really not a good timing.” He couldn’t help it. Whispering seemed de rigueur right now with Joan getting ready to do her dress rehearsal. She didn’t need Mel’s presence. Nor did he. But he wouldn’t tell her. He still felt awful for hurting her feelings the day before. She seemed back to her usual carefree self. Women.
“Is she here?” Mel asked, raising her petite frame on the toes of her feet so she could look over his shoulder. She wore sandals and jeans with one of those ghastly manga tank tops. Again. “It’s about her actually.”
“Yeah, so be quick,” he snarled through his teeth. Quickly, he closed the door and escorted Mel back to her car parked behind Joan’s silver death-mobile. Although to be fair, she had a nice little car. Only problem was the driver.
“What’s going on?”
Mel held her PDA, showed it to him. “He’s been trying to contact you. Where’s your cell?” She looked at his waist where his cell usually hung.
He patted his waist, cursed. “It’s in the house. Why?”
“Adriano, he’s totally on to me.” She said this with a mix of awe and thrill in her pointy face. “He sent me an e-mail when he couldn’t get to you. To me. So he knows who I am and how to reach me. It’s…it’s very Twilight Zone. Anyway, he said…well, you read it.”
She shoved the slim PDA at him.
A mere look was all it took. Archer swore his legs would’ve buckled had he been alone to read this.
“Goddamn son of a bitch.”
“Precisely.”
“Why? Did he say?”
Mel shook her head. “That’s the one message he sent me, I just uploaded it to my Pocket Life. So you know as much as I do. One thing is for sure, it’s not safe so you have to pull out now. She’ll want to know why. You’ll have to tell her.”
“Like hell I have to. No way.” The thought chilled him to the bones. “I’m going and that’s the end of it.”
“Adriano was very clear. It’s too dangerous. Plus, maybe we should tell her, maybe she needs to know stuff like—”
“I don’t care what that bored rich guy says. I’m not withdrawing from the case. I’m going with Joan and if that means getting dropped from the agency, then that’s it, that’s all. I was gonna quit anyway.”
He couldn’t believe that guy! Asking him to withdraw right in the middle of a case! What kind of eccentric, rich Italian was he anyway?! Weren’t Italians supposed to be those reckless, proud, macho guys? Pfffft! So what if Adriano had received urgent news that something big was about to go down at The Quicksilver? So what if Adriano had decided it was too dangerous for Archer to go with Joan? He couldn’t very well let her go alone, now could he?
It’s not what bothers you the most though.
True. Not going would mean he’d have to give her a reason. He didn’t think he could lie to her face again without his guilt showing—who knew he had that in him. He couldn’t tell her about this news without having to cough up Adriano then the Gentlemen Inc. thing would come out, his escort status, the money he was getting under the table to train her. She’d want to know more—women always did—would start questioning everything he’d done or said, would probably look at him as if he were a crook. Which wouldn’t be far from the truth. He’d probably lose her affection. And obviously her trust. Archer sighed. He wasn’t willing to risk it. Chickenshit, yes, gambler, no. So he basically had one choice. Go on anyway despite Adriano’s warning that should he refuse to withdraw from the case, he’d be dropped from the agency.
“You have to tell her now, Archer,” Mel whispered in her usual way. A harsh yell for anyone else. “She’s going to be soooo pissed that you messed up her job.” She shook her hand as if she’d burned it. “Oooh!”
“I didn’t mess up her job! I’m going with her, aren’t I?”
“You shouldn’t,” she retorted. “Maybe—”
“Yeah, thanks, Mel. That makes me feel a whole lot better.” Then remembering to lower his tone, he shooshed her to her car, opened the door and made an imperious motion of his index finger. “Thanks for letting me know. But I’m going with Joan.”
Mel looked at him for a long while before nodding. Why was there a smirk?
“Okay, spill it.”
With a grin, his best friend since kindergarten ducked under his arm, slid in her seat and closed the door softly. It didn’t click so Archer bumped his hip against the panel. She would’ve driven off this way.
After rolling down the window, she leaned over the door, her large black eyes sparkling. “You’re in love with Joan,” she whispered in a singsong that just about made him lose it.
The L-word again. Ugh.
She drove off before he could vent. Oh, and did he have good ones lined up for her!
Archer rushed to the studio, flicked on only one of the lights to simulate nightclub ambiance and retrieved a folding chair from the small locker in the corner. He sat about fifteen feet away from the “master pole” and waited.
“Goddamn.”
Why was he getting so worked up over this? It was bound to happen, that one of the Ladies—Joan, for fuck’s sake, she was called Joan—would find out before he could finish the task. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t he have kept going on his merry, detached way, do the job, give the golden card, wait for Adriano’s next task?
Nooooo, instead I have to fall for a hot lady cop who’s going to get my ass fired off a—
When Joan stepped into the studio, Archer thought someone had snuffed out his world for a second or two. If he’d thought of her as a hottie-hot-hottie, she nearly bowled him over as she strode into the studio wearing nothing underneath the Turkish dancer costume. She’d come out of the house like this?! Hot damn! Each little golden disc called to him with its little siren song.
Come, Archer, coooooome and touch the goodnesssss.
“Joan…you’re…”
She smiled, popped her hip once to shake
the penny belt. Her hair was still wet but that was more than okay by him. Added to the raw, exotic look actually.
“And?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m gonna have to sit in the crowd and make sure they don’t charge the stage when you come on.” He heard his voice, even if he had no idea how he could speak when he could barely breathe. “You’re just breathtaking.”
She smiled wider, shrugged as if saying “Aww, shucks”.
“Oh, let me get the music on.”
He jogged to the CD player, never taking his eyes off her, and fiddled clumsily with the buttons. Man, where had the smooth Archer gone? He was acting like a teenager with a bad case of teacher crush! Finally he chose the right tray, pressed Play and rushed back to his spot. With a hand, he urged her to take her position at his pole.
She did, her smile sliding down to be replaced by the most luscious, intense look of predatory female power he’d ever seen. If that was the look she’d give to the audience at the audition tomorrow, she’d melt the house down. Damn, he loved his job!
Adriano’s message replayed in his mind and for a second he couldn’t bear to meet her gaze. But in case she thought he was avoiding looking at her because she sucked at the choreography, Archer forced himself to look her in the eye, lend his support while he could because he knew when she found out about his little affairs on the side, when she saw all those dust bunnies under his rug, she’d never have anything to do with him again. And if the thought of not seeing Joan Blair again just didn’t make him want to curl up on the sofa, watch bad TV shows just so he could complain and drink too much Cognac. Mel wouldn’t pick up his puke again he knew. He’d be on his own. Solitude bore down on him all at once.
Snap out of it, man, she’s looking at you.
Joan waited for her cue, which came in the form of a bass touch just slightly harder than the rest. On the third beat, she started the routine. The singer’s haunting voice lingered over each syllable.
Archer watched mesmerized as she went through it with perfect cadence and timing, with proper bursts of speed followed by languorous passes and twists around the pole. She forgot to point her feet a couple of times but popped her hips, cambered her back all nice and high. Fuck. He was getting hard again. Hadn’t he just come, what, twice in the last hour?!
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