Chase (Wolfe Trilogy, Book 2)

by Flora Dain

  Usually when I think about this stuff I’m scared of the answers. Tonight, for the first time, I’m scared of the question.

  He’s had a shock. He’s suspicious about my part in it. It’s stirred up a past he’d sooner forget. So in a way it’s kind of logical he’d be borderline kinky. But me? I thought I was normal. This may be a tricky evening for both of us.

  His hand lingers on my lower arms as he pins them to my sides, his fingertips sliding gently over the slender bones of my hand at the borders of the heavy, gleaming gold. I’m still in my underwear, wisps of costly lace bought with an advance on my salary at an exclusive Boston store. I hoped to surprise him.

  The heat in his look approved the colour – a trashy turquoise, but a sharp contrast to my milky skin. Now he fingers the lacy edge of my panties, where it cuts into my thigh. His breathing speeds up as his eyes burn into mine. ‘Turn round and bend over so I can view the goods.’

  Trembling I do it, spreading my legs automatically and keeping my knees straight. My hair, soft from the shower, falls forward in a silky curtain. He scoops it up in his hands and braids it loosely, his fingers deft, and then slips my ponytail band round the end and twists it tight with a snap.

  Now I feel his hands on my quivering rump as he fondles me with both hands like a masseur, softly at first, his fingers lightly grazing my skin under the taut lace thong, and then more firmly. I start to warm up under his touch. Soon I’m groaning deep in my throat.

  He reaches down and runs a finger along the inner curve of my thigh, his touch slow and deliberate. When I writhe he does it again, slower. The gleam in his eyes darkens a fraction as the spark between us crackles into full-on, fizzing power play. ‘I’m going to spank you. But this time I want you to watch. So we’ll do it in a mirror.’

  I open my mouth in surprise but he touches a finger to my lips. ‘Hush,’ he says softly. ‘You speak when I say. Kneel.’

  He looks down at me for a moment before he frees himself, his expression calm and unreadable. I try to keep calm too but my racing heart pounds in my ears like a drumbeat. As his eager erection springs clear of his flies I breathe deep. His Darnley aroma is always a deeply sensuous introduction to what comes next, and then I start to taste.

  As I lick around his salty, silky curves his breathing speeds up. I surge boldly along his shaft to about halfway, pulling back and plunging again as warm saliva floods my mouth. Arousal burns deep between my legs and prickles in my taste buds. The down rises all over my skin. I feel my nipples pucker and grow numb, tingling in an afterglow as a wave of heat sweeps over me and settles into a dull, thudding ache somewhere in my groin.

  ‘Hey. Easy, tigress. Leave some for later.’

  He raises me gently to my feet and fastens his mouth on mine, his tongue a surging, melting prelude to the multiple invasion he’s planned. He leads me to the sofa in his sitting room where a cheval mirror is placed at an angle to the mirrored doors of his dressing room.

  With a swift movement he sits down and pats his lap, brisk and businesslike.

  ‘We’ll do the warm-up here. Then we’ll go somewhere more exiting. Bend over.’

  Excitement flaring, I arrange myself over his knee and prepare for the first stage of my ordeal. This part is scarily shaming: the slow build-up, the simple humiliation of being spanked like a naughty child.

  I know he needs this, I know he craves this. But tonight I’m nervous. How far will he go?

  As his hand starts to land I’m so nervous I’m super-sensitive. I take a while to settle down as the stinging blows start to bite. At last I cry out, my lip sore from biting it back like I should. He pauses, his breathing rapid. He caresses me again, his touch cool now on my glowing rear. For some reason the change of tone from harsh to soft is deeply, wildly arousing. As if he senses this he reaches round to feel me underneath, questing deep. His touch on my throbbing folds is piercingly exquisite, all too brief.

  He seems pleased as I writhe and arch. ‘Very nice. Very appreciative. Now lick me clean.’

  I suck his fingers eagerly, pulsing with excitement now I know what’s to come. I’ve already tasted him tonight and now his hot, hard erection lurks below me like a crouching animal waiting to spring. Its burning, silky presence, so close and so keen, is making me throb.

  ‘Now arch your back and look up at the mirror. I want you to watch this.’

  I strain to get in position. It’s a hard one to reach and an effort to hold. He waits patiently, touching my head to raise it a fraction, tweaking my nipples to make them stiffen, scooping out my breasts to show off their fullness.

  At last he’s satisfied that I’m ready and now he starts again, his hand falling harder this time, the jolt of each blow a deep, satisfying rhythm that pounds all through me and sends a thunderclap straight to my pulsing groin.

  The angle he’s set the mirrors at gives me a clear view of my ordeal. I watch, nervous at first but slowly more and more fascinated. To my amazement the sight of my humiliation at the hands of this stunning man makes me throb even harder.

  At last he stops and gives me a knowing grin. ‘Now for my reward. My palms will be numb for a week. I think you owe me.’

  He pulls off my thong, tips me off his lap and stands astride before me, towering like a colossus, his powerhouse stunning and erect. I take him in my mouth hungrily, blushing at my boldness, but he eyes me sternly.

  ‘Enough. I need you somewhere else.’

  I pull away, alarmed. I was just getting into this …

  He wants my tail, splayed wide, jutting up towards his burning loins and with my head rammed down hard on the bed.

  He’s also getting impatient. ‘Keep your hands at your back. You might at least try to look submissive.’

  I open my mouth to laugh in protest but he lands a sharp blow on my glowing rump.

  ‘Silence.’ He leans over me, the curve of his body warm and thrilling as he murmurs in my ear. ‘Hold still.’

  He takes up position behind me, improving my pose with tiny touches of his warm, sure fingers, and all at once I feel him prod at my rear. I whimper as his fingers push into me, his firm, intimate touch making me writhe.

  At last he thrusts into me with a grunt. As his hot shaft surges inside I yelp as his hand lands again and again on my punished globes, his rhythm matching his thrusts. Every blow jolts in my groin, setting up a fierce glow of arousal. Exquisite torture.

  Somewhere at the back of my mind something stirs. This submission thing should be fun, but it always makes me want to fight back. I do it now.

  ‘That’s so unfair.’ My cry escapes me before I can stop it and now he slaps harder, his rapid thrusts jolting me desperately close to climax.

  ‘I warned you. We’ll devise a suitable fate for you later. For now we’ll give you a tiny reward – on account. And maybe you can pay for that later as well.’

  And with a kind of low growl he pumps deep into me while he reaches round to feel my burning folds with his clustered fingers, squeezing hard. With a shriek I launch into hyperspace as a massive climax explodes inside me and I convulse around his hand, sobbing with pleasure and grateful release.

  We cling together for a while, me trembling and shaky after such an eruption, him easy and relaxed after his first rush of pleasure. As I calm down I start to feel hyper. I’m still unused to endorphins. When he finally lets me up I want to sing and shout but I content myself by throwing my arms round his neck and then pirouetting wildly in front of him.

  He looks on with a fond smile and then his phone signals. He glances at it briefly and looks at me in consternation. ‘Shit. It’s my mother.’

  I edge away to give him privacy but he grabs my arm and draws me close. Something’s wrong.

  ‘When? When did this happen?’ His jaw stiffens. ‘OK, calm down. I’m on it.’

  He glances at me as he ends the call and immediately jabs again at the keypad. ‘Cola’s missing. They expected her back from the stores this afternoon and now she’s not answe
ring her phone.’

  He turns away to make some brief, abrupt calls. They sound like they’re in code.

  At last he turns to me, his face grim. ‘I’m sorry, Ella. I’ve got to go.’ He kisses me briefly on the forehead, glances at his watch and makes for the stairs.

  With him gone the house is abruptly quiet. Sadly I pull on my knickers again, go back to my room, twirl a few more times and sink into the bed as the porno-fairy-tale fades. Then, realising I’m still in my underwear, I haul on an oversize T-shirt and decide to explore.

  What kind of man is he, really? Maybe his house will give me a clue. I rarely get the chance to explore it without him. The rooms are huge, immaculate, sparkling clean. There are bowls of pale flowers, different each time I come – his housekeeper’s very attentive.

  The furnishings are sparse and elegant: a few choice antiques, a few pictures, too discreet to be copies, too few to be randomly selected. The Kandinsky I know, but there are others. Does he buy them? Borrow them from museums?

  But what fascinates me most are his own rooms; his bedroom, his en-suite and his dressing room, full of his personal things, like shaving gear, shoes and socks. These, at least, are familiar. Only the brands are new to me. When I unscrew the caps their scents are light and elusive.

  I get bolder as tiny glimpses of the man emerge. His cologne I know well. It brings him instantly to life. The thought inflames me. Like a crazed groupie I prowl his dressing room and caress the sleeves of the elegant suits, their soft fabrics and muted colours sparking happy memories. His shirts are crisp and expensive. I rummage in the flush, beautifully crafted cedarwood panelling and find the silent, soft-closing drawers hold underwear and socks.

  Right at the back of one of them my fingers close on a slim CD case. When I draw it out I get a real surprise. A beautiful face, instantly familiar but much younger than the face I’ve met, smiles calmly out at me. Over it is a sloping, elegantly penned title – Savoy Pemberton Sings. On the back, in tiny print, I see it’s a recording of a private recital and meant for limited distribution. The date, a long string of Roman numerals, shows it came out over thirty years ago.

  Before her marriage …

  Is this what he listens to in the privacy of his rooms? I stare at it for a few moments and think fleetingly of the woman I met, her cool blue gaze full of the great outdoors. It seems unbearably sad that this is all he has left of his mother.

  Carefully I replace it but now I grow bold. Rasher by the minute I ransack his bed table, the place closest to where he sleeps. In the top drawer I find a store of condoms, the foil packets already spilling out from a newly breached pack. I smile down at them and preen. He uses them on me.

  But near them under some crisp linen handkerchiefs I encounter something hard and cold – handcuffs. I draw them out and hold them up to the light. Slowly I draw a fingertip over the glinting metal and stare at my reflection in the curved edge. The chain feels heavy on my fingers, the links brutal and businesslike. I know why he has them and I’ve often tasted their bite. But seeing them here, amongst his ordinary, everyday things like they’re a normal part of his routine, still comes as a shock.

  Why does he keep them so close?

  And in here, right at the back of the drawer, I even find a stray pair of boxers rolled up into a ball. I recognise them. He was wearing them the last time we … The maid must have missed them. Slowly I take them out and unfurl them. Unlike his pristine, freshly pressed clothes they’re rumpled and still unlaundered, fresh from his skin the night he thrust them in here …

  I close my eyes, savouring the memory and breathe in deep. Essence of Darnley …

  ‘Hey. Kinda kinky, isn’t it?’

  Shit. He’s here. He’s leaning in the doorway watching me.

  I jump about a foot and drop his garment like it’s red-hot. ‘You should know.’

  Will he freak? To my relief he grins.

  ‘Ouch. Is there a name for people who do that?’

  I haul in air, my pulse still racing. ‘How about neglected girlfriend? How long have you been standing there?’

  ‘Long enough.’ He pushes away from the doorframe, walks over to me and scoops his underwear off the floor. ‘Did I give you permission to snoop?’

  I swallow. ‘I’m so sorry. I was just …’ I tail off at the expression in his eyes: part heat, all triumph.

  ‘That’s no excuse. Definitely a spanking offence. Possibly worse. We’ll look into it tomorrow. Right now it’s late and I’m in need. Take that thing off.’

  ‘What about Cola?’

  He throws himself onto the bed, hauls me on top of him, peels off my T-shirt and buries his face in my breasts. ‘We found her. And her stalker. They were in a hotel room overlooking the Common.’

  I stare. ‘Who is he? Was she in danger? Did you have him arrested?’

  He sighs. ‘They’ve been having an affair for a while. The family disapprove so they kept it secret. He’s a psychology professor at Harvard. He was visiting your Academy the day she turned up in your class. She’d heard you teach there and she came with him and then wandered off to find you. She saw those pictures of us back in the summer so she knew about us. She was curious. The legation people can take over now. Come here.’

  Monday is fraught. One stalker’s been found. After work I drive deep into Southie to keep my appointment with mine. My trip is also fraught, partly because I’m unsure of the route and mostly because of the long argument I had with Darnley before coming here.

  First he insisted on coming too. ‘You’re not going alone. Out of the question. You don’t even know who she is. She may be making up the whole thing.’

  Then he argued about the car. I insisted on taking my own. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner not attract attention.’

  Finally we agreed he’d follow in his car but keep a low profile.

  I glared at him. ‘And I mean low.’

  But now I see the place I’m glad he’s come. I don’t know South Boston all that well. This part looks dingy and rundown, full of empty warehouses and disused sites. I pull up outside a little house in a row that’s seen better days. The windows are dirty and the paint is peeling. The front yard is littered with old planks and dried grass.

  When I knock at the door it opens a fraction and Lola Forman peers out at me. ‘Mz Dean? Glad you could come.’ Her eyes slide to Darnley, walking slowly up the steps behind me. Her face contracts. ‘He a Fed? I ain’t talking to no Fed.’

  I knew it. I try a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK, Ms Forman. He’s –’ I’m searching for a polite way to say he’s one paranoid, pig-headed son-of-a-bitch when he does it for me. Not in so many words.

  ‘Miss Dean’s security, ma’am. On contract.’ His face is expressionless, his tone low and quietly reassuring.

  Her eyes widen for a moment.

  On contract? It makes him sound semi-official. It hints not only that he has no choice but also that we’re all in this together.

  It works. The door opens just enough to let us in.

  The crowded little sitting room is gloomy and full of clutter. Fast-food wrappers litter the floor. A heavy smell hangs over everything, stale food and cigarettes. A giant TV plays silently on one wall. As we walk in a young man in a grubby T-shirt darts us a suspicious look and shuffles off into another room clutching a half-eaten burger.

  With him gone his mom seems eager to talk. ‘That’s my boy, Wayne. Take no notice, Mz Dean. It’s bin a hard week for him. For both of us. It’s his brother’s anniversary.’

  She leads us over to a shabby dresser laid out like a shrine. On it a large, slightly blurred photo of a young man in blouson jacket and sneakers, with a fleeting resemblance to Wayne, is ringed with candles and fairy lights.

  She sighs as she touches the frame with a stubby, nicotine-stained finger. ‘This is Luther, my eldest. He’d a bin thirty-five years ol’ this very week. Took from us two years ago. In an’ outa jail, so HIV, AIDS, you name it. Kids like him don’t las
t long in them places.’ She turns red-rimmed eyes on me. They light up with a sudden gleam. ‘But t’ain’t jail what kilt him, Mz Dean. It was that motherfucker there.’

  She snatches up a yellowing piece of card torn from a popcorn packet. On it I see the familiar logo of the Kraik Corporation and its founder, Fletcher ‘Korn’ Kraik. The brand and product range, the popcorn candy, baking supplies, joke books and even playwear are famous all over the country.

  ‘Screwed his head to perdition, Mz Dean. Screwed us all.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Slowly I learned Lola Forman’s story.

  With a young boy to look after and another on the way she was working for a family in the Hamptons where Kraik was a frequent guest. The woman who employed her took her away on long trips and she was happy to leave Luther to play with the rich kids, thinking he’d maybe better himself. But like Lydia, she never guessed he had a darker side.

  ‘The year Luther passed on he told us the truth about what happened to him there. I thought he was safe there, while I was away. He worshipped the guy. But turned out he was scared of him. The guy liked kids. He wuz a real joker, but he fixed on Luther. He’d pick on him in front of the other kids, make him feel small. He’d scare him, play games with torches in the dark an’ stuff. He thought kids liked that. Maybe some of ’em did, but not Luther. He wuz kinda quiet, ya know? Thoughtful. Gave him nightmares. Later he started gettin’ into trouble. I reckon on account Kraik messed with his head. This week Wayne’s bin real upset.’

  She dashes away a tear. ‘But that ain’t the worst part, Mz Dean. Wayne was on a radio phone-in a few weeks back an’ he started mouthin’ off about what happened to his brother … an’ then we got this.’

  She passes me an envelope. It’s a letter from lawyers acting on behalf of the Kraik Corporation.

  ‘They’s sayin’ he’s a liar. They say he gotta tell everybody he lied. An’ that ain’t fair, Mz Dean. He’s a good boy. He’s tellin’ the truth. An’ know what? They even offered me money – real good money – to make him say he’s a liar. I said no. I ain’t takin’ their filthy money. It ain’t gonna bring back my boy.’