“Wait,” she whispered. “I want to move.”
She pressed him from her and turned her body to kneel on the sofa, her breasts pressed hard up against its velvety surface. Jason cursed beneath his breath, pulled her hips toward him, and thrust deep inside her again. His body flexed and bowed, his hands grasping at her shoulders as they came back toward him, her body arched. The pause was enough to lengthen his stamina, and he began, again, to plunge, long, deep, and hard.
Georgie’s fingernails sank into the velvet when each movement jolted bouts of pleasure through her whole body. She grabbed onto the gold braid with one hand, pulling against it to give her body support as her hips swayed and reached. Her head lifted. She was looking directly at Cal, her eyes locked with his.
Sheer abandonment flooded her. She breathed his name, her mouth open, panting. He moved closer. She had them both. Her hands slid down to latch over his belt. She rode another thrust, and then stripped the belt open, pulling at the buttons, freeing his cock.
Her mouth was wet, her breath panting, an inarticulate voice crying out each time Jason ground into her from behind. Her mouth enclosed him, wet with lust for his hardness.
“Georgie, oh, dammit ... yes.”
He gave a groan of surrender, his hips reaching toward her mouth. Then his hand grasped for her, and he pulled her head back by her hair.
“Georgie ... I must see you!” He spoke from between clenched teeth.
He wanted to see her for his painting, yes. But Georgie couldn’t let him go. She was feeling very greedy. She wanted his cock as well as Jason’s. Her hand closed on his shaft, and her eyes locked with his. The cock mirrored so perfectly the arc inside her that her fingers drew on it in time with Jason’s lunges. She felt the grip of Jason’s fingernails in the soft flesh of her hips, and the close, hard manipulations of his cock as he came near his peak. When the rhythmic jerks of his cock whipped free inside her, she felt her response, the building of heat, the release of weight from her womb.
“Cal ...” she moaned, her eyes half-closing. The heat was building up inside her, forcing her hips to ride and flex without reason.
Cal’s body moved quickly against her hand, thrusting, unconsciously demanding its own release. When her head went back in the heat of her climax, Cal’s fingers sank into her matted hair and he came, right across the skin of her throat and breasts.
* * * * *
Georgie was still lying against the headrest of the sofa, dozing, when she felt the sensation tickle her skin. Sleepiness fought it off repeatedly, until eventually she wakened enough to turn her head and see what it was. Cal was crouched over the exposed back of her legs, a paintbrush in his hands. When he sensed her movement, he turned to her and smiled.
“Georgie, forgive me for waking you ... but I couldn’t resist.” His hand swept the length of her legs. She frowned against sleep and flexed her legs. Only then did she become fully aware of Jason’s sleeping body, close beside her on the sofa. She glanced over and saw the uplighter standing by the easel. That indicated Cal had been busy working. For how long?
It was late evening. She looked back at him. The paintbrush in his hand directed her to the back of her knees. At the edge of the soft, responsive skin there was a tiny painted kiss in some kind of slick, dark pigment. Georgie moved her legs for a better view. Jason stirred against her, his head lifting from her shoulder.
“How adorable ... but will they come off?”
“They will, although perhaps we should get Jason to tattoo them there, permanently.” He grinned. “I intend to lick these off myself.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry; it’s cherry brandy.”
“Oh, you’re such a tease.” She was looking up at him longingly. She wanted him, oh, how she wanted him. He bent down to place his open mouth over the brandy kisses, just as Jason’s mouth stirred against the back of her neck.
Two men. Two gorgeous, sexy men. Life in the city had turned out to be a dream come true.
Chapter Three
Gregory Sutherland took a seat where the receptionist indicated, picking up a copy of Gentlemen’s Review from the table on one side as he did so. The Jordan Publications offices were every bit as swish as one would expect them to be. This was the HQ of the UK’s leading daily tabloid and a number of other associated publications such as the Gentleman’s Review, a cheesy music journal called Low-down, and some less successful ventures including a sports magazine that was about to go down the pan.
“Mr. Elliot will be with you in a moment. Please help yourself to coffee.” The receptionist indicated a table in one corner of the waiting area where a variety of refreshments and a hi-tech water cooler were stationed. Gregory shook his head but thanked her.
She headed over to the door that was stamped with Joel Elliot’s title: Chief Editor. She walked with the practiced nonchalance of a supermodel, her tall, slender body angled back from the hip, her fitted jacket falling open to reveal a shirt secured with a button that was far too low on her cleavage to offer any notion of security.
Eye candy, Gregory thought to himself. He couldn’t imagine her building up any speed on a keyboard with those fingernails. Of course, a man like Joel Elliot could afford luxuries like that. Gregory ran a finger around his collar. He wasn’t accustomed to wearing ties, but he’d wanted to look professional for the meeting.
The receptionist left the door slightly ajar when she went into the office, and he could hear Joel’s voice punctuated by her laughter, breathy and encouraging. When she returned, she was smoothing down her tight skirt, a self-satisfied smile lifting the corners of her glossy mouth.
“Joel will see you now.”
Gregory stood up, straightened his tie, and headed for the door.
“You’ve got three minutes, and I’m already counting down,” Joel Elliot boomed as Gregory walked into the office. He sat behind a huge aluminum desk, one hand resting on an open laptop, the other holding a pen with which he indicated a clock on the wall. He was dressed in a short-sleeved open-necked shirt, as if he was about to drive off into the green belt for a round of golf.
Gregory cleared his throat and hurried forward. “Okay, you got my email about the Zoë Mac story?” He took the seat, resting uneasily in the low leather ensemble. It put the visitor at a distinct height disadvantage to the head honcho on the other side of the desk.
“That’s why you’re here.” Joel put the pen down and folded his hands under his chin, scrutinizing Greg with steely gray eyes. “Are we talking kiss and tell?”
“Kiss and tell, with photographic evidence. Nude shots ... potentially.”
“‘Potentially’ isn’t good enough.” Joel snorted. “We need hard copy, and we need it fast. If you don’t get the story, someone else will. Give me better than ‘potentially,’ and I can put appetite-wetters out on the streets by this evening’s edition and build up their anticipation for the big one. But you have to give me something solid to work with.”
“There is evidence, and it’s very close to home. In fact, it was my cousin who was involved with her.” He paused for effect. He saw the flicker of interest in Joel’s expression.
“Your cousin?”
“That’s right. I just have to get the goods from him ... it shouldn’t be a problem.” Gregory’s thoughts were running riot. Should he take the gamble and make a definite promise? The stakes were high, but he was pretty sure of himself, and this scam might just be the one to guarantee him a taste of the major action. He was sick to death of his little cousin Jason living the charmed life while Gregory scraped by on the leavings. It was about time Jason shared out some of the goodies he’d had, and what better way than this? Gregory smiled smugly. Jason got the girl the other lads could only dream about, but maybe he would live to regret it. Jealousy and revenge were powerful motivators. The possibility of visiting Zoë and seeing her in the flesh again would be an added bonus. He licked his lips lasciviously. He would just love to see her beg him not to publish. On her knees, preferably. “Give me ten days, t
wo weeks tops. I’ll deliver.”
“Good man. The nation’s gagging for something screwy about Miss Squeaky Clean Mac.” He stood up and put his hand out, glancing at the clock. “Less than ninety seconds. I’m impressed.”
Gregory shook his hand and turned toward the door.
“Be sure to deliver your kiss-and-tell with as much momentum, and we may be able to do more business with each other in the future.”
Gregory gave a salute as he left, grinning broadly as he heard the door close behind him. He’d had a couple of minor successes with Joel Elliot before, sniffing out stories for the hungry machine. This one might just assure him of a regular audience at Jordan Publications. . That was just the sort of cushy little number he wanted.
It was amazing what you could find out hanging out in the right bars with the right people, people who loved to name drop celebrities and were far too glib with any snippets of gossip they might have. He was just the type of bloke who could hang around, talk them up a storm, and make something entirely edible for the press machine out of what they had said.
Elliot was interested, even more so than he had anticipated. Greg began to feel very smug. He could even take it to another paper, to see what sort of rival bids might come in. He just had to make sure that cousin Jason would play along, and Greg was sure he could. He could be pretty persuasive. He stepped into the lift and flexed his hands, drawing the attention of the other two occupants as he slowly cracked the knuckles of one fist. He gave the occupants a smirk and a dismissive glance, and then cracked the knuckles on the other fist. He didn’t doubt for a second that his little scam was going to work. It was going to work like a dream.
* * * * *
The soundtrack pumped up and beat out a jagged riff as the DJ mixed into a new track. The Chemical Brothers’ “Hey Boy Hey Girl” began to feed in, signaling an imminent changeover on the catwalk. It was the night of the end-of-term fashion show, and adrenaline coursed through Georgie. She stepped toward the curtains, silently mouthing the words of the track, her body moving with the rhythm. Justine rushed past her from the stage, wearing a silver cyber-chick outfit, panting.
“He’s out there!” she declared. “Calvin. He’s watching.” Her eyes were sparkling, silver-flecked blonde pigtails bobbing.
Georgie smiled. Of course he was out there.
Justine looked like Jane Fonda in her Barbarella incarnation, a real cutie in the wacky cyber outfit. Her silver domed bra was visible beneath a see-through, cling-wrapped top. Her silver miniskirt and boots gleamed in the fall out of light from the stage. She was bouncing up and down with energy and excitement like a demonic little sex robot that could probably go all night.
Just at that moment, Georgie caught sight of Drusilla’s raised hand from the other side of the stage; it was the signal for the next two models to go on.
“Hey, girl, here we go,” she sang. “I’m on.” She winked at Justine, smoothed her hands over the snug waistline of her latex bodice, and pivoted on one steep red-and-black stiletto heel, starting to move off as Drusilla’s hand fell slowly down through the air.
She stepped out into the dazzle of lights and stalked onto the first part of the stage, pausing for eight beats so that her opposite number could step out onto the stage beside her. An appreciative murmur and the odd gasp rumbled around the audience. Georgie purred to herself. Her outfit was definitely the most stunning of the show, and she’d done her make-up in a Japanese manga style, with her hair twisted and spiked with chopsticks so that it splayed out in a dramatic swirl on top of her head, to catch the lights.
When she set off down the catwalk, her heart was thumping out a fierce, excited rhythm. The stage lights fell out across the first two or three rows of seats, where she noticed many of the college tutors sat, clapping their protégées on. Alongside them, several junior members of the national press scribbled in their notepads, keeping a watchful eye on the up-and-coming talent at the most prolific fashion design college in London.
As she neared the end of the catwalk, she caught sight of Cal, just inside the fall of the light, standing between the seating areas in one of the aisles. She strode purposefully toward his corner. A cascade of camera flashes blinded her momentarily. When they faded and she prepared to turn on her heel, she saw that he was standing with his hands loosely in the pockets of his dapper shot-silk suit trousers. He was looking right at her with an arrogant stare, as if she were parading for his benefit alone. Georgie caught her breath. The way he looked at her was such a turn-on.
Her nipples chaffed within the surface of the black latex. They were already visible inside the sheer bodice she had designed. Twin curved spikes, tipped in red to look like devil horns, rose up from her breasts toward her collarbone, drawing attention to their outline beneath the snug, body-hugging material. The bodice had been laced within an inch of her being able to breathe. Right now it was tightening all the time as her breasts swelled up against the tight surface. The constriction felt so good, Georgie almost groaned aloud. She looked away from him and prepared to do her complicated turn.
The matching rubber leggings she wore growled imperceptibly as her thighs brushed together when she pivoted on her heel. She flashed front and back profiles and then stood with her legs splayed and her hands resting on the jutting hipbones that were so beautifully exposed against the shiny latex-covered surface of her hips. She counted to four, breathed deep, then kicked up one steep heel and leapt sideways, coming to rest with her hands on the floor in the cat-woman pose that Drusilla had let her choreograph in to demonstrate the lacing on her back and the flexibility of her chosen fabric. The pose also demonstrated the supple flexibility of her body, and she allowed herself a naughty smile at the thought of Cal and the rest of the audience noticing that fact.
A second round of applause rose up in response to her actions, along with another round of camera flashes. Georgie stared them out while she counted out another eight beats. Then she bounded up, turned, and set off. She strode back down the catwalk toward the poor girl in combat gear who waited forlornly to take her turn, in the certain knowledge that she had already been completely upstaged before she’d even started.
“You were stellar.” Justine hugged her as she went backstage.
“Cheers. You weren’t so bad yourself, Barbarella.” Georgie winked and they linked each other’s waists as they headed off toward the make-up room, where they knew a glass of bubbly would be waiting for each of them.
Georgie was in the dressing rooms hunting out her suit carrier between the rails of clothes when Calvin found her.
“You looked fabulous.” He kissed her cheek. “However, perhaps you should slip into something a little less provocative for the taxi ride home. I’d prefer the driver to keep his attention on the road, and not on you.” He gave her a teasing smile while his hand slowly outlined her body, resting beneath the curve of one latex-covered buttock with the briefest of embraces as he kissed her full on the mouth.
“I’ll wait for you outside. We have a date.”
She watched his back as he moved quickly away through the crowd of students and models that were filling the room. She knew from the suggestion in his voice and the dark smile hovering at the corners of his mouth that he meant the pair of them had a date with Jason. After a moment, she walked out from between the rails. She wondered what they had in mind as she began to unlace her bodice, and her hand trembled slightly in anticipation.
“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” Justine gushed, with a mixture of accusation and admiration. She’d obviously caught sight of the earlier encounter.
Georgie winked and smiled, but managed to avoid any more tangible response, changing quickly into a mini dress in stretch ruby jersey. She didn’t bother with underwear, threw on a cropped black velvet jacket, and put the shiny red-and-black stilettos back on. She deposited her catwalk number in its carrier on the rail, waved goodbye to Justine, and stepped out from the hubbub of the post-show party toward the taxi rank, where
Cal waited.
When he opened the door of the cab and she stepped one long leg in, she discovered that Jason was waiting inside. He eyed her naked leg and the glossy shoe with interest as it neared him, reaching out one hand to help her in.
“Jason, you should have come in and seen the show.”
“What makes you think I’d miss out on a treat like that?”
He dangled a Mamiya camera from his free hand and then hauled her over to his side of the cab.
She gasped, then chuckled. She should have known he would have come with Cal and sneaked in with the other photographers.
When Cal climbed in against her back, they set off. Jason pressed her up against the seat of the cab and ran his lips tantalizingly over hers while his fingers traced the hem of her little dress and then reached down between her thighs. She moaned aloud when she felt the firm pressure of his hand curl under her pubic bone.
“You do realize we’re shagging the most gorgeous woman we saw on that catwalk tonight,” Jason murmured.
Cal began to stroke her shoulders from the other side, lifting her hair up and kissing her neck. “Yup. With the sexiest outfit, too.”
Georgie was still high from the show, and now she was surrounded by heady testosterone.
“We could see your every curve, Georgie girl.” Jason’s eyes were dark with lust. “I was getting a stiffy.”
Georgie chuckled. Her hips began to move on his hand, and they each heard the gentle suck of her flesh on his fingers.
As they pulled up at Cal’s place, he drew his hand away reluctantly, sucked his fingers, and whispered, “Later ...”
Georgie stepped out into the cool night air and steadied herself. When they got into the apartment, she took her glass of red wine and wandered into the studio. She walked over to the easel to take another look at the painting Cal had begun the previous week. She had that same strange sense of identification when she looked at the image of herself. It sprung from the canvas full of vivid colors and energy. Cal had portrayed her as if in dance, her naked body captured in motion. She seemed to rise out of flames, the background painted in heavy brush strokes of luxuriant pigments, red upon orange upon blue. Her figure leapt up, her head back, hair flying across her face. Her breasts looked as if they rode high and free on the rhythm, her hips leading the movement of her body. Her arms were crossed but opening up in front of her body, as if she were flinging off some demon. Through strands of wild hair, her mouth was visible, open and reaching forward in a cry. Her eyes were slits of darkness, her jutting chin carrying the aggression and the demand for pleasure that one could just about feel pouring out of the canvas.
Along for the Ride Page 4