by Anny Cook
With a light shrug, he turned away and pulled on a light robe. “First we’ll have breakfast, then a nice warm soak in the tub…” his mutters trailed off as he strode out into the dim hallway and down the stairs to the living room.
With an abrupt new burst of energy, Tiffany leaped from the bed and grabbed up her own robe on the way out of the room. “Bish? You’re cooking?” she shouted as she shuffled her slippers on, hopping from one foot to the other and struggling with the crumpled fabric around the heels. By the time she got down to the kitchen, Bishop had an interesting selection of items from the refrigerator arrayed on the counter and was tapping his bristly chin with one long finger in contemplation. “Bish,” she protested breathlessly as she catalogued his selections in one lightning-quick glance, “I don’t mind cooking. Just tell me what you want to eat.” He was pleased to hear her voice was thick with apprehension as she studied his choices. He knew she would be wondering what kind of breakfast you put together with mandarin orange slices, whipped cream, dill pickles and pepperoni slices?
“No, no,” he assured her with a negligent wave of his hand. “I can manage. You just sit on the other side of the breakfast bar and relax.”
“I’ll just make coffee first,” she suggested as she sidled around him and headed for the coffeemaker in the corner.
He snagged one long arm around her waist, lifted her up and set her on the counter with her robe spread around her and her bare butt on the cold surface. Before she had a chance to regroup, he had captured both hands, wrapped his belt from his robe around them and tied her arms securely to the cabinet handle above her head. “I’ve noticed that you don’t follow directions very well,” he observed absently as he turned back to his motley collection of food. “And for some very strange reason, you apparently believe that I’m incapable of feeding myself. I got along quite well before I met you.”
Wisely, she kept her mouth shut.
“My main problem is deciding what to do with you for the next few days,” he explained carefully. “I can’t just let you go home. The first thing you’ll do is call my father and quite frankly, I don’t want to see him—or talk to him—until I’m sure that Traveller got safely away.” He shot her a hard look. “You can save your efforts, you know. I’m quite aware that my father planted you on me. I hope you’re well paid for the job.”
“I don’t know your father,” she sneered as she tried to yank her restraint loose. “Does he usually have to find a girlfriend or fuck-buddy for you?”
He picked up the whipped cream and shook it vigorously. Over the clack-clack of the little ball bouncing around in the can, he said dispassionately, “That would account for you having lunch with him two weeks ago and again last Tuesday. It would also explain your sudden urgent appointment with Margo for a wax job on your pussy. I’m quite sure my father explained my preferences.” With a little nod, he popped the cap off the can and sprayed fluffy whipped cream around her left nipple with careful precision. After studying his work for a moment, he gave another nod and decorated her other nipple in the same way.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded coolly.
“Fixing breakfast.” He stepped back and looked her in the eye. “Spread your legs.”
“Jerk!”
He tapped one knee with the can. “Come on, baby. Open up. You know how much you like it when I lick your pussy and clit.”
“Asshole!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll lick that too, if you like. I’m hearing a lot of trash talk but the one word I haven’t heard yet is ‘no’,” he pointed out in a bored tone. “You know the rules. Now spread your legs wide open, or I’ll do it for you—and if I do it, I’ll make sure they stay that way.”
Experience had taught her it was no idle threat, so she shot him a dirty look and spread her knees until he could comfortably fit his wide shoulders between them. He yanked one of the kitchen chairs close, turned it around so that he straddled it and shoved it against the counter. When he was comfortable, he lowered his mouth until his lips brushed her bare mound. Suddenly, he sat back and said, “Almost forgot!” With a flourish, he decorated her with whipped cream. A quick snap of his fingers and he was up and heading for the refrigerator. Seconds later he returned with a large jar of red cherries, the bowl of orange slices and a small canister of shredded coconut. “Yummy, yummy,” he said with a devilish grin as he sat back down and made himself comfortable.
It took him a while to arrange his booty to his satisfaction but once he had everything ready, he leaned into her crotch to take a long lick, curling his tongue at the end as he reached her clit. He felt her jolt when fiery sensation shot up her spine but knew she would refuse to give him the reaction he was looking for as long as possible. She didn’t disappoint him, inquiring instead with cool sarcasm, “What? No chocolate sauce?”
“I knew I was missing something!”
He was up and away before she could draw breath to protest. “You’re going to get this robe stained. I’ll never get the chocolate out.”
“Mmm.” He stood next to the chair shaking the squeeze bottle of chocolate sauce in his hand while he concentrated on a solution. Then, with a sharp nod, he set the bottle down and retrieved the kitchen shears.
He nipped through the collar at the nape of her neck, carefully deposited the shears back in the drawer and then in one quick jerk, ripped the robe from collar to hem. It was a pretty flamboyant move but didn’t really address the issue as now she just had a torn robe—hanging from her shoulders.
After one quick look, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. He could tell she was silently counting to twenty. When it obviously wasn’t enough, she continued on to thirty. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in despair. “Do you know how much this robe cost me?”
“Not as much as I’ll be paying to replace it, I bet,” he retorted while he went back for the shears. When he returned, he cut the robe down the length of both sleeves and with great deliberation, gathered up the pieces and tossed them in the trash. Almost immediately, he changed his mind and jerked the soft belt free from the tatters and stuffed it in the pocket of his robe. Then mindful of her original complaint, he removed his own robe and tossed it on the table.
Dusting his hands off, he turned to face her and inquired, “Any other problems we need to take care of before I get down to business?”
She stared down at the impressive erection he seemed to have acquired. Evidently, ripping up her clothes really turned him on. Mutinously, she shook her head. Damned if she would give him the satisfaction of speaking out loud.
“Excellent!” He slipped back onto his chair, taking care not to smack his hard cock on the spindles running up the chair back. It was a shock to him how hard he’d gotten from trashing that slutty robe Tiffany loved to wear. Until he had ripped it in half, he had just not been aware of how much he hated it. Forgetting the chocolate sauce after all, he took a deep breath, cupped her ass in his big hands to lift her closer, bent his head and dived in, ignoring the squeals and whimpers and moans from Tiffany. Noting the heavy stream of cream she was producing, he decided that Tiffany might not have liked that robe as much as she said.
The first licks brushed Tiffany’s skin like butterfly wings but once Bish cleared away some of the dessert, his tongue became an artist’s brush swirling and twisting, creating a masterpiece. He planted a leisurely kiss on the sensitive area between anus and pussy and she jerked. Fluttering brushes interspersed with tiny sucking kisses equally scattered the length of her plump labia. Mini-hickeys sprinkled over the smooth rise of her puffy mound. He carefully avoided her clit though she thrashed around, trying to get his mouth on her.
Finally he decided it was time to up the ante and planted his mouth square on her swollen clit and sucked hard at the same time he shoved two big fingers in her sopping pussy. She shrieked as deep pulsating waves of climax centered in her vagina and washed up her spine. He felt the fresh rush of slick fluid as her pussy clutche
d at his fingers.
Resting his chin on her mound, he patiently waited for her to calm down before fluttering his dark eyebrows at her and sending her a “trust me” smile. When her panting faded to hitching shuddering breaths, he nodded and whispered. “Good. Again.” And he set back to work with the dedication of a man who enjoys what he’s doing.
After her fourth screaming, moaning orgasm, he reached the limits on his control. He got up, kicked the chair out of the way while he fumbled for one of the condoms he kept stashed in a kitchen drawer. Once he got the packet ripped open, it was the work of mere seconds to prepare himself. Without further ado, he plunged into Tiff’s warm, wet, welcoming cunt and she immediately went into the paroxysms of yet another climax, squeezing his cock so tightly she dragged him along for the ride. He braced his arms on either side of her slumped body and struggled to breathe.
They were both a mess. The whipped cream on her nipples had melted and run down her rib cage and belly. By the time Bishop had decided he couldn’t delay his own satisfaction any longer, the whipped cream had become a dandy, slippery lubricant between their sweaty bodies. Inhaling sharply, he leaned over and discarded the condom in the trash can. When he was sure he would be able to carry her, he released the belt around her wrists, hoisted her over one shoulder and headed back upstairs to the master bath. In the wide shower stall designed for two or more, he turned on the water, ran it until it was very warm and gently dumped her directly under the spray. Tiffany snapped out of her muzziness with a snarl.
“Are you crazy? Now my hair is wet!”
“I think you’re right,” Bish agreed cheerfully while he squirted liquid soap on a filmy puff.
She stared at him in disbelief, lost for words. Before she could frame a retort, he proceeded to run the soapy puff all over her body with lusty enthusiasm, paying meticulous attention to the sticky area between her thighs and around her nipples.
Slapping at his hands, she wriggled into the corner out of the direct spray. Bish simply nodded, grabbed the shampoo bottle and squirted a generous dollop on her soaked hair. He scrubbed, rubbing her scalp gently and shoved her back under the spray to rinse her hair clean. Conditioner was next. While it worked, he washed himself with brisk efficiency. He finished their shower with a thorough rinsing with the handheld showerhead before shutting off the water. Tiffany stood numbly, waiting for his next move.
A quick pass with huge fluffy towels and they were both dry enough to go back into the bedroom. Bish wrapped Tiffany’s wet hair so that it wouldn’t ruin his feather pillows. With a quick tap on her butt, he indicated that she should get on the bed. She crawled up on the bed with a yawn. All the vigorous sexual activity caught up with her and she collapsed with another yawn.
Bish straightened the covers and tucked them around her. “Take a nap,” he suggested quietly. “When you wake up, I’ll have something ready for you to eat.”
A vague sense of disquiet threatened her peace but then exhaustion took over and she fell off the edge of the world. Patiently, Bish waited to make sure that she was really asleep before he rose and dressed. There was much to do while she was sleeping—arrangements to be made, information to gather—without her watching eyes and listening ears.
He went back down to the living room, found her tote bag and with no compunction whatsoever, dumped it out on the couch. Pulling a set of latex gloves from his pocket, he slipped them on and then proceeded to examine the contents of her tote.
Spare lacy black bra and panty set, black skinny-legged jeans, black cotton sweater, black cotton socks and black running shoes. There seemed to be a theme going on, the Black Phantom, maybe.
Handgun. Well, well. With approval, he noted as he set it aside that it was loaded and the safety was engaged.
Red leather wallet which contained three credit cards, a driver’s license with a decent picture, business cards for her doctors, dentist and hair stylist, medical ID cards and seventy-eight dollars cash. Forty-two cents in the zipper pocket along with two safety pins and a paper clip.
Mini-recorder with the auto switch engaged which made sense. That way it only recorded when there was someone talking, which saved on the batteries.
A small red plastic zipper bag contained three tampons and six condoms. Birth control pill packet with two pills remaining. That explained the tampons. Always good to be prepared, he supposed.
Makeup bag with lipstick, blush, mascara and eye shadow. A small pill bottle with twelve tiny pills. He checked the label. Blank. Thoughtfully, he set that on the coffee table to check against his pill encyclopedia.
Brush and comb.
Date book. He flipped through the pages for the previous two months, mildly amused to find his name marked in as business appointments. Well, he’d known from the start that he was her assignment. He noted the number of times his father’s name was marked down for lunch and wondered if she was screwing his old man too. If so, she was certainly earning her pay. His father was a hearty seventy-five. Maybe he couldn’t even get it up. Or maybe he had stock in the little blue pills. With a shrug, he checked her appointments for the rest of the week and saw that she was supposed to meet his father in three days. Too bad. He didn’t think she was going to make that appointment.
PDA. He turned it on and flicked through the menu until he found her notes section. Her observations made interesting reading. His father was also one of her assignments. Her life wasn’t worth the powder it would take to blow her away if he found out. Bish shook his head. Some people liked to live dangerously.
Leather ID folder with her shield. FBI. He nodded to himself. Just as he thought. She looked like a bimbo. She acted like a bimbo. But the FBI wouldn’t hire a bimbo as an agent. When she first ended up in his bed, he had done a quick background check on her. He happened to know that she had graduated with honors from MIT.
All that was left was a small pile of miscellaneous receipts and scraps of paper. Two pens. Three peppermint candies. A pack of gum with two sticks left. He scanned through the receipts and papers. Nothing.
With a sigh, he tossed everything back in the tote except the makeup bag and pill bottle. He replaced the tote on the chair where he found it, located his pill book and settled on the couch with it and the pill bottle. It didn’t take long to locate the correct page and identify the pills, since he already had an idea of about them. Phenobarbital. That would certainly explain his sudden drowsiness, headache and klutziness last night. He pried off the cap and dumped two pills in his palm. Didn’t they say what was good for the gander was good for the goose?
He returned the bottle with the remaining pills back to her makeup bag and stuffed it down in her tote beneath her folded clothes.
It belatedly occurred to him that he hadn’t found her cell phone, so he went to the closet and searched her coat pockets. He was rewarded not only with her cell phone but also found a combination stun gun-flashlight. His eyebrows shot up and he silently whistled. Well, well, well. Wasn’t she the naughty girl! He scrolled through the menus on her phone, taking special note of her most recent calls. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Boy, his father must have a real hard-on to be calling her so frequently.
Or he expected Traveller to show up at Bish’s apartment. That was more likely.
He put everything back where he found it and went to prepare breakfast—along with his little surprise for Tiffany. While he fried the bacon and baked the refrigerator sweet rolls, he tried to put himself in Trav’s place.
Dancer had disappeared four weeks before. Traveller’s picture was on all the news shows along with Dancer’s and they were listed as armed and dangerous. In the past four weeks, there hadn’t been a trace of Dancer once he disappeared in the mountains. Bish was willing to bet that he had found himself a deep hole, crawled in and pulled the dirt and rocks in behind him.
Trav, on the other hand, was still popping up from time to time, which meant that every law-enforcement type out there with a badge, all the hopped-up bounty-hunters, eagle-eyed grannies an
d secret agent wannabes would be on his tail. Trav had formidable acting and survival skills, could open any lock with a paperclip and chewing gum and could make any computer sit up and sing. But he was only one man against thousands of hunters who were anxious to nail him, skin him and hang his hide out to dry for the huge reward his capture would bring.
It was up to Bish to be ready to help him. That meant he had to put Tiffany out of commission. Bish set to work on the orange juice surprise for her. He had a notion it wouldn’t be too long before she made an appearance and he wanted everything ready.
* * * * *
Hey, baby.
Trav’s salutation jerked Wrenna from her contemplations. Traveller?
You were expecting someone else?
Wrenna couldn’t hold back a smile. I wasn’t really expecting anyone, especially you. You said that your shadows had caught up with you. Are you safe now?
Trav’s snort of aggravation came through clearly. Not likely. I don’t remember the last time I was safe. He sighed. But for the moment, no one is breathing down my neck so let’s get back to this bonding crap. You said that mind speech was one of the two signs of attachment. What is the other sign?