The Hunt for Eros

by Hunt, Sam J. D.

  “China?” I whispered to Ben. “Rhyming slang, very Cockney,” Ben explained quietly to me, almost with disdain. “China plate, which rhymes with mate…it’s very asinine,” he growled. Boris ignored our rude whispering, swigging more from his mug as his gaze fixed on me. “And who’s this filly?” Boris asked with a raised eyebrow. “Jane is Stuart Andrews’s niece—I’m helping her settle out his estate. Quite boring, really. Well, Jane’s not boring,” Ben murmured suggestively, pressing himself into my back. Boris reached his giant, hairy hand out to mine, nearly breaking my bones as we shook. “Is there an investment here, Ben?” he asked, still vise-gripping my hand. Ben reached out and freed my throbbing fingers from Boris’s claw as he explained, “No, just a favor for a friend. No payout here, I’m afraid, mate.”

  The obnoxious Boris eventually drifted away from us, caught up in the incessant social chatting of those deprived for days of human interaction. As the pub once again swelled to capacity, Ben pulled me closer, his hardening erection rubbing against my ass as yet another local engaged him in some conversation I couldn’t follow about a village painter. He continued talking to the man, something about tempuras and dating canvasses, as Ben lifted my skirt in the back. My butt clenched as his fingers reached between us and he slowly unzipped his fly. Along the lace of my panties, the head of his hard cock traced a line up and down.

  Eventually, the boring man drifted away, caught up in the social wave that seemed to move counter-clockwise through the toasty pub. Ben pulled me back into a dark corner, his cock still positioned at my wet entrance through my panties. We had a perfectly private room upstairs, but I sensed that the thrill of the forbidden drove Ben. And…I’d never been more turned out in my life.

  With another long sip of my ale, liquid courage, I pressed hard back into his erection, inviting him to play. As the activity of the pub blurred, his long fingers pulled my panties aside and sunk in deep. “Fuck, Jane, you’re soaking wet, ready for me…shall I take you here?” I moaned, pressing into his fingers. “Tell me what you want,” he scolded. I turned my lips into his neck, inhaling his scent. “Please,” I begged. “Please what?” he replied with the sternness of a schoolmaster. “Fuck me, please…here.” I had never dreamed of having sex in public, but that night I wanted him right there, right then, and the exhibitionist decadence of it excited me.

  His teeth turned into my neck, and with a growl he whispered, “You do surprise me every day, my love.” His growing erection scraped against the smooth skin of my backside one more time before he sunk the tip into my entrance. “Ah!” I gasped. “Shhh, act like nothing’s going on, as if I’m just holding you because you’ve had too much to drink,” he cautioned. Not a hard act—the fact that I was fornicating in the middle of a crowded pub pretty much meant I had drank too much. But, the truth was I loved the thrill of it, the idea that we might be caught tantalized me.

  Ok, I could do this. My skirt hid everything, and the dense, foggy light in the old pub made it hard to see very far anyway. His cadence was slow—a full in, then a slow pull out, only to repeat the stroke with excruciating control. My teeth gritted like sandpaper as I willed my face to relax—Boris was staring at me from across the hazy room. I forced out a grin of acknowledgment and a quick wave as Ben filled me once again. He was savoring every moment of taking me in a crowded room—something he clearly had experience doing.

  I was feeling bold until his hand slid lower, his palm grinding into my clit beneath my skirt. “Oh, God!” I groaned. “Quiet,” he cautioned gently as he nipped at my ear, “but you didn’t think I’d come without you, did you?” Oh fuck, how was I going to control this? His face was deliciously hidden, buried into my hair at the nape of my neck as he quickened his stroke inside me, finding his rhythm as he lowered his hand to slowly circle my clit with his thumb and index finger, driving me quickly toward a crashing orgasm.

  “Come for me, baby,” he encouraged, his pace quickening. As my body crumpled like a wilting flower, debilitated by the onslaught of pleasure, the sweaty Boris began his walk toward me. His laser gaze met my eyes, not relenting—he knew something was up. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Boris had caught a whiff of sex on display. Ben’s driving pace continued, my orgasm imminent, racing to finish as Boris closed the gap between us. “Forget him, baby, there’s only you and me,” Ben growled in my ear as my body came undone at his touch. When I was able to regain control, Boris was a couple of feet in front of me, nearly drooling as he eyed my skirt. Ben had finished, his still hard cock slipping from me as he zipped his fly behind me, his wet hand holding me up. “Jane’s not feeling well,” he panted in answer to Boris’s salacious stare. “Too much ale, Americans aren’t used to it,” he continued, “I’d best take her to bed.” He winked at the drooling Boris as he guided me up the winding staircase toward our room.

  Chapter Twenty-Three.

  I woke the next morning as I had several times that week—wrapped around Ben like a monkey, drooling on his chest, probably even saying his name in my sleep, except now it was our norm and not mortifying. After lazy morning sex, we showered, packed, and headed down to the pub for breakfast. Like most English meals, it was a heavy platter of all manner of food, including some sort of limp tomatoes and baked beans, much to my surprise. The food was delectable like everything else I’d eaten from the pub, but the coffee was the instant version from a packet. When I whined about it Ben scolded, “I ordered you tea, a proper morning drink. It was you, my dear, who walked up to the bar and asked for coffee. Only a nutter orders coffee from a pub like this.” I guessed a nutter meant I was crazy—but wanting brewed coffee in the morning didn’t seem so insane to me.

  Midway into breakfast, George arrived and asked to speak to Ben. As the men walked to the corner of the pub, I knew something was wrong. George, dressed as formally as usual, appeared to be flipping through photos on his phone and Ben seemed to turn whiter at each new swipe of George’s finger. Finally, George put the phone down, and both men seemed to snap at each other for a minute or so before Ben raked his hands through his messy blonde hair. George signaled to his daughter Elise, who argued with them both, for several long minutes before walking away. The two men seemed to reach some sort of agreement as Ben walked back toward our table.

  He flopped into the booth. I expected him to tell me very little, but instead he took a long gulp of his milky tea and shared the situation with me. “Elizabeth Hope texted George early this morning and is threatening to publicly post that I was the one who got her addicted to heroin in her young impressionable years. George said she plans to post the story at nine this morning unless I allow her to join us on the search for the Cupid.”

  “Why is she doing this now?”

  “Boris, the hairy giant from last night in the pub, posted pictures on social media of you and me quite engaged with one another, I’m afraid. She knows Boris and saw them, and seeing the pictures has confirmed her suspicion that we are really together, that it’s not just an act on my part to get the Cupid. She’s jealous that I’ve fallen for someone other than her.”

  “Did you get her addicted to heroin?” His gaze snapped to mine, his eyes slightly hurt. “No,” he answered coldly.

  “Then why would anyone believe her bullshit story? Just say it’s not true and…”

  “Jane, drop it. They’ll believe her. I don’t want to go into it.” Now he was hiding something.

  I stared at him, stirring my horrendous cup of freeze-dried coffee, until he finally spoke.

  “Fuck, why do I have to tell you this? Okay, here it is. I’ve had a problem with cocaine, on and off, since I was eighteen. Young with too much money, I suppose, and daft,” he confessed, clearly ashamed, before adding for my benefit, “daft means stupid.”

  I reached out and grabbed his hand, afraid once again for our future. “Do you still…?”

  “Er, no, it’s been three years since I’ve touched a drug of any kind. The final stay in The Priory, a very posh and private reha
b facility in London, seems to have done the trick. But Elizabeth has pictures of me snorting the vile stuff that she’ll release with the story. The story, by the way, is a complete bloody lie—she was shooting heroin when I met her.”

  “So you hadn’t told me everything…” I felt relieved that the truth had come out, but disappointed that he felt the need to be ashamed of it with me.

  “I’m sorry, about all of it.” His face fell into his hands as we sat there.

  “So she’ll join the adventure, no big deal, and we’ll act like you’re still playing me. It won’t be for much longer.”

  “No way, Jane. I’m done being blackmailed. Let her release her fucking story. I’ll absorb the aftermath and move on. The bigger problem is that our location is no longer secret. Sean isn’t one to be on social media, but any news of me will spread through mutual acquaintances as fast as the latest gossip about Posh and Becks.” I was confused again, “Posh and who?” “David Beckham, and his wife from the Spice Girls, never mind. My point is that it won’t be long before Sean knows we’re in the Cotswolds. Any vehicle leaving here that appears luxurious enough for me will be followed.”

  “We have to get to London, we’re already a day behind.”

  He nodded and sipped at his tea, grimacing because it was cold, before continuing. “Elise is close friends with her produce delivery supplier. She is on her way here now from a nearby village—we will try to sneak into London crammed in the back of a delivery van with a load of vegetables.” He cringed, and with no humor in his tone whatsoever he added, “I pray it is at least organic veg.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. The idea of the rich, suave Ben Hunt crammed with me in a bunch of common lettuce was too funny. He got angrier as the giggle wouldn’t stop. “Jane, it’s not a bloody joke, this is serious…” My giggle had me crying, tears streaming down my face, until finally he started laughing too. We managed to barely get control of ourselves as Elise approached the table. It was time to go. He wrapped his arm around my waist as we followed Elise to the kitchen. “Jane Andrews, I have no idea how I’ve lived without you for this long,” he said with a quick kiss on my cheek.

  We were quietly whisked through the kitchen, emptied of all employees, through the humble delivery door in the back. The driver, a young woman in her thirties wearing jeans and a t-shirt with her company logo, whisked us into the rear of her van along with our luggage. There were no windows in the back, but to Ben’s relief the produce was in crates so no pesticide-laden veg, as he referred to it, would touch him. “Thank you for this, er, I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?” he said before she closed the door. “Cheryl, and you’re welcome. Elise is one of my best friends, and I know what you did for her dad—” He quickly held his hand up, and interrupted, “It was nothing. Thank you for this, Cheryl.” He smiled warmly, and she seemed frozen by it for a long moment before catching herself and adding, “I do apologize, but unfortunately it will be bumpy, chilly, and quite dark back here. If you need me, bang on the wall there in the front. Otherwise, I’ll see you both in London. Oh, and where in London should I drop you?”

  “At the Bri—” I tried to answer as Ben interrupted.

  “Please set us down near Saint Giles in the Fields in Camden. There are several restaurants near there, possibly an alley behind one might not draw suspicion.” She nodded and closed the heavy door, locking us into the dark, windowless interior. I wrapped around Ben on a large wooden crate and hung on. “Trust no one, Jane. George doesn’t even know where we’re going,” he warned. I nodded against his chest as his arms wrapped around my back, holding me close as the bumpy ride began.

  We managed to endure the ride, only smashing into the floor a few times, for at least an hour. The van rolled to a stop, and sat for far too long. Ben glanced at the time on his iPhone and looked worried. “It’s too soon, it takes at least an hour and a half, with no stops and decent traffic, to get from Chipping Norton into central London. Something is off,” he warned. When Cheryl, our driver, finally rolled up the back door, we both squinted at her as our eyes adjusted to the light. “I’m sorry, there was a news story about you two on the radio, and then a roadblock…I’m so sorry…” she muttered before a large man gently pulled her from the back door of the van. Traffic was whisking past us, and as my eyes adjusted to the light I could see that we were on the side of the highway, with a large black SUV behind us. “Police, say nothing,” Ben whispered as another man, very thin in a shiny gray suit, pushed his way past his burly colleague and climbed into the van, taking a seat on a wooden crate across from us.

  “Mr. Hunt and Ms. Andrews, so nice to finally make your acquaintance, we’ve been looking for you all day. I believe you have something that belongs to the Queen.” His tone was upbeat; maybe even boastful. Catching us was clearly a victory he was savoring. “Your cute little driver gave you up the minute she saw the roadblock up ahead,” he chirped. Ben sighed casually and said, “Can’t blame her, really. MI5 can be pretty intimidating, yes?” The man smiled widely at Ben. “Oh yes, but you made a jolly good attempt at it, I’ll give you that. Quite clever indeed. I’ll be needing the clue, and I’ll need the two of you to help me and my partner follow that clue to the sculpture.”

  Ben ran his hands through his hair calmly—if he was afraid, he hid it very well. “Jane burned the clue, unfortunately. Lover’s spat last night at the inn and poof it went. We were coming to the city to try and find my colleague Professor Sean Devane, I thought he might know where we should look next.” The secret service agent, a member of the elite domestic intelligence agency MI5, broke his façade of coolness as his eye twitched and his head jerked at the news of the clue’s demise. “Mr. Hunt, do you think it’s an authentic Michelangelo?” Ben shook his head, “I doubt it, to be honest. There are so many fakes around, and it’s highly unlikely that the original would survive this long in the possession of one family undiscovered. No, I think it’s a replica, but possibly a good one that dates to the period. You probably aren’t aware that the artist had many apprentices who copied his work for sculpting practice. I’m hopeful it may be one of those copies, from an Italian apprentice. If so, it would be of value to my girlfriend, possibly in the range of ten thousand U.S. dollars or so.” Ben spoke with a learned air, as if he were educating idiots on the finer points of art. He did it so well even I wondered if what he said was true.

  The agent pondered Ben’s words, his mind searching his limited knowledge of art, before answering unconvincingly, “Bollocks! And either way, that piece belongs to the Crown. If it were part of the collection at Whitehall at the time of the fire, it’s not the property of the Andrews family. I’ll need you two to accompany us to Thames House to get this issue sorted. After you, ma’am and sir.” He gestured for us to exit the van and into the waiting SUV.

  As we climbed down from the back of the van, Ben froze in front of me so suddenly that I ran into his back. Another agent, a woman also dressed in black, stood there with her arms crossed next to the SUV. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair pulled into an elegant ponytail along her back and large brown eyes. Her lipsticked lips formed a pout as she made eye contact with Ben. His entire body tensed, and it was clear to me that they knew each other. She finally broke the stare and walked to the rear door of the SUV and opened it, gesturing for us to get in. The burly man stood nearby, ensuring we didn’t escape, as the male agent signaled to the sobbing Cheryl that she was free to go and thanked her for her service to her country.

  As soon as the female agent closed the door, I whispered to Ben, “Do you know her?” He squeezed my hand nervously and admitted, “Yes, ex-girlfriend. This isn’t good, Jane.” “Did you at least treat her well, stay friends?” I asked hopefully. “What do you think?” he growled as the agents climbed into the front seat, with the burly man sliding into a third row behind us. The male agent put our luggage in the back and took the driver’s seat, talking into a Bluetooth and telling someone named Madge that he and Agent Tillman would hav
e the parties in question at Thames House in forty minutes. His partner, the stunning blonde Agent Tillman, glanced back at Ben before tapping into her iPhone. She didn’t seem hostile toward him, more amused and intrigued.

  The trip was silent, uncomfortably so. Our hands were intertwined the entire time, my right thigh pressed against his left. I was afraid they would separate us as soon as we reached our destination. “Are we under arrest then?” Ben finally asked as we pulled into a garage hidden in the back of a massive stone building along a wide muddy river, the Thames I presumed. “No, Mr. Hunt, you’ve just been brought in for questioning, nothing more,” Agent Tillman answered smoothly. “I should call my lawyer I think…” Both agents and the burly man merely chuckled without bothering to respond.

  In the underground garage, the male agent and the burly man stepped out to talk to several uniformed officers. “Laura, listen, I’m sorry about how I left things…” Ben began apologetically. She quickly silenced him, snapping, “Shut it, Ben. We only have a few seconds—I’ll do what I can for you, but everything inside will be under surveillance and recorded, understand? Elizabeth Hope was the one who called the Secret Intelligence Service and reported you two. She said you were trying to steal a priceless work of art and smuggle it out of the country.” I gasped, “That bitch!” as Agent Tillman, Laura, tried to suppress a laugh behind her hand. “Yes she is,” she agreed. She looked back at Ben again, then at our intertwined hands and asked, “Miss Andrews, what has Ben told you about the sculpture?” I knew this was a test—she wanted to determine if he was conning me like the others. She clearly knew Ben well. I was silent, not wanting to reveal too much, until Ben squeezed my hand and said, “It’s okay, tell her.” I relayed what Ben had told me about the piece, including its probable value and the famous sculptor who carved it.