by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
Susannah laughed with pleasure, allowing him to rub up against her, loving the feel of him. And there was clearly plenty of him to go around. From top to bottom, Chas was every inch the consummate man, and she hoped all those inches added up to being the lover she desired: the one she dreamed of, the one she prayed for, the one she dared to believe existed. Few men could possibly fit the fantasy she had conjured all these years. And so far, the only man to even come close was Charles Oakley Palmer III.
She pulled away from him, sat on the stairs, and took her heels off. “You know,” she said, slurring ever so slightly, “I hate wearing heels. I only wore them for you. My boss said you liked the tall ladies.”
Chas cocked his head. “Oh, I do. But that’s the nice thing about you, Legs. The heels are a turn-on, but you’re tall enough without ’em.”
Susannah blushed, feeling it all the way to the tips of her ears. Ooh, this man. He had her panties tied in knots, and it wasn’t even the beginning of the race. When the horses broke free . . .
Chas leaned his face down close to hers. “How much did you see of my bedroom last night?”
“None. And I would have loved to,” she replied without thinking. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got something to show you,” he said, and held out his arm.
Feeling quite a bit like the belle of the ball, she allowed him to guide her upstairs. Following the series of Aubusson rugs that perfectly matched the rest of the décor, they came to the end of the hall, the room just past the office she had been in last night. Chas opened the door, and it was as though Susannah’s fantasies sprang to life.
In the center of the room was an enormous purple-and-gold-decorated king-sized bed. It was appropriately named, as it looked like it belonged to a king. It had a beautiful antique wooden headboard with matching vanity and side tables, and was clearly a family heirloom. But it was obvious from the first glance what Chas wanted to show her. She looked up to see a domed ceiling with multiple dormers and a huge skylight—the very roof she had dreamed of since she was a little girl. When Susannah was growing up, her father had always taken her to the planetarium in the Air and Space Museum—it was one of her most cherished memories of him. Since that time she’d dreamed of having a domed roof that looked up at the sky.
“Oh,” she whispered, “oh, Chas. It’s like a fairy tale come true.”
He gave her a tender look as though he were thrilled that he was getting a glimpse of her softer side. “Would you like to lie on the bed and look out the skylight?” he asked her in a low voice. “I always wanted to be an astronomer as a kid; I was the riffraff that spent all my spare time at the planetarium. Growing up, my ceiling was plastered with those glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars, but I always dreamed of the real thing. This was my answer to that dream.”
“I was the same kind of riffraff,” she said with a grin. Without needing further encouragement, she climbed atop the bed and lay on her back, looking up. Chas joined her. She could hear, faintly, sounds of the New York street and the occasional whirling of the wind against the panes. She looked up and wished she could see into the night.
“Do you mind if I turn out the lights?” Chas asked. “It’s better for seeing the sky.”
“Please,” she murmured. And he did.
Suddenly—through that exquisite skylight—she could see the stars, and it felt like she was looking through a porthole and seeing the entire universe. She sighed in wonder, and Chas shifted, entwining his fingers with hers as they looked up. “My word,” she breathed, “when I was a little girl I used to dream about something like this.”
“Funny,” he said, “when I was a little boy I used to dream about the same thing . . . but I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have a lady like you to share it with me.”
She turned to face him—wondering if he was for real—and their lips met. This was not like last night, not the kiss of pursuit or conquest. This was tender, gentle, the stuff of wistful fantasies. She let out a gasp as he nibbled on her lower lip and ran a finger through her hair. “Let’s take this slow, okay?” he asked. And all she could do was nod, speechless. She’d had a string of casual lovers, and she was very comfortable in the bedroom. But something about this guy was really throwing her off balance. It scared her and turned her on in equal measure.
He took his time with her, kissing every centimeter of her face, trailing his tongue down her neck, twisting his fingers through her hair. Once or twice he grabbed her hair and pulled, surprising her. “Oh, I love that,” she moaned. “Please pull my hair. And tease me, Chas. . . . I do so love to be teased.”
He pulled her hair again, and nibbled on her ear, whispering, “It will be a pleasure, my lady. I do so love to tease.”
He turned her away from him, deftly unzipped her dress, and pulled her close again. She could feel the staunch hardness of his biceps as he caressed her, the softness of his lips as they ran down the length of her spine, and the ever-present reminder of his desire burning a hole in the back of her leg. She was wet all over at this point, the whole night careening forward like something out of a dream. Every detail about this man made her more and more intrigued—and more and more turned on. Though they had only scratched the surface, she was dying to know more. Something long dormant in her had been awakened, and she was ready to let herself go.
He found his way underneath the gown and trailed a finger up her leg, tracing delicate patterns on her calves as he tongued his way down her back. His hand reached up above her knee, and he found her garter. Sharply drawing in a breath, he murmured, “I had forgotten. I want to see.”
He stopped what he was doing to light a beautiful candelabra on the wall opposite the bed; it was mounted over a fireplace that Susannah hadn’t even been aware of. The candelabra was silver with gold filigree and was clearly handcrafted: it was a tree, with votives nestled in the leaves. Turning back to her—she was still lying on the bed—he saw the mist in her eyes and said, “Pull the dress up, Susannah. Slowly. So I can see you.”
Happy to oblige, and dying to remove every scrap of separation between them, she slowly pulled up her hem, stopping when she got to the line of her garter. His breathing hitched as he strained to see what he desired. Suddenly he was distracted—a small silver pistol glimmered on her left thigh. He smiled. “A gift for me?”
She winked. “It’s a flask. I thought you’d appreciate it, given your love of guns. And it has a treat in it. Absinthe.”
“Ooh,” he exhaled, “I like the way you think.” Slowly approaching the bed, he bent over and licked a trail from her heel to her thigh. She moaned in pleasure. He removed the flask and offered it to her. “Taste?”
“I’d love a taste,” she said seductively, taking a swig and then pulling him to her, engaging him in a passionate kiss. This kiss was astounding, filled with need, longing, and heat. And he gave it to her twice as hard, meeting each thrust of her tongue with his own. Then he pulled back.
“I’d also love a taste,” he said, interest burning in his eyes. He took the flask and enjoyed a large swig before delicately pouring a few drops all the way up her leg. Then he took his time kissing, nibbling, making his way up to the very center of her. And then he began to tease. He ran his tongue on the inside of her thighs and used his hands to stroke her legs. She writhed in pleasure, clearly wanting more with each passing moment. He brought his hands up, moving over the dress, over every inch of her. Then he took a finger and softly ran it under the rim of her panties, feeling how soaked they already were. He cursed, and ripped her panties off, leaving the garters on. Then he stood up and looked at her.
She was unbelievably beautiful. Her hair fanned out beneath her, and her eyes were hooded and unfocused. The skirt pooled around her waist, framing her signature long legs, splayed wide, as her body buzzed with need, waiting for what he’d do next. He gazed at the center of her, dripping wet and swollen, begging for his touch. He didn’t know if he could last long enough to pleasure her, but he was damn w
ell going to try. He thought at this point he had teased her—and himself—enough. He wanted her fiercely and needed to taste her immediately.
He didn’t hesitate, but settled himself between her legs, hoping to catch her by surprise. He moved his tongue inside her in one deft move, and she screamed and cried out for more. He devoured her, enjoying every taste of her, her scent, her hand on the back of his head guiding him in farther, her screams of pleasure. He took his time with her, taunting her at one moment, then giving in to her every need the next. All too soon she bucked and arched, coming to a shattering orgasm.
As she lay shaking, he gently guided her dress off, undid her bra, and saw the still-hard nipples on her spectacular breasts. He took one in his mouth, sucked and bit until he could feel another orgasm shudder through her. Then he ripped off his clothes, unwrapped and rolled on a condom he had grabbed from the bedside table, and entered her in one clean thrust. “Oh god,” she moaned, “Oh, Chas. Oh, yes, yes. God, yes. Take all of me.”
He moved deeply inside her, slowly and sensually, coming almost completely out before entering her again. He had never felt a woman so soft, so wet, so ready for what he had to offer. He grabbed her ass with his hand as he reared back for more, his breathing getting heavier with each stroke. “Susannah . . .”
“Oh,” she breathed, “go deeper, Chas. Deeper and harder.”
He had never been this deep in anyone before, cupping her beautiful round cheeks and moving inside her again and again and again. Finally he thrust the deepest of all, and shuddered with his own climax, falling on top of her in exhaustion and pleasure. He stayed there for a moment, then rolled off her to settle beside her on his back. They lay in stunned silence, looking up at the sky.
“Well,” she finally said, “not disappointing. Not disappointing at all.”
He grinned, and she could see his teeth glow in the candlelight. “Really, Legs?” he murmured. “’Cuz I’m just getting started.”
‡‡‡
JACKSON, THE BOSS, and Lisa Bee sat around the banquette couches in the downstairs living room of PH8. A couple of half-eaten pizzas littered the table along with scattered gold Godiva chocolate boxes, bags of chips, empty beer bottles, and a near-empty bottle of Blanton’s. The Boss was balancing the company books, Lisa Bee was listening to Madonna on her iPod, and Jackson held his face in his hands, occasionally stealing a glance at Lisa Bee. A radio transmitter sat in the center of the table, and from it came the sounds of Susannah and Chas having sex for the third time that night. Jackson groaned.
“I can’t do it, Bossman,” Jackson complained. “I can’t listen to it again.”
“Come on, Jackie,” chirped Lisa Bee, “ain’t it turning you on, just a little bit?”
“No,” Jackson said emphatically. “Maybe a little the first time. But now? This is just too extreme.”
“Hmph,” huffed Lisa Bee. “Well, that’s disappointing. I thought for sure—”
Jackson rounded on her. “If it was me, baby, I’d go all night. There’s no question of that. But listening to someone who feels like my little sister? Enough is enough.”
“Surely,” the Boss said, breaking his silence, “we can give credit where credit is due, right? I mean, I knew Legs had it in her, but you have to admit this is . . . exceptional.”
They all listened to the crescendo of a mutual orgasm that lasted for minutes and seemed to fade, like a haunting melody, slowly into the night.
“Well, hot damn,” said Jackson. “Talk about downloading his hard drive!”
Lisa Bee let out a long, musical laugh. “I guess that’s one way to hack in.”
The Boss smiled. “Now, now. I’m just glad Legs is having a good time. I think she needed it. If she can get what we need as well, that’s just a bonus.”
Jackson turned to him with a smirk. “When did you become Father Christmas?”
The Boss chuckled. “Since I realized Legs might save my ass yet again. I think she deserves an early Christmas bonus. Though judging by the sound of this night, I think she already got it.”
As it appeared Susannah and Chas were going for round four, Jackson moaned and then got to his feet. “I’m gonna go grab some more beer. Anyone need anything?” Secretly, he hoped Lisa Bee would come with him—he’d had his eye on her for months, but he couldn’t tell if she’d even noticed.
“How ’bout some air freshener?” Lisa Bee said with a smile. “It smells like the bayou in here. And if you can find me a Dr Pepper and a Slim Jim, I’ll go double on both.” Then she turned up the volume on her iPod to blast “Like a Virgin.”
‡‡‡
PIERRE DESCARTES SAT in the sunken living room of his Paris apartment and downloaded the new specs. It was going to be a big job, involving most of his usual crew, with a few more added for security. As a general rule, he was uncomfortable doing jobs in his own country. He preferred not to shit where he ate, as the saying went, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. He had been given intel involving a famous Hollywood producer’s estate in the south of France, and it would be a heist valued at more than $50 million. This was enough to cover the costs of his team, pay them and himself handsomely, and give the Italian enough to make him stop complaining. If there was one thing Pierre could not stand, it was an irate Italian. Particularly an irate Italian who was taking out his anger on him.
Pierre looked at the clock. It was twelve noon—six a.m. in New York. He would wait a bit, then call his contact. He’d need a lot of prep work done. Only one man he knew could hack into a security system like this one, as well as doctor the online files, create fictional profiles for his men, and sort out the sale of this much stolen art. He posed as a rich businessman, but inside he was nothing more than a filthy little street thief. Pierre had known Chas Palmer since he was a boy, and he was just like his father, Chuck—polished, suave, and easily turned. Pierre laughed, a short, sharp, dry sound, like the scrape of a knife on wood. “Smart and useful, just like Papa,” he mused aloud. “Let’s just hope you don’t make his mistakes.”
With that he closed his computer and stepped out into the startling Paris sunlight.
5
SUSANNAH WOKE WITH a beam of sunlight in her face and the powerful scent of coffee in her nose. Shading her eyes, she looked up to see the silhouetted form of Chas Palmer holding a cup of coffee and smiling down at her. He wore a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, and she took a moment to admire the sculpted muscles of this extraordinary specimen. He wasn’t perfect—he was human, after all—but he was all man, top to toe. His cut chest boasted just enough hair to be entirely masculine without being overwhelming. His arms were perfect, biceps that looked like carved tree trunks. A tattoo band around the top of his right arm sported writing that looked Gaelic.
“Morning, sexy,” he said with a smile. “Like some coffee?”
“Love some,” she responded, hair falling down around her shoulders as she sat up, sheet slipping down to her waist. “Oops.”
As she tried to wrap the sheet back around her, he stopped her. “Wait,” he said, huskiness in his voice, “let me just look at you.”
She sat there in a sunbeam, naked from the waist up, hair in her face. She liked watching him watch her. He was very taken with her, burning her with his gaze, raking every part of her skin with his searing deep blue eyes. Then they held eyes for a long moment, as they looked deeply within each other’s soul. She wondered if he was seeing more than just her body—was he seeing the woman inside as well? Finally, he handed her the coffee and breathed, “You look like a painting, Susannah. Like something done by one of the old masters.”
She blushed, feeling it from her collarbones to the top of her head. She pulled the sheet around her self-consciously, and tried to change the subject.
“What’s on the arm?”
“Oh,” he said, coming to join her on the bed. “It’s my motto. My mantra, you might say. My mother was Scottish, and it’s something her people always said. Tada gan iarracht: nothing without e
ffort. It’s a statement I try to live by, and what I wanted burned into my skin.”
She pondered that, drinking her coffee. “Like being a self-made man, right?” she asked.
“Right,” he said. “Like that.”
“Hmm . . .” she breathed, looking him up and down. “I’d like to know more about you, Chas—if you’d like to share more with me.”
“Sure,” he said, cocking his head and then deflecting her question. “Happy to tell you anything you like. But you first. Tell me something I don’t know.”
She paused for a moment, put on the spot. Then she figured she’d reveal a bit of herself, hoping he would do the same. “Well,” she said, “it might sound kind of strange, but I have a ritual I’ve never told anyone about.”
“A ritual?”
“Yeah. Before I make any big decision about anything, I like to ask my dad what he thinks, and wait for a sign. I know it’s silly. But before I went to Georgetown I asked his opinion, and the lights in my bedroom blinked several times. And before I started to work for my current company I asked him for a sign, and the next day I bought a winning lottery ticket. Silly, huh?”
“No,” he said, his eyes deep pools of compassion, “I don’t think it’s silly at all.”
She breathed an inner sigh of relief that he got what she was talking about. It felt good to share stuff about her dad like that, especially with a guy. “Do you think about your parents like that?”
“No,” he said with a far-off look in his eye, “not like that. In some ways I try not to think about them. Too weird, I guess. In other ways they completely govern the path I’m on.”