Romantic Days, Romantic Nights

by Lynn Jae Marsh

  At his caress, a blaze of white-hot heat ripped through her, and she cursed his pants that still covered his hips, that prevented flesh on flesh. Reaching her hand between their sweat slick bodies, she kissed him and continued kissing him, her tongue thrusting deep and sure, as her hand slid downward to the hard, tremendous bulge that rested, restlessly, under his fly. She unbuckled his belt and the button of his pants and eased the zipper down a crack, enough for him to spring forth, wet and large and slippery, into her hands. She slid her hands along the length of his cock, exploring every thick inch of him. Her thumb massaged the ridges, where the veins pulsed with energy, to the engorged head. She jumped as if scalded by the white heat when he moved in her hand, pumping himself briskly, seeking the friction. She knew that he was ready and she wanted him. Yet, he pulled away, pulling free from her hand. She wrapped her calf around his, to draw him back to her. Yet, he held himself aloof, lifting himself, lifting his weight, from her.

  She squirmed beneath him, gripping the carpet. She raised her pelvis high as if to buck him off and to suck him in too, until he quieted her with a large hand sprayed at her middle. He toyed with her navel and then reached lower, finding her inner bud. He flicked it and she almost lost control, her hips gyrating in a loud, unspoken message.

  "Shhh, shhh," he murmured. "Not yet. Answer the question. Did knights ... use ... wine ... like perfume?"

  "Yes... No... I don't know," she said, interested only in reaching climax.

  "Here," he said, ripping off his shirt. "Place some here."

  But she was too ensnared in the whirlwind of her hunger to comply. He took her hand, swirling her fingers in the chilled champagne. He brought her fingers to his chest, dabbing the wetness there. The cold wine touched his heated chest firing up the heat of his lust. "Suck," he commanded, "suck." He grabbed her head, guiding her mouth to his nipple.

  She laved one then the other, the coarseness of his chest hair teasing her nose.

  He grabbed the glass of champagne and dashed the contents on his chest.

  "Dry me, sweetheart," he said. His eyes nearly shut, he saw her tongue dart out to obey. He threw his head back as she feasted, her tongue going lower and lower, finding the salty places around his navel, until his clothing hindered her.

  Quickly, he shed his pants and briefs and heeled off his boots. With a wave of his hand, he poured the liquor over his erect cock. The wetness ran down, seeping over his balls, soaking the carpet beneath.

  "They must have put some there," he said, anticipating the feel of her lips on his cock, the movement of her tongue, the touch of her soft cheek. "See if you like this better than Armani."

  But she was otherwise occupied. In the few moments while he was undressing she had flopped onto her belly. The plush carpet created a delightful friction and she had ceased to wait.

  He got a view of her sweetly rounded ass, going up and down, as she brought herself to grinding satisfaction.

  "Perhaps, now?" he said with silent mirth when her carpet-fuck slowed and then stopped. He led her hands to his cock, still standing tall and proud, growing like a tree from the root of his hips.

  "What? You put champagne on that?"

  "Uh-huh. Come over here and experience your lips, champagne, and me."

  "I couldn't," Alex said. "I mean, I've never done anything like that."

  "Al-ex-is. This is no time for games."

  "I just couldn't, Drake. Nice girls don't do that. I couldn't give you ... head..."

  "Enough!" he roared, then pounced.

  But she was quicker, feigning blindly to dodge his lunge. Though he was able to grab her foot and held onto her shapely ankle, she easily kicked free. She was on her feet and running within the space of a heartbeat.

  "If you want me to do that," she said, "you will have to catch me."

  "Come back here!"

  He was hot in pursuit, but at a disadvantage when she ran into the dark recesses of the casino lounge. There, she was in her element, for she had spent most of her life in darkness. She ran between the tables and around the booths and chairs, bumping into them, crashing into them, uncaring that tomorrow she would be black and blue, only her laughter giving away her location. She teased him without mercy, overturning a chair or a table then dancing away. He was a comical figure: buck-naked; wet from champagne and semen; his cock jutting in the wind.

  He stopped, planning his strategy. The primitive male hunting instincts returned.

  Dropping to all fours, he sneaked up behind her, getting a gorgeous view of her derriere, cocked high in the air. She was on her knees, behind the bar and poised for flight, crouched like a sleek cat, needing only a long, twitching tail.

  He moved closer, without a sound. Somehow, she sensed his presence. She leaped, intending to run to another hiding place. Fortune did not favor her. She tripped over a storage box, falling as he lunged. He timed his jump flawlessly and caught her in midair, cushioning the force of the fall. They had barely touched the floor before she was fighting like a wildcat. But she was no match for his overwhelming strength.

  He held her captive, a wolfish smile of triumph touching his lips.

  "Where were we?" he asked. He wrapped one hand around her upper arm, holding her in a secure grip. "Oh, yes. You're going to take care of something."

  "If you insist," she said, allowing Drake to take her hand.

  She was the mistress of dissemination. As a child, she had excelled in 'let's pretend'. As an adult, in her career as a freewheeling financial wiz, she often feinted defeat before moving in for the kill.

  "Come with me, sweetheart," Drake said in the classic voice of a cartoon villain. All he needed was a stovepipe hat and a Snidely Whiplash moustache to twirl.

  "If you say so."

  "Oh, I do say so."

  "But wouldn't it be better if I did it here?"

  "Nope, I want to be..."

  "But I could get on my knees." Alexis' hand searched for the sink sprinkler. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I could get on my knees, kneel down in front of you." Her hand crawled along the counter, feeling the cold metal of the sink. "You could stand over me, so-so-so-proud, with your legs apart, with your hands on your hips, like a conquering hero." She only needed to find the faucet, find it before he realized that her surrender was far too easy.

  "So you want to be my slave-girl."

  "Oh, oh yes, in-deed-y, more than anything."

  "Hmmm. I don't know."

  "But I'd love to be your slave-girl, like Jeannie for Major Nelson."

  "I sense that you have a rebellious streak."

  "No, no, I'm here to service you, you-you-you magnificent stud of a man."

  Drake chuckled, a rich laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  "I'd do anything, just anything, to please you," Alexis said, reaching up, grasping the faucet tap.

  "Then come here and kiss me like a good slave-girl should." Drake slackened his grip, letting go of her hand, allowing her to inch away from him.

  She had to be quick, her timing perfect. She couldn't fumble, botch it. She would have only one chance. She was so nervy from anticipation that her hand trembled.

  "A kiss, of course, my lord and master..."

  Now was her chance. Drake leaned into her and towered over her, rubbing his day-old beard against the smooth skin of her cheek. She reached her hand down, casually, as if to caress him.

  Instead, her hand took an abrupt detour.

  She snatched the sprinkler, turning on the faucet with one fluid motion. By chance, her aim was on-target, almost stellar. He yelped when the icy water struck his face and chest.

  Free, she dropped the sprinkler and pranced to the end of the bar, her movements haughty and supreme. "Nah-nah-na-nah-naaaah."

  Drake tossed the wetness from his hair, slicking the golden-ash strands back from his face. "Ahhhh, so my slave-girl wants to play in the water." He picked up a discarded bottle of Miller Lite. His fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle and he shook it
up, hard, with long, sure strokes as if he were jerking himself off. The beer exploded, striking her at her waist. He watched as the liquid trailed down, mingling with her fine hair, leaving a foamy path. He had never been more envious as he imagined the erotic taste of her juices mixed with the sharp tang of the beer.

  Alexis retaliated immediately and the water war of the century was on. They spared no item on the counter, using every bottle, every cup, and every glass as a weapon, hurling wet missiles with deadly yet harmless accuracy.

  Running out of ammunition, Alexis threw the only thing at hand-a beer bottle.

  "Alexis, don't throw that! Don't! Ugh!"

  There was silence in the room and no return fire.

  "Drake... Drake... Drake!"

  She felt her way in the chaotic jumble of furniture and overturned boxes and bottles. Her hand came in contact with leather-his discarded boots-then warm flesh. She frisked his body, wondering if he had been struck unconscious from the blow.

  "My God! Drake, are you alright?"

  He grabbed her.

  "Gotcha!"

  "You cheat!"

  "Truce." He held her firmly in his arms. "I surrender."

  "I'm sorry. If I'd hit you..."

  "You weren't even close."

  "Drake... Drake..." She could only say his name. In her fear, she needed the affirmation of life. "Make love to me."

  He saw her fears and understood.

  He lifted her onto the table-top of the bar. He swung his torso over to join her there, climbing on top of her. Their legs intertwined. Their bodies glimmered in the moonlight, their shadows dancing across the ceiling in surreal shades of dark and light.

  He kissed her, drinking deep from her lips, nuzzling the cleft between her breasts, drowning in the scent that was uniquely hers.

  "I wish that I could see us," she said.

  The quiet discontent in her voice twisted his heart.

  "I'll tell you what I see. How's that?"

  She nodded and he lifted his weight from her, shifting slightly. He crooked his elbow to rest his head on his hand, so that he could look into the depths of her violet eyes, and whispered.

  "I'm looking in the mirror at our reflection. We are cloaked in shadows, and I can see only the white contours of our bodies. You're lying on your back, your hair brushing the bar-top. Your hair is like burnished redwood, sweetheart, blending into the polished mahogany so that there is no beginning and no ending."

  "Your skin ... your skin was the first thing that I noticed ... on that first night. It's pearly white and so soft. When we lie together like this, with me between your legs, it makes me cement hard."

  "Our bodies are the perfect fit like Venus mating with Mars. I'm luckier than the mighty God of War. Your body would make the love goddess weep with shame."

  "Your face is so expressive, but never more than when I enter you-like so-when you take my entire length. I rock and you give that little jerk. I push harder and your face shouts your need for fulfillment."

  "Lift up your legs, sweetheart, and wrap them around me, skintight..."

  Throughout the night, they sated themselves, devising new ways to reach climax after climax. When he was incapable of pleasuring her further, the long neck of the Miller Lite bottle was put to a gratifying, if slightly unusual, use when he rubbed it against her clitoris. When she was too dry to take him again, he reached cum the personal way, with saliva and balled fist, while she whispered sensuous sweet nothings in his ear.

  Too tired for more, they eventually drifted into a sex-drugged sleep.

  Alexis woke up first and rubbed herself against him like a lazy feline. She stretched and her breasts came conveniently close. He gave her nipple a quick flick of his tongue, thrilled when it transformed into a hard little berry. Her hand wandered to her feminine core, her middle finger purposely posed.

  "No more of that," he said, pushing her hand away.

  "Now you want to stop."

  "Until we find a bed or at least a sofa." He stretched, flexing his back, causing the muscles in his thighs and calves to ripple. "Speaking of which, let's get out of here."

  With her hand clasped in his, he felt the way to the door, tiptoeing around broken glass and patches of wet carpet. At the French double doors, a faint light filtered through the colored glass. Crouching down, Drake peered through the space where the two doors almost met. He could just make out how the bolt was slid in place.

  "Did you bring a hairpin ... barrette ... fingernail file?" he asked.

  "Drake, I'm naked."

  "Hmmm. Delightfully so," he said, running his hand along her ass. "Stay here. I'm going to jimmy it."

  Minutes later, he had found his soggy blazer in the jumble and returned to the door. "How're you holding up?" he asked when she leaned against him.

  "I want sex."

  He pulled a credit card out of his wallet. "You and me both, sweetheart. You and me both. Just gimme a sec." He inserted the credit card in the space between the double door, jerking the card up and down. "Not working. Stand back. I'm going to have to break the glass."

  "Maybe we should try Jessie again on the bar phone?" Alexis stifled a yawn behind her hand, idly wondering why the male of the species always resorted to brute force before exhausting other options, and why women loved them in spite of it.

  "She'll never show up. She's too busy counting her money." He wrapped his hand in the wet fabric of his jacket. "Look away. I'm going to break it." He jabbed one of the smaller panes. The glass shattered, breaking easily. He flicked the shards away, reached his hand through the hole and around the door, to unbolt the lock.

  "I'll sneak upstairs to find you something to wear," he said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "It'll be an indecent exposure charge unless I'm covered."

  "Wait a minute. Why can't I come with you?"

  "Because you have too many things to cover... That Jessie Dane!"

  "What? What did she do now?"

  "Towels ... robes ... another bottle of champagne ... liquid soap..."

  "Soap! Was she expecting us to take a bath?"

  "Not a bad idea. I love you, sweetheart, but you smell like a distillery. C'mon over to the sink. After medieval aphrodisiacs, I really do feel like a knight of the bath."

  "Funny. Remember, puns are my province."

  At the bar, he washed her with unhurried fingers, fingers that massaged soap over the havens and valleys of her body, leaving no place untouched. He lingered over her shoulders and her back, caressing the smooth planes, turning her bones into rubber. He lathered her long, silky tresses, marveling at how the golden flecks and darker strands intertwined. Shielding her eyes, he used the sprinkler to rinse the foam free and then buffed her hair dry with a thick, fluffy towel.

  All while she stood.

  Barely.

  She was almost overcome by his callused hands and the warm, pulsating water.

  He leaned her over the counter top. Hunkering down, he washed her legs, kneading the muscles of her calves, trying not to recall his pleasure when she wrapped her legs around his waist, trying not to let his mind stray from the task at hand for her femininity was close, so close, so invitingly close. He only had to turn his head...

  He could not resist. He nudged her legs apart. She stood over him, her slit in his face, her legs spread wide, giving him access. He pleasured her in the most natural way, his technique coaxing wetness to run like rivers down her inner thighs until he mopped her up, until he lapped her dry, until he brought her to mind-blowing passion.

  Later, much later, two very well washed people left the lounge.

  "What will Jessie say," Alexis asked, "when she sees that place? I know she runs a brothel, but..."

  "I trust her insurance's paid; that place's a wreck."

  "Her fault, though. She should have never locked us in. She'll have to stand the consequences of locking Alexis Claremont..."

  "Soon to be Alexis Claremont Smith," Drake clarified with a smile.


  "...alone in a dark room with the man that she loves."

  Chapter 11

  The Castle Tahoe was one of those theme hotels for which Las Vegas and the casino industry are so famous. According to the hotel's promotional brochure, it was a genuine fourteenth century castle brought over, brick-by-brick, by the descendants of Sir George Edward Rockendale and rebuilt by his noble family at the edge of the waters of Lake Tahoe. In reality, that was so much media hype. The structure was, in actuality, fiberglass and pressured wood over a modern steel frame and the slabs of sandstone were a façade over American ponderosa pine.

  Whatever the hotel lacked in historical authenticity, it made up in atmosphere-an atmosphere carefully crafted by a large marketing staff's conception of what the average person would expect in a medieval castle. The hotel staff, decked out in Georgian dress from their powdered wigs to their paste diamond shoe buckles, oozed pretentiousness and performed every task with the pomp and circumstance due to a reigning monarch. To round out to this palatial artifice, a moat with a working portcullis bounded the grounds and all transportation over the rather sprawling complex was by horse-drawn carriage.

  In this lair of pretension, Johnny Wheelwright, Drake's foster son, was running from a balding man in a scarlet frock coat and silver-trimmed breeches. The balding man in scarlet, who seemed to have lost his queue wig in the chase, was still several yards behind, but he was gaining.

  Up ahead, at the end of the lavishly appointed lobby, Johnny faced a sea of staff footmen in scarlet. They were circling, blocking the exits, cutting off his escape, except his victory in the footrace was ahead in the shape of his wife and daughter.

  The balding man in scarlet, known only as Gothel, huff-puffed to the alcove where Johnny stood with Sara and Nikki. The footmen joined him there. Between gulps for air, Gothel planted his wig on his head and said, "Mr. Wheelwright. Mis-ter Wheelwright! I have told you before, sir. All guests of the Castle Tahoe must wear evening apparel in our public rooms." He snatched the jacket from the hands of one of the footman and held it out like a tailor performing a fitting. Johnny inserted his arms into the sleeves and brushed the fabric over his slender frame. He seemed to enjoy the feel of the hand-woven linen under his fingers until he froze and turned.