by V. P. Trick
She sighed. She had to know he would not let it go. He needed a handle on the case and the one that seemed the most logical right now related to the guy’s sexual tastes. Other than that, Lemieux could have been just a regular guy, friendly and polite. And fuck, he had to study the hacking angle too, hadn’t he?
Other hackers had been murdered in the previous months. Granted Patricia had assured him she had not known any of the victims. Yes, those deaths had been filed under burglaries turned bad (the cover-up was for her sole benefit). And yes, the killer’s modus operandi on those was completely different from Lemieux’s murder. Chris referred to those killings by the name ‘bathtub killings’ for they had found the vics stabbed to death and bathing in their own blood. Those victims had connections to the gamer community. And said group had ties to the hacker community. Of which, as far as he could tell, Lemieux had been a member. To this day, the burglaries remained unsolved. And now Lemieux.
He watched as she closed her eyes and took a sharp breath. He listened when she opened them back and told him about her last date with Lemieux, the fucking dances at the strip club. Damn woman. He listened hard, worried at first, then relieved. Fight over.
He still hated Joshua’s guys, but Lemieux had done fine by her. Chris already knew she was attracted to the odd ones, so the club thing did not bother him much. He might have to take her there if they didn’t find any other lead; she might recognise some of the staff. In Chris’s experience, guys like Lemieux had very specific tastes. And the woman at the motel had been a slender, tallish brunette. Like Patricia.
He was sad, though, because she was. It was obvious to him, but not to her yet it seemed, that she had liked the Lemieux guy, and until she admitted to her feelings, not to him but to herself at least, she would keep on feeling sad and angry. She needed to mourn Lemieux.
He might have to take her to the club, just the two of them, to help her reminisce, but not before he had checked the place out first with the guys. On their afternoon drive-by, the place had looked cheap, and he suspected the interior looked a lot different now than what she had seen three years ago.
For now, the fighting was definitely over. Only for tonight, though, because she was still lying about that night.
“We just watched a few numbers,” she had said. “Got drunk,” she had added. “Had a fight,” she had continued. “We went home. Separately,” she had concluded. “And that was it. We both moved on.”
He could tell she was lying but wasn’t sure about which part exactly, maybe all of it. Had she lied about the guy not being a hacker but just a handyman?
“What do hackers need handymen for?”
A dismissive shoulder shrug. “I don’t know the details.”
Not knowing the details isn’t the same as not knowing, Angel. “And you hooked up with Joshua after that?”
“Like I said; that was it.”
Fucking lying. OK, not so much lying as not telling the truth. She had slept with Lemieux a few months later, and that time she had known the jerk’s kinks.
To End His Day
What else could he do but take her back to his place? Faint blue shadows betrayed her fatigue. He too tired. She held his hand in the underground parking lot, and they made the trip up fingers entwined.
She disappeared into the bedroom while he went to check his messages. None. Good. When he joined her, he found her standing in the middle of the room, close to the bed but not quite next to it. She turned to face him, unzipped her little black dress and, wide blue eyes on him, let the dress very slowly slip to the floor. Bare but for her underwear and heels. Her lingerie was see-through, even more so than he remembered. The loveliest sight.
She took a step forward. He took a step forward. She stopped; he did too. She dropped one pump, then the other, taking a step forward after each. Then another. And another. Until she stood a breath from him, her breasts brushing against his shirt. He listened to her short pants, enjoying the feel of her nipples rubbing against him with every gasp.
His heart was beating fast, his blood throbbing in his ears, in his pants, but his breathing was steady as he studied her. She started loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, the cuffs, her fingers never once touching his skin. When she had undone all the buttons, she pushed the shirt back from his shoulder and to the floor, it went. Only when she had him shirtless did her hands follow her eyes to caress his chest. The languidness of her movements betrayed her sorrow.
He took a sharp breath as she rubbed her breasts lightly against him, her skin pale next to the oh so sheer berry lace, the areola darkened by their diaphanous shield, her nipples rigid, stretching the lacy fabric.
He wanted to pull her to him hard but was afraid to break the spell. You can do anything you want, Angel. And he did mean anything. He would give her the fucking moon if she asked for it. Would cheat, steal, kill if he thought it would console her.
She removed his belt and pushed his slacks down until she had him standing in his briefs and socks, his pants down around his ankles. She aroused him, so fucking much, with her nipples brushing against his torso. His cock tented the fabric.
They stood motionless for what seemed like a long time. Perhaps not more than a minute. A heavy with yearning and desire and lust eternity-long sixty seconds. She wasn’t gazing amorously into his eyes but kept the blues glued to his chest.
Kneeling in front to him, she tugged at his shorts and lowered them to his pants around his ankles before, almost heavily, standing up again. She sure was taking her sweet time, and damn, he liked it. A lot. She looked spectacular, breasts taut, nipples erect, lips parted as she panted softly, the blues so dark. Seventy seconds. Eighty. One hundred.
She stepped back before unclipping her bra; she dropped it distractedly to the floor. Her panties followed. One hundred and ten. She sashayed back to him, her breasts to his chest, her hands on his ass, fisting his flesh. Her mouth latched onto his neck, her tongue wetting the vein that was pulsing so very fast.
“Do me, Christopher.” A whisper. A plea. Fucking magnificent. Two minutes.
His hands on her ass, he guided her to the bed, sitting down on the edge. One hundred and thirty seconds. He pushed his knees between her legs. One hundred and forty.
“Put your hands around my neck,” he ordered as he lowered her onto him, guiding his cock into her, feeding her sex as she wrapped her legs around him.
They sat, him on the bed, her on him, barely moving, his cock buried deep into her sheath, her sex surrounding his length. One hundred and fifty. She moaned. One hundred and sixty. Her lips trembled against his skin. One hundred and seventy.
Her grip tightened around him as the wave built. He kissed her. Time seemed to stop. She held him even closer, her arms clenching around his neck. He let go of her mouth. Delaying her orgasm. Awaiting it. She held her breath of a second, then stiffened and came. His heart skipped a beat as he looked at her. He came while the undulations of her sex receded around his shaft.
They sat motionless until the breathing eased. His neck ached, but he went on holding her. Two hundred and ninety.
She started drawing away from him, but he kept his hold.
“Christopher,” she murmured in a breathy voice.
He kept holding tight. She bit him, one small bite on the side of his right shoulder where the muscles connected.
He let go reluctantly, her pushing herself off him, standing again, him holding her first by the waist, then standing too. He smiled down at the dishevelled her. He liked. Traces of him on her made him feel fucking powerful. Manly. His mark of her. Macho. His cock stood erect again, ready again. She was stunning.
She put her hand on his wrists, her long fingers not quite long enough to circle all the way around. Her hands followed his forearms, his elbows, his arms, inching closer until she was right next to him again, her hands grasping his shoulders, but her nipples were not yet touching his chest.
He smiled again. The crooked smile of his that she liked lingering on
his lips. He liked looking at her. Sometimes, some memorable times, he would look at her just right, she would like it just so, he would almost hear her purr. He liked. Immensely. Like now. He lowered his mouth and took one nipple between his lips. His teeth. My turn to bite, Angel of mine. Gently. Firmly. Tugging. Licking the sting. Biting. She moaned. Her breasts were always tender and responsive, but after an orgasm, they became hypersensitive. An unbearable torture.
“It hurts.” Her voice sounded dreamy. Her hands in his hair, she grabbed the back of his neck.
“Shall I stop, Pussycat?” he asked, although he sensed she didn’t want him to. Knew he couldn’t even if she did.
Holding her against him by the waist, he tasted her other nipple. As he did, she rocked her hips, rubbing against him. He grew harder. Taking hold of her arms he spun her, her back to his chest. She wiggled against him as he tucked his shaft between her butt cheeks, and swayed her hips until he was grinding on her folds but not thrusting into her sex yet. Her wetness, creamy, now, coated his cock.
Grabbing her hips, forcing her up on her toes, he drove into her, deep into the warmth of her. She was swollen and fisted him in a tight sheath. She moaned once, louder. He smiled. Steadying her by the waist with his arm, preventing her from pulling away or rocking her hips, he palmed a breast with his right hand.
She did try shying away, although feebly, from his touch, but he had not played with them on their first time around. He fondled the perfect mount, his touch teasing yet firm until he made her moan again. He gentled his grip and brushed his thumb lightly over the nipple. Her murmured groans told him the touch brought her pleasure more than pain.
He started massaging, drawing circles with his forefinger, large circles at first, not down to her ribcage, not quite on the underside of her breast. Encircling her breast in circles smaller and smaller as he zoomed in on the areola. She arched her back, her ass tight against his groin, her chest pushing upward in his hand. Her right hand clutched his hair; her left grabbed his butt, her fingers digging into the flesh, her body offered.
“S’il te plait, mon chéri. Move.”
He rolled his hips, rocking lasciviously in her. She moaned again. He smiled, drunk on the feel of her. His lips on her neck, his face buried in her hair, smelling her perfume, hearing her breath fast against him, her breast in his hand. Home.
He massaged softly, circling the tight bud’s outer edge, rubbing, not yet pinching. Letting go, big circles again, smaller. Pinching now. Circling. Pinching. With each tweak, she held her breath. Squeezing harder to make her moan.
“I could listen to you all night, Love of mine.”
He released her waist to take both breasts in his hands. She pushed herself up, putting her feet on his as he squatted a little. She swayed to keep him inside of her, clasping her vaginal muscles around his cock. He froze and swallowed, willing his impending orgasm back. Her left hand holding his butt, she rocked herself, forcing him to move, to increase the rhythm.
He resumed his circling. Big circles. Smaller. Smaller. He kept his touch soft. Faster. Faster still. He drew circles on the nipples, right at their very edges. For each sharp jerk of her hips, he pushed on her nipples. For each pinch, she pushed harder. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples hard points. She pushed him deeper and climaxed, breathing hard and sobbing his name. When she went limp against him, he freed her breasts, grabbed her hips and started pounding. He came on the fifth thrust.
After, he wrapped his arms across her chest and pulled her backward with him to the bed. They fell more than sat. He rolled them around, pulling at the covers, and wrapped her in them. Her eyes were closed and her breathing already heavy. He kissed her mouth gently, biting her bottom lip, and took her hand under the sheets. She fell asleep right after.
He waited, hoping for her to smile in her sleep. She did. He fell asleep, tired and somewhat sticky. Absolutely perfect. He might have smiled too.
Breakfast With the Guy
The ring of his mobile phone woke him up at four-thirty. As he went to pick up the blasted thing in the living room, someone pounded on the door. LeRoy, both times. Unconcerned by his nakedness, Chris let him in.
“This better not be a come-on, Chris. Laws forbid that, you know,” LeRoy teased at the sight of him. Even as short as it was, Chris’s hair was tousled, and he had a lipstick-rimmed teeth mark on his right upper arm. “You got yourself a bit mark on your biceps there, Boss. Did a cat get to you?”
“Asshole.”
“I’m not interrupting anything I hope?” LeRoy asked. “I can wait in my car if you want, but better you make it a quickie ’cause we gotta go.”
Chris just stared. He knew LeRoy knew. And he knew LeRoy knew he knew Patricia had slept over, no big secret there, not anymore. A fucking improvement as far as Chris was concerned; he got to watch her sleep any fucking time he wanted without having to sneak around. Oddly, the team never spoke about it, not LeRoy, not anyone else, not with him at least. And it was hard to imagine Patricia talking to the team about their relationship when the damn woman had trouble talking to him about it.
Them knowing didn’t mean he wasn’t happy about everyone acting as if they didn’t know, though. Having her at the office blurred the line between work and private; not that his and Patricia’s love life was any of their fucking business. Even if he was close to LeRoy and the guys, he liked to keep his private life fucking private.
With LeRoy showing up this early (she considered any hour before six the middle of the night), he anticipated an argument from her. The damn woman liked to pretend their relationship was just a casual, secret affair, but with the marriage and the quartet fuck-up, they had blown the secret weeks ago. A fucking secret! From the start, he had trouble keeping his eyes off her when she was around, and she was the same, her watching him in her aluminium pot. Like I don’t know about the fucking pot, Princess.
“Let me grab a shower.”
When he got out, Patricia was chatting with LeRoy in the living room. Surprisingly, she had not pretended to be asleep hidden under the covers; she was damn good at acting. Her soft voice and LeRoy’s deeper one were muffled, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying.
He quickly dressed and headed to the living room. He found Leroy on the couch in his favourite pose, elbows on thighs, hands clamped together, smiling up at her. Her ass propped on the arm of the chair next to the couch, curls in a mess, the damn woman was clad in his wrinkled shirt, the one she had taken off him and dropped on the floor only a few hours earlier. The shirt barely covered her down to mid-thighs. She hadn’t buttoned it completely, and the top three or four loose buttons revealed the top curves of her breasts. Rosy patches, left by his day-old beard, decorated the left side of her neck and the swell of her right breasts. His mark on her. She was stunning.
He wondered (and hoped) she still smelled of their lovemaking.
She turned when she heard him walk in; she looked relaxed, engaged as she was in casual chatter. “Well, have a good day, boys. I’m going back to bed,” she said without any hint of anger or awkwardness in her voice. And with a way too sexy smile, she retreated to the bedroom, making sure to brush against him on her way. The briefest of touch but still a major turn-on.
She went back to sleep right away, not listening to a word of their banter, and didn’t move when Chris growled at Le.
“Sure you can’t get that quickie? Looks like you fucking need it, man. Big time.”
His guy was having fun. Her touch and the smell of her had again distracted him. Chris was rarely speechless; he allowed LeRoy to enjoy this very rare occurrence.
A Writer’s Imagination
Patricia hadn’t had more than six hours of sleep when she woke up around eight. Not enough sleep. Again. She didn’t have to go to the office today. When do I ever, really? She didn’t answer herself, rolling off the mattress instead, and sluggishly made her way to the kitchen.
She didn’t want to spend too much time in bed, not in Christopher’s bed,
not when he wasn’t around to see her. It felt too much like she was waiting for him. The last step before moving in. Definitely not there yet. She sighed, a tired and troubled exhale.
Last night had almost been a disaster. Something was off; to top it off, she was sleep deprived and her muscles were sore muscles. Nothing a walk wouldn’t help, though, but first she was hungry.
Christopher fixed her breakfast every time they spent the night together, sex or no sex. Would he still cook if the sex was bad? No way to tell; it hadn’t happened yet. Probably. But for now, he wasn’t in, and she was starving. She had long digested last night’s half-eaten lasagna.
In the kitchen, she found a note taped to the fridge, written in red in Christopher’s bold hand-writing.
‘Urgent. Check mailbox.’
She put his shirt back on, her discarded panties and a pair of jogger pants borrowed from Christopher’s closet. She had to roll them up at the bottom to shorten them; with the waist cord pulled tight, they fitted perfectly. She fished his mailbox key from the dish on the entrance table and walked downstairs barefoot. She rarely ran into anyone at this hour, or at any hour. Christopher owned the building, and his tenants were small professional businesses (in around nine o’clock, gone by five).
Someone had jammed something in the box. Did Christopher leave her the damn report with annotations and comments? She froze at the thought. What to do? She could always claim not to have seen it. Hum. She held her breath as she opened the mailbox, only to discover a paper bag containing two croissants au beurre. She was speechless. In moments like this, at this very second, she could move in with the Big guy. Marry him even. Again. For real. Of course, within two weeks, they would beg for a divorce. Or kill each other, whichever came first.
Christopher was her all-time best, not because of the silly croissants but because of his délicatesse. She wouldn’t tell him that, of course; he was already such an arrogant jerk. She ate her croissants standing, peeping out the main window. Christopher had a great place in a lousy neighbourhood. She watched people busying themselves on the street below, wandering from shops to industrial buildings to small factories. If anybody had looked up at the top floor of Christopher’s old building, they would have seen a slim shadow eating pastries, a big smile on her face.