by V. P. Trick
“I know you’re sending me a message, Big guy, but for the life of me, I do not know what it is.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him.
She was wearing that little top he liked, the blue one with the shoulders that kept dropping down her shoulders. Her bra strap appeared; he stared at the bluish silky ribbon, and she put the sweater shoulder back in place. And repeat. With the top, she was wearing a short dark-coloured skirt, Chris hadn’t noticed the colour earlier, and sheer black stocking that stopped mid-thigh. Those he had noted; the stockings made her legs look even more delicate. Black heels. Wavy hair. Big smile. Clearly, she enjoyed seeing him all worked up. Impatient. So much for Mister Control. He might as well eat and act as if the sexy sight of her didn’t arouse him. His cock might just do the same and get a rest, or not.
She chatted about some movie she had seen that afternoon. “You should have seen the main character!” She went on to describe the sexy actor, and then the people in the room. She sprinkled her descriptions with silly comments to make him laugh. His dick remained agonisingly attentive.
She sure was taking her sweet fucking time eating that damn lasagna. He had finished his veal in less than five minutes. The phone rang. No way was he getting up to answer it. She looked at him, waiting. Since he wasn’t moving, she got up and answered.
“Wrong number,” she announced, but it got her moving again.
No wonder she needed so much sleep; she was one active slip of a thing, always in motion. Unless they had guests at the table, she had trouble sitting still during a meal. She went to get napkins, wine, water, a wipe for the counters. He liked watching her sashayed about his place. She touched his things as she passed by. A soft stroke of her fingertip on the top of the couch as she hung up the phone, almost a caress. Fingers pianoting on the kitchen counter as she considered which plate to put the dessert in.
When she crouched to get a plate from the bottom shelf out, her skirt hiked up her thighs. Damn, he liked those stay-up stockings and their lacy edges hinting under her skirt. The fucking meal was taking forever. When she rose, she caught him looking at her; he was practically drooling, the throbbing in his bat was getting painful. She better not be expecting slow. As far as he was concerned, this whole meal was foreplay.
She sauntered back to the table with a plate loaded with cream puffs. Tiny spoon-size puffs, dozens of them, half were chocolate-covered, his; half were sprinkled with maple sugar, hers, and he suddenly feared she was going to take her time eating those. She had the biggest smile on her face. The damn woman knew he was hurting.
“And how was your day, Christopher? From the smell of you, you did some pretty dirty work,” she asked with a smile.
He looked mighty fine sitting there. She was trying hard not to look below his chin. Don’t stare at his chest, she kept telling herself, he’ll know. Self-restraint. They had time. It had been a while since they had spent an evening together, just the two of them, cosy at home. Unfortunately, she was not relaxing. She wanted him next to her, touching her, kissing her. She wished to put her hands on his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, his back, his butt. His shaft. Inside her. She wanted to see him flinch from pleasure. Instead, she was eating cream puffs. Sometimes, she truly was acting silly.
“I spend the afternoon with Ham and the rookie. You know, to see how they’re getting along.”
“Is that so?” Like that was all he had done. On a Saturday for crying out loud! And he had smelled funny. Smokes. Beer. Something else she couldn’t identify. Hamilton knew all those creepy places, and Christopher knew quite a few holes himself. They better not have dragged Charles to some dump; the guy wasn’t ready.
She imagined caressing his leg with her foot. She had almost slid off one of her shoes but stopped. If she touched him, even if only through her stocking, she was a goner. She kept her shoe on and stroked his leg with the side of her shoe. Ate a cream puff.
Not only did the Big guy not flinch but he kept right on talking. “Know any good books on child psychology? I need pointers for Ham and Charlie.”
Her foot stroked his leg from ankle to knee. To ankle. To knee. She held it there for a spell. She brought her chair closer to the table and slumped lower discreetly. Her foot brushed along his outer thigh, midway, then back to his knee. She paused and stroked his leg again, ankle to knee. His thigh. She stroked his inner thigh and again paused halfway. She inhaled. Exhaled, before softly extending her leg forward, careful not to sting him with the heel of her shoe. Thankfully, he sat with his legs slightly apart.
Chris stopped talking and held his breath, waiting to see where she would stop. She rested the tip of her shoe against his balls. Stop teasing, I’m so fucking ready for you, Dollface. He swallowed a growl.
She saw him wince. About time, mon chéri, I’m running out of patience. Her panties were wet. He looked down at her shoe teasing his groin. Glanced up at her, a slow smile creeping on his mouth.
“Do I only get the one shoe or can I have more?” She smiled demurely. “Patricia Darling. There is no way in hell I can walk. Your call.”
She removed her shoe from his testicles, brought her foot down and stood up. Her knees were a little shaky, probably from sitting too long. Bien sûr. She followed the perimeter of the table, her hand trailing on its wooden surface, turning one corner then the next until she reached his side of the table.
He had one hand on the table top, one on his thigh, apparently unperturbed as he studied her approach. When she lifted her skirt, his gaze locked on her thighs. She slid between him and the table, legs on both sides of his. He did not move. She was eager to straddle him, très eager. She lowered herself, leisurely, holding her breath. He moved his right hand to her ass, searching, grabbing the edge of her underwear, twisting the fabric aside. He held his shaft for her. She grabbed his shoulders to steady herself as she impaled herself on him.
“Touch yourself, Patricia.”
She didn’t have to. Taking hold of her hips, he rocked her quickly up and down his length and climaxed. He broke the frenetic pace to plaster her onto him when her orgasm came.
Her arms around his neck, his cheek on her hair, breathing softly, they sat for a time, holding one another; finally, she felt peace. His arm around her waist, his left hand held her nape under her hair while his right hand rubbed her back. She relaxed further into his embrace, content to be held. His lips on her skin, next to her collarbone, could he feel how fast her heart was beating? They didn’t talk but murmured, each unwilling to break the spell. No more games.
“That meal was fucking torture, Angel of mine. Good foreplay, though. Veal and chocolate puffs might become my favourite meal. Any leftover? How about we have the same tomorrow?”
Patricia felt Christopher smile against her skin. He was relaxed now, not unnerved and edgy as he had been when he arrived earlier. During the meal too, he had been tense in a big way. Big, big way.
She smiled back, hiding her smile in his hair. “Cute.”
They sat a while longer, each thinking of the other. Fluids were trickling from her sex, down on him, and he knew soon, too soon, she would become self-conscious about it. He didn’t. They were going to get sticky wet again soon, so why worry about it? Love making was messy. Arousal made her silky for him, and his cum drenched her even more. He fucking liked getting her wet like that. Very macho but hell, he was macho when she was concerned. Possessive.
Sure enough, she tried to get up. He held her to him. “Christopher,” she whispered in a little voice, still out of breath. Couldn’t she feel him hardening between her legs? “I have to get up.”
No, you don’t, Darling of mine. He rose, lifting her with him, propping her ass on the table. He jerked out of her and lowered her to the tabletop, next to the half-empty dessert plate. She had wrapped her legs around him instinctively, drawing him closer.
“More dessert, Pussycat?”
He stroked his cock against her folds, stiff against her moist sex. Pushing yet holding back. Rubbing withou
t entering. For now. He stretched her collar to bare a shoulder; he pulled some more to reveal her left breast draped in silk.
“Now, Dollface, I eat my apple. Like Joe in the song.” He unclipped the shoulder straps and the back hook and removed the bra without taking off the top. She leaned on his dining room table on her elbows, hair messed up, lips slightly parted, legs spread wide, one breast revealed, one breast covered by her top; she was offered. Exposed. Dessert. Spectacular.
He circled the exposed nipple with his forefinger. It stood erect. So sensitive. Over the fabric, he circled the concealed areola. Barely brushing as if I was flirting, Angel. She moaned and closed her eye, dropping back down flat on the tabletop. He closed his lips around the exposed nipple, sucked on it, nibbled it, bit it softly, licked it. Apple candy. He flicked his tongue over it in quick little thrusts.
“Please, Christopher, enough.” Breathless.
He pulled the top back over her shoulder to cover the sensitised nipple before stripping the other one. Played with it until she whispered again, “Christopher, please, it hurts.” Breathy. Pleading.
“Shush, Angel.”
He covered her breast. Holding her waist gently, he thrust into her bit by bit, sinking unhurriedly as he watched her face. He stripped a breast again, his lips tugging, his tongue teasing the hardened bud while his hand palmed on the fabric-encased breast. She rocked back and forth against him, around him, her frantic pace telling of her increasing impatience. He liked.
His lips went to tease the taut nipple, his tongue wetting the fabric, circling the areola. Mouth and fingers teasing, pinching, rubbing, softening, soothing, stroking. Playful. Making the nipples hard and soft as he pushed on them, stroked them, caressed them. Enjoying his French apples, again and again. She climaxed, moaning his name, pleading him to stop, ordering him not to, her cries incoherent. He liked. Immensely.
Their Time Out
Later, they settled on his couch. She had slipped into one of his t-shirts; she looked pretty damn good in it too. The oversize shirt barely covered her ass. He bought cheap shirts expressly for her (he had not consulted her on such purchases, though). Through the thin fabric, Chris caught the curve of a breast, the outline of a nipple as it brushed against the fabric.
He for one wore a pair of plain dark-blue boxer short and a white t-shirt. Not that she would notice his fucking nipples, now, would she? They sat side by side on the couch, far enough so they each had enough elbow room but close enough so to feel each other’s body heat and bask in each other’s scent. He had made coffee, a double espresso for him, a latte decaf for her. Hence, here they sat sipping serenely, looking at some action flick, making fun of the action part, commenting on the moves.
With Christopher not saying much about his day, she figured he truly had worked, and since he had spent the day with Hamilton and Charles, the only case the three of them would investigate together was Lemieux.
“How are the guys these days? The work is not getting to them, is it?” She dropped hints and waited. “You think I could call Charles? See how he’s doing,” she suggested, hoping for him to pick her insinuations.
Nope. She wouldn’t learn anything like that, of course. If the Big guy thought she intended to get involved, he was going to be less talkative than a tomb. Although she found it a teeny tad offending that he didn’t trust her with information about the case, she was too comfortable right now for it to truly bother her. After all, she told herself, Christopher was not entirely to blame; obviously, he still thought she had resigned.
Chris observed her unobtrusively. She was engrossed in the lame film, half sprawled on the couch (but not him, though, unfortunately). Her comments about the scenes made him laugh as much as her futile attempts at getting the details of his days. No way was he going to get into that.
After the coffee and the movie, when she started to doze off and half-sleep turned her soft and pliant, he planned on making love to her again. I’ll have you under me in, Princess. The position might not be original, but it was one of his favourites nevertheless. He got to see the whole of her like that.
She smiled up at him, the dark-blue colour of her eyes saying that she was aroused or had been not long ago. He liked to believe he was the only one who had ever made her eyes so fucking dark. Her eyes flicked back to the screen.
He rested his head against the couch and closed his eyes. He wasn’t feeling tired yet, just very languid. Patricia kept on making fun of the film; he kept on answering with two-word quips, eyes closed. His mind wandered as it followed the path of her hands, at times on his leg, then on his arm for a beat, back to his thigh.
Like the rest of her, her hands were always in motion. She communicated with her hands a lot, but, for now, he wished she would put one somewhere between his arm and his leg, between his leg and his leg. He liked her touching him when she talked, briefly, a second or two at a time, a butterfly caress.
Her fragrance lingered in her hair, on him too probably, and when she leaned closer, her perfume enveloped him. She had a five or six different perfumes she wore according to her mood or the weather or whatever. He had no idea how she picked which to wear on any given day, but she never hesitated and never fell to choose the right one for the moment, or so it seemed to him. Although, frankly, as the hours passed, they all smelled the same to him. Her.
He liked the scent of her; it was much more tantalising than the cheap perfume that had given him a headache that afternoon. His headache was long gone now, but because of his last fucking question, the ache he felt inside hadn’t subsided.
He had done the cop shit; going back to the stripper had been a hunch. One simple question. It could have waited. Ham and Charles would have received a list of all the other girls. For sure they would have checked them all, but he had wanted to know.
“The night you saw Lemieux and the other dude fight, were other girls around?” He had asked Bunny. “We might be looking into curly brunettes, a little taller than average, slim, medium breasts?”
“Only two dancers that I know fit that description. Jewel and Barbie.”
“Have you seen them lately?”
“They were working last night.”
On his way back to his place, he had called Ham with the info. Chris didn’t have to explain the details, Ham understood what he wanted.
“We’ll check it out tomorrow, Chris.”
Chris hadn’t mentioned Charles; let the fucking kids sort it out. The rookie would tag along if Ham decided to call him. His case, his decision. For now.
Christopher wasn’t very talkative; he had reverted to his usual monosyllabic repertoire of yes, no, hum, Angel, Princess. She eyed him discreetly. One arm stretched on the back of the couch, the other loosely holding his empty coffee mug; he appeared peaceful. But his jaw was clenched tight, and he looked angry, which for him meant he was worried. Not much troubled him, so she surmised it had something to do with her. Since he had no way of knowing she intended to interrogate a distrustful cook tomorrow, his apprehensions had to be about Lemieux.
She was getting sick of the guy. Yes, she had liked him a lot. Hum. Maybe more than liked, and yes, she had slept with him a couple of times, but that was a long time ago. She had not seen him in years, damn it! Christopher knew everything he needed to know about that relationship, what more did he want?
On the other hand, the Big guy quite obviously didn’t understand her interest in those guys. To be honest, calling her feelings mere interest was an understatement. Joshua and his knights had utterly and thoroughly fascinated her. Joshua especially had ensnared her totally as she had equally enthralled him. They were of twin minds, their thought process working in the same crazy way. Although, as it had turned out, he had been way crazier than her. And in the end, she had walked away.
Less than a few months later, he killed himself in a motorcycle accident. Could one be angry at a dead guy? Anger and love were two very different things, weren’t they? The man had been an excellent driver. The roads
weren’t bad that day, no way could he have lost control of his bike like the cops had said.
Fortunately, they had not been together at the time of his death (she had broken up with him for the third time weeks earlier and hadn’t seen him in days)`; the guilt might have devastated her. As it was, she barely survived his death. She cut all ties with his friends and moved on. Well, most of his friends, Mario needed to have someone.
Writing The J-man book had been her therapy. She had spewed out all her demons, settled the score with him and forgiven herself. End of story.
“I’m going to take a bath,” Patricia announced, slipping off the couch without waiting for his reaction. Hence, he kept his eyes closed and weakly nodded.
He heard her go into the bathroom and locked the door. Her declaration clearly did not equate an invitation. Was she sulking because he had stopped watching the movie? The woman wasn’t moody. Besides, that film was lousy. They had guessed the end within the first ten minutes. He sighed as he wondered if it was too macho to crash the door. It was his door after all. But then, bye-bye soft sex on the bed, him on top.
His butt didn’t leave the couch; his eyes stayed closed. She turned on the shower. A minute later, the shower radio crackled before she adjusted the volume to a low hum. I hope you won’t stay in there too long, Angel. I don’t want you too sleepy.
Patricia had taken her bag with her in the bathroom. Had Christopher kept his eyes open, he might have got suspicious. Men thought women kept all types of mysterious things in their bags. Even intelligent as heck top detectives didn’t dare venture a guess at what was in a woman’s purse. He commented on her taking the said bag everywhere. Tonight wouldn’t have been an exemption, especially seeing as she carried it into his fully stocked bathroom. Admittedly, the Big guy had seen her take some indeed very strange, sometimes illegal, objects out of her purse in the past.