Double Take: A Raw Romance

by Penny Henry

  Double Take

  Penny Henry

  Raw Romance

  Erotic fiction

  Published in English (United States)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,

  places, events and incidents are either the products of

  the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  or actual events is purely coincidental

  Published by William P Blight 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  in any form without express permission of the publisher

  Copyright: William Peter Blight © 201 3

  For my beloved Tina

  Titles in the Raw Romance series

  A Sporting Chance

  Nymphomaniac

  Double Take

  Cover photo courtesy of Dreamstime

  Chapter One

  Imogen strode across the basement car park with a smile on her lips. It had been a good day. She was thinking about her London Underground ride that afternoon. She had been feeling frisky and the Tube had been packed. Imogen was a head-turner and didn’t need to flirt to get attention. It was in her nature. She had been pushed to one end of the carriage and ended up face-to-face with a good-looking young man. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. She had been thrown around as usual and turned away from the young guy to look the way the train was going. Another jolt had pressed her back against him. That’s when she had felt totally wicked. She hadn’t jumped forward as she usually did when she hit the bulge in the groin of a man behind her. She had stayed pressed backwards by the crowd and felt his erection spring up. She had jutted out her bottom and trapped him between her buttocks. The rocking train had done most of the work. Her stop had been next and she had helped him to finish, imperceptibly lifting her buttocks and rotating her hips. She had felt his breath on the back of her neck growing hotter and faster. She had just had time to clench his jerking cock between her cheeks and feel him explode in his trousers. He had grunted and stiffened as the Underground train glided to a halt and the doors hissed open. She had walked away without looking back.

  Damn! Imogen swore under her breath. The light in the elevator was out again. Her good mood vanished. She was struggling with a folder of work she had planned to finish at home. She shoved the folder under one arm and dropped her bag on the floor. She hit the control panel with the side of her fist. The bulb flickered for an instant and died again. Not even the emergency lighting was working. It was a lapse in security that wasn’t expected with the sky-high rents they paid in the exclusive block. Her neighbors included Internet millionaires and recording industry executives. The prime location and promise of twenty-four hour security had been the main attractions to the fashionable area. The below-ground car park was serviced by a single elevator and it was a constant source of irritation to the wealthy residents. Imogen made a mental note to telephone Don Thornton in the morning. The slippery service manager would be left in no doubt as to Imogen's anger at the poor level of maintenance.

  With her lips pressed tightly together and her brow furrowed like a ploughed field she bore little resemblance to the glamorous, self-assured businesswoman she was used to being regarded as. Instead she felt like a child denied her favorite toy as she banged the elevator control panel in frustration. She avoided stamping her feet and reluctantly gave up trying to knock some life into the stubborn panel. She stabbed at the button to the twelfth floor and impatiently waited for the doors to close.

  "Hold the door!"

  The gap had narrowed to shoulder width and Imogen hurriedly pushed buttons in an attempt to obey the order. An outstretched arm was flung through the opening and a large male body pushed its way into the elevator. At first glance Imogen had thought it was the mysterious tenant of the luxury penthouse above her apartment. But this man held himself taller and was not a spectacle wearer. She caught a flash of wavy black hair and the bluest eyes before the light from the car park was cut off. She pushed herself into the corner furthest from the position the man had taken up at the opposite side of the elevator.

  "Sorry," she muttered to the enforced male company.

  "No problem. It was my fault." The rich masculine voice dripped like honey from the back of a spoon.

  Imogen’s heart-rate picked up. She found herself straining to catch the sound of his breathing and any indication that he was moving towards her. She wasn't normally afraid of the dark. She had few fears in life. But these were not normal times. There had been a spate of burglaries in the neighborhood. Tenants had received a visit from Don Thornton and a baby-faced policeman that looked about fourteen. Imogen had batted her eyes and the young officer had confided that an 'insider' job was suspected. The raids were swift and opportunist. The last thing the robber wanted was confrontation. The burglar was a Rolex robber, taking only the best and leaving the apartments undisturbed. The best advice the policeman could give was that Imogen should vary her routine. She had not been reassured by the officer's words and made a note to take her irreplaceable jewelry and lock it in the office safe. It was ironic that she happened to own a hugely expensive Rolex. She had been equally unconvinced by Don Thornton's assurance that all the locks in the block would shortly be upgraded to the latest electronic version. Imogen was of the opinion that the process might just encourage the thief to become bolder - before the rich source of income was denied by electronic wizardry.

  "I apologize if I startled you." The mellow tones were low and reassuring.

  Imogen cleared her throat. She was suddenly aware that her body was tense and her slim hands were bunched into fists. The bulky folder under her arm was clamped to her side in a vice-like grip. She stood six feet in her low heels. She was fit and able to give as good as she got in a verbal confrontation, but her dim recollection of the tall stranger was of feline grace and power. The aromatic scent of his cologne drifted to her senses and caused her to relax her defenses. Burglars didn't go to work wearing aftershave.

  "What floor did you want?" she asked it as evenly as she could manage.

  "All the way please."

  "You want the penthouse suite?" She hadn’t been able to stop herself from asking. In two years of residence she had never seen anyone other than the blonde 'geek' come or go past the twelfth floor. This guy must be a friend or a relative. The geek had to have some friends and he would certainly have relatives. She had thought there was a strong resemblance in the glimpse she had caught before the doors had shut. She was tempted to ask more, but it didn't seem the best of times to start a conversation.

  "Yes please, the penthouse."

  “I’ll do my best. Do you have a lighter?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  Imogen traced the row of buttons and pressed the top one. “I think that’s it.” They were almost neighbors. Her own apartment was directly below the penthouse and she would probably have taken it herself had it been unoccupied. "Hopefully it’s the right one." She was talking into an inky blackness, keeping her voice as light and confident as she could manage

  "Thank you. We'll find out soon enough. Not the ideal time to be trapped in an elevator with a stranger, is it?"

  He had picked up on her nervousness. "No, it’s not," she said with a pleasing note to her voice. "I shall be making a strong complaint in the morning. It’s totally unacceptable."

  "Criminal."

  "What?”

  "I meant its criminal the way the management firm gets away with such a poor level of maintenance."

  She knew exactly what he meant. She was just a teeny bit touchy. Before she could come up with a suitable a
nswer a gentle bump and the bright illumination of the figure 12 above the door signaled their arrival at her floor. The doors slid back and light streamed into the cabin. Imogen blinked against the glare and turned her head to glance at the man now looking at her with a smile. The flutter in her breast was like a sleeping bird that had woken up and stretched its wings. She twisted her head away in embarrassment. Then she did a double take.

  His features were uncannily similar to the man in the penthouse. At a guess he was around thirty years old, about the same age as the geek. But there the resemblance ended. The geek had fair hair and hunched his shoulders as if he was carrying the troubles of the world. This man had black hair, startlingly blue eyes and was obviously very confident with his identity. He was dressed in casual clothes that looked to have been newly purchased from the best stores in town. He was wearing an open neck denim shirt tucked into designer jeans. A soft leather jacket was slung across his back. He looked as if he had stepped from a page of a magazine. He wore his hair in a tousled look that left strands of hair straying over his forehead. Imogen imagined the many female fingers had ached to push the stray locks away from his perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her breath caught in her throat as her own brown eyes locked with the sapphire of his inquisitive gaze. The elevator doors began to close and the stranger reached out an arm to hold them open.

  "Your floor, I believe.

  "Uh? Yeah, thanks." Imogen dragged her eyes away from his hypnotic gaze and half-stumbled from the elevator. She held tight to the folder under her arm and walked towards her apartment with as much dignity as she could muster. Her neck prickled with the awareness of his burning eyes sweeping down her narrow back and across her tight buttock before dwelling on her shapely calves. The slight hiss of the closing doors allowed her to relax. She experienced a little difficulty in fitting her key into the lock before stepping through the short hallway into the lounge. She deposited the folder on the table with a sigh of relief. Her mind wasn't on work at the moment. The man in the elevator was the obvious twin of the sandy-haired geek. It was incomprehensible that the shy guy that avoided her eyes and hid behind thick-rimmed glasses and mounds of paperwork in his arms was related to a Greek god. The resemblance was unmistakable. They were both tall men but the stooped posture of the geek left him several centimeters shorter than the confident bearing of his brother. If indeed that’s what he was. Fate could be cruel. How come she had wound up with the runt of the litter as a neighbor when his twin had inherited all the good bits? With any luck he would be staying awhile. Imogen buoyed herself up with the thought that the neighborhood had taken an upward turn.

  She switched her mind to the present and walked to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Next on the agenda was a leisurely shower. It was Wednesday already. She had a couple of busy of days coming up and she could do without any distractions. She strolled to her bedroom while she waited for the kettle to boil. She undressed and inspected the ravages of the day in the mirrored door of the walk-in wardrobe. Her part-Mediterranean heritage was obvious. Her statuesque figure and the satin texture of her skin were a blend of the Mediterranean genes and the blood of her half-Swedish mother. Her coal-black hair and soft brown eyes were owed to her Greek grandparent. She couldn’t see anything that couldn't be fixed by a hot shower. She let her eyes wander over her body. Her breasts were full with the expected sag that came with their heaviness, her stomach was almost flat and her legs were smooth and toned. The grueling pace she set herself appeared not to be taking the toll on her body that once she feared it would. She was good for a few more years yet.

  She donned a robe and strolled to the kitchen to make a mug of tea, her thoughts returning to the work she had brought home from the office. There was always paperwork to catch up on. Tonight it was the amendments to the PR tour set up for Karl Wainscott that had to be e-mailed to the TV and Radio producers and then to John Lomax. John was managing the whistle-stop tour and would react with his usual show of petulance. He was a pain in the backside but he had history with the company and had so far escaped the full force of Imogen's temper. Her business-like thoughts were side-tracked by her own bitter history with Karl Wainscott, still one of the jewels in the crown of Sblig Records. The singer was promoting his tenth album. With the right support it would be as a big a smash as every other album he had put out. He had been Sblig Records' favorite son for a generation but Imogen knew the darker side of his character to her cost. Imogen knew what it was like to suffer the emotional pain that a relationship with Karl Wainscott invariably produced. She had been twenty years old and new to the industry.

  Even knowing what she had been told she had fallen for his shabby lines. With her it would be different. Imogen would be the one to change him. She had ended up in his bed and one of an unending stream of lovers. It had been like that for two years. She had spent the next year demolishing her self-esteem with meaningless affairs and earning a reputation that had been slowly destroying her. But not all of her friends had deserted her. She had turned it round and never looked back. It had been five, nearly six years since she ended the affair with Karl. The pain had healed and she was over him. But Karl had been calling her lately and she was as mixed up as she had been at twenty. She told herself she had outgrown him. She had become a celebrity in her own right. The articles and interviews that stemmed from her role at Sblig Records and its successful stable of boy bands and girl groups had raised her profile in the business. The media exposure had gained her a kind of fame that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. The letters from admirers had been a novelty in the beginning. Then the hate mail had started to arrive.

  At first they had been an irritation - the price of fame, but she had come to dread the morning mail and it was now intercepted before it reached her desk. It had been when the details of her sex life were included in the letters that the police were called in. Whether it was from personal experience or by sheer coincidence was Imogen's main concern. In the year following her split from Karl she had partied with the best of them. She had come out of it okay; never got into drugs other than the odd cannabis-induced stupor and she had never been arrested. Not bad for a year she could hardly remember. But there had been a lot of deep and meaningful discussions in those days. More sinister was the thought that there was someone out there seeking to destroy her hard-won reputation. One spiteful leak and the press would have a field day. The letters were never signed of course. But there was a signature cartoon. A bald headed man with a big nose peering over a brick wall ended every letter. To Imogen it suggested someone observing her in silence. She guessed they were not the ramblings of infatuation but the perception of someone close to her life.

  Rose Stone, the managing director of Sblig (UK) Ltd. had been the one to call in the police. She had tossed her red curls like a Celtic warrior as she berated the unknown author of the poisonous letters and spat terrible threats against his or her person to be personally carried out by herself. Rose was not a woman given to half measures. She had insisted on being present when a nice detective had made the routine call intent on a meaningless interview with all the standard platitudes. Detective Constable Geoff Harris had departed a wiser and much chastened individual. He had been amazed that such a string of obscenities could flow uninterrupted from the rosy lips of the immaculately dressed woman that confronted him. Rose was in her mid forties going on twenty-five with legs that would put a revue bar dancer to shame and a body that men drooled over. Rose knew how to have a good time and was a legend in the music industry for her stamina. Among her many attributes was an ability to soothe hurt feelings with a look. It was this precious ability that she exerted on Detective Constable Geoff Harris as she escorted him to the door with a forceful grip on his arm and a smile that would melt an iceberg.

  Rose's next action had been to instruct Connie Doyle that all such mail was to be intercepted before reaching Imogen's desk. Connie was Imogen's rock. She was twenty-seven and had joined the Company in the same week as Imogen. She was tota
lly unflappable and impervious to the flattery she was bombarded with. She had been too clever to fall into the same trap as Imogen and had been there to offer a shoulder to cry on when it had all fallen apart.

  The shoulder to cry on had become a little more intimate for a brief period. It had started with a friendly embrace. A hug had become a clinch and a soothing word a kiss. They had been alone in the office. The doors were locked and the phones had been switched off. They had wandered into the hospitality lounge with Imogen pouring out her heart. Connie had taken Imogen into her arms. She had held her until the heat had become unbearable. The touch of their lips had escalated into a greedy full-on kiss that neither had been able to pull away from. They had collapsed to the sofa pulling at each other’s clothing. Connie had taken the initiative. She had pecked at Imogen’s throat with tiny kisses like a bird on a ripened fruit. Her lips had traversed the soft skin of Imogen’s breasts before placing small sucking kisses on her shoulders. Then her worshipping mouth had slipped lower, gliding across Imogen’s flesh to reach her stomach and creep downwards inch by inch, desperately hoping not to be pushed away. She had become bolder, pushing Imogen backward as she dropped to her knees in front of the couch. She had straightened her back to take control of the insane lovemaking. Imogen’s legs had wrapped themselves around Connie’s waist as the impish blonde sucked on the stiff nipples that were held to her mouth. Then she confidently slipped down Imogen’s body to bury her face in the muskiness of Imogen’s groin. The tip of Connie’s tongue had teased Imogen’s clitoris with rapid circling. Then she had nibbled on the engorged bump until Imogen had almost thrown her off with the frantic thrusting of her hips before pulling Connie onto the wide sofa. Connie had reversed herself on Imogen’s demanding body. She hadn’t finished yet. She had lowered the soaked vee of her thighs to Imogen’s hungry mouth and dropped her own mouth to the swollen lips that Imogen pushed upwards. They had feasted and drank of each other’s slippery juices until the last shared orgasm left them weak and helpless. Then they had wriggled round to lie together, sharing small kisses and holding to each other’s damp flesh. They had slept for an hour before waking up and searching for their clothes, giggling as they found each other’s stray garments and not feeling in the least embarrassed.