by Tina Donahue
Her mouth’s wet heat was more than he could have imagined, cranking up his testosterone, putting his body into overdrive. Beads of sweat rolled down his chest. His throat tightened, keeping him from vocalizing. Sooner than Hunt had expected, he was thick and hard enough that containing all of him would have proved difficult for most women.
But she wasn’t that, was she? Not your ordinary call girl, Jack had said.
She demonstrated that again, opening her throat, guiding him inside until her nose touched his pubic hair.
Hunt’s knees sagged and his hair stood on end. The feeling was like nothing he’d experienced, and by god, he’d experienced a lot. Sexy, decadent, uncivilized came to mind to describe what she was doing, along with something he hadn’t expected. A surprising tenderness in the way she licked and suckled his shaft, honoring this part of him.
He cupped the back of her head, wanting her to keep at the task, nothing else, resenting her attention to his friends.
She continued to ease her cunt up and down Tim’s shaft. David got into her rhythm, alternating his pumps with hers.
Hunt did the same. There was no other choice. She liked group sex. She was in charge tonight. She’d made that quite clear with everything she’d done—her knowledge of their backgrounds, her directions in bed, her choosing which one of them would have her first.
Hunt had claimed that privilege, but only because she’d allowed it.
She tended to his cock with more than skill—with an inner fire that seemed to say she’d never tasted anything better. Her tongue flicked against the bumpy skin at the back of his crown, then swirled over the head, exploring its contours.
Hunt shuddered, huffing out breath after breath. He tried to hold off, but couldn’t. His satisfied groan mingled with Tim’s and David’s.
They were all her willing slaves, hers to use.
As the last of his ejaculate poured into her mouth and she drank him dry, Hunt fought his fatigue.
It won, of course. Within minutes, he was sprawled at the foot of the bed, Magique next to him, followed by Tim, while David lay across the length of the mattress near their heads, all of them gulping air.
Before Tim thought to do so, Hunt gathered enough strength to roll toward Magique. He cupped her breast, thrilled at its softness, knowing he wanted so much more and would have it.
This wasn’t over. He was going to learn all that he could about this woman, beginning with her real name.
Chapter Three
Alexa Marsh left the bath, her nudity protected by a plush white robe, its texture pleasant, though hardly as delightful as a man’s skin.
His.
She pursed her lips at the obtrusive thought and her persistent longing that even a warm soak hadn’t suppressed. Shaking it off, Alexa padded down the hall to Ronnie’s living room, pausing at its entrance.
More than a thousand square feet, the area was modern in design, boasting a polished black floor, its walls and ceilings a lattice work of white and black squares with recessed lights in the center of each, all of them lit. Framed geometric designs in varying shades of blue hung above the black marble fireplace and in numerous other locations, adding a splash of color and a dramatic flair. Sheer blue drapes covered a wall of windows, the glimmery fabric resembling a cascade of water. Past it was a view of the District, lights brightening the streets and buildings even at this late hour.
On one of the white leather sofas, Ronnie slept. She’d been waiting for Alexa to return from the house on R Street, one of several Ronnie owned and used in her business.
Torn between waking the woman so they could talk and allowing her to get as much sleep as she could, Alexa studied her friend, looking for any signs of distress.
At fifty-eight, Ronnie appeared far older than her years should have allowed. Surgery and chemo did that, accentuating the lines around the woman’s mouth and at the corners of her eyes.
A pang of sadness and worry gripped Alexa, the anguish almost too much to bear. She sucked her lower lip, wanting last year back when Ronnie had passed the ten-year mark, cancer free. It was as though the cruel disease had never happened. At fifty-seven, she’d retained her great looks, her black hair streaked stylishly with a bit of gray, her delicate features the envy of many young women.
Then the cancer had returned in Ronnie’s remaining breast, the disease more aggressive this time. Most of her beautiful hair was gone now, except for some wispy bangs. A pale blue scarf, which matched the shade of the drapes, covered her head. She wore a white velour robe as Alexa did. Around Ronnie’s throat was her signature string of pearls. Never was she without them, even fighting to wear the jewels in surgery.
“What’s the harm?” she’d challenged her oncologist and the surgeon who’d performed her first operation. “I want to look nice. What kind of a man would deny a woman that, especially when he’s going to take her last boob?”
Alexa fought the urge to giggle even as tears clouded her eyes. How ballsy Ronnie had behaved, even though the woman had been so damn scared. Alexa had felt it in the way Ronnie had squeezed her hand before the nurses rolled her gurney into the OR. She’d clung to Alexa as a child would, the same as Alexa had done with her so many times in the past.
Ronnie was Alexa’s BFF, the maternal figure she’d never had. Some may have found that odd, wondering how a so-called madam could be motherly when she was using another woman’s flesh to enrich herself.
It wasn’t like that at all. Alexa had approached Ronnie first, not the other way around, making it Alexa’s decision to get involved in the business. Ronnie had never wooed or swayed. She’d accepted Alexa for who she was with the proverbial warts and all. She listened, rather than judged. She loved unconditionally as a parent should.
Please don’t die. Please, you have to get well.
As though Ronnie had heard Alexa’s plea, she stirred, then stretched, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Alexa backed up, wanting to leave her undisturbed.
Too late. Ronnie woke.
Her gray eyes were bleary from either exhaustion or returning pain. “Hi.” Warmth filled her husky greeting. “Come, sit by me.” She patted the space beside her, her perfectly manicured nails making her hand look old and frail.
Alexa wanted to run to her friend, bur remained where she was. “You should sleep. Let me get you a fresh glass of water and one of your pills.”
“I’d prefer a cheeseburger, a martini and a man. In that order.”
Alexa smiled. “The man can wait?”
“There’ll always be plenty of them.” She inhaled cautiously, as though testing to see if it would hurt, then sighed out her words. “I haven’t had a really good cheeseburger in years. Not like the ones at that dump where I worked as a teen. Even the best chefs don’t seem to get it right like that cook did. Maybe it was all that decades-old grease he had on his grill.”
Alexa made a face. “Oh yuck.”
“Come,” Ronnie urged again. “Tell me about your night. Was it what you wanted?”
Heat rose to Alexa’s cheeks just as it had hours earlier when she’d glanced at Hunt to see why he’d stopped licking her pussy. Her body weakened as she recalled his easy confidence, his pleasure at having aroused her, the mischievous way he’d winked. Adorable and thrilling. What a freaking combination.
That gesture had touched her in a way even the greatest sex or effusive praise never could. He’d acted as a friend might—not a client intent on nothing more than sex—teasing her, breaking down part of her barriers, reaching beneath the surface, making her desire more. Something rich and intimate that enhanced their carnal play.
She’d resisted as best she could, which was basically not at all.
“It was,” Ronnie said. “I see it on your face. You’ve actually met someone.”
Alexa’s stomach started to hurt. She dismissed Ronnie’s comment with a wave of her hand. Never again would she see Hunter Prescott. She wouldn’t allow herself that. Her reaction to him, his impact
on her, was too dangerous and could only lead to heartache. No way would she let that happen. She wasn’t a little girl any longer, hoping her father would notice her or begging her mother for scraps of love.
She padded to the sofa and curled up next to Ronnie, wanting to cradle the woman close. Ronnie shook her head, causing her scarf to slip back, exposing her bare temples. “My turn to take care of you.”
She held out her arms, inviting Alexa to move inside them.
Resting her head on Ronnie’s thin shoulder, she smiled at the woman’s baby powder scent, so homey and comforting.
“Tell me about him,” Ronnie said.
Alexa played dumb. “Him who?”
“The man who’s making you blush like a virgin.”
She plucked a stray thread from Ronnie’s robe. “You’re hallucinating. Have you been smoking weed again?”
“Helps my pain. Makes me smile. What’s your excuse?” She leaned down, regarding Alexa’s face. “Why are you grinning suddenly?”
She tried to stop, but failed. Her shoulders trembled with her giggles. “He said he was fluent in Pig Latin.”
“What? Who said that?”
“One of the guys tonight. It was a joke.” She rubbed her cheek against Ronnie’s shoulder and stroked the woman’s gaunt hand. “I was trying to impress him and his friends with the languages I speak.”
“All twelve? Did you also tell them about your European boarding schools, your Oxford degree, who your father is?”
“Of course not. Once I had my dress off, they wouldn’t have heard a thing I said.”
“True.” Ronnie tucked a stray lock behind Alexa’s ear.
It reminded her of Hunt doing the same before she took him in her mouth. The memory of his scent returned, musky, male. She recalled his fleshy crown and cock slipping down her throat, enthralling her in a way she couldn’t deny.
“So what’s wrong with Mr. Pig Latin?” Ronnie asked. “Is he stupid? Didn’t he go to school?”
Alexa’s wanton recollections continued to surface. With a sigh, she pushed them away. “Princeton on a scholarship, then Harvard Law, at least according to his inches- thick dossier. You know, the one you gave me before I left tonight.”
“Ah, you’re speaking of Hunter Prescott. Good-looking man. I made one of his headshots a screen saver on my computer.”
Alexa laughed.
“So you like him,” Ronnie added. A statement not a question.
Alexa’s laughter wound down. She could still feel the heat of his body against hers, his big hands sliding over her skin, their lips brushing, tongues probing, the bite of his coming beard, his thick cock filling her cunt and mouth, his creamy seed sliding down her throat.
She’d savored its faint saltiness, though it would never compare to the bliss she saw on his face as his climax ebbed. He’d reminded her of a little boy then, content and safe, no longer poor, the product of a single mother living in a bad section of Baltimore. A childhood so unlike what his friend Tim had experienced. According to his dossier, on Tim’s twelfth birthday his parents had rented out Disneyland for the day, just for him and his friends.
When Hunt was twelve, he’d been arrested for assaulting one of his mother’s many boyfriends with a baseball bat. Once the juvey cops realized Hunt was only trying to protect his mom from being battered again, they’d urged the prosecutor not to file charges.
After that, there were no arrests, just some parking and speeding tickets. He’d been a good boy.
Though not that good.
Her body went weak with more memories. While David and Tim had slept after their orgasms, Hunt had pulled Alexa from the bed, lifted her into his arms and carried her into the master bath. The buff-colored marble floor shone dully beneath the Victorian wall lamps shaped like tulips complete with metal leaves. Over the three sinks was a mirrored wall, showing her and Hunt’s messy hair, their bodies flushed with excitement.
He carried her into the glass-enclosed shower.
“No,” she said, even as she clung to him, her hand over his heart, her fingers stroking his pec.
He kissed her shoulder and throat. As she whimpered in delight, Hunt lowered Alexa to her feet and rested his forehead against hers. Without the added height from her heels, he seemed enormous next to her.
“No, what?” he asked gently.
She was afraid to be alone with him, fearful of getting too close. They had to go back to bed and wait for David and Tim to wake up. “I…”
Hunt eased back, regarding her as he waited for her to say more.
She couldn’t continue, unable to find the words, suckling his throat instead.
He took that as license for them to remain, wrapping his hands around her wrists, using his body to push hers against the wall, this marble a shade lighter than the floor. Holding her arms to either side of Alexa’s head, he trapped her.
She expected a kiss, surely a fuck.
Hunt did neither.
Her heart kept missing beats, making her lightheaded, her body sluggish. When she sneaked a peek at him, he was regarding her, his smile easy and welcoming. Not the kind that would judge and hurt—or worse, be indifferent to who she was.
He kissed the tip of her nose and each cheek, testing her reaction.
His tenderness undid her. “Yes,” she whispered, surprised she would.
He fitted his mouth to hers, his kiss slow, deep, wet and so enticing Alexa couldn’t resist. She pressed her groin to his, rubbing his cock with her pussy, wanting him inside her again.
Releasing her wrists, he pushed his fingers through her hair, using it as an anchor to keep her to him.
Alexa wasn’t going anywhere. She couldn’t. Somehow, this felt needed and right. She pressed her palms to his back, drawing him closer. They necked for minutes, making randy noises…a growl here, a sigh there, followed by suckling sounds…not stopping until both of them needed a bit of air.
The moment their lips parted, Hunt reached over and turned on the water.
Alexa gasped at its cold bite.
“Shhh.” He caressed her to him, stroking her back, protecting her from the flow. “It’ll be warm in a sec.”
With his body against hers, it didn’t take that long to heat things up. Plumes of steam filled the room. Moisture rolled down their bodies. As he’d done in the bedroom earlier, Hunt took her standing up, his arm protecting her back from the wall, her legs wrapped around him. She gripped his shoulders, her nails raking his back as he pounded into her, his balls tapping her body. Alexa wanted them in her mouth, her tongue sweeping each wrinkled sac and the dark hairs dusting them.
She hadn’t gotten the chance. Tim awoke and joined them in the shower, followed by David. Spent from his climax, Hunt watched as his friends took their turns with her, Tim anally this time. David vaginally. Hunt’s expression grew increasingly dark and possessive.
His desire for her thrilled Alexa and frightened her too. She didn’t want to belong to any man. Love was too risky. Sex and having fun was all she trusted or craved.
Hours later, when the three friends had finally fallen into a deep sleep, she’d dressed and told Ronnie’s assistant to wake the men in a half-hour, telling them to leave.
With that, she’d departed and come here.
“You do like him,” Ronnie said, breaking into Alexa’s thoughts. “Which means he really likes you.”
“No. It’s Magique he wants. Not me. And,” she interrupted Ronnie, “as far as I’m concerned, I just wanted some fun tonight. I had it. It’s over. I’ll never see him again.”
This was taking forever.
Hunt should have been on his office phone—given that he was in his office—working the aides of several senators and reps. Instead, he had his cell practically glued to his ear as he waited on hold for a guy Tim swore by.
“Trust me,” Tim had said. “Flannigan can find out anything about anybody. My father uses him all the time to screw his competitors.”
Screwing was the last thi
ng Hunt had on his mind, either physically or metaphorically. He wanted details. Magique’s real name, age, where she lived, who she loved.
He wasn’t about to ask himself why. He didn’t want to go there.
With the other women he’d known, he’d had some great times, even dating a few of them for a while, and then he’d moved on, going his way while they went theirs. No harm done.
Somehow, when he’d awakened next to Tim and David with no Magique in sight, just her lingering musk and provocative perfume, a rush of sadness had come over him. He’d felt lonelier than he had as a child when his mother had left him alone to meet up with her latest boyfriend.
It wasn’t a feeling Hunt relished. So maybe that’s why he was going through all this shit. On the other end of the line, Debussy’s Afternoon of a Faun played, the frothy instrumental supposedly adding class to what the investigative service did.
Come on. I’ve got work to do.
Hunt sagged in his chair, its top-of-the-line leather whooshing with his weight, the texture nearly as soft as Magique’s skin. Only the best for one of Givens and Strobe’s most successful lobbyists.
Even after a few years at the top, Hunt was still surprised at how far he’d risen, the incredible opulence of his office. Mahogany bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with legal volumes that weren’t necessary any longer. Everything they contained was on the Internet. The physical books were all for show and a reminder of the man who’d once claimed this space. Five years ago, he’d died of a massive coronary from overwork, too much booze and maybe his hunger for a call girl who’d turned his world inside out.
Hunt sighed.
Beyond the bookcases was a granite fireplace the color of rum, the stone carved so that it looked like something ancient and important. More granite flanked the entrance to this room, the pillars sculpted to resemble Grecian columns. The best however was behind Hunt’s desk. Five windows afforded a damn good view of the capital, especially bewitching at night, the lights glittering like those on a Christmas tree.
Debussy’s piece ended, followed by his Claire de Lune.