Rich Bitch: Everything's Going to the Dogs

by Nancy Warren

  He bunched her skirt around her hips, then decided he needed her to be naked. So he took the extra few seconds to strip her of her skirt and then pushed her gently to her back until she was laid out on his table like a feast. Her skin was honey-toned in the warm light, her nipples dark coral. As she drew in a shuddering breath, he watched her rib cage rise, then the slight swell of her belly.

  She was surrounded by the remains of their breakfast. The fruit, some bread, the jam, his squeeze bottle of honey.

  As he reached across her, she reminded him he was fully dressed still by grabbing his T-shirt and pulling.

  One hand on the honey, the other reaching behind him, he yanked the thing over his head, put down the honey beside her raised knee, and then slipped the shirt off his arms.

  Sophie rose to her elbows and without a word looked significantly toward his crotch. Some things could be communicated in any language, he realized, as he obligingly stripped out of the clothes he’d dressed in less than an hour ago.

  He stepped between her knees, thought about parting them, then looked down at her, so glorious, the dark triangle of hair in the shadow cast by her raised legs. He wanted the sun on it.

  “Open yourself for me,” he said softly. A tiny sound came from her throat. For a second she didn’t move, and then she parted her knees with enough slowness to torture them both.

  “All the way,” he whispered, waiting until her thighs rested on the table, her knees hanging over. The sun turned her hair glossy, her thighs impossibly pale. He could see the faint line of a blue vein and followed it higher to where she was glistening with her own desire. Wet and plump and so very open for him.

  If he went down on her now, which he wanted to do quite desperately, it would all be over far too quickly. He wanted to draw out their pleasure. So he picked up his bear-shaped squeeze bottle of honey, leaned right over her, and squirted a golden drizzle onto her right nipple, then drew a lazy line to her left.

  “It feels cold,” she gasped, when he trailed the honey down, between her ribs, across her belly, filling her belly button with a golden pool of honey. Where he drizzled the honey goose bumps sprang up. He thought it the most erotic sight. He stopped just below her navel, and her hips jerked a little, in frustration, he guessed. Good. He wanted her on edge.

  At least as on edge as he was himself.

  Back to her breasts, and he licked at the honey, swirled it around with his tongue, rubbed his lips until they were smothered with it, and kissed her mouth, covering her with sticky sweetness. He lapped at her lips, making her giggle, lapped his way back to her breasts, and tongued her until he no longer tasted sweetness, then continued to follow the sweet path he’d drawn. As he tracked his way south, her body began to tremble, and her sighs turned into quick pants.

  As he dipped his tongue into her navel, he saw her hands grip the sides of the table. She never closed her legs, though. She kept herself completely open to him, and he loved her for it.

  Her eyes were tightly closed so she never noticed when he picked up the honey bottle again. As he drizzled the thick, golden liquid into her curls and over her pulsing clit, she cried out.

  She was wet, and sweet and sticky. Her own musky scent mingled with the honey, and he salivated as he closed in on her. The minute his tongue touched her she cried out. He felt the shudders already beginning; her intimate flesh was plump and sweet with her desire. As much as he wanted to make this last for both of them, she was too close, and he couldn’t hold himself back. He lapped at her gently, until she tipped her hips up and pushed against him. Then he cupped her hips in his big hands and licked and sucked greedily. Her panting was growing harsh, her own wetness outpacing the honey, and then, when neither of them could wait another second, he sucked her clit into his mouth and tongued her hard.

  A cry seemed torn from her as she climaxed against his mouth. Her torso rose as though she were climbing a rope— literally trying to climb out of her own skin, he thought smugly.

  He heard another Mon Dieu and then a lot of other stuff that sounded earthy and exactly the kind of thing a woman should say in the throes of orgasm. Especially as he caught his own name in there.

  He kissed his way back up her body, leaving sticky honey mixed with essence-of-Sophie lip prints along the way. When they kissed, she wrapped herself around him, pushing herself up so they ended with her sitting on the edge of the table, her legs wrapped around his hips. She was still hot and wet, and he felt the little aftershocks against his own needy nakedness.

  A small, firm hand grasped his shaft and guided him to the opening of her body. Once more he cupped her hips. She clung to his neck, and they never stopped kissing as he thrust, hard and deep inside her.

  Oh, she was so exquisitely, absolutely right. Tight and wet and so very hot. He was pumping, she was pumping, their tongues were mating, the honey was doing its best to seal them together, and then suddenly her head fell back. He wondered for a second if he’d deprived her of so much oxygen she’d passed out, but she drew in a great shuddering breath, and then he got it. Her lower body clenched him as she used that breath to cry out her release. He managed to get her all the way through her climax, while his cock felt like pure fire. He couldn’t hold on, couldn’t hold it, and suddenly it didn’t matter; the fire poured out of him, into her while he shuddered his heart out.

  He found that his legs were trembling, so he had to hold on to the edge of the table for support. He dropped his head to her shoulder and kissed the damp, soft skin of her neck.

  Then, because he felt like it, he lifted her, still joined to him and walked them both into his shower. He’d never been so glad that he’d renovated the bathroom to suit his oversized frame.

  Between the shower, her begging him to let her cook him the world’s most complicated meal, more sex, and time to sit and talk, the hours passed. If her safety was never far from his mind, he didn’t let on, and Sophie never once made noises about leaving his apartment.

  She even decided to trust him with her shopping list, sort of. “I must have some moules,” Sophie decided suddenly. She’d begun making noises about dinner, and rude comments about his lack of kitchen supplies. She glanced at him sternly.

  “Mules?” he asked, wondering if she meant those girlie slippers with heels. He hoped she didn’t mean the beasts of burden. That’s all he needed in the apartment, more animals.

  “Moules, mussels.” She made a sharp gesture, a flick of her wrist, and an opening of the fingers. “And they must be fresh.”

  He blinked at her.

  “For dinner. Yes? You like mussels?”

  He had a feeling she could cook road kill and make it taste delicious. Or mules.

  She opened cupboards and started muttering to herself in French. Mimi wagged her tail at the sound and sighed daintily through her black button nose.

  While Sophie wrote him a list that included a separate list of ingredients for the dogs’ dinner, he collected leashes and decided to take the dogs with him.

  While Mimi and the Doberman did their thing, he kept a sharp eye out for trouble, but his neighborhood seemed as peaceful as it ever did. He got everything on her list, including the mussels which he was assured twice were fresh.

  He returned, and things went fine until Sophie, in the middle of cooking dinner, suddenly said, “You have no cardamom.”

  He felt like saying, well, duh. Vince considered himself a liberal-minded man, but he secretly suspected that a single guy who stocked cardamom, whatever the hell that was, also wore pink golf shirts and subscribed to House and Home.

  Nothing wrong with that, of course, but Vince wasn’t that sort of man. Mind you, he had to admit that a man who gave Mimi house room might as well grow a cardamom tree in his living room. If they grew on trees. Jeez.

  While he harbored these reflections, Mimi snoozed on his favorite chair, and the Doberman sat at Sophie’s feet watching the dinner preparations with unblinking brown eyes.

  “Imbecile!” Sophie said, after
she stepped backward and almost fell over the dog. “Que tu es bete!”

  “He doesn’t understand. English,” Vince said with deep appreciation as the dog wagged its tail while Sophie insulted it.

  “He must move.”

  “Probably he’s hungry.”

  “He’s always hungry, this one.”

  “I think there are some dog cookies in the cupboard,” Vince said. “They came with Mimi’s things, but she won’t touch them.”

  He moved around behind Sophie, giving her a wide berth, since he was not keen to be called imbecile and the like unless strictly necessary. He reached into a cupboard and brought out a seriously embarrassing looking can with hand-painted poodles all over it. A custom job, no doubt, like the collar. He eased open the lid, and inside were bone-shaped cookies that had to be handmade. Probably from some specialty poodle boutique.

  He tossed one at the Doberman, who caught it in midair and wolfed it down. He tossed a second, and that went the way of the first. To be fair, he walked over to where Mimi snoozed and waved one under her nose. She didn’t even open an eye, just scooched her body a bit so her nose moved farther away from the dog cookie.

  “Finicky,” Vince said, replacing the tin.

  “Cardamom I must have,” Sophie insisted. “I know where you can buy it.”

  “Yeah, well, so do I,” Vince lied. “You keep cooking. I’ll get it.”

  “Are you sure?” She looked doubtful.

  “Sophie, I’m a college-educated man; I can manage to buy cinnamon.”

  “Cardamom!”

  He grinned at her. “I know. I was joking.”

  She threw her hands in the air and started muttering. Sometimes, he decided a language barrier wasn’t such a bad thing.

  He glanced at the dogs, but they seemed engrossed in their various activities.

  Sleeping on his chair and supervising the dinner preparation. Seemed a shame to bother them. Besides, they’d be some protection for Sophie in his absence, and he’d be a lot less noticeable without them. If the insane chef was hanging around, he hoped to surprise him.

  So he headed off alone. He checked out the perimeter of the building, and the adjacent areas, but everything seemed okay. It took him three stores to find cardamom. He was about to pick it up when his cell phone rang. It was Sophie, and she sounded frantic.

  “Vince,” she cried, “come quick.”

  Chapter 9

  He was already running, his steps keeping time with his pounding heart. That bastard must have waited until he was out of the way to try to get to Sophie. “I’m two minutes away,” he yelled into the phone. “Did you call 9-1-1?”

  “9-1-1? But they can’t—”

  “Whatever you do, don’t let that bastard inside.”

  “Vincent, he’s already inside. Oh, I must go to him. Hurry!”

  The phone cut out, and he shut every distraction from his mind, focusing on only one goal. He had to save Sophie. She was alive, and somehow she’d been able to call him. She was smart and brave. If she could hold Gregory a couple more minutes, he’d be there. Sprinting up Eleventh Avenue, he bashed a few shoulders, leaped over a couple of dogs on leashes, and nearly lost an arm when he dodged around a mailbox and turned onto Forty-fourth at a dead run.

  He was breathing hard when he entered his apartment building. He had a split second to decide between the elevator and pounding up seventeen flights of stairs when he noticed the elevator was empty and on the ground floor. He sprinted inside and cursed its slowness as he rode up, realizing he’d left his gun in his bedside drawer. Fool!

  Well, he had his bare hands and hopefully surprise on his side. He’d make the best of them.

  Once he reached his floor, he noted that the door wasn’t kicked in or damaged in any visible way. He used his key and slipped inside as quietly as he could. He didn’t have to search for Sophie; she was right there, bending down at the edge of his living room.

  “Sophie,” he gasped. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  She rose and turned to face him, looking pale and shaken. “But he is not.”

  As she turned back to her previous pose, he saw a heaving heap of black-and-brown fur. It took his adrenaline-soaked brain a moment to register that her panic call had nothing to do with the chef who liked to take pot shots at his ex, but with the Doberman.

  The dog’s flanks quivered, and Vince heard the rasp of labored breathing. He rushed closer and noticed that the dog was shaking all over.

  “What happened?” Vince asked, dropping to his knees beside the prostrate animal.

  “I don’t know. He threw up twice and then…” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “And then he sort of fell to the ground.”

  Sophie stared at him in appeal. Standing at the top of the Doberman’s head, Mimi gave him the same look. She leaned forward and licked the black trembling head.

  “We’d better get him to the vet,” Vince decided, thinking the poor old Dob wasn’t looking good at all. “Let’s go.”

  He hefted the not inconsiderable bulk of the Doberman in his arms. The dog whimpered a little, but otherwise made no complaint. He carried the dog down and walked the block to where he garaged his SUV, hoping they could make it in time.

  Sophie sat in the back, and he laid the dog on the seat beside her, with its head pillowed on her lap. She murmured soothingly and stroked its head.

  Fortunately, Vince had lived in this neighborhood long enough that he knew the immediate area intimately. Mimi’s fancy vet was in Chelsea, but too far. There was a vet only a few blocks away. He drove like a maniac, heavy on the horn, heavy on the gas, double parked outside the vet’s front entrance, and once more lifted his burden.

  He wondered if they had a chance of saving the dog. Even in the short time it had taken to travel here, he could see the poor mutt’s condition had deteriorated. His eyes rolled in his head, and he was barely breathing.

  “Hang on, buddy,” he said softly as he hefted the animal into the storefront clinic.

  Fortunately, the vet on duty was a young Italian woman who didn’t waste any time. Vince walked the dog through to an examining room and laid him on the metal table. Dr. Amanti put the stethoscope to the dog’s barely moving chest; she pulled open the eyes, looked into his mouth, and spoke soothingly all the while. The dog vomited once more, a feeble effort at best, then lay back down exhausted.

  “What did he last eat?”

  “He had a bowl of dog food for breakfast,” Vince said. “He hadn’t had his dinner yet. Also, he hangs out in the kitchen and eats anything he can find. He got some bread and… ah, honey off the floor earlier.” He didn’t look at Sophie as he said it.

  “Did you walk him today?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did he eat any garbage or anything suspicious?”

  “No,” they said in unison.

  “Well, I have to run a couple of tests, but I think he’s been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? But who would . . . ?”

  “How did . . . ?” ”

  Wait outside now,” the vet said. “We’ll do what we can for him. I’ll let you know.” Sophie held Mimi in her arms, and the dog whined softly as they turned away.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Vince said softly to the Doberman, hoping fiercely he was telling the truth. The stubby tail wagged feebly, and Vince swallowed hard over a sudden lump in his throat.

  “Do everything you can,” he said to the vet. “Money’s no object.”

  She nodded and smiled, but she didn’t look hopeful.

  He went out and parked the car, stuffing the ticket he found under the windshield wiper into his pocket, then came back and joined Sophie and Mimi on hard plastic red chairs in the small waiting area. A Siamese cat regarded them balefully, and a parrot in a cage asked What’s up? in a gravelly parrot voice about a hundred times.

  He reached for Sophie’s hand, and she held on tight. Mimi lay curled in her lap, whining softly from time to time. They didn’t
say much, but he had the oddest feeling that they were a family, taking comfort from each other in times of trouble.

  Half an hour ticked painfully by, and he tried not to think about what was going on behind the sliding door. An hour, and he was losing hope. Instead of a pesky mutt who ate too much and had invaded his life, the Doberman was to Vince now a loyal guardian who’d done his best to protect Sophie and Mimi. Damn it, the dog was part of his household, and it didn’t even have a name.

  Well, Sophie’s embarrassing girlie name.

  Another half hour crawled by. The Siamese had been and gone, the parrot was asking someone somewhere else what was up, and still they sat there.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He went up to the counter and asked the young receptionist, “Can you find out what’s going on back there with the Doberman?”

  She glanced up, obviously ready to refuse, took one look at his face, and softened. “I can try.”

  Ten minutes later the vet herself came out, stripping off a pair of latex gloves and looking tired. “Your dog was definitely poisoned. He’s stable now, and sleeping. We’ll keep him in overnight to keep an eye on him, but I think he’s going to make it.” She rolled her shoulders as though she’d been bent over for a long time. “The dog’s strong and healthy and big enough that he could fight the poison.”

  She smiled suddenly and pointed to Mimi perched on Sophie’s lap. “Be glad it wasn’t that one who got to the poison. She wouldn’t have had a chance.”

  She turned away, so she didn’t see Vince’s expression.

  The young receptionist came back out and said, “I’ll open a file for your dog. Then you can go home and pick him up in the morning.”

  “Sure,” Vince said, reaching for his wallet.

  “Family name?” she asked, tapping on her computer.

  “Grange,” Vince said, and gave her the address and his phone numbers when she asked.

  “Dog’s first name?”

  The silence was so long, she glanced up from her computer screen. He looked at Sophie and smiled for the first time since he’d received her panic call. “His name’s Sir Galahad.”