Cooking up a Storm (15 page)

She wrapped his shaft, turn by turn, all the way to the flange. She did not tie the ends for fear of doing him damage, but let them trail loose. As his erection bobbed, the two tails clicked together.

They clicked faster when she bent over the naked head and licked him.

‘Mm,’ he said, his hips dancing closer.

He vibrated for a moment against her lips and then she let him press himself between — just the head, no more. She licked him slowly, swirling her tongue around the hot satiny skin. This was good. This she could handle — not a whole cock shoved down her throat but this one bursting mouthful. She dug the tip of her tongue into the tiny hole and he sighed. She sucked him between the softness of her cheeks and he moaned. She tugged the ties that trailed off his shaft and he shivered like a wet dog.

‘This is my limit,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘You won’t bring me up again after this.’

She looked up from his crotch. His face was dark with blood, its muscles taut. She understood what he was saying. If she brought him off in her mouth, he’d have nothing left for her.

She stroked a bare triangle of skin at his hip. ‘Do you want to come between my legs?’ His breath came a little faster and he nodded. ‘Shall I unwrap you?’

He hesitated. ‘Free my ankles and arms. And take off the basque. I want to hold you.’

As soon as she accomplished these tasks he bore her beneath him on to the circle of the braided rug. The feel of his body pressed full-length to hers was a pleasant shock. She could feel not only the naked skin, but the straps — that was interesting, too.

He reached out and grabbed the forgotten lubricant, then rolled to the side and squirted it down his cock. With three long, squeezing strokes, he’d coated both head and straps.

‘Storm,’ she said, suddenly doubtful, but he’d already rolled into position to enter her. She gasped at the strange sensation of his wrapped cock parting the folds of her body.

‘Good?’ he asked, chuffing a little as he pressed to his root.

Abby nodded and clutched his back. His thickness was exaggerated, his texture foreign, but the difference was arousing. The loop at the base of his shaft had rucked up a bit. With every thrust it hit her swollen clit dead on. Despite her pleasure, she noticed almost at once that something wasn’t working for him. Each stroke was marked by a grimace of frustration, by a small dissatisfied realignment of his hips. His lack of satisfaction ruined Abby’s.

She cupped his perspiring face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘It is. I can tell.’

He thrust once more and gave up. ‘Hell. I can’t feel you through all this wrapping. I don’t think I can come.’

‘Then we’ll take it off.’

‘No.’ He smoothed her hair back from her face. It must be a terrible tangle by now, but he seemed to like it because he smiled tenderly and kissed her brow. ‘There’s something else you could do for me, if you would.’

‘Name it,’ she said, drunk with her own fearlessness.

He kissed her again. ‘I’ll show you.’

He slipped his hand beneath her buttocks. His fingers were still slippery from lubing his own cock and he easily pressed one past the muscle that guarded her anus. She caught her breath at the strange burning tickle. When he pushed his finger to the second knuckle, he stopped and moved it in a slow, blood-heating circle.

‘Fingers are the best,’ he said through her startled groan of pleasure. ‘Warm, slippery fingers that can move and stroke just the right spots.’

With that clear a demonstration, she had no qualms about letting him coach her into doing the same for him. His passage was smoother than she expected, and more responsive. She could see why he liked this even better than the dildo. Fingers were so intimate. She could feel every twitch, every ripple of reaction.

‘A little deeper,’ he said.

Then she felt it, the little swollen gland she’d only read about till now. He groaned when she rubbed it, so loudly she had to grin.

‘Now rock with me,’ he said, his voice hoarse with pleasure, his hips putting his request into action. They rocked, close and tight, more rubbing than thrusting, kissing each other until they had to break free to gasp for air.

‘Now,’ she said. She struggled to remember the words he’d said the first time they made love. ‘
Je viens
, Storm.
Je viens.
’

He laughed until his own orgasm broke the sound. He came as hard as she did, a quaking shudder that passed from groin to groin like a fault line slipping. Afterwards, though, she suspected she’d said the wrong thing. She shouldn’t have reminded him of his habit of babbling in French
in extremis
.

He lifted her before she was ready to move and set her on her feet beside his bed. To both their dismays, it was still covered with toys. ‘I’ll put them away,’ she said, knowing what a neat freak he was.

‘To hell with it.’ He gathered up the bedspread with the toys still in it and dumped the whole mess in a corner. Then he ripped off his remaining bonds and threw them in the corner, too.

He’s angry, she thought, angry with himself.

He controlled it well, though. He turned down the sheets and gestured her into his bed with a gentlemanly flourish.

‘Ladies first,’ he said, but she didn’t know whether it would be better to stay or go. Should she give him time alone to digest what they’d done tonight, or would that make tomorrow more awkward? In the end fatigue decided her, and the lack of a diplomatic reason to refuse.

He slept almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He’d curled on his side with his back to her. She knew he must be exhausted. Perhaps later she would remember his instinctive turning away and be hurt, but for now she was grateful for a moment to think.

She lay on her back in the double bed, her side touching his spine, her thoughts and emotions in turmoil. What had she done? How had she dared? The fact that he’d enjoyed it — immensely from all indications — hardly mattered. She’d tied him like a Maypole. She’d practically ordered him to eat her out. She’d licked his bum, for goodness sake. And wrapping up his cock that way — was she insane?

What must he think of her?

Most of all, why did the memory of what she’d done bring a heat to her breast that had nothing to do with embarrassment?

She pulled Storm’s cool satin sheets further up her chest and turned her head on the pillow to gaze at him. He’d pushed the covers to his waist. He was so beautiful he made her throat ache. Every muscle in his back was perfect, every line and curve. Nothing she’d done had degraded him. His innate dignity had shone through it all. Even when emotion had caught him up and he cried out ‘I love you’ in French, there was something noble in his abandon. Here was a man whose passions were larger than life. To her mind, there was no shame in that.

She stroked a single lock of his hair across his pillow.

She knew he’d hated losing control that way. He probably feared she’d take the avowal seriously. But even she realised men said things in the heat of the moment that they didn’t really mean. Bill had once shouted out ‘Mommy’ when he reached his peak, which had thoroughly mortified both of them. So she knew Storm didn’t really mean ‘I love you’. He meant ‘I love what you’re doing to me right this second. I love how you’re making me feel’ — which was a fine compliment all by itself.

She wished there were some way to tell him she understood without embarrassing them both.

I won’t try to own you, she promised silently as she spooned herself around his back. You’re like a beautiful wild stallion. You can’t be tamed and you shouldn’t be corralled.

He mumbled in his sleep and caught her hand closer to his chest.

Touched, she rested her cheek against his warm, silky skin. No obligations, only pleasure, she reminded herself. But he was awfully good to hold.

*   *   *

Just after dawn, it began to rain: a steady grey patter that dragged him from a muddled dream.

Abby slept on, her head snuggled to his chest, her arm draped loosely around his waist. Her hair was a mess, a bright, spider-silk cloud that tickled him under the chin. The numbness in his shoulder told him he’d been holding her a long time.

I don’t want to let her go, he realised. The thought inspired the same shiver of fear he’d experienced the night before.

He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. She was a symbol to him. She typified the sweet, salt-of-the-earth woman men dreamt of when they dreamt of home and hearth, of slippers by the fire and all that old-fashioned clap-trap. So he loved what she represented, not her. Even if he had the blasted slippers by the fire, he’d be bored within a week. Owning the inn would be enough to satisfy his need to put down real roots, as opposed to crazy, plastic LA roots. He didn’t need her.

He blew a sheaf of fine blonde hair away from his face. He knew what he felt for her was ruled by the child in him, the child who wanted to come first with someone, anyone, who didn’t want to be left behind like a broken sofa his mother didn’t want anymore.

He closed his eyes against the image of himself at sixteen, pounding on the mud-brown door of their crappy flat, pounding and pounding and hearing the hollow echo inside: nobody home.

It had been raining that day, too — raining and cold. Mr Kozlakis had stuck his head out of his own door and told him his mother was gone. ‘Gone with her fancy man’ was how he’d put it. Storm had possessions in the flat, not much, but things he could have sold if his key had fitted the lock any more. He’d cursed and cried hot tears of fury. Though he’d never liked Storm much, Mr Kozlakis came back and pressed some money into his hand. The missus was at work, he’d said, but she’d want him to have it.

Storm knew very well they couldn’t spare it, but he also knew he couldn’t afford to turn it down.

He’d never seen either of them again. Years later, he’d tried to pay them back, but they were gone beyond finding — moved on. Moved up, he hoped. Still, he wished it had been Mrs Kozlakis who’d opened that door. At least he could have said goodbye. And thank you. The skills she’d taught him had saved not only his self-respect, but very probably his life.

The memory lodged in his throat. He eased Abby’s head off his shoulder and slipped from the bed. He padded naked to the window, cracked the shutters and stared out. Her little cottage looked lonely in the rain, as lonely as he felt.

Stop it, he thought. Just stop it. In real life people didn’t love each other unconditionally. If he wanted that, he’d have to buy a dog.

‘Storm?’ Her voice came from the bed, drowsy and perhaps a bit wistful.

‘Go back to sleep,’ he said.

She rose up on her elbow and shoved her hair from her eyes. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I don’t like the rain.’

‘It will clear up. The weatherman said the showers would only last the morning.’

See, he told himself. If you stayed with her you’d have to learn to talk about the weather. He watched the drops trickle down the window, and swallowed a comment about clouds massing in the east.

‘Storm?’ The sheets rustled as she sat up. ‘About last night. I know you didn’t mean what you said. I know you were just caught up in the moment.’

He looked at her wide green eyes and found he couldn’t say a word of what he should, which was ‘Yes, you’re right. I didn’t mean it. Thank you for understanding’. She stared back at him, clearly waiting for a response. Her little brow began to furrow as his silence lengthened. She looked so innocent he could scarcely believe she was the same woman who’d pushed a dildo between his cheeks and trussed him like the Christmas goose.

He closed the shutters with a snap. ‘I’m going to take a shower now. I have a lot to do today.’

She blinked as if he’d slapped her. He knew she’d be gone when he came out.

Abby returned to her room and crawled into her own bed. To her surprise, she fell asleep and — according to the clock on her bedside table — remained that way for two hours. Feeling unexpectedly refreshed, she sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Maybe she was finally growing up, finally learning not to make one man the focus of her life.

Of course, it was also possible that Storm simply wore her out too well to stay awake a moment longer.

But the reason didn’t matter. She padded across the hall and stepped into the claw-footed tub for her shower. If Storm was going to break her heart, well,
c’est la vie
. At least it would break because, for once, she was taking an honest-to-God, push-the-envelope risk. Who said she was in love with him anyway? Maybe she was just in lust.

She turned her face into the spray. A picture of Storm formed behind her closed lids: his face lowering over hers as he entered her. Clear as day, she saw the warmth in his eyes, the half-smile that made their corners crinkle. Sometimes she’d watch him when he wasn’t aware of it. Though his expression was often melancholy, during the moments he pressed his body into hers, she’d never seen anything but joy and anticipation of goodness to come.

Arousal swelled between her legs and longing tightened her throat. When she soaped her face, she felt his fingertips tracing her features between long, deep kisses. She moaned softly at the vivid tactile memory and at what it probably meant. Maybe she ought to admit she wasn’t just in lust. Maybe she liked him as well. That didn’t mean she was or ever would be in love with Storm Dupré. After all, if she were in love, would she have slept with Jack?

Maybe, she thought, running her soapy hands over her breasts. She grimaced. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She sounded like a broken record. Maybe could wait for tomorrow, and maybe might never come to pass.

*   *   *

All morning Abby sensed Storm’s restlessness. He grumbled over the size of the shrimp their supplier delivered, sent a waiter home for a cleaner shirt, and told Marissa he didn’t want to see her nose ring at the inn again.

‘Then don’t look at it,’ the waitress said. ‘Because I think you’re forgetting who’s the real boss here.’

Abby pretended to be engrossed in the contents of the silverware cart. Storm’s glare was a pinging weight in the centre of her forehead, but she wasn’t going to back him up on this. The uniforms, yes. Marissa’s nose ring, no. It was a tiny fourteen-carat gold hoop. Abby liked it and, as far as she could tell, none of the customers minded, either.

‘What flew up his butt?’ Marissa asked as they set the tables for lunch.

‘I did,’ Abby almost said, then gave in to a giggle. Let him have his stupid male morning-after mood. She didn’t have to share it. She was her own woman now, her own, independent, commanding woman. She put her shoulders back. She liked the way that sounded: commanding. Much better than sweet or biddable.

Her new attitude must have communicated itself to her admirers. Up until then, she’d got friendly smiles and ‘how’s it going’s. This particular afternoon, however, three different gentlemen asked her out: two for a film, and one for a weekend in Boston. None interested her enough to accept, but it was good to know Jack had told the truth. She did have options, lots of them.

*   *   *

She was in her office after the lunch rush, humming a happy tune, when Ivan Lederov dropped by. The artist was his usual low-key self. He tossed the final batch of hand-lettered menus on to her credenza and sat on the corner of her desk.

Her office was small, a converted butler’s pantry with a window overlooking the rain-freshened herb garden. The ship captain’s wife would have stored her dishes here. Now the room had just enough space for her bookshelf, three filing cabinets, her desk, and Ivan, of course. His leg swinging, he watched her tot up the previous day’s receipts.

‘Looks like business is booming,’ he said.

Abby smiled. ‘Booming like a big brass band.’

Ivan wagged his slender foot, then tossed a square white envelope on to her blotter. Her name was lettered on the front in his beautiful copperplate.

‘That’s from the boys and me,’ he said. ‘Read it when you get a minute and cash it in whenever you like.’ He covered her hand before she could open it in front of him. His wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the cloudy light as he bent closer. ‘Read it later, Abby. When you’re alone.’

As soon as he left, she ripped the envelope’s flap. She found a coupon inside, another of Ivan’s hand-drawn creations. ‘Good for your heart’s desire,’ it said. ‘Whatever is in our power to give, we’ll happily supply.’

It was signed, ‘Ivan, Horace and Peter.’

Abby laughed. Apparently, the three musketeers believed in teamwork. She had to admit this was the most unusual proposition she’d received. Three men at once, and two of them reasonably good-looking. Not that Horace was ugly. He was just heavy, and somewhat pompous, as befitted his position as President of the Picker’s Hollow Chamber of Commerce. Under the posturing, he was a nice man, the first to take up a collection for any needy soul whose roof blew off in a gale. His friendship with Ivan and Peter certainly spoke well for him. From what she could tell, Horace never tried to lord it over the younger, less affluent men.

For goodness sake, she scolded herself, you’d think you were seriously considering their invitation.

But maybe she was. She fingered the crisp white edge of the coupon. She’d occasionally wondered how Ivan would look in nothing but his spectacles. Big, shy Peter was a stunning male specimen — like someone off the cover of a romance novel — and she did like Horace. He had a good sense of humour and plenty of energy. It might be fun to try him out in bed.

She swivelled her chair back and forth as she let the idea play through her mind. She was curious to see them interact in a sexual situation. Despite the differences in age, temperament and personality, the three men were so in sync they could finish each other’s sentences. Was there a sexual element to that connection and, if so, did the men realise it? Had they done this before or would this be a first for them, too?

She propped her elbows on the blotter and rested her chin on her hands. All three men were her friends. None was the sort to brag about their conquest, except to each other and, since they’d all be there, what did that matter?

I could do this, she thought as a little muscle quivered between her legs. She read the coupon again. My heart’s desire, and three healthy men to see that I get it. What sort of woman would turn down an offer like that?

Before she could lose her nerve, she dialled Horace’s number at the Chamber of Commerce. She turned her chair backwards to face the window. ‘I received your invitation,’ she said as soon as his secretary put her through.

‘Did you?’ She heard his chair creak, and the smile in his voice. ‘I trust you understand we make this offer with the utmost respect for your person and your privacy.’

Abby smiled at a lone ray of sun breaking through the clouds. ‘I appreciate that. And I was wondering how I’d go about setting up an appointment.’

‘The boys and I could be ready at any moment. In fact, it’s safe to say we’ve been ready for quite some time.’

Abby leant back and tapped her pen on her knee. ‘Thought you’d pool your resources, did you?’

‘Well, we have noticed the stiffness of the competition, which is not to say we couldn’t promise to be equally stiff, if not stiffer. We simply wished to set ourselves apart, as it were, by the originality if not the supreme selflessness of our approach.’

‘Selflessness!’ Abby couldn’t contain a snort. ‘Come on, Horace, this is me you’re talking to.’

‘Your pleasure is our pleasure,’ he insisted, sounding aggrieved. ‘If you should deign to perform some small act for our benefit, we would receive it with all due gratitude. However, we expect nothing from you, only that you allow yourself to enjoy the experience to the full.’

Abby scratched her knee with the end of the pen. A pleasant mixture of arousal and amusement swirled in her belly. ‘I want to know one thing first. Have the three of you done this before?’

‘We have not,’ Horace said. ‘However, we have subjected this matter to an exhaustive planning process. We have discussed and rehearsed and — dare I say — visualised this happy event many times. I assure you, you will not find us amateurish.’

‘I believe you,’ Abby said, thinking: rehearsals? They had rehearsals? Boy, would she have liked to be a fly on that wall. Her sex heated at the thought. ‘So. How about tonight, then? Is that too short notice?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Horace said in the same tone he used to assure visitors they wouldn’t be bored in Picker’s Hollow. ‘If you would be kind enough to arrive at the Chamber Ballroom around midnight tonight, we will have everything in readiness.’

Abby was chuckling to herself as she dropped the phone into its cradle. She couldn’t quite believe she was doing this but, if nothing else, she knew the adventure would be good for a few laughs.

*   *   *

The rest of the day passed slowly. The construction crew arrived to begin repairs on the upstairs dining room but, aside from a few questions about colours and time frames, they had no need of her. Besides which, she couldn’t help noticing how cute the foreman looked in his paint-splattered jeans — hardly the sort of distraction she needed.

Storm left directly after the dinner clean-up, muttering something about finding a ‘decent gym in this puny town’. His continued surliness hurt, but at least she didn’t have to invent an excuse to avoid him tonight. His mood also convinced her she was doing the right thing. Clearly, he wanted no commitments between them and, the way he was acting, he certainly wasn’t going to get one!

Shortly before midnight, she drove her ten-year-old Toyota to the Chamber of Commerce. The building wasn’t much, just a square of tan brick with a columned portico tarting up the door. Small garden lights lit the landscaped paths, but even so there wasn’t much chance of Abby being spotted. Most of the citizens of Picker’s Hollow were snug in their beds right now.

She followed a pebbled path to the ballroom’s back entrance. The knob turned when she tried it, so she went inside. The room was dark except for a distant
EXIT
sign.

‘Hello,’ she called, hoping she hadn’t been stood up.

At her call, the footlights for the ballroom’s stage came on. The sudden blare of light made her eyes water. Someone — Horace, most likely — had borrowed a set from one of the local theatre companies. Ancient Rome sprang to life on the platform, complete with columns, a working fountain and an assortment of cushioned benches. A moment later, music began to play: Middle Eastern music with sitars and chinging bells. The exotic sounds made Abby think of belly dancers and harems.

Apparently, her hosts weren’t going to show themselves just yet, so she crossed the long ballroom and climbed a set of stairs on to the stage. She decided Horace must have friends in one of the good theatre companies. Even up close, the set looked swank. The fountain tinkled actual water, the backdrop painting was exquisite, and the furniture could have graced a real Roman house, or so it seemed to her untutored eyes. A large Persian rug demarcated the area on which the furniture sat. It was easy to pretend that the spotlights warming her shoulders were sunbeams pouring through the windows of an ancient salon. She turned in a leisurely circle, drinking in the atmosphere, imagining herself in that time of sophisticated decadence.

A simple white gown with a gold border lay across the sapphire velvet of a chaise. Her neck prickled. A card sat atop the gown’s bodice — a blood-red card with delicate black lettering. P
UT ME ON
, it said.

Right here? she thought, feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. The chances seemed good that the musketeers were watching. It was a test, she supposed. Her response would tell them how open she was willing to be and, consequently, how open they could risk being. If she wanted to see all, she’d have to bare all.

Blowing her breath out to steady her nerves, she shrugged out of her peach lambswool cardigan, then stripped off the matching sweater and shoved her skirt over her hips. She stepped out of the puddle of cloth wearing the pink camisole and panties Storm had given her the night before. Despite the tension between them, she hadn’t been able to resist slipping into the silky little nothing.

A muffled cough from the shadows of the wings told her she was indeed being watched.

She kicked off her low-heeled shoes and closed her eyes. She let her hands slither over the pale-pink silk, over her breasts and down her belly. Cupping her silk-covered mound, she imagined what her show must be doing to her audience, how they’d swell inside their trousers and shift from foot to foot, how they’d cup themselves as she was doing, or rearrange their rising cocks into more commodious positions.

Her panties dampened under her fingers. She gave her sex an encouraging squeeze and felt a rush of elation at her own bravado. She’d been promised her heart’s desire. In that moment, it seemed possible she might get it.

With a smile she couldn’t suppress, she pulled the camisole over her head. Her nipples puckered in the open air, rosy and ruched and sensitive to the tiniest draught. Now she wore only the panties. She debated whether to take them off. They were very pretty, high cut and lacy, but she’d already decided she’d demand every bit of courage the men possessed. She couldn’t offer any less.

She wriggled the panties down her legs.

‘I could use some help with this,’ she said, gesturing towards the long white gown.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stage behind her. She turned and saw Peter approaching. He wore a Roman toga, suspiciously tented, and a shy smile. A genuine laurel wreath crowned his head. His hair was sun-streaked gold and brown. Normally he wore it in a tidy ponytail, but tonight it hung past his shoulders in a thick, gleaming mane. With his muscular build, he resembled a hearty young Olympian.

He stopped a foot away from her, his breathing light and quick. His smile widened to a grin as his eyes travelled up and down her naked body. Something about that grin spoke to her more persuasively than an hour’s worth of eloquence. She felt more attractive than she could ever remember feeling before.