MasterStroke (11 page)

“In the bathroom cupboard.”

He excused himself. She rolled over on her back and watched him as he walked away. Jack had the cutest bum, tight and shapely. His back was nicely muscled, not overly so but just right. It showed that he worked out and took good care of himself.

The bed suddenly seemed very big and far too empty without him. The space he’d left was still warm and held his masculine smell. There was also another smell, less perceptible but infinitely more stirring. It was the smell of sex. Idly, she sniffed her fingers and the sharp, intense aroma of his cock filled her.
Oh, delicious. So wonderful. I want him again
, she thought.
I’m sore but I don’t care
.

After a few minutes, he walked back into the bedroom. The sight of his cock, hanging heavily between his legs, riveted her attention. The room was warm and he pulled the covers back to the end of the bed, exposing her. She made no move to cover herself, it would have been redundant to do so and he appeared to be entranced with what he saw. She spread her legs wide in invitation.

He knelt beside her, kissed her breasts, her stomach and her pubis, then lay down next to her, scooped her up in his arms and kissed her mouth hungrily. Sandrine was aware that her breath may be a little unsavoury from sleep but he didn’t seem to mind. The light stubble on his face bruised her chin.

“Maybe I should go to the bathroom as well,” she said, trying to pull away but his arms were locked tight.

“Don’t leave. You’re fine as you are,” he replied, kissing her deeply again. His cock was pulsing against her thigh.

“Then let me look at you.” She moved so her face was directly in line with his rigid hardness. “You’re huge. I don’t know how it fits inside me.”

His laugh was a deep, amused rumble that resonated inside her.

“You’re sweet but I’m not that big.”

“How can you say that?” A playful outrage tinged her voice. Her hand couldn’t quite encompass it, the thickness was such her fingers could barely touch. “You are.”

“I’m certainly not John Holmes. In the scheme of things, I’m about average. Maybe slightly above. But it
is
thick. It’s just that you’re so small, it’s all in the comparison.”

“I don’t care what you say. It’s wonderful. It gave me so much pleasure last night. I think about your cock constantly – is that a terrible thing to say? And whenever I’m with you, I’m soaking wet.”

“You might notice you have an effect on me as well.”

Sandrine pumped it with her hand, then sank her mouth down, taking in as much as she could. The salty taste spiked her passion. He groaned. She was uncomfortably aware of her lack of experience in this area. It had never been a priority in her previous relationships but she wanted to please Jack in every possible way. His penis was such a thing of beauty, she wanted to play with it constantly, look at it, fondle it, kiss it, have it inside her. It was a natural progression for her to give it as much attention with her mouth as with any other part of her body.

She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, she wasn’t even sure she was doing it right, but it tasted so good, so sharp yet musky. The only way she could approach the task was to think of it like sucking a lollypop. The thickness and length filled her mouth rather too quickly; luckily, she didn’t feel like gagging. She was having too much fun and it thrilled her that Jack also appeared to be enjoying it. He was moaning louder now and his hips were jerking reflexively upward. His hand stroked her hair and she knew he was fighting the urge to grab her head and thrust it down on his cock.

“Sandrine, please, be careful. It’s so intense. Don’t make me cum.”

She was as close to losing control as he was. Jack’s voice was strangled with tension, from the sheer effort it took to resist the tingling that signalled a rapidly approaching orgasm. It was getting to the stage where he had trouble articulating words and his hips were bucking faster.

This excited her immensely. She didn’t allow her enthusiasm to interrupt her pace, maintaining a steady rhythmic movement, feeling his cock swelling, getting fatter. The head was now stretched wide and the smooth skin nudged against the back of her throat.

Soon, in mere seconds, she understood that his cock would start to spurt and she was determined not to release it until it was fully drained. Jack cried out again, his hands clutching the bed sheets, his head flicking from side to side.

“Oh, please, I’m so close. Let me go, Sandrine. Let me cum on your beautiful tits.”

She held on, idly wondering whether the strain could rupture something inside him. He really didn’t appear to be enjoying himself although he would obviously have said otherwise.

She changed angles, looming above him and thrusting faster down. This freed up one of her hands which dived between her legs and started massaging her intensely sensitive clit. Her vagina was soaked with her juice. One finger, then a second, slipped inside her, the tightness and tension sending ripples through her vaginal walls. It felt heavenly. She just wished she could have Jack’s cock inside her, fucking her deeply from behind while she also sucked it to completion. That would be truly heavenly.

Jack started pleading again but nothing intelligible left his lips. He was too far gone. She wanted to tell him to relax, give up the fight, to come in her mouth but that would require her stopping for a moment and she didn’t want to break the spell. She moaned instead, hoping to communicate her intentions some other way. The vibrations running through her mouth only made the tension more unbearable for him.

He thrust his head far back into the pillow and his hips angled upwards.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” he cried but his body betrayed him as she felt hot jets shoot down her throat. His cock pulsed a dozen times, her mouth filling until she had to swallow or choke. She hadn’t been sure what it would taste like but she was surprised by just how pleasant it was and she drank it down eagerly.

He grabbed her roughly and hoisted her up until they were face to face.

“What did you do? You’re a very naughty girl. I didn’t want to cum in your mouth,” he admonished. He tried to look stern which only brought forth an impish laugh from Sandrine, who licked her lips provocatively. Jack replied by pulling her deep into his embrace and kissing her harshly.

“I nearly hurt myself, trying to hold off,” he joked as they lay quietly together.

“I didn’t want you to hold off, Jack. You came right where I wanted. It was wonderful. You were completely in my power. How do you feel?”

“Totally drained. But very happy. You have amazing technique.”

“No real technique at all, really. Just an eagerness to please.”

They were cosy, intertwined together, and they soon drifted off to sleep. A little later, with the light brighter in the room, Sandrine woke. The taste of Jack was still fresh in her mouth and she wished she could carry that reminder all day.

Heathcliff was sitting at the end of the bed, regarding them with a neutral expression. Sandrine smiled and wriggled her fingers in greeting but received nothing in return. Morning. Time for breakfast. And this diversion in the normal routine wouldn’t be tolerated by such a stickler for tradition as this tabby.

“Is there something he doesn’t like?”

“First thing every morning, we greet the new day with a cuddle.”

“Sorry,” Jack looked across at Heathcliff with a note of concern. “I got in first this morning.”

“You’re good with animals, anybody ever tell you that?”

“One of my many skills.”

“Are you a dog or a cat person?”

“Neither, really, although I probably lean towards cats. They’re more independent and intelligent. In my line of work, travelling as much as I do, it’d be unfair to have a pet but if I could have one it’d be a monkey.”

Sandrine eyed him carefully. Was he really serious?

“True. My grandfather was a big fan of Tarzan movies and we’d watch a lot of them when I was just a kid. I always wanted a pet like Cheetah. Later, I found out that not all monkeys are cute and cuddly. Most, you try to cuddle them and you’ll never play the violin again.”

Jack stretched and sat up. “Breakfast?” he asked.

Sandrine checked the time by the clock on the bedside table.

“Oh, sorry, it’s getting late. I should get ready for work.”

Jack took a shower, dressed and was out the door within fifteen minutes. Sandrine kissed him goodbye, passionately enough so they both briefly reconsidered parting. After he’d gone, she poured a mound of dry cat food into Heathcliff’s bowl and filled the bath.

She relaxed in the hot, soapy water, soothing her still tender body and felt elated. She wondered whether she was becoming just a little too infatuated with Jack.
I still don’t know enough about him
, she thought ruefully.

With very little preamble, Sandrine had let Jack into her life and he dominated her thoughts as much as her body.
This is so unlike me. What does it mean?

In such a short space of time, she’d given herself over to so many new experiences. A new, disturbing thought popped into her head. Was she becoming a sex addict? Maybe that explained her dangerous, completely uncharacteristic behaviour. She knew little about sex addiction apart from what she’d read in magazines and she searched her memory for any indications she might have an addictive personality.

She did know that if she was part of that small percentage of the population with an addiction problem, that if one addiction was overcome, it could easily lead to another. Did that mean she could become an alcoholic or a gambler or drug addict? The realisation chilled her but it didn’t feel quite possible. She’d had no previous inclination in that area.
What could it be, then?

Maybe you’re just having fun
, a voice told her sternly, a voice that sounded more than a little like Mariel.
Fun can be addictive, babs. That’s all it is.

After she finished her bath, had dried and dressed, Sandrine made a cup of Earl Grey and dialled Mariel’s number. She needed a second opinion urgently.

“Maybe we should call you Margarine because you spread so easily,” Mariel teased once Sandrine had outlined her concerns.

Sandrine rose to the bait, as she so easily did when Mariel made light of serious concerns.

“No, they can’t. Who would say that? Nobody can know,” Sandrine exclaimed, horrified.

‘Oh, babs. Calm down. I’m only kidding. But it is good to see you like this. You have a hot boyfriend, you’re having great sex, you’ve come down with a serious case of lust. Go with the flow. Enjoy it.”

“I’m not sure I can. I mean, I do at the time. But afterwards I get scared. I hardly recognise myself anymore. I’m doing things I’ve never done before. And I like it.”

“Believe me, a conscience is a ridiculously old-fashioned concept. Got rid of mine years ago. If I want to carry around baggage, it’ll be matching Louis Vuitton. Now don’t be silly anymore. Gotta go, sweetie. Talk to you soon.”

Sandrine rinsed out her cup and placed it in the sink to be washed later.
Maybe Mariel was right
, she thought.
All this angst is counterproductive. When I’m with Jack, I think only of the pleasure he gives me and what I can give in return. He leaves me reeling, I can’t think straight. It’s intoxicating. He overwhelms me in every way.

When he’s not around, however, I’m a mess of insecurities and conflicting emotions. I worry about the most ridiculous things. I need to find a way to cope with it all. The last thing I want to do is drive him away with my irrational fears.

She reasoned that Jack was used to a completely different kind of woman. One who was self-confident and assured, courageous and in charge of her own destiny. She needed to be more like that kind of woman.

Sandrine checked her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t understand what Jack saw in her and she certainly couldn’t hope to compete with Jack’s usual choice of woman although, in truth, she really had no idea if he had such a type.

Men were such strange creatures, she concluded. Mysterious and unknowable. So alien.
Why couldn’t men be more like us? It would make life so much easier.

For the time being, she put aside her doubts and self-recriminations and readied herself for work. She made sure Heathcliff had enough food and water for the day, collected her bag, buttoned up her overcoat and double-locked the door as she left.

The weather outside was chilly with a wan sun fighting for supremacy. There was no wind and not a cloud in the sky. Spring was on the way which gladdened her immensely. Her stride was firm and sure and there was a trace of a smile on her lips. The street was nearly empty, a rare occurrence for this time of the morning.

Only half a block from her apartment, she stopped suddenly. Were the shop keys in her bag? She half turned, digging through the bag at the same time. It was then she noticed the dark-coloured sedan that had pulled so hurriedly to the curb that it was half-angled into the traffic lane. Its exhaust puffed white into the cold air. The windows were dark and she couldn’t see inside but it briefly caught her attention before she found her keys, turned back again and continued walking.

Close to midday, the buzzer at the back service entrance startled her. The security camera showed a courier van parked in the rear laneway. A cheerful young man in a grey uniform loaded a number of boxes, including three that were roughly the size of art portfolios, directly into the walk-in safe.

The portfolios were large and bound in leather with gold lettering that had seen better days. She put her face close to one volume and took a deep breath. There was no smell of mould which indicated they had been stored well and would have little if any moisture damage.

Inside each were loose collections of drawings, studies, watercolours, pastels and lithographs, originals from the look and feel of the paper, all with the unmistakable aesthetic hallmarks of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Wearing a clean pair of white cotton archivist’s gloves, she carefully sorted through them.

Although she was a fan of the English Romantic movement, and there was a distinct stylistic overlap between that and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, mid-nineteenth century English art was not her area of expertise. She knew the major works and artists of this school but little else. She could carry out preliminary research on them later although Marcus no doubt had an expert or two available who would be able to authenticate and value them.