MasterStroke (6 page)

“Anything, Jack. Anything and everything.”

“Do not move. Do not say a word.”

She felt a gentle tug on the waistband of her skirt. The zipper was being lowered. He gently pulled it down her hips and held her elbow for balance as she stepped out of it, carefully avoiding snagging the skirt on her high heels. She was secretly pleased she’d chosen French-made cream silk underwear and relieved it was a matching set. He slipped the panties down her hips and threw them aside. The hem of her blouse barely extended to her hips. She was now fully exposed; she could feel herself flush with embarrassment.

“Don’t move.” His voice was even harsher and deeper now. “Put your hands behind your back.

Heavy footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The sound of a door opening and closing. Silence. Stillness. The warmth of the room. The lingering smell of their meal mingling with the Monyette. Her lip quivering ever so slightly. The cool moistness between her legs contrasting with the heat of her skin made more prickly with embarrassment. The tension writhing in her stomach like snakes in a basket. The torturous feel of her maddingly sensitive nipples rubbing against the lace of her bra as she breathed.

She jumped as she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. He was winding something around her wrists, tying them firmly but with an underlying gentleness. He brushed his fingers through her hair, grabbed a handhold and tilted her head sharply back and to the side. His lips touched the exposed skin of her neck.

“You are so beautiful, Sandrine.”

Hands on her shoulders, he turned her around and unbuttoned her blouse. Kissing her neck again, slowly, seeming to savour each moment of contact, down her chest to her breasts, beautifully presented in the palest cream lace of her bra.

“Such wonderful taste in underwear.”

She would have answered, she was sure she had a smart rejoinder but at that moment he delicately bit down on one nipple though the lace and her train of thought speared into a deepening tunnel of red-tinged lust. All that escaped from her lips was a disembodied moan.

“Stand very still.”

She waited, wondering what would happen next. Seconds began to tick into minutes. She waited longer, not hearing or feeling anything, the tension building. Then there was a soft clink and she strained to identify the sound. The realisation came suddenly; it was the delicate contact a fine china cup makes against its saucer. Her anger flaired.
The bastard is finishing his tea while I’m standing here half naked.

The moments ticked by then she sensed movement and felt him close. He sat her gently down on the lounge so that her bottom was perched on the very edge then slowly guided her shoulders back until they settled into the soft cushions. Her hands were trapped behind her.

Unable to see, it seemed as if her senses were more acutely aware than ever. His hands moved to her knees, opening them wide. She was now fully exposed and, while her skin was flushed and hot, the wetness at her centre felt cool.

Then she felt his lips, kissing her lightly on one hip and moving slowly, sensuously, down her thigh, stopping maddeningly close to her lips on the way, before veering back down her thigh, to her knee, lifting her leg high and progressing ever more slowly to her foot. His lips were hot, searing her flesh, kissing to her toes then the instep. As he did this, he was lightly running his hand up and down the length of her leg, brushing the flesh delicately, occasionally softly scraping his nails in a deeper pattern.

He was teasing her mercilessly, building her anticipation, and she could only guess exactly what he was seeing but she knew she was having intense difficulty staying under control. She wanted to writhe but she could scarcely move and, each time she started to spasm, his hands pressed her back down into the soft prison of the cushions.

Sandrine tried hard not to moan but to no avail.

“Please,” she stuttered shyly, quietly. “Please. I’m so close.”

It was true. She was aroused throughout dinner and the last few minutes, when he’d blindfolded her and stripped off her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse, leaving her exposed, her emotions had begun to boil. As he teased her, the situation had only become far worse and she was sure that any second she would start to come. There were many triggers to her release and Jack was skirting dangerously close to several of them. Her skin was normally very sensitive, her hips and thighs were even more so. But her feet – they were in a whole different category and there had been times in the past when she’d climaxed so easily from too much attention.

Jack knew this, it appeared, and he was intent on prolonging the agony.

“No. You won’t. You won’t come until I say so.”

With that, he lowered her foot to the floor. Long seconds went by and she had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Then she felt his hot breath on her stomach, then a kiss, lingeringly, on her pubis. She had a very light covering of hair the colour of burnished gold on the bony ridge and none at all between her legs and his breath tickled her, easing her frustrations by only a very minor degree.

He kissed her inner thighs, one, then the other, then pausing again. Sandrine wanted his lips exactly in the centre, grazing her own lips, his tongue probing her. She wanted to feel the explosion that was so very close she could taste it.

“You’re beautiful, Sandrine. Pale and warm and soft and incredibly wet. You smell so wonderful.”

He kissed her pubis again and then she could feel his breath on her lips and she tilted her hips upwards to meet him but when he spoke again his voice was further away.

Damn you. Do it. Please. I need to feel you.

There was a subtle but definable shift inside her and, as impossible as it might seem, she felt wetter, hotter, even more sensitive.

Jack lifted her other foot and started kissing slowly up her leg. By the time he reached her thigh, she was begging hoarsely for release. He held her hips firmly, still pinned to the cushions. Try as hard as she might, she couldn’t thrust upwards. She wanted, she needed, his mouth on her and inside her. She needed to come. It was the only thing in her mind at that moment, and it became the purest focus of her existence. If she didn’t come, she’d explode.

“Please. Take care of me. I need you.”

“I will. In time.”

She almost cried when he said that. He was teasing, torturing her.

His fingers were gently pressing down on her pubic bone and she felt him opening her lips delicately and blowing softly on the scorching skin within her. She fought harder to arch her back but despite her best efforts she was pinned even further into the cushions. She was at his mercy, totally, completely. The frustration and the pressure deep inside her were almost unbearable.

Perspiration prickled her body. Somewhere, she could hear a high keening sound, similar to an animal in distress, and it took her a little time to realise it was coming from her. Her mouth was dry, the only part of her that was.

“Please,” she repeated piteously. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yes, you will. You’re a fascinating woman, Sandrine, and I’ve been unfair, enjoying your body while you suffer. I really should show some mercy, shouldn’t I?”

At last!
This torture had been going on too long.

“Yes, yes.”

His lips closed over the aching erect bud of her clit and he sucked so very gently that it was almost indiscernible. But it was exactly, precisely, what she needed. In a second, she experienced an enormous outpouring of emotion, a hugely satisfying orgasm that crested and left her gasping, crying, almost screaming in release. It seemed to last forever, then it subsided slowly and just as the contact became too much, he lifted his face from her and kissed his way up her body, pulling her upright, until his mouth met hers. They kissed deeply; she found her aroma on his face deeply erotic.

“Oh, Jack. Oh God, that was unbelievable.”

He untied her hands and took the scarf from her eyes. She embraced him, hands around his neck and pulled him close into a deeper, longer kiss.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so tired now. You drained me,” she said weakly, falling back against the cushions. “I’ll just close my eyes for a second.”

Jack laughed.

“Go right ahead.” But she didn’t hear him. She was so exhausted, she slipped immediately to sleep. Jack regarded her beautiful, slightly dishevelled body, aglow and flushed with colour, breathing deeply, her beautiful face at peace. She didn’t wake when he picked her up and carried her upstairs to his bedroom, nor when he took off her blouse, now wrinkled and damp with sweat, and settled her into bed.

He set the alarm on his watch for two hours and left the room.

Chapter Seven

Later in the night, she awoke. The room was deeply dark and she lay awake not moving, trying to remember where she was. The memories slowing returned and she relaxed, still half asleep.
I really should go, I need to get back home.

The thought receded almost as fast as it occurred. She was warm and content. She lay on her side and she could feel Jack’s warmth cosy against her back. From his deep languorous breathing, he appeared to be asleep. His body was hot and firm, especially one part of him. She shifted slightly so its substantial length nestled between her legs. She moved against it, feeling it against her slickness. Smiling slightly, replaying the events earlier in the evening, she went back to sleep.

Chapter Eight

The light was so bright it hurt. She squinted, shielding her eyes protectively with a hand, turning this way and that but the sun was shining from all directions. There were no shadows, only a harsh glare that created an other-worldly starkness.

Sandrine knew she was in the dream, the familiarity was such that she recognised it instantly. This time, however, she was within the photo that had sat atop her bedside table when she was young. That was the first point of difference and it unsettled her in ways she didn’t want to think about.

The air itself was filled with tiny speckles of gold floating still, suspended despite a warm breeze that ruffled the soft hairs on her arms and caressed her face with a radiant heat. She held out a hand, palm upturned, and could distinguish each tiny pulsating, glowing fragment of light. They were like embers in a dying fire.

The dry grass grew high, brushing her knees, swaying slightly in the breeze, rippling in patterns across the hill, down, across and back again. She looked around her, trying to catch sight of her parents, but she was alone. She started walking towards the crest.

There was an urgency in her stride. She had to find her parents. They were always here, waiting for her. But, this time, they were nowhere to be seen and panic started to rise.

The heat was bearable, dry with no humidity at all, pleasant like being in the desert but she grew aware that the temperature was rising. The sky, which had been porcelain blue, was gradually bleaching to white.

She wanted to run but was held back by an unseen force. It was like trying to move through treacle, trapping her limbs, preventing her making any progress. She was getting closer to the top of the hill but slowly, so very slowly, and the frustration was intense, tears spiking her eyes and running down her cheeks.

Where are they? I have to find them
.

She was wearing a light cotton summer dress and espadrilles, her arms and legs bare. The temperature was edging towards the uncomfortable. Perspiration was making her clammy, prickling her scalp, and creating tiny rivulets that trickled down her back and chilled her.

As she reached the crest of the hill, the gold in the air was burnishing, getting darker. It now more closely resembled ash, like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption or a brush-fire. Her breathing was laboured and, when she tried calling out for her mother and father, there was nothing. She didn’t have a voice. Her heart was beating wildly and she was so exhausted she wanted to collapse on the ground, curl up and cry in utter desolation, but she knew she had to continue.

The grass was rustling and there was another noise, something else she couldn’t quite place. A very faint crackling. At the bottom of the slope, she noticed the grass turning black, brittle, collapsing into a fine dark dust that spiralled into the air. It was moving towards her, gaining in speed.

With great effort, she reached the top of the hill. Over the crest was the terracotta-tiled roof and brick chimney that could be briefly glimpsed in the photo. It sat atop a two-storey house, roughly built of mud-coloured bricks in a style reminiscent of the Italian countryside.

A city spread out beyond it, a maze of narrow cobble-stoned streets and old buildings with heavy wooden shutters, enormous grandly-domed churches and public buildings, and fountains with white marble statues. Everything was ablaze. Dark smoke rose into a sky thickening with ash. The air was crusting black, staining the stark white of the city, threatening to overpower it.

The buildings, even the streets, were darkening, traced through with glowing red embers.

She tried to scream, her mouth wide with terror, vast silent sobs racking her body, but there was nothing to hear but the breeze rustling the grass. She turned back to the hillside and it was darkening faster, marching resolutely towards her. Soon she would be stranded on a miniscule patch of golden turf then engulfed completely.

As the city dissolved into ash, two figures stood in a wide public square. They held hands, motionless, and she could sense rather than see, for they were too far away, that they were her parents. They crumbled slowly, separating into a million shreds of dark dust, which the breeze scattered towards her.

Sandrine screamed again and this time there was sound, a hoarse, piercing cry of desperation, of a pain that seared up from her soul.

She awoke, sitting upright, in her own bed, gasping for breath, whimpering incoherently, drenched in sweat. Heathcliff was at the end of the bed, wary, scared, ready to bolt from the room. She reached out and he crawled into her arms. The contact soothed her but her heart continued pounding for some time afterwards.

The dream didn’t go way, didn’t fade as they usually did. A feeling of foreboding stayed all that day and well into the next.