Quintic (18 page)

She put her
hand on his wrists, her long fingers not quite long enough to
circle all the way around. Her hands followed his forearms, his
elbows, his arms, inching closer until she was right next to him
again, her hands grasping his shoulders, but her nipples were not
yet touching his chest.

He smiled
again. The crooked smile of his
that she
liked lingering on his lips. He liked looking at her. Sometimes,
some memorable times, he would look at her just right, she would
like it just so, he would almost hear her purr. He liked.
Immensely. Like now. He lowered his mouth and took one nipple
between his lips. His teeth.
My turn to bite, Angel of mine
.
Gently. Firmly. Tugging. Licking the sting. Biting. She moaned. Her
breasts were always tender and responsive, but after an orgasm,
they became hypersensitive. An unbearable torture.

“
It
hurts
.” Her voice sounded dreamy. Her
hands in his hair, she grabbed the back of his neck.

“
Shall I
stop, Pussycat?” he asked, although he sensed she didn’t want him
to. Knew he couldn’t even if she did.

Holding her
against him by the waist, he tasted her other nipple. As he did,
she rocked her hips, rubbing against him. He grew harder. Taking
hold of her arms he spun her, her back to his chest. She wiggled
against him as he tucked his shaft between her butt cheeks, and
swayed her hips until he was grinding on her folds but not
thrusting into her sex yet. Her wetness, creamy, now, coated his
cock.

Grabbing her
hips, forcing her up on her toes, he
drove into her, deep into the warmth of her. She was
swollen and fisted him in a tight sheath. She moaned once, louder.
He smiled. Steadying her by the waist with his arm, preventing her
from pulling away or rocking her hips, he palmed a breast with his
right hand.

She
did try shying away, although feebly, from his
touch, but he had not played with them on their first time around.
He fondled the perfect mount, his touch teasing yet firm until he
made her moan again. He gentled his grip and brushed his thumb
lightly over the nipple. Her murmured groans told him the touch
brought her pleasure more than pain.

He started
massaging
, drawing circles with his
forefinger, large circles at first, not down to her ribcage, not
quite on the underside of her breast. Encircling her breast in
circles smaller and smaller as he zoomed in on the areola. She
arched her back, her ass tight against his groin, her chest pushing
upward in his hand. Her right hand clutched his hair; her left
grabbed his butt, her fingers digging into the flesh, her body
offered.

“S’il te plait, mon chéri
.
Move.”

He rolled
his hips, rocking lasciviously in her. She moaned again. He smiled,
drunk on the feel of her. His lips on her neck, his face buried in
her hair, smelling her perfume, hearing her breath fast against
him, her breast in his hand. Home.

He
m
assaged softly, circling the tight bud’s
outer edge, rubbing, not yet pinching. Letting go, big circles
again, smaller. Pinching now. Circling. Pinching. With each tweak,
she held her breath. Squeezing harder to make her moan.

“
I could
listen to you all night, Love of mine.”

He
released her waist to take both breasts in his
hands. She pushed herself up, putting her feet on his as he
squatted a little. She swayed to keep him inside of her, clasping
her vaginal muscles around his cock. He froze and swallowed,
willing his impending orgasm back. Her left hand holding his butt,
she rocked herself, forcing him to move, to increase the
rhythm.

He
resumed his circling. Big circles. Smaller.
Smaller. He kept his touch soft. Faster. Faster still. He drew
circles on the nipples, right at their very edges. For each sharp
jerk of her hips, he pushed on her nipples. For each pinch, she
pushed harder. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples hard points.
She pushed him deeper and climaxed, breathing hard and sobbing his
name. When she went limp against him, he freed her breasts, grabbed
her hips and started pounding. He came on the fifth
thrust.

After,
h
e wrapped his arms across her chest and
pulled her backward with him to the bed. They fell more than sat.
He rolled them around, pulling at the covers, and wrapped her in
them. Her eyes were closed and her breathing already heavy. He
kissed her mouth gently, biting her bottom lip, and took her hand
under the sheets. She fell asleep right after.

He waited, hoping for her to
smile in her sleep. She did. He fell asleep, tired and somewhat
sticky. Absolutely perfect. He might have smiled too.

T
he ring
of his mobile phone woke him up at four-thirty. As he went to pick
up the blasted thing in the living room, someone pounded on the
door. LeRoy, both times. Unconcerned by his nakedness, Chris let
him in.

“
This better
not be a come-on
, Chris. Laws forbid
that, you know,” LeRoy teased at the sight of him. Even as short as
it was, Chris’s hair was tousled, and he had a lipstick-rimmed
teeth mark on his right upper arm. “You got yourself a bit mark on
your biceps there, Boss. Did a cat get to you?”

“Asshole.”

“
I’m not
interrupting anything I hope?” LeRoy asked. “I can wait in my car
if you want, but better you make it a quickie ’cause we gotta
go.”

Chris just
star
ed. He knew LeRoy knew. And he knew
LeRoy knew he knew Patricia had slept over, no big secret there,
not anymore. A fucking improvement as far as Chris was concerned;
he got to watch her sleep any fucking time he wanted without having
to sneak around. Oddly, the team never spoke about it, not LeRoy,
not anyone else, not with him at least. And it was hard to imagine
Patricia talking to the team about their relationship when the damn
woman had trouble talking to
him
about it.

Them knowing
didn’t mean he wasn’t happy about everyone
acting as if they didn’t know, though. Having her at the
office blurred the line between work and private; not that his and
Patricia’s love life was any of their fucking business. Even if he
was close to LeRoy and the guys, he liked to keep his private life
fucking private.

With
LeRoy showing up this early (she considered any
hour before six the middle of the night), he anticipated an
argument from her. The damn woman liked to pretend their
relationship was just a casual, secret affair, but with the
marriage and the quartet fuck-up, they had blown the secret weeks
ago. A fucking secret! From the start, he had trouble keeping his
eyes off her when she was around, and she was the same, her
watching him in her aluminium pot.
Like I don’t know about the fucking pot,
Princess
.

“Let me grab a shower.”

When he got
out, Patricia was chatting with LeRoy in the living room.
Surprisingly, she had not pretended to be asleep hidden under the
covers; she was damn good at acting. Her soft voice and LeRoy’s
deeper one were muffled, so he couldn’t hear what they were
saying.

He quickly
dressed and headed to the living room. He found Leroy on the couch
in his favourite pose, elbows on thighs, hands clamped together,
smiling up at her. Her ass propped on the arm of the chair next to
the couch, curls in a mess, the damn woman was clad in his wrinkled
shirt, the one she had taken off him and dropped on the floor only
a few hours earlier. The shirt barely covered her down to
mid-thighs. She hadn’t buttoned it completely, and the top three or
four loose buttons revealed the top curves of her breasts. Rosy
patches, left by his day-old beard, decorated the left side of her
neck and the swell of her right breasts. His mark on her. She was
stunning.

He
wondered
(and hoped) she still smelled of
their lovemaking.

She turned
when she heard him walk in; she looked relaxed, engaged as she was
in casual chatter. “Well, have a good day, boys. I’m going back to
bed,” she said without any hint of anger or awkwardness in her
voice. And with a way too sexy smile, she retreated to the bedroom,
making sure to brush against him on her way. The briefest of touch
but still a major turn-on.

She
went back to sleep right away, not listening to
a word of their banter, and didn’t move when Chris growled at
Le.

“
Sure you
can’t get that quickie? Looks like you fucking need it, man. Big
time.”

His guy was
having fun.
Her touch and the smell of
her had again distracted him. Chris was rarely speechless; he
allowed LeRoy to enjoy this very rare occurrence.

A Writer’s
Imagination

P
atricia hadn’t had more than six
hours of sleep when she woke up around eight. Not enough
sleep.
Again
. She didn’t have to go to
the office today.
When do I
ever, really?
She didn’t answer herself,
rolling off the mattress instead, and sluggishly made her way to
the kitchen.

She didn’t
want to spend too much time in bed, not in Christopher’s bed, not
when he wasn’t around to see her. It felt
too much like she was waiting for him. The last step before
moving in. Definitely not there yet. She sighed, a tired and
troubled exhale.

Last night
had almost been a disaster.
Something was
off; to top it off, she was sleep deprived and her muscles were
sore muscles. Nothing a walk wouldn’t help, though, but first she
was hungry.

Christopher
fixed her breakfast every time they spent the night together, sex
or no sex.
Would he still cook if the sex
was bad? No way to tell; it hadn’t happened yet. Probably. But for
now, he wasn’t in, and she was starving. She had long digested last
night’s half-eaten lasagna.

In the
kitchen, she found a note taped to the fridge, written in red in
Christopher’s bold hand-writing.

‘Urgent. Check mailbox
.’

She put his
shirt
back on, her discarded panties and
a pair of jogger pants borrowed from Christopher’s closet. She had
to roll them up at the bottom to shorten them; with the waist cord
pulled tight, they fitted perfectly. She fished his mailbox key
from the dish on the entrance table and walked downstairs barefoot.
She rarely ran into anyone at this hour, or at any hour.
Christopher owned the building, and his tenants were small
professional businesses (in around nine o’clock, gone by
five).

Someone
had jammed something in
the box. Did Christopher leave her the damn report with annotations
and comments? She froze at the thought. What to do? She could
always claim not to have seen it. Hum. She held her breath as she
opened the mailbox, only to discover a paper bag containing
two
croissants au
beurre
. She was speechless. In moments
like this, at this very second, she could move in with the Big guy.
Marry him even. Again. For real. Of course, within two weeks, they
would beg for a divorce. Or kill each other, whichever came
first.

Christopher
was her all-time best, not because of the silly croissants but
because of his
délicatesse
. She wouldn’t tell
him that, of course; he was already such an arrogant jerk. She ate
her croissants standing, peeping out the main window. Christopher
had a great place in a lousy neighbourhood. She watched people
busying themselves on the street below, wandering from shops to
industrial buildings to small factories. If anybody had looked up
at the top floor of Christopher’s old building, they would have
seen a slim shadow eating pastries, a big smile on her
face.

Despite
her mind’s lethargy, she
was in a good mood, and the day was sunny. What to do now but take
a walk and write? Her kind of day. But she had to change first.
However comfortable they were, she couldn’t spend her day walking
around in Christopher’s clothes. Not with heels in any case. And
she needed a shower. Her thighs felt a tad, hum. Did she smell? Of
him? She blushed belatedly, hoping LeRoy had not
noticed.

Christopher
had emptied drawers for her
so she
wouldn’t have to go back to her place on mornings like this, but
she had yet to stock them up. She called a cab and went back to her
hotel in his clothes and her heels (and stink).

Philip, ever
the perfect doorman, was too classy to make a face at her
appearance
, but he did smile a little as
he asked, “Is Mister Christopher well?” Cute.

She waved at
the girls a
t the reception but didn’t
slow down until she was under the shower. Her neck and shoulders
were pinkish red, and so were her breasts even though he had barely
kissed them. After the shower, she dabbed on a tick layer of cream
over it all and put on a silk turtleneck shirt to hide everything.
A pair of jeans, running shoes, baseball cap, oversized sunglasses,
she was good to go. Off walking.

She
passed
a park, toward downtown, took a
left, then a random right, without any precise destination at
first. She was just strolling along, enjoying the fresh air, the
sun, watching people rambling around, wondering what they were up
to. She started getting hungry again and thought of calling
Christopher for lunch but realised it was not eleven yet. Too soon
for him to eat, and he was probably busy on some crime scene seeing
as he had left so early.