Act of Exposure (29 page)

Guilt made him
angry. Not guilt about his masturbation, but guilt that he had
dozed whilst watching Abigail's apartment block. Normally, he was a
light sleeper, but because lately he had spent so much time
watching and following Abigail Corrigan, weariness was catching up
with him. How did he know for sure that she hadn't already left
and, right beneath his nose, had gone over to stay the night with
Stephen Sigmund?

The question
niggled and made him shift in his seat. He frowned and caught a
glimpse of himself in the wing mirror. He wiggled his eyebrows up
and down, assessed his looks on a scale of one to ten, and decided
on six. All in all, he decided, he wasn't bad looking.

The niggle
remained. What if she had left her flat without him knowing?

He made a snap
decision, turned on the engine, and pulled away from the kerb.
Stephen Sigmund's place was only half an hour away, but it was hard
not to make the journey pass more quickly, to push the pedal more
firmly to the floor. He needed to know where she was. He needed to
hold a diary of her day within his mind. Somehow, it gave him good
feelings, almost as if he were directing her day rather than just
fitting in with it.

A taxi pulled
in ahead of him before the white pillars that fronted the house
where Stephen Sigmund lived. A young man stepped out of it and
seemed to reel off a stream of ten-pound notes to the grinning
black driver.

Lance frowned
so fiercely, his eyebrows met in the middle of his nose. A stray
wisp of fair hair had escaped from beneath the young man's hat. It
was removed and a shock of white waves fell to well beyond shoulder
level. The coat collar was pulled up, the coat itself was
unbuttoned. But he saw the blue eyes he loved look fleetingly at
him and the street beyond. His heart beat against his ribs. He knew
it was her and knew she had seen him. She looked unconcerned about
his presence and seemed more interested in looking beyond him to
the end of the street where red buses and a host of cars were
already pushing their way into the city centre.

As she
disappeared into Sigmund's house, he leaned forward and rested his
chin on the steering wheel. There was no doubt that she had
recognized him, and yet it did not seem to worry her. The fleeting,
wary looks were reserved for something beyond the street he was
parked in. They were also, it seemed, reserved for someone or thing
far more dangerous than a lurking journalist.

Something had happened. Lance was convinced of it. Perhaps she
had found out more about the case of Stephen Sigmund. Perhaps she
had found out who had set it up and for what reason. It did enter
his head that he might go bounding up to Sigmund's door.
But what
, he asked
himself,
would you do when you get
there?
Tell them that the lewd act Sigmund
was accused of was all a set-up? Tell them he was told to be there
at a certain time and had disobeyed? And what
, he asked himself,
would he get for
his trouble?
Nothing. Bloody nothing! She
was Sigmund's. It was him feeling her breasts, licking her belly,
and probing the lips of her sex with his tongue, not him. Never
him!

Such thoughts
upset him and he would have dwelt on them if he hadn't noticed the
shiny black car turning into the road and slinking along it like a
predatory cat. Automatically, he sunk down in his seat. He had seen
the man driving it before. He had seen him one day when he had been
summoned to go up to the penthouse suite to see the man who owned
the newspaper he worked for. He had seen his eyes, told his mother
about them, and she had said he had seen the devil. He had believed
her, but had soon got over the incident. After all, it wasn't very
likely that he would see more than one devil in his lifetime. But
here the devil was again, and he was stopping outside Stephen
Sigmund's place.

Suddenly,
Lance had a strong urge to protect Abigail from this man. She
wasn't meant for devils, not Abigail. She was meant for him and he
would protect her from evil.

Fearing the
worst from this wicked man, he slid further into his seat and
watched through the gaps in the steering wheel as the man picked
his place. Rather than parking outside Sigmund's, he tucked the
shiny black car in behind a red BMW. From there he could view
everyone who came and went from the house with the white pillars
and tiled portico.

Slowly, Lance
sat up straight. No matter what, he would not allow this man to
have Abigail Corrigan before he had the chance to have her. So what
if he did work for the baron in the penthouse suite, the same man
Lance worked for? The man with the yellow eyes was not a
journalist. Lance knew that much. He was dangerous and used by the
big man for doing other jobs, secret jobs that no one else was
party to.

Lance didn't
like to think of Abigail falling into his clutches, and he would do
everything in his power to stop that happening. If he lost his job,
then so be it. He'd find another. Didn't his mother always say that
the Lord provides? Saving Abigail for himself was the first act of
selfishness he had ever performed since commencing his journalistic
career. The paper would either have to forgive or forget him.

Inside the
house, Stephen hugged and kissed Abigail before either of them
spoke.

'Here it is,'
she said, and waved the book in her hand. 'This lists the names of
everyone recorded doing their favourite thing. It also lists what
their favourite pastimes are.'

Stephen was
staring into her eyes as she said it, his hand tracing delicious
lines through her hair. He didn't seem to be listening, but as she
liked the look he was giving her, she was not unduly concerned.

'I've missed
you.' He said it sincerely as he hugged her ever more tightly
against his body. She let the book fall from her hands, returned
his hot kisses, and felt the hardness of his bare shoulder muscles
beneath her searching fingertips.

'I'm glad to
hear it. I've been out all night on your behalf. I only hope you're
worth it. Do you know Lance Vector is sitting outside in his
car?'

'And you
didn't question him?'

She shook her
head. 'I don't need to now I've got this.'

Their lips met
again. His hand gently stroked the nape of her neck. His voice was
just as gentle. 'You must be tired. Are you hungry?'

She nodded,
then rested her head against his shoulder and sniffed male flesh.
Her lips brushed his body as she spoke. 'I haven't got time to
sleep. I need a shower, some coffee, and some toast. That'll keep
me going for the rest of the day.'

He watched her
walk to the bathroom before he went to the kitchen, turned on the
coffee machine and put two slices of wholemeal into the
toaster.

While the
toast and coffee were doing, he stared out of the window and
thought about the man he had been before Abby had come along. Dare
he tell her how he was truly feeling? That his emotions encompassed
more than sexual hunger? Even now, he could not just stand in the
kitchen and wait for her return. He had to go to her, had to see
her naked in the shower, the water cascading over her curves and
running into the deep crevice between her legs.

There was an
etched glass screen between them. Behind it, Stephen could see her
creaminess turning slightly pink in the warmth of the water. Like a
shadow dancer on a Japanese paper screen, she twisted and turned,
her limbs reaching out, her body undulating as if moving to a tune
only she could hear.

Stephen
stepped out of the pants he was wearing. It seemed inappropriate to
stand there half-clothed when she was completely naked behind the
glass screen. Briefly, he stroked the length of his hardening
penis. It jumped slightly and pulsated along its whole length.

The rhythm of
her movement entered his mind. His stomach muscles tightened as his
cock grew in supplication to her actions and appearance.

Slowly, he
raised his arm, spread his fingers and gently touched the screen.
The glass was unexpectedly warm beneath his touch. As if he were
truly running his hand down her back, he ran his hand over the
shape her body made.

He saw her
pause in her cleansing as she became aware of his presence. She
turned full frontal to him and pressed her body against the screen.
Her breasts were squashed flat against it. They looked very white
and her nipples looked very pink. Even her navel was obvious and
pressed into a smiling shape.

As his fingers
trailed across the detail in the glass, she wavered and moved
against it like grass in the wind. He slid his hand down over the
smoothness of the partition to the pale triangle of hair. She
wriggled her hips, pressed her mons against the steam-stained glass
so that the lips of her sex divided and sucked against it.

With a certain
amount of self-control, he could have gone on a little longer. But
it wasn't easy to stop himself from joining her beneath the shower
of warm water. But he would not impose unless he was sure she
wanted him. Much as he wanted her, he guessed how tired she was
feeling.

Eventually,
almost as if she were reading his mind, a long arm came out from
behind the screen. A crooked finger beckoned.

'Come in,' she
said in a low, husky voice. 'The water's fine.'

Her body was
wet and warm against him. Her nipples were hard. Water from the
shower spout ran over their heads and trickled in long droplets
through their hair, over their faces and their lips. As they
kissed, it ran into their mouths and lubricated their circling
tongues. Along with the water, their hands ran up and down each
others' bodies, tensing, pressing against certain areas, and merely
caressing others.

There was no
need for words. Language was constrained to that spoken purely by
their bodies. Instinct replaced the need to communicate. Touch
triggered the right reactions.

Their wet
bellies clung together. Water raced over her curves, his muscles.
It dropped like clear pearl drops from her nipples, soaked his
pubic hair.

As his hard
member pushed at her, the water ran along its length. From its very
tip, it dripped and trickled over her pubic lips. She moaned as his
hands gripped her breasts, his fingers pulled at her nipples. Such
moans were swallowed by his kisses.

He gripped her
upper legs and pushed her back against the tiled wall. She gasped
as he raised those legs and held them to his hips. Only his hands
and the pressure of the tiled wall kept her from slipping down his
legs and onto the floor.

His fingers
dug into the cheeks of her behind. His penis tapped at her
clitoris, then slid along her labia to its ultimate goal.

Fingernails
digging into his shoulders, she closed her eyes and let herself
drown in the things she was feeling. There was no doubt that her
experiences back in the club had aroused her. Danger and excitement
had increased her desire. And now, this man was quenching her
thirst, his penis invading her flesh, his pelvis thudding against
her trapped body.

There was
sweet delight in cupping his buttocks and feeling the muscles tense
and relax as he pushed himself into her. Each stroke consisted of
the same movement yet varied in intensity and thus so did her
response.

Tingles of
pleasure intensified until they became an ache that needed curing.
Her lips sucked at his shoulder, his neck and his mouth as their
climax came nearer.

'Are you
enjoying this?' His eyes spoke volumes as he asked her the
question.

There were no
words to express the delight she was feeling. She vigorously nodded
her head. Her breath rushed from her mouth in quick, short bursts.
Ecstasy was not easy to control.

He smiled and
she sensed mischief. She purred like a cat as he ran his hands down
her legs and took her heels in the palms of his hands. Pressing her
ever more tightly against the tiled wall, and without his penis
leaving her body, he pushed her legs back towards her. Leaning back
as far as he could without coming out of her, he straightened her
legs so that her feet rested on his shoulders. Now, his hands
cupped her buttocks, and as he thrust into her, his fingers divided
her firm cheeks and played havoc with her anus.

Sex, Abby
decided then, was like surfing. She was balancing on a knife-edge
of delight. Thrills of pleasure ran through her body, and just as
if she were surfing, she did not want to fall into the water. She
wanted the experience to go on and on, and yet, falling in could be
the greatest pleasure of all.

Amid the circling steam, Stephen thrust himself into
her.
I don't want this to
end
, he thought to himself.
I want to go on fucking her
forever
.

Again and
again, he pushed himself and her against the tiled walls. Her body,
his body, were soaking wet. There was an odd sucking sound on the
up-stroke as his belly left hers. He kissed her, he sucked at her
lips and her nipples. Her pelvis leapt towards him as he pushed his
finger between her buttocks.

Now, it was
coming. He could feel it rising inside him, flowing like molten
metal along his shaft. Mindlessly, lovingly, yet driven on by the
power of orgasm, he thrust against her, grasped her with one hand
whilst a finger from the other hand pushed hard into her anus.

Their cries of
ecstasy mingled with the steam and the water, their hips ramming
one against the other until the last ebb of orgasm had trickled
away with the running water and the dissipating steam.

Abby was
silent as they went into the living room and tangled together on
the blue leather couch. So far, she had not told him the details of
how she had managed to get hold of the book. She had also not
mentioned the incident at the club when the blood on the rug could
so easily have been hers.