Cooking up a Storm (18 page)

Abby and Peter both sucked fervently, working harder, faster. Ivan’s moan rose to a wail. His legs shot straight out. He stiffened. His back bowed sharply as he came, as if he were trying to throw them off. A second later Peter blew, spurting four quick jets between his and Abby’s braided fingers.

The fat man groaned like a beached whale. ‘Help me finish her,’ he panted. ‘I can’t hang on much longer.’

With no more than a gasp for breath, the two younger men scrambled to their knees and pushed Abby upright. This forced the fat man to lean back or forego his nice, deep penetration. Abby laughed, then moaned as Peter took one of her breasts into his mouth and the other into his palm. Ivan crouched between her thighs and buried his face in her pussy.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said as the slender man found a sweet spot and latched on. ‘Right there.’

She cupped the back of his head and closed her eyes. The fat man thrust harder. Her neck sagged. The muscles in her thighs tightened. She was almost there. Storm rubbed faster. This was what he was waiting for: her orgasm. He pressed one finger over his slit, feeling a preliminary flutter, a pressure at the base of his cock. He swept his thumb down his upper shaft, rubbing as much of the velvety skin as he could reach. His cock was swelling to its final limit. He could hardly move his fingers past the constriction of his crotch seam, but he pressed their pads into the swollen crown, pressed hard and vibrated them back and forth.

Come, Abby, come, he thought, pained by the need to let go.

Then she cried out and shuddered. He let the orgasm rise, let it swell up from his balls and belly. It hurt, oh, it hurt so good. A brief spurt of seed flamed up his urethra, a warning shot, an agonising tease. His shaft pulsed hard, contracted, stiffened and then his seed spurted free in deep, aching throbs like a laser pulsing through the pleasure centres in his groin.

Unable to restrain himself, he groaned with relief. Luckily, Abby was moaning, too, and his cry was lost in hers.

His chest heaved as he pulled his hand free, his sticky, trembling hand. Abby had sagged forwards into Ivan and Peter’s arms. Along with the fat man they were petting her, praising her. Storm had to leave. They’d quieten soon. They’d hear him. He didn’t want to be caught here like some idiotic possessive boyfriend. Some idiotic voyeuristic boyfriend, he amended, drying his sticky fingers on his shirt.

He slipped off his trainers, picked them up and padded to the door. A childhood of tiptoeing ensured that his exit was soundless.

*   *   *

While he watched them he’d been caught up in the fascination of the tableau, in his own swift arousal and release. Now, however, driving down this narrow back road with the top down and the shore breeze cooling his skin, he felt a sick tightening in his stomach and a pain that brought one fist to the centre of his chest.

He’d made a terrible mistake — not in awakening Abby to her sensuality, but in failing to make it clear he wanted to keep her to himself for a while.

Fuck ‘a while’, he snarled in the silence of his mind. You want to keep her period. You’ve fallen in love with her.

Merde alors!
If he hadn’t been negotiating a turn, he’d have banged his head against the steering wheel. He’d fallen in love with her, with the monster he’d created. Well, maybe she wasn’t a monster. What she’d done was daring, yes, but hardly monstrous. The four of them had reminded him of puppies rolling on the floor, tongues hanging out, yipping with excitement. It was a rare woman who could keep three men amused at once.

He parked the car behind the inn and switched off the engine. His ears rang in the sudden quiet. In the distance, the ocean dashed its foamy self against the sand. Up close, his heart dashed itself against his ribs.

‘
Espèce d’idiot
,’ he muttered, disgusted with his own stupidity. He couldn’t even claim she’d betrayed him. He’d made his distaste for commitment clear. If his heart felt betrayed, that was his problem; his problem twice over, considering he’d spent the first part of the evening fucking a woman whose name he didn’t know. Abby, at least, had confined herself to friends.

He let his head fall back and stared at the diamond pinpoints of the stars. The sky was so clear on the Cape, so velvety black and huge. No city lights, no smog obscured his vision of wave upon wave of stellar fairy dust. Other worlds. Other dreams. The perspective should have shrunk his problems. Instead it made him feel horribly alone.

But he refused to sit and suffer. Action was called for, swift, decisive action. He tapped the steering wheel with both index fingers. He’d have to seduce her all over again — her heart this time, not her body. Everything considered, he’d feel ridiculous demanding fidelity. He’d have to make her want to volunteer it and, if she strayed in the meantime, he’d simply have to grit his teeth and bear it.

Which didn’t mean he couldn’t do everything in his power to ensure she was too well pleasured to think of another man, much less three.

He grinned in the darkness, his nervous tapping turning into a cocky jazz riff. That challenge, at least, he knew he’d enjoy. Then another thought struck him with the force of a gut punch. That it hadn’t occurred to him already was a testimony to the depth of his agitation.

He’d have to abandon his plan to strong-arm her out of the inn. He’d never been entirely comfortable with the idea but, now that he’d fallen in love with her, he simply couldn’t do it.
Merde
and
merde
again. Why couldn’t Abby have been a man — a nasty, cigar-smoking
cochon
who deserved to get the short end of a deal?

He couldn’t even look for an alternate site for his own restaurant until she got securely on to her feet. With all the debt she’d taken on, if he left her before she recouped she’d go under within a week. Of course, that had been his plan from the beginning: wait until she had a taste of the success he could bring her, then threaten to walk unless she sold out.

He shuddered with disgust. He was the
cochon
, the pig, to have devised such a plan. His only excuse was that he’d fallen in love with the inn before he’d fallen in love with her.

With a weary sigh, he climbed from the car and slammed the door.

‘You don’t want to do this again, do you?’ Horace asked.

Peter and Ivan had already left, with Ivan’s bike stowed in the back of the van with the massage table. Abby and Horace stood in the empty parking space between his car and hers. He bounced his presidential key ring in the palm of his hand.

‘I don’t think so,’ Abby said, her eyes following the shine and jingle of the keys.

‘Was it Ivan? I have to admit he was more serious than I expected. I could speak to him.’

‘I doubt that speaking to him would change his feelings, but that’s not really the problem.’ Abby pushed her tousled hair behind her ears. ‘I had a wonderful time tonight, but I don’t think it would be fair for me to always be in charge.’

‘We could take turns,’ Horace suggested in a tone so careful it seemed utterly out of character.

Abby smiled at the pebble she was scuffing across the tarmac, then looked up. Horace’s face was as carefully non-eager as his voice. ‘I like you,’ she said, ‘all of you. I don’t think I could take orders from you, though. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about Bill, but one thing I learnt from being with him was that, unless I feel more than affection for a person, I really resent having to bend my will to someone else’s.’

‘And that Storm fellow doesn’t make you do that?’

Abby’s eyes widened. She hadn’t realised people knew she and Storm were intimate. ‘No,’ she said, her shoulders hunching in discomfort. ‘We…we take turns and…I enjoy it both ways.’

‘I see.’ Horace buttoned his suit jacket and shook it straight. ‘All I can say is, if that’s the case, I’m surprised he doesn’t keep a closer eye on you.’

Abby put her hand on his arm. ‘He doesn’t know about this, Horace. I hope you don’t plan to tell him.’

‘Of course not.’ Horace puffed up his chest. ‘I wouldn’t discuss this with anyone.’

‘Good, because my personal life is none of his business.’ Abby heard the falseness in the words as soon as they left her mouth. Horace cocked a doubtful brow at her. She winced and suddenly wondered if her personal life might be Storm’s business, after all.

*   *   *

‘I’d like you to have dinner with me,’ he said.

They sat at the work table in the kitchen, dining on peach and honey crepes. Guilt had goosed Abby out of bed in time for the weekly stocktaking, but when she reached the kitchen she found Storm preparing a beautiful three-course breakfast for two. He’d carved a honeydew melon into stars and roses, sliced a small salmon filet to mouth-watering transparency, and his presentation of the peach-laden crepes could easily have graced the pages of
Gourmet Magazine
.

She wondered if he were one of those people who worked their stress out in the kitchen. He certainly appeared stressed. His face was stony, all the muscles in it clenched with tension. She rubbed her hands down the grey bike shorts she intended to run in later. Surely he wasn’t still upset about that
je t’aime
business.

‘Um, well, sure we could have dinner together,’ she said, ‘as soon as we clean up tonight.’

Storm slid his fork an inch higher beside his plate, then moved the knife to match it. He wore a snug black T-shirt with his jeans. It clung so loyally to his chest muscles that Abby could see the tiny points of his nipples. They rose with a deep inhalation. ‘I meant I want us to have dinner out, like a date.’

‘A date.’

‘A date,’ he said, and set his jaw.

Abby shifted on her stool. ‘But I thought you just wanted to have fun.’

‘Dating is fun.’

You’d never know it to look at you, she thought, rubbing the skin over her left eyebrow where a headache was beginning to bloom. Was he trying to confuse her? Or was she simply too tired to follow this conversation?

‘I’d like to get to know you better,’ he said in that same grim tone. ‘We haven’t had much chance to talk.’

‘But why?’

The plaintive note in her question made him smile. With the smile, the grimness left his face. His lips and his eyes tilted up at the corners. He was so beautiful. Abby’s insides heaved an involuntary sigh. He drew one of her hands across the table and cradled it between his own. ‘I like you, Abby.’

‘You like me.’

The pad of his thumb stroked a tickling arc across her palm. Her toes curled inside her trainers. ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ he asked.

‘I suppose not.’

His thumb slid over the bend of her wrist and covered her pulse point. ‘You seem uncomfortable with the idea. Would you rather I didn’t like you?’

‘No.’ Flustered, she pulled her hand away and rubbed the tingling skin. ‘I just don’t think affection has much to do with what’s happening between us.’

He flinched and dropped his eyes, then dragged his thumb across his lower lip. Abby felt her own mouth tremble and clenched her teeth to still it. She’d spoken the truth, hadn’t she? She did like him, yes, but that wasn’t why they were sleeping together. She had no reason to feel as if she’d just kicked the family dog. He was the Casanova, the
homme fatal
. She was the one whose heart was made of mush.

‘Affection has always had something to do with what’s happening between us,’ he said, his voice deeper than normal. ‘In any case, there’s nothing wrong with being friends.’

‘So it’s a friendly date,’ she said, struggling to get her feet back on solid ground.

His lashes rose. The gleam in his grey-blue eyes made her breath catch. He did not acknowledge her statement, just tucked the tip of his thumb into his mouth and sucked it slowly, lasciviously clean. The look, the gesture, sent spears of heat to the tender harbour between her legs. With arousal, however, came a spark of anger. What sort of game was he playing, pretending he wanted to get to know her? Or was it a game? She clenched her fork. Was he beginning to feel more for her than Pygmalion’s thrill of conquest?

No. She speared a bite of golden-brown crepe. She couldn’t afford to think that way. He was a dyed-in-the-wool playboy, a heartbreaker of the first water. He’d been honest up till now, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of deception.

‘If you don’t want to have dinner with me…’ he said, beginning to eat again himself.

She studied his lowered face and her resolution wavered. He did look hurt, lonely even. Maybe he needed a friend. Maybe it was as simple as that. ‘I’d be happy to go on a date with you,’ she said, swallowing against the lump in her throat. ‘Maybe next Monday when we’re closed.’

‘Good,’ he said. He looked up and smiled, baring straight, white teeth. He looked ten years younger. The pleasure in his eyes warmed her down to her toes, reminding her just how dangerous Storm could be.

Marissa spent the night at Jack’s house — the first time she’d spent the night with anyone since she and Gemma had split up. Staying in his home was strange but less awkward than she’d expected. They ate take-away from the inn, watched an old Ingrid Bergman flick, then got ready for bed.

Jack’s casual attitude reminded her he’d once been married, but it was just about the only thing that did. Abby had said he’d been widowed fifteen years — more than half Marissa’s life. There weren’t many wifely touches left in the house: matching dinnerware, a set of bridelike lace curtains in the bedroom, a few painted lampshades she knew Jack never would have chosen for himself. His taste was cleaner, simpler.

But he still knew how to act like a man who’d lived elbow to elbow with a woman.

He waltzed into the bathroom while she was washing her face, whipped out his dick and started peeing. Marissa’s jaw dropped so fast he laughed and almost missed his aim. With a small frown of discomfort, he squeezed off the stream.

‘You want to hold it?’ he offered.

She felt like a kid doing it, but it was fun. By the time she shook off the last drop he’d thickened up a bit. He had one prominent vein running along the upper side of his cock that begged to have a thumb run down it. She entertained herself, and Jack, by pressing it down and watching it spring back even fuller than before.

She hadn’t imagined a man’s body could fascinate her this way. She’d known she was a lesbian the first time she’d heard the word, as if a flashbulb had gone off above her head: oh, that’s what I am, a lesbian! She’d never bothered playing doctor with the boys when she was little, and when she was older it seemed politically incorrect to express any interest. Hell, sometimes she felt as if she were letting the sisterhood down because she liked playing with dildoes.

One of the reasons she and Gemma had hit it off was because Abby’s old room-mate didn’t make those kind of judgments. Neither did Jack, it seemed.

They made love with aching slowness before they fell asleep. Jack went down on her afterwards and he was almost as good as Gemma. She could tell he liked doing it, that he wasn’t just being nice. He paid attention to her responses and he didn’t rush her; he let her take her time and enjoy it.

‘Sleep,’ he said, when she made a half-hearted attempt to return the favour.

The best part was the way he cuddled her while they slept. She hadn’t expected him to. Gemma had always slept like the dead, lost in her own space. But Jack curled himself around her, his soft cock snuggling against her rear, his arm draping her belly — not so much possessive as protective.

His embrace did make her feel safe, and cherished in an old-fashioned way. She wished, for a few seconds at least, that she could fall in love with him and stop beating her head against the wall over Abby. But she knew no man would ever satisfy her completely, and anyway he showed no signs of wanting to start up anything exclusive. Why should he when Abby might drop into his lap again at any moment?

He woke her with his hard-on, a nice, hot, stiff one that pulsed insistently between her bottom cheeks. His cock felt slippery and she realised he’d already sheathed and lubed it. He must have been waiting for her to wake up. ‘So it’s true about men in the morning,’ she said, stretching her back and wriggling her arse against his randy prick.

‘It’s true for me.’ He slid his hand down her belly and cupped her mound. ‘I love a good morning fuck. Gets the blood going, I think. But some men would rather roll out of bed and take a piss.’

Marissa turned her head back over her shoulder and squinted at him. ‘Should I wonder how you know that?’

His eyes twinkled, their brown irises brightening towards green in the morning sun. He caught her earlobe between his teeth. ‘Want to do something else I love this morning?’

The sheets rustled as he shifted his hips. The tip of his cock pressed between her cheeks, over the jealous pucker of her anus. The suggestion couldn’t have been clearer. Luckily, Marissa had always liked backdoor play and, unlike some women, she was fine with sex in the a.m.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, and reached back to open herself to him.

He pushed in carefully, giving her time to relax and himself time to find the natural curve of her body. She didn’t experience even a twinge of discomfort, just the intrigued pleasure of being penetrated in a new way. She’d never had a living cock inside her there. The knowledge that his nerves were sharing in the experience created a wonderful sense of connection. She liked the way his warm, lubricated flesh moved, the way his blood pounded. The tight constriction of her passage emphasised the looseness of his velvety outer skin. It and the condom dragged slightly behind the push and pull of his solid inner core.

Cool, she thought. Very cool.

She also liked how much buggering her excited him. A few minutes’ worth nearly toppled him. With a curse that made even her blush, he stopped mid-thrust and breathed hard against her shoulder. His cock twitched hungrily inside her as if just resting there in that dark, forbidden place was enough to get him off. While he tried to calm, he played with her pussy and breasts. He was sweaty and hot and that made her sweaty and hot, too.

‘Don’t move so much,’ he grumbled when she couldn’t help squirming under his hands. ‘I’d like this to last a while.’

The insight came to her like a flash of sunlight through a tree. ‘You’ve done this with men, haven’t you?’ she said.

Jack groaned and cleaved her with another slow push. ‘Once–’ he pulled halfway out and pushed again ‘–or twice.’

Marissa grinned and squeezed the skinny knee he’d shoved up between her thighs. ‘So what do you think of Storm’s butt? It looks pretty firm. Think you’d like to take a crack at him?’

Jack’s cock pulsed harder inside her, as though her words had pumped an extra measure of blood through the expansive tissues. ‘Leave it alone,’ he growled, even as he thrust with a little more force, a little more speed. ‘My fucking Storm wouldn’t get you into Abby’s bed and, even if it did, you wouldn’t find the answer to your dreams there.’

Well, screw you, Marissa thought, angered by how easily he’d read her mind. He might be right, but she deserved a chance to find out for herself.

Jack read her anger as easily as he’d read her ploy. ‘Some other woman might live up to your fantasy,’ he said. ‘But it won’t be Abby.’

‘Fine.’ She slapped his groin with her bottom, her happy mood ruined. Her lust, however, ran as strongly as ever. She clapped her hand over the hand he’d laid over her pussy and pushed it where she wanted it to go. ‘Finish it,’ she said. She moved his longest finger back and forth across her clit. ‘Finish it, damn you.’

He wouldn’t, though. He became gentler and slowed again, kissing her shoulders and rolling against her back like the billows in the bay. He slipped two fingers inside her so that his cock massaged one wall of her pussy and his fingers massaged the other. Her clit he covered with his thumb, rubbing and rolling until a cloud of steam seemed to expand through her body, hot and dark and wet. The combined movements of his cock and fingers felt better than anything she’d ever done for herself. His thumb was performing some unsuspected magic on the stiff red button of her sex. She was afraid to touch him, afraid to move for fear of breaking the spell.

Enraptured, helpless, she released his hand and gripped his knee again, squeezing fiercely as he swept her up to the edge and held her there. He gripped one breast with his other hand and pinched her nipple in time to his thrusts.

Waves of sensation throbbed through her body until it seemed her very skin was poised to come. ‘Oh, please,’ she moaned, both loving the torture and dying for it to end. ‘Please finish me.’

Jack was almost beyond speech.

‘Don’t tighten up,’ he gasped, trembling behind her as he pushed. ‘Bear down.’

Marissa bore down and, to her surprise, his cock slipped deeper. The feeling of steam suffusing through her body intensified. She was hanging, dangling. Sweat rolled between her breasts — his or hers, she couldn’t tell. He felt thick inside her, burning hot. He jerked his hips forwards, jamming deeper still. He was down to his root, his balls flattened against her cheeks, every muscle straining to hold his prick where it was. Her bowels quivered in reaction, contracting around the fiery intrusion.

The tiny increase in stimulation was more than Jack could take. He groaned like a dying man. The head of his cock swelled, then pulsed sharply.

‘Je-sus,’ he gasped as his climax overtook him.

His thumb stiffened on her clit, mashing it hard against her pubis. His fingers shook inside her cunt. The steam expanded inside her, thickening like storm clouds, dark, darker, darkest — and then she came, too, a rich, diffuse throb, strongest in her groin and arse but reaching outwards in warm flowing rushes that tingled deliciously from the tips of her toes to the hot, crawling crown of her scalp.

‘Oh, my,’ she sighed when the last wave faded, her eyes too heavy to hold open.

The bed dipped a moment later as he eased out. She was dimly aware of him pulling the sheet back over her and pressing a soft, fatherly kiss to her brow. ‘Oh, Lizzie,’ she heard him murmur with the last of her consciousness, ‘what can I do for this little lamb?’

She knew without having to ask that Lizzie had been his wife.

*   *   *

The official letter from Abby’s loan officer lay on the dining-room table. The dark polished wood reflected its turned-up ends, along with the blurred edges of her face. Her head propped in trembling hands, she squeezed her temples and closed her eyes. Unfortunately, the notice didn’t disappear.

Damn. How could she have forgotten the balloon payment on her mortgage? She’d been so careful, reckoning every expense to the penny — and now this. She bit her lip hard, fighting back tears. She couldn’t pay it. Half of it, maybe, if she sold her car and stopped repairs on the upstairs dining room — which would make it that much harder to settle her accounts in the future. She shoved the letter to the other side of the table and stood. It wasn’t fair. She’d come so close to turning everything around.

‘Damn,’ she said again, then pushed her hair out of her face. With a heavy exhalation, she forced her frustration away. She’d have to swallow her pride and ask her sisters for the money. She hated the idea, but there was nothing else for it.

She’d simply make it clear they couldn’t refuse her this time.

‘Oh, God,’ she moaned just as the doorbell rang.

Jack was waiting outside with a black portfolio tucked under one arm. ‘Good,’ he said, bending to kiss her cheek. ‘I was hoping I’d catch you. I need your opinion on something.’

Abby stepped back to let him in, her brain barely functioning. It took a moment before she realised he was spreading a collection of eight-by-ten, black and white photographs across the dining-room table. He encountered the loan notice midway through the process. He began to set it aside, then straightened as the words caught his eye. He read it through, his lips moving slightly, then looked at her.

Abby shrugged, knowing her worry and humiliation must be blazoned on her face.

‘Oh, honey,’ he said, but his concern was quickly replaced by a look of determination. He folded the letter and pointed it at her. ‘I’ll talk to you about this later. I think I can help. But first I want your opinion on these — as a woman.’

Abby stepped closer to the photographs. ‘Oh,’ she said, instantly enchanted by the sinuous lines, by the velvet-soft shades of grey. The pictures were nudes, or pieces of nudes, but they had the same feeling as his landscapes: that somehow every inch was monolithic and profound. They were all of the same woman, she thought, though in none of the pictures could she make out a face. Snippets of background flowed behind the closely viewed body parts. She could just make out sparkling water, barnacles on a piling, beach grass, sand.

Jack put his arm around her back as she traced the dune-like curve of a hip. ‘You don’t think they’re pornographic?’

‘Hardly,’ she said, her troubles forgotten in her awe at Jack’s talent. She pulled one photo closer. A thick length of rope snaked between two firm, high breasts. The nipples were sharp, beaded with water or sweat. ‘They are erotic, but I don’t see anything offensive here. It’s Marissa, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have recognised her unless I knew you’d asked her to pose. Is this your next book?’

‘Part of it.’ Still holding her, he rubbed her upper arm. ‘I’m hoping to find another subject, someone whose body type will contrast with Marissa’s.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble. Most of the artist’s models around here would jump at the chance to work with you.’

Jack stroked her hair behind her ear. ‘I was hoping you’d jump at the chance.’

‘Me? You must be–’

‘Shh.’ He pressed two fingers over her lips. ‘Don’t say “no” until you hear me out. I’ll pay you enough to cover your mortgage payment, plus a small percentage of the royalties if the book makes a profit. I’ll make the same arrangement with Marissa.’

‘You can’t do that.’

He winked at her. ‘Sure I can. I’m a rich old coot. Besides, I have a feeling my publisher may go into shock over this book. I’m going to produce it myself. That way I can make sure everything goes out the way I want.’

Abby pressed one hand over her mouth and the other over her stomach. ‘I do need the money.’

‘Don’t do it for the money,’ he said, his voice both seductive and kind. ‘Do it because you want to help me create something special. Do it because Marissa wouldn’t feel comfortable posing with anyone else.’

Abby blinked and turned to face him. ‘You want us to pose together?’

Jack cocked his head inquisitively. ‘Does that bother you?’

‘I suppose not,’ she said slowly, wondering if it would. Showering at the gym was one thing, but this?

‘Does what bother you?’ Storm asked.

Jack and Abby turned as one. Storm stood under the dining-room arch with a covered platter in his hand. As they stared, he grinned and whipped off the silver dome. ‘I’m trying to develop a new
hors d’oeuvre
assortment. I’ve got black-bean fritters, Parmesan-cheese oysters and bite-sized pieces of grilled red snapper with avocado sauce. I’m afraid the combination is too heavy, though. Here–’ he waved the platter closer to Jack, bringing with it a heavenly mixture of scents ‘–you can try some, too.’