Guilty Pleasures (23 page)

“
Dead?
” Lance gasped.

“Dear Mrs. Belmont! I love her!” Serge exclaimed.
 

“On Friday, Fabio Gabiani, the Italian tenor, and his latest model boyfriend are coming for dinner. And on Saturday, Jane De Mondio and Jake Garcia are coming for a romantic dinner.”
 

“Wait! Jane again?” Serge asked. “Wasn’t she here for that John Hubbert Roberts thing? What about the once-a-month-only rule?”

“Well, she was here as a guest at her ex-husband’s birthday party, and this is her monthly dinner. She books them six months in advance. I can’t cancel her.”

Serge dutifully took note and Lance nodded.

“It’s a relatively quiet week,” Millie said. “And we’ll do it all in the small salon. Next week is tougher. On Tuesday is an Irish Wake. Nobody died; our client just got a divorce, but she insists on having a wake with a coffin and everything.”

Serge grinned. “Irish, I love the Irish!”

“I’m part Irish,” Lance said, though Millie ignored him.

“On Wednesday, we have the Little Dorrit Literary Society monthly dinner. On Thursday, is another regular: a widowed Russian industrialist and his three daughters. And lastly on Friday, a surprise baby shower for a singer who insists on us protecting her identity. So it’s going to be a long weekend.”

“It’s going to be an interesting two weeks, at the very least,” Lance commented.

“Very. Will, I’m a little tired. Would you mind driving me home?” Her voice caught slightly on the last phrase.

“Of course not, Boss. Four tomorrow morning, Serge?” Lance asked.

“I’ll be here, Willie. With bells on.” Serge grinned. “Goodnight, you two.”

They rode in silence to her door, their hands shyly entwined on the seat between them. Lance stopped, and carefully placed both hands on the steering wheel. “Here you go. Safe and sound.” He deliberately held himself still, waiting for her to make the next move.

“Thank you . . . um, thank you so much, Will.” Millie hesitated, her hand on the door. Quickly, she leaned over and brushed her mouth against his.
 

Lance leaned towards her, parted his lips and welcomed her caress. Millie teased out her tongue, feeling her breath catch sharply and a soft moan escaping her.
 

Their mouths clung, their only point of contact. She nipped at his lips, delved deeper into his mouth. He slid his hand around her neck, gently caressing her nape, his thumb stroking the silky skin at the base of her throat. He trailed his fingertips down to the cool satiny-smooth skin between her breasts, and she shivered.
 

Gently, he slid his thumb over her nipple, feeling it rise under the fabric. He slid his hand in to caress the sensitive ruched flesh. Her breathing hastened and Lance felt her hand drop lightly onto his thigh, tense and stroke it hesitantly. He slipped his hand over hers, drawing it gently onto his cock.

He felt her shudder. Her fingers pressed down for one heart-stopping moment, then she quickly pulled away.
 

“Goodnight,” she gasped, her cheeks burning. She opened the door and fled.

Lance sat quietly, head back, catching his breath. He was loving the pace of this. Slow and hot, like a teenage love affair—fresh, and deliciously new.

Horse barked as Millie locked the door and rushed upstairs to her room.
 

“Just a second, Horse. Just let me get my breath back. I’ll be back in a bit to walk you.”
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

I kissed Will today—twice. I loved it. He really does smell good, and he tastes even better. We had the best talk. I think maybe I’ll take it a bit further. At least one or two more of those delicious kisses—those yummy delicious kisses that make my heart pound and my nipples tingle.

I can still taste him on my tongue, and feel him on my fingertips. I slid those fingers between my legs when I got undressed for bed. I imagined it was his hand, his prick.

My panties were soaked.

Chapter 16

Roleplaying can be extremely useful as an entry point into her fantasies, as a way to defuse her inhibitions. You can play a game of
Let’s Pretend
.

Let’s pretend I’m a handyman who comes to your house. Let’s pretend you seduce me, or let’s pretend we meet in a bar, you pick me up, take me home and fuck me, or let’s pretend I’m tied to a hospital bed and you are the doctor who takes advantage of me.

Remember, these
Let’s Pretend
games are for
her
benefit, not yours! She
must
take the dominant role, so she can stop the fantasy whenever she wants.

Follow her script
exactly
. Remember, you got her to talk about her desires, now take the next step, and make those fantasies come true.

Please remember that
no means no
, and
stop means stop
.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

The next day, Serge picked out a basket full of lovely, red oval tomatoes, purple garlic cloves, and brown succulent mushrooms. At the Italian deli, he chose rounds of mozzarella in their brine, large crumbly chunks of Gorgonzola, fragrant bunches of fresh oregano and basil, a lovely mottled salami, tiny little rosy anchovies, crisp almond biscuits, sweet mascarpone, and succulent shiny black olives.

At the fish market, he chose fat prawns in their grey and black striped carapaces, still waving their antennae blindly in their beds of ice, and a net bag full of live clams to garnish.

“Now, Willie, to breakfast.” They sat at their usual table, and the waitress brought over the pastries and the coffee without a single word being exchanged. “Ahh . . . life is very, very good . . .” Serge sighed. “The day is breaking, we have a full bellies, and the prospects of an even better night ahead.”

“I’d never have taken you for an optimist.”

“I’m not. Stone-cold realist, I am! I saw the Ski-Net Weather Report.”

Lance laughed. “You old fake. I think you
are
a true believer.”

“I believe in fairies. So much so, that I
am
one.”

“You have a lover, Serge?”

“Not now.” The dwarf closed his eyes and leaned back for one long moment. “Not for many, many years. He died, see, and I’m too old for this whole
gay pride
crap. I hate them fucking pansies. My social life is on these streets. I work the soup kitchen by the docks on Sunday and Monday nights, get some good, hot solid food into thin bellies, and try to help get some of those boys and girls off the streets.”

“You
are
a good man!”

Serge scowled fiercely. “Fuck off, Willie Wanker, I’ve got better things to do with my time than listen to your shit.”
 

Lance drove to Guilty Pleasures, laughing at Serge’s antics. He dropped off the shopping and Serge, and went home for a nap before his shift at three.

Lance woke, calm and refreshed at one thirty in the afternoon, had a quick shower and headed for work.

Serge was simmering several fragrant pots of meat and tomato sauces when he arrived there at four. He mixed the yeast, and immediately set Lance to sifting flour and salt for the pizza dough. As soon as the yeast had risen, he dug a hole in the middle of the mound of flour and poured it in.
 

“Now, Will, start mixing it in towards the middle, mix and blend, mix and blend. When it’s soft and yielding, knead it; if it’s too dry, add water, if it’s too wet, add a bit of flour.”

Lance carefully followed the instructions, feeling the dough slowly acquiring the right consistency under his fingers.
 

Serge tested the texture and declared himself content. Carefully, Lance covered the dough with a damp cloth and set it in a warm cupboard.

With the sauces and the fillings for the pizzas done, and the garlic bread and pizza dough happily rising, Serge started on the tiramisu for dessert. Patiently, he beat the sugar and the yolks over a gentle heat, mixing the mascarpone with lemon zest, cream and firm egg whites.
 

Lance watched, fascinated.

Serge gently laid the first almond biscuits in the bottom of the serving dish, and brushed coffee and amaretto over. He drizzled a fine rain of dark chocolate over the biscuits and covered them with a velvety white blanket of the mascarpone-yolk blend. Layer after patient layer filled the deep dish, until the final soft shower of dark powdered chocolate. “To the fridge, Will, to rest.”

The gelato was ready, a simple blend of milk chocolate and cream, guaranteed to please childish palates.

“Will, the salad, garlic bread, and pizzas are last-minute things. You can crumble the Gorgonzola if you like, and marinate the anchovies in a little milk to drain off the excess salt.”

“Yes, sir, Captain, sir!” Lance cried.

“No sass! Now, sailor, move your arse!” Serge wacked at him playfully with a wooden spoon and grinned.