I Spy a Wicked Sin (5 page)

Hefting the phallus, she tested its flexibility and girth. Not as grand as Jude’s cock by any means, but it would suffice. Kicking off her heels, she crawled onto the king-sized bed with her prize, hiked her short linen skirt to her waist, and lay on her back.

Spreading her legs, she ran a palm over her bare abdomen to the tiny, neat triangle at the apex of her thighs. She loved the sensual feel of naked skin and springy curls under her fingers, her pussy exposed and ready—underwear being a confining irritant she avoided unless absolutely necessary. Sporting a bare bottom was also her private acknowledgment of the needs she held in ruthless check. Her brand of rebellion, her secret kick.

Moving her hand lower, she skimmed the slick, naked folds, her blood singing with passion she rarely allowed past her barriers except when alone. Here, she could indulge in her fantasies and leave the coldhearted bitch behind.

Dipping a finger into her hot channel, she moaned, working the digit in and out, then spreading the cream all over her pussy. All around her clit, teasing as much as she dared, until her sex dripped and her body ached for release.

Fully prepared, she gripped the base of the dildo in her right hand and nudged the bulbous head between the swollen lips. Pushed inside, bit by bit, until the fake cock was buried in her needy cunt.

“Oh, yes,” she hissed. As she pumped it slowly, a face formed in her mind. A gorgeous face taut with ecstasy and surrounded by long auburn hair, muscles flexing as he drove into her depths, unable to get enough of her. “Jude . . . God, yes, fuck me.”

And in her fantasy, he did, cock shiny and thick, owning every part of her. Then her lusty daydream shifted and she imagined him doing the same to Tamara tonight, perhaps while Lily watched. Or even joined in the fun . . .

Helpless against the onslaught of sizzling images, she hurtled over the edge, hips bucking as she cried out. Orgasm slammed her with a series of jolts that fried her nerve endings, spun her out of control.

Gradually, they tapered off and she lay boneless, satisfaction sinking her into the bed. Damn, she’d needed that, and it was good.

But the real thing would far surpass the experience.

With a contented sigh, she removed the dildo and slid off the bed, heading for the bathroom to freshen up. As she stepped inside, it occurred to her that she hadn’t exactly been quiet. Jude might’ve heard, and the idea caused her to flush with rare embarrassment. And longing.

If he had heard, would he comment? Would he even care?

Shaking her head ruefully, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused, taking in her appearance. Her small, fine-boned face was pink from exertion, brown eyes large and surrounded by a fringe of dark lashes. Disheveled black hair tumbled in a glossy mess almost to her waist.

She was cynical and practical about her looks—she knew men found her attractive, and her appearance served a purpose. It had always been the best weapon in her possession.

Except for now, when it counted the most.

Why wasn’t she sorry about that?

Then she thought of her father, cold in the ground, never again to know joy or sorrow.

Because of a traitor like Jude St. Laurent.

“Suck it up,” she told her reflection. “That destiny was never meant to be yours.”

Armor firmly in place, she reached for a washcloth and set about wiping away the traces of her weakness.

If only cleansing her soul were so simple.

J
ude stood frozen near his bed, listening to the husky cries drifting from the adjoining room.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. His cock lifted in appreciation of the extracurricular activity taking place next door, a scant few yards away.

Apparently, Lily was quite affected by her introduction to his household.

With a grunt of frustration, he adjusted his crotch. Hell, he wasn’t twenty-one anymore; if he were, he might be able to coax his semiawake cock to revive. But he’d come such a short time ago, he’d need longer to recover.

The chirping of the cell phone in the front pocket of his jeans stopped his morbid thoughts on aging before they could run rampant. Digging the slim device from his jeans, he found his bed and sat on the edge before answering.

“Hello?”

“Jude, how the hell are you?”

“Dev! It’s good to hear your voice, man.” He smiled. Nobody could sustain an irritable mood around Devon Sinclair or his pistol of a wife. “I’m fine, just bored as shit. Or I was until my new PA started today.”

“Yeah? Do tell, my friend.” He could picture Dev waggling his blond brows.

“I don’t know much about her yet,” he said, hedging some.

“How much
do
you know? Come on, don’t leave me hanging!”

“Well, her name is Lily Vale. She’s petite and has a killer whiskey voice. Smarter than me, according to her references.”

“Like that would be a stretch,” he joked. “And?”

“She’s . . . sexually open. By her admission.”

Dev spluttered. “How the fuck did you manage to learn that so fast when she just got there?”

“She walked in on me and one of my models practicing the big six-nine. To say she didn’t take offense to my lifestyle is an understatement.”

His friend burst out laughing. “Jesus, you’re a piece of work. You know Geneva and I simply
must
meet her, right?”

“Oh, I figured it wouldn’t take you long to get around to that suggestion, considering,” he said, lips curving wickedly.

“How well you know me.” In the background, Jude heard Dev flipping pages. “Crap, we’re booked solid until next Friday. Dinner, followed by giving Lily a quick tour of the gallery, then a nightcap at our place? What do you say?”

“Dinner in public? I don’t know, Dev. . . .” But he wasn’t as adamant about avoiding going out as he’d been in the previous weeks, and Dev seized the opportunity to push the matter.

“You can’t stay indoors forever, shut away like a bat in a belfry. Time to start living again, Jude.”

“I . . . all right. Yes, let’s do it.” His stomach flopped just from imagining the ordeal.

“Great! You know we’ll be there for you every step of the way. This is going to be fun!”

Jude chuckled, his friend’s enthusiasm overshadowing his nerves. “It will, but I won’t push Lily into a scene she’s not ready for. If she’s the least bit apprehensive—”

“You wound me, buddy. We’ve never forced anyone to play and we won’t start with your Lily. You know me better than that.”

“I do. Sorry.”

“No problem,” he said, good cheer unfazed. “Next Friday, then. Eight o’clock?”

“Perfect. We’ll swing by and pick you two up.”

“Geneva and I will look forward to it.” His friend hesitated a moment. “So . . . how is Liam these days?”

His friend’s odd tone gave him pause. Liam played with Dev and Geneva occasionally, same as himself. The couple adored him. They’d even commissioned a nude painting of Liam for their gallery last year, which hung on proud display. But what was this concern? Where was it coming from?

“He’s fine. Same old happy Liam, you know?”

But was he?

“Oh. Well, that’s good.” Dev cleared his throat. “Just wanted to ask after him. Geneva thinks the boy is all that and a bag of chips, so she told me to ask. Give him our best, will you? See you next Friday, then.”

They said good-bye and disconnected. As Jude tucked away his phone, he put the last part of their exchange out of his mind and realized his mood had lightened considerably. Lily’s arrival had helped, and the plans with Devon and Geneva had put him over the top. He looked forward to next Friday—it had been far too long since he’d enjoyed his friends’ company.

He had a sneaking suspicion Lily could show the voracious couple a trick or two.

A knock on the common door between his and Lily’s suites interrupted his musings.

“Are you ready for lunch?” she asked, the door squeaking on its hinges.

“Starving,” he said, getting to his feet. He grabbed his cane, squelching the pang of discomfort at having to eat in front of someone he’d just met. Wasn’t that a laugh?

Sex with and in front of strangers? He wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. Enduring the mechanics of feeding himself in front of those same people? There was a load of stress he could damned well do without.

But Dev was right—he couldn’t hide indefinitely.

He’d consider the next few days as rehearsals for next Friday night. No need to panic. He’d survived far worse.

On the heels of that thought several images assaulted him.

“Jude, is something wrong?”

Belatedly, he became aware that he’d come to a dead stop in his route to the door. His skin felt cold. Clammy. “What? No, I just got distracted thinking about something I have to do later. Shall we?”

If she heard the lie, she didn’t comment. As they walked together, Jude’s mind wandered back to his prized lighter, a sentimental item he’d rescued from his grandfather’s effects after the old man’s passing. Jude wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—forgetting about the beloved object or his own steady smoking habit.

Even weirder, the memory did not bring on a craving for a cigarette. But he was suddenly anxious to know the fate of Pop’s lighter. Where could it be?

Jude did his best to put the question temporarily out of his mind as he and Lily made themselves at home at the glass table in the sunroom. He’d search later. The thing had to be lying around somewhere.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Lily remarked. “Are you sure everything is fine?”

“Perfectly.” He propped his arms on the table, leaning forward. “I should ask you that question. Was everything all right in your room? I could have sworn you were in pain.”

She swatted his arm lightly. “Oh! You know very well what was wrong with me, and I lay the blame solely at your sizable feet. A gentleman wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Honey, I’m no gentleman. There’s no fun in it.”

“And I’m not your honey.”

He didn’t miss the edge behind her teasing. “Sorry. It’s a leftover Southern habit. No disrespect intended.”

“None taken.” She paused. “Where in the South are you from, if you don’t mind my asking? I can hear a hint of . . . Cajun?”

“Not bad, though I’m not Cajun. I grew up in New Orleans, though living in New York has taken care of most of my accent. I haven’t lived there in over twenty years, but it’s true what they say—you can take the boy out of the South . . .”

“But not the South out of the boy. How did you wind up in New York?”

“I left home at seventeen, eventually made my way here for my work.” There. The incessant pressure, the vague anxiety that accompanied a hole where part of his life should be. “I guess I believed New York was where a starving artist belonged. I took odd jobs to keep myself in paints and canvas, keep a roof over my head. Some of those jobs weren’t exactly legal. It’s a miracle I didn’t land in prison.”

And he almost had, hadn’t he? How had he avoided such a dismal fate? Dev wasn’t the one who’d saved him; he was positive.

“But you didn’t, and now you’re a huge success. I suppose one could say crime pays.”

Jude frowned. “I never hurt anyone, and I certainly didn’t get rich fencing hubcaps.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, contrite. “I didn’t mean to imply you did. I was kidding.”

“Forget it.” Puzzled, he tried to catch the subtle undercurrents. He could swear he detected the slightest thread of anger in her tone, and he couldn’t fathom why. Unless she held his humble beginnings against him. A woman like Lily could not possibly understand what it took to survive on the streets.

“How did you get your break?” Nothing but warmth now.

“I met a man by the name of Devon Sinclair—”

“
The
Devon Sinclair? Of Très Geneva gallery?”

“The same,” he said, impressed. “You keep up with society news. Good. One of us has to, because I hate the limelight. Dev rags me unmercifully about going out of my way to avoid the press while he and his wife, Geneva—the gallery’s namesake—lap the publicity up like cream.”

“Don’t you need to put in an appearance once in a while? Making sure you attend some functions is part of my job, after all.”

“Let me confess something—I loathed going to society events before, but I occasionally took one for the team. Since the accident, however, the idea positively terrifies me. I have to get over my fear somehow because I owe Devon. He launched my career, and sells my paintings for unreal sums.”

“We’ll get you out of the house, then,” she said firmly. “Baby steps. Lunch here, a party there. A vacation, perhaps.”

“I don’t recall the last time I took a real vacation,” he mused, surprised by how much he liked the suggestion. “Start working on a list of destinations and we’ll take it from there. Somewhere warm where clothing is optional.”

“Super.”

“In the meantime, I let Dev talk me into going out for dinner next Friday night. You’ll be my date, of course. He and Geneva will love you.”

He considered warning Lily about his friends’ naughty appetites, but decided to let her find out as the evening progressed. More tantalizing for everyone if things developed naturally.

“Where are we going? Do I need to take care of the reservations?”

“I’m not sure where we’ll eat, but no. Dev will take care of the plans and you’ll be my escort. We’ll take the limo and pick them up. After dinner, Dev wants to show you the gallery—unless you’ve already visited.”