MasterStroke (17 page)

There was an undeniable air of romanticism and Russet & Brown’s had taken a step closer to recreating a singles bar atmosphere. The patrons didn’t seem to mind; in fact, they were embracing it enthusiastically. It was getting humid in so many ways; sex and desire was as overt as the clashing sensory symphonies of expensive perfumes.

It made her think of Jack although, in reality, pretty much everything made her think of Jack these days. Despite all that had occurred, including Mariel’s surprising and frankly unsettling story, she longed for Jack to be here. She needed to feel his quiet strength next to her. In her mind, she saw his green eyes flashing with humour and could hear his deep laugh vibrating through her as he told her it was all nonsense, there was a very simple explanation.

What it was, she had no idea but there had to be one. She and Mariel were just looking at it the wrong way.
Jack’s the good guy
, she thought,
he’s the one in the white hat, the mysterious and enigmatic cowboy who rode into town just in time to save me.

That’s the great thing about Westerns, she reminded herself. The good guys wore white hats and the bad guys black hats. You could always tell who was who. Real life, as Mariel pointed out a little later in the evening, is never that simple.

Chapter Twenty One

Sandrine was relieved when she found herself on that golden grassy hillside of her dreams. She stood still for a few minutes, feeling the warm breeze on her skin and smelling the bright summer air, redolent of fresh grass and flower blossoms. The sun hung low and the air shimmered radiantly. She was filled with an ethereal reminder of hope and love and security. Her parents were near, she knew that with absolute certainty, although she couldn’t as yet see them.

There was no trace of the dark terror of the previous dream when the hillside and the city beyond the crest burnt to ash. Like the previous dreams, she was aware she was sleeping and this was all the work of her imagination. She thought with logic but saw with her imagination and she found it curiously fascinating that her mind maintained its restless probing, even in a dream state.

She whispered her parents’ names, which the breeze carried far, stirring the grass as it went, creating ripples and waves and disappearing far beyond the point she could actually discern movement. The gravity of the scene shifted irrationally and she started moving up the hillside. Although she wasn’t walking any faster, perspective seemed to stretch, in that way that dreams will sometimes do, and she was suddenly within the city, standing in a wide public square. An expansive fountain cascaded water from white marble figures and a cold spray speckled her skin, refreshing her.

Her mother and father waited, standing together on the ancient cobblestones. Around the sides of the square, tables and chairs were set up outside restaurants. Most held plates of food, bottles of wine, half-filled glasses, chairs pushed back hurriedly. The vividness of the detail was startling. It looked like a thousand people had been dining moments before she arrived but the square now held only Sandrine, her mother and father.

It wasn’t ominous in any way. It was a dream. That’s just the way it was.

Sandrine ran a finger along the edge of the fountain and looked at the residue of grime and dust and finely-powdered ochre that resulted. She scooped up a handful of the cold sparkling water and drank it down, noting just how fresh it tasted.

Her parents waited patiently, smiling, their expressions open and expectant.

“We’re here with you. We always have been,” her mother said, her eyes moist with emotion.

“We’re never far away. We’re in your heart. We go where you go,” her father continued and he, too, appeared overcome yet radiantly happy all the same.

“We all belong. Different places, different times, but together despite everything,” they said in unison.

Sandrine nodded, unsure of exactly what they were implying. Were they manifestations of the turmoil in her own mind, finding expression through the images of people she loved?

“What about Jack?” Sandrine asked. “Does he love me as I love him? Is he as genuine as I hope?”

A sombre expression crossed her mother’s face. She appeared to be mulling the question over, seeking the right words.

“We can’t tell you about Jack. The answer lies within you. If you believe Jack is the one, then he is.”

“You know yourself far better than you think,” her father added. “Listen to your heart. Don’t let your fears overcome who you are. Believe in yourself. What you have with Jack can be special beyond measure. It can be the most divine love you ever experience but it will take heartache to realise the potential.”

The words cheered her. A part of her knew –
do I have to analyse everything, even in my dreams?
– that she was probably hearing only what she wanted but coming from her mother and father made it infinitely more encouraging.

Sandrine wanted to ask more but the light suddenly faded, the sound of the splashing water dimmed and her mother and father retreated into the far distance as if pulled by invisible wires.

The next thing she knew she was twisting within the sheets of her darkened bedroom. She was naked and the bed felt enormously large and empty. The screen of her cell phone was lit, a message from Jack.

Where have you been? Tried calling you earlier but no answer. If you’re awake, please let me know.

She lay in the dark, clutching the phone to her chest, silently debating whether to go back to sleep. She was tired and still a little drunk, the after-effects of one too many glasses of white wine with Mariel. The dream had mellowed her and her mind wandered. She felt oddly fulfilled, soft and receptive. An image of Jack came to her and she felt that languid liquid shift in her core. It was all it took. Without much thought, her fingers darted across the keyboard.

So sorry. Met up with Mariel for a drink. Now in bed thinking of you.

A reply came back immediately.

I’ve been thinking of you all night.

What are you going to do about it?
This was crazy, she thought, we’re texting like teenagers.

I’m downstairs. Would you like a late night visitor?

Come upstairs and find out.

She walked to the front door and opened it. She didn’t bother to dress at this hour. There wouldn’t be anybody in the hallway to scandalise and she didn’t really care if she did. She was warm, still a little sleepy and naked. Her nipples were hard and tight but not because of any chill in the air. She wanted Jack to be surprised, to instantly want her as much as she yearned for him, and imagined watching the slow extension of his hardness in appreciation.

Jack was waiting. He filled the doorway. Hungrily, his eyes caressed her body then he reached for her, lifting her up into his arms and slamming the door shut behind him. As he carried her into the bedroom, she clung tight, wouldn’t let him go and they fell onto the bed locked together. She continued to hold on, kissing him, moaning softly into his mouth, moulding her body as close as she could while she fumbled his jeans open and he pushed harshly inside her, spearing her roughly into the mattress.

Chapter Twenty Two

Sandrine drifted gently from the contentment of sleep to the surface of consciousness. Jack was nestled into her back, an arm gripping her firmly, the heat from their bodies providing a distracting comfort. Jack’s solid manhood pulsed lazily against her thigh.

The doubts that normally occupied her thoughts were welcomingly absent. There were no inner voices that would otherwise tie her into knots of uncertainty, fighting for attention. Sandrine so wished there could be a mute button on her subconscious, that she could silence the voices more readily.

They were the manifestations of irrational fear that made her doubt her appeal and brought forth the idea that she could so easily lose Jack if a more attractive, vibrant and confident woman came along. It was silly, she knew, but powerful as well.

Her friends continually told her she was a warm, intelligent and attractive person who any man would give the world to be with but she found it difficult to reconcile those views with what she saw in the mirror. Confidence was a quality she had never possessed in great measure.

When she was alone, she was a seething mass of insecurities. Being with Jack made her forget herself; she was besotted, maybe even obsessed with him, and that took her mind from other things.
But how obsessed?
she had thought in the last few weeks.
Am I becoming like those sad pathetic creatures who end up marrying prisoners on death row?

It was one reason she didn’t take Mariel’s concerns of the previous evening too seriously. She needed to believe in Jack, almost as much as she needed him near her, around her and inside her. The physical connection kept all doubts, of him and about herself, at a safe distance.

So she lay in the half-dark, dawn beginning to seep around the curtains into the room, with their shared heat cocooning her and she felt safe. The warm wetness between her legs was a reminder of the hunger that had led her to their most recent bout of lovemaking. It was unprotected and she recognised how wrong it was but at the time her needs had overcome common sense.

As if in answer to the after-glow that swept aside any other hesitations, Jack stirred behind her.

“We shouldn’t have let that happen. I should have been stronger,” he said sleepily.

“Jack, darling, go back to sleep. It’s all right. I wanted it that way. Much more than you did.”

“We need to be sure what we’re doing.” His breath was hot against her skin. He kissed her bare shoulder and she shivered reflexively. Her hips moved lazily back against him and the wondrous feeling of his attraction to her, unmistakable, re-awakened her hunger.

“I’m equally to blame for what happened and I made no mistake.”

“My appetite for you is boundless, Sandrine but I don’t want to hurt you. You’re the first woman I’ve been with in four years.”

It took a few seconds for the full implication of what he meant to hit home. She sat up, the sheet falling away, exposing her breasts. Jack’s eyes were riveted on her upper body. She was momentarily diverted by the idea that he was so entranced with her body.

Four years?
Her heart tore just a little.
Oh, Jack.

“Jack, I don’t know what to say. How could you not have had a girlfriend in all that time?”

“I didn’t want or need any contact. I suppose I’ve been in mourning. And I was determined that when I did get involved again it would be for all the right reasons. You’re the right reason.”

She kissed him. He smoothed the hair away from her face, held her close and gazed into her eyes. The smile on her face said everything she needed to say. She was speechless and close to tears. He traced the line of her lips with his fingers; in turn, she delicately kissed each finger until she reached his thumb which she then sank deep into her mouth.

The unbending rod of his erection jerked against her stomach. She closed her fingers around it, the glorious firmness so solid and magical, and eased it back and forth. The deeply guttural sound that emanated from the back of his throat signalled his intensity.

Why can’t I keep my hands off him?
she wondered.
Because he’s so marvellous and he makes me feel so complete. Nothing this good could ever be wrong.

She positioned herself under him, still holding his pulsing cock, and pulled him closer. He tried to resist, turning aside.

“Please, Jack, I need you again. Like it was before. Fill me up.”

“We need to be sure. I need to show you I’m no threat.”

“I know that already. I think I’ve always known that.”

“I don’t mean personally. If we’re to have a proper relationship, I’ll have a blood test so you know I won’t harm you.”

“It’s too late. I had you inside me tonight and you flooded me with cum. It felt so beautiful. I’m still full of you. Give me more.”

He moved so he was nose-to-nose with her. His twitching cock was positioned at her opening, gently nudging between the wet lips, already puffy and sensitive from the pounding of a few hours before. It was maddeningly close and she wriggled, trying to coax it inside her.

“Don’t make me beg but I will if you want. Is that what you want? Do you want to hear me beg?”

“It’s not the sex and I’m not trying to tease you. I just need you to feel totally secure in what you’re doing, to never have doubts. Wait for a few days. I’ll get a blood test. You can as well. Then we’ll spend every waking moment locked together if that’s what you want.”

“You’re driving me crazy. If I don’t feel you inside me, I’ll go mad.”

In reply, he kissed his way down her body, gently taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking it, then switching to the other, then continuing to kiss lower until he reached her stomach. By this time, she was panting, a light sheen of perspiration coating her. Her thighs were spread wide. Jack moved lower still, pressing on her pubic bone with the heel of one hand and tilting her hips ever so slightly upwards before kissing around her swollen lips.

The tension was building and all thought fled, leaving just the jangling remnants of her nerve endings, screaming out their need for relief. He ran a thumb along her opening, massaging lightly, coming within an agonising fraction of her hard clit before backing away.

Sandrine wanted to urge him on, to say something, anything to make him continue but she was so confused she couldn’t form words. She was aware someone was moaning and eventually decided it was her. Then, after what seemed like hours, when she was continually brought to the very edge of release before it ebbed away, only to be built up again and again, he locked his mouth around the hard jutting button and sucked slowly and deliberately.

The orgasm crashed down on her like an enormous wave of relief. Colours flooded through her, waves and waves of sensation racked her small body. She wasn’t aware of it but she called out his name several times. By the time it stopped and she could catch her breath, she was exhausted and barely able to move.