Messalina: Devourer of Men (23 page)

Jared turns to me and I guess I have this simpering look on my face because he raises his eyebrows and chuckles. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I smile and wrap my arm around his.

Bev and Alex start to leave. “Hey, Eva,” she says. “If you see the boys, tell them I need them to set up a few more chairs in here.”

“Will do.”

“Who are the boys?” Jared asks as we walk away.

“Their sons . . . also twins.”

He shakes his head in disbelief then pulls me close to blow in my ear. “You must be very fertile.”

“Simmer down, cowboy.” Actually, I’m terrified of the prospect—and surprised he isn’t. His left hand slips down to my hip and gives it a squeeze.

“You feel pretty ripe to me.”

The huskiness of his voice makes me tremble and his taking a nip at my earlobe doesn’t help calm my nerves. I moan. We go down the back stairs and immediately to our right is “Eva’s Corner.” Guests are browsing the aisles and suddenly, we come to—The Door.

“What’s this?” he asks with mock innocence after reading the inscription. I purse my lips together and before I can think of something smart to say, he has the door open.

This will be my first time behind The Door since that fateful day in 1977 and a lot has changed. For one, I don’t remember the room being so small. Berber carpet has replaced the shag and now nice wood bookshelves, like the ones in the main store, line the walls. The room is painted a dark, hunter-green with oak wainscoting and English landscape paintings hang from the walls rather than nudes on glow-in-the-dark velvet. The whole room resembles a formal Victorian library.

There’s a lot more books and how-to guides along with the requisite titles of
Playboy
,
Penthouse
, and
Hustler
. We’re the only ones in the room and Jared pulls me along as our eyes scan the shelves. Going around to the next row, I see my nephews gawking at a magazine.

The two rail-thin young men look like junior members of The Temptations with their twin, slate-gray suits, black shoes, white shirts, pinstripe ties, and close-cut Afros.

“A-
hem
!”

Delius and Darien jump nearly two feet and I have to purse my lips to keep from laughing, but that doesn’t stop Jared.

“Auntie Evie!” Delius says first. His brother is too spooked to talk. Both of them register blushes on their pale skin.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

The boys look at each other. At six feet, they’re taller than me and almost as tall as Jared. If they hadn’t been raised right, they could’ve told me to fuck off. Since their answer isn’t forthcoming, I reach for the magazine Darien clutches. His knuckles are red from their death grip, but he lets go without resistance. Apparently the boys were lucky enough to stumble upon a magazine that had been separated from its protective sleeve. That’s when I discover it’s not a magazine, but a high-gloss comic book.

“
The Life of Lucrezia
?” I read the title aloud. The cover shows a sultry blond lounging on a sofa in what looks like a living room. She wears a peignoir trimmed in pink boa that barely covers her nudity. Her nipples and the dark triangle of her sex are visible. Her legs are crossed and she wears fishnet stockings and high heel mules to match her gown. She’s talking on a princess phone with this demure look on her face, twirling the cord around her fingers.

“What’s this?”

“It’s an adult comic, auntie,” Darien mumbles.

“Oh, really? And how long have you two adults been reading this comic?”

They look at each other but don’t answer. I begin flipping through the pages. What I see is fantastic. The drawings put me in mind of old
Archie
comics circa 1950 that I have in my own comic collection from when I was a child. The images are drawn with bright, primary colors in stylized detail.

But talk about explicit! I’ve never seen Archie and the Gang do the things I’m seeing in this comic. The panel I look at takes up both pages and shows a man and woman doing it doggie style in a dentist’s chair.

The temperature in the room goes up about twenty degrees and I fan myself. The artist not only captures the physical composition of the act but the emotion as well. You can feel the impact of the man moving inside the woman’s body from the strain and the bulging veins at his temple and in his neck. Sweat beads at his hairline and his face is beet-red. And as far as the woman is concerned, you can practically hear the pleasured moan spill out of her mouth. Her face is one of complete ecstasy as her porcelain white features blush with exertion, and her blond hair is a luxurious mass of melted gold about her shoulders.

I’m getting dizzy. Despite these past days with Jared, seeing actual images of sex is rare for me. I’ve only been to a few X-rated movies, and all I saw was a lot of woman showing off full-frontal nudity and silicone castles, but never the penises of the men. I can’t even bring myself to flip through a
Playgirl—
though I’m dying of curiosity. But this is just too intense. I raise a hand to my forehead.

“Are you alright?” Jared’s voice, full of concern, comes from behind me. I’d forgotten he was there. I nod stiffly but can’t look away from the picture.

“Boys, your mother wants you upstairs. Now.”

I only hear the feet of my nephews stumbling over each other as they get away. Jared moves beside me and takes the book. “Eva? Sugar, what is it?”

“It’s . . . well look at it!”

He opens the book. “Yes? And?”

“I’m sorry. You must think I’m so prude.” I smile weakly.

“Hardly. But what’s wrong? Does it offend you?”

“No! Quite the opposite. It’s made me incredibly horny.”

I lean against the bookcase, pick up the nearest magazine, and fan myself. I smile. “We’ve come a long way from
Archie
and
Ritchie Rich
.”

Jared chuckles and continues looking at the book. I start reading the titles of the other comics. Not all are the same bound quality like the one he holds; most of them are printed on newsprint.

I should tell Dad he needs to lock this room when no one’s around, or have a buzzer so someone can control who gets back here before some rabid, politically-correct consumer with nothing better to do accuses my dad of corrupting youth. But I see two problems with this move. First, most of the books and magazines have covers that conceal any juicy bits. And second, it would mean telling my dad I was behind The Door—again.

I’ll just casually lock the door when we leave. My nephews’ secret is safe with me. And as long as they’re not like their mother, so is mine.

“Gee, Evadne, if this is the sort of reaction I can expect after you read one of these you should get it.”

“Are you crazy?” I look around to see if anyone can see us, let alone hear us. “I can’t go up to the register with this. My dad would have a thousand fits.”

“Give the man some credit, Eva.”

“No way.” I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest. “I ain’t doing it. I’ll go to another newsstand.” Jared makes an expression of mock astonishment.

“What? And give money to the competition? Eva, I’m ashamed of you.” He looks at me then at the book. “Do you want it?”

I smile . . . and he grins.

* * * *

Hanging around the perimeter at the front of the store, I wait as Jared pays for his painting—and the comic. I pick up a book and watch them over the spine as Dad rings up the sale. Then my stomach drops to the floor.

Dad picks up the comic, his eyebrows shoot up—and he and Jared start
chatting
over the damn thing! Finally, Dad slips it into the stereotypical plain brown bag.

Oh . . . my . . . hell. Now my parents are going to think I’m dating a pervert. Time for some damage control. I saunter over.

“Ready to go?”

“We’re all done,” Dad says. “Hey, Li’l Bit, Jared and I were just talking about—”

“Preston Cavell!”

Dad turns at the sound of his name. We do, too, and see an older man with salt-and-pepper hair with his hand high in salute.

“Jackson Paul!” Dad grins. “Negro, where you been?”

I take this opportunity to grab Jared and the brown bag and exit the store. The painting will be delivered in a few days. Back inside Jared’s Chevelle, I breathe a sigh of relief, but he’s been laughing his head off since we left the building.

“Will you cool it, Eva? Your dad seems perfectly comfortable selling porn to his daughter’s date.”

I hide my face in my hands and he laughs harder.

“Actually,” he says as he starts the car, “your dad recommends this book. He can’t keep it on the shelf.”

“Bully for him.”

More laughter from him, but I feel faint. This evening has been a drain on my emotions. When I open my eyes, I frown. We’re not near my apartment at all.

“Where are we going?”

“To my place. I want to make it up to you.” He looks at me. “In private.”

* * * *

Jared lives in a two-storey Victorian in the Five Points area of downtown Denver. I’m surprised he lives in this much-maligned, predominately black part of town—and that he’s lived here for over ten years. The area has a reputation that’s not entirely warranted, because it’s really a lovely and historically significant part of town. I may have grown up in the ’burbs, but I feel at home in Five Points.

His house is painted brick-red with black gingerbread trim. A giant maple stretches to the sky from the tiny front yard, obscuring most of the upstairs windows, but I can see the leaded glass and a half-moon weather vane on the steepled roof.

After parking in the carport, he comes around to the passenger side and lets me out. We pass through a wrought iron gate and he fumbles with his keys in front of the heavy cherry-wood door. It has a large, oval, stained glass pane in bright kaleidoscope colors in an abstract, broken-glass design. The streetlight is diffused through the branches of the maple, making things look stark and black and white.

When he releases my hand to put the key in the lock, I hug myself, suddenly nervous. I’ve never been on his turf before and now I’m about to walk into his lair, the place where he leaves his public persona behind and can be himself.  I think of Sarah.

So what if Jared’s good looks and seductive manner are unnerving and he has a temper that I wouldn’t want to provoke on my worst enemy? He’s not a sex fiend. The man I’ve fallen for is quite the opposite. If anyone should be nervous it’s him, because I am ready to stake
my
claim on him.

He opens the door, flips a switch, and the contrast is so brilliant I have to squint until my eyes adjust. A crystal chandelier hangs above the entryway, illuminating wood floors that brighten the space with the muted warmth of polished pine. Before me is a grand staircase with a landing halfway up before it splits in two directions. I must be gaping.

“Does it pass inspection?”

I can only nod as I hear him close and lock the door. He turns out the light and the entryway immediately takes on an eerie, multicolored glow owing to the stained glass and the streetlight. My shoulders tense and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s behind me. The whole thought of being in the dark with this man excites and frightens me but also stirs my desire and my pussy muscles clench in expectation.

I smile when his hands come around my waist to rest on my upper thighs and gently pull up the thin silk of my dress to encounter my stocking tops and garter belt. He continues until my dress is over my head and he tosses it on his shoulder. His lips touch my right ear as he pulls me back to brush against his swollen cock. I sigh and relax into his embrace.

“Eva.” His lips are warm against the side of my neck, trailing across my shoulder.

“Mmm?”

“Eva,” he whispers again, this time it’s his tongue that burns on my shoulder blade. He inhales my scent of lavender and heat and exhales an open-mouthed kiss. I groan as he cups my breasts firmly. I wiggle against him, signaling that I’m more than ready for what he has to give. I take one of his hands and begin pulling at his forefinger with my mouth. He sucks back a gasp through his teeth and his reaction gives me a jolt of power.

“Jared?”

“Yes, Eva?”

“How bad do you want me?”

“This bad.” He wraps his arm around my waist and thrusts against me, and I feel the long, solid proof of his want.

“How bad?”

He does it again, harder this time. I grab his hand and lead him up the stairs. We get to the landing.

“Go to your left,” he instructs and soon we are in his bedroom—a vast, almost empty space with a high-pitched ceiling and a giant rose window that throws a red and pink colored patchwork everywhere. In the dim light and the glow, I assume the plush carpet to be off-white and its thick pile is soft beneath my shoes. I see a giant carved mahogany bed waits for us in the center, piled with pale-colored pillows and a coverlet.

That’s when I notice several full-length mirrors, one in each corner of the room. If Jared was any other man, I would be put off by the thought of a man with so many mirrors focused around the bed. But right now, I could care less.