The Black Widow (3 page)

He stared back at her with obvious admiration and nodded his assent.

She studied his eyes, searching for a hint of rebellion in the pale-blue irises. The expression she saw there was one of absolute submission. Perhaps it was just the moment, she thought, or perhaps he was a damned good actor, but she doubted it was either. Her every instinct told her that she had total control over him.

Releasing her hand from his cock, she fell heavily on to his length. The shaft jerked with a spasmodic rhythm, shooting the white-hot spray of his seed deep into her cleft. Her velvety inner walls were treated to a staccato titillation as his cock pulsed. The sensation was so fulfilling that Sky felt her own orgasm wrench its way through her body.

Easing herself away from him, she watched his still-twitching shaft as it slipped from her satisfied hole. A dollop of thick white semen sprayed at her flat stomach and fell there like whipped cream.

As his euphoria began to wane, Sky realised John was staring at the spatter of come.

‘Lick it off,’ she told him sharply.

For a moment, she saw a flicker of rebellion lighting his eye. The expression was only there for an instant, quickly replaced by a look of alarm. John began to shake his head and tried to tell her that he did not want to lick his own come from her bare belly. But Sky was no longer listening.

‘I’ll get my crop, if that will help you.’ She made as if to climb from the stool.

‘OK,’ he told her quickly. ‘I’ll do it.’ He sounded weak and defeated as the words were torn from his throat.

Sky did not allow him the chance to reconsider his decision. Forcing her stomach towards his mouth, she waited until she felt the warm tip of his tongue trail over her flesh. He made a muffled sound beneath her, as though he was gagging at the taste, but this simply made her smile broaden.

‘I don’t just want that little smear licking up,’ she said, moving her stomach away from him. She eased herself higher up the stool to the position she had taken at first. Lowering her sodden lips over his face, she said, ‘I want you to lick me properly clean.’

With a moan of despair, John pushed his tongue inside her and began to lap at his spent seed.

Sky laughed softly as his tongue teased the spilt fluid from her sex. She knew she was beyond the point of enjoying another orgasm but it was still a pleasing sensation to have him lick her in such a way. His obvious reluctance and painful unhappiness served only to heighten her enjoyment. Sky rubbed the lips of her sex hard against his face, continuing to press close to him long after he had licked the last droplet of his come from the depths of her cleft. When she was finally satisfied with his submission, she stepped from the birthing-stool, picked up her riding crop, and returned it to her briefcase.

‘I won’t help you to hurt anyone,’ he said suddenly. ‘I don’t care what you do to me, but I won’t be a part of something like that, whoever it is.’

Sky had been on the point of fastening the briefcase, but she paused. She glanced back over her shoulder towards him, her frown darkening beneath the fringe of her blonde tresses. Snatching the crop back from the case, she marched swiftly to his side and brandished it at him like a pointing stick. ‘Don’t think you can start telling me what to do,’ she hissed menacingly. ‘Because you’re in no fucking position to dictate anything.’

Still secured to the stool, John struggled to back away from the woman.

Sky sliced the crop through the air twice, each time scoring the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs. His spent cock lay limp between his legs but the threat of an erection began to stir as the explosion of pain burnt into his skin.

She ignored his growing excitement. Shaking her head with frustration she struck him again with the crop. The spade-like tip brushed dangerously close to his balls and he winced as though it had hit him squarely.

Sky was panting as her anger increased. ‘I’m going to have to be more like a black widow than ever before if I intend to do this properly, aren’t I?’

His frightened expression looked pathetic but she felt no pang of sympathy for him this time. ‘You’re not going to kill me, are you?’ he whispered nervously.

Smiling, she shook her head, and raised the riding crop high in the air. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’ But I can’t trust you to go about your business and do as you’re told. Like the spider, I’m going to have you wrapped for consumption later.’

As he stared nervously up at her, the Black Widow began to laugh.

Jo Valentine flicked the double-headed sovereign high in the air. As it span on its upward spiral, she mounted the last step of the staircase and stared at her office door. A frown creased her forehead.

Painted in black, the words V
ALENTINE
I
NVESTIGATION
A
GENCY
had been peeling away from the opaque glass for the last few years. Beneath the arch of the letters, there was now a new addition. Someone had taped a small, cardboard sign to the glass: T
HIS AGENCY HAS MOVED TO NEW PREMISES:
P
OPLAR
T
REES.

The tinkle of her sovereign striking the dusty wooden floorboards snatched Jo’s thoughts away from the sign. ‘Shit,’ she growled, barely aware that she had spoken the word aloud. ‘As if the day hasn’t been bad enough…’

Jo did not bother to complete the sentence. The morning had been sufficiently depressing and she doubted things were going to improve. Reaching down for her coin, she ignored the twinge in her back and tried to decide what would be the best course of action.

The idea came to her suddenly but, when it struck, she knew it was exactly the right thing. ‘I’m going to kill the bitch,’ she said cheerfully. She pocketed the sovereign. The idea had a warming appeal and it was hard to suppress the grin it inspired. ‘Samantha Flowers is a dead woman,’ she told the empty corridor.

Turning back to the steps, Jo started down them, heading for the address she had just read. Her resolve was so great that she paused only once en route, and would not have made that stop if she had still possessed a hip flask. She drove through the early-morning traffic with more patience than was normal, distantly realising there was a reason for this uncharacteristic display of control. Her anger now had focus and she was determined to vent it.

She paused outside the Poplar Trees, trying not to be impressed by its welcoming exterior. She was familiar enough with the area. The office complex was a recent addition to the city’s outskirts, playing host to a wide variety of professional services. A handful of Jo’s clients used the solicitors who worked from the building and she had recently dealt with a software company at this address. They each seemed like respectable businesses with high-profile, go-getting images.

Jo had despised both of them for their pretensions.

Flanked by a handful of high-reaching poplars, the building was designed to look simultaneously modern and old-fashioned. Bathed in glorious morning sunlight, against a cloudless blue sky, Poplar Trees could not have looked more inviting. It had a heavily stated air of ‘olde worlde’ charm that Jo always found irritating. She quashed the feeling, determined to direct her anger at Sam. She had never been very good at placing architectural styles and could not say what era it was meant to imitate. The building was an amalgamation of yellow Yorkshire stone and gold-tinted glass, with ornate Roman pillars guarding the entrance. Admittedly, it was a little more prestigious than the battered doorway of her previous premises, and Jo had to concede that the address was slightly more respectable than ‘above the off licence, opposite the 24-hours garage.’ But she wilfully ignored its affectation of respectability.

She was surprised to see that there was a freshly painted parking spot on the forecourt. Her surname was emblazoned on the black tarmac in bright-yellow letters. It was a pleasant touch and it would have mellowed her mood if she had not seen Sam’s convertible parked in the spot next to it.

The sight of the blazing-red Lotus rekindled her anger. In the shadow of Sam’s brilliantly polished sportscar, her own rust-eaten Ford Fiesta looked poxier than ever. As Jo parked her car, she contemplated scratching her own vehicle against the side of Sam’s. The only thing that stopped her was the fear of losing the Fiesta’s precarious front wing. She consoled herself with the thought that she could do just as much damage to Sam’s paintwork with the edge of her double-headed sovereign. Murderous thoughts still filled her mind and they continued to rage within her as she stormed into the building’s reception area.

‘Can I help you?’

Jo glanced at the pretty, blonde receptionist, trying to take in the sumptuous surroundings of the building at the same time. A gold name badge with B
ECKY
printed on it hovered over the swell of her right breast.

‘I’m here to murder Samantha Flowers,’ Jo said calmly. ‘Can you tell me where her office is?’

‘Excuse me?’ Becky started hesitantly.

‘Ignore my grumpy friend,’ Sam said, appearing on Jo’s left. As always, she looked radiant. Long red hair flowed over the shoulders of her bottle-green jacket, framing her pretty, bespectacled face and accentuating the modest swell of her pert breasts. The short skirt she wore revealed long, coltish legs and Jo glanced at them with reluctant admiration. Sam was not wearing stockings this morning and Jo found her gaze drawn to the smooth cream-coloured flesh of her partner’s legs.

Sam grinned easily at Jo, then turned her attention to Becky. ‘This is my partner, Jo Valentine,’ she explained. ‘And I suppose it would be best if you got to know her, so she can get into her new office.’

Jo glared at Sam and then flashed Becky a tight smile. ‘It would be nice to stop and chat for a moment,’ she said with forced sweetness. ‘But Samantha here has a problem with her breathing and I’m about to sort that out.’

Becky frowned and struggled to find something appropriate to say. Before she could manage it, Jo had grabbed Sam’s arm and dragged her out of the reception area.

Sam walked quickly alongside Jo, seemingly untroubled by the arm-lock she was being held in. They marched through the long, richly carpeted corridors, Sam occasionally tugging at Jo so they got to the right destination.

The corridors were lined with the occasional mirror and Jo caught sight of her own reflection as they walked. She was surprised by the way she seemed to fit into the smart decor of the building around her. Her anger was still smouldering and she had expected to see a wild-eyed lunatic staring back at her. Instead, she saw that her tailored suit was looking as good as ever, drawing attention to the inviting rise of her ample breasts. The navy trousers concealed her long, muscular legs, but, with the jacket open, the high waist accentuated her slenderness. She appraised the reflection with a flash of her dark eyes, noting that her long, brown hair had retained the loose, flamboyant style she had opted for that morning. It was almost disappointing that she did not look like a potential murderess. That was the image she had wanted to project.

‘How’s your morning been, darling?’ Sam asked pleasantly.

Jo was trying to ignore the rising excitement that always affected her when she held Sam close. She felt perfectly entitled to harbour a degree of animosity after the annoyance of the morning, but it was difficult to hold on to the feeling. The gentle pressure of Sam’s breast against her arm was an intoxicating aphrodisiac and her intimate use of the word ‘darling’ did not help.

‘My morning has been shit,’ Jo growled.

Sam gave her a sympathetic frown. ‘Do I take it you’re not overly pleased with my little surprise?’ she asked carefully.

Jo stopped and glared at Sam. ‘Do you mean this place?’

‘It’s the most prestigious address I could find.’ Sam grinned cheerfully. ‘And don’t you think it’s the prettiest building imaginable?’

‘I think it looks a stylised latrine. We’ll discuss it more when we reach our office.’ She glanced around the corridor they were in and tried to decide which way she should be heading. ‘This is like a rat’s maze. Do I get a piece of cheese when I find the right door?’

‘This way,’ Sam said, pulling them forward. ‘What did Doctor McMahon have to say to you?’

Jo took a deep breath, trying to keep her thoughts focused on her anger. She suddenly wished she had told Sam just how furious she was at the unannounced change of address. Having to talk about her trip to the doctor’s that morning was bound to disperse some of her exasperation.

‘Doctor McMahon is a third-rate quack,’ Jo snapped. ‘And I’m not sure that her qualification is legitimate.’

‘Did she say that you were working too hard?’

Jo stopped and studied Sam’s face. The dark-green eyes behind her spectacles were difficult to read but she could sense that her partner was trying to conceal something. ‘You’ve talked to the bitch,’ she gasped, shocked by the realisation. ‘Hasn’t that woman heard of patient confidentiality?’

Sam shrugged. ‘Perhaps they don’t teach that to third-rate quacks. A fortnight’s R and R is what she told me. She also said that a detoxification clinic might not be a bad idea.’

‘I can’t do detoxification.’ Jo hated the defensive position she was being forced to adopt. ‘I have difficulty saying the fucking word for a start. Besides, the only thing that keeps my body going is the steady diet of impurities.’

‘You need a break and you need to get into better physical shape,’ Sam said calmly. ‘I can always sort something out for you. All you have to say is –’

Speaking over Sam’s offer, Jo said firmly, ‘I have no intention of taking a break. And unless you want to discuss it some more with your friend Doctor McMahon, the topic is well and truly closed.’

Sam shook her head and leant forward. Her lips met Jo’s and suddenly the pair of them were kissing. Jo could feel her irritation being swept away as Sam’s hands caressed her body. Their tongues explored one another and she could feel the rise of her passion increase as her anger waned.

‘In here,’ Sam said, heated urgency apparent in her voice. She pulled Jo through a doorway, kissing her again as they went into the office. Jo had a moment to read the words on the door, then it was pushed closed. They were still kissing when the words she had read finally hit home.

‘Flowers and Valentine.’ She broke out of Sam’s embrace and opened the door to read the name again. ‘You put your name first,’ she screeched incredulously. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done that. I told you that it sounds like a bloody florist or a card shop.’

Sam shrugged. ‘You told me we could do it that way last night.’

Jo rolled her eyes. ‘I was drunk last night,’ she said petulantly. She used the excuse as though it qualified her position.

Sam shrugged again and said, ‘You’re drunk most nights.’ Her tone of voice was infuriatingly neutral and free from accusation. ‘Perhaps Doctor McMahon’s advice isn’t as poorly diagnosed as you thought.’

Jo glared sullenly at Sam, chewing her lip with rising annoyance. ‘I want my name to go first,’ she said flatly.

‘And Valentine and Flowers won’t sound like a card shop?’ Sam commented with quiet irony.

Jo continued to glare at her.

‘It’s a bit late now, anyway,’ Sam said, sounding as though she was dismissing the topic. ‘The business cards are being printed and the stationery will be delivered this afternoon.’ She took a step towards Jo and reached for the buttons on the front of her blouse. ‘Are you wearing that lingerie I bought for you yesterday?’

Jo considered slapping the hands away, her anger with Sam still rankling. If it had not been for the excitement inspired by the redhead’s touch, she felt sure she would have done it. ‘I’m wearing them,’ Jo said, her tone indicating that her mood was still volatile.

She watched Sam’s fingers move down her blouse and tease the buttons from their holes. The sight of her own cleavage, and Sam’s finger’s brushing against the warm flesh, was more exciting than she wanted to contemplate. The spreading heat of her arousal was already beginning to spark fires deep inside. Jo could feel all attempts at resistance failing.

Inwardly, she cursed. The partnership had been in operation for a fortnight and already it was beginning to work to a pattern that she was not happy with. Sam would do something to annoy her and Jo would become angry. Then Sam would become all pliant and remorseful and Jo would allow her to do whatever she had been doing in the first place. If it had not been for the pliant and remorseful stage, Jo would have stopped the partnership. As it was, the pliant and remorseful stage was invariably sexual, torrid and extremely gratifying.

Still unfastening the buttons, Sam stepped closer and kissed Jo. The intrusion of her tongue was welcome and Jo felt the last of her anger disappear.

‘I’m sorry about the company name,’ Sam whispered. ‘If you want me to change it to Valentine and Flowers, then I shall.’

Jo shrugged, wishing Sam would do more kissing and less talking. ‘Whatever,’ she conceded. ‘I guess we’ll be doing the same work regardless of the company name.’ She gave a tight grin and tried to ignore the triumphant smile that illuminated Sam’s eyes.

‘That looks gorgeous on you,’ Sam said, pulling Jo’s blouse open.

Jo glanced down at the balconette bra she was wearing and found herself agreeing with Sam’s verdict. The semicircles of her areolae were clearly visible above the midnight-blue satin. As she watched Sam’s fingers brushing against the dusky-pink flesh, she felt her arousal increase.

‘It’s not too tight here, is it?’ Sam asked. She eased the tip of her index finger inside the bra and nonchalantly stroked Jo’s breast to indicate where she meant. There was a knowing glint to her smile and Jo felt sure Sam was aware of the arousal she inspired.

‘It’s getting tighter,’ Jo said, excitement darkening the words. She could feel the thrust of her stiffening nipples against the satin. The subtle tickle of pleasure deepened her breathing.

‘Do you want to see how mine looks?’ Sam asked, reaching for the buttons of her jacket. ‘I’m wearing the same style as you.’

Jo glanced nervously around. Even though the office had her name on the door, she still felt like an intruder in the place. She took in the pastel-pink walls and the modern, stylish furniture at a glance, then turned her attention back to Sam. She had removed her jacket, revealing that all she wore beneath it was a balconette bra identical to Jo’s.

‘I’m still pissed at you,’ Jo whispered.

‘You have every right to be, I guess. I should have consulted you before I moved us from Old Kent Road to Mayfair, but I wanted it to be a surprise.’