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Authors: Natasha Rostova

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BOOK: The Naked Truth
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‘Yes, I know,’ Callie muttered. She squirmed underneath him, wishing he would take off her nightshirt completely and fondle her breasts. ‘Logan –’
‘Hush.’
Callie bit her lip in annoyance. He never spoke when they made love, never said a word, touching her in his quiet, restrained way as if she might break. He settled between her thighs, reaching down to guide his penis into her as if he were threading the eye of a needle. His breathing grew ragged, hot against her skin, as he pushed her open for his slow penetration.
Grasping the hem of her nightshirt, Callie pulled it over her head. She wrapped her arms around Logan’s back, flexing her fingers against his smooth muscles. Her nipples brushed deliciously against his chest, stimulating her arousal all the more. She reached down to grip his hard buttocks, forcing him closer.
‘Harder,’ she whispered, her voice strained as he began thrusting into her with measured control. She longed to feel him really pound into her with a force that would shake her very soul; to feel him drive into her until he could go no further.
‘Shh.’ Logan slid his fingers down to rub her clit with deliberate concentration.
Callie nearly groaned in frustration over his lack of passion. Heaven forbid anything should make him actually enjoy the sexual act.
She wanted to plead with him, wanted to scream at him to fuck her, to squeal like a banshee and feel her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, but she knew, as she always did, that her pleas would be to no avail. She closed her eyes to block out the sight of her husband’s dispassionate features and let her mind fill with images of a much rawer variety. An orgiastic feast, that’s what she wanted; one in which she was the main course and the guests were all hulking men with pricks like tree trunks and no hesitations about fucking her to the edge of consciousness. Wine would flow freely at this bacchanalian celebration, lubricating their senses and eradicating their inhibitions. She’d be splayed out on a table, every orifice open for penetration, her skin damp with sweat and the air filled with the musky scent of sex. Gold jewellery would drip from her neck and silver rings encircle her fingers and toes, as if she were a sacrifice laid out for the pleasure of the gods.
The men would pour wine from their mouths into hers, then dribble it into her navel and lick it up with thirsty tongues. They would pour it into her pussy and drink as if she were their only oasis in the parched heat of a desert, their lips sucking her until she had to beg them to please stop. Then rough, callused hands would grab at her breasts and pinch her nipples, then push her thighs apart so that, one after another, the men could drive relentlessly into her. Grunting and panting, they would use her as if they hadn’t had a woman in years, pumping into her cunt like oil drills and forcing her into every conceivable position.
She would then be on her hands and knees, her buttocks thrust into the air as one man filled her from behind and another pushed his cock into her mouth, then on her back with her knees pushed clear up to her shoulders, then on her side with her leg over a man’s shoulder. It would last for such a long time that she’d be sore from all the thrusting, her nipples swollen from bites, her jaw aching from sucking cock after cock, the bitter taste of come coating her tongue. And every man at the banquet would still be craving her, their appetites insatiable. They would let her rest and drink wine to cleanse her mouth. A lush, female servant with breasts spilling from her bodice would wipe Callie’s tender pussy with a perfumed cloth before the men started getting restless and hard with the need to fuck her once more. And then it would start all over again as they made her straddle one of the men and ride him hard. Then she would bend forwards so that another man could probe at her arse, forcing her open until she was filled with two cocks in a delicious double penetration that left her gasping and exhausted.
‘Wider.’ Logan’s whispered command broke through the haze of Callie’s fantasy.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to look at him as she wrapped her legs around his back. Logan’s hips pushed against her inner thighs, his chest pressing against her breasts as his cock slid in and out of her with gentle thrusts; so restrained that even his climax barely jerked his body against her. His low groan sounded as stifled as Callie’s whimpers. Thanks to her fantasy, she came with a ripple of small shudders that vibrated pleasantly through her body but hardly satisfied her intense need. Logan held her against him and used his fingers to milk the last, sweet sensations from her. As soon as their breathing quietened, he moved away from her and lay back on his side of the bed.
Callie’s chest tightened. She found her discarded nightshirt and slipped it on, suddenly disliking her nakedness. She looked at her husband for a moment, the shadows crawling over his hard, straight features – features that were so often completely inscrutable. His eyelashes lay like tiny feathers against his cheeks. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to let her fingertips wander over his face and into his thick, black hair, but then he spoke.
‘Go to sleep, calla lily,’ Logan said, his voice thick with impending slumber.
‘Are you having an affair?’
Logan opened his eyes to look at her. ‘Where in the hell did that come from?’
The knot in Callie’s chest tightened. ‘You’ve never been exactly passionate with me. I was wondering if you are with someone else.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never been unfaithful to you.’
‘Then what’s the matter?’
‘The
matter
is that you’re being foolish.’ He closed his eyes again, his voice as flat and hard as a board. ‘Callie, go to sleep.’
Without touching him, Callie turned her back on Logan and pulled the sheet over her body.
‘Ladies, ladies!’ Marcia Garrett stood up in front of the group of women and clapped her hands sharply. ‘May I have your attention, please? This meeting must come to order.’
The fifty women settled down from their weekly gossip and turned their attention to Marcia, a tall, slender blonde dressed to the nines in a peach-coloured, linen suit with matching fingernail polish, a French twist and a strand of pearls around her neck.
‘We’ve decided that this summer’s charity project will be a Ladies’ Guild cookbook,’ Marcia announced. ‘We’d like everyone to contribute their favourite recipes and menus.’
Sitting towards the back of the room, Callie brushed a piece of lint off her skirt and wondered just how long it took Marcia Garrett to prepare to present herself to the world every day.
‘You know, her husband is fucking her niece,’ said a low voice in Callie’s ear.
Callie turned to stare at her sister in surprise. ‘You’re joking.’
Gloria Harper shook her head, a little smile playing about her perfectly lined lips. Her streaked, blonde hair was teased into a coif that resembled a large cream puff, and her face was enhanced by expensive cosmetics. Like most of the other women, she wore a designer suit, except hers revealed a substantial amount of abundant cleavage.
‘I most certainly am not. The girl is nineteen, can you believe that? Her pussy must be as tight as a vise.’
Callie stifled a chuckle. It was always funny to hear coarse words in Gloria’s honeyed, cloud-like voice. ‘Does Marcia know?’
‘She suspects, but of course she’s not going to leave Roger,’ Gloria whispered. ‘She told me that last month. He has too much money, and he made her sign a prenuptial agreement. If she leaves him, she’s finished in society.’
Callie’s amusement drained quickly as she thought about Marcia’s plight. Pity that so many women were in similar situations. At least Logan had never asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement, not that she wanted any of his money anyway.
‘That’s a bit sad,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t bother feeling sorry for Marcia, sugar,’ Gloria whispered. ‘She has a few secrets herself, you know.’
‘Callie and Gloria, will you volunteer to be in charge of collecting the recipes?’ Marcia called.
‘Yes, Marcia, we’d be most delighted,’ Gloria replied in a cheery voice. ‘What a wonderful idea this is.’
The women all applauded politely in agreement as Marcia beamed. She went on talking about other Ladies’ Guild projects and charities before the meeting was adjourned. Then they gathered around the side table, where coffee and cakes had been laid out.
‘Callie, thank you again for a lovely evening the other night.’ A red-tipped hand grasped Callie’s arm, and she turned to face Anna Winningham. ‘Harold and I enjoyed ourselves.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ Callie replied, easing her arm out of the other woman’s grip. ‘You know my sister Gloria.’
‘Of course.’ The two women exchanged air kisses.
‘Harold was saying what a lucky man Logan is to have a wife like you,’ Anna went on, her voice dripping with such sweetness that Callie thought she would surely be plagued by cavities.
‘That’s very kind,’ Callie replied.
‘Such a nice figure and all, although of course you’re not exactly a Playboy Bunny, are you?’
Callie sensed Gloria stiffen in indignation. At thirty-five, Gloria was eight years older than Callie and always got her feathers ruffled when someone insulted her younger sister.
‘Well, Anna, isn’t it interesting how that didn’t seem to have bothered your husband?’ Gloria retorted.
Anna’s lips thinned into a tight line. ‘How would you know, Gloria?’
‘Oh, please.’ Gloria waved her hand in the air dismissingly. ‘Everyone knows that your husband has an eye for any woman in town. So long as she’s not you, of course.’
‘How dare you!’ Anna gasped in outrage, two spots of colour appearing on her white cheeks. ‘You weren’t even there last night, although I should tell you that your sister was behaving like quite a little flirt.’
‘Good for her,’ Gloria said. ‘It seems to have worked on your husband.’
Anna’s eyes narrowed as she turned her attention to Callie. ‘Are you sleeping with my husband? Because if you are, I’m going to drag your name through the mud so quickly your head will spin. And believe me, Callie, it wouldn’t take much to do that.’
‘Anna, I wouldn’t sleep with your husband for all the orgasms in Italy.’
‘Yes, and please refrain from insulting my sister,’ Gloria chimed in. ‘With a husband like Logan, you think she’s going to go after Harold Winningham? Please, Anna. I thought even you could work out something as simple as that.’
‘You didn’t see her rubbing up against my husband.’ Anna gave Callie a warning look. ‘If I find out you’ve been sniffing around Harold, I warn you, you’ll pay for it.’
‘No need to worry,’ Gloria replied. ‘Tell Harold he’s just going to have to continue fantasising about Callie while he’s fucking you.’
A few heads turned in their direction. Anna’s skin darkened to a deep red before she spun on her heel and stalked away.
‘Bitch,’ Gloria said cheerfully. She plucked a teacake off the table and popped it in her mouth. ‘Was she right, though? You actually flirted? That’s not like you, sugar.’
‘Well, I’m not a demure Miss Muffet,’ Callie replied. She was somewhat irked by Gloria’s surprise, especially since she considered herself to be quite confident. More so than most women would be if they had been stifled in such a marriage, anyway.
Still, she had always known that she didn’t fit into the upper stratum of society in which Logan and her sister moved with such fluid ease. No, Callie had always harboured a fear that she would say or do the wrong thing, that she would embarrass Logan somehow. Or that the polished women with their perfect fingernails and hair would see through her fragile veneer to the lower-class roots from which she had sprung.
‘I never said you were,’ Gloria said, ‘But you’ve never been a flirt, either.’
‘Well, Logan and I were arguing, and I guess I was trying to prove a point,’ Callie admitted. ‘It was pretty stupid, but I wanted to see how he would react.’
‘And how did he react?’
‘In the same disapproving way he always does. I don’t know why I expected anything different.’
Gloria glanced around and took Callie’s arm. ‘Let’s get out of here. The walls not only have ears, but also very busy mouths. And I could use a drink.’
Callie suppressed the urge to comment on Gloria’s need for a drink in the middle of the afternoon. She picked up her handbag and followed her sister outside. The air was damp and hot as the sun began burning through the river fog.
Callie took a deep breath as they walked, enjoying the air and the historic nature of this part of the city. The Old Savannah landscape was a mixture of crumbling Victorian mansions, townhouses embellished with pillared porches and wrought-iron balconies, and rows of shops and stores. Oak trees dripping with Spanish moss appeared like huge giants guarding their lair.
‘Aren’t we going to 45 South?’ Callie asked, realising that her sister was leading her to a side street off Martin Luther King boulevard.
‘I don’t want to go there,’ Gloria replied. ‘I’m sick of the smell of perfume and hair spray. Come on.’
She curled her hand around Callie’s arm and guided her towards a set of concrete steps that led to a dank, greasy pub with a flashing, neon beer sign in the window. Callie blinked as they stepped inside, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. A long, scarred bar dominated the room, along with a few wooden tables and chairs. A few dockers in torn jeans and T-shirts stood around drinking beer and shooting pool. Several low whistles reverberated in the air as Callie and Gloria walked to the bar.
BOOK: The Naked Truth
7.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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