Joe had a funny look on his face as he watched this exchange. I could not read it. It wasn't jealousy, but he was obviously entertaining unfamiliar thoughts.
As I'd expected, Joe and
Desi
paired off for a round of billiards. That left Sean and me coupled at the second table. I'd played exactly twice in my life and I was pitiful. I sent three balls in a row crashing over the edge. Sean howled with laughter. When Marianne offered to take my place, I was more than willing to let her, but Sean insisted I just needed a lesson from an expert.
'Relax, sweetheart,’ he said, surrounding my body from behind. 'Let a master show you how it's done.'
For the next six shots, his hands covered mine on the stick, half-guiding, half-caressing. His hips spooned my hips; his knees nudged my thighs; and every so often his breath, warm and coffee-scented, stirred the curls at the back of my neck. At first, I thought the Casanova act might be for his cousin's benefit, but the healthy erection that brushed my bum with every shot suggested otherwise.
'Aim
ze
stick towards
ze
hole,’ he said, making me giggle at his awful French accent - and his double entendre, which he underscored by sticking his tongue in my ear.
'Jesus,’ I heard Marianne mutter.
Fearing she'd make a scene and ruin Joe's night, I insisted she take a turn. Unlike me, Marianne knew which end of the cue was which. Sean still trounced her - twice. Losing did not improve her mood, or the fact that whenever she was shooting Sean wrapped me in his arms and nuzzled my neck.
Refusing to play any more, she ordered a third man-
hattan
, a pack of cigarettes, and lounged back against the billiard room's bar. The ice cubes tinkled in her glass as she tucked a Virginia Slim between her full red lips. She lit it deftly, then watched Joe and
Desi
amble and joke their way around the table. Each burst of laughter inspired a frown. Between puffs, her fingers drummed the elbow of the hand that held her drink.
Despite the miasma of vice that clung to her person, she looked more attractive than I could ever remember seeing her. She was always attractive, it was true, but tonight her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed with angry
colour
. Her high, apple-perfect breasts jiggled within the clasp of her short blue dress. Her nipples pointed straight out like tiny electrified points. Waiters ogled them. Customers licked their lips. Frankly, I didn't know where Desmond
Gerrard
found the strength to ignore her, unless this was how he maintained their balance of power.
Women like Marianne did not reward overt adulation. Look at poor Keith. Marianne hadn't had a kind word to say to him since he'd kissed her feet in
Square
"Thanks for bringing
Desi
to the play,’ I said, hoping to jolly her out of her funk. 'I know it means a lot to Joe to meet a big name so early in his career.'
'Right.' She blew a double stream of smoke through her nostrils.
Her acerbity made me wonder why she had brought
Desi
. If she'd hoped to earn Joe's undying gratitude, that ploy had failed. 'How did you and
Desi
meet?' I asked, suddenly curious.
She gazed across the room at her escort. Her eyes narrowed to black-rimmed silver slits.
Desi
sank a shot and shook his cue in a little victory dance. Marianne's upper lip curled derisively, as if she knew all his shameful secrets - but perhaps the sneer was the effect of her dangling cigarette.
'We have complementary interests,’ she said, and beyond that I could not draw her.
Hours later, Sean, Joe and I lay sprawled before a crackling fire at my townhouse. Both men had discarded their jackets and ties, I'd kicked off my torturous heels, and we all sipped the Courvoisier Sean had bought to mark the occasion. Combined with the beer I'd drunk at dinner and the heat of the fire, the brandy had me nodding.
But I wasn't too sleepy to notice how quiet Joe had been since we left the restaurant. He hunkered before the fire, idly prodding a log with the poker, his eyes hooded with private thoughts.
Sean rolled on to his back and balanced the balloon glass on his breastbone. 'So,' he said, when the latest shower of sparks died down. 'What did
Mr
Broadway have to say?'
Joe replaced the poker in its stand. 'He says I've got charisma.'
'And?' Sean prompted.
Joe bit his lower lip. His chest expanded with a slow inhalation. 'He says he knows an agent in
"That's great.' I reached out to squeeze his knee.
Joe still looked glum. 'He says he'd represent me as an actor.' His nose wrinkled on the word. 'He says my music isn't mature enough yet.'
'Ah, what does he know?' Sean said.
Joe shoved his hair back from his face. Blue shadows smudged the hollows beneath his eyes, and the firelight picked out two faint lines radiating from the corner of each lid. The marks made my own eyes wrinkle in sympathy. 'Desmond
Gerrard
knows a hell of a lot more than I do,' he said, sounding as tired as he looked. 'In the last ten years he hasn't produced one flop. If he says my music needs more seasoning, he's probably right.'
I pushed myself upright and smoothed his tiny worry lines. Joe leant into the caress and closed his eyes. I knew I loved him then, with all my wary heart. I also knew I had to help him find the courage to pursue his dream. 'Would you really hate being an actor?' I asked, treading carefully. 'Because it could be a good experience. You'd learn more about the way theatre works, and you'd meet people who might be useful later on. Plus you'd be in
York
. If you're really serious, isn't that where you need to be?'
'Yes.' His head sank on to my shoulder. 'But I don't want to leave you.'
'Oh, baby.' Understanding his conflict all too well, I rubbed his back in slow, reassuring passes. I wished I could promise it would all work out.
'You
gotta
go see this guy,' Sean said, speaking for all of us. 'If you don't at least try, you'll never stop kicking yourself.'
Joe moaned a soft protest into my neck, then pushed back and shook off his melancholy. 'The agent might not even like me,’ he said more cheerfully.
But I sincerely doubted that would be the case.
I woke before dawn, a sure sign I'd overindulged the night before.
Rather than lie in bed staring at the ceiling, I decided to leave for work early and get a jump on cleaning -maybe even buy a batch of sticky buns for my hardworking employees. Christmas was coming and, in this season of irate customers and overtime, a boss could never suck up too much.
With the sun barely up, the shop's interior remained a collection of wide, oblique shadows. It creaked and groaned like an old house, and smelled deliriously of coffee beans and ageing books.
Locking the street door behind me, I dumped my bag, coat, and the platter of buns behind the front counter. After a brief debate over whether I should nab one right away, I headed for the closet where we stored the vacuum. I'd burn a few calories cleaning. Then I'd misbehave.
The sound of muffled voices, a man and a woman's, brought me up short outside our office.
The female voice could only be Marianne's - and from the groans that interspersed the conversation, she wasn't going over the books.
Damn, damn, damn. I pinched my lower lip. As I saw it, I had three choices: I could leave quietly; I could make a lot of noise and alert them to my presence; or I could barge in and demand to know why Marianne was using our office as a trysting place.
The final option tempted, but I wasn't up for a confrontation. Besides, I'd transgressed once myself. Memories of my back-room ball game with Sean flooded back. I remembered the way he'd manhandled me over to the ladder, the way he'd filled me so snugly, the sounds he'd made when he came. Worst of all, we had our tryst during business hours.
What if Marianne decided to throw that back in my face?
With that in mind, I opted for making noise. They'd pull themselves together as soon as I switched on the vacuum. I began to tiptoe past the door. Just as I did, the man's voice rose in volume - an over-enunciated literature professor's voice. No doubt about it, Desmond
Gerrard
was in there with Marianne.
'I simply can't, darling.' He heaved a sigh of deep carnal suffering. 'You're the best, the absolute best and it kills me to refuse you anything, but the boy has real talent.'
He groaned again, louder this time. I cursed the interruption. Was Joe 'the boy' and, if so, what did Marianne want Desmond to do to him? I strained to hear her response.
'You know no one does it like I do,' she purred.
'Too true, but - Oh, yes, a tad tighter, darling. Yes, that's perfect. The thing is, the boy is extremely good. You saw those women creaming in their pants last night - the men, too, truth be told. Someone is bound to snap him up and make a big deal of him. He's a young Mel Gibson, a new Brad Pitt -' His accolade ended on a sharp yelp.
'You promised,' Marianne said, low and dangerous.
I heard a loud, fleshy smack.
'No so hard,' he complained.
She's spanking him, I thought, but even that revelation couldn't
prise
my ear from the door.
'You've been very bad,' said Marianne. Another smack resounded through the office, and another yelp. 'Going back on your word. I ought to beat you, you bloody, little man.
'No, no,’ Desmond pleaded, his voice hoarse with excitement. 'I tell you, Joe Capriccio's going to be somebody. If it gets out that I lured him to
If they hadn't been so engrossed in their game, they would have heard my gasp of outrage.
'So deny it,' Marianne said, punctuating her advice with a sharp wallop. 'It'll be your word against his. Who's going to believe some wide-eyed fairy from Philly?'
I'd heard enough. I slammed the door open so hard, a picture fell off the opposite wall. Despite my fury, tine tableau that met my eyes temporarily shocked me speechless.
Desmond
Gerrard
was crouched doggy-style along the front of my desk, naked but for an assortment of metal-studded leather straps. What looked like clothes line secured his right wrist to one desk leg and his right ankle to the other. He didn't look as good without his power suit. His butt sagged a little, and his belly. Apart from the pink spank marks on his bottom, he was fish-belly pale. His erection, however, had to be the largest I'd ever seen - ten inches at least, and thick to boot.
He shrieked in horror at my intrusion. Kneeling up as well as he could with two limbs restrained, he tried to shield his scarlet monster from view. Even as he pressed the shaft down between his legs, it twitched violently and spilt a puddle of pre-come on to the floorboards. Intellectually, he might hate getting caught with his pants down, but physically, he was ready to explode with excitement.
My clit quivered with an inappropriate frisson of interest. All I could think was that nobody would make a mouthful of that humongous beast.
'Like what you see?' Marianne drawled. 'Bet you'd like a crack at mat swizzle stick.'
I turned to her for the first time and did my second double take. She wore a form-fitting latex dress, black and very shiny, with a long zip up the front, no sleeves, and a hem that failed to fully cover her fishnet-clad bottom cheeks. Five-inch heels encased her long, elegant feet and she gripped a ping-pong paddle in one hand. She smacked it periodically against her palm - keeping it warm, I guessed.
As usual, she looked great - hot as hell and completely in control. Even though I hated what she'd tried to do to Joe, I couldn't help admiring her balls. She hadn't turned a hair at my unexpected entrance.
Desi
moaned, clearly inflamed by our battle of wills. Fat beads of sweat rolled into his cloud of silver chest hair. He clutched the shaft of his cock with his unbound hand, gripping it so hard his knuckles paled.
Marianne glanced at him and scowled. 'Bad!' She flicked him sharply across the chest with her paddle.
Desi
cried out as the blow stung the sensitive pinpoint at the centre of his pectoral. 'Did I give you permission to touch yourself?'
'No, mistress.'
Desi
bowed his head. He removed his hand from his cock. It sprang back against his belly. Struck dumb with fascination, I watched the huge phallus swell and contract with the pumping of his heart. Another trickle of fluid overflowed the winking eye. I expected him to come any second but - though he shivered like a wet dog - he managed to stave off that last crucial loss of control.
'Well?' said Marianne, returning her attention to me. 'I assume you overheard. Are you going to scold me now or ogle my slave?' She struck her palm with the paddle again, her eyes lingering coolly on my breasts. It didn't take a genius to conclude she longed to squash me under her five-inch heel as well.
I knew now why I'd always held back on forming an equal partnership with Marianne - despite her periodic requests to change our contract's terms. 'Pack up your desk,’ I said.
Til
mail you a redundancy
cheque
.'