Authors: Dawn Steele
But he is starving
now. Somewhere along the day, he had forgotten to eat. The last meal he had was in jail. The food wasn’t too bad, but he was too upset to eat more than a mouthful of it. Then there was that Starbucks cappuccino from which he took a sip of, but he had nothing else thereafter. Yeah, talk about forgetting to eat.
So he sits by the bed and watches her
sleep as he devours his sandwich. He tries to be as quiet as possible with his chewing, and he makes sure that he doesn’t make any ponderous movements to shake the mattress.
He observes how her eyelashes curl
against her cheeks. She is really such a pretty girl, and she doesn’t even make a big deal out of it. He loves that about her. Loves the way she springs to rescue him even when he didn’t know he needed rescuing. Loves the way she hasn’t seemed to give up on him although he isn’t her idea of the perfect boyfriend.
When he gets out of this mess, he swears he will do something to break the habit of being dependent on
his body to make ends meet. He should take more jobs like the mural at Billy Dee’s. Maybe he can even do book covers and advertising copies. New York City is a mecca for advertising and publishing after all. He should go straight and decent.
She is right
about him, only that he is too ashamed to admit it to himself.
When he has finished eating, his stomach feels
bloated and painful. He realizes he should have taken it slow after a prolonged fast instead of wolfing it all in.
Real smart, Devon
. He slowly puts the plate aside. It is still half-filled with sandwiches, the ones he made for Abby. Then he takes a quick shower and towels himself dry.
He puts on a pair of comfortable shorts, and then he climbs into bed with Abby. He is extra careful not to
disturb her. Then he falls asleep beside her.
*
Devon wakes up, only to find Abby staring at him in the morning light. She has her arm on one elbow and her head resting upon her crooked arm.
She smiles down at him.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
He blinks his sleep-encrusted eyes.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
He groans. His body feels beat up.
“Tell me what
happened in the last three days was a dream,” he says.
“Unfortunately, it was not a dream, but I’m positive we can beat it, Devon. We can beat anything if we put our mind
s to it.”
“Wow. What happened last night
to make you into Ms. Positive Thinking?”
Her smile widens. “I don’t know. I woke up early, and I was going over what happened with my Dad and everything else, and I figured that if I could make a stand where he is concerned and let the truth prevail, then we can make a stand for anything.”
“It isn’t your stand to make.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that. We’re in this together, whether you accept it
or not. You didn’t leave me on your doorstep to get pneumonia when you first met me. I could have been a vagrant. So I’m not going to leave you when you’re in trouble either. We are partners, and partners don’t do that to each other.”
Even if they have secrets to keep? he wants to ask. But he smiles instead.
“Yeah. Give me time to wrap my mind around it.”
Partners. He likes the word. It implies so much more than just
blind passion. Partners strategize together. Help each other out.
“Abby – ”
His hand reaches for her cheek. A choke wells up in his throat. He is getting super-emotional lately.
“Don’t say anything,” she whispers, her eyes glistening.
And then they are in each other’s arms. It seems like forever since they have embraced, and he relishes the touch and feel of her soft skin, the press of her soft, separated lips on his mouth. He shudders, his hormonal need making his usual morning chubby even harder.
“My, my,” she says against his mouth. Her hand is upon his crotch.
She massages his cock, and it rears against her groping palm.
“You always could get me hard,” he remarks.
“I know.”
She throws back the covers to admire his erection, which is tenting his
shorts. She hooks two thumbs into his waistband and pulls down his pants. He wears nothing underneath, of course, and his penis immediately springs up like a lever.
“It’s beautiful,” she avows.
“Thank you.”
“Wanker.”
Her head bends down and she takes it into her mouth. He squirms, moaning at the hot, wet velvet rush of her soft inner cheeks and slick tongue. She licks his crown lavishly, eliciting more sounds from his throat. Her tongue burrows into his slit. His hands creep down to guide her head, and his fingers entangle themselves into her hair.
“God, don’t stop,” he says, his breathing growing harsher.
She makes zigzagging patterns upon his crown and shaft. Delicious shudders run up and down his groin. He constricts his balls, lifting them upward. Now and then, a spasm of absolute pleasure would explode in his groin and travel up the curved column of his backbone. His hands altercate between gripping her hair and the sheets.
“Careful,” he warns her, “if you go on like this, I will come.”
For answer, she nibbles the rod of his shaft. He almost comes then and there, but he reins himself in. He doesn’t want to come into her mouth. He wants to save his seed for when he gets to fuck her.
“Let me ma
ke love to you,” he says to her gently.
There is a difference in what he is doing with her
and what he does (did) with Rachel Krieg, Claire and the others. With Abby, every gesture is tempered with care. He gives pleasure to her because he wants to, not because he is paid to.
“OK, but I want to be on top,” she says.
He laughs.
“Boy, are you the dominant one this morning.”
She rips off her brassiere and panties. Her pert, young breasts bounce out. They aren’t very big, but he likes them this way. Her pubic hair is a nice thatch of darkness in the triangle between her legs.
She straddles his hips, her thighs wide open. Her pussy rubs against his cock.
“Wait, let me get a condom,” he says.
“No. I want to feel you raw.”
“Abby.” His tone is a warning one. “I have been with plenty of other women and I don’t want something that came from them infecting you.”
She pouts, and he knows she said it on a dare. She seizes his cock and begins stroking her pussy with it, beginning with the hood of her clit down to the folds that make up the flower of her vagina. His pre-cum oozes out of his
slit and stains her tender flesh.
“Abby.”
“OK, OK, OK. I get it. You don’t want to get me pregnant.”
“Among other things.”
She knows where he keeps his condoms – on the bedside table drawer. She reaches for his stash now. When she returns to her position, she has a silver foil packet between her teeth. She rips one corner of it off and takes out the damp piece of rubber. She slides it onto his cock expertly.
“Wow, you’re a real
pro now,” he teases.
“Only with you.”
She raises her hips and lowers them onto his cock. He can feel his hard flesh impaling her slowly, inch by pleasurable inch.
“Ohhhhhh,” he moans.
Her face is contorted with rapture. Her eyes are closed and her features are strained.
“This feels so good.” Her breathing is ragged.
“I know. I could do this forever.”
Ooops, he thinks. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
But Abby doesn’t seem to notice his reference to his moonlighting activities. She finds her balance as he buries himself deep within her, and she starts to rock herself slowly on his hips. Her breasts move enticingly as she does so, and he finds himself growing harder inside her sweet, velvety tunnel.
She rocks herself back and forth, oscillating on his cock as though it were a
gear stick.
“Squeeze me,” he says, his voice throaty.
She does, and he almost comes again, but staves off his orgasm until he can see her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate with her climbing ecstasy.
She throws back her head and cries out. It is then he allows himself his release. He can feel his life-giving sap pouring forth, gushing into the thin space provided by the membranous condom. The very sperm Rachel wanted and had obviously procured throug
h deception.
She collapses on him, her chest heaving and her forehead d
amp. He is sweating himself. The moist warmth of her torso nourishes his skin. His hands stroke her hair lovingly. How could he even think of hurting this woman who had given him her all? How foolish he was. So foolish.
His cellphone vibrates on the bedside table. He had put it on
vibrate mode for the night, chiefly for fear of disturbing Abby.
“Leave it,” Abby murmurs. She is very replete and content. Her voice is smoky with sexual satisfaction
. What comes out of her throat is almost a purr.
He smiles into her hair. She shifts her body on top of his so that her arms sink into the natural depression between his. He breathes in
the scent of her skin.
His phone stops vibrating. Then it starts up again. It is like a slap to their brief moment of happiness.
He groans. “It could be important.”
“I know.”
She gets up so that he can reach out to grab his phone. The display shows ‘Pat Chalmers’.
“Devon?” the lawyer says irritably. “Why didn’t you pick up?”
“Sorry, I was asleep.”
“I wouldn’t call you unless it wa
s important, so pick up next time, OK?”
Jeez, she is in a grumpy mood
.
He sits up. “I’m all ears. What happened?”
“The early coroner report is out. They found something in Rachel Krieg’s body.” Her tone is grim. “Meet me in an hour at my office.”
They dress quickly. It is already eleven o’ clock in the morning. He has slept fo
r so long, tired out by his travails and tribulations.
“Did she say what it was over the phone?” Abby asks, anxious.
“No. Only that it was an early coroner’s report.” He is as nervous as she is, but he is trying hard not to show it.
“But I thought she died from a blow to the head. The coroner’s report was supposed to have confirmed that.”
“I know.”
His mind runs w
ith all sorts of possibilities. Forensics had picked up the shards of the shattered vase, the presumed murder weapon, for identified fingerprints. This is not the forensic report but the coroner’s, which means what Pat has to tell him has something to do with the body.
The body.
He shivers even to think of it. Rachel was so alive. So vibrant.
They take a cab, not wanting to chance an extra
fifteen minutes changing trains on the subway. They arrive at Pat Chalmers’s office on the eighteenth floor of her building near Wall Street. Riding up in the elevator, Devon is reminded of another recent elevator ride in Rachel Krieg’s SoHo building – the final one that would change his life forever.
Pat Chalmers is the youngest legal partner in Baker and Buchanan, a law firm which specializes in property
negotiations, but offers legal defense services for some of their more coveted clients. Devon and Abby are shown by the receptionist to a meeting room.
“Money talks,” Abby mutters.
“Huh?”
“
When I went to Helmut Dresschler’s office earlier, they thought I was a snot-nosed, penniless kid. So they gave me the runaround until I threw weight.”
He grins. “When I first met you, I thought you were a snot-nosed, penniless kid. That’s why I took you in.”
She smiles gratefully. “And that’s why I knew from the start that you were different from a lot of other guys.”
“It’s nothing anyone else wouldn’t do under the circumstances.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. It isn’t easy growing up as the daughter to a sugar baron in the South. There are plenty of people who are nice to you only because of who your father is. If I weren’t who I was, plenty of them would kick me aside when given the chance.”
He sincerely doubts it.
Pat Chalmers arrives with a case file.
“Good to see you awake, Devon.”
“It has been a long couple of days, so I entitled to a little rest, I’m sure you’d agree,” he retorts.
“Point taken and sarcasm duly noted,” she shoots back.
They all seat themselves at the bare table. Pat opens the folder and takes out the first sheet.
“Coroner’s autopsy report,” she says. “Please go through it.”
Devon cringes. He feels queasy all of a sudden.