“Did I give you permission to touch yourself?” he demanded, sensing what she wanted from him.
“I'm sorry but I want you to fuck me. I just couldn't wait.”
“You'll wait until I'm good and ready, girl.” He forced his expression into a serious frown when all he wanted to do was laugh at the silliness of her little game.
It might be a game, but it was having the desired effect. His cock was iron between his legs.
“You've forced me to do this.” He grabbed her panties and they tore with a loud ripping sound. Then without warning, he stuck his fingers between her legs and into the warm sanctuary of her body. His fingers were soaked as he thrust them in and out of her pussy.
He leaned forward to kiss her.
“No,” she said firmly. “That's not part of the game. No kissing.”
He gave her an apologetic shrug as he spread her legs and pressed his lips to the downy softness of her pussy. She didn't seem to mind this, so he kissed and licked her until she whimpered like a kitten.
“Take off your bra,” he commanded.
Her eyes were bright with anticipation as she removed the undergarment and threw it across the room.
He lay back on the bed and folded his hands behind his head. “Now, walk around the room so I can inspect you.”
Fiona walked back and forth in front of the bed wearing only a garter belt, black stockings and heels. Her hair was pinned up and she managed to look dignified and professional, even though she was practically naked. Sean found this to be an amazing aphrodisiac, and he stroked himself as his gaze followed her progress around the room. She was definitely a world class beauty. Her firm, round breasts and prominent pink nipples seemed to beg for attention.
“Will that be all, captain?” she purred. “Or do you require something more?”
“Get on this bed, you little tart. The discipline isn't over yet.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Rushing to the bed, she got down on her hands and knees once again.
Sean enjoyed this first taste of decadent, sexual power in the bedroom, even if they were only pretending. He pinched her bottom and then spanked it. “I want some of this. Come and sit on my face.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make yourself useful while I'm licking your ass.”
“It'll be my pleasure, sir.”
She straddled his body and then took his cock in her mouth. He slid his tongue into her pussy and then nibbled on her substantial bottom as she sucked him. As his licking became more feverish, Fiona moved her hips back and forth across his face. He hoped she wouldn't break his nose with her frenzied gyrations. As she moved faster and faster, back and forth, and from side to side, Sean felt himself ready to come. He wanted to last longer, so he rolled out from under her and took a deep breath.
“On all fours,” he commanded.
She quickly obliged.
He poised himself behind her. “I don't want to disturb the other passengers so I'm closing the curtain.” He paused for effect. “Now I'm going to fuck your sweet, little cunt.”
“The condoms are in the drawer, sir, as I'm sure you already know.”
He opened the nightstand and pulled out a condom. She had come prepared to fuck him and this made him feel about sixteen years old as he fumbled with the wrapper. For a moment he admired Fiona's shapely rear and then he thrust himself into the softness of her warm and willing pussy.
“This is the discipline I warned you about,” he growled. “Maybe next time you'll follow the rules on my aircraft.”
“I promise I will.”
A bolt of fierce, hedonistic pleasure shot through his body as he imagined them actually screwing each other in the galley of a fully-loaded plane.
“Faster, “ she cried. “Fuck me, Captain Merrick!”
His erection was so hard it felt like granite between his legs. He tried to think of other things so he could hold out until she came. Her small mewls of excitement grew louder until she cried out with joyful enthusiasm.
He couldn't wait any longer. With a primitive, animal groan, he allowed himself to come with an urgency he hadn't experienced since he was a teenager. He leaned forward to kiss her neck, but then remembered her no-kissing rule and stopped himself.
As he lay back on the bed exhausted, he knew one thing for certain: he had thoroughly enjoyed Fiona's little game.
They made love, or fucked each other's brains out, as Fiona described it, for the rest of the day and into the evening. When they were finally sated and had no energy left to spend, they fell across each other and drifted into sleep.
As the first gleaming of sunlight touched his face, Sean reached for her, but she wasn't there. He felt only the empty mattress where she had slept the previous night. He opened his eyes and saw the folded note laying on her pillow. He opened it and read:
Good morning Captain Merrick,
I'm off to Istanbul at noon and you were so worn out, I didn't want to wake you. I'm glad to know I'm the one who wore you out! *giggle* To tell you the truth, I could barely walk this morning! I should probably call you, “Sex on two legs!” Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime. I enjoyed having you run into me! Whenever I'm bending over in the galley, I'll think of you, Mr. Stud Muffin.
Congratulations - you're back in the game! I'm sure some lucky girl will sweep you off your feet before you know what hit you. Too bad it won't be me, but I've got years of fucking ahead of me before I settle down with just one guy.
So many men, so little time! It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it! *sigh*
Hugs,
Fiona
Back in the game? He thought about their time together and wondered why he no longer felt guilty. He knew Robert would have experienced no qualms if he'd been the one screwing Fiona. And why should he? After all, he was single. Sean sat up in bed as realization slammed into him. For the first time since Amanda's death, he accepted the fact he was a single man once again.
Chapter 3
Brian Donald McCabe splashed water on his face and then reached for the faded, dingy towel which hung from the rack near the mirror. The towel smelled of mold, and he flung it away from him. What else could you expect from a fourth-rate rathole which barely qualified as a hotel? Brian knew it didn't matter because soon, very soon, he would be staying at Claridges or the Savoy, or one of those other stinking, high-class London hotels.
The operation would be a success. He could feel it in his soul.
The flight had been canceled until the following day due to bad weather, but that didn't matter either. The timetable was flexible because the weapons were already on board. His team was well-trained and disciplined. They were also fanatics, but he understood what made them tick.
The job had been left uncompleted on 9/11, and now it was time to finish what others had started years earlier. This time, there would be no mistakes. He had two people working from the inside, and they would make sure his men got into the cockpit without any problems. The other three men, known as muscle hijackers, would kill any passenger who resisted.
Kill the first sheep and the rest would follow where they were led. It never failed.
Brian stared at his face in the dirty, distorted mirror. The plan was so beautiful, so foolproof, it was almost a work of art. And he had thought of it! Brian McCabe, former college dropout, who had bummed around the world for years until he met the group of fanatic fundamentalists who had accepted him and indoctrinated him into their cause. And he did believe in their cause. It was just that he also believed in the almighty dollar, and in putting aside something for his old age.
His team would hijack the aircraft and then fly it into the White House. Was that a work of genius or what? Brian's involvement would provide him a nest egg which could support him for the rest of his life. They would land at the designated location, and then he'd pick up his money from the multi-billionaire who was financing the operation. The plane would be refueled and then take off for Washington. This time the
re would be no mistakes. Brian wouldn't be accompanying them on the last leg of the journey because he'd be sitting pretty on his ten million dollar nest egg.
He laughed as he looked around the cramped, tawdry hotel room. Soon it would be first class all the way for Brian Donald McCabe.
Chapter 4
Larissa Christie brushed a strand of hair away from her face as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Then she turned to look at the lovely hotel suite which had been her home for the past few days. The press junket for her latest film was about to move to the United States, and she found herself already missing London.
She was excited, but also apprehensive about her first trip to the United States. She would finally see New York City, and she planned to make the most of her visit. There would be gifts to buy for friends and family, as well as an evening at the Metropolitan Opera, not to mention a photo layout at the Empire State Building.
However, the highlight of her visit would be a side trip to Friendship House, the hospice for children she had founded in memory of her late husband, Claude. Her husband had always wanted a house full of children, but it never happened for them. During a routine exam to check for reasons why Larissa hadn't become pregnant after months of trying, the doctors had discovered a problem with Claude's blood.
Leukemia.
Larissa took a mental inventory of everything she had packed for the trip. There were toys and books for the children at Friendship House, as well as a trunk filled with suitable clothing for the many public appearances she would be expected to make. First on the list was the New York premiere of her latest film, Primal Urge, which was sure to draw a huge crowd because of the popularity of her male co-star, Ian Renard.
After years of struggle, she had finally reached the top strata of movie stardom. If this film was a hit, she might find herself one of the top-earning actresses in the world. She turned her gaze to the exquisite crimson gown which lay across the bed in a cloud of silk and taffeta. She had chosen it specifically for the premiere and imagined herself wearing it as she ran the gauntlet of photographers and journalists. She had a responsibility to look her best even when she was out of the public eye. There were always photographers lurking around every corner, hoping to catch her at her worst.
Mon Dieu! Would they never give up?
As she packed the lovely gown away in her trunk, she remembered some of the ridiculous headlines she'd seen about herself in the tabloids:
Larissa Christie develops a drinking problem.
I was Larissa Christie's love slave.
Is Larissa as sweet as she pretends to be?
Her face burned with embarrassment whenever she caught a glimpse of an unflattering headline. Fortunately, she wasn't well known in America, so perhaps she could escape the pack of paparazzi and blend in with everyone else in New York.
It was time to call for a taxi to take her to the airport. She picked up her cell phone but before she could dial the number, the phone began to ring.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello Larissa, this is Ian. How are you?”
“Very well. And you?”
“Much better now that I hear your voice.”
She laughed. The English actor Ian Renard was the most outrageous flirt she had ever met.
“Listen, I have news for you, luv.” His voice grew serious. “The flight's been canceled until tomorrow because of this freak snowstorm. The airport's shut down.”
Larissa looked out the window and saw nothing but a curtain of blowing snow.
“Snow in September,” he said. “Can you believe it? Must have something to do with global warming.”
“But wouldn't global warming make it hotter, instead of cold?”
He laughed. “I hadn't thought about it, but that makes sense.”
“Thank you for telling me about the flight,” she said. “I was just about to phone for a taxi.”
He was silent a moment. “So are you doing anything right now, besides not going to the airport?”
“Not really.” She flopped down on the sofa. “My room is booked until tomorrow, so I suppose I'll call and order some dinner.”
“Would you care for some company?”
“Why?” she countered.
Ian was gorgeous, but he wasn't really her type. She preferred blond men. Still, she had to admire his persistence. He had pursued her from the first day of filming and continued to phone her once the film had wrapped.
“Why do I want to come to your room?” he asked. “Hmm, let's see. I can think of several reasons. Would you like to hear them?”
“Please.” Her mouth turned up at the corners, and she found herself enjoying the conversation.
“Well, I'm just down the hall, which makes it convenient to pop over. At the moment, I'm so bored I'm playing solitaire with myself. That is, I'm playing solitaire.”
She giggled.
“I thought it would be nice to have dinner with a beautiful lady,” he continued, “instead of sitting in front of the TV watching the storm coverage.”
She enjoyed listening to his warm, sexy voice, the same voice which had melted the hearts of women from Alaska to Zaire.
Did he seem a bit nervous? She was probably imagining that because Ian had no reason to be nervous around her, especially when he could snap his fingers and have any woman he desired. There was no shortage of females ready to sample his dark good looks.
“So far, I like your reasoning,” she said encouragingly.
“And you're very charming,” he said quickly. “I mean, weren't you chosen as France's Ambassador of Charm?”
She laughed. “For what it's worth, yes I was.”
“And you're smart.”
“I haven't heard that one before. Most people think I'm dumb as dirt.”
“Well, I don't. You set me straight about global warming didn't you, luv?”
He was so easy to talk to. She found herself wanting the conversation to go on and on.
“Let me see,” he said slowly. “What else can I say?”
“Do you know my room number?”
“Does that mean—”
She smiled. “Come over for dinner at seven.”
“Oh yes, I mean I'll be there, er, thank you.”
After she hung up the phone, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the plush softness of the sofa. This might turn into an enjoyable evening after all. It would certainly take her mind off Claude since she was becoming positively morose as she struggled through the second anniversary of his death. He wouldn't want her to feel depressed so she pushed his kindly face to the back of her mind. Instead, she pictured Ian's handsome profile and tall, lean frame.
Every week during filming, his fan letters had arrived by the truckload. All those letters, all those women. Any of whom would trade places with her in a split second.
This was the same man who was pursuing her, who wanted her.
At least until the next woman caught his fancy. Because there was always a new woman for Ian Renard.
She allowed herself to imagine his muscular, athletic body reclining against the silk sheets in the adjoining bedroom. Anticipation rippled through her in a delicious shiver.
If only he were a blond.
Chapter 5
“So who's the next woman on your list?” Larissa speared a piece of grilled salmon with her fork. “I'm curious to know.”
She sat across from Ian enjoying one of the Highsmith Hotel's five-star meals. He had convinced her to have dinner with him at the hotel's premier restaurant, instead of ordering room service as she had planned. The restaurant was lit by a myriad of candles which projected a romantic, rosy glow and encouraged quiet intimacy among the diners. London's Hyde Park was visible from the nearby window, blanketed with snow and glimmering silently under the streetlights like a long-forgotten ice kingdom.
“My list?” Ian stammered.
Larissa frowned. “Ian, if we're going to be friends, you need to understand something. I ex
pect honesty from the people I share a meal with.”
He lowered his gaze to the Boeuf Bourginon on his plate.
“Everyone, from lighting to wardrobe, knows about your list,” she continued. “It's not a secret.”
“Ahh, the list.” He managed to look chagrined before his face shifted back to its signature expression of brooding introspection.
“Are you going to answer me or not?” She raised an eyebrow as she studied him. The wine they ordered with dinner was working its magic, and she reveled in the relaxed mood it generated, even if it was only temporary.
He looked up from his plate, his gaze a warm and flirtatious mask. His eyes were large and dark in the glow from the candlelight.
“Sitting here with you, I'm having trouble remembering my own name,” he finally said. “Who can remember anything about a stupid list?”
“Don't change the subject.”
He reached for his glass of Pinot Noir. “If you really must know, I hope to meet Chelsea Lynn in the near future.”
“She's quite a beauty, even if she's been married three times and not even twenty-five yet.”
He frowned. “I guess I've blown my chance with you, haven't I?”
Not necessarily, she thought. For some reason, he was looking more and more desirable as the evening went on.
Instead of answering his question, Larissa asked one of her own. “When did you come up with the idea for your infamous list?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Well, it's like this. I made a bet with a couple of guys on the crew of my first film. I told them there were a number of ladies I wanted to meet during my lifetime. They bet me I couldn't have all of them.”
“I see. So what do you get if you win?”
“If I manage to accomplish my goal, the blokes will give me five hundred pounds a piece.”
“Not much money for all your hard work,” Larissa mused. “Perhaps you should stick to your day job.”
He flashed her the grin that kept women swooning over him and buying tickets to his films.
She took another sip of wine. “I guess I should be flattered to be included. How many names do you have left?”
Hostages of Love (Siren Publishing Allure) Page 2
