by Cris Anson
“Are you hurt?”
“My knee.” She touched her left leg, winced. “I had all my weight on my left leg, trying to reach that Helena’s Beauty in the next row, and it just gave way. Sounded like something popped.”
“Christ, with all the money you’ve got, you could hire a whole army of gardeners. Why you still have to dig in the dirt at your age, I’ll never know. You’re, what, eighty-five now? Eighty-six?”
“You watch your tone of voice with me, young man.” With a dirt-smeared goatskin glove Rosalie poked at his chest under a pristine white shirt. “I do have someone doing the heavy stuff in the yard. I was just trying to cut that exquisite golden bloom. It’s a new hybrid and it’s the first dahlia to flower. I simply had to display it on the table in the foyer.”
Pearce gritted his teeth. Whenever she called him “young man”, he wanted to wring her wrinkled neck. It was like a put-down, as if he hadn’t taken care of her stock holdings for the past ten years, as if his fifty-seven years of experience meant nothing.
Gathering his wits about him, he maneuvered behind her, fitted his hands under her armpits and tugged. “Let’s get you to your feet and see if you can put your weight on it.”
She let out another groan when she tried to balance herself on both legs.
“Shall I get the wheelbarrow and wheel you inside?” He wasn’t being facetious. He certainly wouldn’t offer to carry her. She wasn’t heavy by any means. Especially compared to that fat-butt Fantine who had somehow weaseled her way into Rosalie’s inner circle. But he made it a point of honor to lift nothing heavier than his bag of golf clubs.
“I can make it,” she said through clenched teeth. “Just help me hobble.”
By clinging to his arm—he’d made her remove her dirty gloves first—they managed to reach the sunroom through the glass door opening onto the patio, and he helped her limp into the living room. He eased her onto the striped wing chair, noticed her cell phone lying on the adjacent Duncan Phyfe table. “You should have taken the phone with you. Who knows how long you’d have lain there if I hadn’t come along.”
She waved the comment away like a pesky fly. “I was just catching my breath when you came by. I’d have crawled if I had to.”
He scribed a mocking bow in her direction. “Joan of Arc, the Queen of Sheba and Margaret Thatcher all rolled into one indomitable octogenarian who stands above all and needs no one.”
“Oh Pearce, stop being melodramatic. Really, I do appreciate the timeliness of your visit.” She pushed the lever to raise the disguised footrest of her chair. “Ah, that feels a little better.”
Sucking it in, he asked, “Should I get you an ice pack?”
“Yes please. I’m sure it will help keep the swelling down.”
Tamping down his irritation, Pearce strode through the dining room with its twelve antique Windsor chairs and into the gleaming stainless steel kitchen. The double ovens and six-burner stove reminded him of Thanksgiving dinners when he and Randolph, first cousins to a brother and sister, were teenagers. Pearce was maybe fourteen when he became aware that Rosalie, who married money, chose that holiday in particular to emphasize the difference in status between the two families—the gold-rimmed porcelain, the antique silverware, the four pieces of crystal stemware at each place setting. And his Uncle Michael had been such a wine snob too, nattering on about grand cru and first pressing and other stuff to make them feel inferior.
God. He felt like Prince Charles waiting for Queen Elizabeth to die before he could claim the crown of England. When would he get his hands on the money, the property, instead of just being her lackey?
He returned to the living room to find her fat Siamese cat, Hercules, curled on her lap. The damn thing had better not wind around his legs and shed hair on his hand-tailored trousers. Gently he set the bag of frozen peas on her swollen joint. “Do you need a pillow under your knee?”
“No, I’m fine, Pearce. Thank you.” She rearranged the bag to curve more tightly on her knee then lifted a hand to him. “Now that the excitement’s died down, you can sit down and tell me what brought you here on a hot July afternoon.”
Pearce took the offered hand, gave it a squeeze then sat on the camelback sofa at right angles to her chair, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He leaned back, crossed his ankle over the opposite knee, relaxed, confident. “I wanted you to know that I sold five thousand of your Walmart shares at their fifty-two-week high. Which was quite a feat in this down-market. Put the proceeds in tax-free municipal bonds at seven percent. In your tax bracket, that’s equivalent to eighteen percent interest.”
“You are such a dear person, Pearce. I trust you to look out for me. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
His blood pressure always rose when Rosalie mentioned his mother. She wouldn’t have died if she hadn’t been driving an old clunker whose brakes failed on a steep road in the Pocono Mountains where she’d gone to interview for a job. He settled his features into an earnest expression. “You’re the only family I have left. I have to look out for you.”
Something about Rosalie changed, Pearce noted. She sat straighter, her eyes sparkled, high color rose on her cheeks. His senses went on high alert. “What? What’s the matter?”
She avoided his gaze.
“Aunt Rosalie, what are you hiding from me?” He reached over, took her hand in a tight grip, feigned a deep concern. “What is it? Are you ill?”
Still not looking at him, she shook her head.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call Fantine and ask her to stay with you tonight?”
Rosalie finally raised her eyes to him. “She’s not here. She’s visiting in the Bucks-Montgomery County area of Pennsylvania for a few days.”
“I thought she wasn’t going to travel this summer.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she responded, “It’s only a few hours away, near Philadelphia. She’s doing some research. I’ve sent her on a quest.”
Pearce raised an eyebrow. “I thought she was such a hotshot on the computer. What couldn’t she find out on the internet?”
“On the contrary. With the meager clues she had, I think she did tremendously well. This next step she has to do in person, that’s all.”
Something in Pearce’s gut tightened. She was being too evasive. Her eyes skittered away every time they linked with his. “Aunt Rosalie, we’re family. There shouldn’t be any secrets between us.”
She scraped her teeth over her lower lip. “I don’t want to get our—my—hopes up. If this doesn’t pan out…” Her voice trailed away on something like a sigh.
He slid off the sofa and onto his knees alongside the chair, clasped her right hand in both of his. The damned cat gave him a wicked screech and scampered away at his approach. “Aunt Lee-Lee.” The nickname was a throwback to when he was a kid and couldn’t pronounce her name. He hoped using it reinforced that he was her only family and all that it implied. “Maybe if I knew what you’re looking for, I could help Fantine. Or at least, you’d have someone to talk to about it while she’s not around.”
She hesitated for a suspiciously long time. Then she said, “As soon as she calls me, I’ll let you know. It shouldn’t be too long now.”
Pearce didn’t like it. The old lady was being much too cagey. He’d have to start coming by more often and keep a more careful eye on her. His own neck might depend on it.
* * * * *
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so final, Fantine thought as she clipped her knitted skirt onto a hanger and stowed it in the tiny RV closet. It had been a while since she’d had a one-night stand. No question, Don was gorgeous, and would probably look even better without those snug jeans that hinted at a very nice package indeed. She couldn’t decide whether he was the type to screw anyone and everyone who’d spread her legs for him, or if he liked big women in general, or simply took advantage of circumstance. But he had definitely had sex on his mind.
If she’d met him on one of her trips, she’d h
ave let him continue his pursuit until she decided in his favor, which would have been no hardship. But in this time and this place, she had a job to do for Nonie and couldn’t be sidetracked.
She peeled off the matching top and put it in the laundry bag then reached up to take down her hair. A small smile played around the edges of her mouth. He’d wanted to see how long it was. Actually, she hated to wear her hair up, but she knew the rain hat wouldn’t have been enough cover, and her tresses were so thick and long that if they had gotten wet, she’d have a headache from its weight.
After all the pins were back in their box, she stood at the wall mirror in her red lace bikini panties and underwire bra while she brushed the tangles out of her hair. What would that young stud think if he saw her like this, she wondered. Just a slight wave in the long locks that reached below her shoulder blades, and wearing nothing but her two indulgences—sexy lingerie and sexier high-heeled sandals.
Setting down the brush, she brought her hands up to her breasts and skimmed her palms over their heft. She knew some might regard her as overweight, but she considered herself curvaceous and firm. And healthy. She was living proof that one could be fat and fit. She’d have to be to climb some of the mountain paths and canyon trails she’d explored over the years without overtaxing her heart. Plus she won more often than she lost at singles tennis.
She trailed her fingertips along the plump curves above the scalloped bra top, relishing the softness of skin that she religiously pampered, then lightly circled the areolas through the lace. The pleasurable sensations increased as she flicked her fingernails over the hardening nubs. Almost without volition she conjured up an image of the young stud’s oh so kissable mouth, imagined his lips closing around her breasts, his tongue laving their peaks, his teeth raking her nipples as that dark beard stubble stroked her bare skin.
Her pussy began to tingle at the thought. She skimmed down her torso lightly, picturing his mouth taking the same path as her fingers that now traced a path along the high-cut edges of her panties. He’d lick her right…there…
Lightly scratching her long fingernails back and forth across the narrow band of red silk, she felt moisture dampen her crotch. Slipping two fingers under the elastic, she envisioned herself opening her legs wide for his tongue to lap at her pussy, to part the folds that would reveal her clit…
Sensation washed through her as she moved her fingers in gentle circles that spiraled tighter and tighter until they pinpointed the core of her sex, the nub that now throbbed with need for more.
Much more, Fantine thought. Reaching for the drawer alongside the bed that took up the entire back of the RV, she retrieved Grant, her lifelike, silicone dildo that she’d named in honor of Cary Grant, the dark-eyed, sophisticated leading man of the silver screen for forty years.
Reclining atop the navy-and-turquoise paisley coverlet of the built-in queen-size bed, she let Grant slip under her panties and slide up and down her slit, the fat mushroom tip of him nosing between her nether lips to coat itself with her juices.
One leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out, she eased Grant into her hot, wet passage, stroking in and out with one hand while the other continued massaging her clit, sending shafts of electricity streaking throughout her body. Her eyes fluttered closed as she centered the young stud into her consciousness. Don was experienced, she remembered him saying, but more important, he’d probably have stamina, would fuck her a lot longer—and harder—than she could minister to herself.
The speed of her strokes quickened, as did her heartbeat and the flow of her juices. Unconsciously she licked her lips, almost tasting him, the salt of his sweat, the rasp of his beard against her mouth as he pounded her into the mattress with that Adonis body. She flailed her head from side to side, her long hair tangling around her sweat-slicked neck, felt herself exploding, spiraling out of control. With the masculine scent of Don and her female essence in her nostrils, she cried out a long, incoherent moan as a climax ripped out of her.
“Christ, woman, I’ve never been so turned-on in my life.”
“What the—” Fantine sat up as far as she could—the dildo was still inside her pussy—her breath coming in harsh pants, her hot juices seeping out onto the coverlet. “Don! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Watching the sexiest woman in the world playing with herself.”
Fantine made a move to swing her legs to the floor so she could confront him eye to eye, but belatedly realized Grant still lay captive between her labia. With as much dignity as she could muster, she rolled to her side and, in what she hoped was a casual, surreptitious move, slipped the dildo out of her pussy and under the pillow. Then she paced the four or five steps from the bed to where he stood, one shoulder casually propped against the refrigerator. In her three-inch heels she didn’t need to crick her neck to look into his eyes.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
He shrugged. “Door was unlocked.”
Oh dear, she’d simply assumed it was locked. Had her unconscious mind kept her from double-checking every door in hopes of just such a situation? The thought irked her. “What are you, a stalker? Why didn’t you knock?”
“I don’t need to stalk,” he said, sounding indignant. “I just wanted to get to know you. And I did knock. Three times. When I heard you moaning, I thought maybe you needed help.”
His eyes sparkled when he said that, and she fought to keep her face grim and angry. But damn, it was hard to not look at the tremendous bulge in his well-worn jeans. He really was turned-on.
“Damn, woman, you put your whole heart and soul into that performance. Your skin looks all rosy and glowing. And there’s a dribble of, uh, something trickling down your thigh. Had a high ol’ time with that little thing, didn’t you?”
Fantine raised her chin, tried to gain control of the situation. “Well, yes. I managed quite well, didn’t I? As you can see, I don’t need any help from little boys.”
“I’m not a boy. And I’m prepared to prove it.”
Quicker than she could blink, Don had her in a bear hug, his muscular arms encircling her just under her armpits. He lifted her effortlessly off the floor, strode to the bed and flung her down on it. He sat down alongside her and, in another move too swift for her to anticipate, flipped her, facedown, across his lap.
One hand clamped down on her neck, pressing her breasts and shoulders into the mattress, her near arm trapped against his flat belly, hipbone jutting into the crease between his thighs. With his other hand he delivered a resounding slap! to her buttock just outside the elastic of her panties.
She reared up, fighting against the pressure of his hand on her neck. “What are you doing!”
His response was another hard smack, this time to her other buttock. “That’s for calling me a little boy.”
“What?”
“Not just now, but more aggravating, back at the bar you said you’d spit out my bones after you eat me for breakfast. I guarantee, if you eat me, you’ll want to swallow everything.” He punctuated the remark with another slap!
She should be angry that a near-stranger talked so dirty to her, but damn, he’d already seen her masturbating. Against her will, Fantine felt her pussy ripple.
And another. “Four.” And another. “Five.” He smoothed his hand over the heated curve of her ass where it burned the most. Whack!
Dear God, she could feel her pussy muscles clench every time he slapped her. The first couple, unexpected as they were, felt like an affront. But each time his hand delivered another blow, it had the effect of pushing her into more intimate contact with the hard rod of his cock beneath his jeans. Lord, she had to fight the impulse to swivel her hips to position him just…so…
“Your ass is perfectly shaped, did you know that?” He caressed the burning skin with his palm, tucked the strip of crotch tighter into her crease, and sent his fingers on a slow traverse of the newly exposed skin between her ass cheeks. Suddenly she wished she’d had the foresight t
o remove her underwear before taking up with Grant the dildo.
Good grief, what was wrong with her? She didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time for him. She should have followed her first instinct to stop at the library and hook up to the internet.
She forgot all about “should have” when he leaned over her and began kissing his way up her vertebrae.
“You taste elemental.” His tongue swirled around the inner curve of her waist. “Like the first woman on earth. Salty. Musky. Ripe as a melon.” He sucked a pinch of the skin on her back into his mouth, hard enough that she knew she’d have a hickey. “Like a sex goddess.”
She’d always considered her back an erogenous zone. She couldn’t help it. She arched into him.
“You know what I mean, those ancient carvings of Earth Mother? With the substantial hips and big breasts that represented all that was desirable in a woman? That’s you. Perfectly shaped. Perfectly rounded.”
With his teeth he took another nip of her skin, this time at her shoulder blade, just inside her bra strap. She shivered.
His left hand had been moving upward in tandem with his mouth. She realized he now held his palm against her rib cage, the pad of his thumb grazing the lower curve of her breast. She held her breath, afraid to move lest she signal him that she wanted him, afraid that he’d stop if he thought she was trying to escape him.
“Don’t move,” he said, his husky voice sending another shiver through her as he slid sideways out from under her legs and off the bed.
With her shoulders now unconstrained, Fantine turned her head to see Don kneel on the floor in front of her still-stinging ass—but not before she noticed the bulge in his jeans had gotten even bigger.
“What a beautiful shade of red,” he murmured as he kissed and licked every inch of skin on both buttocks, detouring to slip his tongue into the crack covered by the bunched-up crotch of her panties. “Such a nice contrast to the rest of you that’s like the inside of an oyster shell.”
Fantine turned her head forward again so he couldn’t see her close her eyes in pleasure, although there was no way he wouldn’t notice the slight arch of her back, the lifting of her ass in subtle invitation. If this was a contest of wills, she feared she would have to eat her words about him being a little boy. He was definitely playing a grown-up game.
