Dance of the Rogue

by Cris Anson

  “Anyone for refreshments?” Fantine asked in an unnaturally perky voice.

  At their agreement, Fantine poured the yellowish liquid into tall, ice-filled glasses and served. They raised their glasses in toast. “To family,” said Fantine.

  “To family,” grandmother and grandson echoed.

  “Tastes just like yours,” Rolf said, watching Fantine settle into her chair on Nonie’s other side.

  “How do you know that, young man?”

  Rolf could feel his ears turning hot. He hoped they didn’t get red enough for Nonie to think he was remembering what they’d done in Fantine’s bed prior to tasting her freshly squeezed lemonade. “She invited me for refreshments in her RV after she tracked me down.”

  Then he stopped as a startling thought hit him. “Fantine isn’t your blood relation, right? She and I aren’t related?”

  “No, but she’s a child of my heart.”

  “And you’re the grandmother of my heart,” Fantine replied with a loving smile.

  Rolf controlled the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. Nonie didn’t have to know they had already had sex.

  They talked until darkness fell outside the many-windowed room, asking questions and sharing anecdotes of their lives. Rolf couldn’t help comparing Nonie’s vitality, her penchant for laughing, with his Grandma Ingrid, whose dour countenance and straitlaced outlook on life had discouraged climbing on her lap or stealing freshly baked cookies. When she’d died shortly after Rolf had graduated high school, it hadn’t made much of a dent in his life. This woman, his other grandmother, had already made an impact with her warmth and unreserved welcome of him into her life.

  He felt as if he’d come home.

  Finally Fantine rose to switch on the lights. And her stomach growled.

  Nonie laughed at the impertinence. “She’s done that since she was a kid.”

  “I’ll call out for Chinese. What would you like?”

  “No need, dearest, there’s a cold platter in the spare fridge in the pantry.”

  “You think of everything,” Fantine said, stooping down to kiss Nonie’s temple. “I’ll bring it here.”

  “Why don’t you show Rolf his room first? I’m assuming you brought a suitcase, young man. We’ll eat when you come down.”

  Until that very minute, Rolf hadn’t considered where he’d be staying tonight. He’d been too excited at meeting his Nonie. “Oh please, I don’t want to be a burden—”

  “Nonsense. I’ve had the housekeeper fix up Randolph’s room for you. Fantine, you’ll stay tonight too, won’t you? I know I’ll need your help in the morning.”

  She turned to Rolf. “Fantine has her own room here. Like I’ve said, she’s family.”

  It was all Rolf could do to keep his Magnum quiet at the thought of Fantine sleeping nearby. He wondered if—

  Dammit, couldn’t he think about anything other than his cock? He’d just met his grandmother, for crying out loud. He had to grow up. And fast.

  * * * * *

  His father’s room. Rolf was going to sleep in his father’s room, the room his father had grown up in, the bed he’d slept in as a child, as a teenager.

  After washing up and brushing his teeth in the hall bathroom, he set his grooming kit on the dresser, draped his pants over a wooden hanger then prowled the room in his black briefs. A model sailing ship with three masts stood under a protective Lucite enclosure. Had his father carved the hull, or constructed the yard-long structure from a kit?

  A shelf at shoulder level displayed a dried-up coconut, a sparkling geode, several arrowheads and a dozen depictions of wolves in wood, stone, ivory and other substances. He wondered how many live wolves Randolph Dwyer had encountered in his various travels. Were there wolves in Alaska? He’d bet Fantine would know. She knew so much about so many things.

  Did Nonie keep this room as a shrine? Or had she just left the knickknacks because they were pleasing to the eye? Or maybe she just didn’t have the energy to change it.

  Rolf recalled hugging the old woman goodnight. She’d grasped him in a surprisingly strong embrace as he stooped down to accommodate her. There were tears in her eyes. And in his.

  He hardly remembered eating. The cold platter contained boiled shrimp, grilled chicken slivers, potato salad and marinated vegetables. He wondered what his father’s favorite meal had been, if he preferred beer or hard liquor, if he hated cauliflower, as Rolf did, and what kind of car he’d favored.

  The room was cool. The hundred-year-old house had apparently been upgraded with central air-conditioning. Rolf pulled down the blue-and-green plaid spread, revealing navy blue sheets. Had this been his father’s choice of colors?

  Damn, but he was too keyed up to climb into bed, never mind close his eyes and try to sleep. He checked out the bookcase in the far corner. Adventure books, westerns, a few Micheners, war novels, Alex Haley’s Roots.

  Roots. That’s what he’d been missing. That’s why he’d felt off-kilter so much. He’d only known some of his roots.

  He pulled out a book at random. He wasn’t much of a reader, but maybe reading would help him sleep. “On the Road. Jack Kerouac. Wonder how the guy pronounced his name.”

  The copyright date, he saw, was 1957. His father would have been a teenager then. Had he read it? Had he read all these books on the shelves? Rolf couldn’t remember the last time he read a book. In high school he checked out the Cliff Notes version instead of doing literature assignments. He’d been too busy with his Magnum.

  Rolf slipped into the chair at the small desk in one corner. Had his father done homework on this desk? Was he a good student? What would he think of the way Rolf was living his life? Of his mediocre grades in high school?

  He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the open book when he was roused by a soft knock on the door.

  “Rolf? Are you all right?”

  Fantine. He looked at the book in his hands. Page three. So much for his becoming a reader.

  He eased the chair away from the desk and went to open the door. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Oh. I saw the light on and knocked…”

  She probably realized it the same time he did. They were both almost naked, both barefoot. Rolf stood in nothing but his snug navy briefs. Fantine wore a silky, clingy white nightgown with skinny straps, her unbound breasts swaying with her every breath.

  Instant boner.

  Jesus, Rolf! You’re in your grandmother’s house!

  “Fantine, I—”

  “Would you like me to massage your neck? I’m sure you’re tense from everything that’s happened today.” Her voice was low, breathy.

  “Nonie—”

  “Is asleep across the hall. If you’d rather, my room is on the far side of the house. She won’t hear us there.”

  He gave up trying to be noble and hauled her into a fierce embrace, bending down the few inches he needed to capture her mouth in a kiss that left no prisoners. His teeth scraped against her lip, his hand held her head in a vise.

  “Fantine,” he gasped, trembling. “Everything’s just too much to take. I think I’m going to explode.”

  She slid her hands down his arms, her warm palms making his muscles flex as they moved to capture his hands. “My room. Come.”

  Blindly he stumbled behind her as she pulled him down the central hall to a short hall off to the right, passing by what at one time must have been a servants’ narrow stairway, and into her room. She locked the door behind them.

  For a moment he simply stood. It wasn’t a frilly room, but it was feminine. A deep rose shade on the walls, oyster-colored area rug that felt soft under his bare feet, a four-poster bed with a silken canopy. A flowered pink top sheet flung back to reveal her body’s imprint on the mattress.

  Her bra lying across a low-backed chair by a dressing table.

  He groaned. “What will she think—”

  “Hush. She won’t hear us if I stuff your mouth with a pair of my panties.”

  Th
at erotic suggestion broke him out of his catatonic state. He whipped his head around. “And if I stuff you with my Magnum, will you be as quiet as a mouse?”

  “Maybe we’ll find out later.” Fantine pulled him toward the bed. “Right now, it’s facedown for you. I promised you a massage.”

  With a semblance of his bad-boy grin, he tucked his thumbs inside the elastic of his briefs in unmistakable intent.

  “No,” she said, jerking back the sheet to the foot of the bed. “This massage will be strictly therapeutic.” She pointed an imperious finger. “Down.”

  He looked at his bulging briefs. “Uh, not quite…”

  “Lie down. Now.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Nurse Ratched.” Slowly, sinuously, he put one knee then both palms on the mattress then the other knee, making sure his ass jutted out in invitation, and crawled into position in the center of the bed, lying down with his face to one side, arms stretched out so his fingertips almost curled over the edges. Queen-size bed, he thought. Queen-size woman, too.

  Both of them just right.

  Giving in to the moment, Rolf took a deep breath, closed his eyes, felt himself relaxing.

  Until Fantine climbed on the bed and positioned her knees at his waist, settled her naked—dammit—butt on his tight briefs. “Not fair,” he sputtered, feeling his Magnum jerk to a higher state of alertness as he noted the pile of white silk she’d tossed on the floor.

  “I’m the nurse. You just relax.”

  He pulled his elbows up and torqued his body just enough to see her luscious breasts hanging free, swaying, jiggling. “Relax. Yeah, right. You’re cruel.”

  “You’ll thank me later. Now behave.”

  He felt her scoot back a bit. Then a sharp smack against his ass cheek startled a yelp out of him.

  “That’s payback for when you spanked me.” Another slap. “Except I have to be satisfied with a covered target.”

  “I can fix that.” He drew himself up on his elbows to roll her over onto her back so he could remove his briefs.

  Quick as a lightning flash, she flopped down on him, collapsing his elbows by jerking his wrists out to the edges of the bed, and lay on top of him. “I’m going to give you a massage if I have to tie you down and beat you up.”

  Rolf smothered a short bark of laughter. “I love it when you talk dirty. Okay, I give up. Do your thing.”

  “At last, a semblance of intelligence.”

  He felt her reach to the side table then smelled peppercorns, musk and leather as she uncapped something. The first drops dribbling onto his heated skin zapped him right to his cock. How the hell was he supposed to relax if she—

  Then her fingers dug into the nerves on either side of his shoulders and he closed his eyes, groaning in ecstasy. Fantine alternately rubbed smooth then pressed deep, catching every tight muscle, working between his vertebrae until he felt like a used washcloth, wrung out and limp.

  Her fingers continued working his spine down to his tailbone, sweeping his briefs lower as she moved. Limp? Had he just thought himself limp? His Magnum fired up with hot blood as her hands cupped his ass cheeks, her fingers wiggled down into his crack and started knocking on his hole.

  Rolf’s hips lifted, drawing a low chuckle out of Fantine.

  “You should be an inert lump by now.”

  “Inert, no way. Lump, yes. Want me to show you my lump?”

  “Not yet.”

  Before his hips settled back on the mattress, Fantine snaked one hand to his belly and carefully dislodged the elastic band that had snagged on his rampant cock. He moaned when her hand slid down said cock then left the area, dragging the briefs down his legs and shucking them off his feet.

  Another surge of fragrance as she smeared more oil on her palms then damn near blew his eyebrows off when she wrapped one hand around his cock and slid a finger of the other inside his asshole. Obligingly he shifted to lie sideways to give her access to both ends, then lost the ability to speak, even to think. Heaven beckoned in the slither of her hand up and down his cock, now caressing, now squeezing, now skimming his cock head, all the while finger-fucking his asshole until his hips rocked and bucked and garbled sounds spewed out of his mouth.

  His balls tightened painfully. He felt the force of his semen gathering, swelling, felt himself tensing into a rigid knot of nerve endings. Just as he was about to explode, Fantine buried her head in his crotch and took the tip of his cock in her hot mouth, her restless hand still shagging the rest of it, her finger still ramming his ass, rubbing an inner spot he’d never known he had. He shoved his face into a pillow to stifle the roar trying to escape his mouth and ejected wave after wave of cum into her with the strength of a fire hose at full bore.

  The earth dissolved into nothingness. Rolf felt as though his brain had fried and a vacuum existed where words and thoughts once resided. Finally a sound penetrated, a scrape of metal against metal. A door opening, maybe. Or closing.

  Rolf rolled onto his back with great effort.

  “Are you still alive?”

  It seemed to take forever for his eyelids to obey his command, but they finally opened to see Fantine hovering over him, a glass in her hand.

  “Drink.”

  “I don’t know if I can sit up.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, lowered the glass to his mouth. “It’s only water. I can get a straw if you need one.”

  Finally Rolf’s mental gears shifted from neutral. Water. Drink. Yes, he could do that.

  “Thank you,” he said after a few gulps of deliciously wet, cool water.

  Then as an afterthought, “Yeah, I’m still alive. Damn, Fantine, I’m glad I wasn’t standing, or I’d have gotten a concussion when I collapsed and hit my head on this hardwood floor.” He sat up in the bed, gathered her face between his hands. “You are something else. It’s going to take me the rest of the week to pay you back in kind.”

  A tender smile spread across her flushed face. “Rain check, okay? Tomorrow morning Nonie’s having Uncle Pearce come over to meet you.”

  Nonie. Good God, had he made enough noise to waken her? His ears turned hot. “How loud was I?”

  “You did fine,” she assured him, a devilish sparkle in her eye. “My pillow, now, you probably shredded it beyond repair with your teeth.”

  * * * * *

  “Friday, five p.m., my office. No later.”

  The veiled threat behind the gravelly voice sent a chill of terror up Pearce’s spine. “I told you I’m good for it. She’s an old cripple. She won’t last much longer and I’m her only heir.”

  “You’ve been putting me off for months now. I need a hundred big ones by Friday or your ass is grass.”

  Sweat beaded on Pearce’s forehead, even though the air conditioner was blowing directly on him. He swept a shaking palm down his face to capture the drops that slid down his temple.

  “Look, you know how the stock market’s been lately. I’ve been selling off as much as I can, but it’s all at a loss—”

  “You think I care about your problems? Did you think about the stock market when you let me front you a hundred K on horses that didn’t do shit? Maybe I’ll fix more than your kneecaps. How’d you like to be castrated? Or maybe a finger for each ten you owe me? I could arrange a splash of acid in only one eye, so you’d be able to use the other one to come up with the rest of it before I get really nasty and rip out your Adam’s apple.”

  “Can we make a deal?” Pearce had to concentrate to keep his voice from squeaking. “I think I’ll have fifty by Friday. And—” he squeezed his eyes shut, “and if you want to help me eliminate my main obstacle, I’ll—I’ll pay you another twenty in addition to the rest of the loan.”

  A harsh laugh greeted his suggestion. “You’re expecting me to help dig you out of the pit you got yourself into? I’m a legitimate businessman, not an exterminator. I don’t get my hands dirty.”

  Pearce knew the exact opposite was true. He’d send his goons after him without blinking an eye. Bu
t in a way he was right, the shark’s hands wouldn’t be dirty. He had plenty of muscle who’d be happy to take Pearce out for good.

  “Please,” he begged. “Give me a few more—”

  “Friday.”

  The dial tone shrilled in his ear.

  Chapter Nine

  “What’s such a big secret that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  Pearce was in no mood for Aunt Rosalie’s games. He’d spent a sleepless, stomach-clenching night reviewing her stock portfolio to figure out the best way to embezzle what he needed instead of just taking his usual well-deserved “commission” from each transaction he’d performed on her behalf. He needed to spend the day online, not kowtowing to the bitch and her fancies.

  He’d decided to just sell, sell, sell and make excuses later. If he asked her outright for such a large sum, he knew she’d refuse because, as she’d said too many times in the past, she planned to live to be a hundred and needed her assets to last.

  If she lived only another hundred days, he thought, he’d be lucky. A hundred hours would be even more to his liking.

  “And good morning to you too, Pearce. You look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “I’m fine,” he growled. She looked especially sparkle-eyed today, seated in the sunroom like a queen who was going to spring some kind of trap on him.

  The breakfast table, he noticed, was set for four. In the kitchen he heard cooking noises. No doubt it was big-mouth Fantine, making her so-called famous pancakes. As if that would cure what ailed him.

  “Sit down, Pearce, and have some coffee. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  God, did he need coffee. He took it strong and black. A shot of whiskey would have suited him better, but he couldn’t let dear Aunt Rosalie know how edgy he was.

  A minute after he sat down at the table with his cup, he heard masculine footsteps cross the Mexican tile of the kitchen. A stranger entered the morning room, cradling Hercules in his arms. The damn thing was purring. Purring!