Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  Shivering violently, she fell back and clutched his head to her bosom as he sucked, fluttering his tongue as delicately as hovering hummingbirds' wings. Suddenly she was aware of myriad sensations: the cool eddies of air circulating about the room, the heat emanating from both their bodies, the thrumming of his tongue—even the tickling sensations from his hair, which descended over his face like cornsilk and swept her flesh with his every movement.

  "Oh, Hans!" she breathed, pressing his head even closer into her bosom. "Hans—"

  He rolled the nipple between his teeth and glanced up at her. She was flinging her head from side to side on the pillow, her eyes wide and moist.

  He suckled and nipped and she cried out, but now her eyes were closed. Tears seeped from their corners. Her lips were parted and she was breathing heavily, as though intent upon emptying the room of its oxygen.

  Letting go of her right teat, he teased it with his fingers, tongued a moist trail to the left nipple, and bit down on it, cruelly giving the right one a squeeze.

  Her spine arched, her eyes snapped open, and she screamed, her voice reverberating from the walls. She leaned abruptly forward.

  "Hans!"

  He raised his head, the nipple still clenched between his teeth.

  She stared at him, her eyes luminous. "I never want tonight to end!"

  He laughed softly, the nipple slipping from between his lips. "We have yet to begin and already you are insatiable!"

  Her eyes continued to gleam. "And is that so bad?"

  He held her gaze. "It could be ... for a lesser man."

  Her expression did not change. "But you're not a lesser man," she said huskily.

  He smiled. "No, I'm not."

  And with that, he rolled her over and undid the entire back of her gown, peeling aside the yellow silk like a husk. He kissed the nape of her neck, then traced his tongue down the bumpy ridge of her spine. He kissed her once on each buttock and gently turned her around.

  Completely naked now, she watched him shed the restricting carapace of his clothes. Her eyes widened. Perfection he was: the sculpted beauty of a Greek masterpiece in the flesh. Imperial perfection marred only by the large deep scar running diagonally down the right side of his chest. Then her eyes fell, inexorably drawn to his manhood. A sound of disbelief rose from her throat.

  "My God!" she whispered, unable to believe her eyes. "Take me!" Kenzie whispered hoarsely. "For the love of God, Hans! What are you waiting for? Take me before I can no longer stand it!"

  Poised above the beckoning dark arrowhead of her pubis, Hannes looked down at her.

  Her response was instinctual. Parting her legs in invitation, she rocked herself backward, bringing her knees to the sides of her head and holding them there.

  Slowly he lowered himself, penetrating the petals of her sable- furred mound.

  For a split second, Kenzie saw the cosmos explode. Then he was in

  side her. She jackknifed her legs and clamped them fiercely around his torso and held tight.

  He began slowly, all the while kissing her sweetly on the lips, ears, eyes, neck, chin, breasts: anywhere his hungry mouth could reach while he thrust steadily in and out, in and out.

  Beneath him, she writhed and lifted her hips to meet him, and so harmoniously were they fused that they achieved that perfect syncopation in which two entities thought, acted, and functioned as one.

  Dazzling sensations washed over her, made her buoyant, sent her rising and dipping in the troughs of great oceanic swells.

  "Oh, God!" she moaned, feeling the stirrings of orgasmic pleasure building up strength. "Oh, Hans! Hans!"

  His tempo increased and she kept up the rhythm, thrashing and flopping wildly beneath him. Her head was whipping from side to side on the pillow, her hair in constant, frenzied motion.

  "Faster!" she cried. "Oh, Hans! Hans, I'm going to come! I can't help it! I'm— I'm—"

  Harder and faster, he now jammed into her, his hips bucking furiously.

  "Here comes!" she cried. "Oh, Hans! Hans—!" And her cries and moans became screams of ecstasy.

  Suddenly her entire body spasmed, worlds collided, and her final orgasm flung her out, out, out beyond the farthest constellations, drowning him in the flood of her juices.

  The frenzy of her climax proved too much. Hannes's face contorted in agony as an exquisite pain rushed from the base of his spine. Rearing like a bull, he threw back his head and bellowed, simultaneously jettisoning his seed inside her.

  Then his strength drained, the agony passed, and his eyes glazed. Together they collapsed, panting and still joined, into each other's arms, wracked by ever-decreasing seismic aftershocks.

  They lay there quietly, eyes unfocused, waiting for their thundering hearts, runaway pulses, and rapid breaths to return to normal.

  "Wow!" Kenzie finally whispered. "Now that was awesome!"

  "Yes," he smiled, "that it was."

  She snuggled closer, inhaling the heady, musky maleness of his sweat. With the tip of her tongue, she licked one of the sinewy, down-covered forearms which cradled her.

  His skin was warm, and tasted tart and salty.

  "Uh-oh," he said after a moment.

  "What is it?"

  He didn't need to reply. Her eyes widened as she felt the slumbering giant inside her once again beginning to stir.

  "But you just came!" she exclaimed. "Hans! Don't tell me you're horny already?"

  He laughed quietly. "It would appear so."

  "Mmm," she murmured happily. "Then we'd best do something about it, don't you think?"

  Chapter 20

  Chatter. Laughter.

  For block after block, Zandra and Karl-Heinz dissected the evening—first the party, then the crowd at the club. But, finally, they could hardly contain their curiosity about one another.

  At Fourteenth Street, the traffic light changed from green to yellow. The chauffeur gave a burst of speed and the Bentley surged through the swamped intersection, grandly parting water like the prow of a high-speed yacht. Then the big car slowed again, nosing sedately on up First Avenue, catching green lights all the way to Twenty-third.

  They spoke at the same time, then simultaneously fell silent. Looking at each other, they burst into spontaneous laughter.

  "Go on, Heinzie. You first!"

  "No, you. Please."

  "Oh, gosh. Well ... I hope you enjoyed tonight. I mean ..."

  Karl-Heinz wished he could tell her how he really felt, how he was seeing her in a completely new light, how he felt drawn to her, compelled to get to know her better, but he thought the best course of action would be to keep it light. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.

  "Zandra. Of course I had a good time. I had a wonderful time." He took one of her hands in his. "We'll have to do this again soon."

  "Oh, Heinzie," she said, "I think ... I think that would be fabulous. We've got so much to catch up on."

  Her face, flickering in the passing lights, looked so innocent—so vulnerable and beautiful—that he felt the urge to put his arms around her. Instead, he asked, "And you, Zandra? Did you really enjoy tonight as much as I did? Dancing with your long-lost old cousin?"

  "Oh, Heinzie, honestly," she laughed, "you're hardly old. And yes, I told you I enjoyed it. It was super." She thought, in fact, that she had not had so much fun for a very long time. That Heinzie was more than a little attractive, that he had qualities that she found ... well, immensely seductive.

  The Bentley pulled up in front of the Goldsmiths' pre-war, and the chauffeur came around and opened Zandra's door.

  "Zan—" "Hei—"

  She reached over and placed a hand on Karl-Heinz's. "Don't get out, darling. I'll run for it. Can't wait to see you again." Then she gave him a quick chaste kiss on the cheek.

  Karl-Heinz returned the kiss, also chaste. "Call you soon."

  "Toodle-oo!" she called, and she was gone.

  "Your Highness?"

  "Yes ... ?"

  It wa
s his chauffeur, awaiting instructions. "Where to now?"

  "Where?" Karl-Heinz laughed. "Home, I guess."

  When he let himself into his Auction Towers penthouse high above Burghley's, the telephone was chirruping.

  Quickly locking the front door, he hurried through the foyer to answer it, knowing from experience that his valet would have retired for the night. For Josef was a manservant steeped in the grand old European tradition, and prided himself upon discretion and that uncanny knack of sensing exactly when to be around and when to make himself scarce.

  Karl-Heinz's mouth twisted with irony. For once, Josef had seriously miscalculated. Tonight there would be no wine, no women, no song.

  Reaching the nearest extension phone, he found a thick vellum card propped against it. Recognizing Josef's precise, old-fashioned script, he picked it up and scanned the message:

  Your Highness,

  Princess Sofia has been calling repeatedly from Augsburg. She says an emergency has arisen.

  Respectfully,

  -----J

  Frowning, Karl-Heinz shot back his cuff. According to his gold Vacheron Constantin wristwatch, it would be eight a.m. in Germany, not too early to call his sister.

  Although, he thought, listening to the relentless chirrups, that's probably her calling right now.

  He picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

  There was silence, then a hostile blurt of German: "Well! Finally!"

  He sighed to himself. He had guessed correctly. It was his sister.

  "]a, Sofia?" he said wearily, automatically switching to the same language.

  "I've been trying to get hold of you for hours," she complained. "Hours!" she repeated, as though he had not heard.

  "I just walked in and was about to call you," he said calmly. "What is the emergency?"

  But she wasn't through conveying her martyrdom. "Really, Heinzie," she sniffed. "As if I didn't have enough to contend with, I had to spend

  the entire night trying to track you down! In future, you might tell that abominable servant of yours—"

  "Sofia ..." His voice was low, but had a menacing edge to it.

  She backed down. "It's Father," she said tersely. "He's had another stroke."

  Everything inside Karl-Heinz came to a dead stop. It was a moment before he could speak. "How bad is it?"

  "Bad enough for you to fly home."

  And with that, Sofia hung up.

  The LED numbers on the nightstand Westclox glowed 2:49 A.M.

  Kenzie was back in her damp yellow Givenchy sheath. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, bending forward and stifling a yawn while slipping a foot first into her left shoe, then the right. Finally she stood up and wiggled both heels all the way in.

  Hannes came out of the adjacent dressing room. He was a walking advertisement for Timberland: moleskin slacks, jacquard knit sweater, water-resistant leather field coat, and Gore-Tex-and-leather two-tone moccasins. He was holding a Burberry raincoat.

  "It is still raining hard," he told her. "You had better wear this, or else you will catch cold."

  He draped the raincoat around her shoulders with a flourish.

  Kenzie smiled. "Thanks. I'll gladly borrow this, but really, Hans. You don't have to see me home. I'm perfectly capable—"

  He placed a silencing finger against her lips. "No argument, Kenzie. I was taught one must see a lady home, and so I shall."

  "My, a real gentleman," she mocked gently, basking in the warmth of old-fashioned chivalry. Then, catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she fluffed her hair with her fingers. Turning back to him, she smiled brightly. "Well? Ready when you are!"

  Armed with a furled umbrella, he cocked his elbow. "Shall we go?"

  She slipped her arm through his. "You know something?" She gazed up at him, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. "You really are the last of an endangered species!"

  "A hopeless romantic," he agreed, nodding.

  They took the elevator down, crossed the lobby, and stepped outside.

  Reality hit—literally, in the form of buckets. It had gotten considerably colder, and a powerful wind was driving the downpour sideways, drenching them with a chill wet blast which flapped the overhead canopy like a sail and turned Hannes's umbrella inside out the moment he had it open.

  "Brrr!" Kenzie said, clutching the lapels of the raincoat together. Not wasting a moment, she left Hannes to struggle with the umbrella, hurried to the curb, and scouted the sparse but swift oncoming traffic.

  Lo and behold! There it was—that rarest of all Manhattan miracles—an unoccupied taxi on a rainy night.

  Flapping out one arm, she jammed two fingers in her mouth and rent the night with a traffic-stopping whistle. Brakes screeching, the cab slammed to a halt. Leaping forward, she chucked open the rear door and dove inside. Hannes, tossing his useless umbrella into the gutter, dove in right after her.

  "Eighty-first between First and Second," Kenzie said breathlessly.

  The words were barely out of her mouth before the turbaned Sikh floored the accelerator.

  The force of the takeoff pushed Kenzie and Hannes back in the seat— and they remained that way for the entire fourteen-minute ride—a hair- raising experience.

  "Who's he think he is?" she moaned. "Aire Luyendyk at the Indy 100?"

  But she had to hand it to him. Despite a dozen near misses, the Sikh swung them into Eighty-first Street in record time, in one piece—and in a hard, broadside skid.

  "There, on the right!" Kenzie yelled. "By the—"

  She braced herself as the cabbie stomped on the brakes, bringing the cab to a screeching, whiplash halt.

  He turned around and beamed proudly. "Better than the Coney Island ride? Yes?"

  "All I know is, somebody upstairs must be, ah, looking out for you," Kenzie said weakly.

  Hannes struggled out of his field coat. "Keep the meter running," he told the cabbie, and tented the coat over his head. He opened his door, jumped out into the downpour, and dashed around the cab to Kenzie's side. Then, sheltering her under the water-resistant leather, he ran her to the front gate and up the steps of her brownstone, where the recessed entry with its twin carriage lights offered protection from the elements.

  Hannes lowered his coat and shook off the water while Kenzie rummaged inside her little evening bag. Before she could produce her keys, he had his arms around her and was pulling her close.

  She looked up at him in surprise, the Burberry sliding off her shoulders, the better for him to grab a handful of buttocks.

  "Hannes!" she laughed, pretending shock. "Stop that!"

  He pressed his lips to her neck.

  She made a halfhearted attempt to push him away. "The cabbie's probably watching!"

  "So?" He raised his head and grinned. "Why deprive the poor man the pleasure?"

  "You are incorrigible!"

  "Am I?"

  And before she could respond, he covered her mouth with his. Greedily now, she pressed herself against him and slipped her arms around his neck, their tongues dancing an impromptu dervish.

  Ah, she thought, how pliant she was in the arms of this beautiful man she knew so very intimately, and yet not at all!

  When their lips parted, he raised his head slowly, pale eyes searching her upturned face.

  "Before we part here on your doorstep, tell me something, Kenzie."

  She stared up at him. He had fallen momentarily silent, then stroked her cheek gracefully with his fingertips.

  That simple touch set off a chain reaction of sensations, sudden delicious thrills rippling down her spine and along her extremities. But the playfulness was gone from his eyes and lips; he was regarding her with a calm solemnity, with a gaze so intent it was as if he were reaching deep inside her.

  "Is tonight only the beginning?" he asked softly. "Or is it the end?"

  She caught her breath, unable to tear her eyes off that masterfully sculpted face. Bathed as it was in the brightness of the carriage lights, it seemed to gl
ow with an inner radiance all its own.

  A tightness came up in her throat. Damn. Not only did he have all the right moves, but he had all the right words, too.

  "Well, Kenzie? Which is it to be?"

  She continued to stare at him.

  Noises. She was aware of the turbulent rushing of her bloodstream. The hammering of her pulse. A mad thundering she knew to be her heart.

  And Hannes, motionless, the cause of all these amped-up emotions, was still staring at her. Irresistibly. Hypnotically.

  And lowering his head, he rewarded her with another kiss.

  Forgotten now was the waiting taxicab and its running meter, the diagonal sheets of wind-driven rain behind them, the key ring in her open evening bag. So lost was she in him, and he in her, that nothing else on earth either mattered or existed—not the slam of a nearby car door, nor the approaching sound of footsteps on pavement, nor even the squeaking of the front gate as it was being pushed open.

  "Aw right, ya lovebirds! Knock it off—"

  The male voice, cutting sharply through the rain, sent Kenzie jumping back from Hannes. She whipped around—only to be blinded by a high- powered flashlight.

  Squinting, she raised an arm to shield her eyes. "Ch-Charley ... ?" she called out into the brilliant, colorless void. "That you?"

  "Sorry to break up the party, folks."

  Now there was no doubt in her mind. It was him—Charley Ferraro, her on-again/off-again, self-proclaimed "no-strings-attached" lover!

  Right, she thought wryly. No strings attached. So what the hell's he doing here?

  Well, we'll know soon enough, she muttered darkly to herself.

  Stepping in front of Hannes, she placed her hands on her hips and waited, face averted, until Charley had climbed the front steps. Only after he lowered the flashlight did she turn to him. Coronas of light, like double-exposed film, still swam in her vision.

  "And what are you doing here?" She quivered in outrage while her eyes, seething with indignation, raked him from head to toe.