Pleasure Seekers

by Rochelle Alers

  “How long do you want to be engaged?”

  “Probably no more than a couple of years.” He held up a hand when Alana’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t want to say anything before, but there’s a possibility that we might be signed to a record label. If that happens, then we can marry next year.”

  Alana’s smile was dazzling. “Oh, Calvin,” she crooned against his parted lips. She pressed her breasts to his chest. “Now, show your baby how much you love her.”

  She caught the hem of Calvin’s T-shirt and pulled it up and over his head at the same time he eased the thin straps of a lace-trimmed tank top off her shoulders, exposing her breasts to his heated gaze.

  Lowering his head, he lifted one breast and suckled it. Alana’s breathing deepened quickly. His mouth emitted a popping sound as he pulled back, watching her nipple swell like a plump berry.

  Sliding his hand under the elastic waistband of her pajama pants, he searched between her thighs, finding her wet and pulsing. He massaged the engorged flesh above her vagina, smiling when her juices melted over his hand, then removed his hand and slowly peeled away her pajamas.

  Calvin hadn’t been faithful to Alana because he didn’t believe in monogamy. Alana represented stability, something that had always been missing in his life, something no other woman had offered him. She wanted to play house, and he would grant her her wish. He would marry her, give her a couple of kids but he would always live his life by his own rules.

  Alana’s mouth was as busy as her hands. She kissed every inch of her lover’s face. She undressed him, pushed him down to the mattress, her gaze fusing with his, and straddled his thighs.

  The muscles under Calvin’s arms rippled sensuously as he reached over and removed a condom from the drawer of the bedside table. He’d never allowed his promiscuity to overshadow the risks involved in unprotected sex. He wasn’t ready to father children when he was barely able to support himself, and the possibility of contracting an STD was not an option.

  Alana took the foil packet, tore it open with her teeth, inserting the latex into her mouth. Using her mouth, with the skill of a trained courtesan, she slipped the condom down his erection. Her lips closed on the throbbing flesh, eliciting a deep groan from Calvin.

  Throwing an arm over his face, he moaned as her tongue lathed the length of his engorged flesh. “That’s it, baby. Do it, do it!” he crooned between clenched teeth. “Yes, yes, yes!” he hissed over and over as she quickened her motions.

  Alana smiled at the man writhing and bucking beneath her, the tendons in his neck bulging as he struggled not to climax. She’d always let Calvin believe he was in control whenever they made love, but she knew otherwise. Her body was a weapon she used to her best advantage, offered and withheld at will.

  Increasing the pressure to the underside of his penis, she pressed her face against his testicles, taking them gently into her mouth and deriving the reaction she sought when Calvin bellowed as if branded by heated steel.

  Seconds later, Alana found herself on her back and Calvin inside her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, she gave herself up to the waves of ecstasy taking her beyond the reality that she would go through the next six months of her life without the man she loved.

  Calvin and Alana climaxed simultaneously, soaring to awesome, shuddering ecstasy. They lay together, waiting for their heartbeats to return to a normal rate. As if on cue, both sighed in pleasant exhaustion before succumbing to the sated sleep reserved for lovers.

  CHAPTER 13

  A soft knock on the door caught Faye’s attention, and she looked up at the woman standing in her office doorway.

  She’d been assigned to mentor intern Jessica Adelson, purportedly the niece of a BP&O vice president, but the leggy, perpetually tanned, twenty-something, size-two blonde had let it slip that she wasn’t John Reynolds’s niece but his mistress.

  “Yes, Jessica?”

  “Do you think we can get together for lunch today?”

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “What have we been doing this past month if not talk?”

  Leaning against the door, Jessica crossed her bare legs at the ankle and ran a hand through her long, blond hair. “I’m still not feeling you whenever you do your sales pitch thang. I want more involvement with your accounts, and I want to try my hand at writing copy.”

  Faye’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair. She wanted to leap across the room and snatch the woman baldheaded, but the tactless, bigoted tramp wasn’t worth her being charged with assault.

  “Jessica, don’t ever come into my office again unless I invite you. And, if you want something, have John put it in writing to me. Better yet, I’ll call him and tell him myself.” Reaching for the receiver, she punched in his extension, and then activated the speakerphone feature.

  “Wendy, this is Faye. I’d like to speak to John.” She glared at Jessica, whose eyes were now as large as silver dollars.

  “What’s up, Faye?” came a deep, resonant voice.

  “Jessica’s in my office, demanding that I permit her more involvement with my accounts. The last time I checked the table of organization, I reported to you, not your niece.”

  “Tell her I want to see her—now!”

  Faye smiled. “She heard you, John, you’re on speaker.”

  Red blotches dotted Jessica’s cheeks. “Bitch,” she whispered under her breath.

  Pressing a button to end the call, Faye pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’m not going to be another bitch, so I suggest you leave while you can.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” Jessica threatened.

  “Close the door on your way out.”

  Turning on her heel, Jessica slammed the door as Faye dropped into her chair and closed her eyes. Fury choked her, making it almost impossible to breathe.

  She opened her eyes. “I’ve worked here too long,” she muttered. She’d given Bentley, Pope and Oliviera five years of her life, five invaluable years that gave her what she needed to strike out on her own. But what good was experience without start-up capital?

  The soft chiming of her private line stopped Faye from sinking into a morass of self-pity. She picked up the receiver after the second ring. “Ms. Ogden.”

  “Hey, girlfriend.”

  “Hey yourself, Lana.”

  “I want you to be the first one to know that I’ll be changing my name.”

  “Calvin proposed?”

  Alana giggled like a little girl. “Yes, he did!”

  Faye felt Alana’s joy as surely as if it were her own. “Congratulations, Lana. When’s the big day?”

  “Not for a while. Calvin is touring Europe and Asia with his band for the next six months, and when he comes back to the U.S. we’ll officially announce our engagement.”

  “Why put off announcing your engagement, Lana?”

  “Because I want the ring and Calvin at the same time. There’s no rush for the wedding date because we want to save enough money to buy a house.”

  “I know how you can earn some extra money.”

  Faye told Alana about her meeting with the owner of Pleasure Seekers and the invitation to a Saturday-night gathering. “Come with me, Lana, and check it out. We have nothing to lose.”

  “It sounds a little kinky, Faye.”

  “I’m not concerned about kinky, Lana. That’s something we can control.”

  “Are you thinking about signing up?”

  “I’m leaning toward it,” she answered, deciding on honesty. “I need money for my brother’s legal fees and to follow my dream.”

  “And I need money for a house and a wedding,” Alana drawled.

  Leaning back in her chair, an expression of satisfaction shimmering in her eyes, Faye nodded. “I hear you, girlfriend.”

  “Count me in. What kind of party is it?”

  Faye read the engraved invitation. “Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight, black-tie optional.”

  “Ni
ce,” Alana drawled.

  “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

  “I’ll be downstairs.”

  “And Lana?”

  “Yes, Faye?”

  “I’m happy for you and Calvin. Really happy.”

  “Stop or you’ll have me crying and soupin’ snot.”

  “On that note I’m going to hang up. Love you, girlfriend.”

  “Love you back, girlfriend.”

  Faye ended the call, her mood ebullient. Her confrontation with Jessica forgotten, she returned to tweaking the copy she was scheduled to present later that afternoon.

  CHAPTER 14

  Enid sat at a beveled-glass table, uncapped a fountain pen and opened a leather journal to a blank page. The practice of writing down her daily activities had begun more than thirty years ago. The first day she walked into the lecture hall at Tulane Law School her life had changed dramatically, and she’d felt compelled to record it.

  She’d entered law school with a concentration in criminal law, but within months of passing the bar one of her former professors asked that she come work for him. His modest law practice covered everything from adoption to capital murder and Enid found her niche after she won a generous settlement for a client in a high-profile divorce case. She stayed on for eight years before moving to Palm Beach, Florida, joining a firm specializing in divorces. She became a partner and earned the sobriquet “the female Raoul Felder.”

  Her courtroom success came from her observations of the gaudy young women who’d worked for her grandmother, for it was in the courtroom that she became one of Darcie’s girls, using her eyes, voice and body to seduce defendants, plaintiffs, lawyers and judges alike. She’d remembered sitting on the staircase, peering through the newel posts, watching practiced, coy glances, pouting mouths and sensual body language as they entertained their “clients” before escorting them up the staircase to the second-floor bedrooms.

  The first time her grandmother caught her out of her room after dark Enid couldn’t sit down for several days. A quick study, Enid learned to retreat to her third-floor sanctuary whenever she heard footfalls on the staircase. As she grew older, her snooping escalated. She’d forgotten the number of times she’d listened outside the doors to the sound of men and women moaning, grunting and screaming in what resembled “speaking in tongues,” and she fell in love with a fellow student during her first year in college, a man who made her moan, groan and speak in tongues.

  Smiling, she wrote the date: May 20—Everything is in place for tomorrow night’s gathering. Joaquin Braithwaite and his staff decorated the glassed-in rooftop garden with a dazzling display of light and flora that rivals Tavern on the Green. He erected bamboo poles, draping them with yards of white organza over a table with seating for thirty. The chairs are also draped in organza and tied back with navy blue satin ribbon.

  Dozens of votive candles in glass holders in towering wrought-iron candelabra will be lit before sunset. Vases of white tulips, roses, hyacinth, calla lilies, peonies and mums delivered this afternoon were positioned around the perimeter of the roof. Large colorful pillows are there for those who wish to relax after dinner.

  When I sat under the gauzy fabric I felt as if I were in a seraglio. And that’s the effect I want my clients to experience.

  I’ll be introducing my new exotic jewels, Faye Odgen and Alana Gardner, and I’m certain the reaction from my regular companions will be one of stunned surprise.

  The caterer and his staff are scheduled to arrive tomorrow at four, the band at six-thirty. I must remind myself to give Astrid a little something extra for pulling everything together for me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

  As she closed her journal, the intercom buzzed softly.

  She pressed a button. “Yes, Astrid.”

  “Mr. Hampton is on line one.”

  “Thank you.” She picked up the receiver. “Hello, Marcus.”

  “I have Ilene’s head shot and résumé,” he said without returning her greeting.

  Choosing to ignore his social faux pas, Enid said, “Did you tell her to come?”

  “No. I thought you’d want to meet with her first.”

  “There’s not enough time. I know she’s beautiful, but I do want to see her résumé.”

  “Let me see if I can get a messenger service to deliver it to you before five.”

  Enid stared at the Asian-inspired ivory figurines lining the fireplace mantel in her expansive office. A mysterious smile parted her lips. “Why don’t you bring it to my place. I’ll cook dinner,” she added quickly. She knew the semester had ended for Marcus and he never taught summer-school courses.

  There was a slight pause before he asked, “What’s on the menu?”

  Her smile widened. “That depends on what you want.”

  “Shrimp or oyster and sausage file gumbo. I went off my vegetarian diet today.”

  “You would,” Enid teased. “Hang up so I can call the market and order what I need. What time should I expect you?”

  “Is seven too early?”

  She glanced at the desk clock. It was three-ten. She had enough time to prepare Marcus’s favorite New Orleans Creole dish before his arrival. “No.”

  “Then I’ll see you at seven.”

  “Later, Marcus.”

  His rich laugh came through the earpiece. “Later, beautiful.”

  She hung up and locked the journal in a cabinet. It had been almost three weeks since she’d invited Marcus to her Battery Park town house apartment. The only time they’d been apart that long was when she’d returned to New Orleans to bury her grandmother and settle her estate.

  A shiver of uneasiness snaked its way up Enid’s spine. Something had changed between them, and intuitively she felt as if he was hiding something from her. She’d begun imagining that he was involved with another woman—a younger woman.

  Although she had married briefly and had had several affairs, in him she’d found her soul mate—someone whose desire for a fulfilling sex life matched an insatiable quest for business success.

  Well, tonight she’d cook for her lover and offer him a dessert not found on any restaurant’s menu.

  She buzzed Astrid. “Tell Henry to bring the car around, then call Maximilian’s and let them know I need a delivery asap.” She gave her assistant the ingredients she needed for the gumbo.

  Minutes later, she walked out of her office, rode the elevator to the street level and settled into the back seat of her town car.

  CHAPTER 15

  Marcus parked his car in a twenty-four-hour indoor garage a few blocks from Enid’s town house and strode along sidewalks that were crowded with people taking advantage of the unseasonably warm spring weather. A tall, muscular man dressed in black leather bumped into him, and he tightened his grip on a decorative shopping bag.

  He didn’t break stride or offer an apology, remembering his mother’s warning never to make eye contact or speak to anyone whenever he informed her as a teenager that he and his friends were going to hang out in the city.

  He’d grown up in New Rochelle, a northern suburb of New York City, the only child of an accountant father and math-teacher mother. The family joke was that he was born counting on his fingers and toes.

  Marcus didn’t know if he’d inherited the special gene that made math easy for him, but he took full advantage of the skill which enabled him to decipher complicated mathematical equations in his head. He earned an accounting degree from New York University School of Business, graduating summa cum laude, and a subsequent MBA from Wharton.

  He had no siblings, so he competed with himself, missing his goal to have his first million by age thirty by four years. That accomplished, he set another—five million by forty. As an equal partner in Pleasure Seekers and with an accounting client list that included record producers, video directors and his first hip-hop performer, he knew he’d realize that objective before his thirty-seventh birthday.

  Marcus turned down the quiet tree-lined str
eet with 19th century town houses and brownstones. The events of September 11 had changed the tony Battery Park neighborhood when many abandoned their historical houses until the air was declared safe enough for their return.

  Enid had lived with him in his Pelham condominium for six weeks, and once she informed him that she was going back home he experienced a loss of companionship for the first time in his life. Their living together had offered him a glimpse of what it would be like to be married to her.

  He rang the bell to the sand-colored three-story building, identifying himself after Enid’s sultry voice came through the intercom. When she lived with him he’d given her a key to his condo, yet she hadn’t reciprocated and he loathed asking her for one.

  Marcus walked up the staircase to the second floor instead of taking the elevator, and as soon as he stepped onto the landing the door to Enid’s duplex opened. A quick smile crinkled the skin around his eyes when he stared at the woman who, when not at Pleasure Seekers, was a chameleon.

  Enid closed the distance between them, put her arms around his neck, took off his baseball cap, pulled his head down and kissed him with a hunger that belied her outward calm. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered against his parted lips.

  Marcus’s free hand cradled her waist, his fingers splayed over the band of exposed flesh under her skimpy tank top. “I’ve missed you, too,” he whispered into the fragrant hair tickling his nose. “What did you cook?”

  “Gumbo with lagniappe.”

  Marcus kissed the end of her nose. “Which means?”

  “It’s an old Creole word for something extra.” She reached for his arm. “Let’s eat, because the shrimp get tough once they’re reheated.”

  “Something for you.”

  Enid peered into the bag he handed her. There were two bottles of her favorite white wine and a large envelope with Ilene’s head shot and résumé. “Thank you, darling.”

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I wash my hands.”

  Marcus walked into a bathroom off the living room. The sunny yellow and lime-green furnishings were inviting, the complete opposite of the bathrooms in the Soho loft. Enid had decorated her business space in Asian-inspired minimalist furnishings, while her home radiated the warmth and sensuality of the French Quarter. Most of the furniture, a mix of Regency and French Country styles, had come from her grandmother’s house, including an antique French painted chest and eighteenth-century French clock with a subtle banjo shape that had been appraised at mid–six figures.