Notorious in Nice

by Jianne Carlo

  She rose on her elbows but said not a word, watching him dash his tie away, flick his jacket to the floor. When he tore his shirt lapels apart and buttons went flying, she put up a tiny hand, and his pulse pounded like a Celtic bodhran drum.

  “What, darlin’?” He could barely breathe, get the words out, and wondered if he sounded like the barbarian he felt.

  Her head drooped, and she stared at the white comforter. Without looking at him, she whispered, “I want to touch you.”

  Jaysus.

  He grabbed the head of his prick and squeezed so hard it hurt. He’d almost lost it, and they hadn’t even begun.

  Calling on all his military training, Terry shuffled over to the mattress and sat.

  “All you want.” That was all he could muster, and getting the words out almost undid him again. He took her small hand and placed it over a heart threatening self-destruction.

  Her pink tongue snaked out to touch the corner of her mouth. She shifted closer, the silk dress she wore caressing his flesh and tindering sparks with each slight contact.

  Tacky, moist sea brine wafted to his nostrils, and not an iota of it made it to his lungs.

  “I’ve never done this before,” she said, so softly he had to strain to hear her words. And then she could’ve bellowed, and he’d never have known. His heart sounded like immediate thunder in his ears, reverberations vibrating every nerve, every synapse.

  She placed the other hand on his chest and breathed, “You’re so beautiful, like a Norse god.”

  One finger traced the outline of his pectoral muscles, and his stomach contracted so hard his gut cramped and his prick leaked.

  So close. So close.

  “Darlin’ --” he began, but she cut him off by applying two fingers to his lips.

  She shook her head.

  “Please, no words?” And still she wouldn’t meet his gaze, and it bothered him, made him desperate for some sign of, what? Not consent. Approval, perhaps?

  Terry stifled his response and waited, watching, body functions going into trained military hibernation.

  With the slightest pressure of one hot little palm, she had him lying supine on the bed. Her hands flitted over his chest, lithe butterfly caresses skimming his scalded flesh.

  Her touch left him wanting, impatient.

  Delicate fingers flicked the right nipple, then the left, and she licked her lips when he flinched and his hips arched off the mattress.

  Her gaze fixed on his arousal then, and with shaking fingers, she unbuckled his belt. Long minutes of agonizing torture followed, prolonged by her obvious nerves, her hands fumbling over his cock.

  He had a photographic memory, so Terry visualized the training manual for his sub’s nuclear weapon in a desperate attempt to not spill, not ejaculate toward that pursed mouth.

  Shaky fingers slipped the zipper of his fly down; she spread the material of his pants, and his erection sprang free.

  Her gasp stirred the air over the head of his prick.

  A pleased smile curved her mouth, and her lips widened into a grin when she met his gaze.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about this.” One finger brushed the head of his shaft.

  His eyes crossed.

  She rolled down his foreskin.

  He grabbed fistfuls of down duvet, his gaze fixated on her face, on the wonderment lighting those jade eyes.

  “Oh my,” she breathed and touched the tip of her very pink tongue to his slit, then suckled it.

  His balls slammed into his pubes, and white orgasmic light blinded him.

  He shot his wad.

  And to his surprise she lapped up his cum, angling this way and that, swallowing every drop. Slurping and humming, this little sound coming from the back of her throat, the vibration of which almost pained the oversensitive crown of his prick, while he lay spent, sated, sorrowful, shamed.

  He collapsed against the pillows, wallowing in every caress, every tentative touch.

  And must have passed out from sheer pleasure, as when he awoke, shore lights glistened and bobbed through the portholes of the cabin, and he was alone. A predawn glow hit the distant horizon.

  Jaysus.

  Never, ever had he failed to bring a woman to pleasure. Not only had he not done that tonight, but he’d also passed out after having shot his wad like a green adolescent.

  Jaysus.

  His nails bit into damp palms.

  He never wanted to see that woman again.

  He couldn’t wait to see her again.

  He had to be inside of that tight little hole, soon.

  Minutes soon.

  When he made it onto deck, fully clothed save for one scarlet tie, his twin brother greeted him. Thomas’s face, lit by dawn’s foreshadows, reflected a decade of excessive living.

  “Who was it this time? You can’t keep your prick in your trousers. You never could.”

  “Sod off, Thomas. We all know where you keep yours.”

  “At least it’s not down our stepmother --”

  Years of reaction kicked in and Terry punched him in the jaw, then followed up with a left hook to his twin’s stomach. When Thomas fell to the deck clutching his belly, Terry stalked away, the scene too familiar, too pulsing with self-loathing, fraught with too many buried secrets.

  The image of Su-Lin burned his pupils, replaced by the abject longing flashing across Thomas’s features seconds before his fist crashed into bone. Remorse set in.

  And all he wanted to do was escape, never see her again, never see his twin again. Never have to face the abject failure of his performance with either individual.

  When had he become so selfish, so greedy? Disgust laced every movement, every thought. Even two ice-cold showers couldn’t wash away the sins of his soul. Black coffee laced with scotch helped him decide how to proceed.

  Around midmorning, he phoned the Lockheeds’ suite, but no one answered. A quick check with the front desk revealed the Lockheeds and Su-Lin had rented a limo, and the itinerary for the day included Arles and Marseille. Terry left a voice mail in their room and, for good measure, wrote two cryptic notes.

  The first, contact information for him and the Glory, and a planned schedule for the Greek charter, addressed to James Lockheed. The other message took forty minutes to compose. A few quick words with the concierge, and he headed to the front desk to check out.

  The reservations clerk handed him a folded note after he signed the bill.

  T,

  Evil stepmama in Monte Carlo.

  Crisis looming.

  Meet you on the Glory in the AM.

  H.

  Chapter Three

  Su-Lin Taylor eyed the cryptic note penned in black ink.

  Su-Lin,

  I never meant last night to end the way it did. My abject apologies.

  Allow me to make it up to you -- have after-dinner drinks with me in my private suite on the Glory on Friday night? I promise to make it a night you’ll always remember.

  E-mail and phone number, including my private line, on the card enclosed.

  Terry

  Nibbling on her lower lip, she read the note again.

  “Mam’selle Taylor,” the concierge said, sotto voce.

  A quick check of the front desk showed her aunt and uncle engaged in a gesticulated discussion with the receptionist and the front desk manager. Uncle James’s florid cheeks and downturned lips, together with Aunt Emma’s folded arms and rapid shoe drumming on the lobby’s marble floor, indicated an intense argument.

  Shifting so she half faced the hotel employee, she raised an eyebrow and replied, “Oui?”

  “Monsieur O’Connor also asked me to give you this.” The man held out a cell phone. “It’s a disposable cell phone with one hundred minutes of airtime. The number one is preprogrammed to Monsieur O’Connor’s private line. Do you know how to text?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t even know how to use this.” Turning the compact phone over in her hand, Su-Lin lifted a shoulder
and shot the concierge an apologetic smile.

  “C’est toute facile -- it’s very easy, mam’selle. Here, I will show you.”

  In a lowered voice, he explained how to charge the phone, and his deft fingers showed her the send, receive, and message functions, and how to retrieve voice mail. Just as the charming concierge embarked on an explanation of texting, Su-Lin heard Uncle James’s booming voice saying, “I don’t expect to see a repeat of these scurrilous charges on the bill when I check out on Friday morning.”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t have time for the texting lesson. I have to go.” She opened her purse, then dropped the phone and charger into a zippered compartment. Taking two steps in the direction of the reception desk, she threw a glance over her shoulder and said, “Thank you, merci beaucoup.”

  At that precise instant Aunt Emma whirled around, right hand on her hip, left rapping her oversize clutch on a thigh. Su-Lin made it halfway to the front desk before her aunt’s beady brown eyes found her.

  “Where did you disappear to?” Today Aunt Emma and Uncle James had been at odds with one another. “We’re responsible for your safety. You can’t keep wandering off by yourself all the time.”

  “I tried to tell you, but --” Su-Lin protested.

  “Harrumph.” Her aunt snorted. “You always have some flimsy excuse.”

  “Emma, leave the girl alone,” Uncle James ordered and cupped his wife’s elbow, his fingers pressing the woman’s skin so hard indentations appeared. “We’re all tired and a bit grouchy. Why don’t we have a rest, and we can go for a late dinner around eight thirty?”

  “Actually I have a headache, Uncle. Would you mind if I just ordered a bite from room service? Last night we didn’t get in till after midnight, and I’m not used to such late hours.”

  No one spoke until Uncle James’s cell phone rang just as he slid the card key into their suite’s slot.

  “Yes,” he answered, opened the door, and waved for his niece and wife to precede him.

  “I’m going to have a quick shower, eat, and go to sleep.” Su-Lin halted in the penthouse’s sitting area.

  Uncle James snapped his phone shut. “Go ahead, love. Turns out we’ll be going out for dinner with our friends from lunch the other day.”

  “Good night, Uncle, Aunt.” Su-Lin went to her room, closed the door, and locked the door.

  Toeing off her sandals, she took the cell phone out of her purse and set it on the dresser.

  Should she call him?

  What would she say?

  Talk about the weather?

  But he had given her the phone, and there could be only one reason for that. She debated the issue while toweling off and dressing, half of her wanting to press the number one, the other half more worried about last night.

  She grabbed the phone, not allowing herself to think about what she’d say to Terrence O’Connor. Before she could press the number one, the chorus of “I get knocked down” erupted from the receiver. In acute slow motion, she pressed receive and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  Terrence, his Irish brogue curling the Rs just so. A low heat started in her belly.

  “In the hotel suite,” she muttered, her voice a bare croak, and the heat turned into a dozen buzzing bees warming her insides.

  “Are the relatives hovering?”

  “Uncle James and Aunt Emma have gone out with their friends for dinner.”

  “With the stick woman and her husband from lunch?”

  She giggled and cupped a hand over her mouth before replying, “I think so.”

  “I missed you today.”

  “Oh.” She drew a circle on the carpet with her big toe.

  “Did you miss me, darlin’?”

  She nodded, realized he couldn’t see her, and blurted, “Yes.”

  “Any chance of you playing hooky tomorrow and spending the day with me?”

  “We’re going to Cannes.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to curb my impatience, darlin’. You will join me for drinks in my cabin on Friday?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, her voice a hint above a murmur.

  “Keep the phone on you. I’ll call you again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me something no one else knows about you. Something just for me.”

  His voice had gruffened.

  “I dreamed about you,” she whispered, everything solid in her body skittering and sliding into a sort of loose languor, as if a hypnotic paralysis froze her limbs while sparking the veins feeding them.

  “Hell, darlin’, I thought I was dreaming when you came into the steam room. I couldn’t believe my luck. And now we have three glorious weeks together. What more could a man ask for?”

  What more could she ask for? How to reply to that?

  “I have to go, darlin’. Catch you later.”

  She did cartwheels around the suite in between a fits of giggling and finished with a double somersault. Energy spent, she curled up on a fat chair in her bedroom, ordered a chocolate mousse and a concoction described as decadent devil’s cake from room service, along with a half carafe of red wine.

  All night long, delicious dreams filled her head.

  Her lips broke into a broad smile the minute light hit her pupils the following morning. Not wanting to wake her relatives, she brushed her teeth, dressed, then slipped out of the suite.

  Hotel guests bustled in the lobby, rolling suitcases to the reception desk or sinking into plush upholstered couches armed with folded newspapers. A colored section of a Nice-Matin lay below the top of the concierge’s desk, which stood unmanned at the moment. She studied the folded newspaper, cricking her neck to read the words upside down. Beneath a bold headline, a grainy black-and-white photograph, which looked vaguely familiar, caught her attention. An unfocused uneasiness made her reach over the counter.

  “Mam’selle Taylor. What can I do for you this morning?” The young concierge who’d helped her last evening smiled as he asked the question. He leaned forward and she retreated, tucking her hand behind her back.

  “Um, is that the paper?”

  “Oui, mam’selle. You prefer French or an English version?”

  “English, I suppose, although I’ve been trying to practice my high school French.” She accepted the folded newspaper he handed over. “Thank you. I’ll read this while having a cup of coffee.”

  Su-Lin read the Matin cover to cover but couldn’t find the photograph that had caused the hairs on her forearm to rise. Unsettled, she paged through each section one more time before abandoning her hazy, unprovoked apprehensions. Her stomach growled, and she ordered a raisin muffin to go. Wandering barefoot through lapping waves, face lifted to the sun, she allowed the warm sea wind to disorder her long hair in between bites of the moist muffin.

  Terry called around ten.

  “Sounds as if you’re outside.”

  “I’m walking on the beach,” she answered, enjoying this new intimacy, speaking with him on a cell phone.

  “What are the plans for today?”

  “Lunch and shopping in Cannes this afternoon. Tonight we have dinner with my uncle’s English friends, some business colleagues of his.” She wanted to ask him what he had planned, but bashfulness made her swallow her words.

  “And tomorrow morning, you head my way.” His voice hoarsened, the Irish brogue becoming more pronounced.

  Her lungs couldn’t find a regular rhythm, and she held the receiver away from her mouth for a second, searching for a change of subject. All at once, she knew who the photo in the newspaper had reminded her of, and she blurted, “Are you a local celebrity?”

  “What a strange question, darlin’.”

  “I thought I saw a picture of you in the paper.”

  “What newspaper?”

  Su-Lin looked at the phone, a bit taken aback by the whipped query.

  “The Matin. The concierge gave me a copy.”

  “I have an incoming call. I’ll
talk to you later.”

  So much for romance and charm; Terry sounded peeved. Glancing at the pale blue sky, she noticed the sun had ridden high above the horizon. Hurrying back to the hotel, she bumped into her relatives as they stepped out of the elevator.

  “There you are,” Uncle James said. “We’re running late, Su-Lin. Run up to the room, grab your pocketbook, and meet us in the hotel’s driveway.”

  The day flew by after that, and they never returned to the hotel until well after midnight. Su-Lin hadn’t realized part of the itinerary included a cocktail party at the Cannes Ritz-Carlton. Her uncle presented her to what seemed like scores of portly gray-haired or balding men armed with Chanel-dressed wives wearing diamonds and pearls. After the first twenty-or-so introductions, her brain stopped processing individual names and faces, and every couple blurred into a series of unfocused eyes, noses, and ears.

  Terry didn’t call. Tired but restless, Su-Lin tossed and turned, sleeping with the phone under her pillow. Her alarm clock never went off, and she woke to find bright sunlight streaming through her window.

  “Jennifer, we’re ready. We’re due to be at the docks before noon.”

  Su-Lin cringed. Even after repeated requests, her aunt had never called her anything but Jennifer. “I’m almost ready. I’ll be out in five minutes.”

  Another knock on the door.

  “We’ll meet you outside the lobby. Uncle James and I will bring the car around.”

  No time for a bra and panties, not that she needed the former. When Aunt Emma used that tone, it made her shudder. She threw on one of her new outfits, a floral-patterned white, green, and red silk blouse and skirt, and strapped on low-heeled sandals. The ride to the elevator took forever. She walk-jogged through the lobby and arrived at the hotel’s entrance just as her relatives pulled up, her uncle behind the wheel of a navy Range Rover.

  “I lost track of you last night, Su-Lin,” Uncle James said as she closed the door to the backseat. “Got so caught up with my old schoolmates, I almost forgot my two women.”

  He flashed an over the shoulder grin at her, and she counted the number of times his chins jiggled, one…two…three. Squaring her shoulders, Su-Lin snapped the seat belt into place.