by Ellis, Dee
“Oh, please, I’m so close. Let me go, Sandrine. Let me cum on your beautiful tits.”
She held on, idly wondering whether the strain could rupture something inside him. He really didn’t appear to be enjoying himself although he would obviously have said otherwise.
She changed angles, looming above him and thrusting faster down. This freed up one of her hands which dived between her legs and started massaging her intensely sensitive clit. Her vagina was soaked with her juice. One finger, then a second, slipped inside her, the tightness and tension sending ripples through her vaginal walls. It felt heavenly. She just wished she could have Jack’s cock inside her, fucking her deeply from behind while she also sucked it to completion. That would be truly heavenly.
Jack started pleading again but nothing intelligible left his lips. He was too far gone. She wanted to tell him to relax, give up the fight, to come in her mouth but that would require her stopping for a moment and she didn’t want to break the spell. She moaned instead, hoping to communicate her intentions some other way. The vibrations running through her mouth only made the tension more unbearable for him.
He thrust his head far back into the pillow and his hips angled upwards.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” he cried but his body betrayed him as she felt hot jets shoot down her throat. His cock pulsed a dozen times, her mouth filling until she had to swallow or choke. She hadn’t been sure what it would taste like but she was surprised by just how pleasant it was and she drank it down eagerly.
He grabbed her roughly and hoisted her up until they were face to face.
“What did you do? You’re a very naughty girl. I didn’t want to cum in your mouth,” he admonished. He tried to look stern which only brought forth an impish laugh from Sandrine, who licked her lips provocatively. Jack replied by pulling her deep into his embrace and kissing her harshly.
“I nearly hurt myself, trying to hold off,” he joked as they lay quietly together.
“I didn’t want you to hold off, Jack. You came right where I wanted. It was wonderful. You were completely in my power. How do you feel?”
“Totally drained. But very happy. You have amazing technique.”
“No real technique at all, really. Just an eagerness to please.”
They were cosy, intertwined together, and they soon drifted off to sleep. A little later, with the light brighter in the room, Sandrine woke. The taste of Jack was still fresh in her mouth and she wished she could carry that reminder all day.
Heathcliff was sitting at the end of the bed, regarding them with a neutral expression. Sandrine smiled and wriggled her fingers in greeting but received nothing in return. Morning. Time for breakfast. And this diversion in the normal routine wouldn’t be tolerated by such a stickler for tradition as this tabby.
“Is there something he doesn’t like?”
“First thing every morning, we greet the new day with a cuddle.”
“Sorry,” Jack looked across at Heathcliff with a note of concern. “I got in first this morning.”
“You’re good with animals, anybody ever tell you that?”
“One of my many skills.”
“Are you a dog or a cat person?”
“Neither, really, although I probably lean towards cats. They’re more independent and intelligent. In my line of work, travelling as much as I do, it’d be unfair to have a pet but if I could have one it’d be a monkey.”
Sandrine eyed him carefully. Was he really serious?
“True. My grandfather was a big fan of Tarzan movies and we’d watch a lot of them when I was just a kid. I always wanted a pet like Cheetah. Later, I found out that not all monkeys are cute and cuddly. Most, you try to cuddle them and you’ll never play the violin again.”
Jack stretched and sat up. “Breakfast?” he asked.
Sandrine checked the time by the clock on the bedside table.
“Oh, sorry, it’s getting late. I should get ready for work.”
Jack took a shower, dressed and was out the door within fifteen minutes. Sandrine kissed him goodbye, passionately enough so they both briefly reconsidered parting. After he’d gone, she poured a mound of dry cat food into Heathcliff’s bowl and filled the bath.
She relaxed in the hot, soapy water, soothing her still tender body and felt elated. She wondered whether she was becoming just a little too infatuated with Jack. I still don’t know enough about him, she thought ruefully.
With very little preamble, Sandrine had let Jack into her life and he dominated her thoughts as much as her body. This is so unlike me. What does it mean?
In such a short space of time, she’d given herself over to so many new experiences. A new, disturbing thought popped into her head. Was she becoming a sex addict? Maybe that explained her dangerous, completely uncharacteristic behaviour. She knew little about sex addiction apart from what she’d read in magazines and she searched her memory for any indications she might have an addictive personality.
She did know that if she was part of that small percentage of the population with an addiction problem, that if one addiction was overcome, it could easily lead to another. Did that mean she could become an alcoholic or a gambler or drug addict? The realisation chilled her but it didn’t feel quite possible. She’d had no previous inclination in that area. What could it be, then?
Maybe you’re just having fun, a voice told her sternly, a voice that sounded more than a little like Mariel. Fun can be addictive, babs. That’s all it is.
After she finished her bath, had dried and dressed, Sandrine made a cup of Earl Grey and dialled Mariel’s number. She needed a second opinion urgently.
“Maybe we should call you Margarine because you spread so easily,” Mariel teased once Sandrine had outlined her concerns.
Sandrine rose to the bait, as she so easily did when Mariel made light of serious concerns.
“No, they can’t. Who would say that? Nobody can know,” Sandrine exclaimed, horrified.
‘Oh, babs. Calm down. I’m only kidding. But it is good to see you like this. You have a hot boyfriend, you’re having great sex, you’ve come down with a serious case of lust. Go with the flow. Enjoy it.”
“I’m not sure I can. I mean, I do at the time. But afterwards I get scared. I hardly recognise myself anymore. I’m doing things I’ve never done before. And I like it.”
“Believe me, a conscience is a ridiculously old-fashioned concept. Got rid of mine years ago. If I want to carry around baggage, it’ll be matching Louis Vuitton. Now don’t be silly anymore. Gotta go, sweetie. Talk to you soon.”
Sandrine rinsed out her cup and placed it in the sink to be washed later. Maybe Mariel was right, she thought. All this angst is counterproductive. When I’m with Jack, I think only of the pleasure he gives me and what I can give in return. He leaves me reeling, I can’t think straight. It’s intoxicating. He overwhelms me in every way.
When he’s not around, however, I’m a mess of insecurities and conflicting emotions. I worry about the most ridiculous things. I need to find a way to cope with it all. The last thing I want to do is drive him away with my irrational fears.
She reasoned that Jack was used to a completely different kind of woman. One who was self-confident and assured, courageous and in charge of her own destiny. She needed to be more like that kind of woman.
Sandrine checked her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t understand what Jack saw in her and she certainly couldn’t hope to compete with Jack’s usual choice of woman although, in truth, she really had no idea if he had such a type.
Men were such strange creatures, she concluded. Mysterious and unknowable. So alien. Why couldn’t men be more like us? It would make life so much easier.
For the time being, she put aside her doubts and self-recriminations and readied herself for work. She made sure Heathcliff had enough food and water for the day, collected her bag, buttoned up her overcoat and double-locked the door as she left.
The weather outside was chilly with a
wan sun fighting for supremacy. There was no wind and not a cloud in the sky. Spring was on the way which gladdened her immensely. Her stride was firm and sure and there was a trace of a smile on her lips. The street was nearly empty, a rare occurrence for this time of the morning.
Only half a block from her apartment, she stopped suddenly. Were the shop keys in her bag? She half turned, digging through the bag at the same time. It was then she noticed the dark-coloured sedan that had pulled so hurriedly to the curb that it was half-angled into the traffic lane. Its exhaust puffed white into the cold air. The windows were dark and she couldn’t see inside but it briefly caught her attention before she found her keys, turned back again and continued walking.
Close to midday, the buzzer at the back service entrance startled her. The security camera showed a courier van parked in the rear laneway. A cheerful young man in a grey uniform loaded a number of boxes, including three that were roughly the size of art portfolios, directly into the walk-in safe.
The portfolios were large and bound in leather with gold lettering that had seen better days. She put her face close to one volume and took a deep breath. There was no smell of mould which indicated they had been stored well and would have little if any moisture damage.
Inside each were loose collections of drawings, studies, watercolours, pastels and lithographs, originals from the look and feel of the paper, all with the unmistakable aesthetic hallmarks of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Wearing a clean pair of white cotton archivist’s gloves, she carefully sorted through them.
Although she was a fan of the English Romantic movement, and there was a distinct stylistic overlap between that and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, mid-nineteenth century English art was not her area of expertise. She knew the major works and artists of this school but little else. She could carry out preliminary research on them later although Marcus no doubt had an expert or two available who would be able to authenticate and value them.
They were gorgeous indeed, the colours luscious, bright and deeply warm. The women, and those portrayed were mainly women, were of the physical type revered by the movement – strong featured, ethereally beautiful, with masses of hair, jet black or coppery red for dramatic appeal, long and flowing or bound and braided in an idealised Medieval style.
Some of the women looked to have been represented in several of the works, Sandrine searched her memory for the models so often used by these artists; she knew only the most famous. She recognised Elizabeth Siddal, a long-time muse and lover of artist Dante Rossetti, who had appeared in hundreds of his works. She had died at the age of thirty-three from laudanum poisoning. There was also Jane Morris, whose hair was as dark as Siddal’s had been fiery, and became Rossetti’s mistress despite the inconvenience of being married to the acclaimed artist and textile designer, William Morris, at the time.
The Pre-Raphaelites, Sandrine remembered, may have been a small group but they were indiscriminate in terms of trading lovers and muses. Their many loves and resulting scandals gave them a very modern flavour.
These were amazing works. Sandrine particularly loved the sketches and drawings, some of which were most likely studies for major paintings. Faces, serene in repose or dramatically vivid, were minutely detailed. Here was the artist’s deep well of creativity and skill fully fathomed, dashed off in an instant and cast aside, before the later luxury of being translated into oils which could be repainted, corrected, and enhanced over and over until deemed satisfactory. The drawings were snapshots of ideas, details of a thousand different moods: a face in profile, a long graceful neck stretched like a swan, a baleful glance, an elegant nose, slim fingers on pale hands, the geometric tumble of wild hair.
Sandrine lingered over these images for more than an hour. Here were seeds from which sprouted some of the most iconic of the Pre-Raphaelite masterpieces, paintings which for the most part she had only ever seen in art history books. But she was able to touch these works, examine them in close detail, and for that she considered them priceless.
If they were genuine, and Marcus would not have lavished the expense of secure courier delivery on them if they weren’t, then they were probably worth serious money, maybe a few thousand dollars for each of the lithographs from the best- known artists, upwards to the tens of thousands and above for the sketches, pastels and watercolours.
Finally, she gathered up the prints, put them back inside their original folders and carried them into the safe. The heavy safe door shut and locked, she returned to the front of the shop. Across the street, in an illegal parking spot, was a dark late model sedan. If Sandrine had been paying more attention, she may have wondered if this was the same one that followed her to work that morning.
Chapter Fifteen
Jack called it a picnic basket. It looked more like a suitcase albeit one of woven cane. Sandrine didn’t think she’d ever seen a bigger example. It held fine china plates, cups and saucers, beautifully delicate wine glasses, linen napkins, a red checked tablecloth, cutlery and just about everything you could possibly need to eat in style outdoors.
Takeout containers held roast chicken, cold meats, a couple of salads, and cheeses. There was a squat loaf of sourdough bread, a bottle of Beaujolais and another of sparkling mineral water.
Sandrine was impressed with Jack’s organisation. He had planned ahead to a remarkable degree. As he pulled the car into traffic outside her apartment building, she noticed the sparkle in his eyes.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Top secret. A scenic spot where we can have a relaxed day, just the two of us. I can’t say any more.”
She settled back in the soft leather seat, peace settling over her like a cashmere blanket. She enjoyed surprises and loved picnics even more. The thought of a day spent in Jack’s company was just too good to be true. As if in answer to her thoughts, he reached across and laid his hand on hers, squeezing softly. Sandrine was in something closely approaching heaven.
It took only a few blocks of the lighter-than-normal traffic before the mood changed. She noticed Jack was alternating his attention between the road ahead and the rear vision mirror. His brow was furrowed and his expression darkened slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Looks like we’ve picked up a tail.”
She began to swing around in her seat to look out the back window.
Jack squeezed her hand tighter.
“Please don’t,” he said levelly. “If my hunch is correct, let’s not warn them.”
The almost matter-of-factness of Jack’s attitude was designed to allay any concern she might have but it was starting to do the exact opposite. Sandrine was transported back to the morning in the store when the three Russians had arrived unannounced and just how frightened she had felt in their presence. These were dangerous men, intimidating by their physical presence alone, and she didn’t really know anything about them. That Jack hadn’t said too much concerning them only heightened her concerns; she was sure he was holding back to make her feel less insecure.
Could it be them? she wondered. What do they want? Why are they doing this? Sandrine was in the dark as far as their intentions were concerned and was helpless to do anything about it. The confusion she felt spiked her fear to another level. There’s nothing you can do, so just relax, a tiny voice of reason whispered. Jack is here and he’s smarter, tougher, more resourceful. If anybody is capable of saving the day, it’ll be him.
As they navigated the city streets, the tiny voice gave up and was replaced by a silent cold terror. She found herself clutching the leather seat until her fingers ached. Her teeth were already clenched tightly and she dare not relax them in case they chattered. It was best, she thought, that she give at least some semblance of coping. Jack had enough on his plate without worrying about her falling apart, she reasoned.
After about fifteen minutes, it was apparent that Jack had been right about being followed.
“It’s a dark late model Mercedes. Can’t see the plates.
Looks like three in the car, big guys, too, by the look of it,” Jack said, his voice deeper and a little heavier than usual. In normal circumstances, the bass notes of his masculine voice would have had her bubbling with anticipation. But he couldn’t hide the hesitation and Sandrine’s spine went cold with fear.
“It’s the Russians, isn’t it?” she asked. Her worst fears had been confirmed.
“Seems like it.”
“Are you going to try to lose them?”
“That would be dangerous. And I’d rather not let them know we know.”
“What will we do then?”
“May have to put the picnic on hold for today. We can probably shake them off without alerting them but it’ll mean a detour.”
The day, once sparkling with possibility, had suddenly veered into something straight out of a Hollywood movie. She imagined them speeding down narrow alleyways, taking sharp turns, doubling back then doubling back again. But Jack was doing none of this. He was driving sedately, a little slower than usual, staying in the same lane, signalling long before he turned a corner, making sure there was plenty of time to get through traffic lights.
“I’m being extra careful,” he explained. “I don’t want to lose them by accident although they appear pretty efficient. They’re hanging back two or three car lengths, not drawing attention to themselves. They’re pros all right.”
On the edge of the CBD, they turned onto a freeway. The traffic was light. They settled into the slow lane and ambled along. A steady stream of cars overtook them and Sandrine turned her head to watch them. Many were filled with families or couples and she was struck by the realisation these strangers were ordinary people on their way to do ordinary things on their weekend.
Going hiking in the mountains or to the market, visiting friends and family, all the things people did without a moment’s thought about the consequences. Innocent decisions, like Jack’s idea of having a picnic. She’d been looking forward to it for days; she lay in bed at night and woke in the mornings thinking about it, letting her mind wander and, as it invariably did, ended up in fantasies of Jack’s rugged muscular body naked in the open air. Sandrine responded to it without even thinking, it aroused her enormously. And now that day had arrived and the arousal had turned to a crippling fear.
