MasterStroke

by Ellis, Dee

  “You’ve become quite a tease but we really should take a rain-check. As a favour to Marcella as much as me.”

  “Oh, all right,” she huffed almost petulantly. She relaxed back into his embrace but kept her fingers wrapped around his massive rod, stroking it, playfully intent on depriving it of torpidity. As much as Jack was inclined towards curtailing their playtime, he was making no attempt to break away. His responses suggested just the opposite.

  “Wicked, wicked girl,” he said evenly. “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “I’m not holding you back.”

  “You are. And in the nicest possible way.”

  “It feels too good to stop.”

  A brief silence while Jack wrestled with his own demons then he pushed her roughly back onto the mattress and moved between her legs.

  “That’s a good enough reason for me.” The brutish bass notes of his voice sent a cold thrill through her. In one fluid move, he thrust into her.

  She had no way of knowing the range of emotions that crossed her face when she made love. The raw passion, unconcealed, sharpened by lust, sparking the intensity of feelings as Jack moved inside her, gently and shallowly or spearing with an urgent intensity, the journey of building, reaching closer to that exhausting completion yet occasionally diverting to that familiar clenching of muscles that signalled an intense climax that washed over her with intense pleasure before placing her back on track for an orgasm that she sweated and strained to reach while Jack continued his ceaseless pounding, her face flushed and charting an uninhibited portrayal of everything she was feeling.

  She couldn’t hide this amazing procession of naked emotion even if she knew she was showing them, laying bare feelings she was so intent on disguising in every other phase of her life. She swooned at Jack’s deep piercing gaze as he watched her so intently, the green flecking of his eyes almost magically sparkling, his body reacting to her signals, like dance partners totally in synch with each other, slowing and teasing if she seemed to be peaking too quickly or thrusting more violently to propel her forward, never losing control while her nerve endings threatened to disintegrate under the onslaught.

  It was his eyes that she locked her attention on as her muscles involuntarily locked around his cock and she sped towards the point of no return, her mind turning to jelly, all conscious thought obliterated by overwhelming sensations, Jack’s subtle shifting of his hips continually changing angle and approach, controlling her body, orchestrating her responses, letting her know he was in control and her body was powerless to resist.

  Sandrine’s body temperature was soaring, the hot flush spread across her body, her face twisted with agonised excitement, a grimace of concentration, reaching higher, closer, watching Jack’s expression as his own control began to crumble and a gruff, harsh voice replaced his usual measured tone.

  “It’s my body now, darling. You’ll do exactly what I want, when I want it.” His growl carried deeper inside her than even his long, thick penis could reach. “Are you ready?”

  It was the final push she needed and she spun wildly into the abyss.

  “Yes, yes, now, Jack. Do it now,” she gasped finally, after too long, suddenly realising she’d forgotten to breathe as the most shattering orgasm so far swept over her and carried her far away.

  Sandrine was aware she remained pinned under Jack but had no memory of having her legs tossed over his shoulders to maximise penetration, exposing her completely, his body still and hard as a marble statue, every muscle in his shoulders, arms and chest tensed, his eyes dancing with joy and relief, and a sheen of sweat dimpling his brow, his massive hardness buried inside her, pulsing as the last remnants of his own orgasm gradually subsided.

  “Wow,” was all he could say.

  “Wow, indeed” she replied eventually, after what seemed like an eternity.

  “It just gets better, doesn’t it?”

  Sandrine could only nod, totally exhausted. The French call the orgasm the “little death” but, for her, each time Jack brought her to completion, it felt like something far more final, a point where her whole being, body as well as mind, shut down and was unable to function. She thought it a miracle that she could ever find her way back again. But she did and although thoroughly sated, there remained the quiet hum of her libido eager to start all over again.

  He gently moved out of her, kissing down her body until his head rested gently on her thigh, his face close to her, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of heat and sweat and sex. Kissing her lightly on the pubis, he rolled away too quickly for her to pull him closer.

  Jack looked far too sexy standing there, just out of reach, his chest heaving with exertion, muscles sculpted like an ancient god, glowing with a fine layer of perspiration.

  “You’re too impossibly sexy. Get dressed before I think better of it.”

  “OK, Jack, just this once. Next time I won’t let you go so easily.”

  He walked out of the room naked. You talk about sexy, you gorgeous man! You have the finest ass on the planet. I don’t know which part of you I prefer most.

  The thought had popped into her head so quickly, she almost gasped. It was followed by the realisation that the Sandrine the world thought of as quiet and shy had come a very long way in a very short time.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Within the hour, Sandrine was back in the smelly puffer coat, grey wig and over-sized hat and shuffling, head down, along the pavement and into her apartment block. Marcella was laid out on the sofa reading a leather-bound volume of Gibbon’s Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire, a crystal tumbler of whiskey within easy reach.

  “Did you have a pleasant evening, Sandrine dear?” she asked solicitiously.

  “Very much so, thanks.”

  “Good. Glad to help out.” She quickly slipped into the bag lady outfit, kissed Sandrine on both cheeks and left. It was close to midnight and she had no energy left. Hurriedly undressing, she slid naked between the sheets and was asleep almost immediately. Not surprisingly, she dreamt of Jack.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  It was to be a day of surprises and it started when Sandrine, laden with coffee, cherry Danish, and newspapers, opened up the store. It took a few moments, after she’d dropped her bag on the counter and started the computer, before she realised there was classical music playing.

  It was Vaughan Williams, the fifth symphony from the sound of it, which Sandrine had heard numerous times in the store. She had always found it a bit too English and certainly far too pastoral for her tastes although she tempered that criticism by admitting she had a weakness for some variations of that theme, such as Brahms’ Symphony No. 2.

  It could only mean one thing. She hurried to the back, past the bookcases and found the storeroom door ajar. Striding through, she saw Marcus Buckingham sitting at his desk. The corner office was small by any standard but, with Marcus, who stood more than six feet tall, the room seemed even more cluttered. He looked the same as always; with his gaunt, stern features, he appeared like a cross between a scarecrow and the writer Dominick Dunne.

  The desktop was habitually buried under papers, handwritten notes, usually to remind him to do certain tasks which he immediately forgot about by the end of the day, brochures, magazines and books, mounds slipping over time into the next, edging ever higher until it appeared they would eventually cascade to the floor. An impossibly ornate Meissen teapot perched haphazardly on the rolling hillside of detritus, with a matching cup and saucer close by.

  “Ah, Sandrine. How delightful to see you,” Marcus said a little distractedly, thick wire-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of his nose. “Marcella mentioned you’ve been having some problems.”

  There was no room for another chair so Sandrine remained standing and spent the next ten minutes giving Marcus her version of the story, leaving out a few things that pertained to her relationship with Jack that she didn’t feel was pertinent. Marcus expressed concern that the artwork was now in Jack’s care.
r />   “How well do you know him?” he asked, gazing up at her with concern.

  “It’s true I haven’t known him long. He turned up at just the right time to protect me during all this. I don’t know how I would have coped without him. But I believe he’s entirely genuine and I trust him implicitly.”

  Marcus’ attention was riveted on her with a quizzical and slightly bemused expression that flustered her. In defending Jack, however, she was steadfast in her beliefs. Jack has done more for me than I can ever possibly tell. He’s placed himself in great personal danger to protect me.

  If there was a time to have any doubts, it was now, she knew. But I have no doubts. It felt right, everything about him. The timing was coincidental, just one of those things. Jack turned up when I needed him most. And despite the strange tale that Mariel told, of carrying out the background check and the almost immediate appearance of the mysterious Government officials, there must be a logical explanation for that as well, she just didn’t know what it was.

  Sandrine delved deep into herself, trying to separate logic from emotion, and there was no question about it. She believed Jack was helping her because he loved her. She didn’t trust people lightly, having a natural aversion towards such things, which was why Jack’s sudden appearance in her life and her rapid acceptance of him naturally raised concern with her friends. The reaction of Mariel, so far the only one who knew all the circumstances of the last few weeks, was exactly as expected.

  Sandrine had already run the full course of disbelief, suspicion and, finally, acceptance. The inner turmoil this occasioned, before she’d come to understand that her early years had shaped so much of her adult perceptions, was now replaced by a steely determination to shield Jack’s reputation from the people who care for her.

  Am I right or do I just want to be? a discordant voice within her remarked boldly.

  She was aware that Marcus was still watching her with a dangerously neutral expression. He’s waiting for more, she thought. He wants a complete explanation but I don’t have one. Jack is Jack and no further explanation is needed. Marcus just needs to trust me as I trust Jack.

  “Where are the folios?” Marcus asked.

  “They’re with Jack.”

  “But where?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Somewhere safe.”

  “That’s not good enough. I need to know where they are. They’re not mine and certainly not yours. I’ve been entrusted with them and they shouldn’t have been removed from the safe.”

  “If Jack hadn’t spirited them away, they wouldn’t be here at all,” she flared angrily, her patience exhausted. Why won’t he understand? “Those Russian thugs would have taken them and most likely hurt me or far worse. I was scared and there was no-one to help me.”

  Tears sprang unbidden. Ashamed of losing control and deep crimson with embarrassment, she lowered her head and started to cry, quietly at first then with great gulping sobs that shook her body.

  “Oh dear,” Marcus said quietly, confused by the emotional outburst of a highly-strung young woman, something way beyond his experience. His chair scraped back on the hardwood floor and he edged around the desk, trying as delicately as he could not to disturb anything. Against the odds, everything pretty much stayed in place. From his body language, he was obviously uncomfortable. He stood close but not too close, patting the air above her shoulder with one hand in an almost comical attempt at consolation. “Oh dear. I’m sorry, Sandrine, I really am. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Marcus was evidently out of his depth but the cavalry arrived just in time in the form of Marcella who swept into the office and shooed him aside, hugging Sandrine protectively.

  “You bully,” she said accusingly. “What did you do to this poor girl?”

  “Um, nothing, really, I have no idea what’s happening,”

  Marcella graced him with a baleful gaze and refrained from saying any more.

  “I’ll make a new pot of tea,” he stuttered, gathering up the Meissen and leaving the room, not looking at either of them.

  “Marcus means well. I’m sure he didn’t intend to upset you,” Marcella said soothingly. This only made Sandrine feel even worse. They were like family and very rarely had disagreements. While she was steadfast in her belief in Jack’s good intentions, when it came at articulating why anybody else should feel this way, she failed miserably. How could she explain when the little she did know about Jack and his background merely made him seem all the more suspicious?

  In the cold light of day, under Marcus’ probing inquisition, the inconsistencies were stacking up and Sandrine felt a chill spreading through her. A cup of tea wasn’t going to help. When Jack was near, there was never a doubt in her mind. She needed him there immediately so he could explain everything, to clear it all up and let them see just how scrupulously honest and protective he was.

  “I must call Jack,” she said to Marcella. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Perhaps that would be for the best. Marcus is very concerned. You’ve been put in a lot of danger, all of us have. His heart isn’t as strong as it once was and, if those Russians come back, I fear it may be too much of a shock.”

  While Marcus was bustling about in the storeroom, Sandrine walked to the front of the store and dialled Jack’s number on her cell phone. The call went immediately to voice mail. She tried to keep her rising panic under control but her voice was shaky. She left a message, a very brief summation of the situation, then rang off.

  Marcus appeared with the teapot, cups, saucers and milk on a large tray, carrying it through to the front of the store where he placed it carefully on the counter. Marcella was close behind with a plate of cookies. Sandrine was behind the counter, Marcus and Marcella in front preparing to serve tea when the front door opened. The sense of dread that Sandrine felt was indescribable as the three Russians, dressed in dark suits and overcoats as they had been on their previous visit, filled the foyer.

  Sergei moved to the front, Scarface and Smiley retreated to the far corners, flanking them with military precision. Sergei’s smile was as wintery as the weather outside.

  “Good morning,” he said formally, his gruff voice heavily accented. “I assume you are Mr Buckingham. I’ve been waiting some time to meet you.”

  Marcus, taken by surprise, blinked at them over his reading glasses, giving him an air of fragile dignity. Marcella stood quietly, quivering slightly in the cold blast of air from outdoors.

  “Yes, I am. And who are you? What do you want?” He drew himself to full height but he was no match for the intimidating bulk of these foreigners.

  “I am Sergei Agapov. I act as agent for a collector who wishes to remain anonymous but believes you have something he is very interested in acquiring.”

  “Then perhaps he should just call me himself.” The nervous indignation in his voice was uncharacteristic, and a suffocating dread spread across Sandrine. Marcella, in contrast, waited and watched with an expression that communicated nothing much at all. She didn’t even appear to be breathing hard. “This is most irregular. I’m told you’ve been intimidating young Sandrine. I won’t stand for that.”

  If Sergei was disturbed by the rant, he didn’t show it. Instead, a slight smile toyed at the edge of his lips.

  “It wasn’t my intention to cause concern. We’ve maintained our distance, waiting for you to return from your trip, and remained patient. Even with the entertaining subterfuge Miss Chalmeaux and Mr Lucas have indulged in.” Sandrine felt the verbal slap with its intended sting. They knew? How could they? “By the way, I did so enjoy the little old lady costume from last night.”

  Sandrine’s mouth gaped open. She was speechless.

  “Jack will be here soon,” was all she could think of saying.

  “I’m sure he will,” Sergei brushed off the imminent threat with a toss of his pinky ring. “He’s always somewhere close by, watching us but obviously not aware that we’re also watching him. For someone of his experience, he acts li
ke an amateur.”

  When the door burst inwards, followed by another gust of cold air, Scar Face and Smiley stiffened with surprise, their hands diving reflexively into their jackets before stopping dead, a second before Sergei barked something at them in Russian. From where Sandrine stood, she could see they couldn’t quite believe their eyes and certainly didn’t know what to do.

  Sandrine was expecting Jack but it was Mariel whose silhouette filled the doorway.

  “Isn’t it a bit early for a party?” Mariel asked with wide-eyed innocence. The Russians, Sergei included, gawked openly. Although they gave the impression of hard men who had seen it all, this was something they were ill prepared for. Even Marcus was subdued. If a green-skinned alien with three heads had walked through the door, they couldn’t have been more surprised.

  Mariel was wearing an elaborately chevron-patterned overcoat with wide padded shoulders and a shawl collar with a matching tall hat that Sandrine reflected must have been murder to keep under control in anything more than a slight breeze. She made a show of peeling off black suede gloves and slipped the coat from her shoulders, tossing it towards Smiley who fumbled it almost to the floor before catching it. He held it awkwardly, unsure what to do with it, and looked sheepishly at Sergei who returned a withering scowl.

  Underneath, Mariel wore a black pencil skirt and dark blouse with a slim leather bow at the neck. The outfit was overwhelming in its theatricality but Sandrine had seen it before; Mariel habitually referenced old movies and, in this case, she was a ringer for Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. The first time Mariel had worn it, Sandrine remarked that it was entirely appropriate that Russell’s character was a journalist as well. It beats dressing like Lois Lane, she’d said drily, proud of her quick wit. Although Noel Neill had some great outfits, Mariel had deftly snapped back. Game, set, match.