"Oh, Mrs. Z, tell me that I shouldn't do it. Tell me that it's crazy. Tell me to forget the whole idea and to go back to my work."
Mrs. Z smiled and shook her head. "No, I won't, because you've been bitten by the love-bug and about time too. Long past time for you to realize that there's something more in life than your musty Egyptians. Now, you have to trap him. Never met a man who couldn't be caught. By hook or by crook. But you need the right bait."
Mrs. Z eyed Anne's serviceable shoes and long, droopy skirt.
"And that's not it," Mrs. Z said.
"First Angel, now you. What's wrong with..."
"Now, Childie, what you're wearing wouldn't entice a sailor who hadn't had the scent of a woman in his snoot for months-let alone a man like Valkon."
Mrs. Z twisted herself in the chair, part of her stand up ritual. She heaved herself upright, panting from the exertion.
"I've brought my curling iron and some rouge," she said, fishing in the copious pockets of her housedress. "Let's see what we can find in that closet of yours."
Chapter 7
Anne looked in the mirror, to look again. She was neither Anne nor was she Angel. Angel never looked this good, this fabulous, this erotic. Anne peacocked with pride, choosing to ignore the uncharitable thought about her sister.
All her life, she had been second to Angel. For once, she was going to be first, even if she had to be her sister to do it. What could it hurt? She would have some fun, some excitement. It was all a game anyway. And, maybe, just maybe, Wes would kiss her again.
Anne twirled before the mirror, stopping in mid-twirl to study her reflection. She liked what she saw.
Mrs. Z had slicked back her hair from her forehead with a ruthless hand. From a generous application of styling mousse, her riotous curls were now straight with a lone curl at her brow. Mascara made her eyes look more vibrant which, in turn, accented her high cheekbones. Her lips looked fuller too, with the pouting fullness hyped in all the glamour magazines. However, her body had undergone the greatest transformation.
Anne never knew that her torso had the shape of an hourglass. She turned and twisted in the full-length mirror. What difference form-fitting clothing made.
"I'm not sure that I can go through with this," she said, taking a practice walk in the spiked pumps. She turned too fast and stumbled. "Wes is expecting Angel."
Mrs. Z sniffed. She had never liked Angel.
"Men don't know what they want," Mrs. Z said with age-old wisdom. "It's up to us women to tell them. You run along. Keep your head up and your shoulders back."
Through the attic window, the old woman watched Anne navigate the cobbled courtyard. The combination of the tight jeans and the spike heels altered her walk, turning it into a sexy sway as her hips moved from side to side. Mrs. Z was reminded of the bump and grind of that classic Doris Day movie, the one with Clark Gable.
I'm the dame, the dame to blame. I'm the girl who invented rock 'n' roll...
Mrs. Z whistled the refrain. Weston Myckale would never know what hit him.
Chapter 8
In the sports dome arena, Shane turned to Victor Victorious, who was again sharing ringside duties with him. The two men were huddled over their microphones, ready to puff up the event that had sports fans talking all week long.
"Vic," Shane said, "the hot topic on Backfire is Valkon and the T&A babe. Can you believe the controversy that has surrounded this young woman's appearance?"
"Shaney, I've been in this biz for thirty years. Oh! Oh! I have never seen such a firestorm. This chick appears out of nowhere, screws up the Valkon-Flex match, and then leaves, and that's all people can talk about. Frankly, I don't get it."
"You never do," Shane said. "Fans will learn more about what's being called Valkon's neutering before we're through. First, let's take you to the highlights from..."
Backstage, Anne was trembling like a malaria victim. She had already gone to the bathroom five times and needed to go again. The poised professor, who had calmly plotted the military exploits of Ramesses, had disappeared. In her place, was a nervous, queasy, counterfeit who would probably humiliate herself. Or rather, Angel.
The pit manager, a scrawny kid with a headset and a lot of equipment suspended from a thick belt, had spoken with her. Anne could barely hear him over the noise in this area, called the "Gorilla Position" for the well-loved wrestler, Gorilla Monsoon.
The manager had talked fast, so fast that Anne hardly understood his instructions. In addition, everything that he said to her was interrupted by shouted commands, either to him or from him. He had promised to send over a stuntwoman to practice the moves. So far, no one had appeared.
Anne peeped around a partition, trying to catch his attention.
He rolled his eyes as if to say 'prima donnas'. He clearly thought that she was an unnecessary drain on his time. He walked towards her, his equipment clunking with each step.
"Sorry about leaving you hanging," he said. "Wes has been delayed at a meet-and-greet. Come on out when you hear your cue." He espied several crewmembers carting generators. "Hey, where the heck do you think you're going with that?" He was off at a dog-trot and was immediately engulfed by technicians.
The evening dragged on. Anne paced, made bathroom trips, watched bits and pieces of the show on the TV monitor. She thought that she had been forgotten until someone sent over coffee and donuts.
About 10:45, the pit manager reappeared and escorted her to a set of tiered, black curtains. She could hear the roar of the crowd. This was it! She clutched her stomach, doubling over. She was forced upright by unknown hands. The hands touched up her face and misted her hair. Another pair of hands adjusted her clothing, poking here, pulling there. On a bank of overhead monitors, she saw the action in the ring. Valkon was pounding Joey Flex in a repeat performance from last Thursday.
"Cue the T&A babe," someone said, a disembodied voice out of nowhere.
"T&A. T&A. T&A." Another voice was heard, insistent, through a radio mike.
"That's you." The pit manager pushed her through the black curtains and into the arena.
Anne froze. The proverbial deer caught in the headlights.
After the darkness of backstage, the arena was unusually bright. She blinked. A deer caught in the bright headlights of an oncoming car.
"Go! Run to the ring!"
She heard the disembodied voice in her ear. At first, she thought that the voice was part of some crazy dream. It took her a moment to realize that she was wired.
She refitted the earphone, scanning the arena. She focused on the ring. Valkon was there, strutting his stuff.
"Bring it here," he commanded, with the imperialism of The Golden One.
Anne gathered her courage. Taking a deep breath, she sauntered to the ring. Her walk was the classic roll of a seductive siren on the prowl.
"The T&A babe is back!" Shane said. "All week long, we've heard stories, commentaries, theories about this lady. We don't know what to expect. What's going on between her, Valkon, and Superfine Joey?"
"They've got some sorta triangle going," Victor said. "I'm not sure that I like it. Oh! Oh! This is sports entertainment, not Young and the Restless.
"You can't deny that some people in the IWC are questioning Valkon's machismo. What he does now, right now, will be the test of his phallus-prowess."
Shane continued to puff up the story by way of voice-over. The fans could not hear what was being said in the ring, which added to the suspense. The flamboyant gestures, the overboard posturing, the bad acting had the fans in the arena on their feet in pitched anticipation.
"Okay, Angel," the disembodied voice spoke again in Anne's ear. "We're running long. Let's wrap it up. Slap Wes."
Anne heard the command in that voice. As cued, she stepped forward. She reared back her arm.
"Make it look good," the voice said.
She was postured to strike. She hesitated.
"Go ahead. Slap him. Slap him!"
She tried. She
tried hard. Her hand would not obey the direction of her brain.
She could not slap the beautiful, handsome face of the man she loved.
Valkon whispered, "Slap me. I'll roll with it."
"Do it!" the voice shouted in her ear.
She tried again. Her hand halted in midair.
"Do it!" The disembodied voice screamed in her ear. She saw naked fury in the face of Joey Flex as he circled around her. She noticed Shane Esposito and Victor Victorious at ringside. Shane scowled, soldiering on with his voice-over, flipping the pages of the script. Victor put his hand to his forehead, his face screwed up in question.
Time stood still as everybody waited for her to do something. She backed away, fleeing as fast as her spiked heels and tight jeans would permit.
When she reached the ropes, she looked over her shoulder at Wes. This would be the last time that she would see him. Her eyes studied his face, committing each line, each feature to memory. Her gaze lingered on the crescent scar near his mouth and the dimple in his chin. She wanted nothing more than to wake up every morning to that face. Suddenly, she was in his arms. And kissing his face.
Without counting the consequences, she had bounced off the top rope to leap into his arms. He took her weight as if she weighed no more than a flea. He raised her high. She wrapped her legs around his slim waist. He held her with one arm, bouncing her, tossing her. Their private parts touched. She humped him.
Valkon paraded with her around the arena pit, his clenched fist raised, stiff-armed. He was a warrior, a glorious conqueror, returning triumphant from battle. She was his welcoming maid. He let her slide down his body. When she broke the embrace, he gave her a playful swat on her rear end and pulled her back into his arms.
Valkon commandeered Shane's microphone. Anne felt the rumble in his chest when he spoke. "Valkon rules!" He struck the classic Mr. Universe pose.
The arena turned dark, then bright white. Valkon's theme song came up, loud, blaring. He flexed his pectorals in time to the music, oscillating them like a drumbeat. The fans went wild. Even Shane and Victor were caught up in the moment.
Valkon hoisted Anne over his shoulder, caveman style. For her, the world turned upside down. She blinked when the floor rushed by, her vision blurring. Within seconds, Valkon's powerful legs ate up the distance to the tiered curtains. Surging, he strode from the arena and into the darkness of the August night.
Chapter 9
Wes carried Anne through deserted, cobblestone streets to his home in the Old City sector of Philadelphia. From the lantern light, she got a glimpse of an address and three marble steps. He took the steps with grace, skipping, her added weight a nullity.
As he strode through a large foyer, she glimpsed the masculine elegance. Dark, smoky paneling covered the walls. Thick, brown carpeting was underfoot. A huge fireplace, its appurtenances of gleaming brass, called forth images of cold winter evenings before a roaring fire. There was something appealingly male about a fireplace. Perhaps it was the logs, rough and firm, or the heat, fierce and flaming, or the poker, prodding and jabbing, its sole intention to rekindle the fire.
In the bedroom, Wes tossed Anne into the center of a king-size bed. She pushed aside her hair, pillows, bed linen, reaching across mattress and more mattress. Sinking deep into the cushiony softness, she struggled to sit up.
Wes was standing by the bed, his eyes boring into hers. He pulled the string tie from his hair. With a toss of his strong neck, his blonde locks fell to his shoulders. He assumed The Proud-the haughty, arrogant carriage of pure Valkon of Aesir.
He unsnapped his denim shirt.
One...
Two...
Three...
Ripping it open, he trod towards her.
Anne panted with each step that he took. She closed her eyes. She heard the bed sag under this weight. She waited for what was coming next. She did not have to wait long. He swooped down and took her lips.
He plundered her mouth, his tongue firm and agile. She threw her leg around his hip, and with womanly strength, pulled him close.
"Whoa, woman," he said. "Slow down."
He stood up and kicked off his loafers. Unbuckling his belt, he slipped out of his pants. He was naked except for the briefest of briefs. Anne wondered how so little material could cover so much. That thought-indeed, all thoughts-left her, when he slid into bed.
He kissed her tenderly, only to grow greedy. He cupped her head, deepening the kiss. His hands went to her shirt, and he fumbled with the silver buttons there. He removed her spiked pumps to wiggle her out of her skin-tight jeans. With fingers caressing the soles of her feet, he slipped her pumps back on. She was a strange, desirous sight. The quintessential Victoria's Secret in lingerie and high heels.
His hands roamed over her body. He enjoyed the feel of the silk bustier against her skin and against his skin too. He used the tassels like a feather, stroking her with them. He stretched her legs apart, caressing her inner thigh. She waited, anticipated, as his hand approached the core of her passion. His progress was unhurried, deliberate.
He would soon reach it. He did. Through the slit of the bustier, his long, large, middle digit fingered her. She shot up, her hips arching. She rubbed herself against it, increasing the friction. She grabbed his hand, jerking hard. Release was close.
"Oh no. No yet," he said, huskily. "I'm going to draw this out until you're begging me for it."
He flipped her over, onto her belly. Slowly, ever so slowly, he unzipped her, punctuating the strip-tease with light kisses. She tried to turn over. He held her in place, his hand at the pit of her back. As if he were unwrapping a gift, he pulled the bustier down. The silk clung to her curves, but he tugged and then lifted her derriere high.
Her sweet ass was exposed to his view. He kissed her plump buttocks, taking his time, enjoying the feel. He fingered her again, this time with intensity. Her juices ran down from within her. He licked her dry.
She was ready. She tried to slip out of her heels. He restrained her.
"I always wanted to make love to a woman in high heels."
He rose to his knees, pulling her ass up. She was face down, helpless, her breast sinking into the softness of the bed.
"Experience," he said, rubbing her, cupping her.
He brought his hips up against her, close. She felt him there. His hairs, short and frisky, teased her. He swayed back and forth, pumping rapidly. She turned her head. She wanted to see him put it in. She wanted to see each splendid inch of him when he rammed her. He pulled back, gave a few jerks on his cock, and sprayed all over her ass. The bed linens were soaked. She slumped on the bed, feeling cheated, so cheated.
"Foreplay," he said. "The prelude. I'll give you everything you want."
He tossed her onto her back. He climbed her, jutting. He was still hard.
He kissed her. She savored all the facets of his kiss. Tender and hot. Sensual and sexy. Sweet and demanding. As much as she wanted his kisses, she wanted more. She wanted fulfillment. She reached down. She seized him.
"Determined little thing, aren't you," he said.
With one sure, certain thrust, he filled her.
The tightness was unbearable. He was so big. She was so small. She wiggled, trying for a comfortable position. She felt as if he were ripping her apart.
"I guess I should have warned you. There is a lot of me down there."
"It's not going to work." Fear and frustration pitched her voice high.
"Yes, it will. We've got to work at it, that's all."
Gradually, not wanting to hurt her, he withdrew, then rocked. With each rock, she took a little more of him. She swelled, stretched, and accepted. He was a magnificent, marvelous stud. Yet, he was patient and gentle, encouraging her with love words, with kisses of assurance.
"That's right. Take me," he whispered. His voice was like soft velvet. "Take all of me. Don't be afraid. Want me to stop? No? Then take me. I'm yours. I'm always yours."
With one final rock, he was in. Com
pletely. They were mated. He was so high and so deep, she felt as if he were tickling her back. There was no pain but the painful anguish of completion denied.
He set the rhythm. She followed. She knew nothing, wanted nothing, except to climb the staircase of passion. It began. The push. The pull. The thrust. The grunt. The grind. This was mating! This was what it was like. This was what she had been missing. And craving. And repressing. She could never go back to her half-life now. Not after knowing the white light of release, the strong, sweaty smell of sex.
The age-old desire was upon her. It took her like a whirlwind, possessing her, flinging her here and there. Wind tossed. Wind beaten. She was serrated, broken pieces, flying apart as if ripped by a storm, for there was a storm. Her mind let go. Her body followed. Then the abyss of sated satisfaction.
Wes felt her fulfillment. He knew that he had taken her to the pinnacle and beyond. That knowledge sapped his willpower and pushed him over the edge. He reared his head back, baring his teeth. He pistoned her with all of his might. His body was straight like an arrow just released from its bow. In the throes of his own passion, his balls rose, flattened against him. He felt the rush of his sperm. He filled her, filled her, until he could no more. He was drained. Wet. Drained. He howled out his release until he collapsed on her, letting her take all of his weight as well as his heart.
Chapter 10
Anne woke up hot and sticky. Sometime during the night, Wes had pulled her into his arms and tucked the sheet around them. She pushed the sheet away and off them, exposing his body to her view. In the dim light through the slanted blinds, she studied the contours of his chest, the strong column of his neck. Odd how, to her, that something as mundane as finely detailed muscles could make her realize how deeply she had fallen in love.
Romantic Days, Romantic Nights Page 10
