She retraced her steps. She quickly realized that walking up was not as easily as walking down it, especially not in high heels. She stopped to dab at the perspiration at her brow, careful not to smear her make-up. She opened her purse, digging for her compact and lip-gloss.
Whoosh!
She was slammed, face-first, against the wall. A hand clamped over her mouth. Another hand yanked her arm, pinning it. She tried to break free, but she was held so tightly, with such overpowering strength, that she could not move.
With terrified eyes, she looked around, but the scope of her vision was narrow. The only thing she could see was a beefy arm, matted with hair and a hideous tattoo.
Death.
She read the word, like a prediction of her future, and stiffened.
"Don't scream." The voice of her attacker was low and raspy. "I'll take my hand away, if you promise not to scream. You're not going to scream, are you?"
Anne shook her head, her cheek scraping the rough stucco of the sports dome wall. The hand slackened its grip to twist her around. Anne sucked in air, preparing to scream, a scream that would shake the walls, shake the building's very foundation.
But she did not scream.
She was looking into the acne-scarred face of Superfine Joey Flex.
"M-r-r-r. Flex?" she stammered. Wild, improbable thoughts raced though her mind. She looked around for the cameras. Was this an IWC event? If so, where was Wes? It was as if she had wandered into some twilight zone of reality and illusion.
The pressure at her throat was no illusion.
"I have spoken to Valkon of Aesir about you," Flex said.
"You spoke to Wes?"
"Don't play games! Who's Wes?"
"Wes. Weston Myckale. He's plays Val..."
"I told you not to play games. You never follow the rules. Punishment is due."
"Listen Mr. Flex," Anne said as she tried to edge away.
"That's Superfine to you!" Flex shoved her back.
"Listen, Mr. Superfine..." Anne said, obedient to the renewed pressure at her throat. For the first time, she noticed the pink boa dangling from his brawny neck. Under other circumstances, she would have giggled at the bizarre contradiction.
"I know I've made mistakes..." she began.
"Mistakes!"
He gave her a hate-filled look. Spittle had gathered at the corners of his lips.
"You have conspired to shame Superfine Joey Flex, the sex machine, three-time IWC champion, two-time holder of the CCW belt, before the legions and the legions of his fans."
She stared into his face. He looked so strange. Realization struck her.
He's insane.
"No, no, I would never do anything like that," Anne said in what she hoped was a soothing voice.
"You have and you must be punished."
In a world of his own, Flex pumped his hips against hers, thrusting against her cleft. He kneed her legs apart, rubbing the scratchy fabric of his jeans against the soft skin of her inner thigh. He pushed her skirt up, around her waist, and squeezed his hand between her legs. At that, she sagged in his arms, doubling over, and he jerked her upright as if she were a rag doll. Her sudden scream of pain seemed to excite him for he kissed her with spit-coated lips, all the while pushing his hand deeper into the V between her legs. Succeeding, he moaned in her mouth and bile rose in her throat.
He was seconds from raping her. This Anne knew. She only had one chance. She had to take it. She refused to give up her new-found life without a fight. She had fought too hard, effacing to many demons, to be defeated by the likes of Joey Flex.
She brought her spiked, high-heeled shoe down with all of her might, and Flex howled with rage. In the ensuing struggle, her head hit Flex's chin and sent him reeling. She followed up her advantage with the women's historic defense weapon: the tried and true knee to the groin.
Free, she kicked off her heels and ran for her life, bolting out as if she were born to run. She turned left and right, back and forth, trying to lose him. She veered sharply, and spotting some stacked boxes, threw them in his path. She heard his running footsteps behind her and then the sound of him hitting the ground with a solid thud. Her lips turned up in a brief smile and she ran on.
She saw an exit sign overhead, its red letters like a beacon of salvation. Gathering her strength, she sprinted up that long, dark tunnel, running fast, her breathing shallow, shallower. She wiped sweat from her eyes, or was it tears? She no longer heard the sound of Joey's footfalls. She prayed that he had given up.
She followed the exit signs and the tunnel grew bright with light. She saw a large arrow, marking the exit to the parking lot.
With a final burst, she took that turn and ran straight into...
No! He had her. He must have doubled back, circled around. He had her trapped and she no longer had the strength to beat him off.
Her arm flailed, crazily. She was like a bug caught in a sticky spider web.
He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. She caught her breath on a sob.
"Let me go!"
"Anne! Anne!"
He said her name, urgently, and perhaps he said more. But she did not hear him. There was a fog in her ears, a loud roaring, and everything swam before her eyes. She glimpsed the handsome features of Wes' face before oblivion claimed her.
Chapter 16
In Wes' dressing room, Anne woke with a start. There was burning in her throat and a dull roar in her ears. She sat up, gripping her head in her hands.
"Lie still," Wes said. He pushed her back into the soft cushions of the sofa.
"Joey Flex! He..." Anne muttered, her mind flashing the scenes before her eyes.
"He's in custody. Lie still. An EMT is on the way."
"I'm okay. Just a little woozy."
"I said, lie still. Here, drink this."
She let him put a glass to her lips. The liquid was cold and soothed the rawness of her throat, but it tasted terrible.
"What is that stuff?" she asked, pushing the glass away.
"Sports drink," he answered. He straightened her high heels, which security had retrieved from the corridor, with unnecessary care. "Finish it. You're still a little shocky." He eyed her from narrowed eyes until she did as he directed. A silence, tense and piercing, fell.
"What happened to him?" Anne asked, pushing herself up against the pillows. For the first time, she looked directly into Wes' eyes. Blue flames were burning there. She knew, from the look in his eyes, that the next few minutes would not be pleasant.
"Like I said, he's in custody. Damn it! You were lucky. The closed-circuit cameras picked it up and security nabbed him before he could grab you again. Otherwise..." His voice clogged with fear. "Otherwise, he would have raped you or worse."
The flame in Wes' eyes burned bright and he seized Anne by her shoulders. He shook her until she whispered a sob. At that sound, at that soft sound, he crushed his lips against hers. His kiss was meant to punish her, to tame her, to make her understand what she had almost cost him. He poured his anger out in that kiss until it turned seductive.
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, skimming her hands over the corded muscles of his neck, the broad girth of his shoulders, the flat plane of his belly. Seeking skin on skin, she grabbed a handful of his sweatshirt and tugged.
"Woman, do you know how much you mean to me?" he muttered between kisses. He brushed his lips against her temple, then rested his head in the hollow of her shoulder. They stayed thus until the EMT arrived.
Anne protested, but Wes insisted that the tech check her out. He sighed in relief that she had only suffered a few bruises. He thanked the tech, pumping her hand as if she had saved Anne's life, and shepherded her out, locking the dressing room door behind her.
He returned to face Anne, standing before her, his legs astride.
"Don't get me wrong," he said, "I love that you're here. But, damn it, what are you doing here?"
"Being the T&A babe," Anne said, flippant until s
he saw the look on his face.
"I don't know," she backtracked. "I guess I got caught up in the excitement."
"My telephone calls. Why didn't you return them?"
"Don't know. I guess it took me a while to get the courage."
"You put me through hell!"
"I know."
Her agreement drew him up short. He turned thoughtful.
"So I'm forgiven?" he asked.
"You're forgiven," she said.
Her lips formed a sultry smile. He felt his cock twitch in anticipation.
She stretched out her arms. She wanted him to climb her, to knee open her thighs to find his nesting place, to blot out the ugliness of Joey Flex.
"Wes," she spoke his name with sweet satisfaction. Gone were all doubts about herself, about him, about their future together. "I love you," she said.
"Can't you ever follow the script?" he chided. "I'm supposed to say that." He grinned, a teasing grin, before turning serious. "I love you. You are my life, Anne. You are in my heart and in my head, in my very soul. Marry me and share my life. Wake up every morning with me and to the squeals of a houseful of children."
"Yes. Yes. Yes! I'll marry you. On one condition."
"Name it." He knew that look. His mischievous little pixie was up to something.
"It's not a very hard condition," she said, "considering the state you're in." She pointed to his erection, bulging against the fabric of his pants.
"Hmmm," he moaned, "I'll do anything."
"I want that in me. Now. I've been without it for far too long." She lowered her voice, whispering in his ear. "I want you to screw my brains out."
Wes shouted with laughter. "Wherever did you hear that? No, don't tell me," he said, when she rolled her eyes with exaggerated drama.
"Huh. I guess if that's what it takes to get you to the altar, I'll do it."
With lightning speed, he stripped his clothes off and then hers. He tumbled her onto her back, gasping when her tongue darted around his ear. He felt her hands at his ponytail, freeing his hair to fall about his shoulders like a wild mane. He raised her hips off the floor, tilting her softness high, preparing her for his deep penetration.
He was quick, but she was quicker. She gripped his muscular ass, completing the union, forcing him to fill her with one sure thrust.
"Careful," he said. "Don't encourage me. You're so small. Sometimes I feel like I'm ripping you apart."
"Remember my condition," she said, pumping him. "I won't marry you..."
"But I've other ideas about who's in charge. You see, you're going to marry me, regardless, and before we deal with your conditions, I've got questions."
"Questions?" she exclaimed. "You've got questions now?"
"Yeah. Stop that!" He planted his hand firmly on her middle. She struggled, squirming, but she could no longer move. He held his hand in place until she was still.
"Who do you belong to?" he asked. He wrapped his hand around his prick.
"Easy," she said, "You. Okay. Put in it and fuck me until..."
"Not yet. Next question. There's been no other man, right?"
"Right."
She felt his throbbing tip, close. She wiggled.
"And there won't be, right?"
"Right."
She felt him enter her, using the velvety tip to trace the outline of her slit.
"And, you understand," he slid the tip back and forth, "I'm not like Valkon."
"Not like Valkon. I got that."
She wanted him in her. She would say anything to get him in her.
"Good answer. Something tells me you're going ace this test." He pushed in. She sucked in. It was sexual dominion in the worst way, but she wanted it in the worst way.
"From now on," he commanded, "Angel plays the T&A babe."
"Angel. T&A. Do I get a gold star?"
"How about a little more of me?"
He was almost in her, almost sheathed to the hilt. He felt his control slipping, but he had to make sure that she understood. "You'll never, ever, do anything so crazy like you did tonight. Repeat after me. I will never..."
"...never ... do ... anything ... like that," she swore obediently.
He punctuated each word with a thrust, inserting a little more of himself each time.
"For a new student, you learn fast. Don't forget or I'll have to punish you." He withdrew himself, pulling free from her sodden muscles. His unexpected withdraw left her wringing on the carpet. "But I won't have to. When we're married, you'll be such a good little elf, I'll give you all of this whenever you want."
He put this prick back in, his insertion made easy by the slippery wetness oozing around him. He wanted to prolong the verbal love-play, make it last for an eternity, but he could not. His thrusting unmanned him. He lost the thread, ricocheting on a storm of passion.
She caught his rhythm, matching it, and their sweaty bodies snapped against each other in perfect accord. He adjusted his position, opening her wider, reaching down, searching for the bud of her sexuality. He pressed it. She went out of her mind, her body recoiling from the sudden, exquisite shaft of pleasure.
She screamed, a piercing shrill that signified that the height of her climax was upon her. Her scream pushed him over the edge. He reared and bucked, and when he reached the pinnacle, she wrapped her legs around his slim waist to milk him dry. He flooded all over her, filling her to overflow, her channel unable to hold all of his essence. It ran in ripplets down her leg, to dampen the carpet beneath them.
His down-strokes slowed. Now it was her turn for love-play, for her to show him that she was not only student, but teacher, too. She reached for her high heel. His firm, muscled ass was still pumping like a sluggish jackhammer after the power was cut. She gave his ass a swat with the sole of her shoe, a flicking sting, causing him to bore down, to penetrate deep, to almost split the juicy walls of her vulva in two.
Later, resting in the afterglow of contentment, he snuggled her close.
"Woman, married life with you is gonna be very interesting."
Chapter 17
In the smallest Queen's Pyramids near Khufu, Anne walked up the maze of burial chambers and passageways to reach the surface. At the stone-slab exit, she stopped to unclip the sun goggles from her waistband. Her hand brushed her belly and she caressed the slight roundness there. In six months, the slight roundness would be the son or the daughter that she had created with Wes.
Adjusting her goggles, she walked into the sunlight. She had only taken a few steps before she was shaded by her personal shadow.
"You're not doing too much, are you? How are you feeling? Do you want some help? Water? Juice? What about the baby?" The questions tripped off Wes' lips, without giving her a chance to reply. He sat down on the stele and felt her forehead.
"I'm fine," Anne said. "Don't worry. I've excavated under worse circumstances."
"Yeah, but then you weren't carrying my baby."
He frowned, lowering his hand from her brow to caress her stomach.
She leaned into the embrace, resting her head against his strong arm. In truth, she was feeling out of sorts. The daily rounds of morning sickness left her weak and drained, and the desert heat seemed more oppressive than she remembered.
"We'll break off early," he said.
"Eh?"
"Now, don't argue. This valley has been waiting for thousands of years. It can wait a little longer. I promised Mrs. Z that I would take care of you. I don't want to screw up. That old battleaxe of a woman scares the hell out of me."
Anne laughed, recalling how Mrs. Z had doted on Wes. She dubbed him her yung mit bainer-in loose Yiddish-her powerhouse. Her doting turned to worship when he put his career on hold so Anne could supervise the excavations at the Valley of the Queens. Not that his decision was a hardship for him. He was enjoying himself. He kept his body in shape by hauling sandstone and his mind sharp with books on ancient weaponry. He wondered if IWC fans would ever again see the cocky, swaggering Valkon of Aesir. Per
haps, he needed a career change. He was keeping his options open.
Of course, Mrs. Z did not know how right she was. Wes was a powerhouse, a randy, potent stud who took Anne three and four times a night until her legs were weak and her crotch was sore. Her pregnancy seemed to increase his appetite, especially when he imagined her large and round and weighed down with his child. He planned to get one of those books on making love in the late stages of pregnancy. He suspected that some of those positions were highly pleasurable and intended to investigate every one.
In the meantime, he improvised. The Egyptian nights were long, but no matter how long, he made Anne lust afresh in heat of the desert wind.
Book Three:
Risking All
Chapter 1
When Drake Smith strode into the lounge of the Silver Dollar Casino, he saw her in the bright lights. She was sitting alone in a large booth, sipping sherry. He first noticed her because her alabaster skin reflected off the mirrors and strangely illuminated the lounge. But on second glance, he saw that she was beautiful. Staring, he stopped, dazed, feeling as if someone had kicked him hard in the gut. He was in pain from the vision that she presented and from his sudden desire.
He saw that she was tall and slender. Her face was ethereal. Her brow was porcelain. Her mouth was wide, but her bottom lip was full and made for kissing. Her eyelashes were long and thick, like dusters, so long that they brushed her face. She was small-breasted, no floppy abundance there, but he knew instinctively that she had enough sweetness to keep a man occupied on the coldest, winter night.
He looked lower, searching for her hips, but they were hidden by the shadows of the table. The shape of her legs was hidden too, but he could see that they were encased in tight, black stockings. He immediately wanted those stockings off and her out of them. Then her panties, which he would try to gently remove, not rushing, not ripping them, but with slow, soft strokes. As he pulled her panties down, he would cover her and push, seeking entry. And she would want him and take him.
Romantic Days, Romantic Nights Page 13
