‘Hold on tight,’ he said, as she wrapped her thighs around his neck, one ankle crossed over the other, her lean legs all sleek muscle, forming a lock that even Jerome would have needed to use considerable force to break. He was supporting her, his hands under her small buttocks, which were barely bigger than his palms; but though he was taking most of her weight, she still needed to keep the lock around his neck.
It was a game, and they both knew it. Jerome had to hold up Evie, Evie had to keep locked onto him, while, simultaneously, they pleasured each other; it was a glorious showing off, a celebration of the extraordinary strength, flexibility and athleticism they had both worked so hard to achieve. Jerome had swung Evie into an extreme Kama Sutra sex position that was like an extension of the gymnastic routines they performed on stage: as he shifted Evie, supporting her now on just one hand, so that the other one could hook around the g-string at her crotch, pulling it up and aside, his full, plump lips curved into a smile of complete satisfaction.
‘Oh yeah,’ he said complacently. ‘This is what I’m talking about.’
It was all Evie could do not to writhe so much her ankles loosened their twist. But she couldn’t; if she did, she would fall clumsily into Jerome’s lap, and worse, she would lose the amazing sensation of his mouth licking and sucking between her legs. She had never felt this much heat in her life. It was like having a hot water bottle pressed directly onto her crotch, a sex toy that somehow kindled to blood temperature. My God, she thought dizzily, the excitement instantly sparking in her belly, if someone could invent that they’d make a fortune . . .
Jerome was licking her lubriciously, long swipes of his tongue, each one ending with a flick that made her hips jerk upward, wanting it there, there, now, now, wanting him to stop teasing her with the big delicious licks of his tongue and settle his mouth down onto her, direct his attention to the very specific place where she was increasingly desperate to have him concentrate, where she had to have it . . .
She was moaning, her head pressed into his thigh, her shoulders resting on his big quads, the scent of his skin all around her, his sweat making his skin glisten. Her hands were wrapped around his thighs, as much as they could; they were so huge that she couldn’t have enveloped one in both hands, even stretched to their maximum. She felt the big quad muscles standing out under her palms, like heavy ropes under the skin, laid on top of the bones, and she pushed down on them, lifting herself, working her body back, until it laid right against his, their chests pressed together, their sweat slickening the contact, until her head was directly between his legs.
She didn’t even need her hands. Her thumbs dug into his hip flexors, her fingers curled into his groin, raising her just enough so that she could nip with her teeth at the edge of his pouch, pulling it away from his body. Just an inch or so, but that was all his cock needed to spring free; it had been fighting against the fabric already, and now it bounced out like a spring being released, fat and eager, darker even than the rest of him, sinking into Evie’s mouth almost instantly, plunging to the back of her throat, filling her up.
As if synchronised, Jerome’s tongue dove right inside her pussy, diving deeply into her; she groaned in pleasure, the back of her throat vibrating, sending his cock even deeper, its head titillated by the rippling sounds Evie couldn’t help making as Jerome worked on her, circling her sweet spot, flicking it back and forth, bringing her inexorably to a screaming climax. She sucked at him frantically, her lips wrapped over her teeth, her mouth stretched to its maximum, wanting to give him the same sensations he was giving her, to fully return the absolute delight she was feeling.
It was pure sex; she barely knew him, he barely knew her, their bodies linked, not their minds. A simple, pure, animal attraction, their mouths pressed eagerly between each other’s legs, tasting each other, smelling each other. Racing each other, now, in another game; the game to make the other one lose control and come first. Evie managed to close her mouth around the head of Jerome’s cock, to wrap her tongue around the bulging vein on its base, hearing him, above her, groan into her pussy, his hot exhale of breath an extra surge of heat, which made her gasp in ecstasy. She was so close, she knew it. Her entire lower body felt as if it were melting, as if Jerome’s heated mouth were a flame dissolving her like candle wax.
I can’t hold on much longer! Evie thought in near-desperation, knowing that her legs were weakening. Her inner thigh muscles were trembling, more, even, than they had done onstage earlier, that tell-tale vibration that meant they were being worked to their limit. The sweat working up between them was making them slippery, making it extra-hard to hold on, Jerome’s wide neck as slick now as his cock in her mouth. I’m going to let go . . . I’m sliding off him . . .
And then she thought: So, let go! Let go with everything! And the next second, she was coming, coming against Jerome’s mouth, her crotch bucking and bouncing against his full lips, her strong slim hips sending her frantically against him, eking out every moment of the orgasms he was giving her, again and again and again, so consumed by the heat and the rush that she didn’t even realise that his cock had swollen even more, that its pounds against the back of her throat had become frenzied, that he, too, was about to come.
Jerome held out as long as he could, until he felt her body going limp, her grip on him almost non-existent, the orgasms ripping through her and making her weak; when, finally, his desperation was at crisis point, he tore his mouth from her and grabbed her waist, hauling her up with one smooth easy gesture, his cock slipping from her mouth just in time, spraying its white stream up over her neck and small pointed breasts, the pale come spurting from his deep brown cock a contrast so stunning that, even with her body still throbbing from multiple orgasms, even hanging upside down, dazed and blurry-eyed, Evie watched it with dizzy pleasure.
She felt him moving her, finally, after his cock had shot its load, and flopped back, happily content, against his ripped stomach. He raised her, letting her unwrap one leg from around his neck, and then lowered her into his lap, where she curled up in post-orgasmic bliss, her entire body utterly relaxed, her back against his chest, her legs stretched out over his, feeling absolutely tiny against his enormous frame.
‘Here,’ he said eventually, and his hands, which had been around her waist, reached up to cover her breasts, rubbing them in long slow strokes. At first, Evie thought it was a lingering caress, or maybe even a sign that Jerome wanted to start things up all over again. Then she realised what he was really doing. Just as he had worked baby oil into his skin before, to make himself smooth and supple for his act, now he was working his semen into her breasts.
‘You got a Jerome body treatment. Best thing for your skin,’ he said lazily against the top of her head. ‘Full of proteins. Keeps you soft. Nothing like it.’
‘That right?’ Evie managed, glad he couldn’t see her smile.
Men, she thought. They’re all the same. How they love to talk about their come. Like it was holy water or something.
‘Yeah, it sure is,’ Jerome was saying. ‘And I don’t like to boast, but all the ladies tell me mine’s top quality. Even richer than normal.’
‘Wow,’ Evie said, not daring to say more in case he heard how big her grin was now.
‘Yeah,’ Jerome said complacently, working the last drops of his come into her stomach. ‘Next time, if you want, I’ll give you a facial. You leave it on for half an hour at least. When you rinse it off, you’ll be amazed how tight and smooth your skin is.’
Evie reached out for the glass of champagne, which was on the dressing table, and upended its contents into her mouth.
‘Jerome,’ she said, swallowing, ‘do you by any chance give yourself your own, um, “facials”?’
‘Well, sure!’ Jerome said, sounding surprised. ‘Every time I knock one off on my own! Here!’ He picked up one of her hands and raised it to his cheek. ‘Feel how smooth that is, baby girl! You won’t get that kind of skin from Elizabeth Arden!’
Evie
bit her tongue hard.
‘And hey, it’s free!’ Jerome finished smugly. ‘I mean, what’s not to like?’
‘Nothing,’ Evie managed to say, her body blissfully relaxed, bubbles bursting in her throat, her brain dancing with laughter. ‘Nothing not to like.’
Please read on for a sneak peek of
Rebecca Chance’s sizzling new novel,
Killer Heels,
featuring hot men, hotter sex, skyscraper
stilettos and oodles of scandal . . .
out in paperback this summer . . .
Prologue Manhattan: Now
Coco
Coco Raeburn stared down at the display on her bathroom scales, excitement rising in her as she scanned the figures on the screen. Actually, the chrome and glass device on which she was standing was much more than a set of scales; it was a body composition analyser, informing her not only of her weight but also her body fat percentage, her total water content, and her BMI. By now, Coco was so used to seeing her fat percentage displayed that she didn’t bat an eyelid at the brutal truth; and today it was a mere 8 per cent. Under 10 per cent body fat! That was wonderful enough in itself, but the real prize was the main display, the large figures in the centre of the screen.
There were only two of them. Two figures. She had done it; she’d reached her goal, cracked the hundred.
Ninety-eight pounds. She could hardly believe it. In fact, she stepped off the scales, let the screen clear, and then tapped the base of the scales to restart them. Cautiously, almost tentatively, she set one bare foot, then the other, on the rubber indents, watching, breath held in anticipation, as the monitor scanned her once more and then spat out the figures that by now – as far as she was concerned – defined Coco more completely than anything else.
Ninety-eight pounds, again. Not only had she cracked the hundred, but she had an extra pound to spare in case of any slipbacks.
Well, there won’t be any of those, she told herself, determined. I’m staying at ninety-eight if it kills me.
Coco shivered in the air-conditioned bathroom; the trouble with only having 8 per cent body fat was that you felt the cold much more acutely. But she didn’t go into the hallway to adjust the temperature on the built-in thermostat: she couldn’t drag herself away from the sight of her thin, thin body in the full-length mirror set into the wall. With approval, she noted how much bone and muscle she could see. Her tummy had sunk in below her ribcage, a tight concave band of muscle, firm from all her Pilates classes and training sessions with Brad. She pummelled it lightly with her fists: hard as a rock. She could count every one of her ribs, the top ones slatted like a set of Venetian blinds. People commented on those, and the protruding collarbones. I need high-cut necklines to cover them, she thought. Diane von Furstenberg’s doing some great blouses for spring/summer. I’ll get someone to call them in.
Blouses with high necklines and long sleeves: those would be ideal. Coco was dressing very differently than when she’d been what she now considered huge – an English size 12–14. Gigantic! She shuddered at the thought of how fat she’d been. Then, she’d shown off her rounded shoulders, the boobs that she’d now completely lost. Now, folds of fabric hung on her skinny frame as if from a hanger, concealing not only the too-visible bones, but the bruises and chafe-marks that patterned her pale skin.
At each hip, perfectly parallel, were five livid purple imprints where a man’s hands had dug into her, held her down. Big hands, which spanned half her body with ease, now that she was so thin; the bruises were so clear that a police pathologist could almost have taken fingerprints from them. On her stomach, a pattern of small red smudges bore witness to hot wax that had been dripped on her, her abdomen so hollow now it was like a shallow bowl he had taken pleasure in filling. As for her wrists and ankles . . . well, Coco took it for granted these days that she needed to cover them whenever she was out in public. She worked out in leggings and slim, long-sleeved tops, careful not to let the cuffs slide back and show the reddened indentations on her skin. If they were planning a trip to St Barts, to a beach where she would be on display, if there were any chance that someone might see Coco’s body, he switched to velvet-lined restraints well in advance, so that there would be no telltale rope-marks on her.
Anyone entering the bathroom at that moment would have gasped aloud in shock at the sight of Coco’s white, almost skeletal body, the visible vertebrae like a fragile tower of stones reaching from nape to coccyx, the contusions on her almost-flat buttocks, the welts around the wrists and ankles. They would have rushed forward, reached for a towel or dressing-gown to cover her vulnerable, bruised nakedness, asked what had happened to her, if she had gone to the police.
But then they would have noticed the faraway, otherworldly look in her eyes as she stared at herself, raising one hand to her neck, where two thumbprints could just be made out, one above each collarbone point. And they would have realised that this was not a woman who had been subjected against her will to a series of attacks which had left their livid evidence on her body. Coco’s expression was dreamy, hypnotised; her gaze passed right over all the marks, not even noticing them apart from the faint, daily registering of what she needed to cover up, protect from the critical attention of the outside world.
She was looking, instead, at her extreme weight-loss, and feeling dizzyingly proud of herself.
Her elbow joints were almost wider than her forearms, her kneecaps dwarfed her skinny legs. Her inner thighs didn’t touch at all as she crossed the bathroom floor and almost reluctantly drew on her Leigh Bantivoglio silk robe, wrapping it around her waist, tying it with the matching sash that could have gone round her twice. Briefly, Coco remembered the days, back in London, when she wouldn’t ever belt a robe or a coat, convinced it made her look like a potato on legs. She’d never been able to tuck in a shirt, or wear a pair of jeans without making sure that her top fell below the first few inches of the waistband, concealing the area where the jeans dug in, the button fastening them pulling at the buttonhole, stretching it with tension, her soft flesh bulging gently over the top.
Well, those days were long gone. She was what everyone in fashion dreamed of being: size zero. The awareness was as heady as a drug running through her veins. Coco reached down and, through the silk of her robe, tried to pinch that place above the hipbones, below the waist, where the last ounces of fat always clung.
Nothing. Her fingers couldn’t get any purchase. Not a lump or a bump. Nothing at all.
Heart beating fast with anticipation, she crossed the bathroom, passing the floor-to-ceiling glass window set into the brushed-concrete wall, into the bedroom, which also had floorto-ceiling glass windows. This apartment building had been thrown up just last year, and the developers knew exactly what their hyper-rich, hyper-trendy customers wanted: cutting-edge design that was as stripped-down and sleek as themselves, a dazzling array of built-in gadgets and devices, and huge walls of glass windows that were perfect for exhibitionists who worked out every day of their lives, watched their weight like hawks, and were more than happy to show off their slim, toned bodies for the benefit of their neighbours across the narrow street – who, of course, were doing exactly the same.
The Halston was in the hippest area of what insiders called ‘the city’ and outsiders called Manhattan. On the Bowery, once a slum best-known for its drunks and dive bars, it was a forty-storey glass and steel palace, towering over the wide avenue, signalling clearly that the Bowery and the Lower East Side were the latest destination for the torrent of gentrification dollars that were flooding through the city, sweeping out the crumbling buildings, filling up disused lots, throwing up fabulous edifices into which the next generation of Manhattanites were ready to move. The starving artists, the performers, the drag queens, had colonised this section of the city which once had been full of sweatshops and cheap brothels: now they were moving on, priced out of the city, crossing the bridges to Brooklyn and Hoboken, washed away by the green river of new money.
Coco’s bedroom floor was dark walnut, underfloor-heated in winter, smooth and cool in summer. She dropped the robe onto her wide, low bed and padded naked to the far wall, which was entirely filled with fitted cupboards, discreet lighting snapping on as soon as she slid open the frosted glass doors. Flicking through the carefully-curated racks of clothes, knowing how lucky she was to have this apartment, she still couldn’t help a twinge of envy when she thought of her boss, Victoria, who had an Upper East Side townhouse. It was large enough for Victoria to have a whole room dedicated to her wardrobe, the corridor which connected it to her bedroom lined with shoe racks on one side and handbag shelves on the other, all velvet-padded to protect her priceless accessories collection.
Very soon, Coco thought, ambition fizzing in her like bubbles in carbonated water, very soon I’ll have everything Victoria has – the job, the house, the no-limits expense account, the status right at the top of the New York society pecking order. Just as soon as I get married, I’ll have everything she has – and more.
Coco reached for a padded hanger at the very end of the cupboard, a black silk dress, fragile as a whisper of cloud, draping from it. No hanger appeal, said her razor-sharp fashion editor’s brain, slicing through categories of clothes. Has to be seen in movement. It was trimmed in charcoal lace, elaborate, exquisite hand-made lace that was marginally heavier than the silk to which it was appliquéd, a slip of a dress that billowed around the shoulders and narrowed to a tiny, clinging skirt.
It was Chanel, of course. A present from her fiancé. Coco had never been able to do up the zip before; now she stepped into it, easing it up over her protruding hip-bones, slowly and with great care to avoid snagging the delicate silk, slipping her hands into the wide draped armholes, shrugging the dress over her shoulders, settling it into place before she dared to reach around behind her back – a gesture that made her collarbones jut out as if they were about to break through the paper-thin layer of skin that was their only covering – and start to raise the tag of the concealed zip.
Naughty Bits Page 4
