Act of Exposure (26 page)

His body still
moved, but his lips left her. 'I want you.' His voice and his
breath were hot against her ear.

Pretending
receded. First time, second, hundredth. What did it matter? He was
here and nothing had really changed between them. Not sexually.
Their appetite for each other was as strong as ever.

She opened her
eyes, saw his and told herself she always wanted to see his.

'Then take
me.' Her words came slow, but his action was swift.

The hardness
of his loins pressed against her. The round hardness of his knees
went between hers and pushed her legs apart. Thick veins stood
proud on his biceps as he held his arms rigid, his chest hovering
above her. There was a deep intensity in his eyes that made her
feel vulnerable, weak as a kitten. It was as though he were trying
to read her, trying to ascertain why this woman affected him as she
did. Why he wanted her, why he had to have her, on any terms she
demanded.

Abby,
tantalized that he could be so close, and yet not in her body,
mewed like an injured kitten.

Cupping her
breasts, she murmured what she wanted him to do to her.

'Take me.' Her
voice was reminiscent of a breeze running through sand dunes; soft,
hushed.

A wave of dark
hair fell over his forehead. His eyes sparkled with the same
intensity as before.

She knew he
was keeping her in suspense, knew instinctively what he wanted her
to say.

'I want you to
put your body into mine. I want you to play with my breasts, to use
them as you please; to pull them, pinch them, tantalize them until
I scream for mercy. I want you to push your cock into me.'

A look of
satisfaction came to his eyes. 'Say it as I want you to say it. Say
it as a man likes it to be said, not as a woman likes it.'

At this moment
in time she would have done anything he wanted her to do. Her body
was screaming for him, raging with a fierce heat that only the
immersion of his stiff rod could dissipate.

The words he
wanted to hear formed in her brain. Because her body was so hot,
her throat and tongue were extremely dry. But her need was great.
She just had to say what he wanted.

'Fuck me,' she
whispered. 'Please. Fuck me!'

His face
softened as his eyes filled with emotion and his body hardened with
passion.

Abby groaned
as she felt his erection slide like a burrowing animal between her
thighs.

'Slowly?' he
teased.

'Slowly,' she
replied, knowing that he wanted to do it slowly, and what he
wanted, she would want too.

Hot and tipped
with the first hint of semen, the head of his member nudged against
her pubic lips.

She groaned,
raised her hips from the bed and opened her legs that little bit
wider. How hot his penis was, how hard his body against hers, and
how cold she felt, how needy for his flesh to fuse with her
own.

'Give me
more,' she gasped.

'Perhaps,' he
responded. 'Just a little.'

With slow
precision, he eased extra length into her. At first, her body
yielded. Once he was inside, supposedly secure that he was the one
in control, she sprang her trap. Clinging like a sucking mouth, the
muscles of her vagina closed tightly around him. She wanted to eat
him, to digest him until there was nothing left. That was the way
she felt. She wanted him whole, his body always to be slamming
against her, always to be in her; man and woman combined.

'Give me
more,' she cried again. Demand caused her to curl her fingers and
dig her nails into the hardness of his buttocks. He cried in pain,
but could not stop thrusting his full length into her welcoming
chamber. No longer was he controlling his own strokes, his own
body. He was riding her, and yet, it was she who was controlling
him, digging into his flesh so that he had to ram himself into her,
had to press his weight onto her body and flatten her against the
mattress.

'Come now,' he
heard her say into his ear. 'Come now. With me... with me...'

The woman
beneath him tensed, and despite his weight, arched her back so her
belly rose and clung to his. Shudders ran over her and touched his
own flesh, his own sensations. As his fingers dug then squeezed her
pliant breasts, he thrust one more time, more mightily, more
fiercely than he had ever done before.

Now it was her
turn to cry out, but not for long. He covered her mouth with his
own. His throat swallowed her cry as her womb swallowed his
climax.

Afterwards,
she told him about Archie and about Lance Vector. They discussed
Oliver Hardiman's confession and guessed at who the culprits might
be, but not with any conviction. But first, she told him about the
scene behind the glass.

Although her
recounting of events did have a very satisfactory effect on his
penis, his eyes opened wide when she told him the identity of the
man who liked being treated like a dog.

'Douglas! I
would never have believed it!'

'Believe it. I
was there. I saw it.'

Stephen looked
suddenly thoughtful. 'I wouldn't like you to do that to me; in
fact, I don't think I'd like to do it to you.'

It was Abby's
turn to be thoughtful. Things were changing between them. Her need
to dice with the more perverse members of society was gradually
melting away. Yet tomorrow she was booked to dance again at the Red
Devil Club.

As she
snuggled up to the man she loved and his hand closed over her
breast, she made an immediate decision.

'I'm not going
to be Carmel or Jezebel any more.'

She felt him
tense, felt his fingers grip more fiercely on her upper arm. Just
as suddenly as they had stiffened, they relaxed. His lips brushed
the top of her head.

'I'm glad of
that. I didn't think I would be, but I am. When do you intend
telling Archie?'

That question
was a little more difficult to answer. She didn't need the money
Archie paid her. On top of that, she no longer needed the buzz the
club gave her either. She hadn't really needed it since Stephen had
appeared on the scene, though, of course, she had taken her time
admitting it to herself.

'First, I have
to find out all I can from Archie about the man who wants to ruin
you. Once I've done that, the job is finished. You've a charge and
a trial to face. You not only have to win that trial, you also have
to point the finger at the person or persons behind it all.'

Stephen
Sigmund had not been born without advantages, though he hadn't
exactly had them thrust upon him either. Always in his life there
had been an element of advantage in that his parents had encouraged
him in everything he chose to do. Because his family was not
exactly flush with money, some things had to be worked for and
worked for hard. Even his very first bicycle had been bought with
the help of odd jobs and the austere discipline that only an
early-morning paper round can bestow. Now, he told himself, he was
looking at another advantage, one he had only lately come
across.

Abigail
Corrigan was not only a kindred spirit to himself, she was a
lifeline that fate had chosen to throw him. He was very glad it
had.

He took her
chin between finger and thumb and kissed her lips.

'I don't know
what I'd do without you, Abby.'

Abigail had
been spouting Legalese about using the media itself to point a
finger in the direction it should be pointing. The look on
Stephen's face and the tone in his voice made her halt in mid
sentence.

With a cool
look in her eyes, and a rose-bud pinkness on her lips, she said
something he dearly wanted to hear.

'Then don't
ever be without me, Stephen Sigmund. Make sure of never being
without me.'

Charwallah to
his friends, Charles Ahmed Wallis to his parents, picked up his
mobile telephone and pressed the number that would take him
straight to the top of the heap.

He was just
about to press the "send" button, when a thought came to his mind.
He smiled wryly to himself, then put the mobile back into its
cradle.

His smile
continued. His almond eyes, as yellow as those of a slinking cat,
narrowed as he thought out his intentions. No matter that the man
at the top would like to know about Abigail Corrigan's little
secret, he would keep it to himself for the present time.

Tomorrow, he
would pay a visit to the Red Devil Club. Before disposing of her,
he would have some fun with the long-legged dancer who Archie knew
as Carmel when she was at the bar, and Jezebel when she was up
swinging her fanny on the stage. But Charwallah knew her little
secret, and the knowledge made him smile. It also made him very
hard. He was sure it was the best erection he had ever had, but
then why shouldn't it be? He'd never fucked the law before. Well,
not in the way he intended.

The next
night, she was back at the Red Devil Club.

Through the
slits in her pale mauve mask, she regarded her audience.
Half-hidden in darkness, they were gathered around small tables.
Their glazed eyes, furrowed flesh, and wet, slack mouths were made
all the more exaggerated, all the more monstrous by virtue of the
meagre glow of small lamps set in the middle of each table. Blue
smoke curled from cigars and cigarettes and red embers waxed and
waned like flitting fireflies in the darkness.

Behind those
eyes that watched her were minds surmising what she might do for
them, and what they might do for and to her.

Wet tongues
snaked over flaccid lips. Hard eyes, weak eyes, brown eyes and blue
eyes, peered at her, lusted after her. Some squinted, some were
wide, some blinked with amazement, and others never blinked at all,
but just stared and stared as she swayed and danced across the
stage.

Behind the
anonymity of her mask, she could see those eyes. Some she
recognized, others she did not. Her gaze did not linger. All eyes,
no matter what their colour, were full of her body, and all eyes
were unexceptional. All were easily readable.

Suddenly, she
saw a different pair of eyes. She skirted over them, frowned,
wondered if her imagination was playing tricks. Had some predatory
cat got in by mistake, or was that really a pair of slanting gold
eyes glowing in the darkness?

As her hips moved in time with the music, her gaze went back
to those pools of yellow.
Tiger's
eyes
, she thought,
frightening as well as alluring
. She
was drawn to them. They were hypnotic. They reminded her of Stephen
and their first night at the Railway Hotel when the gilded glow of
a street light had touched a mean room with gold. It seemed an age
ago now. So much had happened since then, and so much about her had
changed. She did not feel the same way about the club and the world
it represented. In the past, this place had meant excitement and
she had thrilled to its erotic rhythm, its dark excesses. In the
past, she had wanted to be here. Now she was here for Stephen's
sake, because she had to be here.
Please
God
, she prayed,
let this be the last time
.

Unknown to her, the man with the yellow eyes was toying with
the idea that it might be just that.
But
first
, he thought to himself,
I will have you. I will lay you down, strip your
clothes from your body, and invade your sex with my
own
.

Applause rang
to the ceiling as Jezebel Justice, the woman known as Carmel, the
lawyer known as Abigail, faded into the shadows.

In the privacy
of her shower, Abby closed her eyes and let the warm water drift
over her, white spumes of soap running unchecked over her breasts
to fall in pearl-like droplets from her nipples.

For a brief
moment a hint of concern entered her mind. Just this once, she had
forgotten to bolt the door.

Give it no mind
, she told herself, and
recalled Archie's assurances that his "boys" would deal with any
unwanted attention from stage door Johnnies. Such thoughts
reassured her - until she felt a chill draught waft in beneath the
bathroom door. She shivered. Just a draught, she told herself. Even
if someone had opened the outer door, at least the bathroom door
was locked. She adjusted the heat control on the shower.

The doorknob
rattled. Her eyes opened wide. She reached for the thermostat and
turned off the shower so she could hear that much better; just in
case she was mistaken. Hardly daring to breathe, she gently pulled
back the shower curtain and stepped out onto the bright blue
tumbletwist mat. She stood perfectly still and stared at the
doorknob which was made of brass and was now misted with steam. It
did not move or make a sound. Had she been mistaken?

All was
silent. Too silent. Too tense. Small creaks and groans from
pipework and the other odd noises buildings make, seemed louder
than usual. Even the water gurgling down the plughole seemed too
noisy.

Slowly, the
doorknob began to turn.

What do I do?
She bit her lip. A
variety of choices came to her mind. The first was to shout, so she
did. 'Go away. This room is private and I wish to be left alone.'
Loud as it was, her voice was still authoritative, not
terrified.

The doorknob
rattled again. The bolt held.

'Let me in,
Miss Jezebel.'

She did not
recognize the voice.

'I will do no
such thing!' She should scream. She told herself she should scream,
but her pride plugged her throat.

The doorknob
rattled again. The door itself shook. Could he get in? And what
would she do if he did?

She looked for
something she could use as a weapon. Attack, she decided, was the
best form of defence. There was little to choose from as regards a
defensive weapon. A stool? A toilet brush? God, but she was getting
desperate. The long black rod that she used in her act was on the
other side of the bathroom door, propped tidily against a
marble-topped washstand that doubled as a dressing table.