Penthouse (9 page)

My heart thumped recklessly. My slinky black dress hiked slightly up my thigh. Had I not painted my lips ruby red? Had I not
trailed a wet line of perfume between my full breasts, across my sloped belly, and into the soft tangle of sex hair? Life
being what it was, circumstances twisting as they do, it was always best to be prepared in the off chance that… In the off
chance that what? The sudden urge to hurry out, climb into my car, and screech out of the garage overwhelmed me. What was
I thinking?

Dressed in black garters and lace—what the hell was I thinking? I reached for my keys, rose from the chair, and—

“Excuse me?” The voice gushed through me like liquid heat. “I thought perhaps you were waiting for me?”

I stopped. I froze. The sound of rushing blood swished loud in my ears.
Turn around,
something inside insisted.
Turn around and smile.
In a long, slow movement that seemed to last an eternity, I pivoted. And there she stood. Five foot six? Five foot seven?
It was difficult to be sure, what with the distraction of her kohl-lined eyes, what with the allure of her cherry-red lips.

“Are you Marie?” My voice cracked.

She nodded and extended her hand. A sparkle of fiery red glittered from a thin gold ring that decorated her index finger.
If I took her hand in mine, then what? If I lightly ran my fingertip across that jeweled band, then what? My palms felt clammy.
A harsh hollowness ballooned in my chest. Take her hand.

“Nice to meet you.” Her hand was warm, soft, satiny. In the lobby of the Fairmount, her hand in mine, I stood immobilized.
Now what the hell did I do? My gaze slid from
her Egyptian-shadowed eyes and lingered on those voluptuous lips.

“Do you have a room?” She squeezed my hand lightly and then slipped hers from mine.

I felt the sudden lack of her softness and wrestled with the urge to grab her hand roughly and hold it. After all, wasn’t
this my party? After all, didn’t I call the shots? Yes, I had a room. Yes, I had four hundred dollars in my jacket. And yes,
yes, yes, I could grasp her hand if that’s what I wanted—or could I? The car was through the doors and in the garage. I could
be out of here and safe in the blink of an eye. Did I have a room? And what? We go up there? We take off our clothes? How
the hell had I gotten into this situation?

Once again, she took my hand. I felt abruptly transported out of my hesitations and into the steamy sensation of her touch.
One moment we were in the lobby, the next we were sitting in my room sipping champagne. Had we had a conversation? How much
time had already passed? Lost in a golden champagne haze, I concentrated on the sparkle of her diamond earrings.

“You’re very attractive,” she said. She rose from her chair and let her suit jacket drop to the floor. “When I came into the
lobby, I hoped you were the one.”

Slowly, deliberately, she unknotted her tie and pulled it from around her neck. Her silk shirt, secured with small pearl buttons,
opened with ease. Beneath, she wore exquisite lace lingerie. Her black bra barely contained her tempting breasts, and the
arc of her brown areolas spilled above the low demi-cups. I had an immediate hunger to see more. Were her nipples large and
square? Small and pointy? Would their brick-red color contrast with her olive skin? Or were they pale? Or pink? Or a deep,
deep plum?

I leaned forward. I was breathing hard and my mouth felt sucked dry. Would she unhook the bra? Would she show me what she
had?

“Marie.” Had I spoken, or was her name ricocheting inside my mind?

“Marie, Marie, Marie.”

She ran her hands across the black lace. And yes, oh yes, she released the bra’s silver hook. Thicker than I could have dreamed,
larger than I could have hoped, her nipples stood out like fat cherry pits. I felt suddenly dizzy. A creamy aching throbbed
between my legs.

Marie, Marie, Marie.

She plucked a nipple between her fingers and twisted and tugged. Twisted and tugged.

“Marie,” I whispered. “Marie,” I begged.

She unzipped her pants and they crumpled to the floor. Her bikini panties rose high on the delicious curve of her hips. She
stepped out of her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Would you like to see all of me?”

She separated her legs and ran her finger along the lace border of the panties. A dark fringe of hair teased from beneath
the lace. The panties stretched tight over the thick bulge of her lips, and I was certain her sex would be bulky and lush.
And yes, yes, yes, I wanted, needed, had to see it all.

Her fingertip grazed the center point of her crotch. It was difficult to be certain, but the material seemed to be wet. If
she pulled those panties aside, would her moisture glisten in the light? Should I move closer? Fall on my knees at her feet,
rip those panties aside, and see for myself ?

I imagined her clit pouch—a ruby in pillowy folds. If she’d move those panties aside and spread open her lips,
I could know for sure. The fragrance of sex hung heavy in the air. Entrancing musk blended with an intoxicating spicy edge
into a primal, raw scent. All I could think of was her pussy. All I could consider was the color of that clit pearl buried
like a treasure behind the lace veil of her panties.

Like a desperate baby, I crawled across the floor for the honey and sweets. Marie was laughing. The room was spinning. Marie,
Marie, Marie. I yanked those panties aside, pulled that flimsy lace out of my way, and buried my face in her soft charms.

She was slippery heat. Submerged in dark desire, I found her tiny bead with my mouth and sucked, sucked, sucked. She was all
over me. She reached down and cleaved her lips open. Ravenous to see more, I pulled back. Her clit sac dangled like a dark
pink ornament. I licked it once, lapped it again. Marie, Marie, Marie. The lower lips parted like rose curtains. Wanting more,
needing more, I grabbed them between my fingers and split them wide, exposing her swollen entrance.

Sex juice shimmered on the raised rim. I dipped my finger, stirred my finger, pierced my finger into the soft indentation.
Marie was squirming; she was grinding her hips. I burrowed into the velvet pie.

Her clit strained forward. Her lips wrapped around the base of my finger and her pussy clamped hard.

I jammed my other hand under my dress and into my dampness. As I fucked her, I flicked my finger across my clit. I was hard.
I was oversized. I was warm and oily. In and out, I pumped my finger into her. Back and forth, I whipped my finger across
my clit. Again and again, over and over.

Engulfed in pinks and reds, surrounded in the hot perfume
of lust, I spun in a vortex of pleasure. It was dark. It was light. I was swimming in slippery gels, floating on a sun-baked
lake, swirling in a tropical storm. The slapping sounds as I pounded into her lifted me high in the air. Again and again,
more and more. Marie, Marie, Marie.

Okay, yes, I admit it. I paid for sex—paid for the drinks, paid for the room, and then paid for the woman. Not that I would
ever consider, not that I would have an interest… But the following week, when I called the escort service just to say thanks,
a disconnect notice was all I got.

Rational curiosity, and nothing more, compelled me to hire the private investigator.

Marie. Marie. Marie. Where are you, Marie?

BY
J
OAN
T. S
HERWOOD

T
onight she would be the daring swashbuckler. God protect anyone who got in her way. Elaine was horny, and the guys she knew
from the office just weren’t an option. Pickings weren’t slim; they were anorexic. After taking a good look at herself and
her surroundings, she decided that a change of style and a change of scenery might do the trick to get her out of this slump.
After all, if you want something, go out and get it.

Wearing a long-lusted-after pair of black thigh-high pirate boots, she now stood, feeling self-congratulatory, surveying herself.
She had gone through much trial and error to assemble a complete look to go with the boots. It was a metamorphosis from her
old appearance, and with it came a change in attitude.

Minimize. You’ve been trying too hard,
she told herself. Without the rollers and hairspray, her hair regained a softness she hadn’t enjoyed since junior high. A
more subtle makeup application let her real face show through. Classic black completed the look—stockings, miniskirt, and
a
T-shirt that hung from her breasts, almost exposing her midriff, but not quite. She caressed her belly.

This new woman she had become had always been with her. The acquisition of the boots was merely a catalyst to release her
spirit, like a magic potion drunk and then forgotten once its effect took hold.

Of course, there’s adventurous, and then there’s reckless. In an outfit like that, she needed a screening process. That’s
where Alec came in. Alec had a good memory and was a good judge of character. He was also one of Elaine’s oldest and best
friends, making him the perfect choice as casting director for her little seduction scenario. She’d known him since high school,
when she, the shy, brainy nerd, had befriended him, the misunderstood, loner outcast.

The joint where he tended bar was a funky, cozy neighborhood pub. Its antique appointments had been well maintained, and the
establishment had recently gained a chic status and was attracting a very diverse crowd. The perfect kind of spot, she thought,
to find a nice conquest or two—something out of the ordinary.

When she stepped out of the cab in front of the Black Sheep Tavern, she felt a trickle of moisture run down one leg and stopped
in mid-stride.
Oh, Jesus, am I starting my period?
she wondered in a quick panic.
No,
she reassured herself, the timing was wrong for blood. It was anticipation. Her confidence restored, she tugged her skirt
down a little and strode into the bar like a sinister superhero. Her deeds tonight would benefit mankind, but her methods
might skirt the law.

The little saloon was dark, narrow, and deep, booths on one side, a bar on the other. Exposed pipes painted flat black lent
an air of industrial art to the low ceiling. She noticed
Alec waving her over to a bar stool as he whisked away a reserved card. The card itself had garnered attention, but when Elaine
slid onto the stool, leaned back against the bar, and crossed her legs with a flourish, she smirked to herself, thinking she
had just passed the scent of sex to the primitive part of every male brain in the joint. Her legs were poised like leather-clad
guardians sent to challenge any suitors who dared seek her favors. She’d let a little intimidation weed out some of the duds.

She heard Alec clear his throat behind her. He had placed a drink down on the bar with a fresh cocktail napkin. Now everything
was set. The signal they had worked out earlier was simple. If someone who was a known jerk approached her, Alec would remove
the napkin and replace it with another. It was up to Elaine to get rid of the guy.

Alec leaned over the bar to get an eyeful. “I think I’m glad to be back here where it’s safe,” he said with a grin. “You could
kill a man looking like that.”

“I’m not dressed to kill, baby,” she said, smiling back at him. “Just a little maiming, and I’ll be on my way.” Alec just
shook his head, then went about his business, keeping a watchful eye on customers.

Elaine swiveled around to face the room, legs crossed at the knee, one foot jutting out into the narrow walkway between the
bar stools and the booths. All over the room, men were rising to their feet, turning to adjust their crotch or check their
hair self-consciously in the mirrors.

They were all staring intently at Elaine. Her pussy surged with a sudden defiant sensation. She was a matador. She had waved
her red cape in an arena full of bulls.

The first man to approach carried two empty glasses. Elaine could see a woman sitting alone in the direction
from which he had come.
Very rude,
she thought. Behind her, Alec picked up her drink, switched napkins, and set it down again with a little bang. Still, the
stud suited her as far as eye-candy went. She looked him directly in the eye.

Unfortunately, that prompted him to open his mouth. “Honey, it’s a good thing these jeans aren’t flammable, ’cause you might
set my pants on fire.”

He might as well have belched in her face. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You hurry back to that poor girl with those
drinks. I’m sure she needs one.” Elaine had no idea where that response had come from, but it felt good. She turned her back
on the man.

She heard him mutter “Dyke” as he picked up the fresh drinks. Elaine was preparing a nut-withering retort in her mind when
she noticed in the bar mirror that his girlfriend had viewed the whole scene and wasn’t as clueless as her circumstance indicated.

Before he knew it, the boor was wearing his drink. His date, an attractive, athletic-looking woman, was fed up with him in
a big way. “You squirrel-dicked pile of shit, I’m over this crap. Go fuck yourself,” she yelled at him. Elaine admired the
white-hot fury of the woman, who was now storming toward the rest room. She realized she was incredibly turned on, and a wave
of wickedness overcame her. The man, his arms stretched wide, face dripping, called out “Kaaate!”—elongating the name into
several syllables of complete incomprehension. Elaine caught his eye, winked maliciously, and followed his girlfriend into
the bathroom.

Elaine burst into the rest room as forcefully as her predecessor had. There was a lock on the door, and she threw the bolt
to ensure a little privacy.

Kate had red hair and, apparently, a healthy temper.
She wasn’t weeping like some women might be. She looked like she was ready to rip the tampon machine off the wall and go shove
it up a certain someone’s ass. She reminded Elaine of Maureen O’Hara in
The Quiet Man
, pacing with rage. She wore a full, long skirt, a tailored white blouse, and sensible flat shoes.