The Bonk Squad (18 page)

And she would
certainly
not be
describing the way his hard sex jerked as it itched to plunge into
her slippery feminine core.

Or how he spread her on the bed and
buried his face between her thighs to lick and tease until she
screamed with the shattering release of a clenching
orgasm.

Or indeed how she returned the favor
by taking him into her wet pretty mouth, sucking and sliding around
him until he gave a huge shuddering gasp and hung there on the very
point of ecstasy.

While she drew back, smiling, to see
if he was right out of control.

Or how he thrust into her, fiercely,
repeatedly, grunting and moaning, grabbing her legs and pinning
them back against her shoulders, so she was confined and utterly
helpless as he plunged deeper and deeper...

No—no need for any of
that,
Vi thought, oblivious to the fact
that men like Zac didn’t grow their own broccoli.

“
We’ve done it, Arnold,”
she giggled, tweaking the old cat’s ear and up-ending her glass to
enjoy the final mouthful of sherry.

He’d never been anywhere
like it. Would never have considered going there if it hadn’t been
for Liz. Let’s face it, would never have
found
the place.

Up the alley they went, toward the
pounding, pulsing music. In through the black-painted front door,
held partly open by a large plaster bulldog, somewhat chipped about
the nose.

Liz looked right at home. Ian watched
as she pushed hangers along racks and inspected clothes. She tossed
a bright purple T-shirt over her arm. He started to
protest.

“
Not for you, for
me
,” she said,
smirking.

He subsided again into puzzled panic,
and stood dithering as she roamed the little store.

“
What size are you?” She
held impossibly narrow black jeans against him.

“
Bigger than
that.”

“
They’re stretch. They’ll
surprise you.” She tossed them at him and continued her search. Ian
checked the label on the jeans. No way were they that
size...

“
And these,” she said,
adding two T-shirts to the jeans. One was black and much too
shiny...the other a very boring gray. Ian’s lip curled—they weren’t
to his taste at all.

Liz saw. “Wait till you see them on,”
she said, threatening him as though he was ten years old. She added
some miniscule denim shorts to the T-shirt she was
carrying.

A long haired, pale skinned girl,
reeking of smoke, drifted out from behind a curtain and turned the
screaming guitars down a little.

“
Hi, Melanie,” Liz said.
“This is Ian. I’ve brought him in for a try-on.”

Ian gazed, fascinated, at her feet.
Bare, with rings on several toes, and each nail varnished a
different color. Should he shake her hand? Had he just been
introduced? Apparently not—Melanie turned away and ignored him. A
few moments later she emerged from the back of the shop with two
more pairs of trousers—one with black leather strips in assorted
places.

“
These are new,” she said
to Liz. “He’d be about the right size for them.”

Ian gathered he was not
even to be consulted. And what about the pants being the right size
for
him
?

“
I suppose you’ve got
horrible big grundies on?” Liz asked. “Have you got anything
slinky, Mel?”

“
Stretch boxers...satin
thongs...” She inspected Ian and shook her head. “And some unisex
leopard print hipster things.”

Ian was close to dying of
embarrassment. “Not satin and not leopard,” he
spluttered.

“
Let’s see the stretch
boxers then,” Liz said.

Melanie produced a box of small
garments. Liz selected black and pushed her hands through the
waistband and out the leg holes. “Yep, they’ll do. Put them on,
Ian,” she added, passing them across. “And try the black jeans and
the gray T-shirt together first.”

She waved him toward the fitting room.
He slunk away, wishing he’d never agreed to take part in her mad
scheme.

He struggled out of his plaid shirt,
and found Liz undressing right next to him.

Her jeans hit the floor. Only a
knee-length curtain hung between them. It was all too easy to
imagine her long legs and no doubt tiny panties just inches away.
The black jeans were never going to fit with that sort of
provocation.

He toed his shoes off, and reluctantly
removed his trousers and gleaming white Y-fronts. The little black
boxers were very thin, and very stretchy indeed. He adjusted
himself into them. It was almost as good as being naked.

“
Hey, damn good,” Liz said
close beside him. Ian hoped she was referring to her denim shorts
and not his boxers.

He threaded himself into the black
jeans. He was amazed to find they did pull up... and over...and
around. The zipper took a little persuading, but then it slid home
with a soft rasp. And although he was now encased very snugly
indeed, he was not actually uncomfortable.

He glanced over his shoulder. The
reflection in the mirror showed a long legged dude with a trim
backside. He turned to survey himself front on. Lord—what a bulge!
But it seemed somehow in keeping with the rather raunchy pants. A
satisfied grin sneaked across his face.

“
How’s it going?” Liz
demanded from the other side of the curtain. “Are you decent?” She
twitched the curtain aside anyway as he shrugged out of his shirt.
“Jeez, Ian—not a singlet! No wonder you always look bunchy. Take it
off.”

Ian the Iris-hybridizer would have
refused. But Ian the black-jeans-wearer had more courage. He stood
spread legged in the little fitting room and dragged the offending
vest up over his head.

“
My...God...a body...” she
breathed, inspecting his lean muscular torso and strong shoulders
with great interest. She pushed the curtain back and surveyed him
in more detail. “Turn,” she commanded.

He grabbed up the gray T-shirt and
held it against his chest.

“
No,” she said, reaching
for it. Ian sucked his gut in before releasing the
shirt.

She nodded, eyes all over him.
“Okay—put it on—but don’t try and tuck it in like you always
do.”

He looked down at the T-shirt to get
his arms through the right holes. She stepped a little closer and
smoothed it against his body. The fabric was as clingy as the boxer
shorts, and molded to him like skin.

And Liz was touching him! No wonder
she needed the Brazilian business. She wore the tiniest shorts he’d
ever seen, and a brief bright top, not yet fully buttoned up. Or
maybe she intended the world to see that much? He made the most of
the view as she circled him critically, tugging at his shirt to
straighten it.

She stepped back.
“Dynamite.”

He met her eyes in the
mirror.

“
Do you feel the cold?” she
asked.

He shook his head.

“
So why the singlet? It
wrecks the line of your clothes. See how nice and streamlined you
are now?”

He preened a little. The man in the
mirror looked almost worth knowing. The hairy white arms and brown
hands were ridiculous, but the rest of him really did seem younger,
sleeker, dare he add, sexier?

He wished with the benefit of
hindsight he’d had the black jeans in time for the recent Iris
Convention. There’d been a woman who’d sat with him on the
garden-visit bus. And he’d managed to meet up with her the
following day as they tucked into packed lunches and over-strong
tea at the sports pavilion where the main flower show had been
held. She wasn’t Liz, but she wasn’t bad.

She might have taken more notice of
him if she’d seen what he looked like now. They’d sort of sniffed
around each other like frisky dogs. If he’d had the jeans he’d have
found the courage to grab her and go for it. Maybe.

“
Right, you’ll buy those,”
Liz said. “Try the black T-shirt now.” She watched as he peeled the
gray off and struggled into the next one. The neckline was cut
lower, and the shirt was definitely tighter. She smiled, and
reached up to tug at a tuft of hair sprouting over the neck-band.
“The tan’ll do wonders.”

“
The shirt’s too tight
though.”

“
Nahhh....” she murmured,
running her hands over his chest and down his abs. “You’ve got
it—flaunt it. That really shows your shape off. It’s not
uncomfortable, is it?” She tweaked at the armholes as though
checking her son’s school uniform. “Put your shirt on. Leave the
buttons undone.”

As soon as he did, she pushed the
cuffs back and rolled them over a couple of casual turns. “Almost
like a summer jacket, see? Try the khaki pants with the leather
strips next.”

Modestly he pulled the curtain across.
There was no way he was letting her see how much he’d stretched the
boxers.

Ben had been secretive.

Al had been mysterious.

When they’d asked what she wanted for
her birthday, she’d heaved a huge sigh and suggested, “Lots of
Sunday at the computer with no interruptions?”

They’d nodded, and Al added, “And a
nice dinner of course.”

“
Of course.” Meg sighed,
kissing goodbye to several hours’ writing time. She was nowhere
near to finishing the first three sample chapters she wanted to
post off to the publisher. Her ‘partial’. Very partial indeed
still. She’d advanced only a few pages since getting the nanny wet
and Carlo interested. That had been more than a fortnight
ago.

“
Where do you fancy
eating?”

“
You choose, Al. Somewhere
for all four of us? Maybe the boys could catch a movie later?” She
knew there’d be bed to follow.

“
I might be—er—busy,” Ben
said.

“
But you’ll come out for my
birthday dinner?”

“
Course, Mom. Are you going
shopping or anything?”

“
Romy and Liz asked me to
lunch on Saturday.”

“
Cool.”

He and Al had definitely exchanged
glances. They wanted her out of the house. What were they up
to?

Saturday morning dawned too bright to
face without sunglasses. The super-fine day heralded months of
glorious southern hemisphere summer. All around the small
provincial city apples expanded, grapes swelled, peaches grew
heavy.

Meg changed her cream trousers for
dark olive ones and inspected herself in the mirror again.
Yes—better. All those fancy dinners with Al weren’t helping her
hips, but she looked healthy, tended-to, relaxed.

Amazing what a good regular seeing-to
did for a person, she thought, cramming a slightly raffish straw
sunhat onto her fair wavy hair. Liz and Romy might want to sit at
one of the outdoor cafes. Meg wasn’t about to risk the lobster look
on her birthday.

Ben sauntered off with a cricket bat,
yelling, “Bye, Mom.” She locked the front door and reversed the old
Toyota out into the Saturday traffic, looking forward to discussing
writing, and to finalizing the group’s Christmas lunch.

“
Hiyah!” Liz called as she
trotted up to the corner where they’d agreed to meet.

“
How do you manage it?” Meg
asked. As usual, Liz looked slinky, sexy, available, yet totally
aloof. Meg could manage the sexy/available bit but never the
slinky/aloof.

“
You should see the looks
she’s been getting,” Romy said. “She could have any toy-boy in
town.”

“
Yeah—until they find out
I’m a mother of two,” Liz added, compressing her pretty lips. Her
jeans, as ever, seemed about to fall off. The smooth golden skin
over her hipbones, cheekbones, and shoulders glowed with a discreet
dusting of metallic bronzer, and her hair poured down in a thick
chestnut torrent. Meg shook her head in admiration.

“
And how’s the mother of
three?” she asked. Romy looked festive in a red T-shirt with a band
of green and gold beading around the neckline. Her dark curls
danced around her lively face.

“
Full of the joys of
impending Christmas. I thought I’d get some gift shopping done this
afternoon. Natasha wants the new “Samara Sleuthhound.”

“
Oh
good—bookshops.”

“
Don’t you ever get tired
of books?” Romy asked, leading the way toward a cafe.

“
Working in the library?
Never. Makes me enjoy them even more.”

“
And how’s Carlo coming
on?”

“
He’s not. He got the nanny
undressed. She got him interested. And then Al arrived on the scene
and my life just isn’t my own any more. One dinner and one movie a
week he said. But he manages to ‘just pop by’ and ‘just be passing’
all the time.

“
Tell him to get lost,” Liz
muttered.

“
Can’t. He’s the nicest man
I’ve met in ages. Good body, good looking, money no
problem.”