Page 28 of Double Shot
Lach rose and dressed. I understood. This wasn’t his come down; he had a ritual about him and the call of it was strong. No, this? This he was doing forher. He gave me a nod before slipping from the room. He would go down to the hotel bar, get a drink or three, and then who knew what.
I laid with her a while longer before I couldn’t. It was the pain throbbing up my leg. The stump was in agony and sliding the prosthetic back on was torture. I didn’t know where the crutch Lach had said he’d procured happened to be and I didn’t wish to wake my lady in a clumsy attempt to find it, so it had to be endured. I went to the suite’s kitchen and had counters and chairs to use which helped. I walked slowly, found the bottle of whiskey room service had brought, and poured myself a few fingers of it in a glass.
I used Lachlan’s laptop, sorting through what had happened to the world and our finances over the last half a year, and to determine how safe we still were. Monaco had become one of those Casablancas for the international community. If Gwendolyn Kaijin were staying in the next room, the unspoken rules would demand that we present nothing but the greatest civility and honor to each other.
The powers that existed, and vacations in Monaco would not permit anything but peace and decadence in their grand resort. I was loath to want to believe she or any of her ilk were present in this very hotel, but if they were? I would abide by the unspoken treaty.
“Bugger,” I muttered and occupied myself fully in stock portfolios. I didn’t even wish to look at what my email held. Not after six months unattended. I sighed and sipped from my glass. Were that I could sleep as readily as our girl…
Chapter Eight
Lachlan…
The Saphir, the hotel bar of the Fairmont, was a jewel of smart design and all that hip nonsense. It was pretentious and expensive in all the worst ways. It was the sort of place where people would drop a few dollars on a casual meal to wash it down with wine that was a few hundred euros a glass, some close to a thousand a glass.
It lacked the warmth and character I had learned to appreciate from the big moose. Even his Black-Eyed Susan bar back in Bootlegger Head dripped more charm and character compared to this artistic mess. This was an art gallery without art, but the same utter lack of anything else.
The bartender was multi-lingual, and the bar was well stocked enough to mix me a proper Aviator, down to having fucking vintage crème de Violette. That was at least good.
I let the alcohol soothe through me. I could watch a few ships bobbing in the water, and that would have been dandy if I were a photographer or a watercolor painter.
There were a number of women in the bar, some were obviously escorts, the hour was right, and the day was close enough. These women were the Ferraris and Lamborghinis of leasable vaginal activity.
“Why, I do believe we’ve met,” one of the painted women said, sliding into the seat next to me.
“Oh?” I said, covering with a drink of my Aviator cocktail.
“Do you not remember me?” she asked. She did seem familiar, but I also know pretending familiarity was a basic tactic for getting in close to someone. She was probably just working me like a john.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a very long day,” I said, not at all lying.
“Mister Newman, from New York, and probably the only person I’ve ever met who knew that violet crème exists,” she said. I recognized the old cover name, and it must have shown as a startle on my face. “My hair was a little different, a little shorter, and you might remember how flexible I am.” She gave me a throaty laugh.
“It started with an X,” I said. I gestured for the bartender to bring her a cocktail.
“Xaviera, and how about a bottle of wine?” she offered. I knew that trick, and I would only fall for it one time.
“Did I buy a bottle last time we were together?” I asked.
“Sadly, no.” She gave me a little pout.
“I tipped you well, you were quite talented.” I did recall a certain gymnastic feat she had accomplished, allowing her to go down on herself, while I took her from behind. That had been quite a night, and expensive, as I recalled Roan bitching later.
“You did. Perhaps I can show you something that might make you forget every woman but me.” Her smile was genuine, or at least it seemed that way.
I should be halfway hard by this point. I should have already kissed her, or slid a hand under the hem of her dress to feel for sheer panties, or for that most pleasant of sensations, bare lips beneath my fingers.
I didn’t feel anything.
Instead, I could only think of Sadie, asleep in the bed upstairs, hair coiled around Roan’s fingers, her eyes that stared into mine soul deep and somehow still managednotto reflect something monstrous back at me,closed. The brush of her nipples under the sheer fabric, the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her ass, whichever she pressed against me, and the soft sigh of her breathing as she slept.
Today she had wielded a rifle with little initial hesitation, and then to definite effect. I had been able to just drive, not worry about dodging and evading, becauseshe had us covered. The one time I had looked back to see that she was okay, the only thing that I had seen was the round apple of her butt pointed at me, and a colorful hint of the underwear she wore riding over the waistband of her jeans.
That was what I was thinking about.
I didn’t really want this, and that felt wrong somehow.
Xaviera was flexible enough she could lick her own pussy, and had done it, with my cock in her ass. I remembered fucking her until I came on her face. She had lavished in it, and I had tipped her very well. I had fantasized about her, and now that I could have her again?
