In Too Deep (8 page)

'Nothing
important,' she said, and arched her spine, lifting her ribs to
thrust her breasts against that stabbing pleasure.

'You must tell
me all about it later. But just for now there are things I want to
do to you,' he said, and spun her round till her nipples were
pressed to his chest.

'Careful,
don't crush it,' she warned, and pushed back a little to get rid of
the precious cloth, laying it over a chair away from harm.

Now she was
naked and, after admiring every inch of her, he picked a silk
dressing gown from one of the rails and draped it around her, then
walked her over to the sagging old sofa. There he sat down and held
out his hand to her. She took it and sank into the depths with him.
She was trembling with lust. It ran through her from the tips of
her toes to her cortex as she touched his clean-shaven cheek. He
caught her hand and kissed her fingers, sucking each one into his
mouth and licking it with a leisurely enjoyment that made her clit
thrum. Then he dropped a light kiss on her brow and drove his
fingers into her hair, massaging the scalp till she was almost
purring.

Every nerve in
her body quivered. He was kind and sincere and free from
attachments - no wife or girlfriend. He was as free as her, and
liked it that way. She ran her hands up his thighs, and then
dropped to her knees between them, pressing her face to the front
of his faded jeans and gnawing at the hard outline of the swollen
baton slanting beneath the denim. He trembled, and his fingers
gripped the corkscrew ringlets of her hair as her breath heated the
skin-tight denim and the cock beneath. Smiling inwardly, she ran
her tongue around the brass buttons fastening the flies. Eugene
groaned.

The buttons
were cold and she closed her teeth on the top one, worrying at it,
rampant to free his serpent and take it into her mouth. Glancing up
she saw the intent look on his face. It increased the flow of juice
wetting her quim. Her nipples were pebble-hard, her clitoris
red-hot. One orgasm was never enough for her hungry little bud.

'Unbuckle your
belt,' she ordered, very much in charge.

'Yes,
ma'am.'

As she watched
him deftly releasing the buckle, she remembered Julia recounting
how Gus had leathered her. Arlene had already dipped a toe into the
heady waters of S&M, but didn't think Eugene would try it - not
on this occasion, anyway. Later maybe. But her bottom clenched and
her skin smarted as she eyed the length of belt. She could almost
hear the hiss and feel the burn as it landed on her cringing
arse.

She took over,
finishing the job, baring the dark dimple of his navel and the
black thicket that covered his lower belly. He wasn't wearing
underpants, and as the final button yielded his cock sprung out,
striking her face. It was so tempting that she opened her mouth
wide and took it in, all the turgid length and thickness of it,
till it rammed her throat. She rocked her head, pulling on the cock
with a light suction, tasting the divine flavour of his pre-come.
She circled the foreskin, and pulled his jeans around his bottom so
that she could hold and fondle his heavy balls in their loose
bag.

He stopped her
then, murmuring, 'No more, baby, or I'll shoot my load. I want to
do it inside you, but not till I've given you the best frig you've
ever had.'

Still exposed,
his wet, fiery-headed cock jutting from his flies, he moved over
and pulled her up. A shiver rocked her as he fastened his mouth on
hers and wormed his tongue inside, savouring her saliva. As he
kissed her he rolled and roiled her nipples and palpated the ripe
swell of her mound, letting his fingers enter the cleft. She sighed
into his open mouth and ground her hips against his skilful hand.
Sensation poured through her. His touch was as satisfying as when
she brought herself to climax but with the added rush of
uncertainty. What would he do next?

Pressing her
flat on the creaking settee, he opened her legs, leaning over and
admiring the prominent swell of her pubis, kneading it and rubbing
the thick puffed wedge of hair, before poking a finger into the wet
aisle. She clung around his neck, wanting to get closer and closer.
She gave short sharp cries, then became silent, the coming bliss
too wonderful to be disturbed by noise.

Her whole body
had become a temple of pleasure as the feeling intensified. Now she
saw nothing, heard nothing, bathed in a glorious agony of passion.
Her climax roared and she lifted her hips from the couch. As the
tension was released, Eugene sank a finger into her spasming cunt,
moving it like a penis. Then he held her close, kissing her and
enclosing her hot mound in his hand.

'Now,' she
whispered urgently. 'Put it in me, now.'

He knelt
between her legs and rubbed his cockhead against her labia, his
fingers continuing to stimulate her clit. When she was sure she was
about to come again he allowed his shaft to slide into her. He
started to move, undulating his pelvis, withdrawing and thrusting
in perfect harmony. Arlene embraced him with her arms and legs, his
every downward stroke rubbing her bud.

She could hear
herself making strange whimpering noises, and Eugene grunting as
his hips pistoned rapidly. His eyes were shut, his lips drawn back
in a snarl. He was like something possessed and she shrieked as
another orgasm electrified her.

'That's it,
girl,' he urged, and came with a final lunge, then collapsed, his
face buried in her neck.

She stirred,
duty calling. 'I must get on,' she said, wriggling out from under
him. 'I've a dress to complete before leaving. If I give the
customer a ring and tell her it's ready, then I may be able to
deliver it and collect the lolly. I need the basics, like bread and
milk and tea bags. It's that serious.'

'I can always
lend you some cash,' he offered, sitting up while she rummaged for
her scattered clothes and began to put them on.

Arlene hated
being obligated to anyone, particularly if it was male, but she
smiled across at him and said, 'Thanks, but I'll manage. All I need
are a couple of substantial orders, that's all.'

She combed her
fingers through her hair, and then went to her store cupboard, an
area big enough to walk into, where she kept her latest, most
secret designs, along with the patterns and sketches. Lit by a
skylight, it was sacrosanct. No one was allowed into this holy of
holies where the most precious of her brainchildren had their
being. Here she was gathering her collection, waiting for that
break which would enable her to exhibit.

She stared as
she entered, certain that she must be dreaming. It was empty!
Anger, fear and a terrible sense of loss grabbed her by the throat.
'Eugene!' she shouted. 'Quick! Come in here!'

'What's up?'
he said, taking one look at her white face and staring eyes.

'My clothes,
my patterns! Everything's gone!'

'Gone?
How?'

'I don't
know.' She moved frantically, searching in vain, knowing it was
useless.

'Was it
locked?'

'Yes, of
course it was locked.' She was impatient, even with him, as
distraught as a mother whose children are missing.

'But it looks
as if someone came in and swiped the lot,' he continued, with a
shrug. 'Couldn't have got in through the skylight, so how? Unless
someone had a key. I'll bet it's an inside job.'

'Why should
anyone want to steal my stuff?' she asked despairingly.

'Oh, come on.
You know it goes on all the time, industrial espionage and all
that. Aren't clothing manufacturers always pinching each other's
designs?'

Arlene drove
her fist into her palm. 'You're right. Someone's robbed me of my
newest creations, and I've a suspicion who. And who helped him do
it.'

'Who?'

'I think it's
Marty Blake, probably assisted by the big chief at the top...
Vincent Gabor.'

'How can you
be so sure? There are a dozen designers who could have done it.'
Eugene placed a comforting hand on her shoulder but she didn't
bend, rigid with fury and indignation.

'I met him at
the Cloth Show. And that's not all... he'd seen my work at a
charity function. If he's running out of ideas, and don't forget
he's been pulling out all the stops over the past year and may be
feeling pretty jaded, then what's to prevent him deciding to help
himself to something of mine and rehash it as his?'

Eugene pulled a face, as if unable to contemplate such an
underhanded trick. Wide boy he might be, but there was always a
kind of fairness about his own dealings in the trade. Honour among
thieves didn't seem to exist in the rarefied atmosphere of
haute couture
.

'You mean, he
broke in here?' Eugene hadn't met Blake personally, but had read
about him in the papers and seen him on television. 'Burglary's
hardly his style, is it?'

'It wasn't
burglary. No one's tampered with the lock. He had a key. I can't
believe it of her, Eugene, but there's only one person who could
have given it to him.' She wanted to break down and cry, feeling as
if she'd been raped. 'That's my assistant, Tina Morris. Funnily
enough, she rang to say she was ill. Somehow I don't think I'll be
seeing her again.'

'So you see,
I've simply got to help her,' Julia said, looking across the round
marble-topped table at Will, having just finished giving him
details of Arlene's loss.

He pulled a
serious face, humouring her in an annoying, patronising way. He
lifted his pint to his lips and took a long pull, then put it down
on the coaster, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said,
unenthusiastically, 'If you say so.'

'I do say so.
She's in trouble. Been robbed. Doesn't that mean anything to
you?'

'Sounds like a
job for the police, not us.'

'She won't do
that, not yet. Wants to try it her own way first. Eugene was
furious.'

'And who,
darling girl, is Eugene?' Will drawled, his voice world-weary and
cynical.

'He's her
friend. He was there when she discovered she'd been robbed. He
wants to deck Marty Blake.'

'Does he
indeed? How macho. Well, good luck to him. I hope he knows what
he's taking on.'

The
Flying Goose
was crowded with Saturday night drinkers. Built in 1880, on a
main road where once a posting-inn had stood, it had survived a
firebomb during the blitz in World War Two, and retained its
Victorian opulence of polished mahogany and bevel-edged mirrors
etched with ferns. One of its finest features was a stained glass
panel depicting art nouveau beauties, their flowing hair entwined
with the names of breweries. The air was redolent of the fermented
hops and tobacco of ages, though there were plenty of non-smoking
areas now.

It was Julia's
local; not that she drank much, but had needed to meet Will
somewhere outside the office, asking his advice concerning Arlene's
problems. She had found her friend in tears last night, alarmed to
see this usually level-headed girl so upset. She had calmed down
after threatening to castrate Marty Blake and hang Tina up by her
thumbs. Then, her face set grimly, she announced her plan, one in
which Julia was involved.

Nonplussed but
willing, Julia required Will's help if she was to fall in with
it.

He had been
happy to meet her, almost too eager for comfort and she was glad he
was sitting opposite. Even so, his foot kept touching hers under
the table. She moved it, but he was persistent, and she realised
that had he been at her side, he would undoubtedly have had his
hand on her knee by now, probably fondling her inner thigh. The
thought made her hot, a flush mounting to her cheeks.

She took a sip
of her gin and tonic, cleared her throat and asked, 'Can you tell
me anything about Vincent Gabor?'

Will's eyes
sharpened and he leaned forward. 'Is he mixed up in this?'

'We don't know
for sure, but yes, Arlene suspects him. What do you know?'

'Vincent Gabor
is a self-made man, son of mid-European refugees. He was born and
educated in England, went to Oxford, I believe. Rumour has it he's
made a fortune through wheeling and dealing, and has invested some
of it in the fashion industry. He has contacts worldwide. Dips his
fingers into any number of pies, and is never over-scrupulous when
it comes to making a profit.'

'Arlene's
suggested I get a job modelling for Marty Blake,' she said. 'He
won't know I'm her friend, and maybe I can find something out.'

'And how is
Denise going to take it if you have too much time off?' he asked,
ever practical.

'I've a
holiday due, and anyway, I thought we might sell it to her with the
offer of a story, if I find that Blake's guilty.'

'That's sound.
She might wear it.'

'Will you help
me persuade her?' Julia asked, remembering Arlene's pep talk and
pasting on her most winning smile.

It was after
ten o'clock and the crowd was thicker. The pub provided a showcase
for aspiring bands, the skittle alley used for gigs most weekends.
Now the younger element was herding towards the improvised stage,
but this didn't do much to lessen the crush in the public bar. The
noise was deafening as the support band struck up, and Will moved
over to the banquette where Julia sat. She couldn't slide away from
him, blocked by a gangling youth with a shaven head and rings in
his eyebrows.

Will, ever the
opportunist, bent closer and shouted in her ear. 'Marty Blake is
Gabor's protégé. I've heard they're thick as thieves, and that
seems to be the case, if what Arlene suspects is true. Gabor's
useful; he can get garments made in the sweatshops of Sri Lanka,
and will front up the money. In exchange he enjoys all the glamour
of the industry and gets to fuck beautiful models, to boot.'