Erotic fiction by Michele London
It should have been an easy job. In and out. Minimal security, light staff, a quick grab, and a quiet departure.
He’d been watching her and her habits for two weeks. At six, she slipped out the front for a jog through Central Park, three miles in thirty minutes. She was back by six-thirty-three, factoring in a stretch at the park bench.
At seven forty-five, she emerged again, coiffed and polished, briefcase and travel mug in hand, and got into the waiting town car to travel uptown for the day’s board meeting or charitable function. The housekeeper came at eight, and left at noon. After that, the house was deserted until five. She never came home earlier than five.
Nick decided to time his arrival in the middle of that window. No danger of encountering the housekeeper should she forget something and have to turn back. No chance of the widow making it home early, not in Manhattan traffic at that time of day. Three o’clock. He would have the house to himself, and he could take the one thing he wanted and be gone in less than five minutes.
Nick pulled the ball cap low over his forehead, obscuring the upper portion of his face from the traffic camera on the corner, and adjusted the work bag over his shoulder. He was a plumber today, a faceless repairman, another unimportant servant on the widow’s bankroll. No one would question his coming and going, or why he was poking around at the back of the house.
At the back door – the servants’ entrance, he liked to think – Nick set his bag down and riffled through it for the tool he needed. It was an old house, with old locks, and the high tech security system had been disabled an hour ago by a mysteriously malfunctioning computer program. He maneuvered his tool in the lock until he heard the click he was waiting for, then stashed it in his pocket, picked up his bag, and walked in the door.
When it shut behind him, the silence of the house descended around his head. The thick wooden paneling and heavy carpets muffled the sound of his footsteps, his breathing, even the street noise from out the windows. Warm afternoon sun drifted in past the curtains, but Nick stayed away from those, and crept instead toward the staircase that would lead him to the master bedroom.
The stairs were carpeted as well. The ratty work boots he’d been forced to wear for this job sunk quietly into the nap as he climbed towards his prize. He hoped he wasn’t leaving imprints behind; he’d have to pay attention to that on the way down again. No sense ruining an otherwise perfect job with something as sloppy as boot prints in the luxury carpet.
At the top of the stairs, Nick stopped and listened. He knew she didn’t own any pets, or live with anyone else, and the help should all have left by now. More silence met his ears and, satisfied, he continued on, down the hall and towards the bedroom. That’s where the art was hanging, a Degas sketch of a ballerina on a sheet of parchment, encased in a simple yet elegant brown and gold frame. She loved ballerinas, she gave generously to the City Ballet, and the rare piece she now hung in her boudoir had been purchased at auction for over half a million dollars. In Europe, he could get the full million for it, without the gallery fee.
The bedroom itself was a study in the finer things. Marble fireplace, four-poster bed with satin sheets, plush chairs and a sofa to make use of the view from the floor-length picture windows over the Upper East Side. But Nick hardly noticed any of that. He only had eyes for the Degas, hung prominently above her mantle, given the place of honor that he might have expected a woman like her to have reserved for a mirror of some kind. Without checking the rest of the room he made straight for the art.
He set his bag down on the hearth and pulled on the black gloves he’d kept in his pocket. They fit snugly over his hands, no room for error. Stepping up to the hearth, he wrapped his fingertips around the frame and eased it from its mounting on the wall. It was heavier than it looked. He held it at his waist, admiring it at so close an angle, marveling at the obvious line strokes, the very essence of the artist that was contained on the scrap of parchment he had in his hands.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
The click of a gun barrel behind him froze the air in his lungs.
“Yes. It is,” said the woman who was pointing a gun at his back. Or his head. He couldn’t be sure.
“Now set it down against the mantle and step away.”
Nick swallowed once and did as she said, his movements slow and deliberate. His bent forward, propped the frame up against the marble, and straightened. He put his hands in the air and took two steps backward.
“Put your hands on your head,” she commanded. Nick obeyed.
“Now get down on your knees.”
Nick tried to keep his composure as he followed her orders, running scenarios in his brain in which he outsmarted or charmed his way out of being shot. Degas be damned, so long as his skin was intact. The carpet was too thick to hear footsteps, but the swish of her legs as she walked gave her away as she moved in closer to him, as did the clicking of the metal as she shifted the gun in her hands.
“You don’t have to shoot me, you know,” Nick said.
“You broke into my house. You tried to rob me. What else would you have tried to do?”
“In my defense, you weren’t supposed to be here.”
“Shut up. You have no defense. I caught you with your hands on my Degas.”
“And I’m very sorry about that.”
She huffed in disbelief.
“Are you?” He could hear her moving again, and a second later she came around the armchair and into his view. “Or are you just sorry that you’ve got a gun in your face?”
Nick was used to being taken aback by the priceless pieces of art he dealt in. He could stare at a print of a master work for hours, but it never held up against the real thing once he was standing in front of it. It was like that now with the widow. He had seen her picture in the paper, in magazine articles and on television. He’d surveyed her neighborhood for weeks and caught glimpses of her, always with hats hiding her face, or shadows concealing her features. But there was nothing between them now, and she was radiant.
Thick, russet colored hair hung in soft waves around her face and down past her shoulders. Her skin was the kind of pale cream that other girls hated, and it was as smooth and perfect as porcelain. Her green eyes were rimmed with a simple black and a bit of mascara, and a cherry-colored gloss polished her full lips. She had dressed to go out for the day, he’d seen her leave in the charcoal grey pencil skirt, red blouse, and black pumps. Apparently she had doubled back. And gotten a gun. Which was still pointed at Nick’s head.
She smirked at the look on his face.
“I’ve never been a fan of guns being pointed at me. But I’d say I’m more shocked than scared.”
“You’re much prettier in person than in your pictures.”
She raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t respond. Keeping the gun trained on him, she lowered herself into the armchair and crossed her legs. Nick swallowed again, working to keep his focus on her eyes. If she was trying to unnerve him with her gun, her calves were doing a much better job of it.
He smiled at her.
“So what happens now? I’ve left the painting – should I be on my way?”
“Well,” she replied, “I could shoot you. Not to kill, mind, just to injure. To pay you back for having essentially stalked me, broken into my home, and attempted to steal my property. Then I could let you bleed until the cops get here.”
Now it was the widow’s turn to smile.
“Well, that’s really up to me, isn’t it? I’m the one with the gun.”
She smiled at him a moment longer, a smile that was rather more dangerous than the smiles he was used to getting from women. He held her gaze, waiting for her to announce his fate. Her breasts swelled slightly beneath the silk blouse with every intake of her breath; Nick swore he would smell her perfume from where he knelt, tangerine and lime and honeysuckle. A rush of blood to his crotch had him wishing he could put his hands down.
“What’s your name, art thief?”
“I’ll make you a deal, Nick. You give me what I want, and I’ll let you walk out of here. No bullet holes, no cops. Agreed?”
“I already gave you back your Degas.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“What is it you want?”
She smiled wider.
“You’ve caused me a great deal of personal anguish today, Nick,” she said, biting off his name between her perfect lips. As she came closer to him, Nick could see how the expensive fabric of her blouse and skirt slipped back and forth across her thighs and hips and stomach. His hands itched to take the silk and tear it off her, lay her naked and writhing beneath him on the floor in front of the fireplace. She was still pointing the gun at him, but when she stopped just out of his reach she put the gun up, opened the chamber, and let the bullets fall to the plush carpet without a sound.
Her perfume swelled around him like a cloud. Tentatively, still not quite believing that this was what she wanted him to do, that it wasn’t all a trap, Nick slid his hands up her thighs to his hips and rested them on her waist. With just a slight tug he brought her down to him and then they were both kneeling, face to face. He tried to read her expression for something of a hint of her true motives, but all he got for his efforts was a raised eyebrow and a smirk.
“Go ahead, Nick, Start with the blouse. You haven’t suddenly gone shy, have you? After all that watching of me you’ve done? Surely you must want to know what I look like under these clothes.”
“I do,” he replied, his voice thicker than he had expected.
He covered her breasts with his hands, squeezing them through the cool, slippery material of her shirt, feeling the lacy ridges of the bra she wore. Her breasts were large, more than a handful, perfectly round and deliciously firm. Her nipples were already hard, and he plucked at them and twisted them until the taut little mounds were pushing through the layers of clothing that concealed them.
“You knew I was watching you, didn’t you?” he asked, pulling her blouse free from her skirt and slipping the buttons through the holes one at a time.
“Yes,” she smiled.
“All those runs in the park, the stretching on the stairs outside, that was all to tease me, wasn’t it?”
Nick slid the blouse of her shoulders and held it around her arms, pinning them to her side. He pulled her closer to him, drinking in the sight of her breasts swelling over the top of the laughably small lace bra. He pressed kisses into the warm valley between them, sucking little red marks into her skin.
“Yes,” she replied, her smile gone this time, a tremor in her voice that was both trepidation and excitement.
Nick gave the shirt a tug and pulled her all the way down to the carpet, rolling her body under his. He kept her arms pinned tight with one hand, and with the other pushed down the lace cups of her bra until her breasts broke free. He took one in his hand, rubbing and squeezing it and pressing it up towards her neck. She gave a little stifled moan at the pressure, and Nick’s cock thickened. He leaned down to her ear, pinching her nipple between his fingers until she could not hold back a little cry.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that it’s not polite to be a tease?” he hissed, taking her ear lobe in his mouth and sucking his way down the length of her neck.
She wriggled underneath him, letting out sighs and moans of both pleasure and pain as he alternately kissed and slapped her breasts and nipples, and pulled her head back by her hair in order to better lavish attention on her lips and throat.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sure herself whether she was begging for mercy or for more.
“No you aren’t,” Nick growled in reply.
“You orchestrated this whole thing for your own benefit, and tried to make a fool of me in the process. You wanted this? You’ll get it. Up, on your knees.”
Even as she struggled to right herself Nick was tearing off the last of her clothes, the lacy bra and the tight skirt, and the black thong that was already soaked through from her ready sex. He smiled when he saw that, shook her head at her.
“You are a dirty girl.”
Taking her long hair into his hands, Nick guided her into position and waited while she undid the buttons on the workman’s pants he’d worn that day. When his cock, already painfully hard and a dark red color, was set free, he gave it a few cursory strokes, rubbing it against her lips and swatting her checks with the tip.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded. He pushed himself into her until he touched her throat, again and again, hardening every time it made her gag. For a moment he relaxed and let her take over the rhythm, grabbing fists full of her hair as he watched her cheeks hollow and her gorgeous lips slid up and down his shaft.
He reached down and put his fingers between her legs, using her own hot moisture to circle the apex of her desire, tickling it back and forth just to see her squirm. When her pleading moans vibrated against his cock, Nick knew he had to taste her.
He pushed her off his cock and grabbed her behind the knees, arranging her onto her back on the carpet once more.
“Keep your legs open,” he said, pushing her thighs apart to reveal the glistening sex between them. Her hair was shaved into a neat little triangle, and for some reason this incensed him all the more, the careful, deliberate sexiness. He spread her lips apart with his thumb and forefinger and reached his tongue out to flick at the little hooded mound, suckling it and circling it in turns, pulling it out between his teeth until she screamed. He slipped a finger inside her, and then a second and a third, twisted as he pushed in and out to the rhythm of his tongue. She bucked her hips towards him, urging him deeper and faster, her cries no longer stifled or controlled.
Nick wrapped his arms around her hips and brought her up against his face, holding her to the relentless swirling pressure of his tongue until she rose up on her elbows and called out, panting and heaving around the intensity of her orgasm.
He wiped the corners of his mouth and smiled down at her, his appetite only whetted. Without waiting for her to catch her breath, Nick lifted the widow off her back and draped her over the arm of the chair she had only lately been sitting in. As she whimpered in anticipation into the seat cushion, Nick bunched the plump flesh of her buttocks between his fingers and spread the cheeks apart to bare her still quivering sex to his view. He rubbed the head of his cock against her swollen, sensitive skin, nudging her into more moans.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, “open up for me.”
She only pretended to protest as he slid into her, filling her so full she gasped and tried to look back at him. He held her head steady as he rocked back and forth against her hips, pumping slowly at first, then faster, letting his passion build to the tipping point before backing off again, wanting to prolong the time inside her as much as possible. But he couldn’t hold on for long.
She tightened her muscles around his cock and urged him, cajoled him, to come. Sweating, nearly light-headed with the effort of holding back his orgasm, Nick reached around to fill his hand with one of her breasts, pinching the nipple as he gave the last hurried, hardened thrusts into her. When he came he grunted loudly, sucking air in through his teeth, gripping her flesh until it turned red beneath his fingertips.
For a moment he stayed like that, holding her hips, letting his breathing slow and his cock pump the last shudders of his orgasm into her. His eyes drifted over her back, slick with sweat, and the graceful curve of her waist into her hip and leg, the way the sunlight caught the lighter shades of red in her hair and made them shimmer. She was a masterpiece in her own right, and for a moment he almost felt guilty for having sullied her, as if he’d crossed the ropes at the Louvre and doodled on the Mona Lisa. He moved his gaze around the room and settled on the Degas, still propped up against the fireplace. He wanted a cigarette.
Removing himself from her at last, Nick stepped into his shorts and fished out the package of cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his workman’s uniform. He opened the French doors and stepped out onto the widow’s balcony. A moment later, as a ribbon of blue smoke curled around his head, she came up beside him. Without asking, she took his pack of cigarettes and lit one for herself. She leaned her elbows back on the railing and looked at him as she exhaled.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get out of here before I change my mind about calling the police.”
“Fair enough. I’ll just pack up the Degas and be on my way.”
“The Degas. It’s what I came for. You didn’t think I’d be leaving without it, did you?”
“I thought –“
“You thought you could distract me with your tits, get some for yourself, and get to keep your priceless canvass? Contrary to what you’ve been told all your life, you don’t get to have everything, sweetheart.”
“I thought we had a deal.”
“We had a hostage situation. And, at the time, you had a gun. Now all you’ve got is a robe and a cigarette.”
Nick stubbed out his own smoke on the railing and threw it over the side. He looked at the widow and smiled at her scowling face.
“I came here for a priceless piece of art, a rare masterpiece that would have been very profitable for me. So tell me, Mrs. Holden, how do you plan to compensate me?”
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Michele London is an author, editor, and romance consultant with Scarlet Girl. She is a regular contributor to Scarlet’s Letter and the archive of articles at ScarletGirl.com. She writes dark fiction and erotic fantasy, and dips into real-life tales of sexy for the lovely ladies as a Scarlet Girl pleasure party consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area.