The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) (42 page)

‘It will be your turn to choose, Serena. I’m back in Gustav’s life for good. If you don’t want to have any more to do with me, you know where the door is.’

I stare round at the photographs in my new gallery. My new domain.

‘I am going nowhere. I’m staying right here, and if you threaten me again I’ll tell Gustav you tried to fuck me in Venice. And I’ll tell him about the Margot video you sent to my iPad, intended for him!’

‘Now you really are getting paranoid. What video? I don’t know about any–’

I can hear some kind of spluttering at the other end but I hang up. I put the phone down very gingerly on the desk. What am I thinking, talking like some sort of gangster?

Trying to hide the tremble in my hand, I walk slowly across my miniature empire with its images of windows and doors hanging on the walls, mostly Venetian but some taken in Paris and London and some taken with my voyeur’s zoom lens here in New York, the bird’s-eye view. The latest image is still in my camera, the girl straddling her lover in a rumpled bed in a loft apartment.

I turn all the lights off, even the spotlight over the main photograph. I have never come so close to wanting to kill someone. If Pierre Levi wants a fight, he’s got one. War is declared.

Gustav walks out of the office and turns to switch off the lights. ‘I’ve made a reservation at La Lanterna, Serenissima. They have the best pesto lasagne and the coolest jazz in town, and a gorgeous conservatory at the back.’

I call softly across the darkened gallery. ‘Then you’ll have to be quick.’

I’m sitting on the low-slung lounger by the window in ersatz Christine Keeler pose, legs spread, hands dangling between my thighs. My new short designer dress is hitched up. The leather is cool under my bottom. My hair is loose around my shoulders. The images I’ve spied and photographed are still scrolling through my mind, images from the last few weeks, from the last hour, fuelling my desire.

This is my moment. No-one is going to ruin it. I feel strong and sexy sitting in the dark, waiting for my lover.

Gustav’s brogues tap on the polished wooden floor of the gallery as he comes to tower above me, tangling his fingers in my hair. He yanks my head back so I’m looking up at him.

‘Do you remember the first time we were in the gallery in London? Talking about my exhibition. About the contract? How young I was then, how wet behind the ears?’

I run my hands up his legs, over his bottom, and then with no preamble I start to unbutton his jeans. This is my man. No one is taking me away from him.

‘And how you’d dressed up that morning to impress me, even though I had already made my mind up about you? I’ll never forget a moment of our time together.’ His fingers tighten in my hair, the roots tugging gently at my scalp.

‘I’d made up my mind about you, too, but you were still the sophisticated tycoon and I was the chaotic country girl. I had a lot of catching up to do, but you know I’m a very quick and willing learner.’ I open his jeans and take him into my hand, run my fingers up the ready stiffness. ‘But in a few short months I no longer feel junior to you. In fact I reckon we’re partners. You’re my assistant, remember? You carry my gear and come when I call. You watch, I do whatever I want. So what do you reckon? Maybe I’ve even overtaken you?’

I flick my tongue out, like a snake’s, feel him push against me. I run my tongue round the very tip, enough to feel it jump and harden against my teeth. These are my weapons. My tongue. My teeth. My mouth. My hands. And the sexy core of me, where Gustav will always want to go.

‘You have blossomed before my very eyes, Serena, and I’m so proud of you. But I’m still watching you, and getting one hell of a kick out it.’ His voice is hoarse with lust. ‘Our life is just going to get better and better.’

I smile quietly, hold his buttocks and feel them clench as I suck a little harder, nibble down to the base as he starts to buck gently, but I want more. I pull him down beside me on the seat then as I start to kiss him I push him down onto his back. I pull his jeans down a little so that he rears up in the dim light from the street.

‘See how beautiful it is,’ I croon as I encircle it with my fingers. ‘See how well it’s going to fit.’

I kneel up, work him under my dress, between my legs, then pause with him resting against me while I lean over him.

‘What’s going on with you, Serena? You’re very low down and dirty tonight.’

His dark eyes are deep and gleaming in the semi-darkness. His hands rest on my bare hips, tweaking at the lacy dress, and as I move slightly he pushes in.

‘Just horny, honey. You make me so horny I want to try things,’ I murmur, flicking my hair back then pulling the dress up over my head, tossing it carefully aside and unclipping my bra. ‘And now you’re going to do it just the way I want it.’

His fingers dig into my skin, trying to push me down on to him, but I resist, the muscles in my thighs keeping me kneeling up so that only the tip of him is inside me. I lean so that the golden locket swings and taps. I lift one of his big hands and place it on a swollen breast, make him feel the way my hard nipple pokes against his palm. My head falls back. I spread my knees, balance more comfortably on the leather seat so that my spine is arched and my breasts are pushing at him, jumping up with each heartbeat.

He grins at me, shaking his head slightly at my cheekiness. We’re both breathing fast as he brings his other hand up. My breasts are enfolded in his strong fingers and he starts to squeeze. I’m supposed to be in charge, but it’s his strength I’m after, and ultimately his power. In fact I’m melting already, my legs shaking as my breasts throb and swell under his touch. I want to subside, open myself to him, but I want to watch his face, too. I try to delay it as long as possible.

The fluttering in my stomach tightens into a clump of desire. His fingers dig into my breasts, wander across them and mould them, press them together. I push them into his face. His tongue flicks across first one nipple, then the other. His hands squeeze until my breasts sing with delicious pain. Then his lips nibble, his tongue lapping round, and he draws the burning bud into his mouth.

I could stay like this forever. I glance over his head, across the street, at the traffic lights changing colour, the shop displays, the restaurant signs, the outlines of people walking along the pavement. At my own reflection in the window, the arch of my spine, my hair tumbling down to my waist, I’m an actress in a sexy film, my lover’s pulling at me, making me ache and pulse with longing as I strain towards him, fall onto him, electricity streaking through the emptiness.

He is biting and licking and I have no more control over the urge for selfish satisfaction as my body engulfs his. He releases my nipples and his fingers twine in my hair to pull my face down so that he can kiss me. Really kiss me.

Outside, heels click past on the pavement.

We are both groaning but I can hear laughter. I try to slow down. There are voices outside. Is that the glass door rattling in the sharp wind? I pause altogether, let the hovering orgasm recede. I can’t concentrate. I don’t want to miss this golden moment by coming too soon.

Just passers-by. I rise on my knees like the girl in the loft did, sliding right to the tip so that I can see the extent of his hardness. I let it rest there then I slide down again, smiling at the way his eyes are glazing over, his hands still resting on my breasts, my bottom tilted in the air. I watch his face and gasp deliciously as I’m filled a little more, the tension is ecstasy, but I can’t hold on to it for much longer, and slowly, luxuriously, I slide all the way to the hilt.

It is tempting to ram it but I work into a slow rhythm, ease down again, moaning quietly, and the next time he is with me, pulling his hips back, waiting when I wait. Perfectly in tune. But we do have an audience.

Gustav knows it, too. His eyes are still on mine but as I sigh with delight a low-slung grey car, a Porsche or a Jaguar, purrs up the street and stops outside, its engine idling.

‘Someone’s watching us,’ he whispers as he grins up at me. ‘What do you think, Serena? Want to be the first live installation in The Serenissima Gallery?’

I glare at the car, and gasp again. A female figure gets out of the driver’s seat, leaves the door open and stands on the deserted pavement. She is wearing a black belted trench coat and a black beret, just like mine. It looks like the girl from the loft I saw earlier except that now she’s wearing dark glasses. Maybe she’s more famous than I thought, hiding from the paparazzi. Tendrils of black hair coil on her shoulder. That luscious mouth is painted red, grinning.

‘Yes, I want her to see,’ I puff, barely able to speak. ‘Go on. Let’s do it.’

‘The famous photographer and gallery owner at work!’

Gustav chuckles and taking advantage of my distraction he thrusts inside me. The woman doesn’t move as Gustav takes over, driving me on to spikes of pleasure.

‘No bells and whistles. No clamps or dildos or even our silver chain. Just us,
au naturel
,’ I gasp triumphantly.

She can see it all. Is she turned on by my white thighs parted like some tart in an alleyway, breasts bare and bouncing, my lover flat on his back, taking me rapidly? My thoughts scatter and I start to come, arching my back in a beautiful, perfect pose for her benefit, shaking and moaning as Gustav finishes.

Gustav holds me against him. Juice trickles down my legs as we lie there. I close my eyes. I hear a footstep, and the discordant clatter of the post box. Then the car door shuts, and it purrs away down the street.

‘You are very, very wicked, Serena.’ Gustav wraps his arms around me as I start to shiver with the cold. ‘A voyeur and an exhibitionist, all wrapped up in one naughty package.’

I pull my clothes on again. While Gustav goes to check the lights and the alarm, I pick up the long white envelope that my sexy actress dropped on the doormat. The windows rattle with a sudden blast of wind charging down the street.

The envelope feels so light that it must be empty. Gustav’s name, not mine, is printed in the same Bodoni font that he uses for all his Levi literature.

‘Talking of packages, what have you got there,
cara
?’

Gustav comes up behind me, soft as a lynx, and busies himself arranging my beret and my scarf. He hands me my gloves and I give him the envelope.

His black eyes rest easily on me, still soft with lust, yet alive with excitement at everything we have in store for us. He pokes inside the envelope and pulls something out.

‘No note. No letter. Why have I been sent this?’

My heart goes dead in my chest as we both stare at the single long, petrol-blue peacock-tail feather, complete with the round, staring evil eye.

END OF BOOK TWO

Once again my heartfelt thanks to all at Avon Books: Adam Nevill, Helen Bolton and Cleo Little, and all my Avon Ladies, for welcoming me to the Avon family. Their enthusiasm for and intricate knowledge of my efforts spurred me on even when the thought of all those rewrites had me flagging.

About the Author

Primula Bond is an Oxford-educated mother of three boys and has lived in London and Cairo. She currently lives in Hampshire with her husband and younger sons and works part-time as a legal secretary for criminal defence lawyers as well as writing freelance ‘human interest’ features for the national press. She has written erotic short stories and novels for various publishers and magazines for twenty years and this is her fourth erotic novel.

Primula also offers a critique service for aspiring erotic and romantic writers through the online Writers Workshop.

Bound by passion, she was powerless to resist …