Appleby Blush Ch. 04

"Good girl," Marcia breathed, a little envious of the explosive feeling the girl was experiencing. Coke had the most profound effect when mixed with Blush. Like lights of pleasure, pushing her higher along the spectrum of arousal. If Marcia wasn't under strict instructions to only tease, she'd join her.

Exploiting the moment, she reached for the shaving lotion and began to caress the white balm into the newly shaved area. Alice arched herself up off the chair, trying to connect her sex to the caressing fingers. Marcia twisted her body so that her head was level with those perky breasts.

"Your nipples look so suckable," she sexily whispered, her hand sweeping up and down just above Alice's clit. This was one of the moments she liked best—capitulation. Tilting her head, her flicking tongue circled the cop's right nipple as her fingers did the same to her sensitive little nub.

When Alice whimpered like a baby animal, she sucked in the hard nipple at the same time as her fingers swirled around her captive's sex. At first she restricted her movements to the newly shaven rise of her mound, but then allowed her thumb to brush the cop's clit.

Alice's body jerked instantly at the touch. She sucked harder on the nipple, sliding two fingers inside. As she'd hoped, the blonde had a wonderfully tight pussy.

"Going to cum for me?" she murmured, pulling her head up from those perky breasts so that she could look into Alice's hazy eyes. "Come on, babygirl. Cum for Marcia. Now!!"

A flick of her thumb across that sensitive clit was enough to detonate the orgasm.

Her intense eyes savoured each expression on the young woman's face, committing them to memory as the climax overwhelmed her. When the blonde woman's hands found her curly red hair, gripping it tightly as her trembling body jerked and twisted, Marcia could feel the heat between her own thighs.

It made the anticipation of knowing what was eventually going to happen all the better...

***

"Have you got a minute?" Alex Goodwin asked as he put his head around Sandra Wilson's door. Her hands were flying over the keyboard as she stared at the computer screen.

Her instant smile as she pulled off her rectangular glasses made him feel better. "Sure, Alex. Come in."

He lumbered into the small office, turning and closing the door behind him before sliding his heavy frame into one of the two chairs opposite the desk. "How are things going with that report for Turner?"

"Report?"

"Yeah, the budget cuts."

Wilson's nodded at the screen. "I seem to have a dozen reports to do," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Turner likes to keep me busy. But that one can wait..."

Goodwin frowned. Hadn't she told him it was urgent? Maybe Turner was backing off? "It can? I thought—"

Wilson pushed back in her chair and coupled her hands behind her head. While she stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, Goodwin's gaze ran across her body. Her breasts were perfectly outlined under the stretch of her blouse. This was ridiculous, he thought, forcing his glance away. Time had moved on. Just accept the fact.

"It's a dilemma," she eventually said, shifting her body in the chair and leaning forward again. "It's not the report that's the problem, Alex, it's the fact that I can't manufacture those cuts out of thin air. Okay, there are definitely some administrative savings to be made, but to reach Turner's targets means losing front line people."

Losing people from the front line? That was bad news. They needed more as it was. "How many?"

The brunette shrugged. "One is too many, Alex. How can I recommend we cut numbers? It's simple, I can't."

"So..." he hesitated, trying to catch on. "You've thrown it back at him?"

She gave a wry laugh. "Yes, and he's passed it back to me again. I think we're at stalemate. Each time we discuss it we argue. He shouted at me this morning. If I won't do it, he'd bring in someone who would to replace me."

"Replace you?" He stared at her. "He's not serious."

The look on Wilson's face confirmed that the bastard was and Goodwin felt the anger surge through him. All Turner was interested in was feathering his own political nest at the expense of anything or anyone who got in his way. Sacrificing Wilson was nonsensical.

"I told him it was his decision," she went on, shrugging her shoulders.

"Sandra," he began. "I'm so sorry—"

Her expression changed. "I don't need sympathy, Alex."

The barrel chested cop took a mental step back. That was a typical Sandra Wilson response. Ever since Webster and Jack were forced out, she'd felt the need to take on the world by herself.

"You don't need to fight me, too, Sandra."

"Sorry..." She sighed after a few seconds. "He's demanded a report detailing the cuts by Tuesday. He won't get it so watch this space..."

Silence fell on the two of them as Goodwin tried to find the right words to say. He wasn't good with words and didn't want her snapping at him again if he came out with the wrong thing. If Turner did force Sandra Wilson out of the division, then he'd go, too. But first he'd make sure he got an appointment with Sir Peter Richardson so that he could tell the Commissioner a few home truths. What would he have to lose?

"Anyway, Alex," Sandra Wilson began again, interrupting the thought. Her tone seemed heavy with disillusionment. "I take it you didn't just come in here to discuss Turner and budgetary cuts?"

"No," he said, looking at his feet and then back at his boss again. This wasn't easy.

Since their meal together last night, he'd known that he should have mentioned Kaminski. She'd been adamant he shouldn't mention their investigation to anyone else and he knew she'd feel betrayed if he confessed about his conversation with the Homicide cop. But... it just felt dishonest not to—he shouldn't be keeping anything from this woman.

He sought out a compromise. "I've been thinking..."

Wilson's tired eyes widened. "Yes?"

"How do you feel about me checking with a couple of other divisions to see if they have anything on this guy, Appleby? I'd do it quietly, of course? But we're relying too heavily on Alice and Kirsten, putting too much pressure on them. If we can—"

The look of dismay on Wilson's face stopped his suggestion dead in its tracks. For a few seconds, Goodwin thought she was going to explode in rage. Then she pushed back in her chair, shaking her head at him before crossing her arms in front of her. "Alex," she slowly said, as if talking to a child. "After our conversation about Turner, you're suggesting we broadcast what's going on? You know how quickly word spreads..."

"Yeah, I know, Sandra," he answered, clutching at straws. Maybe he hadn't phrased that too well. "But think about it. How many times do different parts of the Met working on the same thing without others being aware..."

Her narrowed eyes told him it wasn't a line she was about to fall for. "Why would others be working on Appleby?"

He hoped his hesitation didn't give the game away. "He may be into other things," he tried, hoping it didn't sound too lame.

Her curse brought with it the realisation that he'd badly misjudged the situation.

"Alex," she began again, fighting to stay calm. "I've explained to you that Turner wants my head. Word of this getting out will give it to him. I've even been thinking that maybe we should just pull the whole thing so that he has no excuse. But why should I? That means he wins. This is our job, Alex. This is what we're being paid to do. But I'm not going to commit suicide along the way..."

Goodwin grunted, trying but failing to think of some sort of response. Instead, he simply nodded and ran his fingers over his two day growth of stubble. He might have been a fool for sharing things with Kaminski, but he was still convinced that if the Homicide cop helped get the breakthrough they needed, Wilson would see the sense in what he'd done.

He just had to make sure that Kaminski continued to keep everything to himself meantime.

***

Kirsten Tobin knew that she should have returned to the Met after her afternoon at the studio but how could she face that? She'd have to report in to Sandra Wilson and her boss would immediately be able to see from her face that something was wrong.

Instead, she'd headed home and thrown herself on the bed, burying her head into a pillow. What had she done? She could still feel Tony Daly's breath on her neck, his hard cock against her ass, and his fingers inside her. He'd made her cum three times before telling her they were finished for the day.

She was there as a cop and shouldn't have allowed her personal feelings to come into it. Instead, she'd given in to the sexual arousal that had lodged in her body ever since she'd met Daly. Was it the Wesley Snipes fantasy that had led to this? Was that why she was constantly aroused? Was the long held craving she'd had for sex with a black man turning from imagination to reality?

After her end-of-shoot shower, he'd been waiting for her in reception and told her they wanted to employ her as a model. That she'd passed the auditions. He'd told her the photos were terrific and given her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek before sending her on her way. Same time tomorrow, he'd said.

The calm demeanour he'd displayed afterwards was as if the incident hadn't happened. Or perhaps it was a normal occurrence in the world of fashion?

She hated that thought. As stupid as she knew her feelings were, she hated the thought of this being a predetermined approach. She wanted him to want her, not take advantage of her the way he did with all new models.

Though... he hadn't taken advantage of her, had he?

She would have allowed him to do anything to her after he'd finger fucked her. As difficult as it was to admit it, he... he could even have fucked her, she was so worked up. Worse than that, the thought of that cock still had her aroused. She could imagine the wonderful feeling as she took him inside her mouth, his hands on her hair as she gave him a blow job, the sensation of him beginning to throb and then blowing his load down her throat.

She twisted onto her back on the bed and slid her hand down inside her jeans. It was very easy to imagine that the hand was a different colour, thicker, coarser. That it belonged to Tony Daly, not her. God, she was so wet...

If Sandra Wilson or anyone in the Met found out what had happened, her career could be at an end. Maybe she should seek out Wilson and explain? It had been on the tip of her tongue to confess when she'd called her boss from her car and given her an update on this afternoon's happenings. Instead, she'd made it sound so straightforward and had simply told her that they wanted her as a model and had arranged for her to return to the studio tomorrow.

And what had Wilson said? That she'd done a fabulous job and should stay as close as she could to Daly to see what she find. How ironic was that?

She pulled her working fingers out of her jeans and swung onto her stomach again. Maybe she should stop being so hard on herself and follow Wilson's instructions? If getting closer to Daly led to any other encounters, she could rationalise things as doing whatever was necessary to make a success of her mission. Her duty came first and that meant she should explore any opportunity.

Allowing herself that comforting excuse for the time being, her thoughts turned to Matt. They were heading to the theatre later tonight—how could she look him in the eye? Maybe all of this was some sort of sign, confirmation that it really was time to end that relationship?

Flopping over onto her back for a second time, her hand slithered back between her legs again. She could think about Matt later. Right now, she needed relief again...

***

Alice felt only relief when she returned to the Met and found that Sandra Wilson had left for the evening. It was some official function to do with the Lord Mayor's office, apparently, and Turner had asked for a full turn out of his senior officers.

"I'm proud of you," her dad said, patting the back of her hand. She smiled at him over the rim of her coffee cup. The Met restaurant was quiet but it seemed an ideal refuge after the events at the studio.

She'd made up her mind that when she'd returned to their offices, she'd confess to Sandra Wilson everything that had happened over the past couple of days. Instead, her father had cornered her and she'd found herself telling him half a tale.

And here he was, telling her he was proud of her...

"Why dad?" she rasped, returning the cup to the saucer and plonking both elbows on the small table as she defiantly stared at him. How could he say that when all she felt was guilt? And that damn arousal that just wouldn't go away.

"Why?" he grunted, reaching across the table and squeezing her hand. "Because I doubted that you had the experience to be thrown head first into this thing. And yet you're our best hope."

Alice wouldn't, couldn't let it go. "I am? Why?"

As far as she was concerned, she'd masturbated in the studio owned by the man they were investigating. And been photographed while doing it! She'd allowed herself to be shaved and then finger fucked to an orgasm by a woman she'd only met a couple of days earlier—the same woman who'd fed her cocaine.

Was all that something to be proud of? Worst of all, she liked it. All of it. She'd never felt so drunk with lust.

"Sandra said we pull out if we don't have anything concrete by the end of the week," he calmly explained, pausing as another couple of cops wandered by. "So far, I haven't found a thing at this end and while Kirsten is making inroads, we all know this sort of thing takes time."

She sat back in her seat, pushing a loose strand of blonde hair away from her eyes. For an instant, she wondered about telling him what had happened, seek his advice. But how could she? For the first time in a while his eyes seemed alive. The dull greyness that had characterised him since the DeVere-George Blair fiasco seemed to be lifted.

"But why am I our best chance?" she softly said, needing something more concrete to assuage her guilty feelings. "How do you work that one out, dad?"

Goodwin grunted again. "From what you've just explained, this Marcia woman seems to have taken you under her wing. You said she was prepared to show you the ropes, explain what the life of a model looks like—an Appleby model. That's the information we need, honey. That's our best hope of finding something to help decide whether to make this official or let it go."

Alice nodded slowly. Suddenly, she didn't feel quite so guilty. Maybe she'd been too wrapped up in the sexual side of things to think clearly? But he was right. So what if she was drawn into the sexier aspects of the modelling world? What was wrong with that? Perhaps she was having doubts because Marcia was a woman? Could that be it? Alice wasn't bi, never had been, but there was no doubt that the curvy redhead knew how to push her buttons...

"Go with it," her dad continued, squeezing her hand again. "You're doing great, honey. Go with your instinct."

She nodded again, but this time she smiled back into his eyes. It was good advice. Marcia was an opportunity to help Sandra Wilson crack the case and she wouldn't be doing her duty if she allowed it to slip by. That meant taking Marcia up on her offer to go clubbing together tomorrow night.

***

Sandra Wilson nodded to the various dignitaries as she circled the room. She made sure that any conversations were brief and then moved on. Tonight was pretty much a carbon copy of other functions. Jason Wilkins had already hit on her again and Simon Bradshaw had offered to run her home. Then there was Adam Bradford, always grinning at her and giving her the eye.

And they were all married, of course.

Evenings like this brought out the worst in her. She was only here to make Turner look good and the strutting peacock had ignored all of his direct reports in order to hobnob with Sir Peter Richardson and his senior colleagues. It was pathetic. She hated him and the ridiculously long days and heavy administrative workload he'd forced on simply to further his own interests.

She was beginning to hate the job, too, and maybe it was just as well that the budgetary cuts argument was bringing matters to a head. Little had changed since Webster and Palmer had been unceremoniously booted out of the Met and she shouldn't have allowed herself to be persuaded to take on the job.

Donny Webster had been forced into early retirement, but before he'd left he'd told her she could make a difference. Jack Palmer would have been thrown in jail were it not for his forced resignation and agreement never to publicly discuss the case. And he'd still taken the time out to endorse Webster's words.

Both thought she could do a great job but they were wrong. The politics had become worse over the last eighteen months and Turner made a point of taking credit for anything positive and shifting the blame to others when something went wrong. Her working relationship with him was close to breaking point and it was becoming ever more impossible to disguise her disgust for the man.

He didn't care about the police, the Met, or the Vice team. All he wanted was to advance his career and take over from Sir Peter when the Commissioner retired.

It constantly felt like she was wading through treacle and she knew in her bones it was time to move on, though what came after police work when that was all she'd known? Maybe she should call Jack and ask about the merits of following in his footsteps? At least PI work meant she wouldn't be sitting behind a desk.

In many ways, she envied Kirsten and Alice—what she wouldn't give for a chance to be involved at the hard end of an investigation again. But then again, it wasn't fair just to give them a few days to turn up something tangible. Undercover cases like this often went weeks or months before it was possible to achieve a breakthrough. Maybe she should just close the Appleby case now?

Or was that the irrational thoughts of a tired mind?

She'd talk to the team about it in the morning, assuming she could somehow get through tonight. If another married cop whispered anything suggestive to her she'd most likely kick him where it hurt the most...

***

"You've been quiet tonight," Matt said with a smile as he drove away from the theatre car park. "Something's wrong?"

Kirsten tensed in her seat. The heavy rain that had begun to fall seemed appropriate in the circumstances. Should she tell him now? That she wanted to cool their relationship? Instead, she settled back in her seat and ignored him.

"Come on," he persisted, switching on the window wipers. "What's wrong?"

"Why would something be wrong?" she defensively asked. Now wasn't the time, she decided. It could wait until they got home.

"Why?" he queried, glancing across and grinning at her. "Because normally I can't shut you up and yet tonight it was as if you were auditioning to be Greta Garbo."

Can't shut her up? The brunette felt her hackles rise but allowed the comment to pass. Despite her masturbation on the bed earlier, that same cloud of arousal had returned and settled on her. It made sense to wait until she was calmer before they fought. "Greta Garbo?"

"Yeah, you know... the Swedish film actress. She was regarded as one of the greatest and most inscrutable of all movie stars."

Kirsten pulled a face. Had she heard of her? "Really? I don't think I've seen her. Was she in that movie with Reese Witherspoon?"

He guffawed. "Hardly, she's an actress from Hollywood's silent film period. That's what I'm referring to. You were quiet tonight."

Kirsten pulled her coat closer around her body, as if that provided some protection from her thoughts. If they argued now, she'd end up sending Matt home with his tail between his legs and that meant she'd be sleeping alone. In her current state, that wasn't a welcome thought. The more she thought of seeing Tony Daly tomorrow, the hornier she became.