L'Affaire C. 13bysharkandpen©
The moment she left he called his florist, and had flowers sent to his girlfriend. He felt a little silly; being so attracted to a client. She obviously hated him. Maybe that was why it was thrilling. She was a challenge. No one was a challenge anymore. Maybe he could get between her legs, but her heart? She would keep that safe from him. So he sent flowers to his girlfriend, and finished his workday.
He had the evening free, which was a change. He met a buddy at the gym for racquetball. He drove an exquisite Jaguar XKR to an exquisite house on a hill will an exquisite view of the ocean. And the whole time, an exquisite woman barely left his thoughts.
There was a stillness to the home when he made it back, and he found himself relieved to find that Delia was not in the house, making herself at home. That, at least, had gone simply enough, which was a pleasant surprise. Delia was not full of too many pleasant surprises.
Karsa reset the alarm code and made his way upstairs to the master bedroom, dropped his briefcase in the doorway and made his way toward the master bath. He turned on the shower and started removing the sweat drenched USC Law School T-shirt he'd worn to racquetball. Liam had been quiet, almost sullen, during their workout. It had been a relief, not trying to keep up with chatter when his mind was otherwise occupied. He thought for sure Liam would have grilled him on what he thought of Nicki's case, but he hadn't mentioned a thing. He'd been relieved, but oddly disappointed, because on some level he'd have liked to talk about it, about her. Maybe glean some insight into her; figure out what made her so abrasive, and at the same time so alluring.
She wasn't classically beautiful. Her face wasn't a perfect oval, and while she had a clean, taunt jaw-line without folds or weakness, the curvature might have been on the angular side. But gorgeous hair, thick long waves you could lose your hands in, the color of dark chocolate with the slightest hints of caramel. Perfectly curved eyebrows over inquisitive brown eyes he found hard to look away from. And over the generous mouth was a straight nose, possibly a little longer than 'perfect' that, when paired with her fine bone structure, gave her an almost bird-like quality.
At 5'11" Karsa was rarely the tallest man in a room and with heels on she was eye to eye with him, a little taller than he would have liked, except that the extra inches resulted in impossibly long legs under the impossibly short skirt she'd worn to their meeting. She'd been wearing a wool coat that reached the hem of that skirt, and he became even more distracted when the coat came off, revealing a clingy peach colored sweater made from cashmere or something very similar. Every time she breathed in it lifted her breasts enticingly, putting the gentle swell of what he guessed was a C cup on display. He spent the entire meeting willing himself not to let his eyes wander, only unable to resist once she'd admitted the teacher, dumb bastard that he was, had broken up with her.
Karsa pushed his shorts down and reached for his electric razor, standing naked at the counter he ran the machine across his face, working it against his skin as he stared into the ornate mirror his wife had picked out on a trip back to Hungary. A beautiful woman, she had garish taste in décor, and again he found himself thinking about replacing the bronze-framed monstrosity, but that would mean going shopping for himself, which he wasn't inclined to do. Not unless it was shopping for suits. Or a car. Or perhaps a garter and stockings he could watch Nicki Moreau slide up those delicious legs.
The mirror was particularly unforgiving today. He was in need of another haircut, but worse he was graying at a rapid rate, not so much in the back as the front and sides, where it mattered. He was at least 20% gray he would guess, but not yet desperate enough for artificial help. It helped in court, to look a bit older, more distinguished. He just wouldn't mind looking a little less distinguished. And the nose, he also wouldn't mind perfecting. It was nothing anyone would call oversized, but it was as long as it could be without drawing something away from his attractiveness. And he was attractive, in the almost tall, dark and handsome way. Not incredibly muscular, but solid and fit, and crunches and sit ups and biking kept his waistline in check.
Karsa put down the razor and stepped into the shower, his mind wandering back to Nicki. It was an odd case, and when his police department contact brought it up he admitted the police moved forward under a feeling of self-imposed haste there was little reason for. The victim could do little more than fail to rule out that he'd been attacked by a woman. They had her prints, but that was easily explainable, coming upon a man she'd had a relationship with it's not uncommon that she would act impulsively, touch things she shouldn't. And she'd been dripping with his blood, on her knees and her hands and arms, but not in any splatter pattern that would indicate she'd been holding the knife at the time of the stabbing. Karsa closed his eyes, the hot water assaulting his shoulders as he reached for a bar of soap, swiping it across his torso and chest, over the dark hair on his chest that, while not particularly thick, still poked out of an unbuttoned shirt from time to time. He was not a lover of chest hair.
His cell phone rang where he'd dropped it on the nightstand, and he was happy to ignore it for a few moments of peace. Once finished he reached for one of the black towels hanging next towels hanging outside the shower and dried off summarily before wrapping it around his waist and walking back out into the bedroom, which is where he found Delia, stretched out on the bed like a cat wearing only a strapless turquoise bustier with black lace trip, matching panties, and stockings.
"Hello Delia," he said dryly, feeling himself stir under the towel against his better judgment. His eyes skimmed over the blue-black hair fanned across his pillow, cheekbones so high her cheeks seemed at times hollowed-out underneath those vivid blue eyes. Her nose hooked slightly at the end, it could have been a flaw, or it could have given her face added character. "You didn't get my flowers, I take it?"
Delia rolled her eyes, "I got our flowers. The delivery man said I was your third floral break up this year, you have quite the reputation at the flower shop."
"Maybe it's time for a new flower shop." And time to change the keyless entry code, and the alarm code.
Delia sat up, and Karsa noticed her breasts were on the verge of pouring out of the poor garment, and he saw the top of one brown nipple. She brought a knee up to rest an arm on, and he saw then the panties were crotchless. As usual, she was waxed bare between her legs, not an errant hair anywhere. He'd asked about it once, and learned she had gotten in the habit of it during her first marriage. She'd married young at eighteen, looking for opportunity, she had been flattered to draw the attention of her now ex-husband. Her ex was fifty when they met, and he demanded she wax her pubic hair, claimed it was cleaner. She eventually came to the opinion that he wanted her to look like a pre-pubescent girl; but had oddly kept up the waxing when he divorced her to be with the next eighteen year old. She'd reached twenty-six by that time, and had grown much too independent, or perhaps too old, for his tastes. At thirty-four, she still looked like a starlet.
"Anyway, I had to investigate and determine if I was going to a) reject your break up attempt, or b) if I was going to have my way with you one last time and part ways amicably."
"Or accept that it's—"
Delia cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. "There is no option c." That was okay, his groin was asserting itself, and option b was looking promising. Karsa pulled on the towel, which fell loose to the floor at his feet. Delia smiled, one corner of her red lips turning up in a triumphant smirk as she lay back on the bed, bringing her other knee up and out, exposing herself to him. Karsa kneeled on the bed and moved closer to her, between her thighs, lowering his head for a taste of her.
Delia's head fell back as his Karsa's tongue slid over her clit before he moved down, covering her pussy with his mouth and sucking out her juices, pulling the taste of her to him with a lapping tongue. He felt her hand on his head, pushing down on his head. He moved his attention back to her clit, putting alternating putting suction on the tender nub and flicking it with his tongue. Delia's hand fell away from his head, and she moaned. She was a loud lover, responsive, but sometimes over the top in her vocalizations. Tonight she was more subdued, natural, and he could tell he was pleasuring her.
Karsa sent two fingers into her pussy as he flicked her clit with his tongue, her pussy juices coating his lips and chin as he worked her toward orgasm, bringing her to the edge before pulling back, moving away from her and reaching for the nightstand.
Delia groaned, pouted like a child. "I told you, I'm on the pill. Why don't you just relax for one night?"
Karsa paid her no mind, pulled a foil package out of the drawer and tore it open with his teeth. His cock was rock hard and aching for release. He slid the lubricated onto the head of his penis and inched it down his shaft.
"Karsa," Delia whined, her legs falling open even more, her hips cocked toward him. She looked wanton and shameless, and the looked worked for her. He slid inside of her, she was slick and slippery, and he sheathed himself in one smooth stroke, until his pubic bone was pressing into hers. He remained still as she squirmed, rubbing herself against him, stimulating her sensitive clit against his pubic bone. "Wouldn't if feel so much better without the barrier. To feel—really feel—how hot and wet I am for you."
Karsa took up his thrusting, lowering himself onto his elbows, he slid in an out of her as her head fell back. Looking down he saw her tits bouncing, almost free of the constraints of the bustier. He lowered his head, kept thrusting, and whispered to her. "Two birth control methods are safer than one, Delia. You know me. You know I'm not going to do anything tonight that could tie me to you for the next eighteen years." He buried a fist in her hair, pulled her head to the side and trailed kisses up her neck. "And you don't want that either, because I wouldn't let it happen."
Delia was watching him, intrigued, attracted by the change in his voice, something that couldn't quite be described as menace. He reached his other hand down, hiked her thigh up until she'd wrapped her leg around him and moved up with him each time he pulled out of her. She was hot, and wet, and he knew it would feel that much better without the latex between them. They had so much sex he'd spent a fortune on condoms, but he couldn't risk it, and the small fortune was saving him a larger fortune in the future. He didn't believe for one minute she was reliable about taking the birth control. She knew what she liked, and she'd spent down most of her divorce settlement.
She shuddered under him, squeaked a little at a particularly deep entry, and it was then that his need took hold. He needed to come, needed release. Needed it now. But he also needed to be done with her.
"I wouldn't let you have it," he said, and she frowned, thinking he was talking about an abortion. She opened her mouth to say something, probably to tell him he couldn't make her get an abortion, but he slammed into her, cutting the words off. "I would take you to court, and my investigator would find things, and my lawyer would take those things," his thrusting got harder, until he was slamming into her, crashing against her. She'd slid a hand down between her legs, spread her pussy open with two fingers so that her clit was exposed and stimulated directly every time he pushed inside of her. He was close to coming but not nearly close enough, coming up against a wall, a nagging feeling not letting him get to that release. "And twist them in court, and say horrible, horrible things about you. So horrible that even if you did get visitation, it would be supervised visitation. And you would be stuck here, in this city you hate because you won't want to leave a baby, but you'll never see it."
He'd been hissing into her ear, and a stray look at her face showed a rage that was only muted by her imminent orgasm. He moved his hand between them, worked her clit until she cried out, shuddered again, and her pussy clenched and convulsed around his cock. Her head fell back and her mouth fell open, reminding him of all those times he'd come between, and sometimes on, those painted red lips.
"And your mom will be so disappointed. She'll have heard things about you no good Russian mother wants to hear about her daughter, and she won't get to be a proper grandmother, because her rights will be attached to your very limited ones."
Her shuddering came to a stop and she reached her hands down, grasping his hips, sinking her nails in and drawing him into her. He kept thrusting, but was still unable to reach climax. "You're an asshole," he heard her whisper, but she sounded resigned to the fact, not angry. Her nails bit into his skin as she turned her face to his, those vibrant blue eyes focused on him. "You really are a prick."
But she was more bemused than angry, and he smiled down at her, planted a kiss on her mouth. She kissed him back fiercely, and he closed his eyes.
He cupped her face in his hand, ran a thumb over his jaw as he stubbornly refused to open his eyes, until it wasn't Delia beneath him at all. Wasn't Delia with her hands buried in his hair, wasn't Delia's lips soft against his, wasn't Delia's pussy clamped around his cock. And finally, he came. His heart pounded in his ears as his cock convulsed, he let out a guttural grunt as his balls tightened and he emptied his load, squirting onto the condom wrapped around his cock. Gasping from the exertion, he eased himself out of Delia's pussy and flopped down on the bed beside her. Delia remained still, he breathing also at a pant. She stared up at the ceiling when she asked, "So whom are you seeing?"
Karsa closed his eyes, threw an arm over his face. "I'm not seeing anyone."
"So why cut our fun short?"
"It was time." He said, letting the words fall flat, hoping she would lose interest.
"Oh, come on, Karsa. You can at least be honest with me. Who are you fucking?"
"I haven't fucked anyone."
"Yet," she corrected.
"Yet," he agreed.
"So who is this woman you've set your sights on?"
"Delia, really, it's none of your business."
"You're dumping me for some piece you haven't even slept with yet."
He could tell he wasn't going to get her out of his house until he relented. He drew in a breath and said, "Nicki Moreau."
There was silence in the bedroom, a full three seconds, before Delia burst out laughing. "The reporter? She loathes you!"
Karsa shrugged non-commitally, leaving his arm across his face. "Yeah, well..."
She snaked an arm across his torso, resting her head on his shoulder, and giggled.
"What?" Karsa said gruffly, annoyed.
"You are giving up a sure thing, hot, kinky sex whenever you call, in the hopes that you can get into the pants of someone who wouldn't cross the street to spit on you if you were on fire. I mean, seriously Karsa, you've read the articles. You don't want this woman; you want to prove you can have her. So do it, I give you my blessing. But don't pretend to be the honorable guy and stop having sex with me, because it won't last. So keep your flowers, go for it. And when she rejects you, I'll be here. You know I've always treated you right."
Karsa sat up, annoyed. Annoyed because she was right. If not for the charges pending against her, and Liam's urging, Nicki wouldn't cross the street to spit on him, whether he was on fire or not. She'd articulated in detail that he was worse than the "criminals" he defended. He didn't have a chance in hell of getting between those legs.
Delia dressed quickly, or rather she threw a trench coat over the lingerie she wore. She hadn't bothered to bring clothes. Seemed chagrinned when he walked her out, and they stood at the front door together. She hit a button on her keys and the headlights to her aging Mercedes flashed. Delia brought a hand up to his face, ran it over his jaw. "I really am going to miss our time together."
He caught her hand in his, pressed a kiss into her palm. She shook her head in resignation and walked away. Karsa went inside and started changing alarm and keyless entry codes.
The doorbell rang, pulling Nicki out of her slumber, and she turned her head toward the nightstand and the time display on her alarm clock. She had slept the whole afternoon, it was already 10 PM.
Gingerly, she moved off the bed, her neck and back protesting, still not recovered from her night in jail. God, jail. What complete fuckery. Consciousness brought with it the realization that there was an ache and a wetness between her legs, which brought with her the realization that she'd been dreaming. Of the devil.
Nicki closed her eyes, willing herself to put her lawyer out of her mind, and moved out of her bedroom, drawing her robe closer to her just as the doorbell sounded again. On bare feet she made her way over the cool wood floor to the door, where she looked out the peephole. Matt.
Nicki opened the door, using the wood to shield herself from the cool air outside. "Hi?" she said, her voice rising in the question she hadn't asked.
Matt was holding a six-pack of bottled beer and a bunch of tulips. "Hi." He looked exhausted, stressed, and she remembered then that she hadn't seen him since she'd stormed away from their dinner table, after he told her he couldn't keep seeing her, feared that parents would complain that their children's teacher was linked to someone charged with a violent offense. He had tried to make clear he knew she wasn't guilty of said offense, that it was strictly about reputation, but she'd found it hard to care about his reputation at the time.
Nicki stepped back from the door, made a grand sweeping gesture with her arm. "Come in. I'm going to go put some clothes on. I'll be right out."
Matt nodded and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. She left for the bedroom without waiting for him to explain his arrival, swinging the bedroom door behind her to block his view of her changing. The door lost steam before making it to the frame, stopped just short of latching, and she peaked out through the crack to get another look at him.
He looked like a football player, maybe not a line backer, but still solid. Well over six feet, boyish good looks that somehow had the ability to turn sultry. Hair somewhere between dark blond and brown, a smattering of freckles on his nose, a square jaw and crooked smile. Paired with hazel eyes and fully kissable lips he was hard to resist. At the same time, watching him move around the kitchen, pouring beer into pint glasses, she found her heart didn't pound in her chest the way it use to. And while she still imagined those strong arms wrapped around her, could almost feel the solid wall of chest beneath her cheek when she leaned into him, she could tell something had shifted. Not in him, maybe, but in her.
Nicki backed away from the door and tried to plan her reaction. She had a lot of time hoping to find him on the other side of her door, and now that it was here she didn't want to give that away, didn't want to fall back on him if he wasn't really there this time. She wandered into her closet and pulled on clingy black yoga pants and a thin white cotton hoodie with three-quarter length sleeves. I'm not trying too hard. She told herself, over and over, like a mantra, even as she moved into her bathroom and reached for a bottle of peony scented fragrance. When she did, her eyes landed on the purple panties crumpled on the floor, and her body betrayed her. Her heart started pounding and her hands shook. She lost grip on the fragrance bottle and it fell, striking the counter and falling into the sink. The bottle chipped, but didn't break. She replaced it on the counter without putting any on, scooped the offending bra and panties off the floor and dumping them unceremoniously in the covered laundry bin in her room before making her way back out into the living room, where Matt sat on the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands and staring blankly at the wall. Nicki cleared her throat.