4: Jack - In The Pack (2 page)

Her eyes gleamed. Her teeth sparkled.
Honey, they picked right when they sent you downstairs.

They’d done their homework, of course. Investigated me to the hilt. And I mean, down to the length of my manhood. Locker room jockeys, reporters, P.I.s. They have a payroll full of spies.

The door, like the elevator, whooshed open.

And I learned what true wealth really was. I am not kidding when I say the place was gilded in gold, laced with silver.

“Hm.” My guide frowned. “Hood was supposed to be here.” She gestured for me to step in. “Make yourself at home. I’ll see where he is.”

She disappeared.

I had time to glance around, peer closer at the artwork. Jungle fantasy. New Age stuff with voluptuous women draped over tree limbs in Xena outfits, wolves sitting beneath the tree, noses up, howling, maybe. Definitely sniffing the air.

And fascinating variations on wolf scenes filled every other frame, too. Werewolves under moonlit, clouded-over skies. Wolf packs on the tundra. The collection was exquisitely matted, wrapped and framed, set with enhanced lighting. You couldn’t help but admire the work, right down to the presentation artist who’d selected the shadow boxes, carved mahogany binding, and all the rest that went around the various pieces.

“Ah. I’m sorry.” Ms. Racini returned, catching me by surprise as I was leaning toward one particularly explicit scene, where a half wolf, half woman was in the arms of a werewolf. In the clutches, you could say. It stirred me. He had one hand on her breast--claw, that is--and another between her legs. She arched backward, mouth open, and he had his tongue almost ready to go down her throat. Definitely an arousing work of art, even if you weren’t into wolves.

So when Giselle spoke as she entered the room, I jumped a little guiltily.

But she smiled. “You like?” She waved a hand in the air. “Hood selected every piece of art in this room. He has interesting taste, don’t you think?”

Tongue in cheek, I said, “That one’s got some eye appeal.” I thumbed over my shoulder.

She seemed to agree--with a nod and a smile. “Hood had something come up. He apologizes for keeping you waiting.” She added, “He rarely keeps people waiting.”

“Who is this Hood?”

“Actually, he’s one of the top bio-geneticists here.”

“I came to discuss a contract for--”

“Yes. He designed the product.”

“Oh.”

“We understood that you wanted to know more about it before you signed an agreement.”

I shrugged. Okay. My lawyer, apparently, had been very good at expressing my feelings on the matter. Smoothed the way for me.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

I shook my head. “I’m an athlete. I don’t drink much.”

“How about a protein shake? Try the product we want you to endorse?”

“Sure.” Scooting back my jacket, I put my hands in my pockets.

A second later, she spoke into an intercom, presumably to a kitchen somewhere on the floor. “Mr. Barton would like to sample the product.” To me, she asked, “What flavor would you like? Vanilla, chocolate, berry?”

“Vanilla’s fine.” I figured if it had any odd, hidden flavor, I’d be more apt to detect it with the vanilla.

“Vanilla, please.” Ms. Racini let go of the button, reached up and fluffed through her hair: dark, layered sex appeal. That’s what I’d call that mass. I wanted to run my hands through it, too. “Jack, please sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

She skirted the furniture, sat down on the deeply cushioned sofa--that I know was made for sex--kicked off her shoes, and said, “I hope you don’t mind. My feet are killing me.”

Red toenails. Perfectly formed feet.

“Hey, doesn’t bother me.”

She gestured to the other end of the sofa when I moved nearer to the sitting area. Laughing, she teased, “I couldn’t talk you into a foot rub, could I?”

I balked a little. I mean, I was there for business.

She said, “We don’t stand on formality in the executive suite. We get comfortable.” Waving a hand, she said, “The whole place is designed to block out the harsh realities of the modern world.”

“It does appear to be a fantasy place.”

“Hood won’t mind if you relax. He may be awhile.” She pouted prettily. “He’d be very upset with me if I didn’t manage to make your wait...pleasant.”

I sunk onto the other end of the sofa. My mind was on anything but business, trying to hang onto the purpose for being there.

“I wouldn’t want anyone mad at you.” Sounded lame, even to my ears. I offered, “I could probably manage a foot rub, if your feet really are bothering you. I know how that can be.”

Boy, did I know what sore feet felt like. I’d run marathons that had me blistered and sore for weeks.

Her feet were in my lap within seconds, nudging mischievously at my crotch. Her pretty brown eyes darkened and she grinned at me, eyebrows up, willing me to take the hint.

“Shame you don’t have any lotion.” I picked up one foot, started kneading the bottom of it with both my thumbs.

Her head fell back and she moaned, “Ah. That’s heavenly.” Her other foot pushed against my crotch. And I thought
that
was heavenly.

“You sure no one is coming?” I had to ask.

She frowned, pursed her lips toward the ceiling, squinted as she thought about the answer. “No. Someone is definitely coming.”

It sounded good and bad to me. My brain was in the gutter. Coming definitely sounded good. The more her foot pressed against my pants, the more I wanted to jump her. But I liked the tease.

“Your shake should be here any minute.”

I worked on her other foot. Figured, I needed to do both quick, before the shake appeared. Couldn’t leave her with one foot undone. Ya know?

It was a quick massage. A tiny bell rang. Almost inaudible. She pulled her feet from my lap, slipped her shoes on in one deft moment and got up, went to the door, took the tray, said thank you to the orderly that had delivered it, and brought it to me.

“Thanks.” I took a sip. It surprised me that it was really good. I’d had a hundred protein drinks, many of them gritty, or too frothy, or too icy. Now, I had no idea at that point if the product did what they claimed, but at least the flavor wouldn’t make you sick after three days on it. “Not bad,” I said.

She dropped back onto the sofa. “Why don’t you let me return the favor?”

“What favor?” I slurped some more. The shake was really good, almost addictive. It didn’t take long to suck it all down.

By then, she had me convinced that slipping my shoes off, letting her massage my feet, was a good idea.

So, okay, I realize now that Ms. Racini was probably a full-fledged masseuse, among her other talents. She charmed the socks off of me, literally. Squeezing my toes one by one, she examined my feet, discussed pressure points.

Since that was something athletes usually educate themselves on, certainly world-class athletes, she had me drawn in, relaxing, appreciating her talents. Before long, I had my head back, got lost in the euphoria of a skilled artisan working magic on my feet.

The effects of the shake--drugged, I think--added, maybe controlled, my reaction to her. When Ms. Racini said in a purr, “Call me Giselle,” I went out of my mind.

Delirious. Hallucinating.

I thought, that may be the prettiest name on the planet. It isn’t, of course, but it’s right up there.

Somewhere in the middle of my revelry over names, women, and the wonders of good protein shakes, she stopped with my feet, climbed toward me on the sofa, between my legs, opened my pants, and gave me oral favors. All other muscles in my body were limp. I had died and gone to heaven.

I thought, fuck, if this is how Lobos treats their people, sign me up.

Of course, I was under the influence. Definitely drugged. It was a new experience for me. And I’d never had such an easy come-on to sex before.

Don’t get me wrong, Olympians have plenty of groupies. But I’ve always been careful. Don’t want AIDS, or any other communicable diseases. Very body conscious.

Fuck me if I didn’t squirm beneath Giselle’s ministrations. She had suction down to an art, and blow...holy shit...did she know how and when to blow, to pull with her lips, and her teeth--fine, fabulous teeth--scraping gently down my shaft while she took me all in.

There was no time in that room. Surreal moments.

I lived a fantasy there.

I came in her mouth. She swallowed it all, every drop, with gulping greediness while I held her head, my fingers embedded in that luscious mane. But she didn’t fight for air.

And when I laid my head back again, thanking God for the experience, glad that it was over--she kept sucking, licking, lapping. I let her. I couldn’t have told her to quit to save my life.

My brain wasn’t totally functioning. I didn’t think that someone might come in. In fact, if my mind wandered that way at all, I think I dismissed the thought with
it’s probably part of the plan to get me in a good mood.

They’re taking advantage of me. Raping me under the influence of drugs...never came to mind then.

I remember her straddling me next, guiding my cock into her, riding me while I held her hips. At some point, she’d taken off her jacket. I opened my eyes as she crossed her arms, grabbing the hem of her shirt, and pulled it over her head.

She was fucking beautiful. Firm, round breasts. Hard nipples. Big, dark aureolas.