Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (14 page)

Roc held her gently against his chest until she went limp, then he discarded the shreds of her dress and carried her to her bed.

Dee lay in it, exhausted, panting, staring up at him as he brushed the sweaty hair back from her forehead. 

"Wild woman.  Now I see why you are alone.  You think you will frighten men off with your strong lovemaking," he said, smiling to show her he wasn't.  Then he tilted his head and searched her eyes.  "Or perhaps a man has hurt you, and you are the frightened one.  Is that why you have no lover?  Did he rape you?"

Dee shook her head wordlessly.  He was way off, and she had neither the energy nor the inclination to correct him.

"Then you just like it rough, and you come to me knowing I will do as you ask.  I can understand that."

Dee could have pointed out that
he'd
actually come to her, but she didn't.  Let him amuse himself with his amateur psychoanalysis.  Her thoughts were already turning away from him towards the past. 

Her emotional violence was spent for the moment, but in its place lay a deep, festering anger - at Billy.  If he hadn't come to her with his adolescent crush, she'd never have become 'the stupid girl with her brains between her legs' again. 

But she had, making herself vulnerable to Billy in a way she'd sworn never to again.  Then, instead of the exciting affair she'd anticipated, Billy had rejected her in the most devastating way possible.  She could rationalise all she liked, and cloud the issue with guilt over his death, but Billy's actions had shown her clearly that he'd rather die than make love to her. 

"You sleep now," Roc said, "I'll be here when you wake."

She closed her eyes, shutting out the vision of what she'd been reduced to.  Paying for sex.

Perhaps out of some inner survival reflex she did fall into a deep slumber.  But she awoke a couple of hours later to find Roc sprawled on the lounge watching in-house movies, an opened bottle of champagne at his side. 

His jacket had been discarded and he looked deliciously abandoned with his shirt open and a half-smile playing about his lips.  He laughed softly at something on the television, his stomach moving the hand that rested over it and again she was reminded of a cat, the way his soft, inky hair fell back from his face, the elongated golden eyes and limbs that looked graceful even when sprawled. 

It came to her then that he was nothing more than a sleek, well-fed tom who'd marked out his territory and lived by prowling through it, targeting any female he perceived to be on heat.  And she could see he had an instinct for it, an innate ability to sniff out sexual frustration, even when the female herself was unaware of it.  As she had been.

For a moment, the self doubts that had crowded in on her in the seconds before she'd found sleep, returned.  Roc was only there because she was paying him.  He cared nothing about her personally, and why should he?  He probably had a nubile young girlfriend somewhere that he enjoyed making love to.  Dee was just a job.

She stood in the shadowed doorway watching him, thinking she should slip back into her room and find a wrap to cover her nakedness.  Then a belligerent thought possessed her.  Why should she?  She had a good body for her age.  And why should she care whether Roc had a personal interest in her?  She was the paying customer, and he was merely providing a service.  A service she could feel the need for building in her loins.  She had been long without a man before Roc, and she'd paid for the whole night.  Why not use it.

She stepped out of the shadows and walked over to the lounge.     

He saw her and smiled, tilting his head to gaze at her nakedness, but she was staring at his body, wanting to taste it, to explore it, to manipulate it.  There was no room for nervousness in her. 

"You are very beautiful after sleep," he said, "soft and mussed.  And your lips bruised."  He even sounded convincing. 

She nodded, coming to stand over him.

"You make me hard," he said, and they both looked down at the front of his pants where the stiffening penis was clearly outlined.  Still stretched out, he reached for the champagne and poured her a glass.  "I don't see you drink in the Restaurant, but maybe tonight...?"  He held the glass out to her.

"I don't fuck in the Restaurant either," she said calmly and downed the glass, holding it out for a refill.

"You are thirsty," Roc commented, eying her speculatively as she gulped down that drink as well, "and hungry?"

They stared at each other for a moment in silent communication.  Then she put down the glass and crawled over him on the lounge - poised above him in the masculine position.  "Now I'm going to rape you," she said.

Roc looked up at her through slitted eyes.  "I am ready."

Chapter Nine

"Dear heaven," Dee breathed, lolling against the body she’d become intimately familiar with in the fortnight of their association.  "I'm in stud heaven."

"You like it?  Better than the other clubs?" Roc asked smugly, his arm draped over her bare shoulders, his blunt fingers caressing her exposed cleavage.  "I have friends here.  This is where I began my business."

Dee ignored the mournful blues drifting from one corner as she inspected the elegant piano bar.  There were few women, and most of them looked like money.  The men looked like sex. 

"Are you telling me all this is for sale?" she whispered, openly leering at a couple of sailor boys leaning against the bar.

Roc laughed and squeezed her closer.  "Most of it, but remember, you're here with me."

"For now," she replied, her haughty expression fading into a pout as he burst out laughing.

"I love you drunk," he said, kissing her softly

.             

"So do I," she confided.  Then she kissed him back, knowing her lips were lush and red and irresistible tonight.  In fact, everything about her was irresistible.  Either that or she was very drunk.  "Let's do it here," she whispered against his lips.  "You must know some dark corner."

"You just want to get me in trouble," he whispered back, and kissed her again, hard, as though to satisfy her with that.  "I know the owner,  If he caught us, he'd kill me." 

But Dee wasn't satisfied with the kiss.  She wanted danger, excitement, sex.  It was a drug and she craved a fix.  She eased back from Roc and patted his chest.  "Don't worry about that," she said.  "There are plenty of live specimens about.  I'd survive."

He laughed then, the dramatic lines vanishing as his chameleon face transformed into a picture of wry disbelief.  "Now you are you trying to make me,
jealous
?"

The word hung between them like a challenge, and despite her alcohol induced fog, Dee felt the sensual throb start deep between her thighs.  An idea formed hazily in her mind. 

She slid backwards out of his grasp, teasing him with her eyes before executing a remarkably coordinated turn.  Then, head held high she sashayed towards bar, concentrating on keeping her heels from buckling under her. 

After a quick appraisal of the talent, she slid on to the stool beside a bronzed thirty-something with bleached dreadlocks and an expensive suit.  Pausing for a moment to still her dizziness she composed a creamy smile which she aimed at him with all the subtlety of a stun-gun.

"Drink?" he inquired.

Dee sighed.  It was too easy.

"An orgasm," she decided.  "If I can get one here." 

He didn't reply immediately, and Dee was left to wonder if he was incredibly stupid, or whether her sledge-hammer approach had put him off. 

Roc was close, leaning against the wall watching her and although he didn't look particularly jealous, he was frowning.  She didn't want to strike out. 

"It's a cock-tail," she added as clarification.  Then surprised by her unwitting double entendre, she burst out laughing. 

Her prey wasn't put off in the slightest.  In fact, when she'd stopped gurgling she discovered he was leaning closer, resting an elbow on the bar.  Definitely interested. 

Dee tried to copy his posture but it was too complicated and she ended up with one slender arm sprawled across the bar, and the cleavage precariously confined in her black velvet sheath ready to burst out. 

"Cock tail," she repeated solemnly.

"I guess they are," he replied, his gaze slowly travelling from the crest of one escaping nipple to her unfocused eyes.

"But does the
dog wag it
," she asked, poking him in the chest with a forefinger for emphasis, "or does
it wag
the
dog
?"           

"Have you ever tried cocaine?"

Dee blinked and dropped her hand, leaving it where it landed on the top of his thigh as she framed a reply.  For some reason it took a long time.