Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (15 page)

"No."

"It's better than sex."

Better than sex
?  Dee's gaze wandered to where she'd left Roc.  He was gone.

"Better than sex."  She repeated the words dully as she waited for inspiration.  She had no idea what she'd do.

The room was seriously starting to spin.  Her hand slipped on her quarry's thigh and she frowned up at him.  Why she was wasting her time with this...

"Or perhaps you'd like both," he offered belatedly as she slid off the stool.  But she was staring at his crotch, still frowning.  

"Why would I want limp spaghetti," she gestured vaguely at his lap, "when I've got salami... around here somewhere."  Her blurred gaze wavered erratically as she searched the smoky bar.  Roc was nowhere to be seen.

Instantly forgetting dreadlocks, she turned on her heel and set off to find Roc, but the quick movement unsettled her equilibrium and after only a couple of steps her heel buckled and she was flung against an unseasonably heavy overcoat, an overcoat with a lean hard body inside it, and about which clung the scent of night - not musty, but cool and deep.

"Very impressive," its occupant said, before she was hauled back and held by someone behind her.

"Gently, Mr Black," came the voice from the overcoat.

She struggled, trying to free her arms, but only managing to liberate her breasts, then she was too drunk to realise what had happened.  Long elegant fingers emerged from the overcoat pockets to grasp the front of her dress and she stilled.  To Dee, the background drone of music seemed to fade, and as she watched through tumbled-down hair, he pulled her bodice up into place, inadvertently trailing the backs of those fingers over her nipples. 

Slowly, as though it was attached to strings, she raised her head. 

Her first thought on seeing the beautiful bone structure and connecting it to the deep commanding voice, was that she'd fallen onto a visiting European Prince.  There was a courtliness about him, an old-world quality to his bearing that immediately distinguished him from the other patrons.  His face was that of a young man's, possibly no older than Roc, but his air of authority enveloped her like a force field. 

No, a tractor beam. 

"Good evening, Wendee.  My name is Pietre DeMartande," he said, his pronunciation perfect and completely accentless.  His pale green eyes were strangely reptilian and she couldn't seem to look away from them. 

"Mr Black?"  he said softly, and the man behind her released her arms.  They fell listlessly to her sides.  Her drunken stupor was rapidly evaporating and in its place came a new intoxication.  This... Pietre DeMartande was like no man she'd ever met.  Behind those cold assessing eyes was an intelligence to rival her own and a lack of pretence that cut straight to her soul.  No-one controlled this man.

Her head cleared a little more.  "You know my name."

"We have a mutual acquaintance."  His gaze drifted to her side and she found herself expecting the slow shutter of a nictitating membrane.  They were the strangest eyes.

"Wendee?"  She became conscious of Roc beside her, pulling on her arm and she turned to him, reluctantly.

"Give us five minutes, DeMartande," Roc said over her shoulder as he led her to a quiet corner of the bar.  When he had her alone, he gripped her shoulders firmly.  "I want you to go with him."

"But..."  Walking had stirred up the alcohol in her system and she took a moment to let the vertigo subside.  "Why?"

His expression was almost pitying.  "I don't like to let a paying customer go, but you're wilder than I'd thought.  I can't give you what you want."

"You don't know what I want."  What the hell’s going on? 

"DeMartande will know."

She thought about that for a second.  "You're passing me on to him."  Was this some sort of professional etiquette?  "He doesn't look like a - "

"He's not."  Roc seemed edgy.  "There’s no money involved.  He's just...  He's an explorer, like you."

She shook her head.  What was he talking about?

"It has been good for me, Wendee, but now..." he shrugged eloquently.  "Go with DeMartande.  I know him.  You won't be hurt.  He'll take care of you."

"He'll take care of me," she echoed softly, turning to meet DeMartande's watchful gaze.  There was nothing in his bland expression to influence her, but in that contact she experienced a thrill of anticipation unlike anything she'd ever known.    Easing away from Roc, she stared into those ice-green eyes, feeling fear and challenge and... submission.  In Pietre DeMartande she saw the seeds of her own downfall and like a lemming on a cliff, she jumped.

* * * *

"Hello, Wendee," a deep voice whispered next to her ear, but Dee found she didn't want to stir.  She was warm and comfortable.  "Open your eyes," the voice coaxed.  "We know you're awake."

We
?  Dee stretched, feeling the softness of some kind of fur brushing her skin - her naked skin?  Her eyelashes fluttered open, and when she could focus she found six pairs of masculine eyes staring back at her.  Behind them, firelight flickered on a cave wall.

She wet her lips.  "Where am I?"

"Never Land."

"Never... land."  She blinked, a couple of times.  "Who are you?"

Chapter Ten

"Lost Boys?"  Dee closed her eyes weakly, wondering if she was hallucinating.  She'd been injected with something in Pietre's limousine and had lost consciousness in seconds.  Could the drug have be influencing her perception? 

"Come out, Wendee." 

Her fur covering started to move and she came wide awake instantly.  Clutching it against her chest, she slithered backwards on the wide sleeping platform until her back was hard against a rock wall. 

They'd have to climb on to the platform to get her now, which they might easily do, but it gave her the illusion of safety and a moment to gather her wits.  She scanned their faces, quickly, looking for clues to their intent.

Then more slowly, her gaze explored the breathtaking amount of taut muscular flesh their brief loin cloths revealed.  They were all young, late teens to early twenties she guessed - and all, without exception, drop-dead gorgeous.

Her fear slowly dissipated as she stared open-mouthed from one to another.  The sensation of lightheadedness she'd felt on waking returned.

The tallest spoke, and she realised he'd been the one addressing her in the faint French accent.  "I am Xavion, leader of the Lost Boys," he said. 

She nodded automatically.  The proud tilt of his chin and the confidence in his voice marked him as a man who was used to being obeyed.  Even his dark, short cropped hair added to the military air, but the whole was contradicted by a pair of bottomless blue eyes that oozed sensitivity.  Was he also a poet, this warrior?  His soul seemed to stare out at her from those eyes. 

She couldn't imagine him as a rich woman's plaything like Roc.  He looked too imperious for such a life.  And what of the others?  Where had DeMartande found these perfect specimens of masculinity?  Were they explorers too?  What had they been told about her?

Her brain flicked from one question to the next with startling clarity, and after a moment she realised she didn't feel any of the fuzziness she'd come to associate with the inebri-arousal of the previous few weeks.

Her obsessive sexuality, like that of an animal on heat, was still there.  But it was diffuse now, an aura around her rather than the searchlight beam it had been, aimed at Roc.

This was clearly the
little adventure
Pietre had promised - his last words before she'd felt the slight sting in her arm.  There'd been no time then to ask questions, Pietre had taken the initiative and in her drunken stupor she'd probably led him to believe this... smorgasbord was what she wanted. 

An adventure.  Six young men watching her every movement.  Still, she sensed no menace in them, just curiosity and... eagerness, as though they were impatient to get on with it. 

But what exactly did Pietre's adventure entail?

Her sex-fest with Roc had been bad enough, but this - six men all to herself.  It was pure hedonism.  How could she control it?

Did she want to?

Excitement swirled in her stomach and she had trouble focusing the logical side of her brain.  Her body wanted to take over.  She licked her dry lips and six pairs of eyes followed the movement.   

She knew she should say something to break the tension between them but the silence heightened her sense of unreality and fuelled her lust.