Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (43 page)

Exasperated with himself, he turned to look out through the opened doorway of his replica hide dwelling, into the darkness beyond.

He was losing his objectivity. 

The strong protective urges that had seen him serve honorably as a bodyguard would be fatal in this environment.  He had to remember his purpose, to remove a threat that endangered a multitude.  That far outweighed his responsibility to this one.  He must forget the tapes Xavion had shown him of her encounters with DeMartande's 'Lost Boys'.  Watching her come alive in the arms of one lover after another...  No man could help but be moved by the rawness of her sexuality, yet even as he'd watched, a subtle revulsion - a thought that she was nothing more than a wanton sensation seeker - had overlaid his fascination. 

Until he'd seen her with DeMartande's young technician, her 'gypsy boy' Christophe.  A gentleness had come over her then, a tender regard for the boy's obvious infatuation that had moved Long Shadow deeply.  She had looked on the boy as though he was more precious to her than life itself, and at that moment a longing like the lonely cry of the wind through the trees had filled Long Shadow's heart. 

Before he’d even met her he’d ached to have her look at him that way.  And yet he’d feared it.  He feared her eyes.

They were covered now, but as he turned back to her he still felt the sexual pull she exerted, even in sleep.  Despite her disheveled appearance - or perhaps because of it - her whole being, even at rest radiated sensuality, as though her addiction was externalized to advertise its needs. 

Her lips were softly pouted and seemed purpose designed to close over a man's sex.  Her skin was hungry, drawing the touch.  And the way she'd responded to his caresses had stirred him.

Dangerously.

He imagined himself lying over her and spreading her legs, thrusting himself into the slippery softness he'd explored.  She'd told the truth when she'd said it was hot there.  Hot and hungry.  The avaricious flesh had closed over his fingers like the lips of a fellatress, sucking at them and warming them to her feverish level, coating them with her own essence, tricking his mind into thinking it was not his fingers they had captured, but the hard flesh that even now pressed insistently against his breech-clout.

Through the thin sheet he could see the outline of her breasts and the slight mound that fell away to parted legs.  Her breaths were gentle, rhythmic, her body limp like a life-sized doll.  A doll that for a short time was his to do with as he chose. 

As long as she remained unhurt, he could satisfy himself with her in ways only limited by his imagination. 

One possibility saw him ripping the sheet off to grind her into the fur on which she lay, but Long Shadow knew his body would resist that temptation, powerful though it might be.  He wanted it to be different between them, for their lovemaking to be of the senses, the intellect, the soul, not the mere production of involuntary muscle spasms DeMartande had hired him for.  Yet that would require a vulnerability that once offered, would bind him to her in ways that terrified him.

When his mission was completed he would leave.  There was no question of that.  As would she, but not with him.

To Wendee, he was just another fantasy.  A 'redskin' lover to pad out her adventure.  For his sanity's sake, he'd do well to remember that. 

The sensible path would be to keep her at arms length.  To fulfill his job description by satisfying her sexually, and perhaps it would be best to continue exactly as he had begun, with no involvement of his own arousal.  The denial would be bittersweet, but the alternative was the carving up of his soul.  He couldn't allow himself to fall in love with her.  It would be suicide.  Literally.

But as he stood and moved to the entrance of his lodge, he heard her sigh behind him and the sound held him inside.  He imagined her moving in her sleep, her lips parting at a pleasurable memory, those soft lips that were so familiar to him he already knew how they would taste. 

And how that savoring would affect him.

He should resolve never to taste them.  But if he turned back now, if he removed the sheet and lay with her, those lips would be his to devour.  The body would invite him to pleasures he knew he'd never find with another.  And her eyes, the eyes of his dreams, would give him the peace his aching soul demanded.

Agonising seconds ticked by as he lingered at the opening, searching himself for the courage to step through it and walk away from her.  It seemed all but impossible, yet he did it, and by the time he'd reached the nearby stand of trees he felt some reassurance that he had control - that his legs wouldn't turn him back and make a lie of his resolutions. 

But the relief of his escape would be short lived.  Tomorrow, she would be well enough to rise.  The compress would come off, and the true test of his inner strength would begin.  He'd have to become the whore he'd thought her to be, touching her body with no feelings other than that of a duty fulfilled.

Such was his destiny, but the knowledge of what could have been between them tore through the emptiness of his heart with such pain that he thought it would break.

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Drink, Sir?"

"Thank you, no," Pietre said dismissively, not bothering to look up from his contemplation of the clouds cruising past his window.

"Something... else, Sir?"

Pietre shifted his gaze slowly, "What... else?" inspecting the flight attendant's trousers which were at eye level in front of him.  They appeared well filled.

"Anything Sir requires."

Pietre smiled.  It had been subtlety done.  He liked subtlety.  He glanced up and said, "Sir doesn't require anything at the moment."  A look of disappointment flashed across the solarium tanned features.  "But
Sir's
assistant, Mr Black," Pietre inclined his head at the huge negro across the cabin, "might make use of your... services."

The flight attendant glanced at Mr Black, a moment of fear sparking his eyes before it was carefully extinguished.  He returned his attention to Pietre.  "As Sir wishes," he said and bowed away, his bleached blond hair falling to cover his expression.

Pietre settled back against the headrest, making himself comfortable as he watched the attendant bowing to Mr Black.  The fabric of his trousers stretched taut across his buttocks and Pietre imagined Mr Black gazing at those buttocks a moment earlier.  Would they have aroused him?  Mr Black had a penchant for blonds, he seemed to remember.  He liked the contrast.

Pietre watched the attendant lay aside his tray to crouch in front of Mr Black, casting a quick glance across at Pietre and around the otherwise empty cabin before settling to his task. 

Mr Black spread his legs and leant back, offering no help to the attendant who fumbled with the fastening of his pants before tentatively inserting a hand.  Pietre watched him frown, then his eyes widened as the massive ebony column eased out of its concealment to poke a fist-sized tip against his startled lips. 

Mr Black's firm hand encompassing the back of his head prevented any second thoughts, and after a few tense seconds, Pietre saw the attendant's tongue emerge to lap at the shaft.  Wider than a woman’s wrist, it was too large for his mouth, but the attendant made his hands busy, obviously believing he could complete the task he was being well paid for.  Over his head Pietre met Mr Black's eyes and nodded, then turned back to his contemplation of the clouds.

Troubling thoughts chased through his mind.  He hadn't expected to be away for so long, and although he trusted Belle with the management of the island, the safety of his Wendee was another matter altogether.

Still, Belle had been sending him regular reports and Wendee appeared to be managing quite well without his interference.  Apart from the ridiculous threat from his brother, there was nothing that required his personal attention.  Although...  

A stifled grunt distracted him from his thoughts and he glanced over to find Mr Black impaling the naked flight attendant on his lap.  The man's hands gripped the seat in front of him, his eyes so round Pietre thought they might pop out of their sockets.  In comparison with the gargantuan negro's bulk, he looked like a toy being jerked about by an over-zealous child, but true to his training he made no sound at all. 

Frowning in concentration, Mr Black gripped the attendant's narrow hips, manipulating the pearl-white ass up and down on his engorged penis.  The attendant gritted his teeth but Pietre noticed his own penis was alert, slapping against his thigh.      

Would the attendant orgasm before Mr Black, who had once taken an hour?  Pietre bet himself a bottle of the two hundred year old port he'd been saving that he would.  And if he lost, he'd... give Xavion's men a week's leave.

But not until the situation with Armande was resolved. 

Pietre's attention drifted away from the tableau before him, his thoughts returning to his brother.

Was this latest scare yet another pebble to bounce off the impregnable wall of Pietre's defences, or was this the definitive attack?  Over time, Pietre had grown tired of these intermittent attempts to overthrow him.  But he'd not killed Armande.  Just as Armande had not tried to kill him.  The blood tie was too strong. 

One day, though, Armande would do something to break that tie.  They had shared much together, things that would have driven lesser mortals mad, but every man had his threshold.

Pietre gazed out the window again, wondering what Armande was up to this time.  Would it be the thing that would push him to destroy the only other surviving DeMartande of their line?