Rocks (4 page)

“Oh my god,” she sighed. “Oh my fucking god. It’s so
big
!”

“And here, now, it’s yours,” he said, lifting a hand gently to her hair, caressing her as she stroked him.

He let her masturbate him for a while, then, shifting his position so that his large, heavy cock pointed nearer to her face, he moved his finger across her chin, her lips, sliding it between the painted flesh. She sucked on him, her large blue eyes looking up at him eagerly.

“Take it in your mouth,” he told her.

She obeyed, first moving her lips up and down his shaft when he pulled back his hand, sliding along his length and making it wet with her saliva. A naughty expression entered her eyes, making her look a decade younger. He imagined the teenage cheerleader on her first date, when all sex seemed an endless possibility of pleasure, and groaned as she now took the head of him into her mouth.

He tightened his grip slightly on her hair as she began to suck him, moving back and forth and moaning slightly as she pushed herself deeper on to him. She was still dressed, but while she stroked him with one hand she fumbled at the front of her dress with the other, trying to raise the hem of her skirt at the front so that she could play with herself as she took him into her throat.

“Ah ah,” he said, batting her arm and then dragging it up so that he could grab her hand, placing it on his taut, muscular buttock. “Not yet, little missy. First you concentrate on me. Don’t you worry, I’ll make it worth your while.”

He returned his own hands to her head, holding her more firmly as he began to buck his hips, fucking her mouth so that she made slight whimpering noises. “Look up at me,” he whispered.
Once again she did as she was told, and the sight of those large eyes, her lips stretched across his shaft, made him rock solid. She was good. Her own desires made her a natural student.

He eased his grip and she willingly raised her hands to his cock once more, taking it in her fist as she pulled it from her mouth, masturbating him hard as she looked on with glee. She was about to suck him again when he gently pulled her up by her arms: too much of this and he was going to lose control
—and Hayden
never
lost control.

Instead, as she stood there, trembling beside the bed, he turned her slowly around and began to unzip her dress. Moving large, warm hands across her shoulders, he pushed the printed cotton across and down, lo
oking at the curve of her spine crossed by the strap of her bra, her panties emerging as the fabric slid over her hips. He unhooked her bra but, as she waited for him to remove it, he instead stepped closer to her, slipping his hands around her waist. Instinctively her own fingers came up to her bra, holding it up to protect her modesty, but then she laughed and let it fall.

He kissed her neck, her shoulders, and her head rotated round and rolled against his. Lifting his hands, he weighed the delicious heaviness of her breasts, so soft against his fingers, before moving upwards and caressing
her nipples. She gasped at this and then groaned as he let one of those hands rove down, crossing the soft, slight bump of her belly and deeper, sliding past the edge of her knickers and feeling the soft down on her pubis. Then, when he encountered the opening slit of her, wet and excited for him, she let out a long, sighing, “Yes!”

Sitting her on the edge of the bed, he raised first one foot and then the second, taking off her shoes before kissing her toes. She giggled at this, both fascinated and slightly embarrassed. He did not care, however, even when she self-consciously moved one hand across the slight rise of her abdomen. There were children, somewhere, he guessed.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her. And she was. In that moment, she was all he wanted.

She started to protest but, before she could get into the swing of resistance and spoil the mood, he grabbed one ankle and then the other, lifting them rapidly so that she fell back onto the bed with a surprised laugh. Before she could recover, his shoulders were moving along her thighs, his hands still gripping her ankles so that her legs were forced further back, causing her to open as he dipped his head down.

Kissing and licking, teasing her clit with his tongue before sliding it into her honey-salted sex, he gave her no respite and she started to gasp, her fingers twining in his hair as he devoured her. His face was sticky from her juices, and releasing one of her dainty feet he drew his finger to her slit, sliding along it before entering her deeply, causing her to moan as he hunted out the inner, velvet crinkles of her G-spot.

That made her legs flail
before finding purchase around his shoulders. Now she gripped him as he dug his hands into her buttocks, fucking her with his mouth, concentrating on drinking up every last drop of her.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” she began to groan, bucking up her hips into his face. He let her enjoy her orgasm and then, as her limbs went weak, he easily shrugged her legs from his shoulders and, eyes smouldering darkly, pulled himself up the bed.

For a second a look of panic came into her eyes. “My bag!” she said quickly.

Frowning for an instant, he then realised what she was talking about. Lifting himself into an upright position, he leaned across to fish for the bag, his stomach flat and rippled, the muscles in arms and shoulders tensing from the posture. Finding the condoms, he tore open a packet and began to roll it on to his heavy cock.

“I hope it’s big enough,” she said with a nervous laugh.

He didn’t reply, but with a grin moved hims
elf over her until... until... Finding the right place, he gave her no warning but slammed himself down. That made her howl, from shock as much as excitement, and her legs and arms came up around him, feet clenching against his buttocks and fingernails digging into his arms.

Her second orgasm came very quickly, the walls of her vagina clenching around him as he moved with sharp, knowing thrusts. She bellowed so loudly at one point that he moved a hand to her mouth, forcing his fingers into her, making her suck him. At this, she glared at him wildly,
then sucked on him as though she would strip him of his flesh.

For half an hour they fucked like this, him rising and falling on her, sometimes taking her slowly so as not to ejaculate too quickly, sometimes slamming hard into her sex. Her eyes screwed shut as she let herself go, her blonde hair cascading across the bed and her cheeks bright red as the blood flushed into them. Sweat was beginning to form on his brow, and with a snarl he pulled out of her, causing her to gasp and protest weakly before he grabbed hold of one of her arms, flipping her over on the bed and penetrating her roughly from behind. As his cock, utterly huge now and aching to cum inside her, filled and stretched her sex, she flailed with one arm, grabbing the sheets and dragging them towards her mouth.

When he did at last cum, his whole back arched and he shouted out as he stretched above her. She, almost exhausted, shuddered on the bed, gripping the sheets and bucking her hips slightly as whatever number orgasm she was experiencing flooded her body, making her a wet mess between her legs.

He flopped down on the bed next to her, looking up at the ceiling and letting his breath exhale exultantly. She lifted herself weakly and planted a kiss on his lips before lying next to him, drawing invisible patterns on his chest.

“I could do with a cigarette,” she said.

“Do you smoke?” Hayden asked.

“Nope,” was her reply with a slightly goofy smile. This was one of the things he loved about women—how when their defences were down they showed themselves in such geeky, awkward expressions.

“That’s the problem with modern, health-conscious life,” he said, returning her smile. “It’s never like in the movies.”

She laughed at this and then kissed his nipple, resting her head on his chest. “You are fucking gorgeous,” she sighed, her voice both content and sad.

“As are you,” he replied.

She began to make self-deprecating gestures, waving one hand which he slapped away before lifting up her face and staring into her eyes intently. “Yes you are,” he told her, firmly. “You’ve just forgotten it.”

As she was about to start on some defensive, and no doubt sarcastic rebuttal, he rolled her onto her front once more. She fought against him when he spanked her, though hardly with all the strength she could muster, and he lowered himself onto her, guiding himself between her buttocks. Part of him smirked at the thought of taking a detour
—of dominating her in
that
way—but he was in no mood to be too mean and instead caused her to groan as he penetrated her sex again.

Both of them were spent when, regretfully, the woman lifted herself from the bed and, staring down at him for what seemed an age, began to move towards the bathroom. “I suppose I better clean up and go,” she said.

He nodded, watching her as she entered the en-suite. For a moment, he considered joining her in the shower, but then decided against it. That had been
very
pleasant, he told himself, and just what he’d needed, but now he needed to focus. Free of desire he could plan for the job tonight.

When she returned, he was staring up at the ceiling contemplatively. For a second he didn’t even realise that she’d entered the room once more, but he smiled when he saw her bending over, her slightly plump buttocks facing his direction as she fished around for her underwear and dress.

Both of them were silent after she had pulled on her clothes, watching each other. “Will I see you again?” she asked eventually, as though dragging the words from her mouth.

“Perhaps if I’m in Tennessee,” he said with a soft smile, his eyes half-hooded.

She looked at him with a pained expression on her face. “It’s... it’s funny,” she said. “You never called my name once, you know... when we were...”

“Being intimate?”

“Yeah, being intimate.”

“That’s because you’re not Sally, are you.”

She blushed at this and her eyes dropped. Slowly, she shook her head. “Just as you’re not Mark.” She watched him again as it was his turn to shake his head.

“I’m
—” she started to speak but he raised a finger to his lips. His eyes had opened wider now, and there was a look that wasn’t unkind as he watched her.

“I won’t see you again, will I?” she said.

He shook his head. For a brief period, it looked as though she would cry but then she gave a forced smile, wiping a tear from her eye. “Well, thanks,” she said, compressing all the unspoken meanings she could into that mundane phrase. Picking up her handbag, she didn’t look back at him as she walked to the door and left the room.

When Maarten returned to Boeckman’s, the usually placid building was in a state of uproar.

His own mind full of guilt at the plans he had been hatching with Karla, his thoughts immediately fearfully considered that something had happened to the Wallenstein. It was the receptionist, Femke, who put him right on that score.

“He’s here!” she exclaimed as he came towards her, his briefcase held tightly in his hand.

“Who’s here?”

One of her companions, a not unpleasant-looking woman called Marien whose tart demeanour made her seem older than her years answered for the receptionist: “Only Boeckman’s biggest customer.”

Maarten looked blankly at her. All he could think of was the Wallenstein, buried in a vault far away from prying eyes, and the fake replica in his suitcase.

“Papa Dee!” Femke hissed. Then her eyes flickered away from him, looking towards the stairs where a flurry of activity was taking place. “Oh god!” she moaned. “He’s coming back to us!”

“Ah, Maarten!” Turning to face the stairs, Maarten caught sight of one of the older partners in the firm, Pieter Boeckman. A sleek
—even portly—man of middling height, the best thing that could be said about his looks was that his extra pounds had prevented the years from piling on too many wrinkles. His head was balding slightly and he gave the same, sharp squint Maarten had seen a thousand times before when he caught sight of the jeweller. He was a nasty man to get on the wrong side of, and Maarten usually spent most of his time avoiding anything to do with Pieter.

In this instance, however, his attention was taken up entirely by the figure
who walked immediately behind Pieter. Almost a head taller, the man was powerfully built—as far as Maarten could discern beneath the weight of gold jewellery and furs he wore. It looked as though a couple of mines had been emptied and a zoo slaughtered to prepare his attire, but despite his ire even Maarten had to admit that he looked impressive, with dark, flawless skin and a pair of jewelled shades covering his eyes. Behind him followed a troupe of flunkies and attendants.

“He’s incredible, isn’t he,” Femke breathed. “Everything he does is from the heart.”

“Oh, he’s very good at keeping it real,” Marien said scornfully, still speaking in Dutch, “for a man whose father was a diplomat.”

Femke gave her a withering look but Maarten could no longer pay attention to them, terrified as he was by the approaching group. A rabbit faced by a redneck in an SUV would have felt less trepidation than he did at that moment.

Before he could make a move, however, Pieter had crossed the space between them with surprising nimbleness and grabbed hold of his arm. “Maarten, Maarten,” he said with a convivial slickness that meant he wanted something, “how lucky we are to see you. I was just singing your praises to Mister Dee here.”

“Papa, please.” The musician’s voice was rich and velvet, and though he was far from susceptible to this interloper’s charms even Maarten was slightly impressed by the sound when he spoke. “Ladies,” Papa Dee said, tipping an imaginary hat to the two women on the other side of the desk. Maarten was disgusted to see that even Marien giggled and blushed slightly at this.

“Yes! I’m very busy!” Maarten said in a panic. “I should be going!”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Pieter half-growled at him, replying in English for the benefit of his guest, his eyes becoming two tiny, hard sapphires. “I understand just how hard you’ve been working
—how hard we’ve all been working!” This latter was said more loudly for the rap artist’s benefit. “But before you leave us for a well-earned vacation, perhaps you could explain to Mister—Papa—Dee what you’ve been doing for us.”

“I’d love to hear it,” Papa Dee replied with an apparent sincerity that almost made Maarten feel ashamed of his antagonism.
Almost, but not quite.

“I should go,” Maarten repeated, in English this time. “I have some papers to complete, provenance documents and what have you.”

“Not for the Wallenstein, I hope,” Papa Dee said with a chuckle. His flunkies laughed at this as though they had just overheard the funniest joke in the universe. Maarten shook his head, struck dumb as he clutched the briefcase to his chest.

“Well, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. You can do it before you leave on your vacation,” Pieter told him, grabbing hold of his arm and half dragging him along. “Our guest is touring in Europe and wanted to look at his future acquisition before we set it according to his very, ah, precise instructions. Of course, normally such a thing would be out of the question, but in this instance…” He gave a patronising smile to Maarten who nodded as though he understood what was going on, all the time trying to keep a tight hold on his case.

“I understand you’re the master craftsman who cut the diamond into its final shape,” Papa Dee said. Despite his fears, Maarten’s chest puffed up with pride.

“Yes, well, the original stone was quite exceptional
—over thirty carats in weight, from which I was able to extract a flawless, twenty-carat gem.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Papa Dee replied, with a smile that flashed white across his dark face.

As they continued to walk through corridors deeper into the Boeckman’s building, Pieter stopped at a secure door. “I’m afraid the three of us will have to proceed from here alone,” he said. “And I’m very sorry, Mister Dee, but you’ll have to be searched before you enter.”

“Sure,” the singer replied nonchalantly, murmuring something to the nearest of his flunkies, a young, black woman whose sharp expression indicated she was employed as much more than a pretty face. Maarten, however, felt his heart beating even more quickly, sweat beginning to form once more along his brow and his neck. If they searched his case, everything would be over before it even began.

The security guard, however, seemed to be another fan of Papa Dee’s. She couldn’t help but smirk as she frisked the rap artist, who graciously submitted to her hands which seemed to rove across his body with more than usual alacrity. Indeed, she appeared to have no desire to diminish the pleasure that she had gained from touching Papa Dee by sullying her hands on Maarten, instead waving him through negligently.

For the last few moments as they walked along the corridors to the vaults where the most precious elements of the Boeckman collection resided, Maarten’s senses seemed to go into a meltdown. He felt as though he were moving very slowly under water, with sounds muffled as though coming from a great distance. The harsh, artificial light hurt his eyes and he felt the threat of an oncoming migraine.

“I don’t notice many security guards down here,” Papa Dee said, making polite conversation.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about a thing,” Pieter answered him. “We have absolute state of the art protection here at Boeckman’s. Without the proper access code, across this entire set of rooms run sensors that will alert our security guards and the police to any intrusion
—and of course, only myself and a couple of other, very trusted senior members of the company have knowledge of those codes. Don’t you worry, Papa Dee. Your Wallenstein diamond is quite safe with us.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the singer said with a smile. Maarten nodded absent-mindedly, wondering if he was in the early stages of a coronary attack.
The sound of his own blood pumping in his ears almost deafened him to anything else.

Pieter took a step ahead of them, stopping at a large, securely bolted door beside which stood a panel. Pressing a series of numbers, he then spoke slowly and clearly: “Pieter Boeckman.” There was the sound of a lock being released somewhere deep inside the door and Pieter pushed it open easily.

“Nearly a tonne of reinforced steel,” he commented, “but with the right codes it opens as easily as a feather. The keys are biometrically reinforced. Not even Maarten here could gain access without my presence.”

As he entered the small room, Papa Dee nodded. “Impressive. I’ve got a similar setup at my place in LA. You can never be too careful.”

The room on the other side of that heavy door was a comfortable fit for three people, though several more would have soon started to feel the pinch. One wall was lined with steel lockers, opposite which was a table.

“This is where we keep our most precious materials,” Pieter was explaining. “Boeckman’s is one of the oldest diamond merchants in Amsterdam, and we regularly deal with a wide range of stones of an exceptional quality.”

As Pieter continued in this line with his typical marketing bullshit, Maarten crossed to the table, placing his briefcase on the surface. His hands were trembling violently as he glanced up towards the security camera that recorded everything in this room. Inside his skull, a troupe of dwarves were hammering hard on the bone and he felt as though every drop of moisture in his body had evaporated. Leaning across his case to obscure it from the camera, he clicked the lock open as quietly as possible.

“Maarten!” Pieter’s voice made him jump and he span around.

“Yes?” he tried to say, but his throat was completely dry. Both men were looking at him.

“I had just been saying to our guest, perhaps you would like to do the honour of removing the Wallenstein for his inspection.”

“O-of course,” Maarten managed to squeak in reply.

As he moved between both men, Pieter began to enter another code into one of the smooth vaults before speaking into a panel. “And as you can see,” he continued his patter, “even in here we restrict access. Maarten wouldn’t be able to open this door even if he found a way into this room on his own. Isn’t that true?”

Maarten nodded dumbly as Pieter stood to one side. It was very true. Indeed, it had been the one part of his and Karla’s plan that he had no idea how he was going to overcome. Aside from Pieter, only two other members of Boeckman’s could gain access and he had no idea how he would convince them to let him see the Wallenstein.

But now his employer and the singer stood to one side, looking on expectantly as Maarten came forward. The door, three-inches of reinforced steel, slid open to reveal a small depression beyond in which rested a thin, black box. Maarten had to force himself to stop shaking as he reached in and retrieved that box.

It seemed to take an age to walk the few steps back to the table, and with each step he thought he would drop the box. Placing it down nervously, he lifted back the lid and moved away as Pieter and Papa Dee crowded in.

“Beautiful,” he heard the singer breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

And indeed it was. The Wallenstein diamond was an almost square stone, nearly three centimetres across and its surface cut into a radiant-patterned surface that captured the harsh, artificial light and transformed it into something clean and perfect. Its depth, Maarten knew, was the ideal shape to reflect light, its crown and pavilion exquisitely formed to scatter rays with a brilliance that seemed unearthly.

“Isn’t it remarkable?” said Pieter, placing a hand on Maarten’s shoulder, causing the smaller man to flinch slightly. “And we have Maarten here to thank for bringing out its true splendour.”

“Man,” Papa Dee said reverently, “you are a genius.” He paused. “Can I touch it?”

Both Pieter and Maarten froze. It was, obviously, out of the question, but Maarten had heard rumours of how much Papa Dee was willing to pay for the Wallenstein.

“Of course,” Pieter replied, his voice strained. “But we should really get you some gloves.” He had turned away from Maarten who squeaked. “I have some.”

Pieter glanced back at him venomously, but Papa Dee clapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him over. “Good man,” he almost bellowed. Pieter smiled thinly.

Reaching into briefcase, Maarten retrieved a pair of thin, cotton gloves which he passed to the singer. Pieter was talking to Papa Dee, explaining different facets of the Wallenstein, and neither of them paid attention to Maarten as he put on a pair of gloves himself before half-sliding up the lid of his case, his hands shaking as they closed around something as hard as diamond.

He could barely focus as he turned to see Papa Dee standing there, holding the Wallenstein up in front of his face. “You know,” the singer said, “I’ve seen a lot of rocks in my time, but none of them compare to this.”

“Of course,” Pieter cooed. “A man of such exquisite tastes would more readily recognise the value of this stone. Even if you used a microscope to view it, you would not find a single flaw in its structure. Normally, of course, we would work with the best-trained gold or silversmiths to set off any slight imperfections to their best advantage, but with the Wallenstein there is no such need.”

“Even so,” Papa Dee replied with his deep, basso voice, “I want this baby set in the best gold you’ve got
—no expense spared. I intend to wear this baby on tour—I got plenty of guards,” he added as Pieter’s face expressed horror. “Don’t you worry. When I get my hands on this rock, no one else is going to touch it without my say so.”

“Yes, well,” Pieter said, failing to hide his disdain, “until that time, we at Boeckman’s must take full responsibility for it. Perhaps we should replace it in its vault.”

He nodded curtly at Maarten, who stepped forward, one hand behind his back, the other—gloved fingers cupped—extended towards the rap artist. With a sigh, Papa Dee lowered his fist and dropped the diamond gently into Maarten’s palm.