Saints and Sinners (11 page)

“Oh, you beautiful doll, you great big beautiful doll
.”

Song after song, she and her pimply-faced partner managed to content those bodies and souls left uncoupled. Twice, he tried to slip his hand under her dress, but she slapped it away and threatened to stop playing.

After a while, he tired of this folly and set off in search of something “strong” to drink. Would she like something? No, but thanks anyway.

She glanced at the anniversary clock on the mantle. Where was Reilly? He said it wouldn’t take long, but he’d been gone over a half hour.

“Time to put the icing on the cake,” shouted a raven-haired man with a bushy moustache and beady eyes.

Moira followed others as they gathered around the brocaded couch. Inches away, the pages of Reilly’s naughty novel flashed before her eyes. She blinked but the spectacle remained.

A naked woman lay in full view, her legs opened wide to reveal her most sacred spot. Goaded by the crowd, her evil-looking partner gripped his hard organ.

She watched his hand pump the swollen flesh. The head was red and full-blooded. The fair-haired woman placed her fingers on either side of her flaps and wiggled her body.

“Come on, now, Frederick. Give it to me good. Get the cork out and screw me hard so my champagne can flow.”

He laughed. “Care for some cream, do you?”

His body strained while he tapped his massive organ against the thatch of hair at the base of her belly. From the tip of the swollen shaft came a stream of liquid that looked like custard. Some of it squirted onto the squealing woman’s belly, but most of it covered her privates.

“Jism. Jazz ’em. Now Corinne has ’em.”

Imagine that, he actually sang a song about his dirty deed? The man hushed those cheering and grabbed a Selzer bottle from the table behind him. How her privates ached.

“Oooh, hose me down. I’m still hot,” Corinne begged while tossing her scarf away.

Aiming the bottle’s nozzle at her crotch, he applied a silvery spray of Selzer and soaked her from belly to bush.

“What in the blue hell are you doing, Massey? Above her squeals, Morgan Dunne’s voice commanded attention. “Give me that goddamned bottle now or I’ll shove it up your arse.”

A defeated Frederick passed his host the bottle and knelt before the woman sprawled on the couch. “Mind if I finish my business?” he inquired of the mean-tempered Irishman before burying his face in her sopping-wet crotch.

“Ah, the Devil can have at you both,” said Morgan as he tossed the bottle in the flaming hearth.

At impact, the glass shattered against the brickwork, sending small slivers of it onto the logs. Moira’s body tingled from her scalp to her toes. No one messed with Morgan, not even Frederick who must have weighed at least two hundred pounds.

When Morgan turned to leave, she noticed a large reddened and raised area beside his jaw. Had he and Reilly gone to blows over something? Someone’s arm snaked around her waist, and she turned to see the identity of her attacker.

“I see you’ve gotten an eyeful already? But you’re still here,” Reilly said.

Moira clung to him and peered up at his handsome face. He’d probably watched her while she watched Frederick and Corinne.

“You finally found your way back, I see.”

“Did you miss me?” He cupped her bottom and gave it a lusty squeeze. He nodded toward the couch. “We’ll have to try that one sometime. Makes me thirsty thinkin’ about it.”

Chapter 9

Spit sailed down her throat the wrong way, and Moira coughed to clear it. Men liked women who did that kind of thing? Corinne enjoyed it and the extra attention, but Moira wouldn’t let anyone else see her and Reilly make whoopee. Oh, no. If and when the time came, they’d go behind a closed bedroom door…or parlor door, if that’s where the urge hit them.

Reilly placed the end of her string of cheap pearls in his mouth. His tongue darted around each of the milky-white beads, licking them with gusto. “What do you taste like, Moira?”

“Uh, how should I know?” What an odd thing to ask.

He let the pearls drop from between his lips. “Haven’t you ever, you know, stuck your fingers in and tasted yourself? Don’t you want to do that after we’ve been together, doll?”

Come to think of it, she had touched herself there before, but she never sucked her fingers afterward. Warmth flooded her loins. “Maybe I’ll tell you and maybe I won’t.”

“Ahhh. You aren’t a cock tease, are you?”

She burned at his notion. She wasn’t the type of woman who flirted with a man and then ran away. No, Moira Monaghan didn’t run away from something she fancied as much as Reilly Dunne.

She played with the pearly buttons on his dress shirt. “I won’t tease you, but tell me what you and your uncle were talking about for so long.”

* * * *

Bile rose in Reilly’s throat. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him about their meeting. He’d let his Uncle Morgan know, in no uncertain terms, where he stood on such a matter.

A logical lie came to mind. “He wanted you to play poker with them.” A game of poker and then they’d poke her.

“Well, if that’s all he wanted, I could have learned easy enough.”

“No! Don’t you see, sweet face? They know you’re green as grass in the park. Those bums don’t want you to beat them.”

“Of course not,” she said. “They want to win, but they might not be so lucky as all that.”

“Oh, yes they would. Those men are some of the best cardsharps this side of the city. They’d strip you of your pride… and all your clothes before you knew what hit you.”

“My clothes?” She hugged herself tight. “What on earth would they want with my clothes?”

“Not a damned thing. They’re only interested in seeing you bare-arsed as the day you were born. Naked for them to feast their filthy eyes on. You’d end up like that whore with the liquor bottle if you weren’t careful.”

“You wouldn’t let them do such a thing, would you, Reilly?”

Such a pretty face. A body built for doing the Devil’s work. How her lips trembled when she spoke. She’s trying to be brave, but this evening is a bit much for anyone to comprehend.

“No.” He combed his fingers through her shiny hair. It tickled his palm and sent shivers through his body. Such a simple pleasure. Like a fine wine when the light cast upon it. He could drink in her beauty all night long and not ever notice any women trying to catch his eye.

Moira remained silent and let the matter drop. Would his uncle do likewise and forget the call of his cock? He’d never allow Moira to be a pawn in his uncle’s putrid games. Never. No man would lick the Selzer from her belly and snatch but him. He’d never force her into having sex like some whore in the streets. Before doing that, he’d slit his throat.

“Come with me, Moira. There’s a place where we can talk.”

* * * *

They slipped away from the party and into a suite down the hallway. Time to get her away from that lot. Gooseflesh rose on Moira’s arms, and Reilly hugged her closer.

He opened the door and placed the key inside his breast pocket. “For safe keeping. Just like the note I gave you earlier.”

Reilly stepped aside and let her enter. At her soft gasp, his heart surged. Reilly glanced around the room while Moira did the same. From ceiling to floor, this suite made his uncle’s seem cheap and gaudy. Burgundy draperies, caught by gold-tasseled cords, covered the windows. Woven rugs covered the hardwood floors. How he’d love to lay her down on one of those. No. Her soft bum might bruise if she wasn’t done on his bed.

She stared not at him but at the pool table in the corner of the room. He hardened at the thought of her lying there naked. Both sets of lips ready for his long, hot tongue and even longer cock.

“You’d look like a million on top of there,” he said.

Moira tilted her head in the sassiest way. “Think so? It might be rough against my bare bottom.” Her lips pouted, and he longed to place a wet one on her Clara-Bow kisser.

“Not on your life. It’d just hold you in place so you wouldn’t slip out of my hands. Or I wouldn’t slip out of you.” He scooped her up and spun her around.

Despite her protests, she liked to be stroked and petted. A loud crash, distant yet still disturbing, caused him to unhand her before he was ready.

She ran to the couch. Her green eyes regarded him, and she grabbed a pillow. “What was that?”

“Hell if I know or care. What with all that commotion down there, someone probably tried to swing from the chandelier.”

“They do that sort of thing in a place like this?”

“Sure do. I can picture you hanging from one. Your bare ass would tempt any man. You’d drip so much, they’d be able to polish those marble floors with it.”

Moira blew him a Bronx cheer and sprinted across the room. How lovely she looked tonight. Even with her tongue stuck out. Something had changed about her since their first meeting. Not that he’d complain. The fact she’d admitted to missing Mass the other day confirmed his suspicion—Moira Monaghan was bent on running wild like all of the other Flappers.

“You say the most awful things.” Her long fingers caressed the Victrola’s handle. “How’s this work?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Placing his hand around hers, he helped her crank the handle. Carefully, Reilly lifted the playing arm onto the record. The disk bobbled once before settling itself onto the turntable, and the needle found its place. Smooth as ice on a rink. Right into the groove. Just like he hoped would happen with Moira. Was she tight or loose? Would she squeeze every drop of cum from his cock or make him to pull out before he came?

He admired his plush suite. Hardly a home, but it was some swell place. His was only one of two in the hotel that had a bar and all the booze his guests could swill. Not that he ever tolerated drunkenness. Those rugs and furniture cost a bundle. Let the losers mess up their own lives.

Moira picked another record to play. Soon, Ma Rainey belted out lusty tunes. He watched Moira shimmy. Every time she moved, he got a peek at her full breasts as they swayed in time to the rhythm of the phonograph’s tunes. Her nipples were so ripe. Like the taffy drops he loved to suck till they melted in his mouth.

“This place is fit for a king and queen,” she huffed, her dogs slapping against the slick hard wood as she performed a provocative Charleston. “How much does this place cost? Our rent is terrible, but Papa says he made a special deal with the owner so it won’t go up.”

At her mention of this, his blood boiled. Oh, yes. Their filthy landlord would gladly make that generous offer. Especially, since he was interested in something other than money. Something that had soft curves and a honey pot never yet dipped into.

Sly Morgan wouldn’t let the hard-working greengrocer in on his plan. Not for all the opium in Chinatown. No. He’d wait like a good letch. Allow the noose to tighten gradually. Those weekly payments of her father’s would keep the coffers lined. When the Irishman’s cock reared its ugly head, Morgan would strike like a snake. Render his renter’s daughter helpless.

“Uncle Morgan owns the place. My pockets don’t spend too much. I’m thinkin’ about getting a place near my shop. Up on Seventeenth Street and Sixth Avenue.”

Moira stopped and so did the song. Tired of the music, and ready for closer contact, Reilly slipped the playing arm to the side and let the record flop.

“Janet and I could have lived above Bainbridge’s, but Mrs. VanMuir says Janet likes the sauce and is diseased. I’m going to tell her if she feels that way, I ain’t interested in any arrangement like that. It might not be to my liking living on Sullivan Street, but it’ll have to do until Janet gets better.”

How he hated that vapid Mrs. VanMuir. Damned swellheaded bitch. Doesn’t know a good girl when she sees one. What’s this about Janet? Sure, she flirted with a lot of fellows at The Continental Club. Even so, she wasn’t the type to bed them.

What ailed her friend? “What did you say was wrong with her? The grippe?”

Moira swiped her hand over her dewy cheek. “She’s been upchucking and feverish. Jerkin’ around like a bedbug, her brother says.”

“Check on her tomorrow. If she needs anything, any money or medicine, I’ll foot the bill.”

Moira flung her arms around his neck and refused to let go. Her lips locked onto his and delivered the most delicious smooch he’d ever experienced. He let his hands play up and down her body. A faint taste of cherry settled on his tongue. His mouth watered. Not a hint of hooch on her sweet breath. No, indeed. Sober as Judge Blake before he passed a sentence. Probably tight as a fist too.

Overcome with giggles, she broke free and ran over to the couch. Her gorgeous body collapsed against the cushions. The fancy gold flappes she wore shone like Midas never imagined. She flipped one in his direction.

“You’re a generous fellow, but what else are you?”

Oh, he was many things. Some of which she might soon learn. Between those black satin sheets, she’d find another angle to him. An idea struck him like a sucker punch. From behind the bar, he grabbed a bottle of champagne and opened it. Golden liquid gushed from the top and spilled over his hand and the floor. Right now, he didn’t give a freakin’ damn.