Saints and Sinners (3 page)

He sniffed. His clothes reeked of stale smoke. From the desk drawer, Reilly removed a bottle of Bay Rum cologne. He winced as he patted the fragrance onto his freshly shaven skin. Combing his hands through the thick waves of his hair, Reilly pondered his future. He needed to find an honest woman, get married and leave this place behind. His clothiers on Seventeenth Street and Sixth Avenue did a booming business and would more than support himself, a wife and several children.

That’s what he wanted. To plunge into the sweet hole of an honest woman. Who was he kidding? Could he ever trade the hurly burly life for one woman’s love and affection? Yes...but only if her passion for living and loving matched his.

He headed downstairs in search of a pretty face and an even prettier pair of legs. Legs encased in silky stockings. Stockings rolled down in the Flapper style of the day. Then he’d catch a glimpse of dimpled thigh when she danced the Charleston and the Shimmy.

Reilly paused at the door and closed his eyes. Visions of those gorgeous red lips appeared before him. A woman like Moira would more than fit that bill. How he’d love to spank her soft white ass. Run his tongue over her flat belly. Down to the delectable “V” where Heaven met Hell in the most cock-hardening way. Who better than Moira to satisfy his itch?

Slowly, he opened the office door and prepared for an evening filled with brawlers and boozers. Reilly stood in the doorway and tried to shut out to the din below. Moira’d never come near a place like The Continental. Or would she? Hopefully not, but if she did, he’d damn well head her straight back out the door after dancing her around a time or two.

He thrilled at the memory of her and the broken garter belt. So sweet and innocent at first glance. The fire in her green eyes told a wholly different tale.

Without a backward glance, Reilly slammed the office door and left the ledgers where they lay—untouched and unbalanced. Tommy Muldoon took care of those. Ever since opening his clothiers two years ago, he’d not touched one dirty nickel this place brought in. Maybe tomorrow would find him in the arms of an honest woman? Tonight he wanted a wild and wicked woman—one who didn’t know the meaning of ‘no’.

Chapter 2

Moira watched the spectacle unfolding before her. Her whole body seized with the notion of performing such stunts.

“I have...to do that?” Every fiber of her Irish-Catholic upbringing was being ripped apart with each passing second.

“Can you? Janet’s not too limber, but she always fills in with a broad smile and legs opened just as wide.” Flossie Jenkins, the “Sauciest, seediest burlesquer this side of Broadway” as she billed herself, passed Moira the rubber snake “Care to give it a try?” The wad of gum in her mouth snapped and brought Moira back to harsh reality.

Costumed to resemble a Jazz-Age Queen of the Nile, Moira adjusted the black bobbed wig and beaded scarf. She swallowed hard and wrapped the snake around her neck. Her gut churned at what lay ahead, but she’d made a promise to Janet. She never went back on her promises. Queen? She wasn’t any queen. The only throne available at The Continental Club was the water closet situated just beyond Flossie’s dressing room.

Flossie patted her arm, and Moira flinched at the contact. “Okay. We’ll let you watch Verna MacInness do her act. Then you can have a go.”

The open-weave stockings chafed the sensitive skin of Moira’s thighs. What a dark place. Saints preserve. Her backside was almost bare, save for the tiny bit of bugle-beaded chiffon loincloth covering it.

Verna MacInness strutted across the stage, more of her body showing than not. Filmy veils rustled when she moved, and only a narrow strip of gauze covered her crotch.

“If I’m not mistaken, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this dove amidst our flock of pigeons,” said a male voice from behind. A voice heavily laced with an Irish brogue. “Get her up there and let me see what she can do to a man’s heart and other parts.”

Was her mind playing tricks? No, it couldn’t be Reilly.

Slowly, Moira turned to confront the man with the deep bass voice. Warmth flooded her body as she studied his smiling face. Her pulse quickened. Oh, yes. Reilly Dunne. God, he was gorgeous. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice she was one nervous Nellie.

Verna whooped and Moira shifted her gaze from Reilly to the stage. The dancer manipulated the snake in a most skilled manner, slipping it between her legs and pressing its head against her privates. When she performed a perfect upside-down split while standing on her head, it’s a small wonder the angels in Heaven didn’t cover their eyes out of respect. She gasped and Flossie cackled.

Verna scissored her legs, and with each contortion, her large breasts bounced free. Both of her nipples appeared. Moira searched her surroundings for an escape route. With a bit of luck, she could reach the door before anyone else.

“Your turn, doll.” Flossie slapped Moira on the back, and she swallowed the mouthful of spit too soon. Before she cleared her throat and her senses, a warm, callused hand rubbed her naked shoulder.

“If you’d rather do this without me watchin’, I understand. I don’t go where I’m not wanted.”

Moira wheeled on him. One glance was all it took to see what he
wanted
. He had a bulge the size of Brooklyn at the front of his trousers. She had little knowledge of men, but not for lack of living beside those lusty Italians.

Reilly Dunne was temptation in the truest form. For some reason, she wasn’t strong enough to resist his appeal. Maybe another day, but not this afternoon.

Words failed her, but Moira nodded and he slipped away behind the stage curtain. Flossie cackled at her modesty and shouted directions to the piano player.

“Hugh, play us a good shimmy tune, something snazzy...and really dirty for our Donegal Dove.”

With Reilly nowhere to be seen, Moira relaxed a bit. Surely, she wouldn’t burn in Hell for this moment of madness? It was only for two nights. Besides, Flossie promised she’d do everything in her power to prevent Moira from performing. Sweat dampened Moira’s armpits, and she sucked in several deep breaths to steady herself. Without a doubt, Reilly was watching in the shadows. Her sex throbbed at the notion of his hot gaze burning through the flimsy layers of her costume.

With Hugh on the rickety wooden bench, the ragtime piano came to life. He played with such gusto that people on the street must have heard his version of
The Sheik of Araby
.

She closed her eyes and focused on memories of Reilly’s handsome face. Without a doubt, he’d love to see her bare bottom and breasts.

Moira assumed her position. No sense in putting off what must be done. She accepted the snake from Verna who sauntered offstage. The cool rubber against her hot palms sent a thrill to her loins. She mimicked Verna’s strut, and the stage lights burned into her bare flesh. Life in the limelight wasn’t so bad.

* * * *

Reilly chomped on the end of the cigar, not bothering to light it. She wouldn’t see him hidden behind here. From this spot, he had a perfect view of her breasts and snatch. Once the show began, every fiber in his body prepared for romancing Moira Monaghan.

First, she flipped forward, and her swell globes strained against the seams of the costume. The veils swept aside when she shook her shoulders, and the left nipple peeped out. His cock almost exploded in his excitement. Never had a woman’s nakedness affected him in such a profound way. If this were any indication of the Donegal Dove’s talents, he longed to learn more.

“That’s it. Show ’em what you got,” said Flossie.

The burlesquer smiled proudly while her newest protégé practiced. He wouldn’t put up with Moira turning heads other than his own. If she ever paid him any attention, he’d not share her affections with anyone else. Unable to avert his gaze for a second, Reilly marveled at her acrobatic ability. Such a sweet puss and a body built for sin.

“Here goes nothing,” the limber Moira said.

Like a Ziegfield Girl, she kicked one leg up, and he caught a quick glimpse of pink flesh of her flaps. His mouth watered. Like ripe watermelon and twice as wet. How he longed to lick her sweetness.

“I want to taste you so bad my cock hurts just thinking about it,” he muttered to himself. Although those green lamps of hers flashed “go”, he’d proceed with caution.

Unable to control himself, Reilly opened his fly and pulled out his hot, hard prick. Every time she turned and twisted, he pumped his erection a little harder.

“Try this now.” Flossie demonstrated a higher kick than normally possible for an aging actress.

Every time the curvaceous Cleo mastered one feat, Flossie urged her to try another. He pumped his prick harder, his balls tightening at the base. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, she proved him wrong. If she knew he was watching, she’d probably run away like a frightened fawn.

Go ahead, sweet colleen. Shimmy and shake while you make my bleedin’ heart break.

Moira’s hands and arms sliced through the air as she performed the famed
Dance of Egypt
. How she improvised and made this dance her very own. His eyes almost crossed at her flesh-baring cartwheels. He inhaled and hoped for a whiff of her sweet snatch.

As she finished her final flip, the headdress sailed off and revealed the Flapper bob underneath. A curtain of shiny auburn hair covered her pretty face, but her bright-red lips remained set in determination.

Lips that could suck him from sunup to sundown.

He ground his teeth at each bawdy bump of her hips. Such a waste of true talent in this seedy speakeasy. Later he’d set her straight about working in a place like this. For now, he’d let his fantasies play a little longer. He glanced down at his hardness, swollen and ready to spurt. He pumped it several more times, increasing the tension.

Barely making a sound, her tiny feet skimmed across the stage and Moira slid down into an eye-popping split. Her hot crotch pressed against the wooden floorboards of the stage. She’d set it on fire and tempt the devil before she was done. One final jerk of his hand sent him over the erotic edge. A stream of white jism shot out and struck the burgundy velvet curtain. Careful not to announce his presence, Reilly wiped it off and buttoned his fly.

Someday, he’d like nothing more than to shoot a load into that angel-faced temptress. A woman who had more shimmy in her shake than was legal. She was special, and he’d bide his time. Yes. Flossie’s “Donegal Dove” could fly his way any time—day or night.

While Flossie engaged Moira in conversation, he sneaked out and headed for an empty dressing room. Alone in the one used by Flossie, Reilly sat in front of the mirror and examined each of the pots of grease paint.

Flossie hadn’t bothered to mention there was a sheik involved in Cleopatra’s routine. Underneath this stage makeup, Moira wouldn’t know him from any other man on the street. A sheik and Cleo? Not historically accurate, but the crowd always hollered for more. Especially when Cleo teased the snake between her bare thighs and both sets of wet lips.

He changed into the sheik’s costume. After applying a heavy mask of red and brown over his pale skin, Reilly smudged a bit of black paint around his eyebrows to arch them upward. Through his hair, he combed a good portion of the jet boot black and laughed at the results. He looked like the devil on a bad day. The thought of being close to Moira made him hard and hungry for her soft, freckled flesh. Before leaving the room, he adjusted the headpiece and admired his reflection. In a few minutes, he and Moira would perform the bawdiest Valentino routine the Continental Club ever offered.

* * * *

Moira heaved a long sigh. “Anything else I have to do?”

Flossie fussed about like a stage mother. “Stand up here and look like a million, sugar. Those veils’ll cover up a lot if you don’t shimmy around too much. That’s what those losers love. A little skin, a big grin and plenty of teasing thrown in to keep ’em coming back for more. Hell, they sometimes come so much we have to clean off those chairs.”

To their left, the stage curtain flapped and a menacing man swaggered onto the stage. For a minute, he pulled Flossie closer and they whispered. Her loud cackling filled the air, and Flossie slapped the sheik on his broad back.

“Your sheik has arrived for the love scene. I’ll let him take things from here.”

What love scene? Moira’s body and brain seized. “Aren’t you going to make sure we do it right?”

“Oh, I have no doubt everything will fall into place.” With a suggestive roll and thrust of her hips, Flossie more than made her point. “But I’ll stay and make sure.” More cackling and then the fading burlesque queen barked her instructions.

Together Flossie and the sheik pulled a threadbare lounge from the wings and positioned it center stage. “Now’s the part where you and your sheik become lovers.” With a saucy wink, Flossie said, “Hit it, Hugh.”

At least the music was good. Moira went limp as the black-haired man pulled her into his arms. A slower, sultry version of “The Sheik of Araby” blared throughout the speakeasy, and Moira fell into step with her tango partner.

Against his bared chest, she rested her head and followed his lead. Each time he dipped her, his free hand slipped all the way up her leg. Without warning, they turned and tumbled onto the lounge. His warm breath fanned against her face. Oh, the heat of this moment. Without warning or invitation, the sheik’s hands slipped underneath her costume and fondled her backside. His fingers teased toward the cleft, and she shivered at his hot touch. The coarse hairs on his chest tickled her cheek.