Southern Spirits (28 page)

The man looked petulant enough to remain defiant. Fortunately for him – for them both – he finally replied, ‘N– No.'

‘
Bueno.
' Cat sat up straight again, reaching down to her sex as she continued to grind against an ever-growing erection she could feel through his clothes. ‘But I'm still not going to fuck you. Not until you ask. I might even make you beg.'

‘Fuck you!' His face was a picture of the fight between his ego and his libido.

And Cat enjoyed that, almost as much as she enjoyed touching her clit lightly, tracing a tight circle around it as her stockinged thighs clenched around his captive legs, making his cock betray its master and throb for attention. Cat grew bolder, delving further down to part her folds and dip into her wetness, gathering it as her pussy reacted to this provocation with a necklace of tiny contractions.

When she withdrew her glistening fingers, she leant forwards once more, offering them to Wheeler's nose, his lips. ‘Remember this? My scent? You'll want a taste as well.'

Amusingly, he tried to remain rebellious and keep his mouth shut, despite his obvious reaction to her musk.

‘It wasn't a request, by the way,
pendejo,
' she informed him sweetly. ‘Now open up and suck, like a good little
puta.
' She ground harder against his groin, imagining the friction and pressure would soon grow more painful than pleasurable for the stubborn
cabrón.

She was right; Wheeler parted his mouth and Cat decided to move to the next step, feeling herself suitably aroused. She lifted herself up and eased back until she just kept his knees trapped. She unhooked her skirt and threw it aside, finding it a nuisance now. Then she reached for the belt and zipper on his trousers, noting the intense bulge and the tiny damp patch that she'd left on him.

Demonstrating the same roughness he'd shown to her blouse, Cat undid and pulled down his trousers and briefs to his thighs, letting his cock spring free into the air, proud and thick and erect, some pre-come seeping down the underside of the shaft, not being absorbed by his cotton briefs.

‘Oh my,' she teased, ‘looks like somebody
does
like playing the submissive one for a change.' She licked the tip of her middle finger and gently moistened his cockhead, making the shaft twitch and try to flee her. ‘Well? Do you want to be fucked?'

He didn't answer. She leant back and dipped forwards, until her mouth was enticingly, maddeningly close to his member, and it was as if she was speaking directly to it, repeating, ‘Do you want to be fucked? To feel the hot embrace of my pussy around you, squeezing, releasing, milking you of every drop you're carrying?' Her hand reached out now and brushed through his clump of pubic hair to grasp him at the base of his cock, stroking slowly upwards. ‘Well,
puta
?' She applied some more pressure, watching him closely, careful not to let him go too far before she was ready. ‘
Well
?'

‘Y– Yes,' came a whisper.

Her tongue darted out, the tip running along the rim of his cockhead, collecting his pre-come. ‘Yes, what? What do your want? Spell it out for me. I'm just a stupid little woman.' She blew gently on him, feeling his whole body quiver.

He snarled at her through gritted teeth. ‘Fuck me!
Fuck me
!'

‘Well, since you're begging now.' Cat rose up, her own eagerness barely hidden, as she positioned herself over his staff, feeling the heat radiating from her parted sex like air escaping from a balloon. She dealt with this by slowly sinking down onto him, letting her mind open . . .

. . . It was so hot . . . so hot, even in just her pink teddy, but Val didn't care. She was happy, more happy than she had been in a long, long time.

‘I have something for you,' Enrique announced, close to her.

‘What, besides your love, and our freedom – and some stolen money?' She was undoing his tie, and unbuttoning his shirt, and something behind it caught her eye, her eyes widening. ‘Sweet God, you found it!'

Behind his shirt sat her charm, the one Mickey had torn off
her a month ago and threw away. It was hanging around his neck as if it had been there all along. ‘Where'd you get it?'

Enrique grinned with delight at her response. ‘One of the porters found it in the garbage, and actually tried to sell it to me. I was going to surprise you.' He cast off his shirt. ‘After this.' He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a small box, dropping to one knee before her.

Val's heart raced. ‘Enrique.'

He opened the box. It was a ring, a simple wedding band. His voice near cracked. ‘I . . . I know you're technically still married . . .'

‘Only in the eyes of one faith.' She reached for the more expensive ring from Mickey, cursing for not removing it sooner as she flung it across the room, with the same contempt Mickey had shown her charm. She accepted Enrique's ring, the love she had for him so overpowering it threatened to make her cry. ‘As far as anyone else is concerned, we've been married for years.'

He smiled, reaching behind his head for the chain holding the charm. ‘I'd better give this to you as well.'

‘Later.' She pulled him back up and continued kissing and undressing him, their bodies receiving the attention they demanded.

To the hard pounding rhythm of the train that carried them, the lovers moved their bodies together like pistons: Enrique driving deep into her, again and again, Val clutching and squeezing him as another climax rushed through her.

The heat in the berth was stifling, unrelieved by the ceiling fan directly above them, and sweat matted the tips of her russet hair to her neck, before rolling down beneath the salmon-pink silk of her teddy. She wanted to take it off and be as naked as her lover, but he wouldn't unwrap his huge arms from around her, wouldn't stop using those full, strong lips and tongue.

She didn't have any problem with that.

They were free. Well, nearly. They had left Mickey back in Chicago, taking with them two hundred thousand dollars of Mob money, destined for the Cuban casinos. But it would never reach them. Her father was prepared, and would meet them when they arrived tomorrow morning in New Orleans. From there, they would take the train to Miami and, from there, a boat to Europe, under assumed names and fake passports. The Mob could keep the club.

And Mickey? Mickey could kiss the imprint of her ass that she left in their marital bed back in Chicago.

She sat in Enrique's lap, her thighs straddling his hips as he pushed up into her, repeatedly, the tip of his shaft stroking the walls of her sex in all the right places. She felt like such a small thing in his embrace, something that could easily be crushed without due care. But she knew him better. He would never hurt her. One of his hands had descended along her spine to cup her cheeks, squeezing hungrily and sending tiny jolts through her like sparks on the rails.

But her teddy had become distracting enough for her to pull back and motion silently until her lover got the idea and relaxed his hold on her. When she cast it aside, however, he bent her backwards until she thought she'd fall from him, then he bent forward and engulfed one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking sharply and making her yelp. Her hands gripped his arms for support, and she stared upwards, the whirling wooden blades seeming to mesmerise her.

And still Enrique drove into Val, even as she drove back, meeting him thrust for thrust, while his free hand manoeuvred between their bodies, touching her bush, then her clit, his thumb providing a gentle but insistent teasing that made her weak with the sensations running though her.

‘Oh sweet God!' Riding the crest of it, she leant forwards
once more, wanting to kiss him again, to push him harder, faster. She wanted him to lose control, wanted him to surrender to her for once, and fill her with his seed. She knew it would all be over, before either of them knew it.

Neither of them heard the berth door open, and then close.

However, they did hear the voice. ‘Adulteress.'

Val and Enrique froze in mid-coitus at the sight of Mickey at the doorway, automatic pistol in hand, eyes cold, dark and disbelieving of what was before him. Val's heart skipped a beat as her husband's murderous glare flicked between the two lovers, as if unsure which one to focus his fury upon first. ‘Mickey –'

‘Get off him.'

Val felt Enrique's wilting cock withdraw from her, as she slowly untangled her limbs and rose onto shaking legs. Enrique moved to stand in front of her protectively.

‘Back away,' Mickey ordered, chilling Val with the sheer deadness of the tone. She'd heard it before, more than once, and always before he was to go out and commit some terrible action.

‘Mickey,' Enrique started, holding up his hands, ‘it's not her fault. I forced myself on her. I threatened her.'

Mickey gestured with his gun to make him shift further to one side of the berth. ‘
Silencio.
' Then he looked back at Val, who was reaching for a shirt to cover herself. ‘No. Whores should be used to nakedness. Well? Is it true? Did he force himself on you?'

An escape, at least for her. A last chance at staying alive, though Enrique was doomed.

She wasn't surprised, really, at her response. ‘No, Mickey. He didn't. I love him.' She had her hands covering her breasts and bush; now she dropped them to her sides. Modesty before her
husband and lover seemed pointless now – especially if she was about to die. ‘I always have.'

‘I know. I had my suspicions for a while, and eventually learnt about an Enrique Cazenove.' He raised his pistol, and his voice, at her. ‘How could you betray me?'

Disbelief crept through her, threatening to paralyse her, but she couldn't let herself slip into shock now, and let her anger at his attitude galvanise her. ‘How could you think I wouldn't? You took me.
Took me!
Threatened my father's life if I didn't marry you. You made me think you'd treat me different from the other Mob wives, but you went and got yourself a mistress.' She swallowed, calmer now, knowing her next words could be her last. ‘This was never about betraying you. This was about getting back what you took from me. You'll never own me again.' She said the last without spite, without malice. After all that had happened between them – what could still happen – she didn't want to hurt him.

And she saw that he saw it, too, saw the truth unfold in Mickey's eyes. And the anger began to drain from him, eclipsed with a numbing grief. Mickey had done bad things, but he was no monster, mindless and unreasoning, and she hoped that when things calmed down, they could . . .

Movement to her right made her turn, as Enrique took the opportunity to charge at Mickey. Mickey turned too, raised his pistol at the other man and, for the rest of her life, Val would wonder what made her go after them both, reaching for the gun, when common sense dictated she dive out of the way. The men grappled . . .

And someone punched her in the chest, making her fall back and drop almost comically to her knees, her ears ringing as shots filled the berth. How did Mickey punch her? He still had the gun in his hand. Maybe it was Enrique. Accidentally, of course, but she'd still make him pay, in back rubs and chocolates.
She tried to catch her breath, but failed and fell to her side. The wind must really have been knocked out of her.

From behind her hair, she saw Mickey fall as well, onto his back, staring upwards, also gasping for breath like a fish out of water. And then Enrique was at her side, gently lifting her into his arms to cradle her, his face as white as a sheet and his body cold against hers. ‘Val? Oh God, Val, I'm sorry,
ma chère
. . . I'm so sorry.'

Confusion made her frown, and her chest tightened in pain. She couldn't bear to see the tears streaming down his face, but she couldn't look away either. Or speak, though her mouth did open. She saw the charm still hanging around his neck, and thought mildly that she should have taken it from him earlier, she would have saved herself a punch.

She wanted to tell him that everything would be all right, but he looked so upset. She prayed to Mamselle Belagrís to give him peace. Just give her a moment to rest, and then they'd be up and leave Mickey to sleep it all off . . . just a moment . . . she loved being in Enrique's arms . . . there was nothing as sweet . . . oh, there was the crossroads ahead . . .

. . . Papa Legba taking Cat in hand . . .

‘Catalina!'

Cat opened her eyes again to look up at Nathan, the pain in her chest a white noise of sensation that nevertheless was drowned out by the sound of this strange man holding her, shaking her. ‘Agent Catalina Montoya! Wake up, damn it! Don't stay locked in the vision. You could die with her.' He slapped her face. ‘Damn it, talk to me!'

‘H– Hit me again,
pajiero
, I'll have your
cojones
for breakfast.'

Nathan's face was a picture of intense relief as he hugged her, and she let him, still trying to collate the knowledge and
feelings she'd experienced. There was a pain in her chest, perhaps some psychosomatic echo of the bullet that had torn into Val, but it was already ebbing as she regained control. ‘I thought . . . I thought I said I could handle myself.'

‘I knew you could. But you didn't have to.'

‘You big
chocha
.' She pushed him away, aware that Wheeler was still lying on the bed, hands cuffed behind him and trousers around his thighs, his cock limp and nestled against his balls, and aware that she was bereft of skirt and panties. She tugged at her torn blouse as Wheeler stared blankly upwards, obviously having been caught up in the vision as well. ‘Nothing. Nothing about the Silver Bell.'

Cat's sympathy for him was nonexistent, as she reached for her skirt and looked to Nathan. ‘It was Mickey who died with Val, not Enrique. Enrique must have disposed of the bodies, took the Mob money and ran, afraid of retribution from Mickey's friends.'