The Bonk Squad (14 page)

Needing no second invitation, Ben
collapsed flat on his back, jeans still unzipped.

Tigger straddled his thighs, and
leaned over until a swollen nipple slid between his lips again. He
swept his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, down her back, and
sucked her with enthusiasm until she drew away.

“
Too hard?” he asked,
worried he’d hurt her.

“
God, no. I just want the
other side done too.” She offered her other breast. “You have such
a sinful mouth, Ben Josephs,” she purred. “This is turning me
on
so
much.”

Beneath her, Ben lay thrilled and
disbelieving. A woman—enjoying what he was doing to her. He was
hard enough to split concrete again.

“
We can do anything you
want,” she continued.

Ben’s hormones danced and swooped and
dived. Anything? Anything he wanted?

The cocksmen at school—Skank Blackmore
and Joe Moulton—told stories that had the other boys on fire with
lust and admiration. At last he’d join their elite company. Not
that he’d name Tigger of course. But after tonight he could nod
quiet agreement instead of laughing with nerves. He’d be one of
them.

“
There’s just one
condition,” she added.

His spirits plummeted. “Mmmm?” he
queried, mouth otherwise occupied.

“
I want you to tell me
things. I want to know how I taste and what it feels like when you
come. How I am to touch inside.”

His hips lifted at the
thought.

“
Am I what you expected?”
she added. “And is this your first time?”

Ben stopped sucking.

“
So is it?”

He sighed, defeated.

“
Oh great—I did hope
so.”

His ears buzzed with disbelief. Was he
hearing right? She didn’t mind?

“
I want to make it good for
you and trade you for information, if that’s okay?” She drew her
breast away from his mouth and regarded him with serious dark
eyes.

“
Information?” he croaked.
Was she MI5 or something?

Tigger started to unbutton his shirt.
Her breasts swung softly, inches from his face.

“
For my writing,” she said.
“I know how it feels for me, but not how it feels for a man. And
I’ll be a better writer once I’ve found out.” She ran her hands
over his hard chest and teased his nipples. “For instance, I bet
mine are more sensitive than yours?” She bent over him and licked.
Ben sucked in a sharp breath.

Slowly his brain processed her offer.
She was doing this as a tit-for-tat deal. Plenty of tit anyway, he
thought, letting loose a puff of nervous laughter. She’d allow him
sex if he told her what it felt like? He was willing beyond
belief.

She’d only slightly offended him with
her proposition. She was awesomely cool and far too good to be
true. And really, how much better could things be?

He ran his hands up her thighs and
tumbled her sideways onto the rug.

“
Lie down,” he urged,
surging testosterone giving him courage. “What do you want to do
first?”

The Bastard had arranged to collect
the kids at nine o’clock Sunday morning. It was his weekend to look
after Rosie and Brett, but he and the new girlfriend were out late
tonight. He’d agreed with Liz that he’d have them for the whole of
Sunday, and then get them to school on Monday before she took over
again on Monday night.

Ideal. She could taunt him with her
latest man without saying a word.

She and Romy had cooked some of it up
after the meeting.

“
I’ll leave my car here,”
Romy said.

“
It’ll be safe in the
garage all night,” Liz promised. “I’ll reverse it out onto the
driveway early tomorrow.”

“
D’you think he’ll fall for
it?” Romy asked. “My little red soft-top’s nice and sporty, but it
might look too girly.”

Liz hoped The Bastard would assume it
was her mythical new man’s. She nodded slowly. “It needs a bit of
disguising”

“
A couple of titty mags and
a sports paper on the passenger seat?”

Liz grinned. “An empty beer can on the
floor?”

“
Sounds good.”

“
Maybe some macho
sunglasses perched on the dash? Someone’s husband left a pair
behind after a barbecue. I’ll find those,” Liz said.

They laughed as they hatched their
plan before drifting inside.

Romy dug into her Fendi tote (a
splurge during a sales conference in Hawaii), and produced a bottle
of Shiraz. “For good luck, girlfriend. You and Mr. Mystery have
been drinking this together,” she suggested.

Liz inspected the label, nodded her
appreciation, and collected two glasses from the cupboard in the
dining room. She poured generously, and they sipped. “I’ll leave a
bit in the bottom of these. And put the bottle on the coffee table
with them. I found this cigarette packet someone threw over the
front fence, too.”

Romy set her glass down on the counter
and wrinkled her nose.

“
You don’t like the idea of
a smoker?”

“
You’ll have to find an
ashtray and some butts to make it look real.

Liz grimaced, crumpled the packet, and
tossed it into the garbage bucket.

“
But….?” Romy dived into
her tote again and located an end of fabric, twitching it out and
out like a magician with a silk scarf. “It’s the genuine article,”
she said, once most of the garment was visible. “Neill’s. Big man,
big shirt.” She buried her nose in it. “God, he smells good, my
man.” She offered it to Liz, who took it gingerly.

Romy grinned. “Yes, it’s been worn. If
you leave an expensive, rumpled shirt trailing over the end of your
sofa, The Bastard will think for sure it’s been ripped off in the
frenzy to get you into the bedroom.”

“
Nice. Nice. What else? A
pair of my panties?”

A bit much, they’d decided with
regret.

Liz’s eyes lit up. “I’ll have the
bedroom CD player blasting out some Guns’n’Roses.”

“
The Bastard’s favorite, I
presume? Nice touch—that’ll really rub salt in.”

“
And I’ll turn on the
shower the minute I hear him arriving. He can presume my new
lover’s waiting for me to come back to bed for some really hot sex
once the kids are out of the way.” Liz smiled with satisfaction.
Not bad. “And in the morning, I need to look amazing. Sort of
glamorous and exhausted at the same time.”

“
Wash your hair tonight so
it’s all tousled and shiny for tomorrow,” Romy advised. “Put on
plenty of eye makeup and smudge it about. No lipstick—but maybe
some shimmery lip gloss?”

And I’ll bite my lips a lot in the
morning before I put the gloss on. I need that kissed-all-night
look.”

“
A real hoochie mama,” Romy
agreed.

In truth it was damned difficult
producing men out of thin air. Liz had the children to look after
all week and every second weekend. She loved them to bits—would
fight to her last breath to retain legal custody of them. But they
did cramp her style, no mistake. Who wanted a girlfriend free to go
out only on alternate weekends?

However, The Bastard
was
not
to know
that.

Every time she saw him, Liz indicated
her life was full of randy men queuing for the pleasure of her
body. And sometimes it was. But lately they tended to live on the
pages of her current work-in-progress—a steamy revenge fantasy
where heroine Marcy took up with a different guy in every chapter,
and cut each of them down to size.

It was easy when she wrote. In her
fantasy life she was strong and invulnerable...feisty and
confident. She tried so hard to project the same image in real
life, but some of it was a sham. She knew—but did the rest of the
world?

She had a decent house, anyway. The
Bastard earned plenty, and had wanted a flashy address to compete
with the partners in the law firm. So the family home remained
hers. And that had been pretty much her half of the settlement. He
got the investments, the good car, the partly-paid-for beach
cottage up north. No doubt he’d done better than she had. The Child
Support money seemed stingy.

He still had his
high-earning job while she scrambled around working nine till one,
ferrying children, shopping and cooking, helping with homework,
trying to keep the house clean and the garden tidy
and
have a life. Some
life.

And now she’d volunteered
to smarten Ian up so
he
could have a life. Well, the suntan would help.
And he simply had to look better wearing anything other than his
usual selection of horrible baggy clothes.

He needed a proper haircut, for sure.
She’d take him to Tony. She entrusted him with trimming her ends
and applying her color treatments. Liz had faith he’d transform
Ian’s unruly brown mop into something—anything—more
stylish.

But it wasn’t what Marcy would have
done to Ian. She would have shot him a glance filled with purest
venom. Flicked a disdainful finger at that awful green shirt.
Turned her back on him and stalked off on her five inch heels, or
her combat boots, or whatever necessary footwear she wore for the
current chapter.

What would Marcy do to The Bastard?
Something worse than running the shower to simulate a lover, that
was for sure. She would...

...visit the offices of
Benton, McKenzie and Willis just as their sniffy receptionist
Ingrid left for lunch.

Marcy threw a pitying
glance at Ingrid’s timid black on-the-knee, oh-so-proper skirt. At
her flesh colored pantyhose and low heeled pumps.

Swept her exotic eyes over
Ingrid’s conservative high necked blouse with its little pearl
buttons—echoed so drearily by the small pearl studs in her
ears.

“
So, how’s it hanging at
BMW?” she demanded.

“
Hanging?” Ingrid
queried.

“
The gentlemen’s
appendages. Stiff with pride and profits, or limp with
lamentations? I’m sure Mr. Benton has a boner, and Mr. Willis has a
whopper, but what about that bastard McKenzie? My husband...your
lover.”

Ingrid blanched still
further.

“
Paul is—very well, thank
you Ms McKenzie.”

Marcy hitched one foot up
onto the cream leather sofa that was the pride of Ingrid’s domain.
Her stiletto heel dug deeply into the seat cushion. She heard
Ingrid stifle a moan of compassion for the upholstery...watched her
eyes goggle as Marcy pushed the multicolored many-layered chiffon
skirt high up her spectacular thigh to refasten one of the
suspenders attached to her fishnet stocking.

She sighed with
satisfaction. Ingrid was following her every move with helpless
fascination...as trapped as a fly in a spider’s silken
web.

She bent forward,
pretending to adjust her shoe, ensuring her breasts swung free from
the low cut neckline of her black leotard. Her peacock-blue
sequined nipple covers glinted in the harsh light.

“
Do you wear these for
Paul?” she asked the shaken secretary, running a manicured finger
and thumb along her breast until they framed its peak. She made no
move to conceal her breasts. Ingrid stared, transfixed, shaking her
head at such a flagrant display.

“
Oh, you should,” Marcy
continued. “He loves exotic touches like this. You could really
turn him on if you tried to. I could help you...?”

She let the suggestion
hang in the air as she tucked each breast back inside the stretchy
fabric.

Ingrid gaped like a
fish.

“
What a pretty little
mouth you have, Ingrid,” Marcy purred. “So soft and kissable. I’m
sure Paul would adore you in one of those sexy masks that conceal
everything except your pretty...soft...kissable...mouth.” As she
cooed each word, Marcy reached out and stroked the pad of her thumb
back and forth across Ingrid’s drooping bottom lip. Lily of the
Valley perfume wafted from the secretary’s neck. How
predictable...

“
And he’d find all sorts
of uses for such a wet little hidey-hole when it was so nicely
displayed.”

Ingrid’s eyes went
huge.

“
Come with me,” Marcy
invited. “You were just going out to lunch, I think? We could have
a little something together?” She enclosed Ingrid’s hot fingers in
her own long-taloned hand. She tugged. Ingrid followed, obedient as
a puppy.

“
Just in here,” Marcy
indicated, pushing open a door half a block from the law office.
She clasped Ingrid’s waist and guided her up the steps.

They turned together into
an empty office, and Ingrid looked about with puzzlement when Marcy
locked the door. “I thought you said lunch?”

“
I said ‘a little
something’, actually. I may have meant
you
.” In a flash she pulled down the
suspended handcuffs, snapped them around Ingrid’s wrists, hauled on
the rope so the secretary’s arms were raised high above her head,
and secured it to a sturdy window catch. “Not a word, Ingrid. Not a
murmur!” She flourished the evil looking little pistol she always
carried in her bag. Ingrid gulped and nodded. “And now we’ll get
rid of these annoying clothes, darling.”