The Ninety Days of Genevieve (21 page)

'Well, you got one at the Fennington, didn't you?' she asked. 'Spying on me through some hole in the wall, or wherever it was.'

'I got one watching Bridget,' he corrected. 'Not you.'

It was hardly an encouragement, but instead of feeling insulted Genevieve felt challenged. He turned away from her and went over to the armchair. He poured himself a drink, and sat down. The half light shadowed his already dark face. He watched her over the rim of his glass.

'Don't take too long to change,' he said.

Upstairs she was tempted by the exotic, red lace basque, a matching bra, shiny red patent shoes that had been laid out on the bed, and by a choice of sexy dresses (all with convenient zips and fasteners), but in the end she decided to use her own clothes. She felt comfortable in them. She knew exactly how they would react to her touch. The rather severe black dress could have been worn to an office social and she felt that it both suited her, and the way she performed. It gave her act a touch of class. A feeling of being in control.

She retained this feeling when she went downstairs again. Sinclair had switched off the subdued light and now the spotlights blazed. It was like stepping onto an empty stage, with an audience of one.

'Get on with it.' His voice came abruptly from the shadows, and almost at once the music started.

The lights isolated her, and their harsh brilliance was hardly flattering. She was suddenly very glad she had gone to Thea for instruction. If she hadn't she knew she would have felt disorientated and embarrassed. Sinclair's attitude was aggressive. It was as if he was willing her to fail. But Thea had given her confidence. Instead of feeling intimidated, she let the music flood over her, eased her body into its rhythm, moved with it.

Legs apart, she ran her hands over her body. She was not going to hurry. This was not going to be a quick, amateur strip, with her ending up gyrating awkwardly, naked and exposed in the glare of the lamps. She was going to take her time. She was going to remove her clothes at her own speed, and she was going to display just as much of her body as she chose. She knew how many numbers there were on the tape, and she knew just how to react to each of them. She peeled her dress off slowly to 'The Stripper' making each movement deliberate, taking her time.

Free of the dress she felt liberated. She strutted in her lacy underwear. Her panties came off but she wore a tiny G-string underneath, the thin ties drawing erotic lines round her waist and seductively down into the cleft between her buttocks.

She moved nearer to Sinclair. He was lounging back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, slightly apart. She could see the glint of the brandy glass as he twisted it in his hand. She stood as near as she could without leaving the floodlit circle formed by the lamps. She took her time with the bra, loosening the straps, peeling away the gossamer thin black lace, covering her naked breasts with her hands in mock modesty, fingers splayed to let the nipples peep through.

She took even longer with the suspender belt, turning her back, bending over, rolling her stockings down to just above her knees, turning back again. She noticed that his legs were wider apart now, and his hands were still moving, but they were stroking, and no longer holding the brandy glass.

She moved out of the light and close to his chair. She straddled his outstretched legs in a position that reminded her of their last encounter in the hotel corridor. But this time she was in control. She put one foot on the arm of his chair, her hips still rolling sinuously in time with the music. She ran her hand along her thigh, toying with the ties that kept the thong in place, but leaving them still fastened, leaving the black silk triangle barely covering the faint softness of her own blonde pubic hair, which was just beginning to grow back. When she turned to move away again she felt his fingers close round her wrist. He spun her round.

"That's enough/ he said, harshly.

She pulled against him. "The music isn't finished, Mr Sinclair.'

'You've finished dancing/ he said. 'Kneel down.'

'I've been practising for all this time/ she objected, 'and now you don't even want to see ...'

'You talk too much.' He let go of her wrist and reached for her hips, twisting his fingers into the silky ties, snapping one of them roughly as his hands pushed her to her knees. The thong fell away. Naked except for her stockings and high-heeled shoes she knelt between his legs. He unzipped his trousers and she saw that he was already huge and erect. She glanced up at him.

'I'd say this qualifies as a decent hard-on.'

'Don't waste time admiring it/ he said. 'Do something with it.'

She reached for him, hoping to tantalise him a little more before giving him relief.

He pushed her hands away. 'Use your mouth,' he said thickly. 'I want to feel your mouth. And do it slow.'

She turned her head and smoothed her lips up the length of his erection, flicking the rounded end with, her tongue. She sucked, gently at first, and then harder as she felt him respond. He groaned and shifted in the chair, opening his legs wider, his hand on her head with just enough pressure to make sure she did not move away and leave him unsatisfied. She slid her mouth up and down his cock, lightly tantalising him with the edge of her teeth, teasing, watching his response, wishing that he would let her use her hands as well. He groaned again. She moved her head and caressed his balls with her lips and tongue.

Suddenly he pushed his hands under her arms, lifting her up, her legs widely straddled across him. Pleasuring him had turned her on and she was already deliciously wet. His hand explored between her legs.

'You're ready for it, aren't you?' His voice was hoarse with excitement. 'Really turns you on, doesn't it, someone watching you. Can't wait to be fucked, can you?'

She caught his penis in her hand, and felt it hard and throbbing under her sliding fingers. 'How long do you think
you
can wait?' she asked.

He let her handle him for a few more moments, but she could feel his body begin to shake.

'Not much longer,' he admitted. 'God, you'll have to stop doing that. I don't want to come yet.'

She let go of him and waited as his breathing steadied. He put his hands on her bottom and pulled her towards him, guiding her onto his shaft, pushing his own hips forward. It wasn't the most comfortable position but she began to move with him.

'That's good,' he said, softly. "That's really good.' His eyes were half closed and as she thrust towards him she was able to watch his face. His expression reflected the pleasure he was feeling, the pleasure she was giving him. She really felt like a stripper obliging a member of the audience. In her mind there were others round her, watching. The fact that she was naked and he was fully clothed made the mental picture even more erotic.

'Keep it slow,' he murmered. 'Make it last.'

She was willing to try and prolong his pleasure, but she could already feel his body begin to shake, and suddenly he cried out and pulled her closer. For once he did not consider her needs. He thrust into her, intent on his own satisfaction, but she found this lack of control arousing. It fitted her fantasy scenario. It was her job to give, not receive.

Nevertheless she was near to orgasm when he came. He cried out again, and she felt him plunge even deeper inside her, while his body convulsed in spasms of pleasure. Her own sensations, robbed of their climax, subsided slowly as he withdrew. His breathing gradually returned to normal. There was a sheen of perspiration on his face.

Genevieve eased herself into a standing position and watched as he zipped his trousers and pulled himself up in the armchair.

'I hope you're satisfied, sir?' she said, lightly.

'And if I'm not?' he asked. 'Are you going to get me hard and start all over again?'

'Your wish is my desire.' She bobbed a mock curtsy and he grinned.

'Be careful with your promises,' he said. 'I recover fast. But you needn't worry. Right now I'd like a drink.' He pointed to a cabinet. 'You can pour me another brandy and then get yourself something from over there.'

She obeyed, bringing a bottle of wine and a glass back with her. He watched her as she sat in a chair opposite him. He was staring at her intently and she felt strangely disconcerted, wondering what was going on in his mind.

'I think I'll keep you here,' he said, his eyes moving lazily over her naked body. 'Stripped and ready. While you're waiting for me to come home and fuck you, you can do the housework. Does that sound good to you?'

She realised, much to her own surprise, that she thought it sounded fine. At least, as a fantasy. The idea of belonging to him was increasingly attractive, and this knowledge suddenly disturbed her. These fantasies might be fun, but this was still strictly a business deal. She was in danger of letting her emotions blur her common sense. If she was not careful she could end the ninety days by being badly hurt.

James Sinclair was obviously not a man about to involve himself seriously with any woman. He had the money, the contacts and the free time to indulge himself in his own particular brand of sexual play acting. He had probably arranged these adventures before, and would undoubtedly do so again when another woman either attracted him or needed something from him. There was no reason for her to suppose that she meant anything special to him. When he had finished with her, she could expect nothing more than what he had already promised: a signature. He would walk right out of her life without a second thought.

It was ridiculous of her to expect anything else. He was cultured enough to make their meetings civilised, but she had to accept the fact that to James Sinclair she was nothing more than an erotic toy, someone to be stripped for his pleasure and used in his fantasies.

Sometimes when he looked at her she thought there was more than just lust in his gaze, but looking at him now, lounging back in the leather armchair, she decided that it was simply her imagination.

T hate doing housework/ she said.

He laughed. "All right, forget the housework. Do the cooking instead.'

'I presume you like burnt toast?' she countered.

'Isn't there anything at all that you're good at, Miss Loften?' The tone of his voice was still light and teasing. 'Apart from servicing me?'

It was tempting to believe that he was really interested in learning more about her, but she discounted the idea. He was just playing games. She deliberately kept her voice cool, determined to remind him that she had not forgotten why they were together. To remind him that they were not lovers, seeking to learn more about each other. This was strictly business.

'I've been told that I'm very good at my job,' she said. She saw his expression change and knew that she had made her point.

'Of course/ he said softly. 'Your job. This is part of it, isn't it?'

'That was the arrangement/ she reminded him.

'That's right,' he said. 'I suppose I shouldn't complain. We're two of a kind, you and I. We both know what we want and we're willing to pay whatever it takes to get it.' He paused. 'Or that's what you'd like me to believe, isn't it?'

'I'll do whatever it takes/ she agreed.

'I wonder if that's really true?' His dark eyes surveyed her curiously. 'Would you really do absolutely anything I asked?'

The look on his face made her suddenly nervous. Was he planning to test her? To try and find something she would refuse to do? She knew that there were plenty of sexual games she would not enjoy playing. She remembered a friend once telling her about some activities she indulged in with her current boyfriend, and which she euphemistically described as 'water sports'. Genevieve had innocently believed this involved sex in a swimming pool, or maybe the bath, and had been genuinely repelled by her friend's unashamed account of the actual details. She had not found them remotely erotic, although her friend obviously did, and had even suggested that Genevieve might like to make up a threesome.

What would she do if Sinclair asked her to get involved in something like that? She looked at him, relaxing in the armchair, elegant in his black suit. He looked infuriatingly self-assured. So far she had enjoyed everything he had suggested, but what if he asked her to do something she found, if not totally repugnant, at least unpleasant. Would she agree, if he insisted? Did the completion of her business deal mean that much to her? She was not sure. This was unmapped territory. How far would she really go to get what she wanted?

Sinclair seemed unaware of her inner turmoil. He surveyed her for a few seconds more, then smiled.

'I promised you a meal, didn't I? Do you like Chinese?'

'I love it,' she said, with genuine enthusiasm.

'Good.' He looked round the room. 'I think we'll eat in here.'

She went to pick up her dress. 'I'll go and get dressed.'

'No,' he said. 'You stay as you are.' He grinned suddenly. 'But you'd better keep out of the way when the caterers arrive. I wouldn't want Mr Ho and his friends to be shocked.'

She waited upstairs while the food was delivered, listening to the vague hum of voices in the room below. The upper corridor of Sinclair's house was deeply carpeted and pleasantly warm. She wandered about, pushing open doors and peeping into rooms. Two were obviously guest bedrooms, the others were clearly unused. Wherever Sinclair slept, it was not on this floor.