Hostile Takeover by Hill, W (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📕

of looking toward her hands, making sure nothing was crossed, and it almost made her smile. Of course, he didn’t look toward her toes.

Disentangling his fingers, he gave hers a quick squeeze before nodding to Rachel. “Take care of her.”

Ben cleaned up in the bathroom. He wanted to go back in to see her, but he didn’t, just glanced in to confirm Rachel was still working over her. She had an herbal wash that would soothe the tissues he’d stretched so cruelly, make that afterburn hurt way less. He’d liked cosseting her, taking care of the welts on her ass, hearing her sexy little whimpers. He wouldn’t mind being the one to put her in the tub, rinse out that tight passage, make her comfortable again.

But he wouldn’t. It was too personal, too intimate. He had to question his sanity, though, cutting out before Rachel gave her a full-body massage. Under different circumstances, he could probably talk Jon into ordering his wife to strip so they could have the pleasure of both women naked during the massage. With warming oil involved on lots of silken skin. Marcie’s skin.

Jesus, he had to get out of here.

As he walked into the main room, Jon looked up. He was stretched out on the couch, a cup of tea in hand, reading a massive book about the wisdom of ancient civilizations or some bullshit like that. He looked entirely too calm. Ben shook his head, lifting a hand before he could speak. “Thanks. I’ll be back for her tomorrow. I owe Rachel a yoga mat.”

“Ben—”

“Not now.” He stopped at the door, looked back at the man. “Thanks for your help, yours and Rachel’s. I just don’t want to talk it out right now, all right?”

Jon nodded. “I’ll call if she needs anything we can’t provide.”

“Okay.”

He slid out the door, relieved to breathe the open air. Though the limo was waiting, he would have preferred his own car, so he could open it up on the quiet rural roads around Jon’s house, feel the blast of wind and cathartic roar that came with pushing it, feeling the lift over the few hills as if the car was about to take off like a plane.

He told the driver to drop him off in the French Quarter. This time of night, Bourbon Street was revving up, but he bypassed the traffic and noise, getting out at Royal Street to head for the place where the night sky was close and there was full dark.

The St. Louis cemetery, the oldest one. His childhood haunting ground.

Fortunately it seemed pretty quiet tonight. A homeless person or two were probably settled into the shadows, which was fine. He slipped along the maze of vaults, the various sizes that housed whole families. As a kid, he’d come through here plenty times. Hiding from other predators, the cops, or just to be by himself. Out of habit, he traced one of the many trios of sideways crosses etched on Marie LaVeau’s tomb. Didn’t really know why he did it; just always had. Sometimes he left a few pennies there, because the shrewd voodoo queen liked copper. Never hurt to network and make friends where you could.

When he reached the Italian Society vault, he glanced around, verifying he was alone and unobserved. Taking off his shoes, he held the laces in his teeth, then used handholds on the sealed drawers to climb to the top, take a seat amid the tufts of grass that grew untended there. Putting his back against the cross that crowned the area, he looked out over the acres of the dead and gone.

He wished he had a bottle of whiskey or a six-pack of Guinness, but then again he didn’t. He knew he shouldn’t drink in this kind of mood, but lately it hadn’t stopped him. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the cross. Mistake. Marcie was beneath him again, all that pale cream skin, her hair brushing her shoulders. She was biting her lips, tears in her eyes as she concentrated on taking him inside of her, managing the pain, her cheeks flushed with arousal. Her pussy had been soaked, sucking eagerly on his fingers. When she took his dick in her mouth, she took him like an experienced hooker. How the hell had she learned to do that? When? With who?

He recalled again the letters about her losing her virginity. She’d liked the boy, but with her penchant for strategic planning, it was kind of a “to-do”—getting it out of the way. At the time it had bugged him, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. It was the way most guys were about it, after all. Get it done, the sooner the better. But maybe that was why it bugged him. Marcie wasn’t a guy.

She’d asked why she hadn’t climaxed, and whether it would get better. Recalling the advice he’d given her, he winced. That poor guy. With the practical streak Marcie had, she probably used him as a guinea pig, exploring every possible thing and asking a million questions about male anatomy until the kid was clawing and screaming, trying to get out of her room. Was that where she’d learned about the throat thing? She knew how to take a larger-than-usual cock, in both her ass and mouth. She’d known how to work with him.

It pissed him off. He told himself it had nothing to do with her experience or lack thereof. He was pissed because he wasn’t supposed to have fucked her at all. When he’d made her call him “sir”, she thought she’d lost. She didn’t realize he’d been scrambling to regain the upper ground, which was a fucking joke since he’d already lost it. In Jon’s house, no less. Jesus.

Rising, he crossed his arms and stared down into the cemetery like one of the stern angel statues. One clothed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit. He wanted her back at his place tonight, in his bed, so he