Chapter 2
Gwen Stillman toyed with the steak. It was thick and pink, charred to a perfect medium, but she wasn't hungry. She pushed it away and stalked to the bar where she built herself a Collins.
Their split-level home sat on knoll overlooking the first fairway. She moved to the wide, smoked picture window and stared out into the night. Lights burned like sallow stars from the other homes. The sky was clear, stars dotting the horizon like shimmering gems on velvet. The moon was full and opalescent, causing the shadows of the tall oaks and dogwoods to stretch out like giant toppled mushrooms.
She wondered what Doug was doing, imagining him in a heated debate with some wildcat strikers who wore dirty T-shirts and beard stubbles to the negotiating table. The thought that her husband was spending more time with beer-bellied boasters than with her, angered her, and she quickly finished the drink.
A second went down with greater ease. Her anger was smothered in a haze of alcohol. She leaned against the window, restlessly, eyes prying through the bright night, looking for something. She saw it; the small light at the clubhouse, and remembered Harry's invitation.
She finished the drink and changed her clothes, choosing a pair of powder-blue capris and a complementary pink Afghan sweater. She tossed an ascot around her throat, tying it so the ends formed a "Y" to the side of her neck.
Deciding to leave her long, auburn hair casual, she stroked it a few times with the brush, and then stepped out into the cool air.
The walk was refreshing. She felt her cheeks stiffen as the liquor seeped to the surface. By the time she reached the clubhouse, she was floating.
"Harry?"
She stuck her head into the small cubicle. Harry turned from the score sheets and smiled.
"You're late. Expected you a half hour ago."
He was on his feet motioning her to be seated. She shook her head.
"You said something about a putting lesson. I don't want to be cooped up. Want to be out in the air." She leaned against the doorframe, a quirky smile on her face. Her tongue felt cottony.
"Why don't you get your clubs and I'll get a cart. We'll hit through a couple of holes. No putting green is like the real thing."
Gwen mulled the invitation. "All right. But if I don't hit them well, I'll just ride to the green and putt there. So don't push me, Harry."
"I never push, lady. Never."
She felt the commanding tone, saw the smile appear as it did every time he spoke to a woman.
"Are you a gigolo, Harry?" she found herself asking.
He laughed, putting the pencil down and shuffling the papers into a neat pile. He spoke without looking directly at her.
"Of course I am. So's my wife. We operate one of the finest sex clubs in the state."
Gwen thought that very funny. She laughed and turned on her heel to get her clubs, sure that Harry was a harmless but attractive golf nut.
She hit the ball exceptionally well the first two shots. Harry drove the golf cart slowly toward her well-placed second drive.
"Hey, I've never seen you hit them so well! You ought to join the Midnight League."
"I'm drunk, Harry Benton. And I don't give a damn if I hit the ball at all."
"You hold your booze well, lady. I thought you were just giving me a rough time back there."
"What about?"
"About being a gigolo."
She laughed as the cart skidded to a stop on the damp fairway. "You mean you're not?" Then absently, "Oh, that's right, you are married. I'm married. The whole world's married."
She climbed out and chose a five iron.
"That's too much club," Harry said. "You're hitting them too well tonight. Better use a seven."
"You think you know a lot about me, don't you?"
"I know a lot about your golfing, little about you."
She tossed her loose hair arrogantly. "I'll bet I don't hit the green with a seven."
"I'll bet you do, if you swing properly."
"I'll swing properly."
"What are the stakes?"
"You're the gigolo. You make them."
Harry grinned. "All right. I'll bet you a kiss."
Gwen giggled. "Just like high school days, huh, Harry?"
"Well, I don't need money."
Gwen shoved the five iron back into her bag. She was a hundred and thirty yards away and was sure she couldn't hit the green. She always used a five iron from here. And besides, she thought, it would be just a silly kiss if she did make it.
"All right, hot-lips Harry, you're on."
Harry grinned. He watched her back swing. It was fluid, relaxed, confident. She hit the ball squarely. It arced from right to left, curling in toward the green, bouncing over the lip of the sand trap and coming to rest no more than ten feet from the pin.
"Well, how about that!" Harry said. "I just won myself a kiss."
"I don't believe it," Gwen said, holding the seven iron up and examining it. "How did I do it?"
"You were pressing, lady. For the kiss."
She climbed into the cart and puckered, eyes shut.
"Oh no, not now. Later. After the second bet."
"What second bet?" she said, opening her eyes.
"I'm going to bet you a second more passionate kiss that you make that putt and par this hole."
Gwen laughed scornfully. "Are you serious? You know I've never parred a hole out here in my life. And what's going to stop me from purposely missing the putt?"
"Nothing," Harry said, shoving the gas pedal down. "Nothing at all."
Harry's second shot was on the green, about twenty feet from the cup. He studied his putt first.
"What do you say, Gwen? Double or nothing."
Gwen looked at her putt. It was a tricky one. At least it looked tricky. It sloped to the right, and she knew the greens were lightning fast. It would be an incredible feat if she even got the ball close to the cup.
"Sure," she said. "And I'll even try, Mister Palmer."
"Call me Arny," Harry said, hunkering over his putt. He stroked it firmly but it died too soon, leaving him a short two foot tap in. He sank the ball and moved toward Gwen.
"I'll show you the putting line," he offered.
"Nope. I do it on my own."
His voice was strained. "But you can't read a green."
"Don't press," she warned, "or the whole bet's off. Everybody wants me to do things their way. Let me do it my way."
Harry shrugged off. "All right. But I...."
He cut off his words as she addressed the ball. The capris fluttered against her slim legs. He could see the definition of her buttocks cheeks, two round globes snuggled against her thighs. She was cherry, he thought. So goddamned cherry. If he could only get his hands on her, she wouldn't know how to say no. She would only be able to say "Now, Harry, now."
She waggled the putter slowly and stroked. Harry held his breath as the ball skittered over the damp grass. He hoped she had considered the dew, for it would slow the break. His heart thudded as he watched the Spalding Pro-Flite teeter on the lip of the cup, then curl around one-hundred and eighty degrees, falling with a noisy ker-plunk!
"You made it!" he said, dumfounded by his own good fortune and her finesse with the putter.
"You damn right I did," she said, stabbing her hand into the hole and fishing out the ball.
The bet zoomed back into focus. Harry strolled toward her, dropping his putter behind him.
"Time to collect. Or aren't you sport enough to pay your debts?"
The accusation irked her. "I pay my debts, Mister Harry Barton."
She threw her head back, as though she were sniffing the air for some scent.
"You get the first kiss simply, the second one passionately. Agreed?"
"That was the bet."
He was standing in front of her, close, but not touching. Her head was tilted back, eyes slitted, looking at him with curiosity. She found herself anticipating the man's touch, but it didn't come. He leaned forward, hands behind his back, and pecked her on the cheek.
"That was kiss number uno."
Gwen's cheeks blushed pink. "You call that a kiss!"
"That was a kiss. Now I get a passionate kiss."
She was still in the throes of insult when his arms snaked around her waist, drawing her close. Reflexively, she shoved her palms against his chest and pushed.
"I'm collecting the passionate kiss passionately, Mrs. Stillman. Do you go along, or do we call if off?"
He wasn't pressing, he was suggesting. She felt his strong hands holding the small of her back. She knew she could say no and turn away, and the matter would be closed. He would smile at her tomorrow, call her Mrs. Stillman, and never mention it to anyone.
But what would it hurt, she thought? She owed it to him. He played fair. Why not play fair with him?
"All right," she said, trying to sound strong and dispassionate. She let her arms circle his neck. She was being lifted to her tiptoes. His mouth came down, lips parted, white, bold teeth glinting in the moonlight.
She met his move, letting her lips relax, parting them so her tongue would be ready. He brushed her lips with his, casually at first, his hands pressing different sections of her back. She waited, knowing there was more to come, anticipating it, hoping for it.
Slowly, he pressed his lips hard against hers. His tongue dusted her lower lip, prying between her teeth, searching out the new cavity.
She found herself playing with his tongue, fencing with it. Her breasts were firmly squeezed against his chest, nipples turgid, burning with a fresh and unexpected excitement. She sucked the air hard through her collapsing nostrils, trying to fight the building fires that raged through her body as his hands massaged her back.
She thought about breaking the kiss, but something held her back. She found her hips grinding against his, rubbing at the hardening shaft running down the inside of his thigh.
The two bodies crumpled down onto the green. Gwen didn't realize what was happening at first. She was busy battling his tongue, enjoying its frantic but disciplined movements within her mouth. She felt the dampness on her back and the heavy weight wedged between her thighs.
Still, she resisted the urge to break the kiss. There was nothing wrong with rubbing against him. She still had control. She could say no, that's enough, any time she wanted.
He had his knee between her legs, rubbing it hard against her crotch. Her hands worked up his back, occasionally pulling him against one breast and then the other.
Suddenly, he broke the kiss and planted his mouth on her ear. His breath was ragged, his words forced: "I want you, Gwen. God, I want you. Don't say no. Please don't say no."
He returned to her lips, cutting off any reply before she had a chance. His hand slithered up to her breast. He cupped the mound, massaging it firmly, tweaking the nipple through the sweater.
The next move was critical. It would mean the difference between success and failure. He slid his hand down toward her vagina. He didn't pause at her tummy or fool with stroking the inside of her thighs. There was no time for that. He had to stop the thinking process and bring out the primitive desire.
His hand cupped her cunt, fingers pushing and sawing at the bun. He rubbed fast, feeling the friction warming his fingers.
She was moaning no but her legs were parting farther and farther. Still, she wasn't completely hooked. One more motion to go through, he thought, as he moved down between her legs and covered her capri-clad cunt with his mouth.
He bit at the snatch, blowing hot air through the closely woven fabric. Gwen moaned, lurching her hips up, offering herself to him. That was complete submission, he thought.
He worked quickly, unzipping her capris. With one fluid movement he pulled the pants down to her ankles. There was no time to remove the shoes. He ripped his belt-loop off and pushed his slacks down. Then he climbed between the soft, white, moon-bathed thighs, shoveling his feet under her ankles so she could squeeze her legs around his back.
It all happened too quickly for Gwen. She felt the wet dew against her buttocks and the head of his penis shoving at her readied cunt. Again she tried to protest, but his mouth covered hers, smothering the futile plea. He wriggled the head of his dick playfully against her hole until she dug her fingernails into his back and moaned.
She felt it sliding in, inch by inch. It was much larger than Doug's. It filled her instantly, forcing her tissues apart.
"God," she managed, freeing her mouth and pressing her face in the crook of his neck. His hands unsnapped the bra. She felt his fingers touching her nipples, expanding their rigid state. Throughout her body she could feel the needles of passion prickling every nerve. She knew she couldn't turn back, not now.
"Tell me you want me, Gwen. Tell me!"
"I want you, damn it!" she found herself saying. "I want you!"
He lunged in, driving his nine-inch cock to the hilt. Gwen moaned, biting his neck, fingers jabbing at the back of his skull.
He thrashed his hips, pumping her hard, relaxing, stirring the head around the entrance, then driving in for another blow. He could feel her rising toward one peak after another. He held back each time, letting the ecstatic sensation slip away, only to retrieve it later with a few well-guessed strokes.
"Let me," she whined, biting at his lip, her fingers pushing into his ear. "Let me finish it."
"Come," Harry hissed into her ear. "Tell me you want to come." His fingers crushed her nipples. Her thighs scissored frantically across his waist, ankles beating the small of his back.
"Come," she was saying. "Let me come!"
Harry threw everything he had into her. His large hands caught her ass-cheeks, lifting them up as plumbed her as hard and fast as he could.
"Fuck," he grunted. "Snap your legs. Make your pussy talk, Gwen. Make it talk."
Incited by the four-letter words, Gwen felt her body respond to his instruction. She snapped her legs, felt the vaginal contractions start.
"That's it. Make the pussy snap. Squeeze my cock until it's dry. Tell me to fuck you, Gwen. Tell me to fuck you!"
"Fuck me!" Gwen grunted, jerking her legs wildly. "FUCK ME! GIVE ME ALL YOU'VE GOT!"
Their bodies were one in the moonlight. They pumped, rolling to one side and then the other, legs flailing, hands groping. Gwen felt the first of a series of orgasms flooding through her. Each time she cried for more. And each time the penis in her seemed to lance inward another inch.
Finally she felt the hot blast of come spilling into her. Their bodies jerked spasmodically, then they lay silent, breathing heavily, Harry's mouth on one of her exposed nipples.
Gwen was surprised. For some reason, she didn't feel guilty at all. But she would never tell Harry that. This would be the first and last time she would ever let it happen, she told herself.