“I’m glad we saw it, though.”
“I don’t know if I am or not. I’m afraid it’s all going to happen again.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“The hell I don’t. There are whole sections of the Times I can’t read anymore. Anything with national or international news. I can manage the Arts section, except half the time the Book Review’s as bad as a news story. The Tuesday Science section’s okay, and the Wednesday one with the recipes and restaurants. I never want to go to the restaurants or try the recipes, but I can stand to read it.”
“It’s a shame you’re not interested in sports.”
“Yeah, it’d be something I could keep up on and not wind up think -
ing about Prozac. Does TJ read the business section?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe he’ll support us in our old age. If we have one.” I stepped to the curb, held up a hand. A cab pulled up.
She said, “I thought we were walking. What’s the matter, don’t you feel well, baby?”
“Not well enough to walk fifty blocks.” I told the driver to go up Tenth Avenue, that we wanted Amsterdam and Ninety-third.
“Mother Blue’s?”
“I was just a few blocks from there this afternoon,” I said, “but there’s no reason to go there at that hour. At night it’s got music.”
“And Danny Boy.”
“Unless tonight’s one of his nights at Poogan’s. Either way, I think we should go listen to some music.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I suppose that’s a better idea than going home and killing ourselves.”
13
Downstairs, he gives his name. He gets off the elevator to find her framed in the doorway of her apartment, leaning a little against the doorjamb.
She’s wearing a belted silk robe with a bold floral pattern. Her slippers are open-toed, and the polish on her toenails is blood red, a match for her lipstick.
He’s carrying a briefcase, and he’s also brought a bouquet from the Korean greengrocer, a bottle from the liquor store. “These will pale beside your robe,” he tells her, handing her the flowers.
“Do you like it? I can’t decide whether it’s elegant or trashy.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“Sometimes I ask the same question of myself. These are lovely, dar -
ling. I’ll put them in water.”
She fills a vase at the sink, arranges the flowers in it, puts them on the mantel. He unwraps the bottle and shows it to her.
“Strega,” she reads. “What is it, a cordial?”
“A postprandial libation. Italian, of course. Strega means witch.”
“Moi?”
“You’re certainly enchanting.”
“And you’re a sweetie.”
She comes into his arms and they kiss. Her body, lush and full-breasted, presses against him. She’s naked under the robe, and he draws her close and runs a hand down her back, stroking her bottom.
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He’s hard already, in anticipation. He’s been like that all day, on and off.
“This is such a nice surprise,” she says. “Two nights in a row. You’ll spoil me.”
“I have very little free time,” he says. “I’ve told you that.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s unpredictable. Sometimes I have to go away for months at a stretch.”
“It must be a difficult life.”
“It has its moments. When I do have time to myself, I try to spend it in the most enjoyable way possible. And that’s why I’m here again tonight.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t complaining. Shall we sample the Strega? I don’t believe I’ve ever had any. Or would you rather have Scotch?” He says he’ll try the cordial, that he hasn’t had it in years. She finds a pair of suitable glasses and pours drinks for both of them, and they touch glasses and sip.
“Nice. A very complicated flavor, isn’t it? Herbs, but I can’t tell which ones. How clever you were to bring this.”
“Perhaps we can take our drinks to the bedroom.”
“More than clever,” she says. “The man’s a genius.” In her bedroom he embraces her, draws the robe from her shoulders.
She’s a few years older than he, and her body is that of a mature woman, but diet and exercise have kept her in good shape, and her skin is lovely, soft as velvet.
He removes his own clothes quickly, puts them on a chair. “Oh, my,” she says, in mock horror. “You’re not going to put that big thing in me, are you?”
“Not right away.”
She’s very responsive, has been since their first time together. He brings her to orgasm first with his fingers, then with his mouth.
“My God,” she says, after her second climax. “My God, I think you’re going to kill me.”
“Oh, not just yet,” he says.
He has her in a variety of postures, moving her from one to another, slipping out of her after each orgasm and taking her again in a new position.
110
Lawrence Block
No effort is required for him to postpone his own climax. It will wait for the right moment.
At one point she takes him in her mouth. She’s good at this, and he lets her perform for a good length of time, then rolls her onto her stomach, preps her with a lubricant from the nightstand, and eases himself into her ass. They’ve done this before, they did it last night, in fact, and he’d gotten her to touch herself in front and make herself come.
Tonight she does so without being told.
She learns quickly, he thinks. He could probably get her to do anything he wants, and the thought is intriguing. Should he draw this out, keep her around for a few more days or weeks?
No, it’s time.
“Darling? Is there something I can do?”
“You’re doing fine,” he says.
“But I want you to come.”
“You can come for both of us.”
“I never came so much in my life, but it’s not fair. Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m having a good time.”
“I know you are, but—”
“I don’t need to have an orgasm to be satisfied.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
“It was true then and it’s true now.”
“But it thrills me when you come,” she says, her hand on him. “I love it, and you seem to enjoy it yourself.”
“Well, of course.”
“So tell me if there’s something I can do.”
“Well . . .”
“You’re not going to shock me,” she says. “I didn’t just get out of a convent.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did.”
“There’s something, isn’t there? Look, as long as it doesn’t involve bloodshed or broken bones, I’m up for it.” He hesitates, largely to enjoy the line she’s just delivered. Then he says,
“Well, how would it be if I tied you up?” All the Flowers Are Dying
111
“Oh, wow.”
“Of course, if it’s too unsettling for you—”
“No, just the opposite. The whole idea’s a turn-on.” Her hand tightens on him. “For you, too, I can see. My God.”
“Well, it does add a little something.”
“The old je ne sais quoi, the French call it. I, uh, don’t have any special equipment for it.”
“I, uh, do.”
“Well, aren’t you the devil!”
He fetches the briefcase, opens it. They make a game of it, attaching the silk cuffs to her wrists and ankles, positioning her on the bed with a pillow under her bottom, fastening the cords, also silken, that secure her wrists and ankles to the bed’s four corners. Her eyes widen as he shows her some of the paraphernalia he’s brought. She looks excited, and he touches her, and yes, she’s wet, but then she’s always wet, this one, always ready and willing and able.
He flicks the riding crop across her abdomen. It hurts a little, he notes, but she likes it.
So far.
“My God,” she said, “you must have bought out the Pleasure Chest.
You really are a devil.”