Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [34]
Again she measured her response, and chose to be audacious. “I have a new drug that I’d like to try on him.”
A new drug? Fascinating. Since she’d joined him, Helene had come up with many variants of aphrodisiacs and hallucinogens that alternately made the women compliant, blindly aroused and occasionally comatose. Only on the rarest occasion had her concoctions ever caused death. “It works on men?”
“I believe so, yes.” She quickly added, “I would only experiment with Trace, and only with your authorization.”
Murray worked his thick fingers beneath the minuscule crotch of her lace panties. “You know your place, Helene,” he said approvingly.
“By your side. Or under you. Or over you.” She stifled a sharp moan. “Wherever you want me, Murray. You know that.”
“Yes, wherever.” Her capitulation to his every twisted desire gave her priority over others; there was nothing Helene wouldn’t do for him. That type of loyalty covered a lot of ground, sexually…and otherwise.
“Murray,” she whispered, her heavy eyes closing, her smooth face flushing with desire.
Murray considered things. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by making hasty decisions. “You know, Helene, I might let you have your playtime with Trace. Might,” he emphasized when Helene’s lips parted on an anxious moan. Right now, Trace had shown himself to be an unparalleled employee; sharp, intelligent, exceedingly capable in all ways.
And still new.
He was so good that it sometimes stymied Murray, wondering why a man with Trace’s assets would bother working for anyone else. He had the skills to be independent, yet he lived in hotels and made himself accessible day or night. In so many ways, Murray felt that Trace should be an adversary, not a lackey.
If Trace ever proved untrustworthy, if he failed in any way, Murray might enjoy watching Helene have her way with him.
“Her way” was seldom comfortable for others.
“But right now, love, I want you on your knees. You’ve stirred me with your impudence, but my time is limited. Get me off, and you can take care of yourself after I’ve gone.”
On a broken breath, Helene slid off his thighs and to her knees on the thick carpet. Excitement lit her icy-blue gaze as she opened his belt buckle and slid down his zipper.
At the feel of her hot little mouth on his cock, Murray closed his eyes and put his head back. Yes, he enjoyed Helene. For now.
Every good whore had her uses.
And as far as he was concerned, they were all whores.
PRISS TASTED LIKE WARM, wanton woman.
But she kissed like a schoolgirl.
Drawn inexplicably by the snare of inexperience, Trace teased her lips with his tongue. She had the most amazing mouth, so full and soft, so damn sexy.
On a shaky breath, she parted her lips, and he dipped his tongue inside.
Priss went very still, poised on tiptoes, breathing fast and hard through her nose. Unable to help himself, Trace held her head in both hands and fit himself to her more securely, deepening the kiss, gently ravaging her sweet mouth.
She moaned, excited and accepting, but not really…participating. He had the awful suspicion she didn’t know how.
Could it be possible? Trace eased back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, her body leaning into his, flushed and ripe.
Over a kiss.
Slowly, her thick lashes lifted to reveal her dilated eyes. “Trace?”
Son-of-a-bitch. He knew women, and while he suspected Priss was devious enough to outact an Emmy winner when it suited her purpose, he didn’t think she was faking it now. The woman reeked of sexual purity, of carnal curiosity and a craving of the unknown.
Why him? Why the hell did he have to be the one to gain her attention? Not that he much liked the idea of anyone else initiating her—Jesus, what an old-fashioned idea—especially not that freak, Murray.
Priss looked at his mouth with naked yearning. Each deep breath caused her breasts to strain against the soft cotton tee, repeatedly drawing his attention to them.
Her