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= Terror in My Arms =

A Suspense Thriller by John T. Cullen

Eight

She rose and sat by his side. He reached up to touch her shoulders. She bent over him and kissed him hungrily. His tongue responded slowly to hers, as if tongues could be surprised. He clasped her hungrily to her, and finally she did feel his hands roving down her flanks, cupping her buttocks and letting go, over and over, then running along the smooth ramp of her waist. They went into the house, not bothering to close the back door, and rolled together on the thick rug. One by one, they peeled each other’s clothes away, still locked in a steamy kiss that went on forever, it seemed. She felt his hardness against her, and touched herself. At the feeling of her own wetness, she felt herself moaning with desire. His small, precise hands found their way quickly to the right place. While he flicked her nipple with his tongue, alternating from one breast to the other, he found the track that ran around her own hardness, and she found herself pulsating inwardly. Spread-eagled, she felt too weak to do more than loosely embrace his magnificently skilled body. What he did to her breasts and down below sent her ever higher, moaning, arching her back, begging him, “yes! Yes! Yes!” When she climaxed, she felt an explosion that released months of frustration. Her image was that she lay straddling the sea, face up, and a volcano was blowing her into the sky.

She lay panting in his arms for a minute or two. He was still breathing hard, eyes still wild and unspent. “Here,” she said, “let me.” She pushed him onto his back and crawled down to where she could take him into her mouth. He began to moan.

They made love much of the afternoon and into the evening. By then they were hungry, and tired. They slipped into casual clothes and went to an Italian ristorante, where he feted her with an exotic pasta and dark red wine. Later they walked arm in arm along Nautilus and Pearl and various La Jolla side streets. They peered into the expensively arrayed show windows of a bookstore and a Persian carpet store and an antique dealer’s, until they grew tired of looking at expensive baubles. They held hands and kissed often, like teenagers, as they strolled back to his car for the ride back to his house.

“That was a lot of fun,” she said.

“It’s been a wonderful day. Want to spend the night?”

“I’d love to, Rob.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. She allowed herself to feel a liberating bliss, no matter what would happen when she started her next job or when he flew out of town or whatever.

In the living room, with that wonderful view of the sea, they clinked wine glasses. Rob excused himself and went to the bathroom.

The phone rang. And rang again. And rang a third time. Sylvie felt conflicting urges—to be civil and pick up, and to respect Rob’s privacy and let it go. She looked around, but the bathroom door was closed, and she didn’t know if she should call him. Might be nothing more than a wrong number.

“Matthew,” a woman’s voice said breathlessly. “Honey, I’m sorry. Are you back? I’m sorry we had a silly argument. I was hoping you’d gone back home, but I guess you must have gone on to Vegas. I’ll pick up a few things and call you. Love you. Bye.”

Rob came out, wiping his hands with a towel.

“Rob, who’s Matthew?”

Rob’s face underwent a strange little transition from questioning to smiling reassuringly, but along the way it passed through a dark zone for a fraction of a second that set off a faint thrill of alarm. She stilled it as soon as she felt it. “The phone rang and the message device went off,” she added lamely to her question.

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Copyright © 1996 by John T. Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.