The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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softness wrapped around his dick, taking him all the way.
‘Stop.’ Jimmy forced himself to ease her off. ‘Not yet.’
He kissed her again, feeling for her breasts, pleased to find she wasn’t wearing a bra. Tucking his hands beneath her top, he stroked her soft, ripe skin, feeling the shape of her, the hard peaks of her nipples. She moaned and threw her head back, exposing her long white throat. Sliding her top up he peeled it over her arms, revealing a pair of luscious, all-natural tits crowned with delicious pink. He bent his head to taste them, taking one between his teeth and biting gently till it stiffened. With both hands he tugged down her jeans, slipping a hand past her knickers and into a soft nest of hair, plunging two fingers into the tender fold.
She gasped, pushing herself on to him, kissing him, sucking his bottom lip, slick with desire. Riding against him, she felt the hot swell in her gut, rising like an unstoppable tide, bringing her to the point of no return. She raised her knee to bring him further, faster, deeper, then more of him entered her, plugging her in, until the wave crashed down and, panting, she climaxed with a shriek.
When Jimmy could bear it no longer, he withdrew his hand and applied a little pressure to the back of Chloe’s head. Obligingly she sank to her knees, her lips parting to receive him. As the majority of his cock vanished into her mouth, she let out a strangled groan. He cradled her and drew himself in, ploughing on with grim determination. Lights flashed before his eyes and he shouted out, cresting the swells of unadulterated pleasure, one after the other. On he thrust, his cock aching with the promise of release, till she was pushed back, her palms flat on the floor. With a final choke he came fiercely, his heart thumping in his ears; his breath coming in short, sharp rasps.
Neither of them heard the car pull up outside, or the front door close with a slam.
It was still dark.
Stealth-quiet, Lana opened the bathroom window, just big enough to fold her body through, and dragged an overnight bag after her. On her feet only the soft pad of socks. Above, the sky blushed plum with the arrival of dawn.
She shimmied along the narrow ledge that ran across the back fence, crouching beneath the radar of Cole’s security cameras–after years living with them she knew exactly their sight lines and trigger points. She wasn’t getting caught out again.
Cole’s perimeter was alarmed, activated at contact. She held her breath and threw her bag over, waiting for the soft thump of its impact, praying it wouldn’t arouse the night watch.
It didn’t. For a while she hovered on the precipice, not daring the make the next move. Beyond the fence was an oak, just within reach if she pushed off her toes and hit it exactly right. Feeling for its limbs, grasping its tough bark, she made the leap. As she embraced the coarse wood, she waited again for the alarm to sound, the dogs to snarl.
Silence.
For seconds she stayed clinging to its trunk, before catching her breath and carefully dropping to the ground. A spray of water caught her off guard, a lawn sprinkler, and she bit hard to stop herself crying out. Realising what it was, she unzipped her bag, slid on her sneakers and ran, half laughing, half stumbling, away from the grounds.
By the time Cole realised she was gone she’d already be on a plane, halfway across the Nevada desert.
Cole Steel lowered himself into the soothing bubbles–there was nothing like a soak after a burn in the gym. He ran his hands along the marble flanks of the tub and lay back, reaching for his cucumber face mask. Closing his eyes, he used both hands to apply the cream.
Pumping iron was a necessity. He’d just signed for a blistering action role that involved hanging in a series of mid-air shots: scaling a rock in Australia; dangling from a skyscraper in Tokyo; swinging from a helicopter over Manhattan. It was about time he showed the world he still had twice the balls of a younger actor. Not literally.
Cole felt the skin on his face tightening under the mask. Looking after himself was paramount: the role of Cole Steel was his most demanding to date.
If only Lana applied the same degree of dedication. He needed to talk to her. She’d been ill most of this week, hadn’t come out of her rooms much. Time was of the essence if they were to put this pregnancy plan into action–he vowed to corner her that afternoon.
Hell, he wasn’t stupid, he knew she was already thinking about the end of the contract, couldn’t wait to be free so she could hop into bed with any old Z-list bit-part actor. Wasn’t there more to life than sex? He himself was testament to that. He fished a hand under the water and felt for his penis, soft and flaccid as a mollusc on a rock. Wearily he considered a thousandth attempt, then thought better of it. Gone were the days of tugging uselessly at it like someone milking a cow. There were other ways of getting to the top and getting a good woman–and Cole Steel had managed to achieve both.
Against all odds. Michael Benedict had made sure of that.
Cole shuddered.
‘No!‘ he yelled out to the empty room, the lone word echoing round the white walls, a horrible, insistent taunt.
He held his nose and sank under the bubbles, forcing himself to forget. He’d been so young when Benedict had signed him up for his first starring role. He’d thought everyone had to do it, you know, to keep the director happy. When Benedict had first invited him round to his house, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict had led him to his bedroom, decked out in black silk and dark, twisting candles, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict told him to lie flat on his front …
‘I thought everyone had to do it!‘ Cole cried out, surfacing in a crash of water. Ripples spilled over the sides of the tub and washed on to the floor. He sank back, exhausted. To his eternal dismay his cock was rock-hard. Michael Benedict was the only thing. Even after all these years, even after how he hated that man with all that he was and ever would be, the memory of those agonising, exquisite days with Benedict was the only thing that could do it for him.
Fiercely Cole rubbed some cuticle-boosting shampoo through his hair and rinsed it off, clearing his mind, wiping it clean, refusing to think once more of the name. He was disgusted with himself.
Climbing out, he dried his now deflated body. He started at the feet, between the toes, and worked up to the ankle, calf, shin, thigh. Order made things make sense. He threw on a robe and headed downstairs.
In the lobby an army of cleaners was out in force, touching his things and moving them around in a way that was impossible to watch. He took his seat for a late lunch and checked his watch. Still no sign of Lana.
After a light spread of sashimi and mineral water, Cole cleaned his teeth twice, harder than usual so that his gums bled. Then he called round his drivers to see if anyone had taken his wife out that morning on an urgent work matter. They hadn’t. Nobody had seen her.
Cole found his housekeeper out on the terrace.
‘Louisa, have you seen Lana today?’
The dark-haired woman paused in mopping the tiles, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t.’
Cole ran a smooth hand over his chin. ‘When did you last see her?’
Louisa wrung her hands in her apron. ‘Yesterday, Mr Steel.’
Cole watched her carefully. ‘That’s all.’
He went back inside and stood for a while, hands on hips, thinking what to do. A flicker of anxiety danced in his gut. Something was the matter.
If his wife didn’t want to come to him, he’d simply have to go to her.
At the top of the back stairs Cole knocked