Mirror Image

Their lips sought and found each other while their tongues were rampant and quick. He squeezed the taut flesh of her derriere and stroked her thighs above her hosiery and between the lacy suspenders of her garter belt. She used her knees for elevation that teasingly threatened to release his cock before sinking down onto it until it was fully imbedded again. She rode him, milked him.

“Damn, you can fuck.”

Having rasped that, he nuzzled his head against her breast until he had worked it free of her brassiere cup. He laved the raised nipple with his tongue, then took it into his mouth. He slid one of his hands between her damp thighs and entwined his fingers in the soft hair, then slipped them into the cleft and stroked the small protuberance.

Avery’s breathing became choppy and loud. She bent her head over his shoulder. Tensing around the hardness within her and grinding against the magic stroking finger without, she had a very long, very wet climax that coincided with Tate’s.

They didn’t move for a full five minutes. Each was too weak. Finally, Avery eased herself off his lap and retrieved her underpants from the floorboard. Wordlessly, Tate passed her a handkerchief.

Self-consciously, she accepted it and said, “Thank you.”

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, why?”

“You… you feel so small.”

Her eyes were the first to fall away after a long, telling stare.

Once she had tidied herself and straightened her helplessly wrinkled clothing, she flipped down the sun visor and looked with dismay at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

Her hairdo had been ravaged. Clumps of moussed hair surrounded her head like a spiked halo. An earring was missing. Carefully outlined lipstick had been smeared over the entire lower third of her face. “I’m a wreck.”

Tate made his body as straight as the accommodations would allow and tucked in his shirttail. His necktie was askew and his coat was hanging off one shoulder. He fumbled with his pants zipper and cursed it twice before closing it successfully.

“Do the best you can,” he said, passing her the earring he’d just sat down on.

“I’ll try.” With the cosmetics in her purse, she repaired the damages to her makeup and did what she could with her coiffure. “I guess we can blame my hair on the weather.”

“What’ll we blame the whisker burns on?” Tate touched the corner of her mouth. “Do they sting?”

She gave a small, unrepentant shrug and smiled shyly. He smiled back, then got out and came around for her.

By the time they reached the backstage area where Eddy was pacing and Ralph was jingling change in both pockets, they truly did look the worse for wear—windblown and rain-spattered, but inordinately happy.

“Where the hell have you been?” Eddy was almost too livid to form the words.

Tate answered with admirable composure. “I went to pick up Carole.”

“That’s what Zee told us when we called the hotel,” Ralph said. He was no longer rattling change. “What possessed you to pull such a damn fool stunt? She said you’d left half an hour ago. What took so long?”

“No place to park,” Tate said tersely, disliking this cross-examination. “Where are Jack and the others?”

“Out front trying to keep the hounds at bay. Hear that?” Eddy pointed toward the auditorium, where the crowd could be heard stamping in beat to a patriotic march and chanting, “We want Tate! We want Tate!”

“They’ll be all the more glad to see me,” Tate said calmly.

“Here’s your speech.” Eddy tried to thrust several sheets of paper at him, but he refused to take them.

He tapped the side of his head instead and said, “Here’s my speech.”

“Don’t pull that disappearing act again,” Ralph warned him bossily. “It’s stupid not to let at least one of us know where you are at all times.”

Dirk hadn’t said a word. His dark face was even darker with fury. It wasn’t aimed at Tate, but at Avery. He hadn’t taken his beady eyes off her since their breathless arrival. She had withstood his baleful glare with aplomb. When he finally spoke, his voice vibrated with rage. “From now on, Mrs. Rutledge, when you want to be screwed, do it on your time, not ours.”

Tate, making a savage, snarling sound, launched himself against the other man. He would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t flattened him against the nearest wall. His forearm formed a bar as hard as steel against Dirk’s throat and his knee plowed high into his crotch. Dirk grunted with surprise and pain.

“Tate, have you gone completely crazy?” Eddy shouted.