That Sunday, That Summer
By Tinnean
It was Sunday. The
antique shop should have been closed.
Mr. Claudius, nee Cohen, was
fidgeting behind the counter while I examined a new specimen of mercury glass.
It had been on display in his window when I had sauntered past on my usual
constitutional. I had called him and ordered him to come down and open his shop
immediately for me.
He had complied, but I
could see his reluctance, especially when he realized what had caught my
attention.
“Lovely! Positively
lovely!”
“It’s not for sale, Mr.
Lydecker.”
I had been caressing the
smooth, cool lines of the bowl with sensitive fingertips, almost orgasmic at
the thought of owning such a fine piece. My gaze shot up to pierce him like a
dagger.
“What do you mean, it’s
not for sale? You had it in your window!”
His face was becoming a rather
sickly green. “It was a commission I undertook for someone else, Mr. Lydecker.
Another customer. I took money for it. I can’t sell it to you!” His tone was
becoming desperate.
“Nonsense! I’ll give you
twice what you paid for it!” Carefully I set it back down on its pedestal and
picked up my Irish hardwood engraved walking stick, a pretty affectation, but I
was never without it. I reached into the breast pocket of my topcoat for my
billfold.
The bell over his door
jingled, and Mr. Claudius jumped. “I’m closed!” he snapped tensely.
The man who entered
stepped casually out of the shadows. The light of the dim bulb that swung
fitfully above the ancient cash register illuminated the contained features of
Mark McPherson.
My breath caught
painfully in my chest and I felt myself grow hard.
“Lieutenant McPherson!”
The antique dealer visibly relaxed.
“You know Mr. McPherson?”
I queried irritably. I wanted those pale eyes looking at me. Only at me!
“The Lieutenant got me
out of a jam one time. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
The two men settled into
a friendly conversation, and I began to seethe. I turned sharply, and my
walking stick connected with the mercury glass bowl. It fell off its pedestal
and the sound it made when it came into contact with the floor was like chimes
mourning the passing of something living.
Claudius whirled around.
His cry of dismay pleased me, although I took pains to conceal my glee. “Oh
dear. So sorry. I had no idea it was so close.”
Claudius was actually
pale, wringing his hands as if a member of his own family had been killed. I
swallowed my smile and smoothly extended a handful of bills. “This should cover
the damage. Next time, perhaps, you’ll contact me first!”
I turned to find
McPherson watching me with cold eyes, and a shiver of lust burrowed deep inside
me. I wanted those eyes warm with appreciation as he took me, buried himself in
me.
My eyebrow rose, and I
stared down my nose at him. “You wanted something of me, McPherson?” The tone I
used had been known to make maitre d’s quake with trepidation.
The police lieutenant
merely cocked his own eyebrow at me and gestured toward the door. Behind us,
Claudius was bemoaning the lovely piece of glass as he swept up the broken
shards. I dismissed him out of hand.
When McPherson spoke, his
breath was warm on the back of my neck. I hadn’t realized how close he was to
me. More than anything I wanted to lean back into him, letting him bear my
weight. And then his hand on my back was urging me out of the antique shop.
“I need you to answer
some questions.”
“Am I a suspect?” I asked
sharply.
Oh, he was smooth! “Not
at all,” he responded as he ushered me into an unmarked car. “Miss Hunt’s
apartment,” he instructed the driver.
I felt a frisson of
unease. “Why are we going there? Don’t you want to take me down to
headquarters?”
He leaned back against
the seat and pulled out his pipe. Helplessly, I watched as his long fingers
competently handled the bag of tobacco. The rich, fruity scent flooded the back
seat of the car. I moistened my lips. He filled the bowl with the tobacco and
pressed it down, then lit it.
Again I was drawn to his
mouth, those chiseled lips, and I wondered with a kind of desperation what they
would feel like ravaging my own, engulfing my…cock.
“Actually, I’m meeting
Laura Hunt’s fiancé and her aunt, Mrs. Treadwell there.”
With difficulty I
recalled that he was taking me to Laura’s apartment. “Why do you need me
there?”
His mouth twisted in a
sardonic grin
****
Laura Hunt’s home was in
the exclusive area of town. In the six years since she had come to New York
from the Midwest, she had done very well indeed.
Due in large part to my
friendship with her.
Traffic was scarce that
August Sunday. People were either summering on Long Island to escape the
sweltering heat, or were glued to their radios listening to the baseball game.
Still, it took a good twenty minutes to get to Laura’s apartment from Claudius’
antique shop.
I tried to make
conversation with the detective next to me, but he was silent, his eyes
fastened on the little child’s game he held between his strong hands. Tilting
it first one way and then the other in order to get the little steel balls into
the holes, he ignored me completely.
I couldn’t tear my eyes
away from those long-fingered hands. There was a sprinkling of fine hairs on
the back of his hands and the nails were blunt and neatly kept. More than
anything, I wanted those hands on me, those nails gently scoring the flesh of my
buttocks as he pulled me close to his own arousal.
The car drew to a halt.
“We’re here!”
I stared stupidly at the
brownstone where Laura had lived.
“Coming, Waldo?”
No, but that was
something I would truly like to enjoy. With him.
I followed him up the
shallow steps and into the vestibule of Laura Hunt’s apartment.
Shelby Carpenter, Laura’s
fiancé and her Aunt Susan were already there when we finally got to Laura’s
door. Shelby flung it open, exuding Southern charm, playing the bereaved fiancé
to the hilt. I sneered at him as I tossed my walking stick aside and went to
pour myself a drink.
“What are you doing here,
Carpenter?” I demanded as I took a healthy sip of my highball.
“The lieutenant asked
Susan to meet him here. Since I was with her at the time, I volunteered to
accompany her.”
“You were with her? How
long had you been with her, Shelby? All night perhaps? How would Laura have
felt about the fact that the man she no longer intended to marry was keeping
company with her aunt?”
“Shelby has always been
very good to me!” Mrs. Treadwell hastened to intervene. “He’s been the soul of
kindness during this trying time!”
“Of course!” I said
dryly.
“See here, Lydecker, what
do you mean to insinuate when you say Laura no longer wanted to marry me?”
“Simply this, you cheap gigolo! Laura had
come to her senses. She told me Friday, when she broke our dinner date, that
she had decided to call off the wedding!”
Shelby lunged for me, and
McPherson casually stepped between us, tossing the big Southerner back toward
the couch with negligent ease. Oh, I wished the others were not there! I wanted
to melt in his powerful embrace, taking his mouth hungrily!
Just through that door
there was Laura’s bedroom, frilly and feminine, and McPherson’s masculinity
would contrast pleasingly with it. I wondered how many nights he spent in this
apartment, trying to decipher the mystery that was Laura Hunt. If I walked past
her house, as I so often did since her death, it I climbed up those flights of
steps to this apartment, and crossed to her bedroom, would I find him sleeping,
exhausted, in her bed?
//Standing in the
doorway, I observed the strong, sleek lines of his back, naked to my avid
stare. The sheets were bunched at his waist, but I could see the outline of his
body beneath the delicate pastel material. My fingers itched to trace the
muscles.
His knee flexed, and the
sheet fell away, revealing the scars that marred the smooth beauty of his thigh
and calf. I reached out and stroked his leg. With a soft sigh, he turned onto
his back, and the sheet might as well not have been there. His erection was
tenting the material to an alarming extent. Could I accept something that large
inside me?
It was all I dreamed of,
since meeting the detective.
I pulled the sheet away
and gasped at his masculine beauty, then leaned over and hesitantly touched my
tongue to the moisture seeping from the tip of his arousal. Liking the taste, I
began lapping at it, setting it to quivering. And then I slid my lips over him,
loosening my throat and taking as much of him as I could.
I tilted my head back and
saw that he was awake now, watching me with slumberous desire. His hands
tangled in my hair and showed me the rhythm that pleasured him most.
I knew that eventually he
must ejaculate…must come. Could I swallow that?
Could I not?
He was thrusting harder
and harder into my mouth. I was quaking with unfamiliar passion. I needed to
have him touch me. I needed this more than anything I had ever needed.
And then…//
Shelby must have been
sniping at the detective. “Methinks yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look!”
I resented the fop using
my label on the man with whom I was enamored. “If Lieutenant McPherson is
Cassius, then who are you Shelby? Envious Casca?”
Carpenter’s refined
features tightened in anger. I loved these little battles of wits with him; he
always came to them unarmed!
“Perhaps I am Casca,” he
snarled. “But I see you as Caesar!”
I knew better than to preen,
I had cut too deeply his amore proper. “Oh?”
He continued,
paraphrasing Robert Graves this time, “No woman’s husband, every man’s wife!”
I blanched and recoiled.