Bad Company Read online

  The owner – ‘Maxim’ – had come back to the table now with a menu and a bottle of wine, a Gallo Brothers Cabernet Sauvignon.

  Cassie raised an eyebrow. “You had wine?” she said to the owner.

  He shrugged. “Only the best,” he said.

  She took the menu, a single piece of laminated card. Clams, lobster, ham–

  “May I recommend either the mac and cheese or the meatloaf?” said Denny. “With fries on the side? Both come highly recommended, and have the added benefit of actually being available.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said Maxim. “See we’re not really open, so what we’ve got’s kinda limited.”

  She smiled at Denny. “Amazing what you can get with that rolled up paper you keep in your back pocket, isn’t it, honey? I tell you, I can’t think of anything much better than mac and cheese right now. Hold the fries, though. A girl’s got to watch her waistline, you know?”

  “Excellent choice,” said Denny. “I’ll have the same, thanks.”

  He nodded towards the three rather tattered flowers. “Orchids,” he said. “Flown in from the Amazon every week. That first violin? She plays with the Boston Symphony Orchestra as a second job when she’s not playing here. And that mac and cheese? Chef’s from Venice. It’s an old family recipe passed down through the generations. This mac and cheese isn’t just any old mac and cheese, it’s...”

  Her hand on his arm stopped him, and if it hadn’t then his words would have been cut off moments later by her mouth on his as she leaned across the table, hauling him towards her with a handful of collar.

  “Why ma’am,” he said, dropping back into his seat. “That sure is forward for a first date.”

  Somewhere out back a microwave pinged, and they laughed.

  Denny picked up the bottle and poured, the glass nearly full for her and half as much for him.

  “So,” he said. “And you can tell the truth here. My feelings aren’t easily hurt. Have you ever been so thoroughly spoilt by a guy?”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “No, never,” she told him. And really, when she thought about it, when was the last time a guy had done anything like this for her? Made her feel this way? A guy who takes the trouble to try and turn somewhere like this out of season, closed up diner in the middle of nowhere into a dream date.

  Maxim appeared from the kitchen carrying two plates, that towel still over one arm.

  “You get much business up here?” asked Cassie.

  He shrugged, his head tipped to one side, and said, “We get enough,” he said. “Closed up for the winter last week. Most of the trade is, you know, courting couples and the like. You should see us Valentine’s Day. They’re queuing out onto the highway, Valentine’s Day.”

  As the owner left them to their meal, Cassie took a mouthful. “Damn,” she said, “but that’s the best mac and cheese I’ve ever had.”

  “It’d be all about the ambience and the company, I reckon,” said Denny, and right then there wasn’t a single element of that Cassie would dispute.

  5

  If Daisy’s Diner had rooms she would have had him right there and then. A room by the hour – she’d wouldn’t have needed a full hour to show him exactly how she felt right at that moment.

  She would be in control. She’d take him by the collar again and draw him into a long kiss. She’d be all over him, using everything she could in an assault on his senses.

  Touch: soft and delicate, the raking of hard nails, the pressure of her body against his. The hardness of rib and hip bones. The soft press of breasts against his chest.

  Movement: grinding and pressing, stroking, squeezing. Tugging at his clothes, the sudden give as they released.

  Her scent as he breathed her in.

  Her hard teeth raking down his neck as she freed his shirt. Her soft lips working across his chest. Her tongue pressing and flicking, its soft wetness contrasting sharply with the tap of her stud on an erect nipple.

  Moving lower, taking him deep immediately, so that he was hitting the back of her throat and she could swallow on his hardness, taking it into her throat until she gagged before he slid back out again, knowing how that sensation would drive him wild.

  Taking him whole so that her face was buried into that coarse mat of pubic hair, her chin on his balls. Rocking and twisting her head from side to side so her throat pulled on the head of his dick and her chin ground against him, and then – oh so slowly! – pulling back, away, her tongue pressed hard upwards so that his length was dragged through the tight, wet tunnel of her mouth until her tongue stud hit that sensitive spot just below the head and he would cry out loud in ecstasy.

  Holding just that swollen head in her mouth while both hands pumped his shaft, hard and tight.

  “What you thinking?”

  They were out on the open highway again, Cassie sitting back, eyes narrowed to slits as the world rushed by.

  “Always a dangerous question to ask a woman,” she said.

  She turned in her seat, her knees drawn up. “Good first date,” she said. “Just so you know.”

  She reached across and traced a finger up his thigh. “We got far to go?”

  “Hours. Is that bad?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On your endurance.”

  §

  She leaned further and ran that single finger across his belly and then down his other thigh. Just the touch of a fingernail raking across the coarse fabric of his jeans. No more.

  His belly twitched at her touch, and then the muscles of his thigh tightened. Down to just above his knee, then, slowly, back up.

  That belly twitch again, an uncontrollable tightening.

  He glanced across at her and she smiled.

  “Better concentrate on the road,” she said, pulling four clawed fingers across his belly.

  Upwards. His hard ribs, the rise and fall of his chest. The hard stub of a nipple through his shirt.

  Across. Fingers sliding between the buttons of his shirt. That short hair that ran down his sternum, the skin stretched tight. The other nipple. So hard.

  The flick of a finger across that hardness.

  Again.

  He gasped.

  “‘Hours’, you said? Better not get you too worked up then, had I?”

  She withdrew her hand and turned in her seat so she was facing forward. One foot up on the dash, she ran a hand along her own leg this time, along the inside of her thigh and then paused with that hand flat on her mound. She pressed, felt the bite of the seam against her clit. Whoever designed jeans with that hard seam just there? Must have been a woman.

  She pressed harder, and it was her turn to gasp.

  She was so horny for him. She’d never known anything so powerful, so all-consuming, as this passion.

  “I could pull over,” he said. Sounded like he was having trouble even finding his voice, let alone words that made sense.

  “Nu-uh,” she said. “Drive, boy. You focus on the road.”

  And with that she started to rock her hand from side to side, pushing her hips up to meet that delicious pressure.

  “You wanted to know what’s in my head?” she said. “This is what’s in my head.” She drove her hand deeper between her legs so that the side was pressing against her now, a heavier touch, something to grind against. She squeezed her legs shut tight, increasing the pressure.

  “I’m so close,” she gasped. “Already. I’m that turned on, it’s not going to take much...”

  One hand off the wheel, he reached across to take her wrist, and then eased her hand away. “We got plenty of time yet, baby,” he said. “Why don’t you just take it slow?” And that delicious fit-to-burst feeling in her belly slowly subsided.

  She pulled her wrist free and his hand fell to the flat of her belly then. Tipping her seat back further, she left that hand there, savoring its touch. Gentle at first, the thumb stroking slowly. Then starting to move in a circular motion, kneading and caressing h
er abdomen, the heel of his hand occasionally hitting the top of her jeans so that she thought he would carry on further before he moved back up.

  She stole her hand back down and pressed herself, rocking her hips.

  His hand slid inside her jumper, still caressing as he drove one-handed. She pulled her tee up, desperate for that whole skin on skin thing. Eased her jeans open so that now that circular motion of his hand could widen, travel further down, his thumb hitting the elastic of her panties... so that hand could slip inside and follow the narrow track of hair before pulling away again.

  “Slowly,” he said softly, his tone like a lullaby. “Slowly, baby, slowly.”

  §

  How long had they been driving?

  It was a blur. One long tease of a drive.

  His hand on her belly, then stealing deeper, cupping her and caressing her. Her jeans down across her thighs, her thong pulled down. His fingers lying along the folds of her labia, pressing and teasing.

  That tightening in her belly. The heat. So wet! Building until there was so much pressure in her abdomen that it had to be released and then... an easing, a shifting, a withdrawing.

  So close. So many times. He played her like a maestro, until she couldn’t imagine a world – a moment! – without his touch.

  She played him, too.

  She told him what it felt like. Told him about the tightening in her belly, about her wetness, about the little butterfly muscle tremors and the jolts of pleasure shooting through her body in response to his touch.

  She told him how she wanted to suck him deep. How it made her feel to do that: the physical sensations of having her mouth so stuffed full, of hitting that balancing point where the gag reflex was kicking in so she didn’t actually retch but still her throat convulsed and tightened on him. The sense of power and control. How she loved the eye contact, of looking up at him as he looked down, knowing how much he would love that visual; loving how the slightest shift in licking or sucking or tightness would elicit a response, the eyes widening, the mouth sagging open as he gasped, the tensing of the muscles in his jaw and neck.

  She knew some women didn’t like that. They didn’t like the taste, or simply the idea of it. She would never understand that: when you’re making love why would you ever want to limit the repertoire of sensation? Why would you not just let go and immerse yourself in the senses?

  Why would you not...?

  As he drove, she’d reached across and rested her hand on his hardness. His shaft was straining against those jeans. Pressing down, she could feel his every pulse and throb. Gently, she pressed down with the her fingers, guiding his length to lie sideways, pointing towards her. Nudging and pushing with her fingers, she eased him out straight. Less restrained, his shaft became solid like marble. So damned hard!

  Now she could run her hand along his length until the heel of her hand hit the swollen end, all the way over by his hip.

  “Are you wet now?” she asked. “You like it when I do this?” Pressing down with the fleshy part of her thumb, and then rolling from side to side.

  “Or this?” The head of his dick in the hollow of her wrist as she pushed back along his length.

  “This?” Fingers sliding in through the buttons of his jeans, finding the base of his shaft through the thin fabric of his shorts. Pressing and rolling, her forearm bearing down on his length.

  So horny. Such a long, drawn-out tease.

  But now...? They’d left the highway and were on a smaller road now, winding along a narrow valley. Tree-covered hills rose to the left; a wooded valley to the right and then more hills. The dark green of conifers punctuated bare branches, only a scattering of the trees retaining their fall colors with the occasional bright splash of yellow or deep crimson.

  “Where are we? Did I fall asleep? I can’t believe I did...”

  He smiled. “Like a puppy,” he said.

  She stretched. Just then they crossed a railroad, its tracks set into the road at an angle, and on the right she saw an imposing white chapel. Before long, the river cut in close to the road on the left and the view opened out to the distant, jagged skyline of the White Mountains, with Mount Washington Hotel picked out bright white by the sun in the middle distance.

  “We on the right road? I think this is what you showed me on the map.”

  Cassie nodded. “Few more minutes,” she said. “There’s a lake on the left, then after about half a mile the highway doglegs left and there’s a trail up the hill on the right. Signposted ‘Saco Cabins’. Two years since I’ve been there, but last I heard Marshall and Sally are still running the place, and if they are we’ll be welcome. There’s about twenty log cabins scattered through the woods there. Most will be empty right now: we’re hitting the place right between fall color and the ski season. Color’s mostly gone and the snow hasn’t fallen yet, so the place will be quiet.”

  Perfect to regroup, catch breath, and work out what in Hell they were going to do next.

  6

  Marshall and Sally were just how she remembered. When Marshall opened the door Cassie just fell into his arms, and then Sally was peeling her off him so she could get in on the hugs.

  Eventually she stepped back, surprised that she was so emotional about the reunion. They’d given her a job a while back, virtually taking her in off the street and giving her a place to sleep, but that had been three years ago and a lot had happened since then. Sometimes you need reminding of how important people have been to you, she guessed.

  Marshall was a big bear of a man. Six foot six and close to three hundred pounds. His silvering hair was thin on top but his beard was the kind that just went on down until at some point it became chest hair and shoulder hair and back hair and nobody had ever bothered to mark the boundary. Just like always, he was wearing faded denim bib overalls and a white tee-shirt. Sally, on the other hand, was a little stick-like thing, all sharp corners and pinched in features. At first glance they couldn’t have been more mismatched, but they were probably the most loving couple Cassie had ever known.

  “Well look at you,” said Sally, before darting in for another hug. Then she stepped back, looking Denny up and down, and said, “So what’s this you’ve brought in off the street? You found yourself a Mainer, have you?”

  So when was the last time she’d blushed? She felt like a teenager bringing her first boyfriend home. “This is Denny,” she said. “Denny, meet Sally and Marshall. They’re only about a half as scary as they look, but that’s still plenty, so you watch your step, you hear?”

  Denny stepped forward, hand outstretched and that twinkle of charm in his look. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, taking Sally’s hand, squeezing, letting go. “You too, sir.”

  Marshall grinned like a big kid as he took Denny’s hand and pumped it and said, in the softest of tones, “You hurt Cassie I’ll break your back, you know what I mean?”

  Denny freed himself, stepped back, and gave Cassie a What the Hell? look.

  “Listen,” said Cassie. “I’m really sorry I didn’t check ahead, but I lost my cell and we need a place to stay for a night or two and–”

  “Red Maple’s yours as long as you want it,” said Sally. “It’s stripped down, but you know where we keep the bedding and all. And I’ll be cooking for seven if you care to join us.”

  Red Maple was Sally’s favorite of the cabins at Saco, perched high above the road with a view out over the treetops to the hills across the valley. The cabins were all named for the trees you’d find here: Red Maple, Sugar Maple, White Ash, Paper Birch. Numbering would have been a whole lot easier to learn when Cassie had started here, cleaning the cabins in between guests, but the names had more character.

  Red Maple and dinner was Sally’s way of saying, You’re special; you’ll always be welcome, and Cassie felt another surge of relief, just to be here, to be somewhere that felt safe at last.

  “We’ll pay,” she said. Then: “He’ll pay.”

  Sally nodded. “You in trouble?�
� Always a one to cut straight to it.

  Cassie nodded in reply. “I think so,” she said. “Or at least Denny is. I just get to slipstream his trouble, lucky me.”

  “Like I say,” said Marshall, squaring up so that he towered over Denny, “you hurt Cassie an’–”

  “It’s all good, Marshall,” said Cassie. “Thank you, but Denny’s good. We’re in this together. Just have to lie low and work a few things out.”

  “You tell me more you’d have to kill me?” said Marshall.

  “Something like that. You really don’t need to know the kind of hole Denny can dig for himself, believe me.”

  “Can I just say,” said Denny, “how glad I am to have been able to make such a good first impression?” That twinkle again, that charm, and they were all smiling and then laughing without really knowing why.

  “Red Maple, you say?” said Cassie, and Sally turned to the check-in desk, leaned over, and plucked a key from the rack.

  “As long as you need, Cass. As long as you need.”

  §

  Back in the Lexus they followed the rough track as it wound up the hill past the first few cabins.

  After two hairpins of the track, Cassie, nodded towards Red Maple and said, “Here we are.”

  They parked up in front of the cabin and Cassie led Denny by the hand up onto the porch. Taking his hand, she turned and they looked out over the treetops.

  “Even the air tastes different up here,” she said. “It’s so peaceful. So clean. Can’t you just–”

  He took her off her feet, physically lifting her and sweeping her backwards until they came to a halt up against the front wall of the cabin.

  Instinctively, she coiled one leg up around him and his thigh came hard against her so that she cried out – in pain at first, but it was a pain that shifted from stab to ache to throb to something altogether different as she rode that hard thigh.

  A hand at the back of her head, controlling and guiding her as his mouth found hers. All that passion – the sexual tension of the last two hours in the car – erupted in that one movement and he was no longer Denny, he was an animal, an exploding ball of need.