Peter James - Looking Good Dead

Grace drank some more whisky. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

She set her glass down, then removed his glass from his hand and put that down also. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered into his ear, ‘How about we don’t talk at all for a few minutes?’

Then she pressed her lips against his. They were soft, so incredibly soft; he breathed in her musky perfume, the smell of her freshly washed hair, felt her soft, sweet tongue deep inside his mouth, felt her pulling him deeper and deeper into her body, as if she was gathering him in like folds of silk.

And somehow, their bodies entwined, their lips never parting, they were climbing steep stairs – one flight, two flights, he was not counting – he was shuffling across a polished wood floor, then across a deep rug. El Divo were still playing, a soft jazzy song now. Candles, flames guttering, lined the walls, and she was still kissing him, exploring his teeth with her tongue, then the roof of his mouth, then duelling with his tongue, and he felt -

Oh Jesus, deep fire in his groin – bursting…

An electrical current was running inside his belly, shooting tiny, wonderful sparks through his body. He opened his eyes, saw her pale blue eyes smiling back at him. She was unbuttoning his shirt, and suddenly pressing her mouth, moist and soft, against each of his eyes in turn, and it was as if someone had turned up the current. She kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then his lips, again. Then again.

It was so good he was hurting.

Just a few times in the past nine years he had dialled a number in the personal ads in the Argus , and ended up in seedy basements in Brighton. One time he’d had a handjob from a fat Spanish girl. Another time he’d had oral sex from a Thai. And there had been a third, embarrassing time, when he had been barely able to raise it for a thin, local girl with a coarse voice and a flat chest.

Maybe because in his mind Sandy had been standing in that room. But she wasn’t here now.

Cleo’s slender fingers were fumbling with his belt. Another kiss, on his neck, right under his chin. He heard the clank of the buckle. Another kiss on his neck, lower now. Then suddenly he felt the release of his trousers opening, felt her hands inside his boxers, so warm and so incredibly – deliciously – sensually cold at the same time.

‘Ohmygod.’ He winced, feeling almost deliriously aroused. But he was determined to make this last a long, long time.

She smiled at him, the most totally, utterly dirty smile he had ever seen in his life. Then she was working on his shirt buttons again, undoing each one in sequence, pushing the fabric wider open.

Then she pressed her lips against his right nipple and he thought he was going to die of joy.

She continued working on him slowly, setting her own slow, so slow, so tantalizingly slow pace. She pinched his left nipple with her fingers, softly, then firmly, staring him in the face again now, smiling that wicked, beautiful, so incredible…

So incredibly…

Dirty…

Smile.

And he was so hard he could barely endure it one second longer.

Her tongue pushed deep in his belly button. Her hands were working his trousers and boxers together downwards, down over his calves, right down to his shoes.

Then she took him in her mouth.

Air shot out of his lungs, air from deep inside him, from some place or zone he did not know even existed any more, that he thought had long ago died. And he slid his hands under her sweatshirt, felt the flesh, the soft flesh of her toned midriff, pulled the sweatshirt slowly, steadily upwards, not wanting this moment to end, not wanting to remove it, just wanting to be here for ever, sliding her top upwards for ever, for all the days, hours, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds, picoseconds, femtoseconds of his life. Frozen in time.

Then he touched her breasts. No bra. Just large, much larger than he had imagined, firm, round, and she let out a moan as he touched them, then took him in her mouth again, deeper, far deeper.

Moments later, with his shoes still on and his trousers and boxers around his ankles, they were lying on a leopard-skin print throw on her bed. Staring at each other in silence. He slid his hand across her shoulders, feeling her strong shoulder blades, the contours of her back, her warm skin, and he was thinking – and he was trying not to think this, but he couldn’t help it – how so different she felt to Sandy. Not better – just different.

Flashes of Sandy began coming into his mind. Comparisons. Sandy was shorter, her body fleshier, less well toned; her breasts were smaller, a different shape, her nipples larger, pinker. Cleo’s were smaller, like crimson studs. Sandy’s pubes were brown, a wild tangle. Cleo’s were the winter-wheat colour of her hair, trimmed, neat. She was entwined around him, her fine strong limbs like some amazing pedigree racehorse, writhing, whispering, ‘Roy, you are amazing. God, Roy, I’ve wanted this for so long. Make love to me.’

And he was gathering her up into him, not able to get enough of her, as if he was lost in some fairy tale. She was trying to pull him inside her, but he wasn’t ready, not yet. It had been so long, he was trying to remember, had to hold back, had to remember how to hold back.

Had to slow everything down, somehow. Had to please her first. That had always been his private rule with Sandy, and with the small number of girlfriends he had slept with before her.

He moved down her body, caressing her breasts with his lips, then the contours of her stomach, running his tongue through the soft bristles of those winter-wheat hairs and then tasting her moistness, breathing it in, an incredible taste, smell, an even more intoxicating muskiness than the perfume she was wearing.

She was moaning.

Oh God, she tasted so good, so good, so damned beautifully good.

His phone started ringing.

She giggled. The phone persisted. Then it stopped. He went in deeper with his tongue.

‘Roy!’ she murmured. ‘Roy! Oh Roy! Oh my God, Roy!’

Two sharp beeps from his bloody phone. A message.

He was beyond caring.

Chris Willingham stared at the hysterical man with puke spattered down the front of his T-shirt standing in the doorway of the living room, screaming at him, and tried desperately to remember from his recent training how to deal with a situation like this.

‘YOU’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING! PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING. YOU HAVE TO HELP ME FIND MY WIFE!’

Talk quietly, he remembered. That was the first thing. So, in a soft voice he said, ‘What’s happened, exactly?’

‘SHE’S SCREAMING. SHE’S TERRIFIED OUT OF HER FUCKING WITS, OK?’ Tom Bryce entered the room and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘YOU’VE GOT TO FUCKING DO SOMETHING!’

The young family liaison officer gagged at the stench of the vomit. Keeping his voice soft, he said, ‘Tell me, Mr Bryce, what’s happened?’

Tom Bryce turned and walked out of the room. ‘Come on, come and see! She’s on my computer!’

The PC followed Tom up the stairs and into the small den lined with books and files and framed photographs of his wife and children. He saw a laptop on the desk, the lid open, the screen blank. Tom Bryce tapped the carriage return on the keyboard and his email in-box appeared.

The stench of vomit was even stronger in here, and Willingham, concentrating on the screen, carefully stood clear of the mess on the carpet. He watched Bryce sit down, stare at the screen, frown, then search down through it.

‘It was here,’ Tom said. ‘It was here, an email with a fucking attachment. Oh Jesus, where the hell is it?’

Willingham said nothing; Tom seemed a little calmer for a moment. Then he appeared to lose it again. ‘IT WAS HERE!’