Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off Dexter’s hand as he stroked himself in muscular, steady pulls. Then he angled his cock toward her and put a hand to the back of her head, firm and undeniable. A shiver ran through her as she licked her lips and set her mouth on him, still uncertain. His skin was soft under her lips, despite how hard he was underneath. When she kissed him, sucking a little as she did so, Dexter made a sound she liked very much. It emboldened her to try a lick, and her tongue encountered fluid, slick and salty, a unique concoction of their two distinct flavors. But when she would have lingered to taste it again, Dexter increased the pressure on the back of her head. He indicated in no uncertain terms that he wanted her to take him deeper into her mouth.

She tried it a little at a time, pulling away and then taking more in. His reactions thrilled her, each sigh and each flex of his powerful thighs encouraging her to take greater risks. Soon Dexter’s fingers knotted in her hair, guiding her head the way he wanted, in a rhythm that Charlotte found almost as arousing to her as it seemed to be for Dexter.

Almost. She was writhing, frustrated, when he tensed and spoke in a guttural rasp.

“I want to finish in your mouth. I want you to swallow it.”

Perhaps she wouldn’t like it, she wasn’t sure. But she felt powerful, and not inclined to back down from the challenge now. Charlotte hummed her approval, sensing the vibration would be one more form of stimulation. Dexter came silently, holding her in place as she swallowed around him.

When he started to soften, she pulled away to look at his face. He looked a bit shocked, though not displeased. After another moment or two, he tugged her up to his lap again and wrapped his arms around her.

“That was . . . I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that of you. It’s just all I’ve been able to think about for days.”

“You regret asking? Did I not do it well?” She hated not doing things well.

Dexter guffawed, the movement of his chest dislodging Charlotte’s head from his shoulder. “Christ, Charlotte! You did it so well I can’t even think straight. I can scarcely believe you’re a beginner.”

Snuggling back into place, she swung her legs to and fro and reflected. “I assure you I am. Perhaps it’s a natural talent. Why shouldn’t you have asked? As I pointed out the other day, you’ve done it to me.” Her body, still tightly wound, grew even more tense at the memory. She fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat, tracing the intricate brass filigree with a fingertip and trying to calm her mind.

“I meant the swallowing bit. I suppose I never thought of that as something a wife would do. Which is ridiculous, I realize. Why wouldn’t a wife do that? But usually it’s the sort of service one hears described as being performed by a mistress or a—well, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Or a secretary. Men really talk about these things?” Charlotte was shocked. “Explicitly?”

Dexter shrugged, seeming untroubled. “Men are beasts, Charlotte. We talk about all sorts of appalling things. The nicest of us don’t name names or discuss any characteristics that might give the lady’s identity away. Which, perhaps, is why one rarely hears about wives in those conversations,” he remarked, as though the idea had only dawned on him right then.

“Of course I’m not exactly a wife,” Charlotte pointed out.

“True. Maybe I should look at it as taking a lover. A mistress. I like the idea of a mistress who sucks my cock and swallows what I give her. Do you also take dictation?”

She struck his chest in a firm slap, then kept her hand there to enjoy the feel of his laughter. “Personally, I like the idea of a lover who keeps a civil tongue in his head.”

“I can think of better places for my tongue, love.”

And he proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he meant.

PARIS, FRANCE

“HERE WE ARE. In another hotel.”

“Dexter, I hardly think the staff at the Ritz would appreciate your referring to this as merely ‘another hotel.’” Charlotte eyed the dresses in the wardrobe, assuring herself that they had been unpacked properly. “I do wish ladies’ maids and valets were still the norm. Impractical for travel, I suppose, especially on this trip. But so useful.”

“I don’t think I’d like anybody knowing quite that much about the state of my undergarments. Present company excepted, of course.”

Dexter was circling the room, fiddling with a device that Charlotte hadn’t seen before. Flat, with wires and tiny ceramic bits soldered to it, and something that looked like a battery. He seemed to have an endless supply these little parts and wires, and was always busy making them into things.

“What’s that?”

He held up a finger to his lips and shook his head, proceeding along the wall until he’d made a full circuit of the bedroom. When he bent down to one of the nightstands, he beckoned Charlotte closer and pointed under the rim of the top, where the decorative molding formed a conveniently darkened space.

Leaning over and squinting, Charlotte could just see something under the edge, tucked behind the molding. It was small and coppery, with a tiny silver filament protruding some inches from it. When Dexter held his hand closer to it, a minute propeller on his gadget began to spin in lazy circles. The little copper thing was a bug.

He gave her a grim smile and kept going, finding two more hidden bugs in the process. In the grandly appointed sitting room, the cream and blue splendor hosted another four of the little copper listening devices. Dexter frowned up at the high ceiling, the chandelier he could not hope to reach, the intricate crown molding.

“Pumpkin, we still haven’t breakfasted. I think we should go out for a bite to eat. And then, perhaps, for a nice long walk.”

“THE SUBMERSIBLE. WE talked about it on the train, Dexter! We mentioned the mission. Dear god, what if—”

“Charlotte—”

“Perhaps while we were in the dining car, they could have—”

“Charlotte! The coach was clean,” Dexter said firmly.

“How could you know?” She glared up at him, filled with sudden mortification. “Oh, Dexter. If they were listening, that means they would have heard everything .”

“No. It was clean,” he repeated, taking her arm and steering her around a dubious-looking puddle on the pavement. “I couldn’t sleep, after . . . anyway, I couldn’t sleep. I built the detector while you were resting. I tested it in the coach. You see,” he said wryly, “I do occasionally think about these things.”

Charlotte felt her shoulder relax a fraction. She allowed her hand to curl over Dexter’s arm, and forced herself to take a few slow, deep breaths.

“In Honfleur I think we were relatively careful in the hotel, particularly after your scare about the spyglass.” Dexter continued. “Perhaps we’re not utterly compromised.”

She considered it with a moment of hope, but then dismissed it. “No. We can’t take that chance. We have to assume they know. If not specifically why we’re here, then at least that we’re here for something other than tourism.”

“ They being the French equivalent of Whitehall?”

It seemed . . . off. Charlotte couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but this didn’t have the feel of government-sponsored intelligence to it. The lone figure with a spyglass on the roof of a private building, the exiled former makesmith-spy attending a daylight meeting in Dubois’s company office below . . . even the bugs lacked the dull uniformity of government-issued gear. She felt her hackles rise and glanced around automatically, sweeping the crowd with her eyes and then smiling like any good tourist would at the panorama of humanity that was a Parisian sidewalk on the morning of a lovely summer’s day.