Page 97 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘

Oh really?’ said the woman. ‘Do you live out there?’

He nodded.

‘What do you do there?’

He smirked. It was actually rather refreshing; it had been years since he’d spoken to anyone who didn’t know who he was.

‘I work in the movies,’ he said modestly.

She looked at him more closely. ‘Have you seen the screening room?’

He shook his head.

‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ she said, taking his arm.

He watched her round arse twitching as she led him down a dimly lit corridor, his heart beating with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Yes, this woman was the perfect combination of classy and sexy, but still, he didn’t want to get spotted going into a darkened room with her. Jeanie had spies everywhere.

‘This way.’ She smiled, opening a heavy soundproofed door and pulling him in. It was a snug little room with three rows of red velvet tip-up seats and a screen at one end. ‘I think you can even lock it,’ she whispered, flipping a switch.

‘Hey, I don’t know . . .’ he began, but never finished the sentence, as she took his hand and put it on her breast.

‘How’s that feel?’ she growled. ‘Does it feel good?’

‘Yes,’ he said, surprised. This was quick work, even for him. ‘Yes, it does.’

‘How about this?’ She slid her hand inside his trousers and held his erect cock.

‘Pretty good,’ he gasped. She pushed him back into one of the screening chairs, and as she unzipped his flies, he pulled her Lycra dress down to free her bra-less breasts, fantastic natural orbs that yielded to the touch.

‘Naughty,’ she purred, rolling her dress up her thighs to show him she hadn’t bothered with panties either. She straddled him, and using the fingers of one hand to part herself, guided his throbbing cock into her wetness. Vaguely an alarm bell was ringing in his brain. A producer friend in LA had warned him about London – the kiss-and-tell culture of the tabloids, the girls who would do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame and a cheque in the bank. But he was Euan O’Neil; he couldn’t be expected to abstain from women completely. He just had to choose carefully. Surely a lonely, lovely socialite with a rich, powerful husband wasn’t going to run to the tabloids or whisper to her friends? No, a memory of a night with Euan O’Neil would be kept hidden in the box marked ‘special memories’, along with her vibrator.

‘You are sure you locked the door?’ he moaned as she gripped her thighs around him, swivelling her hips to control the pace and rhythm. He could feel her clench around him, hot and tight. Holding on to the back of the chair, she slowly lifted herself off him so the very tip of his cock was tickling her neatly trimmed pubes, then she plunged back down, grinding herself on to him. He groaned, but the sound was lost as she leant forward and pulled his bottom lip into a sultry kiss.

‘I’m going to come,’ he growled as her nipple brushed his lips.

‘Not yet,’ she whispered, pumping harder. She was doing all the work, fucking him, pleasuring him, totally in control. Completely calling the shots. He loved it.

He groaned again, finding the energy to push her off him as he came, shooting over the red velvet like an over-eager eighteen-year-old. He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it up, vaguely embarrassed, but it was better than having a love child floating around London.

‘Wow,’ breathed the woman, tossing her long hair back and rolling the Lycra tube back down her body. He realised he didn’t even know her name.

‘Let’s keep this between us, hey?’ he said hopefully.

She leant down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I wouldn’t want it any other way,’ she said, then opened the door and walked out.

He slumped back down in the chair, panting. ‘Shit, why didn’t I come to London years ago?’

Miles glanced casually at his watch as he made his way towards the stage door. It was five o’clock, twenty minutes after the Hamlet matinée had finished, which meant Euan O’Neil would be back in his dressing room. A male crew member with a walkie-talkie was having a smoke on the street.

‘I need to speak to Mr O’Neil,’ said Miles coolly.

The boy shook his head apologetically. ‘Sorry, can’t let you in. Mr O’Neil usually has a massage after the performance.’

Miles took out a wodge of money from his breast pocket and handed it over. ‘This is important,’ he said, knowing the money was more than a theatre hand would make in a week.

‘Follow me,’ said the boy.