Page 31 of Thief

Kat felt a rush of warmth to her pussy. Just looking at the woman’s face reminded her of how it had felt when John had fucked her wildly in the shower, when he had shoved his cock up inside her and his fingers into her back hole.

She beat down a delicious tremble of desire as she read the title of the DVD—Anal Virgin Takes It All. That was her. She was an anal virgin. Did fingers count? No, she didn’t think so. Suddenly, she wanted that DVD. Not to show John what she’d chosen, but she wanted it for herself, to watch, to see what it would be like—the big taboo of sex.

She moved to the bamboo curtain and peered through a gap created by a missing string. John stood at the till, talking to the cashier. She glanced up at the security camera in the corner. It was facing her, but she reckoned it was worth the risk. The sales guy seemed pretty distracted. She walked back over to the DVD and, with lightning speed, dropped it in her bag. Just as John parted the curtain, she reached for another DVD.

“Found anything?” he asked lightly.

“No, but clearly you did.” She nodded at the bulging brown bag in his hand.

“Yeah, just a few essentials.” A half smile tipped his lips. “What’s that you’ve got.” He loomed next to her and twisted the DVD she gripped in her hand. “Seven Days and Seven Nights—Bound and Gagged.” His mouth broke into a full wattage grin. “Well, if I’d known that was what you wanted, Pussy Cat, I would’ve been more than happy to oblige.” He pushed a finger to his temple as if in deep thought. “In fact, I think I did suggest it.”

“You’re all talk and no action, John, so just shut up, will you?” Kat couldn’t believe the apt title of the DVD she’d grabbed in haste.

“I think we both know that’s not true.” His eyes glistened, and his voice deepened an octave. “You know full well I can provide the action, you just got to say the word, baby.”

Kat slammed the DVD back on the shelf with a clatter. “Let’s just get to Oxford Street. That fat sweaty guy gives me the creeps.”

* * * *

Kat dropped her shopping on the hall floor and flopped exhausted on the sofa. She was tired from battling the crowds, and the images from the adult shop were still rattling around in her head. Her curiosity had been lit like a bonfire, and she couldn’t wait for John to leave so she could watch her new DVD.

As she sank her head back into the cushions, she realised the urge to check the inside of all of her cupboards and behind all the doors for lurking attackers had gone. It was strange, the absence of her ritual. She hadn’t even noticed she’d given it up until now.

She glanced towards John who standing at the drinks cabinet, pouring his first whisky of the day.

The obsessive compulsion had disappeared because her fears had finally been realised. John. Here he was, her imagined attacker, no longer imagined, standing in front of her and making himself well and truly at home. Her nightmare had moved in.

It was him she’d always imagined lurking in the dark corners of her home, and he’d finally shown himself. Absently, she wondered if he was a figment of her imagination and she had a hallucination confused with reality. Maybe she’d spent too many years alone and sent herself completely round the bend. Maybe the hunk of man she saw before her was no more than an illusion. A trick of the light her lonely soul had played.

She was about to pinch the flesh of her forearm when she felt the sofa sag as John sank himself down. No, he’s real. An imagined houseguest wouldn’t make the sofa sink like that or take up over half of it.

She studied John’s chiselled profile as he took a deep mouthful of the fiery liquid. His eyes screwed up as the first mouthful hit the back of his throat.

“Is your knee bad today?”

“It’s been worse.”

“My feet ache after Oxford Street. They always do.” She flipped off her heels. “Maybe one day, I’ll learn to wear walking shoes for shopping. It would be more comfortable.” She reached for a cream suede cushion and embraced it like a shield.

John bent to put his drink on the table, and as he straightened, he grabbed her ankles and lifted her bare feet onto his lap.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Kat exclaimed, twisting her ankles as her body slid down the slippery leather. “Get off me, will you!”

“Stop wriggling,” he ordered. “You said your feet ached, didn’t you?”

Kat stilled as big, cool hands engulfed her throbbing left foot and applied a strong, steady pressure to the aching ball.

She was transported to heaven.

He rubbed his thumb in a circle over the sole and flexed her stiff toes, first one way then the other with the palm of his hand. She let out a sigh and dropped her head sideways against the sofa, still hugging the cushion to her chest. It felt good, more than good. What he was doing felt great. All those times her feet had been fit to burst after she’d been shopping and this was all she’d needed, a man to rub and knead them back to life. Revive them with strength and gentleness combined.

She found herself lazily studying the snake tattoo on his lower arm. She hadn’t taken much notice of it before, but with all the muscles tensing and flexing beneath the skin it looked as if the reptile had come to life. Its long body rippled and rolled, twitching and flexing in time with his muscles. Its individual scales moved against each other in a fascinating visual effect.

“What type of snake is that?” she asked.

“A cobra.”

“Any particular reason why you have a cobra on your arm?”

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