Vegas Vengeance by Randy Wayne White Page A

perched on her hips. It was the first real smile Hawker had seen on her haunting Mediterranean face, and he realized that she was really enjoying this opportunity to please him.
    He smiled. “You really are something, Barbara Blaine.”
    She stuck out her small hand. “Friends again?”
    â€œFriends.”
    Mary Kay O’Mordecai Flynn had flaming red hair, the body of a centerfold, the face of a country saint, the personality of a Midwestern homecoming queen, and the finger strength of a professional wrestler.
    Hawker had sweated himself in the sauna, soaked himself in the Jacuzzi and dutifully drunk the three prescribed beers. Now he lay naked on the table with a towel thrown over his hips. Even if he had had the energy to move, he wouldn’t have.
    Mary Kay O’Mordecai Flynn wore a lime-colored body stocking cut low enough at the bosom to show the healthy swell of tanned cleavage; cut high enough at her hips to display the long, lithe thighs and the indentation of partially bared buttocks.
    She didn’t massage Hawker’s muscles, she attacked them, pushing and pulling and kneading as if there were evil creatures inside him that damn well needed exorcising.
    â€œDoes this hurt, Mr. Hawker?”
    â€œArrrrg …”
    â€œDoes this hurt, Mr. Hawker?”
    â€œOooooh …”
    â€œDoes this hurt, Mr. Hawker?”
    â€œOh, lordy …”
    â€œIs there any place on your body that doesn’t hurt, Mr. Hawker?”
    â€œOnly one spot, Mary Kay, but you keep those meathooks of yours away from it!”
    But soon the pain melted away, replaced by a bone-deep relaxation that Hawker had not experienced for a very long time. The girl rolled him over on his back and began to work on his chest and stomach muscles.
    Her breasts hung temptingly over his face, and Hawker found it easier to endure if he closed his eyes.
    Soon he was asleep.
    He awoke in the midst of a dream. In the dream, Mary Kay O’Mordecai Flynn had begun taking liberties beneath the towel. In the dream, Hawker reacted the way most healthy men would react …
    But then his eyes fluttered open, and he felt the woman’s lips on him; could smell the light scent of the unfamiliar perfume—a wry, delicate musk; could feel her body tremble when he reached out and cupped the heavy, naked breast in his right hand.
    â€œMary Kay?”
    The door was closed, and the room was a void of darkness.
    The woman did not answer.
    â€œMary Kay? Is that you?”
    Still holding him in her small warm hand, the woman kissed her way up his chest to his lips, as if to silence him. Hawker slid off the table, too engulfed by the dreamy reality to question or moralize. He spread towels on the floor with his foot, then pulled the woman down with him, touching the softness of her face with his fingertips, then tracing the firm line of her body; tracing the curvature of ribs and the soft swell of thighs and the satin curl of vaginal hair.
    Since he could not see her with his eyes, he had to look at her with his fingers.
    Once again she found him with her lips as Hawker kneeled over her. When he could stand it no more, he set his tongue to work on her, massaging the delicate folds until she moaned and trembled and heaved.
    He entered her then; rolled her over on top of him, and entered from beneath, as the woman’s hips began the timeless lift, arc and fall of the final coupling.
    There seemed to be a fever in her body, a searing skin temperature that increased as the rhythm of their joining gained momentum.
    It was a strange pairing. Hawker had no idea who his partner was, yet there was an unexpected tenderness in their loving and an inexplicable charge of emotion.
    As the woman reached her climax, her lips betrayed a muffled cry as she clawed at Hawker, burying her face in the hair on his chest.
    It was the first time he had heard her voice, yet it was too distorted to tell him whom he had just made love