She was rocking in a frenzy, her redolent musk torturing his nose, her hair weaving frantic patterns across her face as her head jerked back and forth.
‘Hai . . . hai . . hal . . . haihaihaihaihaihai. H-h-haaaaiii.’
She stiffened, her head thrust back among the pillows. Her body jolted in the spasms of orgasm. DeLaroza was on the edge of madness. He too began to spasm and as he did, she rose slowly, tantalizingly to her knees before him, shuddered, zipped down his pants, freeing him, and, with a tiny animal cry, let her face fall across his lap. Her mouth enveloped him, her tongue brushed him, the moist membranes of her mouth closed on him, and an instant later he too exploded.
The meal was prepared by the chef of the finest Szechuan restaurant in the city, who arrived at precisely nine o’clock, assisted by two busboys, and moved silently into the kitchen, where he set up and awaited her command. Domino sat at the head of the table. She was no longer the servant, now she ruled like an empress, clapping her hands once at the beginning of each course and twice when they were finished, the busboys appearing and disappearing as silently as time passing. DeLaroza sat at the opposite end of the table, eating slowly, savouring every bite, smiling, and nodding approval after each course. They ate in silence, in the manner of Chinese royalty, devoting their full attention to the food.
It was spectacular. The courses were small, to prevent overeating. And while Domino bad prepared only one course, the shark’s fin soup, she had planned the entire meal, selecting the most succulent dishes from the menu of the Princess Garden restaurant in Hong Kong. It was truly a meal fit for an emperor: t’ang-t’su-au-pien, a salad whose main ingredients were fresh lotus roots, sesame seed oil, and soy sauce; chow fan, a mound of rice concealing bits of egg, shrimp, ham, peas, and onions, all deep-friend in peanut oil; hasi-tan, a side dish of deep- fried bamboo shoots and water chestnuts served over noodles; and Peking duck, basted in salad oil and roasted until the skin crackled, th n served as three different courses. First, the skin was presented, dipped in thick soybean paste, sprinkled with onions, and wrapped in Chinese pancakes. Next the bones were offered, boiled into a gravy with cabbage and mushrooms and served with the chow fan. Finally, the meat itself, juicy, spicy, hot, and sliced into thin strips. The dessert — sliced bananas dipped in batter and deep-fried, then immersed in ice water that froze the outer crust into a glaze while the bananas remained steaming hot — was the perfect conclusion.
When the meal was over and the chef and his assistants had departed as silently as they had come, she served absinthe, smuggled in from Ecuador, and they smoked a joint of pure Colombian grass the colour of cinnamon. It warmed and mellowed them, stirring the libido again. They stared dreamily across the table at each other. Not a word had passed between them for more than two hours.
Finally she left the table and went back to the massage room. DeLaroza lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, fully content, awaiting whatever surprises she would offer next.
His thoughts began to wander. To Hotchins. To the campaign.
To Burns.
The thought of Burns chilled him and he closed his eyes, summoning his mantra to purge the devils from his mind.
Gowmanah
thinking about her, lying before him among the pillows
Gowmanah
stroking herself, turning herself on, performing for him...
Gowmanah
visualizing her undressing, revealing her immaculate body...
Gowmanah
and it was simple. Once again, Eros commanded his mind.
He heard her clap her hands and, turning, saw her silhouetted against a dozen or more candles, her body oiled and glowing. He obeyed her command and went to her. Feather fingers stripped him, eased him down among the pillows on the floor, spread warm oil over his body, massaging him from head to foot, subtly caressing his genitals, stroking him, her tongue teasing him to fullness. She knelt over him, resting on her knees, her spiderweb plume brushing against him, her moisture preparing him. He began to throb and she shifted, rolling to her side beside him and reaching to the small table beside her, picked up a mirror, and placed it on her stomach.
She had prepared four long rows of cocaine on the mirror, carefully chopped and arranged in narrow files, each one about five inches long. Beside the rows were a short piece of glass straw perhaps four inches long and a spoon of pure Andean gold brought from Cuzco, the capital of the Inca empire, in southern Peru, its handle delicately hand- carved in a sculpture of Virgo, the Inca goddess of coca, the minutely detailed headdress containing the tiny bowl of the spoon itself
He turned and lay between her legs, her tuft against his chest, took the straw and; holding one nostril shut, moved the straw up one row of coke, inhaling sharply. He snorted deeply through the other nostril. The coke hit him in a rush. His groin surged. The tartness of the drug burned his throat. He slid the mirror towards her, slipped down, buried his head between her legs.
She lay the mirror beside her, turned slightly, snorted the second row, let it sizzle through her body, felt it charge up deep into her sinuses. She lay back down, shuddering as the cocaine surged through her senses, touching every organ with life.
DeLaroza rose up on his elbows, retrieved the mirror, and, using the straw as a pusher, filled the spoon with the powder. She bent her legs slightly at the knees. Venus rose towards him, lips apart and moist, inviting him, enticing him. He held the spoon between her legs, lowered it until it almost touched her. Her ringlets rose towards his hand and parted and he lowered the spoon, touched her vivid heart-shaped opening, tapped his finger against the side of the spoon, watched the minute crystals sprinkle as he moved the spoon along her waiting lips.
Her eyes were closed. She began to shudder.
He moved the mirror, slid up between her legs, rose up above her, overpowered by her lust. She was his erotic master, orchestrating his orgasm. He felt godlike. He was Priapus, son of Dionysius and Aphrodite, who fornicated for eternity without losing his erection, and he roared with desire as he surged against her.
The cocaine felt like ice, first numbing her membranes, then suddenly setting them afire. She cried out, feeling him against her, rising up to meet him, her senses screaming for satisfaction.
