“And Danny Boy.”
“Unless tonight’s one of his nights at Poogan’s. Either way, I think we should go listen to some music.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I suppose that’s a better idea than going home and killing ourselves.”
13
Downstairs, he gives his name. He gets off the elevator to find her framed in the doorway of her apartment, leaning a little against the doorjamb.
She’s wearing a belted silk robe with a bold floral pattern. Her slippers are open-toed, and the polish on her toenails is blood red, a match for her lipstick.
He’s carrying a briefcase, and he’s also brought a bouquet from the Korean greengrocer, a bottle from the liquor store. “These will pale beside your robe,” he tells her, handing her the flowers.
“Do you like it? I can’t decide whether it’s elegant or trashy.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“Sometimes I ask the same question of myself. These are lovely, dar -
ling. I’ll put them in water.”
She fills a vase at the sink, arranges the flowers in it, puts them on the mantel. He unwraps the bottle and shows it to her.
“Strega,” she reads. “What is it, a cordial?”
“A postprandial libation. Italian, of course. Strega means witch.”
“Moi?”
“You’re certainly enchanting.”
“And you’re a sweetie.”
She comes into his arms and they kiss. Her body, lush and full-breasted, presses against him. She’s naked under the robe, and he draws her close and runs a hand down her back, stroking her bottom.
All the Flowers Are Dying
109
He’s hard already, in anticipation. He’s been like that all day, on and off.
“This is such a nice surprise,” she says. “Two nights in a row. You’ll spoil me.”
“I have very little free time,” he says. “I’ve told you that.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s unpredictable. Sometimes I have to go away for months at a stretch.”
“It must be a difficult life.”
“It has its moments. When I do have time to myself, I try to spend it in the most enjoyable way possible. And that’s why I’m here again tonight.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t complaining. Shall we sample the Strega? I don’t believe I’ve ever had any. Or would you rather have Scotch?” He says he’ll try the cordial, that he hasn’t had it in years. She finds a pair of suitable glasses and pours drinks for both of them, and they touch glasses and sip.
“Nice. A very complicated flavor, isn’t it? Herbs, but I can’t tell which ones. How clever you were to bring this.”
“Perhaps we can take our drinks to the bedroom.”
“More than clever,” she says. “The man’s a genius.” In her bedroom he embraces her, draws the robe from her shoulders.
She’s a few years older than he, and her body is that of a mature woman, but diet and exercise have kept her in good shape, and her skin is lovely, soft as velvet.
He removes his own clothes quickly, puts them on a chair. “Oh, my,” she says, in mock horror. “You’re not going to put that big thing in me, are you?”
“Not right away.”
She’s very responsive, has been since their first time together. He brings her to orgasm first with his fingers, then with his mouth.
“My God,” she says, after her second climax. “My God, I think you’re going to kill me.”
“Oh, not just yet,” he says.
He has her in a variety of postures, moving her from one to another, slipping out of her after each orgasm and taking her again in a new position.
110
Lawrence Block
No effort is required for him to postpone his own climax. It will wait for the right moment.
At one point she takes him in her mouth. She’s good at this, and he lets her perform for a good length of time, then rolls her onto her stomach, preps her with a lubricant from the nightstand, and eases himself into her ass. They’ve done this before, they did it last night, in fact, and he’d gotten her to touch herself in front and make herself come.
Tonight she does so without being told.
