Read Online Day of Confession by Allan Folsom - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Allan Folsom
Tags: Fiction, LEGAL, Suspense, Americans, Thrillers, Espionage, Adventure stories, Brothers, Italy, Clergy, Catholics, Political Fiction, Brothers - Fiction, Cardinals, Vatican City, Vatican City - Fiction, Americans - Italy - Fiction, Cardinals - Fiction
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Thinking he had never felt so enormous in his life. Finally, after minutes, easing her head away, lifting her up, carrying her through the orderliness of the living room—a giggle in the dark as she gave him directions—down a short hallway to her bedroom. Waiting, vamping really, as she pulled a condom from a nearby drawer—swearing under her breath, struggling to tear open the foil—then, succeeding, taking it out, and easing it down around him.
“Turn over,” he whispered.
Her smile enraptured him as she did, so that she faced the head of the bed. And he mounted her from behind, feeling the insertion into her warmth, beginning the stroking, the slow in and out, that he sustained almost forever.
Her moaning stayed in his mind for a long time. By Harry’s count he’d come five times in two hours, not bad for a thirty-six-year-old. How, and if, she kept score of her own orgasms he had no idea. What he remembered was her not wanting him to fall asleep there. Just kissing him once more and telling him to go back to his hotel, because in two hours she had to get up and go to work.
12
Wednesday, July 8, 4:32 A.M .
AGAIN HARRY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK. TIME crept. If he slept at all, he didn’t know. He could still smell Adrianna’s perfume. It was almost masculine, like citrus and smoke. Getting up, going to work in two hours, she’d said. Not just to work like most people, but to the airport and a plane to Zagreb and then into the Croatian backcountry for a story on human rights abuses committed by Croats against Croatian Serbs who had been driven from their homes and slaughtered. It was who she was and what she did.
He remembered, somewhere during their circus, breaking his own rule of not talking about Danny and asking what she knew about the investigation into the bombing of the Assisi bus.
And she’d answered directly, not once, even in tone, accusing him of trying to use her. “They don’t know who did it…”
He’d looked at her in the darkness—her bright eyes watching his, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed—trying to judge if she was telling him the truth. And the truth was, he couldn’t tell. So he let it go. In two days he would be gone, and the only time he would see her again would be on television, in her baseball cap and L. L. Bean field jacket, reporting some kind of struggle from somewhere. What mattered now, as he watched her, moved down to caress her breasts, encircle her nipples with his tongue, one and then the other, was that he wanted her once more. And once more after that. And then again, until there was nothing left, everything gone from his mind but this thing that was Adrianna. Selfish, yes. But it wasn’t entirely one-sided. The idea, after all, had been hers.
Running his fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh, he’d heard her whimper as he reached the sticky wetness where her legs came together. Fully aroused, he was easing up, about to mount her, when abruptly she shifted, rolling him over and getting on top, pulling his erection sharply inside her.
Moving back, she dug her feet into the tuft of the bed and then leaned forward, hands on either side of his head, eyes wide open, watching him. Slowly she began her work, sliding up and down the length of him. Masterfully. Her full weight behind each calculated thrust. And then, like a rower listening to the cadence of her coxswain, she picked up the beat. Moving faster, and faster, then still. The jockey testing the heart of the creature beneath her. Riding loud and hard and with no mercy. Until she became the thoroughbred herself. Pounding the inside rail. Tasting the Crown and thundering savagely toward the finish. In the blink of an eye she’d made it a new game. What before had been desire had suddenly become a leviathan competition.
Nor had she made a mistake in choosing Harry. Long ago having vowed to master the fine art of “swordsmanship,” he watched her every move, then met her stride for
“Turn over,” he whispered.
Her smile enraptured him as she did, so that she faced the head of the bed. And he mounted her from behind, feeling the insertion into her warmth, beginning the stroking, the slow in and out, that he sustained almost forever.
Her moaning stayed in his mind for a long time. By Harry’s count he’d come five times in two hours, not bad for a thirty-six-year-old. How, and if, she kept score of her own orgasms he had no idea. What he remembered was her not wanting him to fall asleep there. Just kissing him once more and telling him to go back to his hotel, because in two hours she had to get up and go to work.
12
Wednesday, July 8, 4:32 A.M .
AGAIN HARRY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK. TIME crept. If he slept at all, he didn’t know. He could still smell Adrianna’s perfume. It was almost masculine, like citrus and smoke. Getting up, going to work in two hours, she’d said. Not just to work like most people, but to the airport and a plane to Zagreb and then into the Croatian backcountry for a story on human rights abuses committed by Croats against Croatian Serbs who had been driven from their homes and slaughtered. It was who she was and what she did.
He remembered, somewhere during their circus, breaking his own rule of not talking about Danny and asking what she knew about the investigation into the bombing of the Assisi bus.
And she’d answered directly, not once, even in tone, accusing him of trying to use her. “They don’t know who did it…”
He’d looked at her in the darkness—her bright eyes watching his, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed—trying to judge if she was telling him the truth. And the truth was, he couldn’t tell. So he let it go. In two days he would be gone, and the only time he would see her again would be on television, in her baseball cap and L. L. Bean field jacket, reporting some kind of struggle from somewhere. What mattered now, as he watched her, moved down to caress her breasts, encircle her nipples with his tongue, one and then the other, was that he wanted her once more. And once more after that. And then again, until there was nothing left, everything gone from his mind but this thing that was Adrianna. Selfish, yes. But it wasn’t entirely one-sided. The idea, after all, had been hers.
Running his fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh, he’d heard her whimper as he reached the sticky wetness where her legs came together. Fully aroused, he was easing up, about to mount her, when abruptly she shifted, rolling him over and getting on top, pulling his erection sharply inside her.
Moving back, she dug her feet into the tuft of the bed and then leaned forward, hands on either side of his head, eyes wide open, watching him. Slowly she began her work, sliding up and down the length of him. Masterfully. Her full weight behind each calculated thrust. And then, like a rower listening to the cadence of her coxswain, she picked up the beat. Moving faster, and faster, then still. The jockey testing the heart of the creature beneath her. Riding loud and hard and with no mercy. Until she became the thoroughbred herself. Pounding the inside rail. Tasting the Crown and thundering savagely toward the finish. In the blink of an eye she’d made it a new game. What before had been desire had suddenly become a leviathan competition.
Nor had she made a mistake in choosing Harry. Long ago having vowed to master the fine art of “swordsmanship,” he watched her every move, then met her stride for
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