both hands, hungrily pulling him toward her and inside.
Now she ground against him, fluid working out of her, trickling down along her inner thighs, as he thrust back and forth,
filling her. He placed his hands under her buttocks, pulling her closer to him, and she moaned, as he felt the end of her,
grazing it with each thrust. “More, more,” she begged, and he gave her more.
The sweat was running down him, and their bodies slid back and forth, glistening in the muted light of the room. Now they
seemed to be in a giant ocean, slipping against each other, sliding against each other, rocking in an eternity of hot, throbbing
wetness.
She began to quiver, slowly at first, then more, and more, and her body grew more desperate, thrusting harder and harder against
him, faster and faster, every bit of her shaking, the flow between her legs near-gushing around his plunging tool.
She was gasping now, and he allowed himself full freedom, no longer trying to stop his own coursing fluids, as the whole of
the two of them meshed in one giant orgasm, he exploding, she breaking up into individually shattering areas, as if each part
of her body was having its own individual climax.
They cried out and strained together for one last moment, then collapsed, he on top of her for a moment, his tensed arms keeping
most of the weight off her. Then he rolled over on his back and drew her toward him. “If you do plan to kill me,” he told
her, “please do it that way.”
She had coffee ready for him when he awoke the next morning, and she stood there by the side of the bed, regarding him silently
as he drank. There seemed to be a quiet sadness about her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, putting down the cup.
“Nothing,” she said. “I feel so—Nothing,” she finally said, closing the door on the subject.
“Last night it seemed as if it had been a long time for you,” he told her, arising. “A very long time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Do you still plan to stay here, to—protect me?”
“Here, yes, or wherever you are. You will not be leaving this place today, I hope? You will stay here with me, and we can
again—hold one another?”
“That’s tempting,” he smiled gently, “more tempting than you can imagine. But I’ve a job to do.”
“Where are you going? Who will you see?”
“A prince of a fellow. A fine, handsome man by the name of Stymie.”
“Stymie?”
“Not too princely a name, eh? Of course, this is a prince who’s been turned into a frog—or closer yet, a toad,” Lockwood decided,
unpleasant memories of Stymie crowding into his mind.
“Who is this—prince? What does he do?” she asked, uncertainly.
“He’s a fence,” Hook said, shortly. “You know what a fence is?”
“I’m not sure…” she answered.
“A crook with no guts, that’s what a fence is. Other people do the work for him—steal jewels, paintings, furs, whatever, and
then they go to Stymie. And he gives them some money for what they’ve stolen. As little money as he possibly can.”
“And then—?”
Lockwood was puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “and then—and then he resells it for as huge a profit as he can make. All
fences are loathesome creeps,” he added, as he walked to the shower, “but no one is as coated with slime as Stymie the Fence.
And under that coating of slime—more slime!” and he turned on the shower, as if anxious to wash off even the idea of that
trafficker in stolen goods.
CHAPTER
4
Stymie the Fence had his shop in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan, on 42nd Street between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues.
Cars drawing up and parking were a rarity in this neighborhood, especially a car as sleek and expensive as the Cord, and Lockwood
and Stephanie drew stares as they alighted. He hadn’t wanted to take her, but she’d insisted. “I am your good luck talisman,”
she
Now she ground against him, fluid working out of her, trickling down along her inner thighs, as he thrust back and forth,
filling her. He placed his hands under her buttocks, pulling her closer to him, and she moaned, as he felt the end of her,
grazing it with each thrust. “More, more,” she begged, and he gave her more.
The sweat was running down him, and their bodies slid back and forth, glistening in the muted light of the room. Now they
seemed to be in a giant ocean, slipping against each other, sliding against each other, rocking in an eternity of hot, throbbing
wetness.
She began to quiver, slowly at first, then more, and more, and her body grew more desperate, thrusting harder and harder against
him, faster and faster, every bit of her shaking, the flow between her legs near-gushing around his plunging tool.
She was gasping now, and he allowed himself full freedom, no longer trying to stop his own coursing fluids, as the whole of
the two of them meshed in one giant orgasm, he exploding, she breaking up into individually shattering areas, as if each part
of her body was having its own individual climax.
They cried out and strained together for one last moment, then collapsed, he on top of her for a moment, his tensed arms keeping
most of the weight off her. Then he rolled over on his back and drew her toward him. “If you do plan to kill me,” he told
her, “please do it that way.”
She had coffee ready for him when he awoke the next morning, and she stood there by the side of the bed, regarding him silently
as he drank. There seemed to be a quiet sadness about her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, putting down the cup.
“Nothing,” she said. “I feel so—Nothing,” she finally said, closing the door on the subject.
“Last night it seemed as if it had been a long time for you,” he told her, arising. “A very long time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” he agreed. “Do you still plan to stay here, to—protect me?”
“Here, yes, or wherever you are. You will not be leaving this place today, I hope? You will stay here with me, and we can
again—hold one another?”
“That’s tempting,” he smiled gently, “more tempting than you can imagine. But I’ve a job to do.”
“Where are you going? Who will you see?”
“A prince of a fellow. A fine, handsome man by the name of Stymie.”
“Stymie?”
“Not too princely a name, eh? Of course, this is a prince who’s been turned into a frog—or closer yet, a toad,” Lockwood decided,
unpleasant memories of Stymie crowding into his mind.
“Who is this—prince? What does he do?” she asked, uncertainly.
“He’s a fence,” Hook said, shortly. “You know what a fence is?”
“I’m not sure…” she answered.
“A crook with no guts, that’s what a fence is. Other people do the work for him—steal jewels, paintings, furs, whatever, and
then they go to Stymie. And he gives them some money for what they’ve stolen. As little money as he possibly can.”
“And then—?”
Lockwood was puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “and then—and then he resells it for as huge a profit as he can make. All
fences are loathesome creeps,” he added, as he walked to the shower, “but no one is as coated with slime as Stymie the Fence.
And under that coating of slime—more slime!” and he turned on the shower, as if anxious to wash off even the idea of that
trafficker in stolen goods.
CHAPTER
4
Stymie the Fence had his shop in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan, on 42nd Street between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues.
Cars drawing up and parking were a rarity in this neighborhood, especially a car as sleek and expensive as the Cord, and Lockwood
and Stephanie drew stares as they alighted. He hadn’t wanted to take her, but she’d insisted. “I am your good luck talisman,”
she
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