Read Online Venom: A Thriller in Paradise (The Thriller in Paradise Series Book 3) by Rob Swigart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rob Swigart
Tags: detective, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Action, Police Procedural, Contemporary Fiction, Men's Adventure, Medical Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Detective Series, mystery series, Hawaii, technothriller, thriller and suspense, literature and fiction, Charlie Chan, Hawaii fiction
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she struggled with his clothing.
He said nothing for a time, then said, “Jean,” in a brief, almost evasive tone.
“Jean,” she repeated clumsily, her French accented atrociously with American. He did not react, but pressed her against him.
At last she got his shirt and jacket off, and leaned back to admire the clean definition of his musculature. He had a tattoo on his arm, a fearsome sea monster of some kind. That was exotic, a little wild.
“How do you stay in such good shape?” she said, running her palms over his chest. She tugged at his belt.
“I work out,” he said shortly, pushing her roughly against the bed. The edge caught her knees, and she toppled back, spreading her legs a little as she fell. He could see she was not a real blond: Her pubic hair was dark, a chestnut color, but very rich. He reached down and seized a handful and pulled roughly.
She cried out with pain and sudden fear, and he smiled. “You would like,” he said softly, “to fuck?” He released her and stepped back.
She nodded, but felt the fear in her own eyes looking out. He pulled his pants down swiftly and stepped out of them. His penis was small and very hard. She stared at it, fascinated, as it approached her. Slowly, so slowly. She licked her lips and touched her breast lightly, almost without knowing she was doing it. She cupped it, curled her fingers around the nipple, small and hard between her thumb and forefinger. The fear faded, swamped by her desire. Her thighs widened, opening her shell-pink vagina to him, its small folds distended and moist. He ignored it, staring at her face.
“Please,” she breathed “Please. It’s been so long.” Her fingers worked at her nipple. She reached with her other hand for her clitoris and rubbed it in small circles. She spread her fingers along the labia and pulled them apart, opening herself more. “Please.” Her voice was so thick now she could scarcely get the word out.
He stopped. He put his hands together, palm to palm, and pressed. The muscles along his biceps and forearms, his pectorals and abdomen, tensed and ridged. For a moment he looked as if he were posing for a photo.
“Your husband does not look like this?” he said.
“No!” She almost shouted it. Her heels curved up, opening her thighs. More quietly she repeated, “No.”
He moved a little closer, flexing his hips and buttocks to thrust his penis slowly toward her. She let go of her clitoris and reached for him as he moved into range.
He struck then with unbelievable speed, lashing out so fast she never saw the blow coming. The room went black. He spoke to her then in urgent, rapid French, words she could not have understood through her shock and fear even if she did know French. She knew only they were intended to hurt.
He grabbed both her hands and pinned them above her head. In spite of herself she raised her loins to him, but he did not enter her. His face, so close to hers she could not focus on it, was distorted with an expression she did not recognize, though instinctively she feared it. He moved lightly onto the bed, holding her hands down. He threw one leg over her and sat astride, pinning her waist to the bed and her hands beside her ears, and watched her cheek swell and darken. He began to hum an old French drinking song under his breath as he moved his loins against her.
“
Et le bec, oui, oui, ou
i,” he sang softly, his breath hot against her breasts. He came suddenly, spasmodically, on her belly. Then dreamily, almost lovingly, he let go of her wrists and laid the large, hard bases of his thumbs on her throat, thumbs up under the corners of her jaw. She could feel then the hard ridges of callus against her neck.
He began to squeeze. He smiled softly as her eyes filled first with fear, then with despair.
SIX
GAIA FOUNDATION
Vincent Meissner was dead tired and unhappy. The plane had been late. The temperature was all wrong— he had been here twenty minutes and already he missed the
He said nothing for a time, then said, “Jean,” in a brief, almost evasive tone.
“Jean,” she repeated clumsily, her French accented atrociously with American. He did not react, but pressed her against him.
At last she got his shirt and jacket off, and leaned back to admire the clean definition of his musculature. He had a tattoo on his arm, a fearsome sea monster of some kind. That was exotic, a little wild.
“How do you stay in such good shape?” she said, running her palms over his chest. She tugged at his belt.
“I work out,” he said shortly, pushing her roughly against the bed. The edge caught her knees, and she toppled back, spreading her legs a little as she fell. He could see she was not a real blond: Her pubic hair was dark, a chestnut color, but very rich. He reached down and seized a handful and pulled roughly.
She cried out with pain and sudden fear, and he smiled. “You would like,” he said softly, “to fuck?” He released her and stepped back.
She nodded, but felt the fear in her own eyes looking out. He pulled his pants down swiftly and stepped out of them. His penis was small and very hard. She stared at it, fascinated, as it approached her. Slowly, so slowly. She licked her lips and touched her breast lightly, almost without knowing she was doing it. She cupped it, curled her fingers around the nipple, small and hard between her thumb and forefinger. The fear faded, swamped by her desire. Her thighs widened, opening her shell-pink vagina to him, its small folds distended and moist. He ignored it, staring at her face.
“Please,” she breathed “Please. It’s been so long.” Her fingers worked at her nipple. She reached with her other hand for her clitoris and rubbed it in small circles. She spread her fingers along the labia and pulled them apart, opening herself more. “Please.” Her voice was so thick now she could scarcely get the word out.
He stopped. He put his hands together, palm to palm, and pressed. The muscles along his biceps and forearms, his pectorals and abdomen, tensed and ridged. For a moment he looked as if he were posing for a photo.
“Your husband does not look like this?” he said.
“No!” She almost shouted it. Her heels curved up, opening her thighs. More quietly she repeated, “No.”
He moved a little closer, flexing his hips and buttocks to thrust his penis slowly toward her. She let go of her clitoris and reached for him as he moved into range.
He struck then with unbelievable speed, lashing out so fast she never saw the blow coming. The room went black. He spoke to her then in urgent, rapid French, words she could not have understood through her shock and fear even if she did know French. She knew only they were intended to hurt.
He grabbed both her hands and pinned them above her head. In spite of herself she raised her loins to him, but he did not enter her. His face, so close to hers she could not focus on it, was distorted with an expression she did not recognize, though instinctively she feared it. He moved lightly onto the bed, holding her hands down. He threw one leg over her and sat astride, pinning her waist to the bed and her hands beside her ears, and watched her cheek swell and darken. He began to hum an old French drinking song under his breath as he moved his loins against her.
“
Et le bec, oui, oui, ou
i,” he sang softly, his breath hot against her breasts. He came suddenly, spasmodically, on her belly. Then dreamily, almost lovingly, he let go of her wrists and laid the large, hard bases of his thumbs on her throat, thumbs up under the corners of her jaw. She could feel then the hard ridges of callus against her neck.
He began to squeeze. He smiled softly as her eyes filled first with fear, then with despair.
SIX
GAIA FOUNDATION
Vincent Meissner was dead tired and unhappy. The plane had been late. The temperature was all wrong— he had been here twenty minutes and already he missed the
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