FrenchQuarter.htm by Alexander Lacey (good fiction books to read TXT) 📗

his tongue. “I’ll be in touch with you very soon, Liz,” he promised, but his eyes said more, like he was talking dirty to her, and she felt more desirable than she had in a very long time as she thanked him for his help and exited out onto Royal Street.

The day felt balmier than usual for March. Or maybe, she thought, it wasn’t balmy out here at all. Maybe it was just the fresh and unexpected heat running thick through her veins.

* * * * *

Late that night, Jack settled into a small booth at Club Venus, one of the French Quarter’s classier strip joints. Lots of brass and mirrors and plush burgundy fabrics turned the otherwise average bar into a “gentlemen’s club.” Five or six mini-stages set about the extravagant room so that wherever you looked, you found a lovely fille gyrating out of her clothes to a barely-there g-string. On the stage closest to him, a beautiful brunette, mid-20’s probably, twirled around a brass pole in a short, tight dress, displaying firm breasts with dark nipples thrusting through thin white fabric, tan legs that went on forever, and strappy fuck-me shoes with five-inch heels and at least an inch-high platform beneath her toes.

A waitress wearing a gold lame’ bikini that barely covered her soon approached. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka on the rocks,” he said, watching as her thong-clad ass jiggled its way back toward the bar.

His gaze returned to the brunette, who now peeled the top of her dress down to reveal a predictably gorgeous pair of large round breasts, nipples still standing at full attention. Letting the bodice fall to her waist, she swung her hips slowly back and forth to the beat of a sexy song and ran her hands over her ample curves, lightly pinching her nipples as she moved. He enjoyed the show she put on, but found himself thinking of another lovely lady with long tawny hair—his new client, Liz Marsh. A warm rush of blood flowed to his cock as he imagined her up on the stage, doing a slow sexy grind just for him.

Merde, it had been a long time since he’d found himself thinking with his dick, but that was exactly what had happened today. He’d quit taking cheating cases years ago—they were the bottom rung of the ladder for a self-respecting P.I.—and he wouldn’t have taken hers, either, if not for the way she’d used her eyes and body to seduce him. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d noticed the imprint of his hard cock trying to burst past his zipper. And if she’d happened back by his office a little while after she and his friend, Ty, had both left, she’d have found him unzipping his strained blue jeans, leaning back in his chair, and taking his hard shaft in hand, all with thoughts of her.

On his desk, with her skirt pushed up to her hips, that tight blouse unbuttoned, that sexy black bra undone. Wrapping her legs around his body while he sank his hungry cock into her sweet wet pussy. Panting, moaning, crying out as he drove into her moist heat. He’d slid his fist up and down his long, swollen shaft, envisioning every dirty detail and wishing like hell it wasn’t just a fantasy. It hadn’t taken long before he’d found relief, but damn, thinking of her now, watching the girl on the stage and envisioning Liz Marsh in her place, had him hot and hard again.

Another thing Jack hadn’t done in a long while was mix business with pleasure—or, in this instance, a hard bout of good old-fashioned lust. It was amateurish and he wasn’t an amateur. He’d opened his business as a wet-behind-the-ears kid of twenty-one, and fifteen years later he made a very respectable living, generally taking—and solving—cases the police couldn’t. The families or other people involved in the crimes often got fed up with a lack of answers from the authorities, and came to him with cases of theft, blackmail, missing persons; he’d even cracked a few murder cases. In a city like New Orleans, there were plenty of mysteries to be solved and secrets to uncover—just like the Mississippi, it was a river that never ran dry. And it wasn’t that he’d never slept with a woman he’d met through his job, but somewhere along the way he’d grown up; he’d decided fucking the customers was unprofessional, and he hadn’t done it since.

Not that he knew for sure if he’d sleep with Liz Marsh. But he knew if she gave him the chance, he would. Already, it had become a fact, something he wouldn’t bother denying. He’d liked the open, mutual lust flowing between them far too much to pretend he could just turn it off like a leaky faucet—hell, it had kept him half-hard all day.

So watching the stripper tease her stretchy dress up over a very round ass, then skim her hands over it as she danced, turned him as solid as a stone pillar by the time the scantily-clad waitress brought his drink.

Sipping at the vodka, he indulged himself, watching the rest of the number—the sexy brunette finally shimmied free of the dress, leaving her in shoes and a flesh-colored g-string that barely concealed her crotch. She crouched down to allow the guys near her little stage to tuck money into the thin elastic string at her hip before continuing the slow, provocative dance. She caressed her own curves—breasts, hips, inner thighs—and licked her lips, clearly as aroused by her performance as they were.

That’s when he spotted what he’d come here for—Todd Darcy, his new client’s fiancé. Liz had provided him with a recent photo, which he now pulled out of his pocket to do a double-check. Damn, this was too easy.

All he’d done was hang around outside the guy’s office building around five, the hour Liz had informed him was her fiancé’s scheduled quitting time. Around 5:15, Todd had exited onto the downtown street