on. Millie was feeling threatened by her attraction to Will. He had to back down ostensibly, while working to heighten the attraction she felt for Will. He had to become passively appealing, like a triple chocolate-crème éclair to a compulsive eater on a rigorous diet.
She’d be trapped by her own desire, without a convenient excuse to run him off on.
He walked into the kitchen and picked up a brown paper bag full of odorous odds and ends he’d bought up at an expensive naturalist store. Yes. He took out a large flask of malt and yeast-extract granulate, which he poured into small muslin sachets to scatter among Will’s clothes; a small bottle of sweet almond oil, and best of all, a tiny vial filled with a clear golden liquid in which floated long dark filaments: pure, true-blue vanilla essence.
He took a quick shower and threw himself onto the bed. He’d sleep for a few hours, and get some rest. Tomorrow seemed most promising.
Millie pushed Lance back against the counter and fumbled at his belt. “Get it out,” she snarled. “ Now!”
Lance opened his fly and found himself in her merciless grasp. Her sharp nails ran in a dangerous caress up his shaft, and grazed the top of his penis. She cupped his testicles and squeezed. Waves of pleasure shook him. “Beg for it, you bastard. Go on. Beg for it.”
“Please, God, Millie, please . . . please . . .”
Lance shuddered awake, gasping. Not again. He was like a teenager, fantasising about her, coming on his sheets . Damn . His laundry bill was going to mushroom.
Lance got up and got going. He took a long shower, had a quick shave, and ate his customary frugal breakfast. After dressing in a dark blue V-neck sweater and jeans, he carefully dabbed minute droplets of the vanilla essence on his wrists, behind his ears, the back of his neck, and the base of his throat—subtle but there. He imagined the devastating effect of the scent in the close confines of the van. Get ready, Miss Millie, I’m coming for you . . .
At four in the morning sharp, Lance pulled up in front of Guilty Pleasures.
Millie opened the van door and got in. “Good morning,” she said coolly.
Lance gave her Will’s best endearing smile. “Good morning. Where to today?”
“The flower market, please.”
What a change . The warm, vivacious woman was replaced by her ice-cold bitch of a twin sister. Lance followed her into the market, her short buxom figure striding determinedly through the throng.
Millie stopped at a stall selling beautiful yellow tulips. She spoke to the owner, and stood stiffly with her lips clamped tightly together while he packed her order into long, white boxes.
Lance felt a sharp sting. He heard himself cry out in alarm and swatted at his neck. Nauseating waves of pain pulsed out from a hot place on his neck. Something squirming and furry fell at his feet.
“A bee!” The stall owner gazed at him in sudden concern. “Quickly, man, are you allergic?”
“No, no . . . God, that hurts! ”
Millie was next to him; her face seemed blurred by the pain. “Lean down so I can take a look, Will.”
Lance placed his hands flat on the stall counter and bent down.
“No wonder!” she exclaimed. “The stinger and the poison gland are still attached. Don’t move.” Her quick fingers plucked at something, and then incredibly, her hot mouth was at his neck. She sucked at his neck, then spat with unladylike precision, and bent to him again.
Lance shuddered at the combination of the stinging pain and the rousing sensation of her wet sucking mouth on his skin.
She spat again. “That should get the worse of it out.” She addressed the hovering man. “Do you have some ice?”
“Yes, for the flowers! Let me go get you some!”
“Thanks. That would really help.” The man hurried off, and Millie turned to Lance. “Are you wearing aftershave or some scent?”
The helpful man came back and handed her a clump of ice wrapped in a
She’d be trapped by her own desire, without a convenient excuse to run him off on.
He walked into the kitchen and picked up a brown paper bag full of odorous odds and ends he’d bought up at an expensive naturalist store. Yes. He took out a large flask of malt and yeast-extract granulate, which he poured into small muslin sachets to scatter among Will’s clothes; a small bottle of sweet almond oil, and best of all, a tiny vial filled with a clear golden liquid in which floated long dark filaments: pure, true-blue vanilla essence.
He took a quick shower and threw himself onto the bed. He’d sleep for a few hours, and get some rest. Tomorrow seemed most promising.
Millie pushed Lance back against the counter and fumbled at his belt. “Get it out,” she snarled. “ Now!”
Lance opened his fly and found himself in her merciless grasp. Her sharp nails ran in a dangerous caress up his shaft, and grazed the top of his penis. She cupped his testicles and squeezed. Waves of pleasure shook him. “Beg for it, you bastard. Go on. Beg for it.”
“Please, God, Millie, please . . . please . . .”
Lance shuddered awake, gasping. Not again. He was like a teenager, fantasising about her, coming on his sheets . Damn . His laundry bill was going to mushroom.
Lance got up and got going. He took a long shower, had a quick shave, and ate his customary frugal breakfast. After dressing in a dark blue V-neck sweater and jeans, he carefully dabbed minute droplets of the vanilla essence on his wrists, behind his ears, the back of his neck, and the base of his throat—subtle but there. He imagined the devastating effect of the scent in the close confines of the van. Get ready, Miss Millie, I’m coming for you . . .
At four in the morning sharp, Lance pulled up in front of Guilty Pleasures.
Millie opened the van door and got in. “Good morning,” she said coolly.
Lance gave her Will’s best endearing smile. “Good morning. Where to today?”
“The flower market, please.”
What a change . The warm, vivacious woman was replaced by her ice-cold bitch of a twin sister. Lance followed her into the market, her short buxom figure striding determinedly through the throng.
Millie stopped at a stall selling beautiful yellow tulips. She spoke to the owner, and stood stiffly with her lips clamped tightly together while he packed her order into long, white boxes.
Lance felt a sharp sting. He heard himself cry out in alarm and swatted at his neck. Nauseating waves of pain pulsed out from a hot place on his neck. Something squirming and furry fell at his feet.
“A bee!” The stall owner gazed at him in sudden concern. “Quickly, man, are you allergic?”
“No, no . . . God, that hurts! ”
Millie was next to him; her face seemed blurred by the pain. “Lean down so I can take a look, Will.”
Lance placed his hands flat on the stall counter and bent down.
“No wonder!” she exclaimed. “The stinger and the poison gland are still attached. Don’t move.” Her quick fingers plucked at something, and then incredibly, her hot mouth was at his neck. She sucked at his neck, then spat with unladylike precision, and bent to him again.
Lance shuddered at the combination of the stinging pain and the rousing sensation of her wet sucking mouth on his skin.
She spat again. “That should get the worse of it out.” She addressed the hovering man. “Do you have some ice?”
“Yes, for the flowers! Let me go get you some!”
“Thanks. That would really help.” The man hurried off, and Millie turned to Lance. “Are you wearing aftershave or some scent?”
The helpful man came back and handed her a clump of ice wrapped in a
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