The moment she left he called his florist, and had flowers sent to his girlfriend. He felt a little silly; being so attracted to a client. She obviously hated him. Maybe that was why it was thrilling. She was a challenge. No one was a challenge anymore. Maybe he could get between her legs, but her heart? She would keep that safe from him. So he sent flowers to his girlfriend, and finished his workday.
He had the evening free, which was a change. He met a buddy at the gym for racquetball. He drove an exquisite Jaguar XKR to an exquisite house on a hill will an exquisite view of the ocean. And the whole time, an exquisite woman barely left his thoughts.
There was a stillness to the home when he made it back, and he found himself relieved to find that Delia was not in the house, making herself at home. That, at least, had gone simply enough, which was a pleasant surprise. Delia was not full of too many pleasant surprises.
Karsa reset the alarm code and made his way upstairs to the master bedroom, dropped his briefcase in the doorway and made his way toward the master bath. He turned on the shower and started removing the sweat drenched USC Law School T-shirt he'd worn to racquetball. Liam had been quiet, almost sullen, during their workout. It had been a relief, not trying to keep up with chatter when his mind was otherwise occupied. He thought for sure Liam would have grilled him on what he thought of Nicki's case, but he hadn't mentioned a thing. He'd been relieved, but oddly disappointed, because on some level he'd have liked to talk about it, about her. Maybe glean some insight into her; figure out what made her so abrasive, and at the same time so alluring.
She wasn't classically beautiful. Her face wasn't a perfect oval, and while she had a clean, taunt jaw-line without folds or weakness, the curvature might have been on the angular side. But gorgeous hair, thick long waves you could lose your hands in, the color of dark chocolate with the slightest hints of caramel. Perfectly curved eyebrows over inquisitive brown eyes he found hard to look away from. And over the generous mouth was a straight nose, possibly a little longer than 'perfect' that, when paired with her fine bone structure, gave her an almost bird-like quality.
At 5'11" Karsa was rarely the tallest man in a room and with heels on she was eye to eye with him, a little taller than he would have liked, except that the extra inches resulted in impossibly long legs under the impossibly short skirt she'd worn to their meeting. She'd been wearing a wool coat that reached the hem of that skirt, and he became even more distracted when the coat came off, revealing a clingy peach colored sweater made from cashmere or something very similar. Every time she breathed in it lifted her breasts enticingly, putting the gentle swell of what he guessed was a C cup on display. He spent the entire meeting willing himself not to let his eyes wander, only unable to resist once she'd admitted the teacher, dumb bastard that he was, had broken up with her.
Karsa pushed his shorts down and reached for his electric razor, standing naked at the counter he ran the machine across his face, working it against his skin as he stared into the ornate mirror his wife had picked out on a trip back to Hungary. A beautiful woman, she had garish taste in décor, and again he found himself thinking about replacing the bronze-framed monstrosity, but that would mean going shopping for himself, which he wasn't inclined to do. Not unless it was shopping for suits. Or a car. Or perhaps a garter and stockings he could watch Nicki Moreau slide up those delicious legs.
The mirror was particularly unforgiving today. He was in need of another haircut, but worse he was graying at a rapid rate, not so much in the back as the front and sides, where it mattered. He was at least 20% gray he would guess, but not yet desperate enough for artificial help. It helped in court, to look a bit older, more distinguished. He just wouldn't mind looking a little less distinguished. And the nose, he also wouldn't mind perfecting. It was nothing anyone would call oversized, but it was as long as it could be without drawing something away from his attractiveness. And he was attractive, in the almost tall, dark and handsome way. Not incredibly muscular, but solid and fit, and crunches and sit ups and biking kept his waistline in check.
Karsa put down the razor and stepped into the shower, his mind wandering back to Nicki. It was an odd case, and when his police department contact brought it up he admitted the police moved forward under a feeling of self-imposed haste there was little reason for. The victim could do little more than fail to rule out that he'd been attacked by a woman. They had her prints, but that was easily explainable, coming upon a man she'd had a relationship with it's not uncommon that she would act impulsively, touch things she shouldn't. And she'd been dripping with his blood, on her knees and her hands and arms, but not in any splatter pattern that would indicate she'd been holding the knife at the time of the stabbing. Karsa closed his eyes, the hot water assaulting his shoulders as he reached for a bar of soap, swiping it across his torso and chest, over the dark hair on his chest that, while not particularly thick, still poked out of an unbuttoned shirt from time to time. He was not a lover of chest hair.
His cell phone rang where he'd dropped it on the nightstand, and he was happy to ignore it for a few moments of peace. Once finished he reached for one of the black towels hanging next towels hanging outside the shower and dried off summarily before wrapping it around his waist and walking back out into the bedroom, which is where he found Delia, stretched out on the bed like a cat wearing only a strapless turquoise bustier with black lace trip, matching panties, and stockings.
"Hello Delia," he said dryly, feeling himself stir under the towel against his better judgment. His eyes skimmed over the blue-black hair fanned across his pillow, cheekbones so high her cheeks seemed at times hollowed-out underneath those vivid blue eyes. Her nose hooked slightly at the end, it could have been a flaw, or it could have given her face added character. "You didn't get my flowers, I take it?"
Delia rolled her eyes, "I got our flowers. The delivery man said I was your third floral break up this year, you have quite the reputation at the flower shop."
"Maybe it's time for a new flower shop." And time to change the keyless entry code, and the alarm code.
Delia sat up, and Karsa noticed her breasts were on the verge of pouring out of the poor garment, and he saw the top of one brown nipple. She brought a knee up to rest an arm on, and he saw then the panties were crotchless. As usual, she was waxed bare between her legs, not an errant hair anywhere. He'd asked about it once, and learned she had gotten in the habit of it during her first marriage. She'd married young at eighteen, looking for opportunity, she had been flattered to draw the attention of her now ex-husband. Her ex was fifty when they met, and he demanded she wax her pubic hair, claimed it was cleaner. She eventually came to the opinion that he wanted her to look like a pre-pubescent girl; but had oddly kept up the waxing when he divorced her to be with the next eighteen year old. She'd reached twenty-six by that time, and had grown much too independent, or perhaps too old, for his tastes. At thirty-four, she still looked like a starlet.
"Anyway, I had to investigate and determine if I was going to a) reject your break up attempt, or b) if I was going to have my way with you one last time and part ways amicably."
"Or accept that it's—"
Delia cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. "There is no option c." That was okay, his groin was asserting itself, and option b was looking promising. Karsa pulled on the towel, which fell loose to the floor at his feet. Delia smiled, one corner of her red lips turning up in a triumphant smirk as she lay back on the bed, bringing her other knee up and out, exposing herself to him. Karsa kneeled on the bed and moved closer to her, between her thighs, lowering his head for a taste of her.
Delia's head fell back as his Karsa's tongue slid over her clit before he moved down, covering her pussy with his mouth and sucking out her juices, pulling the taste of her to him with a lapping tongue. He felt her hand on his head, pushing down on his head. He moved his attention back to her clit, putting alternating putting suction on the tender nub and flicking it with his tongue. Delia's hand fell away from his head, and she moaned. She was a loud lover, responsive, but sometimes over the top in her vocalizations. Tonight she was more subdued, natural, and he could tell he was pleasuring her.
Karsa sent two fingers into her pussy as he flicked her clit with his tongue, her pussy juices coating his lips and chin as he worked her toward orgasm, bringing her to the edge before pulling back, moving away from her and reaching for the nightstand.
Delia groaned, pouted like a child. "I told you, I'm on the pill. Why don't you just relax for one night?"
Karsa paid her no mind, pulled a foil package out of the drawer and tore it open with his teeth. His cock was rock hard and aching for release. He slid the lubricated onto the head of his penis and inched it down his shaft.
"Karsa," Delia whined, her legs falling open even more, her hips cocked toward him. She looked wanton and shameless, and the looked worked for her. He slid inside of her, she was slick and slippery, and he sheathed himself in one smooth stroke, until his pubic bone was pressing into hers. He remained still as she squirmed, rubbing herself against him, stimulating her sensitive clit against his pubic bone. "Wouldn't if feel so much better without the barrier. To feel—really feel—how hot and wet I am for you."
