The Lover's Children

Chapter 82 – Solstice – Part 15

GEORGIE

Borje breaks the kiss, his face rising enough that we are looking at each other. His lips curve and fine

lines fan from the corners of eyes dark as a new moon, rimmed by silver.

He shifts, his shaft mooring against my fluid entrance, then slowly, gradually, he fills me, the shivering

air drawing from my lungs as he penetrates. My flesh shudders, flowing around him, rippling and

stretching as he sinks into me.

And there, for long seconds, he rests. “Alright, Georgie? I’m not hurting you?”

I reach with my mouth, pressing a kiss to his lips. “No, you’re not hurting me.”

“Good.” And he moves, withdrawing slightly, then re-entering. And once more, a little deeper. A little

harder.

I reach around, intending to hold him at the shoulders. But he takes one wrist, gripping it, angling my

arm back to rest against the pillow. My other hand caressing his spine, I move with him.

It’s soft, and slow, and easy. Together, we rock and sway. He ducks to drift a kiss over my neck. I

respond, brushing my lips over his ear.

Borje moves more powerfully, his strokes accelerating, strengthening. The flush of his face mirrors the

heat in my own. The perspiration beading his forehead feeds the slickness of my skin. The pulsing vein

at his neck matches the pounding under my ribs.

He plunges deeper, fathoming me. With every stroke, he knocks a yell from my throat, yells that turn to

laughter. As I laugh, “Are you going to come for me, Georgie?”

Oh, God… Yes…

Still deep inside me, he inclines back a little. Gripping my wrist with one hand, he slides the other to the

heated space between my thighs. A moment’s exploration and fingertips rub at my clit, swirling around Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

then pinching, hard.

I yelp, lurching. He chuckles. “I’ll ask again, Georgie. Are you going to come for me?”

“Yes. I’m going to come for you.”

His smile grows wider, whiter, brighter. He works my bud, flicking electric pleasure to spark deep within.

The sparks grow to flames. A heat inside that waxes and blooms, melting my flesh, freezing my breath.

The air seizes in my throat as I well fluid and hot. Volatile. Something volcanic rises, my quivering flesh

beginning to throb.

Droplets of sweat splash to my face and breasts, Borje strains, still thrusting within, teasing without. His

shaft fills me, pounding me as the pulsing grows. My clit flutters and quakes as he kneads and rubs,

the fluttering spiralling out, merging with the rising surge from my core…

Lightning strikes and I go into meltdown, convulsing outside and in. I think I scream. I’m not sure. In the

same moment, Borje groans, pitching over me, hips bucking, his face pressed to mine as we ride our

first climax together. Our bodies grinding together, each lost in the other, we share breath, sweat and

flesh, crashing through orgasm, thrashing our way through ecstasy…

Long moments-hours-minutes-years later, still locked together, we fall still, saving for the harmonised

drumming of two heartbeats, the coordinated heaving of two sets of lungs.

Borje lifts himself away from me, withdrawing his flagging cock then rolls off to lie alongside. For

several seconds, he lies staring up at the ceiling, chest still pumping. Then his hands tighten around

mine and he twists to look sidelong. “That was incredible.”

“Yes, it was,” I grin.

*****

KLEMPNER

Diva Beavers - Gentlemen’s Club

Hmmm…

The name tells me most of what I want to know about the thought processes of the man running it.

I make way to the entrance, in plain view of the Neanderthal manning the door. Sauntering across the

road, I straighten my jacket, adjust my cuffs. Ape Man follows my approach, his stance shifting

minutely.

“I'm here to see Renberger.”

He measures me up and down, assessing, studying my suit, my shoes, my face. “Would it be

Lawrence Klempner?”

“That's right.” I’m impressed: a bouncer able to correctly parse a sentence.

“Come this way Mr Klempner. Mr Renberger said we might see you here. And that if you turned up, to

take you through.” He's deferential and polite but exudes just the hint of menace that suggests all that

could change were there reason.

In other words, the perfect guard.

He leads me through to the main lounge area. There’s everything you’d expect: bar, low seating, rooms

off, a dancer’s pole and a small stage area.

The room is doubtless dim and cosy during the evening when the clients come calling. Right now, it's

brightly lit and going through clean up. A cleaner wipes over vinyl-coated mattresses with wipes and

sanitiser. Another drags a hoover nozzle across the floor. At the bar, a hulk of a teenager clatters the

stacked ranks of the previous night’s glasses into a dishwasher.

Again, I don’t know Renberger well, but he’s distinctive and I recognise him, even with his back turned,

as he issues instructions to some woman. Six feet three or four, and built to match, he’s hard to miss.

He’s wearing what I remember as his signature sleeveless vest and leather waistcoat. Broad and

beefy, his arms hang at a slight curve to his torso, the classic body-builder’s stance. And, intentional or

not, he has a tendency to loom.

The guard hovers then clears his throat. “Mr Renberger?”

As he turns, Renberger’s brows rise in recognition. “Larry, I wondered if I should expect a visit. Come

in.” With a tendency to overheat even in cold weather Renberger’s constantly red-faced, a florid

contrast to his white beard. Just now, his forehead shines under the fluorescent lighting. He mutters

something to the woman and she scuttles off. “So, what can I do for you?”

“You were obviously expecting me, so I imagine you know what I’m here for.”

He cleans out his left ear with an oversized pinky. “Yeah, well… Schauder called me. Said something

about you going around asking questions. So, it was anyone’s guess if it meant anything or if he’d just

smoked something from the wrong batch. Since you’re here, I suppose what he told me was true.

Anyway, the question stands. What can I do for you?”

I flick a glance around the room, taking in the silence that has somehow fallen in the last minute or so.

In under a second, bottles rattle, glasses clink and the vacuum cleaner roars loud in a frenzy of activity.

Renberger sweeps the room with an unamused expression. “Somewhere quieter then? Come through

to the back.” He gestures to a door beside the bar, then pauses. “Get you anything? Coffee? Beer?

Something stronger?”

“Coffee’s good.”

He shouts across to the bar. “You heard the man. I’ll have one too.”

*****

The back room doubles an as office and stock room, at least for the more expensive brands and

bottles. Crates of aged malts and brandies are stacked alongside designer gins and imported spirits

and liqueurs.

Beside the central desk, a noticeboard is pinned with an assortment of statutory posters: Fire drill. First

aid. Emergency contact numbers. An overly-conspicuous safe lurks behind the desk. Bookshelves

support ledgers and files labelled for invoices dating back several years, employment records, tax

returns. A side table with a cheap straight-backed chair holds daybooks and wage records. All the

paraphernalia of business.

Renberger challenges me with an eye.

“It all looks very right and proper,” I comment.

He grins. “Doesn’t it. Got to keep the authorities happy when they come calling.”

“So you do. On which subject…”

He pulls out the straight chair, scrapes it across to me... “Sit.” … then slides the office chair behind the

desk for himself. Rummaging in a top drawer for a moment, he produces a pack of cigarettes, slips one

out, then offers me the pack.

“No, thanks. I don't.”

He shrugs, lights up, inhales. “I'd not given it much thought before, but after Schauder called, I started

thinking. I’d like to hear how you come to be walking the streets. You got some deal going with the

police?”

“Something like that.”

He waits, polite interest written on his face, but I offer no more.

He sucks at his cigarette, then blows blue smoke. “So... What can I do for you? I gather you're not in

business anymore?”

“No. At least, not in the way you mean.”

“What then?”

“What did Schauder tell you?”

“That you claimed to be on the hunt for this psycho that’s out there cutting up hookers.”

“That’s about the size of it. The police need answers to questions. I’m here to ask those questions for

them.”

“Why you?”

“Because you’ll talk to me. They can’t even come inside here without either your invitation or a warrant.

I’m told you weren’t communicative when they called by.”

He rubs at his nose and sniffs. “Yeah, well they got that right. I can't be seen talking to the cops. Very

bad for business. So, yes, I get it. You as intermediary makes a lot of sense. And yes, it needs dealing

with. Still…” He draws, exhales… “I’ve nothing to hide here. Don’t know anything about the Surgeon.”

He taps a tail of ash into a saucer.

“Renberger, that’s all the police are interested in. They don’t want to check out whether, for example…”

I scan the array of files… “… there might be a second set of records lurking in some less public place

than this.” Renberger sucks in his cheeks, making no comment… “They don’t want to check the terms

of your trade, your liquor license or whether the women out there…” I thumb out through the door to the

dance floor… “… offer more than dancing as part of the escort service. They’re not asking to check out

whether that safe you have there really contains anything valuable or whether you might have

confidential documents somewhere more discreet…” His lids flicker and he glances sidelong… “…They

only want to know if anyone’s seen anything that might point to the identity of the killer.”