Corpses in the Cellar Read Online Free PDF

each withdrawal.
    Her nails raked his back, and her teeth gnawed at his shoulder, all the while small sounds escaped her, he barely aware of
     them as all of his sensations centered more and more on the liquescent space between her legs.
    He seemed to keep expanding as he continued on, tightening, tightening, feeling her softness inside yielding to him, yet clinging,
     hotly, wetly. Her body was beginning to jerk irregularly, and her breath came in deep, quick gasps. He picked up the tempo,
     and she responded, automatically, unthinkingly, lost to everything but the pulsing of her body.
    Now the spasms came more quickly, and he felt an irreversible force building up in himself, felt the beginnings of the gushing
     that was soon to come. Their sweat-streaming bodies slap-slapped wetly against each other as the final moments began, all
     of her straining against him, fingers digging into his back, deeply, deeply, a long, sensuous cry issuing from her lips, his
     shaft filling her, ramming her, driving in, with sledge-hammer speed and force.
    And then for an instant they hung together, bodies arched, and then drew away, and then came together and drew away again,
     and came together once more, and then collapsed, and sagged, she sinking back down deeply into the couch, he rolling off to
     the side next to her.
    “Hey, Mister Insurance Man”—she smiled at him, dreamily—“I like your policy.”
    He smiled back, and then they lay together silently, his arm under her head, one of her hands resting lightly on his bicep.
    “I wish I could ask you to stay for dinner,” she said, when he finally rose.
    “Another time, maybe,” he told her. “I’d have to know you for a while before I could pay any attention to the rest of my appetites.”
    Maybe it was her laugh that covered up the sound of the opening door. Whatever it was, they didn’t hear it.
    “Hey, Toots,” came the voice, rough and loud. “Where are ya? In the can?”
    “Oh Christ.” Tawny looked at Lockwood. “I hope you can fight as well as you can…”
    A head popped into the room. The face was swarthy, and rough, and when it saw The Hook, ugly.
    “Hello, Vinnie,” Tawny said, casually employing her best drawing-room accents. “Have you ever met the meter-reader?”
    Vinnie Griese looked at the woman, every inch of her stark naked, and his visage darkened and contorted. “You little bitch!
     You tramp!” He swung at her, but found his arm stopped in mid-motion.
    “Cool it, Griese,” the detective told him.
    “Who the fuck are you?” the gangster snarled, wrenching his arm free.
    “Bill Lockwood,” the answer came back, voice unruffled, demeanor as calm as if strolling the Boardwalk at Coney Island. “I’m
     here investigating the fire at The Palms.”
    Confusion registered on Griese’s features, and then he growled, “Okay, joker, I’ve had enough!”
    “I’m not joking. Here’s my card,” Lockwood said, his hand reaching inside his jacket pocket, but lightning-ready to fend off
     the fist that came roaring in at him.
    “I take it you’re not interested in my ID,” he told Griese, as he sidestepped, and parried a second punch.
    “I’ll kill you!” the mobster yelled, boring in at him again.
    “Watch out for the stinking lamp! You’re gonna break it!” The Hook heard Tawny shrill, as this time a blow to the midsection
     doubled him up, and he slammed against a table. Damn. Griese could punch.
    He partially slipped a blow to the head, Griese’s knuckles sounding against the side of his skull, and immediately countered
     with a straight right to the chest, feeling satisfaction as he heard the whoosh of air coming out of Griese’s lungs.
    The thug fell against him, clinching, trying to gain time as he fought to suck oxygen back into his deflated wind sacs. The
     two of them rocked against a table, and it fell over.
    “Damn you! Damn you!” Tawny Tourette was raining blows on both of them, snapping her hairbrush down hard, then a