Playing Around by Gilda O'Neill

But Martin genuinely could think of nothing to say. Jill Walker had asked him round to her flat on Saturday night. For spaghetti and wine.
    Martin had never actually eaten spaghetti bolognese before, and he had certainly never had Chianti – it wasn’t the sort of thing they went in for round their house – but, more important, as far as Martin was concerned, was the fact that he had never had sex before either.
    As Sonia lowered herself on to Mikey, straddling him, with her skirt hitched up round her waist, she let out the gasp of pleasure that he had learned to expect from her when they ‘made love’, as Sonia insisted on calling it.
    They were in the back of David’s Jaguar, Mikey having suggested, with a wicked grin, that ‘doing it in the motor’ would be more fun than going to the hotel room that Sonia had booked for them. And Sonia had readily agreed.
    She’d do it anywhere. Mikey liked that about her.
    As she moved rhythmically up and down, her breath coming in short, increasingly loud gasps, Mikey closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, as he matched her movements, thrust for thrust.
    With a low moan and a shudder, Sonia threw back her head and burst into satisfied, happy laughter.
    Slowly, she opened her eyes, kissed him hard on the mouth, and wound her fingers roughly through his tight, black curly hair.
    ‘All right for you, girl?’
    ‘What do you think?’
    ‘I think we should see what you can do for me now.’
    Mikey tore open the buttons of her thin, lawn blouse and grabbed at her breast. Too far gone to protest, she laughed again as Mikey drove into her, and she bucked and reared like a liberated pony across his broad, muscled thighs.
    Unusually, she began to speak. ‘If only that pig …’
    Mikey pushed harder and faster, and her words were reduced to short, gasping bursts.
    ‘Could see … what we’re doing … to his precious … upholstery … It would be …’ She sank her nails into his back.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Perfect.’
    Knowing that the man on the other side of the door – Jeff, the head of security at the Canvas Club – was staring at him through the peephole, David Fuller smiled pleasantly. ‘Only me, Jeff. Let us in.’
    Puzzled as to what his boss was doing there so early, he immediately slid back the bolts to let him in. But before Jeff had a chance to realize what was going on, Bobby had slammed the door back on its hinges, trapping him against the black painted wall.
    ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Bobby flatly. ‘Never saw you there.’ He ruffled the thick neck hair of the excited Alsatians, cooing gently at them, ‘Say hello to your Uncle Jeff,’ and shoved the door shut behind them with his foot.
    Jeff, six feet three of toned muscle, staggered away from the wall, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his nose with the back of his hand.
    ‘You’re not doing a very good job of that,’ David said, offering him the blue silk handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Try this.’
    Jeff took it with a nod.
    ‘Now, let’s go through to the office. I’ve got a few questions about the books.’
    ‘So you reckon it’s Mikey Tilson taking the dough from the nightly cash collection?’
    ‘On my life, Dave. I wouldn’t cross you, you know that.’
    Bobby was standing with his back to the office door, with the dogs still straining on the leads.
    ‘I’m not happy. You should have said something.’
    ‘I didn’t know nothing about it. I swear.’ Jeff examined the blue silk square for any signs of fresh blood. ‘I thought because he was working for you, he’d be kosher.’
    David considered for a moment. ‘Not a word to anyone. All right? I don’t want him getting wind of what we know, and going off on the trot.’
    ‘You can trust me, Dave. You know that, don’t you?’
    David didn’t answer him. He had other things on his mind. ‘I’ve decided to change things. Make them’, he paused, ‘more business-like.’ He recalled the words Peter