Fresh
by Darcy

He stared at them, his eyes ice blue and ice cold, his expression unmistakably contemptuous. He had come to the party late, long after the drinking and moshing had gotten underway. Actually, he hadn't wanted to come at all. Throughout the day a strange restlessness had possessed him, made him nervous and irritable. He’d wanted to stay away from this piss up altogether, but that was dangerous when the gang were having a gig. He felt he needed to be there to protect them if the need arose.

But as he lounged in a doorway and watched his mates reeling in a jumbled mass of sweating bodies, he wished he'd stayed away. Their weakness disgusted him. Not one of his skins had his iron self-control or his discipline; not one of them had learned from his example to keep sober enough to stay alert. They hadn't even posted a lookout on the door. Every fuckin' one of them was drunk or wasted on weed or pills. He sneered as he watched them guzzling from crushed tinnies, beer foaming down their chins to wet their chests like the homeless old sots who frequented Middle Park late at night. If they kept at it they'd be stonkered enough to piss on themselves. Even Davey, the man he considered his lieutenant, swayed unsteadily, his mouth slack, his eyes slitted half-closed as he made a clumsy attempt to swat Sonny away. He missed.

He was holding himself severely in check, but a muscle twitched in Hando's jaw as he fought to contain his growing rage. These bastards were supposed to be tough? This lot was supposed to be his army, the force he was going to use to scour the gook trash from Footscray? They didn't look like an army, they looked like fuckin' idiots. Worse, they looked weak and harmless. The gooks would laugh if they could see them now; laugh and kick their arses from here to Canberra. As for the cops…fuck. If the coppers were to show up, they'd have a field day scoring skinheads to hump off to jail, could round them all up simply by shoving them into the wagons. His skins were all too wasted to run or resist.

Suddenly Hando pushed off the doorframe and stalked through the crowd, his gang parting for him like the Red Sea had for Moses. The similarity was not lost on him. He was not unaware of his power over them, nor of their fundamental fear of him. Even now, with his mates all but out of it, he knew he could take control and get them sorted if he wanted to. But he didn't want to, not tonight. The restlessness was hard on him; he needed to be away from all of it. He needed something else tonight. Some stimulation, a bit of a change of pace.

He needed something fresh.

He shrugged into his black topcoat and ignoring anyone with the wits remaining to ask where he was off to, pushed out of the door. Only young Bubs had the courage to follow him, stealing out on sneaker-clad feet, but Hando heard his tentative footsteps and looked over his shoulder. Bubs stopped in his tracks and only came closer when Hando beckoned to him with a jerk of his chin.

"You stay here, Scout," he ordered, but he had a soft spot for Bubs and his voice had taken on a kinder note. "They need you. Fucked as they are, these arseholes need someone watching tonight. Keep an eye sharp for the cops and the gooks, and if you see something, raise the alarm."

The Melbourne night was cold and damp." Where you gonna be, Hando?" Bubs jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged down into his jacket until the collar covered his ears. "What if something happens?" He tried to appear unconcerned, but apprehension was clear on that so-young face, in those not-so-innocent blue eyes.

"I'll be around, no worries," replied Hando. "If something goes down, give ‘em a shout but save yourself first. You know where to go...don't let 'em take you, Bubs, or that's the end of it. The coppers snag you, we'll never get you back from the Children and Youths." He nodded at the warehouse, where the cacophonous music of the Disasters slammed profanely into the night. "I'll take care of that lot later."

Bubs watched nervously as the man he worshipped stalked off into the foggy night. He knew better than to disobey a direct order, but he wished he was going with Hando instead of staying at the squat. He felt a lot safer with him than with all the rest of the skins put together.

e e e

Hando wandered aimlessly, tramping the fog-shrouded streets of Footscray. He carried no weapon. His fists were all he needed...his fists and his wits and his formidable reputation. He had no fear of the night or those who used its cover. He went where he liked, into streets predominately populated by Vietnamese, or neighborhoods taken over by Bosnian and Afghanistani immigrants. The sight of them infuriated him, he considered them to be no more than wandering masses of human trash. He deliberately turned away from Footscray toward St Kilda, a section of Melbourne recently adopted by young professionals.

The old St Kilda of warehouses and factories was giving way to urban revitalization. He turned into Fitzroy Street, passed upscale boutiques and scores of restaurants and bars, some lighted by antique fixtures, some garish with neon. Techno and house rock blared into the street, the driving bass thumping inside his chest. There were all sorts on the sidewalks, young professionals and local punters drinking beer and smoking. Crowds of young people clustered outside the clubs, but they didn't give him a passing glance. He kept on past Joey's Underbelly and The Prince to The Post Office Club, a spot reminiscent of turn-of-the-century English pubs with its brass-fitted mahogany bar, a work of art and craftsmanship easily ten meters long. Three pairs of mullioned French doors looked over the sidewalk. Hando stopped before the first of these and peered inside.

At linen-draped tables, the upscale ate and drank, some casual in dark shirts and loose khaki slacks, others in suits with loosened neckties, the women in tailored dresses. Every woman had her designer bag and jewelry, and the men sported expensive wristwatches and Italian shoes. They would have been surprised to know that Hando recognized those things for what they were, and while he admired them for their value and beauty, he scorned them on principle. They would have been astonished to know that he understood a great deal of what they valued in their world...that he appreciated good literature and poetry, loved opera and the music of the great classical composers, shocked that he was well-versed in politics and knew enough of economics to plan a non-violent assault on the foreign-owned businesses of Footscray that had every chance of succeeding. He may have been self-educated, but he was their equal in intelligence. Yet the tall poppies in The Post Office Club let their eyes slide unseeing over the skinhead staring in at them. His presence was unpleasant, his company unwanted. They ignored him. Shunned him.

It didn't bother Hando. He could get their undivided attention anytime he wanted it.

A woman alone at a small lamp-lit table caught his eye. She sat sideways, her legs crossed, her foot in a strappy high-heeled black shoe keeping time to music he couldn't hear. She was beautiful in a cool, sleek sort of way, a thousand times removed from the kind of woman he normally associated with. Her gleaming blonde hair was pulled severely back into an intricate coil behind her head, thick gold hoop earrings accented the delicate pink shells of her ears. Dressed in a tailored black suit with a skirt short enough to prove she had good legs and long enough to maintain professionalism, she was perusing a menu when suddenly, as if she felt his gaze on her, she looked up at him through the window.

He felt a shock of pleasure at the beauty of her face, but he didn't alter his stance or so much as blink. They looked at each other for a long moment until she dropped her eyes to the menu. Hando stayed in the window watching her, compelling her to look up again. At last she did. Cocking her head to the side, she stared at him for a long moment and then motioned, waving him into the restaurant.

His chin came up and the superior, intense glare that was so much a part of him dropped over his face. The Post Office Club was not the kind of place where his sort was welcome, but that meant nothing to Hando. Suddenly he grinned at her...leered, really...and made for the door. A stir rose as he walked through the door; the maître d' rushed to block his entry. She watched as he pointed to her and spoke quietly to the officious little man, saw him turn and look in her direction. She nodded a ‘yes’ and hid her smile at the look of disbelief that bloomed on his face. Like an automaton, expression now carefully neutral, the maître d' picked up a menu and escorted Hando to the table. In their wake, shocked faces turned to mark their progress.

Hando’s face remained impassive, but inside he smirked in triumph. The fuckin’ tall poppies had taken notice of him now.

e e e

"Thank you, Aidan," she said quietly as the maître d' pulled out the chair. Hando dropped into it and didn't so much as glance in his direction when he said, "Yeah...thanks, mate. Now piss off."

She raised her eyebrows as Aidan walked away, quivering with annoyance and disapproval. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugged, a bored expression settling over his face. "He's a bloody waiter; who gives a fuck if his feelings are hurt?"

Unconsciously she tapped a manicured nail on the tablecloth. "If you're going to be rude, I'll regret inviting you inside."

His intense, magnetic eyes pinned her. "Bullshit. That's why you invited me. Your kind is always sniffing about for something different, a little bit of strange. 'S what you're after, isn't it love?"

His voice, low but powerful, reminded her of deep notes played on a cello. Its sexual throb pervaded her, drew her to him as if he'd grabbed her and dragged her close. Restlessness had troubled Isabelle all day, a vague wanting, formless and unidentifiable. When she'd seen him in the window, her desire suddenly acquired a shape and a name. She had the answer to the question she'd been asking herself relentlessly: "What do I want?"

Now she knew. This skinhead was what she wanted, but she didn't think it a good idea to let him know just yet.

She said quietly, her tone pleasant and well-modulated, "You’re quite mistaken. I thought you looked hungry and forlorn. I was doing a good deed, you see."

In a silky voice that hovered on the edge of menace, he replied, "I see more than you think, love. And I'm hungry. For you."

His hand covered hers on the tablecloth, applied a hint of pressure, just enough to stop her long nails from tapping. She shivered at the roughness of his palm and glanced down. His fingers engulfed hers, hid them completely. Her stare moved to his eyes. They glittered blue and silver, the pupils huge and black in the dim light of the club. Her gaze lingered, mesmerized by him. He was savagely handsome, his jaw strong, his lips delicate, and those eyes! Breathtaking.

An unexpected flood of moisture engorged her sex. She tightened her thighs involuntarily, then caught herself. He couldn't have noticed; it had been imperceptible...but Hando's nostrils flared, as if he’d scented her. A gratified smirk crept over his lips, his eyebrow lifted inquiringly.

"Already, love? Not even a drink first?"

Indignant, insulted, she flushed pink while a dozen conflicting thoughts ran rampant through her brain. Tearing at the edge of her mind like a wild animal was a sense of fear. He was a big man, physically powerful, and his manner was brutal, his expression riding the verge of malevolence. He lived by rules alien to those she knew and respected. Politically, they were bound to be at opposite ends of the spectrum, socially as well. That alone would make things dicey.

She flicked her eyes over him, a quick glance that saw a great deal. She wondered if he became violent when angry, if he was the type who resorted to physical aggression. A stupid conjecture, of course he was, but did he stoop to hitting women? That was her only concern. She had taken some self-defense classes a few years ago, a single woman living in Melbourne had better know how to look after herself, but she knew what she'd learned would never be enough to stop him.

She shifted uncomfortably on her chair. Everything about the man was intimidating. It was a tremendous risk even to consider what was in her mind.

But she did it anyway.

Because she wanted him. Oh yes, she wanted him, thug and hoon though he was. He was still a beautiful man, raw power and sexual magnetism emanating from him like a living thing. She wanted that, wanted him...had wanted it all from the moment she'd seen him staring through the French doors. But she didn't want him to know it. Not until she'd gotten control of the desire that was coursing through her like a river in the wet. He'd already seen through her once; she'd mask her feelings a little better this time, keep that annoying superior expression off his face.

She lifted her chin and spoke coolly.

"You can drink all you like…feel free to order whatever when the waiter comes. If you'll excuse me? I'll be right back."

She slid her chair back and reached to the floor to pick up her handbag. It had fallen over onto its side and she hadn't seen ‘til now that some of the contents had spilled out onto the polished tile. But Hando had, he'd spotted her driving license in its plastic case lying on the floor when he'd first sat down, and his booted foot had slid over, neatly concealing it. After she was safely out of sight on her way to the loo, he bent and retrieved the case.

"Isabelle Heath," he said under his breath, then looked at the photo on the license. It didn't do her justice. He took note of her birth date...she was two years older than he was...and memorized her address before slipping it out of sight into the pocket of his coat. He was calmly sipping a pint when she came back to the table. He rose to help her into her seat and smiled when she seemed astonished at his courtly gesture. She murmured her thanks as he slid the chair under her.

As he sat down he reached into his pocket, drew out her driving license, and handed it across, saying quietly, "You missed this when you picked up your bag. Friends call you Belle?"

"God, no. Nobody calls me that." She flashed the license at him before tucking it into her purse. "Thank you for finding this; I'd have been ticked if I'd had to reapply."

He shrugged: no trouble. "No one calls you Belle, then?" he pressed, taking another sip of beer. He set the pint down and rubbed his fingers over it, wiping away the condensation. "That's good. I will."

She shook her head. "I'd prefer if you didn't. Belle always sounded a bit silly to me."

His eyes pinned her. "I like it; it fits you. Sounds elegant , sort of Gone with the Wind and all that, y'know?"

Pleased in spite of herself, she smiled and sipped her Shiraz. "What should I call you?"

"Hando."

She blinked and a tiny frown creased her forehead. "That’s an unusual nickname...what's your real name?"

"That is my name. It's the only name you need to know." His face was blank and inscrutable; his tone said he was finished with the subject.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She had never met anyone who wasn't willing to give his name. It seemed rude, almost ridiculously paranoid, but honest too, somehow. He'd made no attempt to lie to her and she found that reassuring. It was as if he didn't care what she thought of him, as if he couldn't be bothered to make a good impression.

Disconcerted, she tried again, offering a pleasant smile. "All right then, it's Hando. So, Hando...are you from Melbourne? Do you live and work here, or are you in town on business?

He said nothing, just stared at her and drank his beer. Isabelle began to feel like control of the situation was impossible, that her intellect was found wanting against his. The realization stunned her…after all, he was a skinhead, a nobody who operated on the edge of society in a shadowy half-life between criminals and the law-abiding. On the other hand, she was a highly paid professional, a solicitor who worked for a large corporation in the legal department. When she'd first beckoned him into the place, she had thought that he might be fanatical and stupid, and that it would be a simple matter to keep this encounter on a purely physical plane, take what she wanted from him and walk away without a backward glance. But his was a strong personality, much harder to manipulate than she'd thought.

Did that make him dangerous?

Isabelle hid her uncertainty, knowing instinctively that he would feed off it. To acknowledge his power was to grant him even more. She waited, hoping he'd say something, but he remained silent and simply sat and looked at her.

She couldn't stand it. Sarcasm was strong in her tone as she said, "Oh, I see. You intend to remain a mystery then. It’s very peculiar, but I suppose you have your reasons."

He locked eyes with her and said quietly, "Belle…if I think you need to know something about me, I'll tell you."

Her fingers twitched in anger; she gripped the wine glass to control them and bit back a stinging reply. How exasperating, how infuriating that he would refuse to tell her even the simplest, most basic information about himself. Handsome or no, and despite the delicious aura of sex that emanated from his powerful body, Belle decided that she was going to back off and get away from him as soon as she could. He was as unpredictable as an angry snake and likely just as dangerous. Inviting him into the Club had been a mistake...even the maître d' had known it, but she had been curious.

Well, curious or not, randy or not, that finished it. She was done playing games with him, the arrogant bastard. Her original idea, her half-formed plan to have dinner and drinks and then take him back to her house for a good romp, she chucked out the door. The evening would end with their meal, and he could go play his mysterious stranger games with someone else.

She said coolly, "That's fine, Hando. You keep your secrets, they mean nothing to me. Shall we order? Would you like an appetizer, or do you prefer to just have dinner?"

"No appetizer. No dinner. I didn't come in here to eat," he said.

"No?" she said tightly, the irritation she felt seeping into her voice. "Well, I hope you don’t mind if I have something, because I did come here to eat."

He sat back in his chair, gestured with his hand. "Go right ahead, love. I can wait."

"And will you just sit here and watch me, then?" Clearly, Isabelle was not happy about the idea.

He leaned closer, his eyes blazing lust. "Yes. If I see something I want, I'll take it."

The breath went out of her and she glared at him. "Listen Hando, or whatever your name is. I don't much care for these innuendos you keep making. I want you to stop it."

His face took on an expression of innocence. "Innuendos? What did I say?"

She opened her mouth only to close it. What, really, had he said that didn't sound completely innocuous on repetition? She stared at him, eyes narrowed. She should just get up and leave, run to her car, and go home. What had started as a lark had become almost frightening. She'd never met anyone like him. He was magnetism and menace woven together, he wielded the power to both attract and repel. She glanced down uncertainly at the menu and suddenly his hand closed over hers again. She felt the warmth and strength in it, stared at the tattoos etched cleverly around his knuckles and thought again that she was out of her element with him.

His voice flowed across the table like a silk robe against naked skin.

"Isabelle, I'm not going to attack you. I want to fuck you…"

Her eyes flew up, shocked by his candor.

"….but it won't happen if you don't want it." He was scowling at her, but there was no malice in his eyes. "I might like my play a little rough, but I never had to force myself on a woman before. I won't be starting with you."

Play a little rough….

She looked at him, into his stunning ocean-colored eyes, his face with its strong cleft chin and shadow of beard, the cupid's bow shape of his mouth, and felt the hot flood of desire again. She liked her men a little rough. Not rough enough to hurt, never that, just...rough. Virile, dominating. It made her feel feminine and sensuous and out of control. She had not found a man yet who had the skill to carry it off properly, without seeming a brute or looking ridiculous.

She narrowed her eyes, gazed at him speculatively. Maybe now she had.

Oh, it was so confusing, the conflicting reactions he generated in her. One minute she was afraid of him and the next, she was wanting him, thinking of his hands on her body, taking away control, forcing her to please him. Playing rough, but still playing. She dropped her lashes and imagined him naked, pictured his body poised over hers as he drove rhythmically into her. She looked at his mouth, the lips so sweetly shaped, and her eyes betrayed her desire. She could almost feel those lips melded against hers, and a flush spread over her throat and chest.

Across the table, Hando watched Isabelle with a secret smile. He had her. The question now was what was to do with her? Give in to his impulse and just fuck her until they both dropped? Or was she worth more? Should he play her like a fish on the line, let her run and then reel her back in slowly, torment her until she screamed in frustration? Either way it was going to be different. Either way, he'd have the something fresh he'd been craving tonight.

He cracked the slow, lazy grin he knew devastated women, dropped his eyes calculatingly to her breasts, and raised them back to hers. Let her see their hot light, let her see how much he wanted her.

The waiter came to the table and asked if they were ready to order. Hando wasn't surprised when Isabelle said they wouldn't be staying for dinner and asked for the check.

e e e

He followed her out of the Post Office Club and into the misty night, glanced up at the fog-shrouded streetlight to feel the damp on his face, then reached out to rest his hand on the small of Isabelle's back. They walked up the street toward a car park in the middle of the block. Once there, she led him to a black BMW tucked away in a dark corner and began fumbling in her purse for the keys.

"Why'd you pick the darkest spot?" He checked the shadows with a cool penetrating stare. "Not very smart...coulda run into someone like me." He wasn't joking.

"It was the only place not taken," she explained and turned to face him, leaning back against the car. "Besides, all's well that ends well. Now I have you to protect me from the bad boys."

He put a hand against the roof of the car and leaned in to her, bringing his face to within centimeters of hers. "There’s no boy badder than me, love. Who will protect you now?"

He stared at her mouth, his gaze burning hot, intense. Isabelle's heart thudded in her chest and her sex wept at the lust in his eyes.

"Do I need protection from you?" she whispered, trembling not from fear, but from the wanting. She ached for him to touch her.

He rumbled a low "Mmmm…" as his lips drew near her temple and brushed lightly over her hair. "Do you want protection, love? Wouldn't you rather have a little taste? A walk on the wild side? Don’t you want to see if a hoon like me is a better fuck than your uni professors and the company dags you're used to?"

He nuzzled her forehead and with dreamlike astonishment, she felt him lick her brow, as if tasting her. The night air brushed coolly across the damp skin and she exalted silently, "He's licking me….licking me like an animal would….."

It was wildly exciting. She longed to lick him, too...lick and taste every inch of him.

Isabelle closed her eyes and waited, the hot blood pounding in her veins. She wanted his lips on hers, and he was so close! If he didn't hurry and kiss her she was going to scream in frustration.

His mouth swooped down to take her pouting bottom lip and suck it gently. Isabelle stood motionless, breathless. She had never been kissed like that before, one lip at a time, and found it madly erotic. Her groin tightened and she had to restrain herself from rocking her pelvis into his. He moved to her top lip and kissed it, then took both into his mouth, pulling at her, gentle but insistent. His hand moved behind her back and down to the rise of her buttocks, he pressed against her and she felt his bolt prod into her stomach. His tongue stabbed at her lips; she opened to him immediately, sucking his tongue into her mouth and whimpering in the back of her throat as his slid over her teeth and the inside of her lips. His free hand moved to the back of her head and cupped it, holding her tightly to his plundering mouth.

He kissed her for long minutes, his mouth hard on hers, a hand holding tightly to her arse as he ground his cock against her. He stopped kissing to whisper that he wanted to fuck her, that he wanted to lick her pussy. Did she want to suck his cock? He grinned as she shivered and whispered ‘Yes...’He deliberately drove her to a mindless, writhing passion, had her panting and moaning and leaning weakly against the side of her BMW.

Hando could barely keep the jubilant smirk off his face. She was so hot for him he could have taken her then and there, fucked her right out in the open against her rich bitch car. Instead, he pulled away and taking her keys from her limp hand, unlocked the door and pushed her into the driver's seat. He leaned in and kissed her one more time, an innocent kiss, closed-mouth and chaste.

He said, "G'night, Belle. It's late, time for a good little girl like you to nick on home," and watched as her eyes flew open in astonishment. He hid his satisfied grin until he turned and began walking away.

"Wait!" she called, her voice sounding strangled and weak. "Where are you going?"

"Me? Back where I came from, love. Got business to attend to."

"But… I thought..."

He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned. "I know what you thought. But I have business, and I have to go. Now." He reached out and slammed the door closed.

She fumbled the window down. "Hando, stop! Take my number? Call me, we'll get together sometime."

Again he turned around and looked at her. "Whaffor, love? A sheila like you, a bloke like me? Where's the sense in it?"

She flung open the car door and scrambled out, ran to him to throw her arms around his neck. She pulled his face down to hers, kissed him fiercely. "Call me. I want you. I want to fuck you."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded, her eyes closed, her breath coming in quick pants. "Yes…. Oh, yes."

"Then you'll see me. Sooner than you think," he promised, and bent to her again. But instead of the kiss she was expecting, he licked her from chin to ear. She shivered in delight as the cool air brushed across the damp trail left by his tongue.

"Jesus..." She gasped as fire exploded in her belly, making her weak, making her wet. "Jesus Christ….."

The rumble of his laugh came from deep in his chest. "Bon soir, ma petite Belle...ma chère Isabelle. A bientôt," he whispered, accent perfect, then strode away.

With a part of her lust-numbed mind, Isabelle wondered how a man like him had learned to speak French like a native. He was a mystery, a conundrum, a mass of contradiction. Shaken and trembling, she got into her car and with an unsteady hand, turned the key in the ignition.

e e e

Isabelle couldn't recall how she got home. She couldn't remember driving there, not at all. The entire trip was a blank. She woke from a lust-induced trance to realize she was sitting in the drive with her lights on and the engine running, just staring into space. She had no idea how long she'd been there.

"Dear God, I could have killed someone," she murmured, terrified. "I could have killed myself."

She had to get herself in hand. She drew a few deep breaths, forced herself to calm, then went into the house. She headed straight for her bedroom without bothering with lights, undressing quietly in the dark. She carelessly threw her designer suit and silk lingerie on the chair near the bed, kicked her shoes under it. Naked, she padded into the loo and ran a bath. The thought of a long soak in steam and heat soothed her jangling nerves, stilled her racing mind. She balanced on the porcelain edge and poured foaming oil under the tap, fingers absently stroking the water. Once the tub was full, she eased herself in and leaned back, eyes closed, determined to empty her mind of Hando and the memory of his kisses.

But she couldn't, no matter what else she tried to think of. Nothing distracted her, not a mental review of the brief she was writing on corporate responsibility in accident cases, or the tax research for her company's planned expansion into the North American market. Nothing was interesting enough to capture her attention and keep her from recalling the passion, the absolute madness she'd felt when Hando's mouth was hot on hers. She thought of his lusting eyes blazing down at her, remembered the feel of his big hands tight on her arse, pulling her into his groin. She thought of how long and hard his cock felt when he'd rocked against her belly, and moaned out loud. She was so hot for him, still so hot…

If she couldn't stop thinking of him, she was going to go crazy.

Was he thinking of her too, Isabelle wondered? She hoped he was, she hoped he was aching for her, just as she was for him, lying here in her bathtub and rubbing her thighs together like a hormonal schoolgirl. How had he been able to just walk away? He'd affected her so strongly...and she'd done the same to him, she was certain of it. She could still hear his breath shuddering in his chest; hear his passionate grunts as he'd rubbed against her. She could still see the lust glittering in his eyes. What business could he possibly have had that would mean more than…

A muffled thud penetrated her mind and brought her upright, water streaming over her shoulders and breasts. Another thud came clearly, muted yet distinct, and her heart slammed against her ribs. Someone was in the house, and she was trapped, naked and vulnerable in her bath.

She froze, then looked wildly around, trying to remember if she had locked the front door, wondering if she imagined those noises. Hardly daring to breathe she waited, sitting tensely in the hot water, ready to panic when another muffled sound came from beyond the bathroom door. Silently, stealthily, Isabelle rose out of the tub and grabbing a towel from the rack, wrapped it around her body. She thumbed the light switch and, wincing, eased the door open, hoping it wouldn't squeak and give her away. She had it in her mind to grab her robe and keys and leave the house, get to the car and drive to a friend's or flag down a policeman. Go anyplace, just so she was out of the house and far away from whoever was in there with her.

In inky darkness, she slipped into the bedroom and fumbled for the robe she'd left lying across the foot of the bed. She had just slipped it over her shoulders when the voice came from the bed and startled her so badly her heart jumped and pounded with fear and delight. The robe dropped unnoticed to the floor.

"Come to bed, Belle. My business can wait, but I can't."

Her eyes accustomed to the darkness, Isabelle could just make out his naked body against the white coverlet.

"Hando…." she breathed.

He lifted a hand and pulled at the edge of the towel until it fell away. Her skin gleamed, moonlight catching on the droplets that dotted her shoulders and breasts.

A swift flare of temper at his audacity pulled her face into a scowl. "You scared me! I was terrified… How did you get in here, you cheeky bastard?" She clenched her hand into a fist as if she would hit him

He grabbed her wrist and jerked her down on top of him, then rolled, pinning her beneath his body. One of his hands held both of hers above her head so that her breasts jutted erect, the nipples hard and pointing high.

"Bastard am I?" he whispered against her throat. He sucked a kiss on the tender skin beneath her jaw, then licked and nibbled at her neck. "You didn't think I was a bastard before, love. Not while you were dry fuckin' me in the car park."

Her breath hissed between her teeth as she digested this insult, but Isabelle couldn't stay angry, not when his lips fastened over her nipple and his tongue lapped it. God, the sensation of his mouth on her...his tongue was almost like a cat's, rough and rasping on the tender skin His free hand cupped her other breast, squeezing it rhythmically before taking the nipple into his mouth and laving it with his tongue. Isabelle arched her back, mutely offering herself, and Hando growled appreciatively, low in his throat.

"Let go of me, let me touch you," she whispered, aching to feel his skin, to trace her fingertips over the tattoos she could see along his arm beside her cheek, to rub the stubble of hair growing over his beautifully shaped skull. He released her wrists, and she stroked over his shoulders, nails lightly scratching. His flesh jumped at her touch and he moved lower to outline the hollow under her ribs with kisses. Hando crawled backward down her body, trailing his tongue along her twitching belly.

She tensed, waiting, and was rewarded when his mouth lowered to her sex and kissed it. He licked the length of her, tasting, savoring her flavor. He licked all along the slit, then fastened his lips over the hard bud of her clit and sucked. Isabelle writhed under him, lifting her hips to meet his mouth, whimpering, tossing her head. She spread her legs wider and Hando lifted one and threw it over his shoulder, kissing her thigh, nipping at the tender skin until she cried out in pleasure and pain. With his fingers, he peeled back the lips of her sex and held it open, his mouth burning hot against her tender flesh as he lapped up all the nectar she had to offer. When he sucked hard at her clit, she came screaming his name, waves of ecstasy rolling over her. She brought her hand to her own breast and squeezed, pumped her hips at him to bring his mouth even closer to the epicenter of her orgasm. His tongue flicked rapidly over her, the sensation too intense for coherent thought. At last she could stand no more and collapsed, weakly pushing at his head.

"Stop, please stop. It's too much, I can't take any more."

Isabelle lay shuddering, her breath hitching in her chest as her muscles contracted and spasmed. Hando lay between her legs and watched her face, enflamed by her expression of ecstasy, proud that he had brought her to this mindless, boneless state. He turned his head and kissed her calf, licked the skin of her inner thigh, inhaled the scent of her passion.

She opened her eyes and looked down at him. "I want you in my mouth. I want to taste you, too." She squirmed down the bed to bring her mouth to his cock.

His dick throbbed and twitched. Just the thought of her lips around it was almost enough to make him com. But Hando wanted to fuck. He wanted to be in her, with her long legs wrapped tight around his waist. He wanted to see Belle writhe and scream and beg him for more, wanted her weak and mindless and quivering beneath him. If she sucked him, if he watched her take his cock in her mouth, he wouldn't last, couldn't last, long enough to drive her to that state.

He put out a hand and pushed her in the middle of her chest. "Lay down!" he ordered, and crawled over her. He pulled her knees apart and aimed himself at her center. Isabelle scrambled away.

"I want to suck you," she moaned, stretching for his cock. "Please..."

He couldn't stand it, couldn't resist her begging him. Hando rose up and gripped the back of her head, held her by the gleaming coil of hair.

"You want meat in your mouth, love?" he growled, wrapping his hand around his bolt. "You want it that bad? Then bloody take it, and don't let me hear you gag." He pushed her head back on the pillow, knelt above her with his penis aimed at her mouth. When she saw it and realized his size, her eyes grew round and she hesitated.

"What's the matter, love?" he taunted. "I thought you wanted it?" He shook himself at her, delightedly watched her eyes grow even bigger.

"You fuckin' wanted it in your mouth; you better do me good and proper," he threatened, and brought his cock down with a slap against her cheek.

She felt the heat of him, smelled his scent and turned her head to lick at him, sliding down in the bed until she could run her tongue over his sac. He hissed in pleasure and threw his head back, frozen in place above her. Isabelle worked her tongue over every inch of him until she was poised to take him in her mouth. Her lips closed over his cock and she slid her mouth down, down, until she could feel him at the back of her throat. Hando held himself motionless, waiting, reveling in the glory of her mouth hot around him. She began the upstroke, flattened her tongue against the underside of his cock and sucking him hard. Her mouth was stretched wide around his girth and the wet noises she made drove him wild. He thrust into her mouth, his fingers tightening in the mass of hair at the back of her head.

"Suck it!” he panted and pumped into her.

She moaned and he felt the vibration around his cock. He wanted to wait, wanted this ecstasy to go on and on but he couldn't hold out any longer. As she brought her mouth up over his dick again, tightening her lips and laving the knob with her tongue, his balls tightened to rock and he shivered.

"Take it all," he cried, releasing into her mouth. Hot sweet pleasure washed over him again and again as his seed burst out in exquisitely pulsating jets. He gritted his teeth, his face a grimacing mask as he filled her mouth. Belle swallowed convulsively, her hands gripping the cheeks of his ass. Again and again he spilled into her until at last, he pulled himself from between her lips and collapsed weakly beside her, his eyes closed, his cock still twitching. Hando rolled onto his back and lay exhausted, his heart pounding, breath slamming through his nostrils.

Isabelle lay beside him and ran a tender hand over his chest, tracing the cross emblazoned between his nipples. She was mad for him, wild for a skinhead who knew to perfection how to be both rough and tender. Belle dropped her head and kissed his flat nipple, rested against his chest. Silent, Hando stroked her hair, her cheek.

After a while he sat up and lifting his coat from the floor, searched the pockets for his cigs. He offered her one and they smoked in silence for a bit, comfortably leaning against the pillows, his arm firmly around her shoulders, the ashtray balanced on his flat stomach. When she'd finished, Isabelle got up and padded into the bathroom. Hando listened to her running water, knew she was washing herself, brushing her teeth. He followed her in and came up behind her as she bent over the sink. He rubbed his groin against her and his cock responded to the warmth, rising as he nestled it between the cheeks of her arse.

"Have a wash with me, darlin'," he purred, running his hands over her back, stroking and rubbing. She took the pins from her hair and shook her head until it fell down over her shoulders. He watched, fascinated by the rippling golden curtain, finally reaching out to run his fingers through it, leaning in to breathe in its scent.

"C'mon, into the shower with you, love," he whispered, his face in her neck. He pulled her along with an arm wrapped around her waist and held her unresisting with one arm as he turned the taps, adjusting the water temperature until it suited him. Hando stepped into the shower, dragged Belle with him. He held her under the streaming water and watched her hair flatten to her head. She was so lovely, he thought, gazing at her, his head cocked to the side as he watched her pour shampoo in her palm and lather her hair. So different from the skags he knew: those jaded drack bitches, used goods, all of them. This woman was nothing like them, she was clean, she was fresh….

He wanted to keep her for longer than a night, but he knew he wouldn't. Women like Belle were looking for permanence, for long-term relationships. Hando had no room in his life for that; he had his mission, his life's work. There were his mates to look after, to teach and train as he had been taught. Maybe it didn't seem a legitimate ambition to some...he knew it would not seem so to Belle...but it was his life, the life he had chosen. He intended to clear the gooks from Footscray, make his point about white supremacy, and then move on, recruiting more followers, always growing stronger until they could do it properly, purge the country through legitimate means. He would enter politics. Have his own people hold public office, eventually take control of the country. Have the power in his own hands. Do it like Hitler had done, starting with Melbourne.

For a fleeting moment he thought of his embryonic gang as they had been tonight, drunken, stupid, piss-weak, and a premonition of failure chilled his heart. A sense of the almost hopeless impossibility of the task before him made him want to chuck it all and stay here in Belle's life. Get a job, take the easy way out and say fuck the country, let the gooks and the ragheads and the slants have it. But he couldn't, his purpose was too ingrained in him, too much a part of who he was.

He knew his plan for the future would shock Isabelle. People in her position were obsessively politically correct, too liberal minded...dead wrong as far as he was concerned. It was a fuckin' shame, that, because she was bright and articulate and could do the organization a deal of good, if she could be converted to the doctrine.

Isabelle reached down and slid her soapy hands over his cock, interrupting his reverie, stroking him back to hardness.

Hando hissed in pleasure. Not the time to be thinking of politics now. He might not agree with her left-wing opinions, but he had no quarrel with her left-wing morals. Bloody hell, she was a hot little piece. He watched her as she bent to take the bud of his nipple between her teeth. His hands slid up to cup her breasts, he hefted them on his palms, pleased at their weight and firmness. He pinched her nipples, rolled them between his finger and thumb and began licking her neck, biting her, devouring her. She was jacking him steadily, bringing him back, and he thrust himself into her hand. Ready again...more than ready...he pushed her against the wall and lifted her leg to wrap it around his waist. Hando bent his knees and slipped effortlessly into her slick sheath, the warmth enveloping him, squeezing him. He threw his head back, arching his neck.

Oh yeah, that was where he wanted to be, sliding into tight slick delicious heat.

She rocked against him and begged him to fuck her. "Do it, Hando. C'mon, big man. Give it to me hard. Make me scream for you."

He slammed her against the tiled wall, taking care to cradle her head from the blow.

"You want to scream, love?" he grunted, his hips thrusting. He lifted her higher, his fingers digging into her arse as he sought enough purchase to fully open her. Belle gasped as he hilted far inside her, farther than anyone had ever been. She closed her eyes and wrapped her legs around his hips, glorying in his strength, the power of his body pounding into hers. She licked along his shoulder, tracing his tattoos. She had always hated tattoos, but perversely, she loved his. They were part of him, an outward sign of his commitment to what he was. His cock, so far inside her, was generating the most delicious sensation. She was about to come again and she could tell it was going to be excruciatingly powerful. She floated into a state of semi-awareness, all her senses focused on what he did to her. She tightened her legs about his waist and whimpered unconsciously until finally the words in her head burst out of her throat.

"Yes, yes. Make me come….oh sweet Jesus...fuck me harder. Hando…."

She forced her eyes open to look at him, to watch his beautiful face as he strove toward climax. His eyes were glazed with lust, the lashes half curtaining them. He panted heavily, breath slamming against her face, the water splashing down on his shoulders and flinging drops onto her cheeks, beading on her lashes. At the sight of him, grimacing with passion, nostrils flared like an animal's, her orgasm burst over her, all heat and sweetness and ecstasy. She leaned forward to bite him, to suck the flesh of his neck into her mouth and taste him as she came. He whispered to her, using obscenities that sounded like love words that thrilled her and drove her into coming on him again.

"Ya little beaut," he whispered, his voice low and urgent. "You want more? Come on, Belle, fuck me. Finish me. Grab my cock with that hot cunt, make me come."

She tightened her arms about him and tightened her cunt too; he dropped his head to her shoulder, grunting, panting, and her name burst from him, not shouted, but spoken low, from deep in his throat.

"Belle….Belle…"

His hips slowed, stopped, thrust again. She felt the spurting jets of his hot cream deep inside her. Amazing. Marvelous. Delicious.

It was over. His hold on her arse loosened, she lowered her legs. As the water drummed and splashed furiously down, they leaned on each other like drained combatants who had fought to a draw.

e e e

When she woke the next morning, he was gone.

Isabelle had known he would be; knew it even as he'd tenderly dried her and carried her in to bed, holding her in his arms until she fell asleep. She had never felt as safe as she had last night, with her head nestled on the chest of a neo-Nazi skinhead, his broad hands stroking her back with a touch as light as a skimming breeze. She’d wanted to plead with him to stay with her one more day, one more night, but in the end, she kept silent.

Because he wouldn't. She knew this was all she was ever going to have of him, her beautiful wild Hando. A man who knew more about making love than most, and the only man she'd ever met who knew how to be both rough and tender.

She rose, pulled the curtain back,  and looked out on the morning, remembering the night.

 "Hando…"

Belle whispered his name as if it would somehow conjure him up and bring him back to her bed. A lonely figure in a sunlit window, she stared unseeing for a long time until finally she turned away. She already knew that she was going to spend a lot of time looking for someone to replace him, and that she would never succeed. He'd been unique, incomparable, in a class by himself.

Fresh….

End

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