Free Seaborne by Katherine Irons

musky perfume and pouty red lips. He hoped she was as creative with that mouth as Sergei had promised.
    The bitch was slightly sleazy and young, but not too young, the way he liked them. He’d threatened the agent after she’d sent him an underage girl a few months ago, and he’d had to refuse her services. The agent had provided a replacement, a Russian transsexual, but his evening had been ruined by the delay. Justin liked to gamble, but not on something so dangerous as having sex with a minor. There were too many luscious partners over eighteen to risk his career and position.
    Justin moistened his lips with his tongue. Yes, this Bunny was almost perfect, dumb and innocent looking—but not too innocent by the way she was taking all of Sergei’s impressive length or her quick little grunts of pleasure.
    Justin applied spearmint balm to his lips and shaft and removed two capsules from the false bottom of a sculpture of the god Pan despoiling a naiad. The ten-inch statue was a museum copy that he’d fallen in love with and had altered. It had been expensive, but he thought Pan appeared quite sophisticated displayed on the dark walnut table beside the red leather couch.
    Justin was anxious to talk to Richard about Claire, but not so anxious that he would ruin a perfectly enjoyable afternoon. Claire could wait. Few worthwhile things in life were gained by heedless haste. He lay back against the headrest and washed the capsules down with a swallow of energy water. He was certain that he would need all of his energy before he was finished with his latest playthings.

    It was late afternoon, and a chill breeze was whipping off the water, sending grains of sand and the occasional gull feather swirling across Seaborne’s beach pavilion when the housekeeper appeared at Claire’s side. “You’ve been down here all day.” Mrs. Godwin scowled and clutched her tweed sweater around her. “The sun has gone in.”
    “It’s June,” Claire reminded her, noticing that Mrs. Godwin had tied a green-and-orange checked wool scarf around her head. The woman hated ocean wind blowing in her ears and always swore it gave her an earache.
    “I don’t care if it’s August. If I’m cold, it’s too chilly for you in your delicate condition.”
    “I’m not pregnant.”
    The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “There’s no need for sarcasm. You know what I meant. You aren’t strong.”
    “I’m as strong as a horse. Just a crippled one.” Claire turned her gaze back to the ocean. She didn’t like scarves or hats, and she’d never had an earache since she was a small child. She loved the wind off the ocean, the stronger the better. It made her feel alive.
    “They used to shoot horses when they broke their legs,” she continued. “Now they just use an injection to put them down. I’m not sure it’s any more humane.”
    “We’re not talking about horses,” Mrs. Godwin said. “Your father wouldn’t approve of this. You’re not behaving sensibly.”
    Claire didn’t answer. She was cold, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She’d been here on the pavilion since morning. She’d waited and watched, straining her eyes, hoping to see Morgan stroll up the beach or rise out of the waves like a merman, or a silky, or one of those mythological beings her Green Fairy Tale Book had been full of.
    She’d been a fan of fairy tales when she was a child: Red Fairy Tale Book , Yellow , and Green ; she’d cherished them all. Books and horses had meant everything to her. And now, she’d never feel the beautiful majesty of a horse under her, or possess the concentration to read again.
    She tried to lose herself in the magic of novels, but after a few pages, she’d find that her eyes were playing tricks on her. The words were beginning to blur and there were white spaces scattered across the text. She began to forget if she’d read a paragraph or not. Instead, she found herself reduced to scanning magazines and watching DVDs.
    She wanted