Free A Twist of the Knife by Peter James

the beige metal casings, the instruments, the dials. The word ‘Ruppmann’ was printed above them, and on other machines in the room, and on top of wiring diagrams. Opposite them, two coffins sat, one with the lid open.
    A few minutes passed and the thin occupant of the open coffin now had a companion, squashed tightly against him, as Hans screwed the lid down.
    Then Hans smiled. A totally wicked smile.
    A few minutes later, after he had pressed a number of buttons and the mechanical doors had closed, and the roar of the burners of the two huge furnaces rose to a crescendo, they could see, through the observation window, flames licking along the lengths of the two coffins.
    Janet felt Hans’s arms around her waist. Slowly, shedding their clothes, they sank to the floor.
    Smoke rose from the chimney into the night sky. They made love while the burners rose to their optimum temperature, and their own body heat rose at the same time.
    In the morning, Hans raked the remaining pieces of bone into the cremulator, then ground them to a powder that mingled with the ashes. Then they stepped through the crematorium doors, arm in arm. Outside, in the early, pre-dawn light, the world seemed an altogether brighter place. Birds were starting to sing.
    Hans slipped an arm around her, then whispered into her ear, ‘You know, my English angel, I will never let you go.’
    And for an instant he sounded just like Trevor. She kissed him, then whispered back into his ear, ‘Don’t push your luck.’
    ‘What is that meaning?’ he asked.
    She smiled.

VENICE APHRODISIAC
     

The first time they came to Venice, Johnny had told his wife he was on an important case; Joy had told her husband she was going to see her Italian relatives.
    In the large, dingy hotel room with its window overlooking the Grand Canal, they tore off each other’s clothes before they had even unpacked, and made love to the sound of lapping water and water taxis blattering past outside. She was insatiable; they both were. They made love morning, noon and night, only venturing out for food to stoke their energy. On that trip they barely even took time out to see the sights of the city. They had eyes only for each other. Horny eyes, each greedy for the other’s naked body. They were aware that they had precious little time.
    Johnny whispered to her that Woody Allen, whose movies they both loved, was once asked if he thought that sex was dirty, and Woody had replied, ‘Only if you are doing it right.’
    So they did it right. Over and over again. And in between they laughed a lot. Johnny told Joy she was the sexiest creature in the world. She told him no, he was.
    One time, when he was deep inside her, she whispered into Johnny’s ear, ‘Let’s promise each other to come back and make love here in this room every year, for ever.’
    ‘Even after we’re dead?’ he said.
    ‘Why not? You’re stiff when you’re dead, aren’t you? Stiff as a gondolier’s oar!’
    ‘You’re a wicked woman, Joy Jackson.’
    ‘You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t, you horny devil.’
    ‘We could come back as ghosts, couldn’t we, and haunt this room?’
    ‘We will!’
    Two years later, acrimoniously divorced and free, they married. And they honeymooned in Venice in the same hotel – a former palazzo – in the same room. While they were there, they vowed, as before, to return to the same room every year for their anniversary, and they did so, without fail. In the beginning they always got naked long before they got around to unpacking. Often, after dining out, they felt so horny they couldn’t wait until they got back to the hotel.
    One time they did it late at night in a moored gondola. They did it beneath the Rialto Bridge. And under several other bridges. Venice cast its spell – coming here was an aphrodisiac to them. They drank Bellinis in their favourite café in Piazza San Marco, swigged glorious white wines from the Friuli district and gorged on grilled seafood in their