I’ve always enjoyed a good heist. And since I’m writing an erotic heist series right now, entitled Con, (the first in the series will be You Can Play It Safe When You’re Dead) I’m all the more keen. So I thought I’d share a few heist/con movie moments that I find particularly erotic. The first of these is from the remake of the Thomas Crowne Affair, directed by John McTiernan, and my god, it’s worth viewing. Piers Brosnan and Rene Russo spark with sexy stormheat (and Rene Russo makes Elizabeth Hurley’s famous dress — yes, that dress — look positively tame.) Enjoy!
Also, my erotic piece, Smart Folks Won’t Screw Witless Girls (from Femme Fatale: Erotic Tales of Dangerous Women) is a thief story. If you’re interested, take a look at the opening pages:
Smart Folks Won’t Screw Witless Girls
There’s one thing you should know about me: I don’t choose my victims. I just stand at a bar and wait for the mark to come to me. He’s usually a businessman or sometimes a businesswoman, and while they try to reel me in, I let them think they’re winning. They buy me drinks, flatter and flirt, brush their hands against my thigh, tell me I look hot in black. Then they offer me a ride.
So I go home with them, have better-than-average sex (which, I might add, is due to my own efforts), then when they’re asleep, I steal their stuff. Say what you like, I’m thieving from a thief. Just because I thieve for money and they thieve for sex doesn’t mean this isn’t a damn fair game—a game I usually win.
But last night, things were different. Last night, I met Elle Clearey.
“Elle,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to mine.
“As in the letter?”
She gave me a sideways smile that crinkled her powdered face. “What do you think, Sweetheart? D’you have me down as a one-letter trick?”
I smiled. “You’re good.”
“I’m also rich and thirsty.”
“Mine’s a gin and tonic,” I said.
She ordered Tanqueray with lemon, not lime, even though I’d given no preference. When I asked why, she raised a delicate eyebrow. “If I’m going to kiss you, my dear, you might as well taste of the good stuff.”
It was a strange kind of seduction—different to the others. Not least because it wasn’t clear who was seducing who. In her red silk blouse and knee-length skirt, she was classier than my usual marks and seven times as bold. Her deep red lipstick had been flawlessly fixed, and her powdered face was mask-like with perfection. She had the most adorable snub nose that gave a constant air of irony, and she wore her brown hair in a delicate chignon, which she patted softly now and then.
She was also good at avoiding questions. Twenty minutes into our conversation, I only knew a handful of facts: She worked in the art world, hated the Dido track that was playing, and her husband had run off with a so-called friend—one she bitterly referred to as “Pussy Galore.” (When I laughed at that, she glared). “He wants the house,” she said, draining her final sip of wine. “The house that we bought with my inheritance money.” She raised her left eyebrow the tiniest amount and said, “He won’t succeed.”
I admit I began to like her.
After I’d told her I had a job as a secretary in an accountancy firm—a useful lie, because who’d ask about that?—I said, “Why do you still wear your wedding ring?”
“I thought you’d like the challenge,” she purred. I laughed at her obvious smokescreen. Before I could respond, she added, “And seeing as you’re all about the personal questions, who the hell are you, and why are you here alone?”
“I’m Tiff,” I told her. “And I’m here ’cos I’m filling a void.”
“A void?” she said. “How sexual.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“But it is.”
She held my gaze unflinchingly as she rubbed her knee against mine. Through my jeans, I felt the warmth of her and the friction of her stocking against my denim-clad knee. I also noticed that, beneath the layers of blouse and bra, her nipples had grown hard. I felt my sex burning as she leaned toward me, running a fingertip down my arm before covering my hand with hers. “You might have a void,” she said, breath warm against my cheek, “but with me, it’s something quite different.”
“You’re not like the others?” I said. “Behold the cliché.”
A half-smile. “Oh, kitten,” she said, “if only you knew.”
All right, sexy readers. The con is on.