by Jewel Geffen
“I understand,” he said. “I understand completely.”
“I know you do,” she said with a small sad smile, “I don't know how you do, but you do, and that means a lot to me. It's nice to have somebody that understands.”
Scott had crept quietly back down the hall, his cheeks burning, and he'd thrown himself into bed. Julie had returned twenty minutes later. “Honey?” she'd murmured, “Are you awake?”
He'd just laid there, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She had slipped into bed beside him, wrapped her arms around him, and rested her head on his shoulder.
Back on the sand dunes, Scott took a deep breath. The sun had gone down, but the heat remained, sweltering in the twilight. He lifted the glasses again and scanned the beach.
Then he saw a pair of headlights slashing across the front of the house. Somebody was coming. Lily Fairchild, he thought. She'd arrived. He tightened his grip on the binoculars.
Showtime.
Chapter Seventeen
James arrived not long after Misses Fairchild. He glanced around as he stepped out of the card, scanning the dunes for Scott, no doubt. He didn't see anything and started towards the door.
Scott grinned from where he was hidden, crouched in the weeds and observing everything. He was in his element now. How many dozens of times had he staked out a house to get evidence of marital infidelity?
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he was perhaps not so different from the stalker he'd been hired to track down. He supposed there was a certain cold logic in that. Hire a snoop to catch a snoop. It made sense.
Lily opened the door and ushered James warmly inside the beach house. She was quite a woman, even seen only from a great distance. Slender in all the right places and voluptuous right where she should be. She had copper red hair and pale Irish skin. Scott shifted uncomfortably in his hiding place as she embraced James and drew him close to press her lips against his.
From where he sat Scott couldn't help but see an obvious resemblance between the woman and Julie. He could almost see his own wife in there, locking lips with the black bull, running her delicate hands across his strong back.
He watched them move in from the foyer and into the main room. The beach house had huge windows in practically every room, and from where he sat he could follow them throughout the whole place without much trouble. Not the sort of place he'd have picked to conduct a secret affair, but what did he know?
He twisted the knob on the binoculars, bringing the two of them more sharply into focus as Lily Fairchild poured James a glass of wine.
She was dressed in a little crop-top that cupped her large breasts and a little half-skirt that showed off her long legs. Her exposed midriff was taut and white, just begging to be kissed. You had to be rich, Scott thought, to live in Florida and stay that pale.
His attention wandered as she and James sat down to drink and – no doubt – flirt. No sign of their uninvited guest just yet.
He scanned the brush, the long path down the beach, everywhere he could. It wouldn't be easy to spot the man, not if he came dressed in black like James had described. He'd be no more than a shadow in the encroaching darkness. Scott would have to keep his eyes sharp.
He wondered what Mr. Fairchild was up to right about now. Blissfully unaware, perhaps, kicking back in front of the television with not a care in the world. Or maybe he knew what was happening, and was quivering even now with barely suppressed arousal at the idea of what his wife was doing. Hell, he might be off screwing his own mistress, for all Scott knew.
When he pictured it, though, just as Lily reminded him of Julie, he saw himself in Mr. Fairchild.
How would he react if he knew that Julie was having sex with someone right now, some black man, hulking and erudite in equal measure? Someone smarter and more attractive than Scott could ever hope to compete with?
As James rose from his seat and gathered Lily in his arms, Scott saw Julie instead.
He took her top off, his fingers skillfully working the knot which held it up in back. It fell away, revealing the swell of her huge breasts and the pink buds of her nipples soft in the candlelight. Then he put his hands over them, covering them with his dark black hands, caressing them gently.
Lily's head fell back, her arms wrapping around James' head as she cradled him against her, her eyes closed and her mouth open in an expression of perfect ecstasy.
James lowered his mouth to her breasts and kissed them, brushing his lips against her nipples, and as he did he slid one hand down between her legs, exploring beneath the sash tied about her waist.
Scott didn't know how he could do it. How could he make love so convincingly and so passionately after what had happened at the Kendall's house? Hell, it was more than that. He knew that Scott was watching, he knew it for a surety and yet it didn't seem to slow him at all.
James gathered the pale white woman in his arms and lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her from the room as easily as if she were a teddy bear, and he bore her deeper into the house while she cupped his face and kissed him reverently upon the mouth and cheeks and chin.
For a moment Scott lost sight of them. He scanned the house with his glasses, looking in every window. He felt a moment's panic as his search got increasingly frantic. If he couldn't find them, he'd have to move his position and risk revealing himself to the stalker.
“Come on, Cain,” he muttered under his breath, “show me the goods...”
Then he got them. He was scanning past the bedroom upstairs when he saw movement inside and snapped back. James was carrying Lily in, his hands cupping her bottom. Scott grinned. Just the room he'd been hoping for.
“Thank you, Professor,” he murmured, and settled down to watch the show.
Say this for the man, James didn't rush things. He laid the women on the bed and began to kiss slowly down the length of her body, right down to the place between her legs.
They'd left the lights off, and Scott couldn't see perfectly, only shadows in the dark, only the contrast of the black man's midnight skin against her moonlight glow. He saw her twisting and writhing slowly on the sheets as he tasted her most secret place.
Scott felt himself getting immediately hard. He'd never gone down on a woman before. It had always seemed to him unnecessary, some kind of French indulgence. Women didn't want that, they just wanted a cock, that's what he'd always thought.
Looking at Lily Fairchild right now, however, he was forced to reassess that opinion. Even from across the dunes, he could tell that she was at the very height of pleasure, twisting and shaking beneath him, her mouth opening and cries and moans that he could faintly hear carried on the wind from the open window.
He stared, his throat tight and dry as he watched the man work. He licked and tasted her for what seemed like hours, but was probably closer to five or ten minutes.
“Yes! Yes, James, yes!” He heard her voice, sweetened with bliss and coming on the hot breeze.
He'd never made a woman act like that, so lost in pleasure, abandoning all control. Never made them do it with his cock, much less his mouth.
Scott had to admit, sitting there watching, that the black man was a superior lover by far – if it had ever been in question.
He saw their position change, the women getting up on all fours, her head down and her copper hair swaying, her heavy breasts hanging beautifully down in the dimness of the room. James moved behind her, standing up on the bed so that he was above her.
Scott couldn't see it go it, but he could tell from the swift thrust of his hips forward that he'd entered her. He heard the sharp pleasured cry.
He stared, transfixed, at the sight before him. James was pounding her from behind with a brutal intensity, a powerful and utterly dominant posture of total control. And Misses Fairchild seemed to be loving every second of it.
He was so intent on watching the display, in fact, that he didn't notice the dark shape crawling up the supports of the bal
cony outside the window until the man was pulling himself noiselessly over the railing and creeping towards the window. He wore a small black pack on his back, and slipped it off now to reach inside for something.
Scott had a sudden awful thought, one which he'd never considered until this moment but which he should have thought about long ago. What if the stalker wasn't going to come here to take pictures?
He remembered that knife that had been stabbed into James' pillow. You're next.
What if he'd come not to photograph James, but to kill him?
Scott came swiftly to his feet, his hands reaching instinctively down to check that the gun was still secure at his hip, and he started off at a run across the dunes, his heart beating hard in his chest as the sounds of Lily Fairchild's orgasmic moans mingled with the noise of the waves crashing on the shore.
Chapter Eighteen
Scott dashed across the beach, his feet pounding noiselessly on the sand, tossing it up behind him in dusty clouds. He gripped the pistol in his hand, clinging tightly to it.
He wasn't going to let a friend die, not on his watch, not like this. He wasn't sure if James Cain was a friend or not, but the man had been staying at his house a couple days now for Christ's sake, and that meant something.
The black shape on the balcony, twenty feet up in the air maybe, didn't seem to have noticed him yet. He was clearly intent upon his prey inside the beach house. Scott reached the edge of the house and dropped to one knee, breathing hard, his mind racing.
If the man did have a gun, then leaping up there and throwing himself in the guy's path would likely just end up getting him shot. He didn't want anything to happen to James, but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to throw his own life away for the black man's sake.
Scott looked up the scaffolding of the balcony. It crisscrossed back and forth right up to the top. An easy climb. Scott bit his lip.
Don't do it. You know not to do this, Scott. First rule in the book: don't put yourself in harm's way. No case was worth making Julie a widow. He should go back to the street and find a pay phone and call the cops, that was the smart play.
But if he did that, the stalker would probably get away. And, if he meant James harm, he'd have plenty of time to do it.
Damn it!
Scott tugged the gun in his pocket and started to climb.
He hauled himself up beams, ascending in almost total darkness beneath the dazzling Miami sky. The roaring of the ocean cloaked the creaking of the wood beneath him, he hoped. He could hear Lily Fairchild inside, crying out in rapture as James fucked her. He kept bracing himself for the sound of a gunshot as he clambered awkwardly upwards.
Finally, he was near the top. He held on with one arm, casting a nervous look at the drop beneath him, and he fished his pistol back out of his pocket. He shut his eyes and he hung there, suspending in the air over the sand, for a long moment.
Then, in one fluid motion, Scott lifted himself up so that he was about breast-high against the balcony floor, and he wiped the gun around to point it directly at where the black-garbed man had been standing. “Freeze!” he barked in his best cop voice.
The man was already moving, however, and had crossed to the other side of the balcony, a camera slung over one arm. He snapped around, frozen in place for just a moment.
Past him, through the glass of the window, Lily Fairchild was bucking hard against James, her pale breasts heaving and swaying as she rocked against him, impaled by that ten inch cock and lost in her ecstasy, still ignorant of what was happening outside.
Scott shifted his arm towards the man, but his foot slipped out from under him and his arm wavered as he caught hold of a beam to steady himself. The stalker took advantage of the lapse and catapulted himself lithely over the railing. He shimmied down the crossbars as quickly and nimbly as a squirrel. Before Scott had even shifted in response he'd hit the beach and was running.
“God damn it!” Scott snarled, and flung himself down.
He hit the sand hard, momentarily winding himself, but then he was up and running.
The stalker was pounding across the sand, racing away at a surprising speed.
“Stop!” Scott shouted after him. “Stop or I'll shoot!”
The man showed no indication of slowing.
Scott, who'd never fired the gun outside of the practice range, cursed again and took a stance. He pointed it well over the man's head and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The shot rang out in the darkness. The man crumpled to the ground and, for a sickening second, Scott thought he'd somehow hit him. He started running towards the prone figure, praying under his breath that he hadn't.
He stood over the man, gun held ready. “Turn over!” he barked.
The guy moved, slowly, rolling onto his back and looking up. Bright blue eyes gleamed through the eye-holes of his mask, sharp with fury.
“Take it off!” Scott said.
The man sighed and reached up to roll back the mask. He was sweating beneath it, no surprise there. His pale face was flushed red and damp with sweat. He had bright blonde hair and a hooked nose.
It took Scott a moment to place the guy. “You,” he said, his eyes going wide.
It was the doorman from the Black and White Club, the snooty asshole who'd talked down Scott's outfit. He was the stalker. It made sense, as the doorman he'd see everybody who came and went, and when, and who they left with. It would have been easy to start putting together a catalog of victims.
Every day, watching all those rich people walking right past him... it must have driven the guy mad.
“What's the plan, kid?” Scott said. “Blackmail? Extortion? How much did you expect to get, really?”
The man laughed, a sharp cruel laugh that carried out across the beach. He shook his head slowly, a nasty smile spreading across his lips. “I have no idea.”
Scott scowled. “Don't give me that shit. You didn't just start taking pictures for kicks; you must have had a plan. What was it?”
The man shrugged. “I don't call the shots, little man. He does.”
Scott felt a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. “He? He who?”
“Someone you couldn't possibly dream of. Somebody you don't go up against. He's not going to be happy with you, I can tell you that much for sure.”
“Give me a name, and I might not have my cop buddies throw you in the deepest pit they got.”
“You can't scare me with cops,” the man sneered. “My employer owns the police force in this town. Besides, you haven't got me on anything, not really. There's no evidence that ties me to any of it. It'll be your word against mine.”
Scott cocked the hammer back on his revolver. “I could just shoot you right now, tell them I was jumped by a prowler. They won't look into it too close.”
A satisfactory expression of fear passed over the guy's face, but they both knew that Scott was bluffing. The man just pressed his lips tighter together.
Scott sighed and put the gun up. He stared down at the man. He'd been hoping this would be easy, nice and tidy. But no, of course something like this had to happen. Nothing ever went smooth for him these days.
It looked like James Cain and the Black and White Club were both going to be in his life just a little bit longer. His life, and Julie's too.
Truth was, he wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that. Whatever happened though, it was going to be interesting.
Preview: Hotwife Miami 2 - Undercover Cuckold
Scott Chapel isn't ready to let it go. The man who hired him to investigate the possible blackmail of a group of interracial swingers is ready to close the case, but Scott isn't convinced that the matter is resolved. There's only one way to get to the bottom of this, and it's going to force Scott and his wife to do something they never thought themselves capable of.
The only way to solve the mystery is to get inside the Black and White Club, and the only way Scott's getting in there is by becoming the very thing he's investigating. He and
his wife must pretend to be a cuckold and hotwife, and she must make a show of offering herself up to a black man. The further things go, however, the harder it becomes to know where the illusion ends and where reality begins…
Check out a special sneak peak of this steaming hot story:
Chapter One
The walls of Reginald Mason's study were lined with artwork. Oil paintings, mostly, framed with ornate golden and bronze colored scroll-work frames. They depicted nudes, voluptuous pale-skinned women with their full breasts on show. One picture, larger than the others and displayed in the center of the back wall, was of three large black men, also naked. A Caucasian woman knelt before them, gazing up in wonder.
The paintings were displayed brazenly, as if daring one to question them or comment. Scott wouldn't have been surprised to find such things on display at the Black and White Club – Mason's exclusive interracial swinger's association – but they seemed somehow shocking here.
Mason himself luxuriated in his environs. He caught Scott glancing at the paintings and grinned widely beneath his waxed mustache.
At the moment he was sitting back in a large plush chair, puffing on a slender cherry-wood pipe. The rich scent of tobacco filled the room as he puffed away. Finally, after a long moment of silence, he withdrew the pipe and blew out a trail of cloudy smoke. “My goodness, but you have had an adventure, haven't you?”
Scott had just finished debriefing Mason – his current employer – about the details of the case to date.
It had been about a week ago that Mason had first hired him. Scott was a private investigator who specialized in marital difficulties – which was to say that he usually ended up snapping photos of cheating husbands or wives through the curtains of motel room windows.
Mason had hired him to find out who was doing more or less that to the members of his Club. Rich white women cheating on their husbands with strapping black men – a fair number of them doing so with their husband's permission and approval – were being photographed while having sex.