Fyre, Raven - Blind Man's Bluff (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Raven Fyre

  Clint, on the other hand, had ruined his marriage by cheating on that nice wife of his. The best move Clint had ever made was when he put a ring on Chloe’s finger, and he’d promptly screwed it up. It would have served the boy right if she’d tarred and feathered him. Divorce was too easy an out.

  But then, if he really wanted to teach the boy a lesson, Hank should have pressed charges the summer before, when a drunk-off-his-ass Clint had broken in and trashed his home office, stealing the plasma TV Deloris had given him for Christmas the year before and a fairly old DVD player he’d been considering replacing anyway.

  Ever since he and Chloe had ended up in Splitsville, Clint couldn’t keep a job. Even Hank’s brother, Clint’s uncle Phil, had washed his hands to the debacle Clint’s life had become.

  “What now?” Hank asked by way of answering the offensive shrill.

  There was grumbling, cursing, then Clint’s unmistakable voice—slurred, no doubt, by alcohol. “Goddamn it, old man. Don’t yell at me when my head’s about to split in two.”

  “If you’re gonna be surly and hurl profanity in my ear after waking me up at this ungodly hour, then—”

  “Just do me a favor, all right? Chloe’s not here. She’s not where she should be.”

  This was his son’s big news? This warranted waking him from a sound sleep? The boy needed help. He’d tried to get him to agree to counseling. Fat chance, that.

  “Look, son, why don’t you go home and sleep off the drunk. Call me tomorrow, when your head’s clear, and we’ll talk.”

  “I don’t need to clear my head,” Clint barked. “I need to know where my wife is.”

  “Ex-wife,” Hank reminded him, though he doubted his words, or anything, for that matter, penetrated the boy’s thick skull. “And she’s probably at her grandmother’s, with that sister of hers. No big mystery, boy, considering Adeline passed on a couple weeks back.”

  “Passed on…You mean she’s dead?”

  “As a doorknob. Her ticker gave out.” In the silence that seemed to drag on, Hank worried that Clint had either passed out or maybe was having some medical malfunction of his own. “Clint, boy, you still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I just hadn’t heard…I didn’t know.” Was he crying? Mercy, the boy turned into a pussy when he drank. “I should have been there for Chloe.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  Hank let out a heavy sigh. “Boy, you should have done a lot where that little gal was concerned. Like keeping your dick in your pants, for starters. But it’s too late to cry over spilled milk. Get yourself up and pull it together. And if you know what’s good for you,” trying to knock some sense into the boy was like trying to train a mule, but as a father, he had to at least make the effort, Hank decided, “you’ll stay the hell away from her.”

  Clint grunted and hung up without uttering another word.

  * * * *

  July Fourth was commemorated with a spectacular fireworks display set to explode high above the warm Gulf waters promptly at midnight. High Tide opened its doors to the summer night’s breezes, beckoning in one and all. The place was alive with the tempo of a live local band, the hum of a lively crowd taking the holiday as an excuse to party.

  Chloe had the night free, but Rachel was bussing tables and serving drinks with practiced ease. “Hey! Glad you stopped in!” she had to shout over the roar of the masses.

  “You’re swamped.”

  “We always are for the Fourth.” Rachel shrugged. “I still can’t believe you finagled the night off.”

  Scanning the crowd kept her from meeting Rachel’s eyes, or the lie would have shown. “Bonnie said all the part-time waitresses needed the night’s extra tips, and since she’s paying me under the table already, I didn’t think it was fair to hone in, so…”

  “Have Mick get you a drink, and I’ll catch up with you soon,” Rachel promised before moving on.

  Her intent was to do just that when she spotted Jackson watching her from the end of the bar where he and Mick were conversing. He shot her a smile and spoke to Mick without ever taking his eyes off her. That smile caused her stomach to pitch and roll. And his intense glare pulled her close, closer—iron to magnet.

  “Good to see you,” he said and took her hand, kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful, as always.”

  She was afraid things would be awkward between them after her meltdown and their close call, but apparently, he’d decided ignoring it was the best course of action. So be it, she decided, going with the flow.

  “Thank you.” Unable to fight the sensations he stirred, she shivered. “Surprisingly cool this evening. Looks like business is booming.”

  His look was speculative as she settled in on one of the high stools. “Night like this brings everyone out of the woodwork. How about a drink?”

  “Yes, please. A glass of wine?”

  Jackson leaned his elbow on the bar and cocked his head to Mick. “A glass of Chardonnay, on the house. No argument,” he added as if he sensed her protest.

  “Thank you.”

  “I trust things are going well?”

  There was no mistaking his meaning. She crossed her legs in a self-conscious gesture when her damned, traitorous cunt chose that moment to clench and weep. Remembering her phantom lover made her wet. Hot. Bothered. Jackson’s nearness only magnified her agonizing, alarming state of arousal. “Yes.”

  He grinned and arched one dark brow. “That stimulating, huh?”

  “Damn it, Jackson,” she murmured under her breath while glancing around to be sure no one—mainly Rachel—caught their exchange. “What do you want? A blow by blow report?”

  “No, of course not.” He fingered a lock of hair that had slipped out of her clip. “Just reassurance you’re well and that you still wish to continue the arrangement.”

  “I’m fine.” Better than fine. Astoundingly satisfied. But it wasn’t nice—or wise, considering the company—to brag. “The arrangement is…surprisingly delightful.”

  His masculine laugh was hearty, deep, and it resonated within her, causing her pussy to clench again. The V of silk covering her mound was growing damper by the minute. God, she needed relief. The cool, sweet wine went down smooth, and she licked her lips. The innate, innocent gesture brought to mind the pleasure of licking her lover’s engorged cock.

  Shit.

  She’d become some wanton hussy who couldn’t wait until the next time her lover’s impressive cock was shoved between her presently drenched thighs, driving her straight toward bliss. Four wonderful nights together and still there was so much to be explored.

  She wanted to mount her mystery lover and ride him like the stallion of a male she believed him to be. Even her mouth watered at the notion of sucking him off, of swallowing down every salty, savory drop of his thick cream. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down her spine, sliding along the cleft of her ass cheeks. Don’t go there…

  Another gulp of wine did nothing to quell her spiking desire.

  The smartest move would be to distance herself from Jackson Sawyer—the purest form of temptation. But he took her hand and pulled her outside to the club’s back deck as if reading her thoughts. She was on the brink of fleeing for her sanity. There was a long, narrow boardwalk leading down to the sand and the Gulf.

  He daringly pulled the clip from her hair, spilling the dark waves. “Walk with me in the moonlight.”

  “What about your rules?”

  “Tonight,” he insisted while pulling off his socks and stuffing them in his shoes, “you’re just a beautiful, sexy woman I want to spend more time with.”

  Would they ever discuss what had happened before? Would tonight be the night they crossed the line? Chloe was afraid to ask. Too afraid to ruin the mood or squander this precious opportunity.

  She followed suit and kicked off her sandals. Her sundress flowed around her bare legs and shifted in the breeze, molding to her body. She wiggled her toes in the warm sand. The sugary grains still held the day’s h
eat.

  Jackson made wide cuffs in his khaki pants, exposing his legs to mid-calf, and then placed their shoes just under the end of the walkway for safekeeping.

  They strolled along the edge of the water, letting the foam-tipped waves rush up and erase their footprints. Covering their secret, Chloe thought ironically. With their hands laced together and their stride in frighteningly perfect unison, she was once again reminded of how wonderfully they fit.

  And she decided, just for a little while, to play this new part. To forget they were breaking his rules. To be with him for however long they could manage without raising suspicions.

  She asked about his parents, about growing up in Birmingham. It was odd how they’d traded cities. He knew the neighborhood where she’d been renting an apartment and asked about her classes at the University of Alabama. He mentioned favorite old haunts and high school stomping grounds. Somehow, they shifted to movies and music and a million other inane topics. With so much in common, the conversation flowed as fluidly as the churning surf. At another time, under different conditions, she might’ve believed they could have something special. Something real and lasting. More than just one night in his arms.

  Odd how swiftly and naturally the idea unfurled.

  If he kept looking at her like he wanted to devour her, she just might give in and jump his bones. Or beg him to jump hers—again.

  Here.

  Now.

  A golf-ball-sized lump of emotion bobbed in her throat. “Jackson?”

  “What is it, sweetheart?” He leaned in and brushed his lips over her forehead then pressed them to her temple.

  Frissons of awareness skated over her spine. She wanted that mouth on hers. She wanted him sucking at her breasts, tugging on the nipples that were magnificently sore from her mystery lover’s greedy attentions. It just felt so damned right, being in his arms. And it was all too easy to imagine him laying her back in the warm sand and spreading her thighs, eating at her swollen, throbbing pussy. She wanted nothing more than for him to shove his hard cock between her cream-coated folds and take up the rhythm that was as old as time.

  “We should get back.” Like, before she gave in and ripped his clothes off.

  “A few more minutes.” Glancing to the skies, he smiled and pulled her closer, pivoted her in his embrace, wrapping his arms around her torso. He nuzzled her neck. “It’s midnight.”

  Was it? She’d lost all sense of time and place in this world of starlight and salty sea air…and Jackson.

  Unlike Cinderella at the ball, Chloe stayed in her prince’s arms, resting the back of her head against the wonderfully firm wall of his chest, and enjoyed the shower of color and light overhead as the clocked ticked past the magical appointed hour.

  * * * *

  Any idiot would’ve had the presence of mind to avoid temptation. But not Jackson. Hell, no. He’d dangled the fucking carrot in front of his own fucking nose. As a result, he hadn’t slept a fucking wink in days.

  How could he?

  He could still smell Chloe’s perfume, the alluring scent of honeysuckle, as it had wafted on the humid, salty breeze. Her skin was soft as satin to his touch. His arms ached with the need to hold her again. The way her lush, curving body had been pressed to his, it had taken every ounce of his resolve not to drag her behind one of the tall, sea-oat-studded sand dunes and rip that goddamn sexy sundress off her sexier body, not to taste that beautiful bow of a mouth.

  Even knowing full well they were alone and fairly well hidden from the prying eyes of the club and the crowds, he’d resisted the urge to palm her lush tits or tweak her nipples, which should propel him to saintly status when taking into account the fact she clearly hadn’t been wearing a bra.

  He groaned.

  Tossing off the tangled sheet, Jackson padded to the bathroom and stepped under the shower. His damned prick, which had been on go since that first day he’d met her, had been so hard, straining in the confines of his briefs and the Dockers, it was a miracle his balls hadn’t burst. She had to have felt his erection poking her in the ass while they’d watched the fireworks.

  It had been equally hard the day she’d broken down, the day he’d nearly given in. If not for Paul’s damned interruption, he might’ve taken her right there on the table or the floor.

  And then where would they be?

  Breaking the rules wasn’t an option. No way was he going to jeopardize Chloe’s job, therefore running the risk she’d hightail it back to Birmingham because she had to sell her Gram’s house in order to pay off the debt. He just had to bide his time, cultivate his patience.

  Sooner or later, she’d be free of her dependence on the income from the club, and then he would be free to have her any way he wanted her. Anywhere he wanted her. Like in his bed, spread out like a feast. Or on all fours while he tapped that sweet ass.

  “Shit,” he muttered and sluiced hot water over his head.

  Thinking of her shapely little heart-shaped ass snuggled up in his lap only added to the agony, and his cock twitched.

  How easy it would have been to adjust their bodies by miniscule inches, to free his throbbing dick, to lift her dress and rip off her panties. Inches, mere inches, and he could’ve buried his cock deep in her pussy. He would have fondled those sweet, ripe breasts while she road him until she screamed his name and shuddered through an orgasm. Or three.

  He groaned again and took his unruly erection in hand, jacking off, spewing his thick cream over the pale blue tiles of the shower wall. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of being buried in her tight cunt, of how her slick muscles might’ve milked him as he filled the deepest recesses of her womb with his passion. Or of how those sea-green eyes would go limpid during her own release, of how her soft, kissable lips might look curving in a purely satiated smile.

  “Fuck,” he whispered and pounded a frustrated fist on the tile.

  The bliss of release was short-lived as his damned prick swelled and throbbed anew.

  Miserable didn’t come close to describing his foul mood.

  Chapter 6

  The salacious interludes at Sex On The Beach had gone on for three straight weeks--six blissful nights, twelve unbelievable hours--as did the request for her to be blindfolded, Chloe pondered with a heavy sigh. He had, at least, allowed Jocelyn to trade the cumbersome necktie for one of those Mardi-Gras-like sleeping masks. It was made of black satin, no holes cut through for the eyes, but thicker and more contoured to fit over her nose and curve to her cheeks, thus keeping her in the dark. That was something.

  She certainly couldn’t complain about the sex. If anything, it had gotten hotter, more erotic, more…everything as their sessions progressed.

  During one particularly feverish mating, her Master had barely stepped into the suite when he reached for her. He’d ripped one very lovely pink negligee to shreds before bending her over the arm of the sofa in the sitting room and mounting her from behind. He’d shoved his demanding, amazingly hard cock between her thighs and fucked her like a man possessed. She’d begged for every minute of it—harder, faster—like a woman equally insane and wild with lust.

  Gone were her inhibitions.

  Chloe had fully, wholeheartedly embraced her sexuality, her most carnal, basic desires.

  She’d even come to trust him enough that she’d initiated a session involving the use of a vibrator. It was a miracle, really, a silvery pocket rocket that hummed over her clit, buzzing and stimulating the bundle of nerve endings until she sobbed in response to the exquisite torture. He’d demanded to watch while she pleasured herself, not allowing her to stop until she’d shuddered and moaned through two mind-numbing climaxes. Then, with the remarkable, powerful stimulation applied yet again to her hypersensitive clit and with his magnificent girth jackhammering into her swollen, dripping pussy, she’d experienced the most intense orgasm of her life.

  Second only, he’d informed, to the intensity of having his cock in her ass and a toy, possibly one of the dildos in the dr
awer, simultaneously fucking her cunt. A fantasy he’d love to explore…if she were willing.

  Well.Alrighty, then.

  Maybe they’d work up to it, Chloe mused—soon.

  Yes, she’d truly morphed into a wicked, wicked fiend. And the hell if she cared. Everything they did felt too marvelous to be believed.

  The blindfold, which had, at times, seemed tedious, was also a blessing. That anonymity had given her the power to let go of her reticence, awakening a sensual side of her she’d never realized existed.

  On the home front, Rachel was visibly flummoxed, lost as to why Chloe refused to go out with Jackson or why Jackson refused to pursue Chloe since they’d both shown such promise and undeniable attraction. Time and again, she’d grilled Chloe like a tuna sandwich, only to leave more frustrated than when the conversation began.

  To make matters worse, the whole thing with Jackson truly was nagging at Chloe’s psyche, despite her protests otherwise—just not in the way Rachel imagined. She needed the damn money more than she needed to pursue whatever she and Jackson might or might not have. Or so she kept trying to convince herself. Only this stranger she’d been sleeping with at Sex On The Beach, whoever he was—because he sure as hell wouldn’t agree to reveal himself, no matter what pleasures she’d promised, begged, bribed—was complicating matters by monumental proportions.

  Everything about him reminded her of Jackson.

  She couldn’t be with him without envisioning Jackson. She’d all but bit her tongue off to keep from screaming out Jackson’s name during her climaxes. The damn thing held a permanent tattoo of her dental impression.

  The muscles, the toned skin, the massive size of his body, the impressive strength he emanated, the way he touched her, the way he breathed her in, for God’s sake…