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

by Raven Fyre

  “Funny,” she remarked without a trace of humor. “I thought you’d already done that. Twice.”

  The door shook from the force of Clint’s pounding fists.

  “The police are on their way,” she affirmed.

  “Chloe, sugar.” Clint’s voice, muffled by the slab of solid oak, had gone sweet and tempting as warm molasses in summertime. Jerk. It was so like him to turn it off or on whenever it suited him. But Chloe was wise to his tricks. “Please, honey, we need to talk.”

  She refused to be swayed. “There’s nothing you could possibly say that I care to hear.”

  “Clint?” This voice was Rachel’s. “What the—Damn, Clint, what happened to your face?”

  Chloe grabbed at Jackson’s arm. “The cavalry’s arrived. I see the lights.”

  Jackson opened the door to let in Rachel and Paul.

  Flashing blue and red lights split the darkness, illuminating the scene. Two uniformed Baldwin County officers stepped out of the marked cruiser that’d parked near the curb. Each kept one hand poised over the weapons holstered at their respective right hips.

  An assertive male voice called out, “Somebody here report an intruder?”

  “Officers.” Chloe inched to the edge of the porch, careful to keep a wide berth between herself and her ex. “This man here—he’s repeatedly been asked to leave my property.”

  “Rezner?”

  “Fuck off, Walt.”

  Great. Just great. La-di-freaking-da. Of course they would know each other. Probably drinking buddies from high school, though she didn’t recognize him as anyone from their class.

  Speaking under his breath, the officer warned, “Don’t make me cuff you, Clint. Come on, now. Just get on back in the truck and go cool off for a while.”

  Jackson spoke up, “We’d like to have a restraining order put out against Mr. Rezner. I don’t want him within five hundred miles of this place or Chloe and Rachel.”

  The officer sighed heavily. “I’ll get my laptop from the cruiser, and we’ll get started on the paperwork.”

  “Shit, Walt. Are you fucking kidding me?” Clint spat. “A man’s got a right to come see his woman.”

  When would he ever get it through his thick skull?

  “I’m not your woman, Clint. You can’t come here and start shoving your weight around and expect me to run to you with open arms. Take Officer Walt’s advice and go wherever it is you’re staying for the night and cool off. Then go home. To Birmingham. And don’t bother me again.”

  Defeated, at least for now, Clint marched back to the truck.

  The door slammed, and the engine roared to life. Then he was gone in a spray of gravel and red dirt and big-ass, muddy tires.

  Good riddance.

  * * * *

  Understandably, Rachel appeared as shaken as Chloe. After spending nearly an hour with the officers, giving statements and submitting the request for the restraining order, they’d all filed into the kitchen and finished off the bottle of wine. Paul opened another while Chloe and Jackson related the evening’s events as they’d unfolded. Starting with her appearance at the club just after Clint’s refusal to leave and Jackson’s sucker punch that had brought the dumb SOB to his knees.

  Then, exhausted and a bit tipsy, Jackson had carried her to bed. Paul had done the same for Rachel after double-checking the locks on all the doors and windows.

  Chloe stood by the bed, bathed only in the gold of the lamplight, as he undressed her, down to her lacy, pink bra and panty set. He flicked the front opening of the bra and tossed it off. Then he filled his palms with the heavy, pale flesh of her breasts.

  “God, you’re beautiful. I can never get enough of you.”

  She sighed and gave over to his caressing hands, letting the tension melt from her body.

  With one swift jerk, he ripped the side strips of elastic at her hips, and the tiny triangle of pink silk pooled at her feet.

  Her hands fisted in his hair as he dropped to his knees and laved each pouting nipple with his hot tongue until she swayed on her feet and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out. Holding her by the hips, his mouth journeyed lower. He dipped his tongue in the tiny indentation of her navel.

  She shuddered.

  He pressed his lips to her pussy and began to eat away at the swollen flesh. Sucking her clit, licking up her slit. All the while, his hands caressed and molded her ass. “Oh, God, Jackson.”

  When her knees buckled, he caught her up, laid her on the bed, and crawled up beside her.

  His mouth came down to hers, drugging her with a slow, lingering kiss that was in total contrast to the fingers that plunged into her heated pussy and took up a frantic rhythm. Her lids drifted shut on a wave of unbearable ecstasy, but he pleaded, “Let me look at you, sweetheart. I’ve dreamed of the way your eyes would look with my hands on you, in you.”

  In and out, those thick, long fingers stroked her slick vaginal walls. The erotic sucking sound of him pounding her drenched pussy echoed in the room. His thumb played perfectly over her clit, driving her swiftly, madly insane with need. Her head thrashed about, and she fisted the sheet as her hips writhed, as her body burned.

  The second orgasm slammed into her, stealing her breath and leaving her saturated in pleasure, quivering.

  The wine, the magnificent climaxes, the stress of dealing with her ex and the cops—Chloe felt the avalanche rolling her way, pulling her down the mountainside and into the dark void.

  Jackson kissed her forehead and tucked them both under the covers, tucking her into his side with her head resting on his chest.

  She yawned and slid her leg over a corded thigh. His erection was hot and hard against her softer flesh. “You didn’t—”

  “You’re exhausted,” he cut her off. “Sleep, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, Master,” she murmured through a lazy smirk.

  And she fell dead to the world in the safety of his strong arms.

  Chapter 8

  Chloe rolled over, slid her hand over the cool, cotton sheet, and was instantly aware that she was alone. She had been for some time since his warmth had evaporated from the fabric, she deduced sadly. Opening her eyes only confirmed what she’d already guessed.

  Jackson was gone.

  Only his scent, caught in the cool fabric, attested to his having spent the night in her bed. Well, that and the deliciously used feeling in her muscles and her most intimate spots.

  He had insisted that she sleep, rather than getting himself off between the thighs of a woman teetering near exhaustion. His conscience was to be admired. It was one of the characteristics she loved most about him. She distinctly remembered, however, his wonderfully seductive wake-up call, sometime during the night.

  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like being coaxed out of the fog of sleep by the very man you were dreaming of, waking with his head exactly where it had been in her fantasy, nuzzled between her aching breasts. He’d licked and nipped and sucked until she’d come dangerously close to climaxing from the stimulation. But then he’d slithered lower and driven her over the brink with his clever tongue and a thrilling, sharp tug at her clit. And she’d been fully awake, fully aroused—hell, begging—when he’d flipped her over, pulled her to her knees, gripped her ass, and shoved his hard cock into her shockingly wet pussy.

  He’d ridden her hard and fast, and they’d both come and come and come like never before. It was hot and raunchy, and every time he touched her, it just seemed to get better and better. Jesus, just having the man’s hands on her, just the thought of him fucking her, literally had her juices flowing. Too bad he wasn’t here now, Chloe thought with regret. She could go for yet another amazing round.

  The house was relatively silent but for the hum of the AC, the chirp of a bird in a nearby tree, and her own shaky, unsatisfied sigh. Sunlight streamed in through the window. It had to be getting late.

  A glance at the bedside clock had her rubbing her eyes and checking it again.

  9:23 a.m.<
br />
  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past seven.

  The message tone on her cell phone chimed in, letting her know her inbox had just gotten a hit, and she felt giddy with excitement. Wait, when had she ever been giddy? Like, maybe high school? She shrugged. Who cared? She was damn giddy—like millions of tiny champagne bubbles were fizzing in her blood—at the prospect of Jackson sending her a text.

  Her cell was on the nightstand, and she snatched it up, flipped it open. Hit a few buttons, and…voila!

  Her heart plummeted to her stomach.

  Those fizzy bubbles evaporated.

  The text was not from Jackson.

  In fact, it wasn’t a number she recognized. But there was no mistaking the sender.

  Willy’s. One hour. Come alone or I tell Rachel the truth about your whore of a mother.

  What could Clint possibly know that she didn’t? How dare he call her momma a whore? Since he’d shown up, he’d been tossing that word out like Mardi Gras trinkets.

  Holding a hand to her stomach, Chloe rocked through the pain and nausea that assailed her. Was this a trick to lure her into seeing him?

  Of course it is. But what choice did she have?

  Ah, none.

  Her mind was clicking away. If he really did know something, had he used it to blackmail Gram? Apparently, Jackson was right. Money was the root of all evil, and Clint was evil to the roots. With Gram gone, Chloe became the obvious prey. Clint was fully aware of the lengths Gram would go to in order to protect her precious granddaughters from whatever information he was holding over her head. And because of their history, he also knew the depths Chloe would go to to save Rachel from heartache.

  No doubt he derived some perverse gratification from having her writhe like a worm on his hook. Bastard.

  Jackson was going to strangle her if he ever found out she’d met with Clint without his being there to protect her. And really? She was okay with that. He was right, her safety was the one area she’d didn’t begrudge his lording over her, besides the other obvious place—in bed.

  She tugged on a pair of white shorts and a dark purple T, slipped into a pair of colorful flip-flops, and ran a brush through her tangled hair. A light dusting of cosmetics and her shades should do it for today, she decided. The last thing she cared about was impressing Clint, the sorry-ass, blackmailing son of a bitch.

  In the kitchen, she poured a cup of cold coffee and popped it in the microwave to reheat it. Then she dropped a slice of bread in the toaster and peeled a banana. When her cell rang, she almost jumped out of her skin. Her hand flew up to her racing heart, and she forced herself to take a deep breath before answering. Thankfully, she’d had the forethought to assign Jackson a specific ring tone.

  If she sounded breathy, she hoped he’d pass it off for excitement. Or desire.

  “Hey, handsome.”

  “Hello, yourself, sexy lady.” She could hear his smile, projected in his tone. “Sleep well?”

  “Thanks to this wonderful guy I know. Too bad you weren’t here when I woke up. I’d been dreaming of you, and I was primed for another wild ride.”

  He groaned. “Damn. I had an appointment. Couldn’t be helped. So, did you fly solo, or are you still hot and bothered?”

  Fly solo? Oh, Jesus. She swallowed. Hard. “Ah, no. I’m still…ah, ready for takeoff,” she told him, biting back a giggle.

  “Are you dressed?”

  “Y–yes. I’m fixing a slice of toast and warming up a cup of coffee.”

  He insisted, “Then go back to your room, lock the door, and lie on the bed.”

  “Jackson. I can’t.” Tempted as she was, she was on a timetable here. But she couldn’t very well tell him that. And she’d never done anything like this—phone sex, for Christ’s sake—before.

  “Yes, you can. Do it, Chloe. Do it now while I unzip my pants and take out my hard, throbbing dick.”

  Okay, her turn to groan. She rushed to the bedroom to do as he’d suggested. “Okay, okay. Door locked. I’m on the bed.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Shorts and a T. Nothing fancy.”

  “Slide off the shorts and tell me about the panties. Are they lacy? You like lace, and the more feminine, the skimpier, the better. And I love them on you almost as much as I love ripping them off.”

  Oh, Jesus. This was hotter than she’d have thought. Getting into it now, she confirmed, “They’re pale, pale blue and trimmed in off-white lace. And now, they’re damp from just thinking about you.”

  “My dick’s hard as stone. Slide your hand inside your panties and run your fingers over that pretty, pink mound.” She moaned, and he coaxed, “That’s it, baby. Now, push two of those pale, delicate fingers inside you and imagine it’s my cock.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. But it’s not enough,” she told him as her hips lifted and writhed. “Nothing compares to you. You’re so big, the way you stretch me and fill me up.”

  “Shove your hand under your T and pinch one of those pert little raspberry nipples. I want my mouth on you, baby. Imagine me sucking at your breasts. Imagine me licking my way down over the smooth, pale skin of your torso, your belly. I want to lick at your sweet pussy and eat you up.”

  “Oh, God. I’m…oh…I’m so close…I need you, Jackson. I need that hot, hard cock sliding in and out of this wet pussy. Harder, faster…” Her voice trailed off as the orgasm lapped at her hips. “Oh, God.”

  Breathy, still panting, she asked, “Jackson? Did you finish?”

  “Almost, baby.”

  “How do you want to come? Do you want me to suck it, or would you rather have it in this wet, quivering pussy?”

  “Your pussy. Those tight inner muscles, milking me. Your honey, coating my cock while you ride me.”

  “Wrap your hand around the base and stroke yourself,” she urged. “Do you know how sexy it is for me to envision your hand pumping up and down your hard cock? Those long, tanned fingers, the wide, strong palm, gripping that massive length? Work your way toward the tip and pump faster. Think of my tongue swirling around and under the rim, licking up the underside and sucking off those salty pearls that weep from the slit. Then imagine me straddling your hips and mounting you. I’d surround you in my heat, pull you in deep, and glide up and down…”

  She heard his deep growl of completion and smiled as if she were the cat that had eaten the plump canary. “Was it good, baby?”

  “Not as good as coming inside of you. I miss you.”

  It surprised her how much her feelings mirrored his. “I miss you, too.”

  “Good. Have lunch with me?”

  “Love to. But can it be a little later? I have an errand or two to run. How about I come by the club, say, one?”

  Chuckling, he warned, “If you come by the club, I’ll be forced to drag you upstairs and have my way with you. We may never get to lunch.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll grab some take-out and bring it with me,” she offered. “Maybe I’ll bring dessert—a slice of creamy key lime pie or something with whipped cream—and you can lick it off of me.”

  “Jesus, my dick’s hard again. Only you do that to me, Chloe. Only you.”

  Still breathless with release and her own mounting anticipation, Chloe laughed. “Poor baby. I’ll see you soon.”

  * * * *

  Jackson washed up and changed into a crisp, light blue button-down over his faded jeans, rolling the cuffs twice and not bothering to tuck it in, making the look casual for his late lunch with Chloe. He grinned at the thought of her freeing the tiny, white buttons he’d just taken the time to slide through the slits. Thinking of her delicate hands rubbing all over his naked chest, those neatly trimmed nails scraping over his flesh to tease and tantalize. Dipping low to tug open his jeans and slide down his zipper.

  Jesus. His cock swelled and throbbed, straining against said zipper, so he tried hard to compartmentalize his lust for later and focus his unspent energy, for now, on work.

  How co
uld he be so horny and wired when he’d just gotten off? How could one little firecracker of a woman tie him in knots? And who the hell was he to complain?

  Hell, he was thrilled to his toes with the way things had turned out, falling for the sassy Chloe Rezner. If only he could find a way to permanently rid them both of her ass-wipe of an ex-husband that didn’t involve jail time for himself. It was a stretch of his faith to believe that Clint would let something like a restraining order hamper his determination.

  With half his mind on Chloe and the other half on business, Jackson returned a few phone calls, took care of ironing out a misunderstanding over a screwed-up order. When one-fifteen rolled around and Chloe hadn’t shown up or called, he shrugged it off. Traffic, her errands, whatever she’d decided to pick up for lunch—no telling what tiny detail could have delayed her.

  By one-thirty, he was mildly annoyed. Why hadn’t she bothered to call? She wasn’t answering her cell or the phone at her Gram’s.

  By two o’clock on the dot, he’d run the gamut from annoyed to flat-out pissed, and now he was so worried he was literally shaking in his Sperry deck shoes. If he hadn’t already realized the depths of his feelings for her, this would have done it. He hated not knowing where she was, a million worst-case scenarios screaming through his mind.

  It was time, past time, Jackson decided, for action.

  * * * *

  The parking lot at Willy’s was packed by the time Chloe arrived. She circled twice before snagging a spot just as a pickup was pulling out. The bar smelled of stale beer, staler pretzels, and roasted nuts. She spied her ex, a man whose nuts she wouldn’t mind roasting, taking up most of a booth near one of the dimly lit corners.

  Chloe might’ve been thankful for the audience, in case Clint got rowdy or decided to try anything funny, but she doubted the customers currently perched along the Willy’s scuffed, ring-dappled bar would bother to lift a brow, much less a hand. Clearly, she was on her own here.