The Hunt for Eros

by Hunt, Sam J. D.

  Back in the terminal, I settled into the first class lounge to wait. I ordered another glass of Champagne, and then changed the order to a double Bourbon, as a lounge attendant approached my table. “Miss Andrews? We’re not allowed to make announcements in the lounge, it disturbs our guests, but they are paging a Jane Andrews in the terminal. I’m not sure if that’s for you, but I just wanted to…”

  I have no idea what she said next. I bolted from the seat, grabbing my bag as an afterthought, and flew into the terminal. I froze and strained to hear beyond the crying baby at my side. They began to board my flight as I flitted around the terminal looking for answers. When I found the information desk, blurting out I might have been paged, the ancient lady behind the desk slowly looked through her reading glasses at her computer screen. When I asked her to hurry, my flight was about to leave, she looked as if I’d smacked her and moved even more slowly with her computer mouse. As I was about to combust, she flatly said, “Yes, they are paging Jane Andrews.” She clicked her screen off, silently gazing at me as if she had finished her duty. “Call who? What’s the page?” I nearly shouted. The PA system was announcing my flight was in last call. I turned to walk back to the gate as a second announcement was made: Jane Andrews, paging British Airways passenger Jane Andrews. Please call Ben Hunt at 07700 900169. More relieved than I’d ever been in my life, I pulled the cellphone from my pocket and clicked on Ben’s name to call him. I was missing my flight, but I didn’t care. He’d paged me. Except…the message on the phone said I had no service; my prepaid phone plan was out of minutes. The gate agent continued to page me as I made my way back to the main terminal, then the pages stopped. I assumed my flight had left without me; it meant nothing. My entire world was getting to Ben. Was he there or did he just call to say goodbye?

  I finally made it back out into the main terminal after arguing with an exasperated immigrations officer as to why I was returning to the country. He spent forever confirming that I’d missed my flight, and then lectured me on the amount of time I could stay in the United Kingdom without a visa, but finally he stamped my passport and allowed me reentry.

  As I emerged from customs, Ben was leaning against a wall staring at his phone. I dropped my bag and ran to him, dodging hurried travelers and rambling tourists, desperate to get to him. He slipped his phone back into his coat pocket and ran his long fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture. His watery red-rimmed eyes darted once more around the terminal before he saw me. We flew into each other, a pair so unlikely that even in a place as bustling as Heathrow Airport, people stopped to stare. I’m sure what they saw made them scratch their heads: a tall, handsome English man in a designer suit wrapped around a scruffy, puffy-eyed young American tourist wearing a faded green sweater, worn jeans, and ratty Converse sneakers. The visual must have been perplexing, but we didn’t care; at that moment we were the only people in the universe. He held me so tightly that I was lifted off my feet, hanging from his strong frame, my blubbery tears staining the collar of his Burberry overcoat.

  “I can’t let you go,” he mumbled, his face buried in my hair.

  “Good, I missed my flight.” I was still suspended in the air, his strong arms wrapped around my waist. As the spectators around us began to disperse, he lowered me slowly until my feet were on the ground. He leaned down, his palm on my cheek and kissed me—a kiss that told me everything. I didn’t need him to say the words; I knew. We broke the kiss when a throng of foreign students ran into us. “I’m still afraid, but I’m willing to try.” He took my hand, and we walked over and retrieved my carry-on, still lying on the ground where I’d dropped it.

  “Are you taking me home? My luggage is headed to Ohio, I think.” Home to me was Cambridge now—not only had I fallen in love with an Englishman, I’d fallen in love with England. With or without Ben, I knew at that moment I would find a way to stay.

  “Well, I hadn’t planned to take you back to my house in Cambridge.” His tone was businesslike, calculated. A stab pierced at my heart; he was pushing me away again.

  “You see,” he continued, as if negotiating a contract, “I have to travel to Cairo this evening. Have you heard of The Storm on the Sea of Galilee?”

  “The Bible story?”

  “The painting by Rembrandt, actually. It was stolen from the Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990. An informant of mine in Egypt saw the painting yesterday up for sale in an illegal black market auction, but lost track of who purchased it. Your country’s FBI was notified, but they’d like me to, well, do what I do,” he explained with a wink.

  “How long will you be gone?” I missed him already.

  “I was hoping you’d join me, actually. We make a great team, don’t you think?”

  I stared at him, a warmth surging through me. I was speechless, my eyes locked onto his as I nodded.

  “I love you, Ben,” I finally blurted out, unable to hold the words in a second longer, not expecting or needing anything from him in return.

  “I love you, too, Jane. Let’s retrieve that Rembrandt…together.”

  The End

  Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Amazon. Even if it’s just a sentence or two, it would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.

  Be sure to follow my website www.sjdhunt.com for updates on upcoming releases, bonus material, and Aunt Kitty’s Prudish Erotica.

  Contact Information

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  Also by Sam J.D. Hunt

  The Thomas Hunt Series:

  Roulette: Love Is A Losing Game

  Blackjack: Wicked Game

  Poker: Foolish Games

  DEEP: A Captive Tale

  Dagger: An American Fighter Pilot, a read-in-any order series by Sam and Thomas Hunt coming Autumn 2015

  Titles available for Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, and Paperback.

  Acknowledgements.

  This book is dedicated to both East Anglia and the vibrant city of Cambridge, England—Las Vegas will always be home, but I miss you dearly.

  As always, thank you to my family and loving husband for selflessly allowing me the time to write. Sam’s Subs is a group of women who tirelessly promote my books out of the goodness of their hearts and ask for nothing in return—I’m eternally grateful. Thanks to Laura Frasher, for reading this book almost daily in draft mode as it was being written, and for pushing me to get Ben out there, as well as for managing the day to day admin of the group and of me. I’d like to issue a giant thank you to Kelly Mallett, who not only proofread for me but also spent hours going over the subtle language differences between American and British English with me. Thank you to the friends who listen to my grumbles and let me bounce off ideas: Ashley WC, Kath, Lora Ann, Missy, Tina, and Stacie. My Facebook fan group, Hunt’s Hideaway, offers endless support and lots of laughs—I’m so glad we met and I value each one of you. I couldn’t do it without my fabulous beta readers, who weed through the mess of my manuscript: Daphne Caldwell, Julie Cameron, Kelly Mallett, Laura Frasher, Missy Harton, Reva Coomer, and of course Mr. Hunt. Thanks also to that dedicated group of bloggers who support indie authors and erotica—you keep us afloat. This book was inspired by one of my favorite modern novels, The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, which fueled my love of art adventures and travel quest type books. Hopefully my spicier, more romantic version pays adequate homage to the genre. Most of all, thank you to my readers for bearing with me, and my wild ideas, book after book. I’ll keep writing if you’ll keep reading.

  Bonus Sample from Book One of The Thomas Hunt Series

  Roulette: Love Is A Losing Game – A full-length erotic adventure by Sam J.D. Hunt

  Prologue

  “Where should I start? From the beginning?” I ask the woman behind the desk. I don’t want to be here and she knows it.
r />   “Why don’t you start by telling me about Katie,” she replies in her calm, professional voice.

  I honestly tell her, “See, that’s the thing Ms. Cutler. I’ve never met Katie. I saw her once through our shared privacy fence.”

  Disbelieving, she drums her fingers on the desk again. I hate it when she does that. It shows her lack of control, and I hate lack of control. No one has ever accused me, Samantha Drake, of not being in control. This situation, though, has me out of my element. As a very successful attorney, I am usually the one asking the questions. Being in Ms. Cutler’s office, with her trying to get me to tell her everything, leaves me feeling off-kilter. But then again, this unexpected situation is turning my world upside down.

  Minutes before, she slid a folder across the table containing several pictures of Thomas, naked. “So, these prove nothing,” I finally respond, defiantly. She scribbles on her pad, nodding. Looking at me, pity in her eyes, she slides another picture across the table. I look at it, feeling sick. Clear evidence of how stupid I’d been to trust Thomas Hunt sat in front of me on the desk. I feel the anger rising up, the blood pounding in my temples. I don’t handle betrayal well.

  “Can you tell me what happened that day, Ms. Drake? The day you saw her?”

  Driven by my hurt, I begin to tell her what happened that day in explicit detail:

  A few weeks ago, I left work early, around noon. I work hard, long hours; rarely do I leave in the middle of the day. I decided to surprise Thomas, my submissive, with burgers—I knew he’d planned to spend the afternoon sunbathing by the pool. Thomas loves junk food and is always hungry. I picked up three double double cheeseburgers from In-N-Out and headed home. Walking toward the French doors to the pool, I see him standing by the fence; he’s very naked and very, very aroused. Thomas usually sunbathes naked, I hate tan lines. Any lines on his perfect body need to come from me.

  Sneaking up on him, I realize he’s looking through one of the fence slats into the neighbor’s backyard. He turns ashen when he notices me there next to him, watching him peep through the fence. I nod my head to him, signaling for him to move over so I can look. I see a curvy blonde woman, she’s young—probably early 20s, but has on sunglasses and a sunhat so I can’t really tell. She’s sitting with her side to us in the jacuzzi, topless. She isn’t aware that she’s being watched. He looks at me nervously, wondering if he’ll be punished. I remember weighing the question that day; I decide he isn’t exactly breaking any rules. He wasn’t touching himself even when he thought he was alone: Our contract doesn’t allow self-stimulation unless it’s to please me. Plus, his sublime backside is still the perfect shade of pink from last night’s fun.

  I tentatively decide to give him a break this time. Much to Thomas’s surprise, I kneel down and begin to stroke his very large, erect cock. He’s pleased, obviously, but also a little afraid. I like to keep him always a little afraid of me; never quite sure what’s coming next.

  “Shh, baby, keep watching,” I reassure him, gently licking the pre-cum from his tip.

  God, he tasted, tastes, amazing. His breathing begins to get louder as I lick up and down his thick pulsing shaft. “Keep quiet and still,” I remind him. Still on my knees, I tilt my head back a bit and take his entire length into my mouth and beyond. He feels so hot, growing longer as his rock-hard cock impales my throat. He’s very well trained; he resists the urge to thrust with exquisite control. The only sign of his growing need is a deep, closed-mouth moan. I love him to let me know how he feels, I just require he do so through sealed lips.

  With my hungry mouth I begin to give him some rhythm, sucking up and down from the wide crown to the shaft, circling my tongue along the very sensitive ridge. Thomas, the perfect sub that he was, that he is, continues to fight the urge to move, staying still to let me control his pleasure. His breathing becomes harder and faster; glistening sweat forms on his crinkled forehead. He is so beautiful. I love to run my fingers through his dark blonde floppy hair, his bangs spilling over his blazing emerald green eyes. He has the most perfectly sculpted lean body, his skin golden from countless hours lounging by my pool.

  As I continue to suck and tease his shaft, I add my right hand to pump in rhythm at the thick, solid base of his penis. I can feel him tensing, his cock jerking; I know he’s getting close to a powerful orgasm. There’s always an exquisite tension when I pleasure, or punish, him this way. With me in total control, he never knows if he’ll be allowed to come or not. You see, Ms. Cutler, orgasm denial is a very powerful control tool on a 25 year old submissive like Thomas.

  His excitement builds to a crescendo; his balls throbbing, craving release. My skilled but firm fingers tug on his scrotum, now hard and drawn up, attempting to prevent his orgasm. Tormented, he groans for mercy. His pleasure-glazed eyes fix on mine, silently pleading with me to let him come. I can tell by his nervous whimpering that he fears this session will end in his punishment rather than his pleasure. Despite being racked with need, he keeps his hands still. His right hand is still clenched in a fist by his side, the other palm pressing against the coarse wooden privacy fence.

  I lean in to smell him, a delicious masculine mix of sweat, soap, and pure Thomas. I lick at the taut, salty skin, allowing the weight of his swollen balls to fill my mouth, first one then the other. When I’ve had enough fondling and sucking them, I let my left hand drift further back and stroke the sensitive seam just behind. I know this will test his self-control as he lets out a louder, more desperate moan. “Keep quiet or I’ll punish you,” I warn.

  I lick my index finger before running it through the creamy lubricant seeping from the cleft of his tip. I slowly insert it past the constricted ring into his very tight backside. A loud gasp escapes his lips, a sure sign that he’s close to coming undone. In rhythm with sucking his throbbing, salty cock I begin to finger-fuck his ass.

  His eyes are tightly closed, his head thrown back against the fence, his legs rigid. The eye-candy next door is forgotten; his pleasure under my complete command. Without removing my finger from his snug, pulsing backside, I slip my mouth off his cock. He whines in frustration as his cock twitches.

  “It would please me if you came in my mouth. I’m eager to taste you, my pet,” I purr.

  “Thank you, Mistress.” His voice hoarse, his chest heaving.

  “Look at me, watch what I’m doing to you, what I’m making you feel,” I command him.

  With his wild, lusty green eyes fixed on me, my greedy tongue continues to tease the tip. Unable to wait much longer myself, I take him back into my mouth, sliding him down my throat as far as I can take, and back up to the tip again. Fucking him with my finger and my mouth at the same time, I feel him begin to pulse. His moans grow louder, more desperate. I continue to stroke him as his hot, thick come coats the back of my throat. I don’t stop sucking his throbbing length until I’ve drained him completely. I lick the remaining drops of cream from his overly-sensitive tip as he whimpers in protest. I feel him spasm several more times against my finger before I slowly slide it out.

  “Come inside, baby, I have a surprise for you.”

  I see the apprehension in his eyes; he still fears I’m angry with him. I reassure him, “It’s only burgers for now. But look through that fence again without my permission, without it being for my pleasure, and I’ll whip you raw. Do you understand, my pet?”

  “Yes, Ma'am,” is his dutiful reply.

  Breaking my trance, Ms. Cutler resumes her questioning, clearly wet and squirming in her chair. “So, he’s like a sex slave?” she asks, trying to disguise the lust in her voice. I see right through people like her.

  Suddenly regretting telling her the story, I take a sip of water. My stomach forms a tight knot thinking of the image she’s shown me. Fighting the urge to be sick, I think about how deeply he has cut me.

  Thomas, my love, what have you done? Why did you betray me like this?

  Chapter 1

  Ok, so I can tell you the truth. I was playing a bit wit
h Ms. Cutler. I could tell she was the uptight type who secretly reads mild erotica and gets all moist from it. I easily could have answered her questions without the graphic detail, but I loved watching her blush and act like a hormonal teenager. It gave the control back to me. I could tell by the way she described Thomas as a sex slave. Don’t you dare think it for a minute—Thomas is nobody’s slave, sex or otherwise. Shit, I don’t even think he knows how to run the dishwasher. In fact I spoil him—he’s very well pampered. He drives a new Camaro I provide for him, has a credit card that I pay for, wears designer clothes, and while he’s with me I pay his tuition bills. You see he’s more than just pretty; he’s a grad student in English Literature. And yes, despite the predicament he has me in currently as alluded to by Ms. Cutler, he still lives with me. I haven’t yet told him that I know about his lies, his betrayal. But I’ll get to that in a bit.

  For now, though, I think I’d better take you back to the beginning. I guess I should let you know a little about myself. My name is Samantha Drake; I’m 32 years old and run a boutique law firm specializing in divorce here in Las Vegas. With my partner, Cal Perkins, I represent very wealthy women seeking every dime they can get from rich husbands, most of them shady. My specialty is tracking down hidden money, and my knack for it has made our firm very successful.