Blissfully Hers: Bliss Series, Book Seven

by Hall, Deanndra

  Blissfully Hers

  Bliss Series, Book Seven

  Deanndra Hall

  Celtic Muse Publishing, LLC

  Contents

  A word from the author …

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Deanndra Hall

  Blissfully Hers

  Bliss Series Book Seven

  Copyright 2014 Deanndra Hall

  Celtic Muse Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 3722

  Paducah, KY 42002-3722

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction

  Names of characters, places, and events are the construction of the author, except those locations that are well-known and of general knowledge, and all are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental, and great care was taken to design places, locations, or businesses that fit into the regional landscape without actual identification; as such, resemblance to actual places, locations, or businesses is coincidental. Any mention of a branded item, artistic work, or well-known business establishment, is used for authenticity in the work of fiction and was chosen by the author because of personal preference, its high quality, or the authenticity it lends to the work of fiction; the author has received no remuneration, either monetary or in-kind, for use of said product names, artistic work, or business establishments, and mention is not intended as advertising, nor does it constitute an endorsement. The author is solely responsible for content.

  Formatting and cover design by Drue Hoffman at Buoni Amici Press, LLC.

  Editing by Tick-Tock Editing.

  ISBN: 9781945370434

  Disclaimer: Material in this work of fiction is of a graphic sexual nature and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.

  A word from the author …

  This series wasn’t supposed to be a series. It was supposed to be one book, Clint and Trish’s book. But readers kept asking about Steffen and Dave, so it became three. Then the decision was made that it needed to be more, so I came up with three more books. That’s all it was supposed to be.

  That was before I met Brandt Thomas Lawson.

  Brandt is all of us. Scared. Insecure. Conflicted. Lonely. Hurt. But he’s so much more. He’s honest―most of the time, anyway―and trustworthy. He has integrity. He has faith. He’s a southern gentleman. And he’s the model of masculinity who knows when to be tender. Most importantly, he has a good heart, and he lives to serve.

  This seventh book is absolutely, positively the last book in the Bliss series, and you’ll see why in the epilogue. I’m glad you’ve come along for this ride. From Clint and Trish, Steffen and Sheila, Dave and Olivia, Brian and Cirilla, Boone and Melina, Lucien and Rayanna, and Danielle and Brandt, thanks for all the love over the years.

  Thanks and happy reading,

  Deanndra

  Chapter One

  “Get up here with us!” Boone yells my way.

  “Yeah! Get up here, pussy!” Brock adds. Blake’s just standing there, grinning.

  Oh, shit. Like I want to do this. It’s karaoke night at this little dive called “The Sinkhole.” Honestly, the food is great, and it reminds me of a lot of the roadhouses in Alabama, which I’m guessing is why Boone loves it so much. Of course, it’s obvious the servers don’t say y’all in their day-to-day lives, but still, they’re trying. Even so … karaoke?

  Sure enough, as soon as I’m up there on the little stage with them, Brock calls out to the guy manning the sound system, “Tim McGraw! Southern Voice! Hit it, maestro!”

  Shoulda known.

  This is nothing new for us. We grew up in a little Baptist church down in Birmingham and every Sunday morning, we stood with hymnals in our hands and sang. Our whole family did. We have a natural talent for southern harmony, and we’re good at it. Very good. Brock sings lead, Boone’s a strong countertenor, I’m a baritone, and Blake’s got a deep, rich bass voice. Plus we’ve got enough vocal range that we can switch up, so when the third verse comes up, Brock will point to me. I know he’ll sing the bridge, but I’m good with it. It’s not like we don’t know the words, right?

  We get halfway through the first chorus and everybody in the bar is on their feet. Okay, so I’ll admit it. We’re not just good singers―we’re classic up here together. Four good-looking, well-built, homegrown southern boys. What’s not to love?

  Wait―ask my wife about that. Sorry. Ex-wife. I’m sure she can tell you, and I’m pretty sure Boone’s ex will throw in a story or two herself, even though they’ve buried the hatchet.

  By the time we finish, all the women are up and dancing, and I do mean all of them. Everybody’s with us tonight―Dave and Olivia, Clint and Trish, Steffen and Sheila, Brian and Cirilla, Lucien and Rayanna, and my sisters-in-law, Melina, Misti, and Kara. That’s a lot of sexy women in one spot, let me tell you, not to mention the others at the roadhouse. It appears karaoke is very popular in the northwest, at least for the Washingtonians who want to pretend they’re from the south. Who knew?

  I’m the only one in the group who doesn’t have a woman. And the problem lies in that sentence. I don’t need to have a woman.

  I need a woman to have me.

  * * *

  “What now?”

  “Now we just sit back and wait. I’m sure we’ll hear from them by tomorrow afternoon.” Boone just grins and walks out of my office.

  This was not the kind of job I thought he’d hire me to do. I’m not sure what I expected, but this definitely wasn’t it. I’d gotten through five years of college before I got the call. That’s what we call it when somebody’s called by God to be a preacher. And my college? Pre-law. I may not be able to practice, but I damn sure know how to draw up a contract. And if I have any questions, Dad knows this stuff, and he’s always been available to help any of us.

  I wish he could’ve helped me. I wish he could’ve seen into my soul and figured out what I needed. Instead, he pulled me into his little home office, the eldest son who was seven years older than his younger brother, and laid it all out. And when he did, I just turned up my nose and told him no straight up. He thinks it was some religious conviction on my part, that I should be above reproach and never alone with a woman other than my wife for any reason.

  It was not.

  Now I’m divorced and out of the ministry and I’m wondering how long it will be before they expect me to come into alignment with their lifestyle. And I can’t―I just can’t.

  It’s been a true surprise to me how easily Boone and I work together, but it really shouldn’t be. Boone’s always been the one who gets along with anybody, who makes things work when nobody else can, or even when nobody else is willing to try. No wonder it was such a shock when Marie left him. None of us ever thought that would happen. I’m sitting here thinking about it all, when I hear him say, “Yes!”

  “What?”

  He steps into my little office and holds up a piece of paper. It’s a fax―from Winger Heights Boots. They responded to the document I sent, and did so in just a few minutes. “Well done, brother!” Boone says and reaches a hand out to me.


  I take it and shake it, laughing the whole time. “Congratulations, Mr. Entrepreneur,” I tell him. “You’ve got another manufacturer in your pocket.”

  “That’s not all I’ve got in my pocket,” he says with a wink and pulls a piece of folded paper from his back pocket. Hand extended, he waits for me to take the paper but before I can, I see something that makes my heart almost stop―his eyes are reddening.

  Oh, god, please don’t tell me something’s wrong with Baker. Now I’m afraid to unfold it. There’s no way to hide the tremor in my voice when I ask, “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  “Bad news?”

  “No, no. My life just keeps getting better and better.”

  Well, that’s got me curious, so I open it up. It’s test results of some kind, and at the top of the page is Melina’s name. “What am I looking at here?”

  He points to a column. “That’s hCG. Hers is high.” I shrug and stare at him as I watch a silvery tear slide down his face. “Melina’s pregnant. Brandt, we’re having a baby. Our baby.”

  “Oh my god! Congratulations!” I just drop the paper, hop up out of my chair, and hug him, and I can feel his shoulders quaking as he cries. “I didn’t know you were trying!”

  When he pulls back, his face is soaked, but there’s a huge smile under those red eyes. “We weren’t. She’d been told she probably couldn’t get pregnant. Totally unexpected. A total surprise. And I just … How did all this happen to me, all this wonderful, amazing stuff? What did I ever do to deserve all this?”

  My hands cup my youngest brother’s face and I look into those eyes, eyes filled with mirth near the Christmas tree, eyes filled with wonder as they looked down at his toddler son, eyes filled with pain and grief when he realized his marriage was over, and I see happiness there, a happiness he deserves. He’s a wonderful man doing wonderful things for the people around him. “Everything, Boone. You’ve done everything to deserve this. You deserve to be happy, over-the-moon happy.”

  “So do you. I want that for you too, big brother, more than anything.” Just like that, the spell is broken. I’ve come to the conclusion that happiness is something I’m not due. That familiar ache is setting up in my chest again when he says, “Hey, come to the club with us tonight, why don’tcha? Melina and I will be scening and you could―”

  There’s not a second’s hesitation on my part. “Sounds fascinating, but I don’t think so.”

  “Look, Brandt, nobody’s going to try to talk you into something you don’t want to do. Just come with us. Please?” He’s pleading with me and I have to wonder: Does my refusal to come along with them tell him I’m being judgmental about his lifestyle? I, of all people, have no right to judge anyone. Not one bit.

  What the hell could it hurt? Nothing, I suppose. I’m not used to all those naked bodies and the sex out in public. It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with it, not if they’re consenting adults. It’s just that … No. Not going there. “Okay. I’ll come. What time?”

  “Eight? Will that put you out past your bedtime?” he asks with a snarky grin.

  “That’ll be fine. Give me the address and I’ll just come along.”

  “No. You’re not a member, so you’ll have to come with us.”

  Great. I’m at their mercy. “Okay. I’ll be at your place at seven thirty.”

  “That’ll work. I think you’ll like it. At least I think you’ll like it more than you think you will,” Boone says and smiles.

  I sincerely doubt that.

  * * *

  The music isn’t loud or crazy, and the people aren’t loud or crazy either. There’s a nice bar and as soon as I step up, I see Boone’s friend, Brian. “Hi, Brandt!”

  “Hey, Brian!” I reply and stick out a hand.

  He takes it and I’m struck by how strong his grip is. “Good to see you! Care for anything to drink? Soft drinks? I’ve got fresh coffee back here too, and juice, along with the usual alcoholic offerings,” he says and sweeps his index finger across to illustrate.

  “Got any good bourbon?”

  He seems a little surprised by that request. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Will a glass of Willett do?”

  “Yes, sir, sure will.” In seconds, the glass is in front of me. One tiny sip and I feel something inside me start to sweeten.

  I watch Boone and Melina scene, and I have to say, my newest sister-in-law is an extremely beautiful, sexy woman. As I suspected, her tits are fake, but they’re nicely done. As soon as I realize this, I have to also remind myself that I know what she did for a living, but once again, it’s not my place to judge. They seem ridiculously happy together, so I shouldn’t care at all. I should be happy for them.

  But I’m not. I’m jealous as hell, although I don’t want what he has with her either. I mean, I want a relationship, but not the one they have. I want something completely different. Completely backward …

  And that’s when I catch sight of her. Not especially tall, with dyed black hair and deep brown eyes. I think her skin’s ivory but I’m not sure because it’s totally covered in shiny black latex, all the way down to her ankles, below which are small feet shod in platform stilettos of bright red patent leather. Her hair is long and straight and caught up in a ponytail high on the back of her head, its base wrapped with a bright red leather thong. I’m wondering what kind of scene her Dominant is going to put her through when something remarkable happens. Well, it’s remarkable to me, at least. As Boone and Melina are making their way down from their area and heading to the back for what I understand is called aftercare, this woman makes her way to a performance area and mounts the steps with a boldness that’s a bit shocking.

  Up onto the stage steps a man. He’s tall, muscular, and shaved bald. All he’s wearing is a black leather garment that looks a bit like a cross between a Speedo and a jock strap. It covers only what’s necessary and leaves everything else exposed. I find that odd attire for a Dominant until he falls at her feet, and the red and black leather crop she’s carrying concealed on the inside of her arm comes out and slaps him on the top of the head.

  A Dominatrix. Holy shit. This―this is what I’ve been waiting for. Oh my god. Finally, after all these years, I get to see this, my fantasy come to life. I can feel my cock stiffening against the back side of my zipper, but I’m powerless to do anything about it. All I can do is stand there and stare. I’m sure my mouth is hanging open, and I don’t even care. “I didn’t know we had a Dominatrix in our midst,” I hear a man at the bar whisper.

  The voice that responds is Brian’s. “She’s been a member for a couple of years, but she doesn’t come in very often. It’s hard to find male submissives in this culture.” I want to scream, You think it’s hard to come by in this culture? You should try the deep south, bub.

  “Don’t know if I can watch this or not. I know it’s some people’s kink, but it’s sure not mine,” the guy answers. All I see when I turn to catch a glimpse of his face is the back of his head as he stands to go.

  But I have to admit, a good-sized crowd has gathered around the performance area where they are. And here I am, at the bar, trying hard as hell to pretend I’m not the least bit interested. I figure I’m probably failing miserably, but at least I’m trying. I feel a presence by my side and turn to find Boone grinning at me. “You guys done?” I ask.

  “Yeah. She’s dressing in the locker room. You taking in the sights?” I nod. “Now that’s something I haven’t seen often.”

  “But you have seen them, right?”

  He nods. “Oh, sure. Especially in college. You have a college campus, you’re gonna have a bunch of college girls trying to assert themselves in the name of feminism. But this? This is a real Dominatrix. The real deal.” His smile broadens. “Lawd, she may be a big girl, but she’s as graceful as a horse chasin’ his hounds.”

  He’s right―she is. She’s the epitome of gracefulness, all sweetness and spite rolled into a pretty little package. Not especially large tits, not an
especially large ass, but she’s what I’d call curvy to the point of being chunky. Oddly, that’s not what strikes me first. It’s the confidence in her step and the look in her eyes that captivates me. She’s a woman on a mission and she knows exactly what she wants. Regardless all the other things about her that appeal to me, I find that very sexy. She points to a big wooden cross-type thing on the other side of the stage and the submissive rises and walks straight to it. When she’s got him up on it and bound, she pulls out her crop again and begins to slap his shoulders and the outsides of his hips. I watch his expression, but it hasn’t changed. Then she retrieves something from a corner and I almost gasp.

  Cane. Half horrified, half aroused, I watch as she canes the insides of his thighs and upper arms. He winces and wriggles, but she doesn’t even slow down. After a minute or two of that, tears are rolling down his face, but his expression is still the same. And then things start to get very interesting.

  After unclasping a hook on either side of the waistband of his garment, the thing falls to the floor, leaving him totally uncovered, and a thrill of pleasure runs down my spine as I imagine myself in that position. She retrieves a small box from the cabinet across the platform, opens it, and takes out its contents. Plastic clothes pins. Kneeling in front of him, she attaches them one by one all over his ball sack. I mean, everywhere. It’s a mass of clothes pins. At this point, his expression is changing to one of agony, and I feel my dick begin to twitch. God, what I’d give to be him in this moment! Once she finishes with his nads, she heads straight for his nipples and does the same to them―one clothes pin right on the ends, and the others in a circle around them. Now he screws his face up in pain and I wonder what’s next.