The Hunter's Prey

by Diane Whiteside

  What’s your next question? Scenery? Hell, you always ask about the masculine scenery but today I’ve finally got some to report.

  I was trying to decipher Mrs. Garrity’s chicken scratches (she calls them corrections) on some filings this afternoon. Suddenly Pete Tompkins’s nasal whine echoed down the hallways as he escorted a group of men into his office. His words surprised me since he was being obsequious rather than an arrogant jerk. So I looked up fast, just to see who had humbled him.

  Pete had three men with him. I can’t tell you much about two of them except they were probably lawyers, given his usual visitors.

  But the third man knocked my socks off. Big man, well over six feet, built like a linebacker, black hair, dark eyes, olive skin, nasty scar on his forehead. He was wearing a classic western suit, white shirt, and Stetson so crisp that they almost looked like formal wear. He prowled down that corridor like Wayne Gretzky heading for the goal—graceful and quiet and dangerous.

  They passed me by and I turned to openly stare like everyone else.

  Rita, he had the finest ass I have ever seen. Hard and solid, with a beautiful rippling flow of muscle. I drooled. My mouth hung open far enough to catch flies. Some distant part of my brain considered the width of his shoulders and the strength of his thighs. But my hormones went screaming after his ass like a cop chasing a bank robber and daydreams of promotions.

  Lily and I talked about the visitors for half an hour in the washroom but we made sure to be back in our cubicles before they left. Thank heavens for low walls on cubicles: I could get a really good view without being too obvious.

  Let me tell you, the front half of that man was fine. Gorgeous chest and yeah, a very masculine bulge inside those pants. His eyes met mine and I blushed scarlet but I didn’t look away. His mouth quirked before Pete regained his attention.

  If I wrote down even half of my fantasies about what I could do with that man, the office email system would melt down. Let me just say that I retired to the ladies’ room to enjoy them and returned to my cubicle as a very relaxed woman.

  I’m feeling good enough now that I plan to go out this evening. There’s an open mike every Monday and Tuesday night at a listening club I’ve heard of. I’ll wear that great outfit you sent me from Bloomie’s.

  Dear Rita:

  I had planned to send an email about last night but I’m not brave enough to talk about it over the Internet. So you’ll just have to put up with a low-tech account sent via snail mail.

  The listening club was just the way I’d pictured it. It’s an old packing shed next to the railroad tracks and is famous as the first desegregated club in Austin. (Although Lily says it always served both blacks and whites so how could it be desegregated?) It’s a lot cleaner than expected, especially in that neighborhood.

  The inside, though, has a pool hall, a DJ’s station with some of the fanciest electronics I’ve ever seen, a gift shop, a small saloon, and the best listening room I’ve ever been in. Nothing fancy, mind, but efficient, comfortable, and almost perfect acoustics. I found a seat in the rear, paid for my soda, and settled back to enjoy.

  This open mike session provided some good examples of why Austin is called the Capitol of Live Music. I listened happily to some great jazz, a couple of operatic arias, and a lot of folk music.

  By eleven, I was yawning and thinking about going to work the next day. Only a handful of people remained when the MC announced that the next act would be the last of the evening.

  My eyes almost fell out of my skull when I saw who the last act was: the Spanish gentleman who’d humbled Pete Tompkins. Now he was wearing a cowboy’s uniform, with a long-sleeved starched white shirt, starched blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He had a beautiful acoustic guitar that he carried like an old friend.

  I immediately abandoned my unobtrusive seat and found a place in front of the stage.

  He sang something haunting in Spanish, his fingers caressing the guitar like a beautiful woman. His voice was rich and deep, lingering over the liquid syllables and roughening occasionally for emphasis. His chocolate-brown eyes were half-veiled by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen as he sang of love lost and hope gone.

  I wanted to be that guitar so much that every ripple of his fingers across the strings made me tremble. I squirmed when he finished, realizing just how much dampness he’d called forth from between my thighs. My face was flushed and my breasts ached, hungry for his touch, desperate to comfort him.

  I applauded, of course, like everyone else there. He smiled at us and his eyes met mine for a moment. His eyebrow lifted and I blushed like a virgin.

  “Gracias, amigos. Now for something livelier, to send us all home.” He played a fandango, a lively old dance tune that soon had us clapping our hands and stomping our feet. His music filled the hall and we rose with it, swaying to the infectious beat.

  Somehow the rhythm stayed with us as we filed out, still humming the song. My parking spot was blocked by a big pickup truck so I had time to start thinking. About what I really wanted . . . and needed.

  Finally I got out and went back into the club.

  He was standing in the pool hall, talking to the owner, when I came in. Both of them nodded to me but, hell, I was only interested in the musician.

  “I just wanted to say thank you for the marvelous performance. You’re a great guitarist,” I began. I had to say something respectable, no matter how much my body longed to be fondled by him.

  His eyes searched mine, hot and intent for an answer to the oldest question of all between a man and a woman. Heat flowed down my spine and I must have nodded.

  “Gracias, señora. You are very kind.” His hand slipped under my elbow, strong and warm. “Please excuse us, Gary.” He steered me back toward the small saloon, which was empty and dark.

  I started to chatter immediately, of course, as you might guess. “I’ve never heard anything like that first song you played. It sounded old, perhaps seventeenth century. My professor always said . . .”

  He flipped open the light panel. One touch brought a single spotlight up on the saloon’s tiny stage and the single stool on it but left the rest of room touched with shadows. The door swung shut behind us and the room darkened further, making the single light seem even brighter.

  I kept talking, nervous as hell at being this close to a man for the first time since Dave’s death.

  “Uh, my professor said . . .”

  “Do you always talk this much, señora?” His voice was whisky and velvet after my jerky words. His finger lightly caressed my cheek and I trembled.

  “Uh, yes,” I admitted.

  “Then perhaps we can find other uses for your sweet mouth.” He tilted his head and I stayed quite still, my mouth still hanging open. His tongue teased my lips; I must have sighed. He chuckled softly and sucked my lip delicately. I slid my hands up his arms for support as a shaft of need raced through me.

  Then his mouth claimed me and I stopped thinking. He kissed like an angel, a swirl of masculine tastes and textures as our mouths learned every detail of the other. I pressed closer to him as his tongue explored me, shuddering when his big hand rubbed my ass. I stopped thinking and just enjoyed. Shit, he was good.

  I regained my senses somewhat when he settled me on the stool. I found myself on the stage, seated like a star performer in the spotlight, while he tweaked my skirts back into respectability. I shivered at the contact and tried to think.

  A door closed, somewhere in the distance. “What’s that?”

  “Gary’s departure.” His voice was abstracted, then his eyes met mine again. He smiled slowly and my pulse started to race. “We’re alone now, señora. Do you wish to leave?”

  “No.” I was very certain about that much at least. I was far too hungry for this man to walk away now.

  “Bien.” His mouth claimed mine again and I forgot my qualms, such as they were. His big hands cupped my breasts through the thin shirt, kneading and petting them until I swayed and moaned in Anglo-
Saxon as my nipples hardened. “Do you like my touch?”

  “Yes, of course, you idiot.”

  “Then show me.”

  I blinked at the rasp in his voice and stared up at him. Hunger had tightened his mouth and brought color to his high cheekbones. “Señora,” he warned me softly.

  I slipped the first button free slowly and his eyes flashed. The second button was easier and the third easiest of all when he swallowed hard. I took a deep breath and let the shirt fall open.

  “Beautiful,” he growled and lifted my breasts in his hands. He weighed them and brushed his thumb over first one nipple, then the other. I shuddered and closed my eyes as the rough caress burned down to my belly. I was so very damp between my legs. Oh, fuck.

  Then he put his mouth to work. He licked and suckled until every inch of my chest understood that pleasure came from him. I braced my hands behind me on the stool and arched my back, the better to open myself to him. I trembled and wriggled and moaned in delight at his attentions.

  And I talked too, of course, using Brooklyn terms and language Dave had taught me. About how damn good he felt, and couldn’t he do the same thing on the other side, and thanked him when he did as I asked . . .

  And I sobbed when his hands traveled up the inside of my legs, under my skirt. He had wicked hands that knew exactly how to stroke and fondle and coax yet more cream from my cunt.

  “Nieve y rosas,” he murmured. Then his voice strengthened. “Lift your hips.”

  “What the fuck?” I tried to open my eyes. Thinking was very low on my list of priorities at that moment, especially when a man had just compared me to snow and roses.

  “Don’t think, señora,” he coaxed. “Live for today, not yesterday.”

  My eyes met his for a moment and I saw how truly he understood my grief. My eyes slid away from his, unwilling to reveal too much of myself. Oh, crap.

  “Señora,” he growled softly and a jolt of lust ran through me. I took a deep breath then raised my hips. He rolled my skirt up to my waist and cold air touched my very heated skin, making me shiver. I stared up at him, speechless for once, as my panties slipped away in his grasp.

  “Bien. Now spread your legs very widely.” His hands guided me. “Wider still, señora. Perfecto.”

  I must have looked like a monument to lust under that spotlight with my shirt hanging off my shoulders and my skirt reduced to a belt. Breasts flushed and hard with nipples pointed and red, my lips swollen. “What the hell are you going to do?” I asked inanely, as if I cared what he did as long as he did it soon.

  He chuckled, his eyes dancing with laughter. “Guess, señora.” Then he dropped to his knees before me.

  I stared down at his dark head and reverted to my mother’s vocabulary. “Ohmygawd.”

  And if I’d thought he was talented before, when he taught new meanings of pleasure to my mouth and breasts, I knew he was a genius as soon as he tasted my cunt. He explored my nether lips like a man intent on learning every detail of a fabulous landscape. His tongue swirled through my folds, finding every drop of cream and coaxing out more. He lifted his head and licked his lips as he caught my eyes.

  “Dulce con miel,” he approved and I blushed scarlet. He smiled wickedly, his dark eyes hot as fine whisky, then returned to tasting me. He played a flamenco rhythm on my aching flesh that kept me poised and trembling, frantic for more. I writhed under him, fighting to be closer, more turned on than if I’d been using my vibrator.

  And I talked the whole time, praising him and thanking him and asking for just a little more . . .

  Until I was begging him for the orgasm that hung so close and yet so infuriatingly far away. “Goddammit, I’ll do anything! Just finish me!”

  “Es verdad?” he drawled, lifting his head slightly to watch his blunt finger tease me. My thighs tightened desperately.

  “Yes, damn you, anything!”

  “Bien,” he purred and brought his poet’s mouth back to me. Before I could complain once more, he bit my thighs, bringing a momentary touch of pain, then flicked his thumb skillfully over my clit.

  I screamed and shattered into a thousand satisfied pieces as he tasted my blood for the first time.

  I don’t really know what else to tell you, Rita. All the other climaxes I had with his head between my thighs? Or how he stretched me with three fingers then taught my insides some new ways to climax?

  Or of digging my fingers into his magnificent ass, feeling it flex so he could better drive that splendid cock deeper into me? And how every pulse that carried my blood into his mouth only seemed to deepen my pleasure.

  He said I could speak of our encounter once. But I’m afraid I’ll forget what he was like if I tell you.

  So maybe I’ll just tear up this letter and keep my memories for myself.

  TO: ritacat@nyc . . .

  FROM: brynda@austn . . .

  DATE: Thu,

  SUBJECT: Dating in Austin

  Yup, the listening club really did have some good musicians. No, I didn’t go out with any of them afterward. I’m just not ready to get involved with a man on a regular basis so it’s best to stay away.

  I’ve decided to take a steady job so I’ll be starting at a local law firm next week. They specialize in real estate and their largest client is the Santiago Trust, a big trust that’s been around since before the Civil War. I’m really looking forward to it as a good opportunity to use my training.

  The only disadvantage is that I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. One of their clients is that big Spaniard, the one with the best ass in the world. Obviously it would be unprofessional to sleep with him but maybe a little oral sex would be okay.

  What do you think?

  bourbon with a splash a tale of ethan templeton

  Dear Diary,

  I can’t believe I just wrote those words. I swore I wouldn’t be like every other little girl and that included keeping a diary. But, hell, if it’s the only way to remember Ethan, then I’ll do it.

  Of course, there’s a lot of things I swore I’d never do, most of which I have managed to try. I still haven’t gotten drunk on bourbon, though.

  Ethan has given me permission to talk once about my meetings with him. I told my girlfriends about our first meeting and haven’t been able to tell anyone else about it since. I can’t even write it down, dammit. So from now on, I’m keeping a log of all of our meetings. I probably won’t be able to show this log to anyone but who cares? At least I can read it.

  I met Ethan while I was a cop in a suburb of Austin, Texas, before I joined the metro police. Damn, now I can feel that block against writing down how we met. So let’s just say that we met and had some really great sex. That’s pretty rare for me; most guys are too scared to approach a gal who can bench press more than she weighs, is rated expert with pistol and rifle, third-degree black belt in karate and always carries handcuffs.

  Wimps.

  But that didn’t bother Ethan at all, boy howdy! So we started seeing each other, fairly often but not regularly. It’s never been a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of arrangement.

  Hell, who’d try that with a vampire? I’m certainly not going for an exclusive relationship with him. He’d immediately say no and I’d sure like to find an ordinary guy for marriage one day. But in the meantime, you can’t find a better partner for blowing off steam than Ethan. More than once, he’s also provided damn useful information on some very bad-ass dudes, which saved the day for me and my fellow cops—and the public. (I’m not going to say anything more than that, even in my own diary. His information has always been good as gold and I’ve never paid a penny for it. What my supervisors don’t have to legally know won’t hurt ’em.)

  I always wanted to be a Texas Ranger and finally, the Texas DPS accepted my application, a required step before becoming a Ranger. (Yes! I’m still pumped up about that news.) So I worked out my notice at metro police and arranged to take some time off before starting as a state trooper. I had a list of things to
accomplish and Ethan was the key to one of them. So I called and left a voice mail for him. (It always fascinates me that a guy born in 1839 is so comfortable with modern technology.)

  He called me back on my cell phone later that night, while I was having a cup of coffee and a doughnut in my cruiser. I recognized his number immediately on the readout.

  “Hi, Ethan,” I mumbled through a mouthful of doughnut.

  He snorted. I’m always eating when he calls me. Hell, I can’t help it if I have to consume twice as much as anyone else just to keep up my weight.

  “What can I do for you, Steve?”

  It’s usually best to skip small talk with Ethan, which is fine by me. I’m not much of one for polite chit-chat, either.

  “My last day with the department is Friday and I’m spending next week with my folks, but I don’t have to be there until Sunday night. Care to do something on Saturday night?”

  “Sure,” he agreed. Then he asked me the question I was afraid of. The one that I’d have to answer because it’s always best to tell him the truth, no matter how embarrassing. “Got anything in mind?”

  “Uh, well, I was wondering,” I stuttered. “I’d like to just feel like a woman. Your woman.”

  The line went silent. I waited, without a thought of my hot coffee or doughnut.

  “Doing anything I want, Stephanie Amanda?” he purred. I broke out into a sweat at the way he wrapped that drawl around all the syllables of my name. I didn’t even flinch at the sound of my all too-frilly middle name. “Just want to be feminine? Got some fantasies about being submissive? Maybe try some rough stuff?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. The heat had moved down my body at his suggestions. Now, more than my brow was damp. “Something like that.”

  “Okay. Get a room at the Sleepytime Motel for Saturday night. I’ll pick you up there at eight.”

  “Fine.” I’d never seen a room at the Sleepytime Motel except during a bust. One thing for sure, nobody there would blink at anything he wanted to do.