Party Favors

by Jennifer Dunne, Madeleine Oh

  “You have a perfect pussy, Kay. So hot and we fit so well—” He gritted his teeth, and perspiration dotted his forehead as he increased the pace.

  Kay was beyond words. She concentrated on the sensations of the man inside her as each stroke increased her desperate need for release. There was nothing more to say than, “Fuck me harder.”

  Her words broke his concentration. His dark eyes opened and speared her. Their lips met in a brief heated kiss.

  “Is this what you want?” He sat up and released her ankles from their bonds. Guiding her legs around his waist, he adjusted his angle and plunged into her with a long, smooth thrust. She groaned as he hammered into her, back and forth in fast, deep movements, each one stroking her clit at just the right angle.

  His expression was taut, his jaw hard as he fucked her pussy as if he meant to stay there forever. The erotic sound of flesh slapping flesh sounded throughout the cabin. Their moans mingled as she urged him on with her hips.

  “What a beautiful sight,” he panted.

  Kay looked up to his gaze fastened on her pussy. She raised her head to see his thick cock fucking her. The differences in their skin color were erotic as his body continued its relentless assault upon her.

  She groaned and closed her eyes, the tingling in her abdomen telling her that release was near. Every muscle in her body tensed, preparing to throw her over the edge.

  “Come for me, baby. I want to watch you.” He moved over her, grinding his pelvis against her clit as he fucked harder, faster. “You’re mine, Kay. I’ll never give you up.”

  She groaned and tossed her head back and forth, unable to do anything but feel him inside her, possessing her, giving her pleasure.

  Her back arched hard, and she screamed his name as her orgasm broke. Her body had become a vessel for him to fill, to pleasure. Lightning streaks of release raced through her and she spasmed around him. His movements slowed and she sagged against the bed.

  With his upper body propped on his arms, he cuddled her close as he plunged into her again and again, his pace never slowing. Within seconds, release burned bright and she came again. Over her, she could feel him tense as he sank into her, her orgasming pussy milking his cock for all she was worth. He came with a shout and his thrusts were no longer controlled, but jerky and out of control.

  “Mon Dieu,” he gasped, as his head fell to the pillow next to hers.

  Neither moved. They simply lay together, their bodies in full contact and his cock still buried in her pussy. After a few moments, he reached up to release her arms from their bonds.

  Free at last, they rolled to the side and Hunter massaged her arms until she was completely limp from head to toe.

  “That was amazing.” She settled her head against his shoulder.

  “Mmm,” he mumbled. His big hand settled on her hip and he guided her leg over his pelvis. “More than amazing…” His voice slurred then trailed off. A few seconds later, she heard him snore.

  Kay smiled and snuggled against him, her body completely relaxed, sated for now. But in a few hours, who knew what they might get into?

  Chapter 7

  Early Sunday morning, Kay slipped from their bed. Hunter was facedown and still sound asleep. His arm was outstretched as if silently asking her not to leave. He was an amazing lover, everything a woman could ask for and more. She unhooked the slim chain from her collar and left it lying beside him.

  After picking up his T-shirt from the floor, she held it up to her face, inhaling his familiar scent. Pulling it on over her head, she padded to the sink for a glass of water. She drained a large glass, then refilled it again and wandered to the bookshelves.

  Packed with books, some of the titles surprised her. Many were on botany and environmental issues that were particular to the bayou, but it was the vast range of books about art that surprised her most. Expensive, oversized volumes that contained the work of the masters were piled on the bottom shelf.

  She dropped into a crouch and selected the top one, a volume of works by Monet, and opened the cover. Female writing was scrawled across the inside flyleaf and she frowned as she read it.

  To David, a man who is a work of art himself.

  Love, Cherish

  Who was David?

  She skimmed through the pages, the glossy paintings shown in rich, full color and she smiled with pleasure. She’d always loved Monet—

  The book flipped shut to the back flyleaf. A small white envelope fell onto the floor. She picked it up and tucked it back, but not before she saw the name typed on the front.

  David Hunter

  She glanced at the address and saw that it was in Massachusetts. How could a letter written to someone in Boston end up down here in Hunter’s cabin in Louisiana?

  Hunter? Were they somehow related?

  Disturbed, she slid the book shut. Before she could think twice, she reached for the next, a thick volume on Rembrandt. She cast a hasty glance toward the man in bed, but he slept undisturbed behind the sheer curtain. Feeling oddly guilty, she opened the cover and saw it was blank.

  Even as she chided herself for being suspicious, she pulled out the next title and opened it. David Hunter’s name was printed on the bookplate.

  It didn’t make any sense. Why would Remy DeLaughter have books with the name David Hunter in them? Did he buy them at an auction? Maybe he got them at a used bookstore?

  That had to be it. Shaking her head over being so silly, she tucked the volumes back onto the shelf and rose. The shelves above weren’t quite as loaded because the books were interspersed with framed photos. She moved closer to check them out.

  One photo contained two young boys, each with fishing poles, dirty feet and big smiles. She couldn’t see anything of Hunter in that photo. Could they be nephews? The next one was of two laughing young men, one with thick black hair, the other with brown. Now this was more like how she’d expected Remy to look. The dark-haired man sat on the tail of a shiny pickup truck. Clad in a rumpled plaid shirt and worn jeans and boots, his grimy baseball cap covered most of his face but she could see it wasn’t Hunter, the jaw line was all wrong.

  But the man next to him was a distinct possibility. Dressed in cleaner jeans and a black T-shirt, this man’s dark brown hair was windswept. While he strongly resembled Hunter, this man was thinner and there was something different about his eyes. Maybe it was an old photo? She stared hard at the picture. Something niggled at her, there was something oddly familiar about him…

  The next one was definitely Hunter and the laughing black-haired man. Hunter sat on the steps of this cabin beside the other. Both were shirtless, wearing only jeans and wide grins.

  She tilted her head to the side as she stared at Hunter’s clean-shaven face. His hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail and he looked vastly different from the man asleep in the bed. Handsome, yes, but there was something oddly familiar about the way he’d cocked his head. It reminded her of someone, but whom?

  She stared at the photo a few more minutes, but no answers came. It was possible she’d seen him somewhere before, if he’d ever been to Atlanta, that was. But he’d told her in an email that he’d never been to Georgia, so it wasn’t possible she’d ever seen him before.

  She put the photograph down to look for her purse. Her lips felt chapped and she was in dire need of some moisturizer.

  A quick search of the cabin didn’t turn up her purse. She frowned, then remembered it was probably still in the truck. She smiled as she remembered their quick exit from the vehicle. Lust made Hunter move fast, that was for sure.

  She crept to the back door and slipped on her sandals. Still sound asleep, Hunter lay in the same position she’d left him. After she retrieved her purse, she’d climb back into bed with him and wake him up with her mouth on his big, beautiful cock.

  Holding her breath as she slid the bolt open, she stepped out into the early morning. The air was thick with recent rain, leaving the ground spongy. The truck wasn’t parked by the back door so
she headed for the barn. The door stood half open and she could see the bumper. She slipped into the gloomy building.

  After allowing a few moments for her eyes to adjust, she approached the vehicle. Opening the door, she rooted around until she found her purse, which had slid under the seat. Retrieving it, she found the strap was caught on something.

  Swearing under her breath, she reached in and pulled out a large, flat wooden box. It was obviously old and much used. The scarred wood attested to its use and near the clasp there were numerous paint smears. It wasn’t very heavy and as she pulled her purse free, something inside rattled. She bit her lip, as she knew she shouldn’t open it, but she badly wanted to. Opening this box would mean she’d officially crossed the line from hunting for her belongings into the realm of snooping.

  Not cool.

  Even as she had the thought, her fingers flipped the catch on the box and she opened it. Her eyes widened when she realized what she held in her hands.

  It was an artist’s box filled with battered tubes of watercolors, paintbrushes and rags. Was Hunter a painter? Was that what this was all about?

  Tucked into the lid was a watercolor pad. She set the box on the seat and removed the notebook. She flicked it open and her breath caught as she saw what it contained.

  Her breathing increased as she flipped through the pages. The colors and designs of the wildlife he’d captured in the bayou were exquisite. Each brush stroke was delicate, capturing the flora and fauna in rich color and texture. One was a landscape, the view from the front porch of the cabin as the sun awakened the bayou with its first rays of life.

  This wasn’t the work of a beginner; it was the work of a master. Only an accomplished painter could produce work of this magnitude.

  A master such as David Hunter.

  Her hands shook and she forced herself to flip back through the pages and scrutinize each piece. It certainly looked like it could be Hunter’s work. The lines were clean and fresh, the touch of the watercolors light and delicate—the style characteristic of that which he was known for. She should know as she’d spent several months researching his work before the Reicht Gallery had sought to contract him for a show.

  But where had this box come from?

  She slammed the book shut and tucked it back into the box with great haste. If these were the works of David Hunter, that one little pad could be worth millions of dollars.

  Millions.

  Where would Hunter have come up with these? Were they related to the books inside?

  With her heart thudding in her chest, she grabbed her purse and slammed the door of the truck. Her mind was whirling so fast that she almost failed to see the other car parked a few feet beyond the truck. Her steps slowed and she stared in horror at a forest green Jaguar.

  She walked around the front of the gleaming car. There was no way Remy could afford this car and the Massachusetts license plate seemed to mock her with letters that spelled PAINTR.

  A cry caught in her throat. Her Hunter could not be David Hunter, the painter, he just couldn’t. The fates couldn’t be that cruel to her.

  Kay swung around and darted out the door. She had to see that photo again. It would prove once and for all that her Hunter wasn’t the David Hunter. A man she’d met about six months ago at her gallery in Atlanta.

  If it were true, her professional career would be over…

  * * * * *

  David woke slowly. He’d never been one to leap out of bed and greet the day with a smile. He was more likely to laze in bed a few minutes before opening his eyes. Of course, it was much more enjoyable when there was a warm, willing female in the bed with him…

  Kay.

  The thought of her beside him brought a smile to his mouth. With his eyes still closed, he reached for the other side of the bed.

  It was empty.

  Reluctantly, he forced his eyes open. The front door stood open and only the screen was closed. Already the relentless humidity was invading his sanctuary. Why would she have left the door open with the air conditioning on? Maybe she was outside on the porch? Remembering what pleasurable events had taken place on the porch just yesterday had him rolling out of bed.

  He strolled into the bathroom and took care of his most urgent needs before he splashed cool water on his face. He grabbed a pair of old running shorts, then exited the bathroom. Maybe, after a bout of hot sex, he and Kay could drive along the coast for seafood and cold beer…

  He came to a stop next to the kitchen table. His eyes widened when he saw the smears of red paint.

  YOU LIED TO ME…

  The art box that had been stashed in his truck sat on the table, the top open and the watercolor tablet open to the landscape he’d done of the view from the porch. A tube of red paint lay on the table near the words and he saw it had been squeezed dry. The brush she’d used lay nearby, its tip still damp with paint.

  His heart aching, he picked up the brush and ran the tip over his palm leaving a trail of red, not unlike blood. She’d found him out.

  David’s eyes closed and he crushed the brush tip in his hand.

  He’d brought Kay to his bed with a lie and had spent a few deliriously happy hours with her. Now he’d just lost her with the same lie.

  Damn him for his deception.

  Chapter 8

  Six months later

  Reicht Gallery

  Atlanta, GA

  “This is a disaster. These paintings are all wrong.”

  Kay paused, the phone halfway to her ear. What was Cissy going on about now? She set the phone down in the cradle. It was late Saturday morning and all her assistant had to do was inventory and sign for the delivery of David Hunter’s art for his showing two weeks from today.

  Her stomach quivered at the thought of Hunter. No, not Hunter, David. She’d shamelessly pawned any of the work for the Hunter showing to Cissy. Yes, it was completely unprofessional, but she couldn’t bring herself to think of his name, let alone handle his work. It would be one of the most prestigious events of the year for the Reicht, but she didn’t care. He’d lied to her, used her and she wanted nothing to do with him.

  She rose from behind her desk and walked out into the receiving area off the main showroom. The crates had arrived early that morning and Cissy and the two men who assisted with setting up had already unpacked them.

  Her assistant stood in the midst of the paintings, packing material and cases, her clipboard clutched to her skinny chest. Kay wondered if she realized she had an ink pen behind each ear.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “These aren’t the right paintings.” The young woman spun around and shoved her clipboard at Kay. “Where’s Dark Symphony? Where’s Nightingale? Rapture? These aren’t the ones we’d commissioned for the showing.”

  Kay frowned and took the board. On the left was the list of paintings they were expecting and on the right were the ones they’d received. A quick scan revealed none of the titles matched.

  “I don’t understand how this could’ve happened,” Cissy wailed. “I just spoke to the shipping company. They said Mr. Hunter had everything packed before they’d arrived. It was most peculiar. I mean, they do the invoicing, packing and shipping. Why would he do this to us?”

  “Well, let’s take a look at these. Maybe we can do something—” Kay’s words caught in her throat when she saw the first canvas.

  He’d painted her.

  Even though her face wasn’t visible, it was definitely her body. He’d painted her lying on the bed, her body mostly covered by the white sheet, but her long blonde hair was evident. One breast was bared, the pert, pink nipple showing through the soft strands.

  Behind her, she was aware of Cissy still screeching about programs and the costs of reprinting, but she didn’t pay her any mind. Kay shoved the clipboard at her and told her to take a long break. As if in a daze, she moved to the next canvas.

  This one was also of her, standing nude in the bathroom. She stood before the sink,
her body leaning forward as she applied lip-gloss. The handcuff tattoo on her hip burned beneath her clothing when she saw that he’d left nothing out.

  In the next, she was nude again, sitting in a demure fashion with her legs tucked underneath her body. Her long hair hid her face, but the black collar and gold chain were evident.

  Her pussy warmed at the memory of his domination. She’d left the collar behind when she’d exited the cabin that morning. Many times afterward, she’d kicked herself for leaving it behind and wondering if another woman had worn it yet. Not that it should matter, but it did.

  Next was a small watercolor. In this one, she was clothed in his T-shirt and sitting on the steps of the cabin. Her face was tilted to the rising sun and her eyes were closed, her features gently blurred.

  Tears stung her eyes.

  Damn him for making her remember again…

  Frantically, she moved through the rest of the paintings. They were all of her and their few short days alone, and each one depicted her in various stages of undress. There was even one of them in the gazebo, their features hidden by tangled honeysuckle. It was painted from the front and over her shoulder; she could see David’s shadowy form.

  Warmth flooded her pussy at that particularly graphic painting. In it, her back was arched, her mouth open, her orgasm caught on the large canvas in vibrant oils. Just looking at it brought those times back with painful intimacy.

  All of the paintings were her, every last one.

  He must have spent every waking hour painting. Most artists couldn’t produce this much work in a year, let alone six months. It was almost as if he’d been obsessed with capturing her image.

  She turned and her foot hit one of the canvases. She caught it and prevented it from falling, only to reveal a smaller canvas behind it. With her heart in her throat, she stowed the larger canvas and picked up the smaller one. This painting wasn’t of her; instead, it was David.

  Nude, his big muscular body was painted in the submissive position with his face down and he wore her leather collar. The gold chain hung from the collar and the end sat on the floor near his feet, unattached to anything. In that moment, she knew he felt as adrift as she, that’s what this painting signified to her. He wanted her to pick up the chain, to claim him as he had claimed her.