by Bethany Kane
He put his hands on her shoulders and began to rub. She moaned, all thought vacating her brain.
“Hurt?” he asked, his deep voice just inches away from her right ear.
She just nodded. His hands paused in their kneading motion, but he continued to touch her. “Does it hurt bad, or hurt good?”
She heard Enzo snuffle and whine above them in the silence that followed.
“It hurts good,” she admitted in a hushed tone.
He continued his massage, loosening stiff, sore muscles. The sunshine beat down on the top of her head, upper back and shoulders. Her pain slowly faded, as did her anxiety. Her flesh grew more supple beneath his deft hands. Her eyelids became heavy as she fell under a spell.
He focused on her neck for several minutes.
“Do you get headaches?” he asked.
Her eyes blinked open. “Yes. A few times a month, pretty bad. How did you know?”
“You carry a lot of tension in your neck and shoulders.”
She moaned softly when he used his thumb to work the kinks out of her spine. He moved lower down her back. He was a magician. She lowered her chin to her chest and drifted. A pleasant, heavy sensation settled in her sex and tingled her clit when he opened his hands and cradled her waist as he continued to rub her spine with his thumbs. She realized his size was making her feel delicate in comparison; feminine . . . aroused.
“These knots aren’t from the fall. How come you’re so tense? Is being an actress that stressful?” he asked gruffly.
“It depends. I put most of the stress on myself. I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist.” She turned her head, resting her chin on her shoulder. “You never told me how you knew I was an actress. Have you seen . . . I mean . . . do you go to movies?” she fumbled.
“Sometimes. Not much. I’ve never gone to one of yours.”
“Then how did you know about my job?”
For a moment, he didn’t reply, just continued to knead at the knots in her lower back using his thumbs. “I listen to music a lot. I have the CD from Golden Idol. A friend of mine knew I liked Sierra Gallas, and she bought me the soundtrack from the movie,” he said, referring to the 1950s movie siren who had also been a singer of jazz and blues ballads. Jennifer had played the role of Sierra Gallas several years ago in the film Golden Idol. She’d been awarded an Academy Award for her performance.
She twisted her torso to try and see him. He stopped massaging her back but kept his hold on her waist. His unseeing gaze was fixed where his hands were wrapped around her.
“And did you like the recording?”
“I’ve been known to listen to it once or a hundred thousand times,” he said, deadpan.
As if he’d known she smiled, he returned it. Her grin faded.
He was really something to look at when he smiled. The pleasant ache expanded in her pussy.
“I read you did all the songs yourself. No voiceovers,” he said.
“That’s right,” she murmured. She was utterly focused on the feeling of his hands holding her hips and the movement of his mouth. “I had an exceptionally talented voice coach. I practiced for more than a year before doing the movie and recording.”
“You did a phenomenal job.”
Her cheeks heated. He didn’t appear to be the type to compliment people often, and so she appreciated the sentiment all the more because of it. “Thank you.”
“It’s how I recognized you this morning in the forest. You were singing ‘Love in the Moonlight.’”
Her mouth fell open in amazement. “You mean . . . you literally knew it was me when you followed, not just a random woman staying with the Pierces who happened to be singing an old Sierra Gallas tune?”
“I knew it was you,” he said simply. His hands shifted lower. He began to make subtle circular motions over the swell of her hips, massaging her, but also . . . stroking her.
She felt a rush of warmth between her thighs.
Chapter Two
He liked the feel of her in his hands. He liked it a lot. She was small and slender, but far from bony. He explored firm, toned flesh, charted a delicate bone structure, and massaged feminine, curved hips.
The skin of her neck had felt like warm, living silk. When he’d touched her thick, soft hair, he’d had a graphic, uncontrollable fantasy pop into his brain of what it would feel like sliding against his cock. He’d grown instantly hard, making the rest of the massage a torture he wouldn’t have missed for the world.
When he found himself rubbing her rounded hips hungrily, however, he grew embarrassed. A woman like her didn’t want a rough man pawing her. She’d think he was scary—or worse, pitiful . . . a blind man copping a feel.
He released her hips and stood.
“The sun is shifting. I’d better go and gather some wood. You mentioned a thermos earlier? If you have some water left, drink it and then fill it up. You must have swallowed a mouthful of dirt on that fall. We don’t have to worry about running low on water.”
She said nothing, but he sensed her watching him as he walked across the cavern. He heard the sound of her unscrewing the cap on her thermos.
“So you think it’s safe to drink that water?” she asked a moment later, the location of her voice telling him she’d moved toward the waterfall. The sound of her voice—low, rich and melodious—made his skin prickle with awareness. Every other man on the planet would have said Jennifer Turner had a face to die for, but he thought something similar about her voice.
“Yeah. That spring water above is drinkable, but the trickle down here in the cavern will make it even cleaner than on the surface. That stone it’s coming through is an aquifer.”
“You never told me what you had in your pockets,” she called out a moment later. Something about the tremor in her voice made him pause in the process of gathering wood. He was reminded of a child who needed to hear an adult’s voice in a dark room. Something tickled at his memory that seemed to relate to their situation and to movie star Jennifer Turner.
He remembered in a flash. He paused for a second, his brow crinkled in concern, then resumed his careful retrieval of old wood planks and kindling.
“A small first aid kit, my wallet, a knife, half a bag of M&M’s, a lighter, the stub from an old plane ticket, a rasp, gloves and a key to the shed.”
Her choked laugh made it clear he’d spoken to her while she was drinking. “You forgot to mention the two pieces of lint. What’s a rasp?”
“A sculpting tool,” he said as he carried an armload of old wood to the center of the cave.
“Are you a sculptor?” she asked, her voice closer now.
He grunted an assent. “I do it in my spare time. I’m taking some time off from work to finish some pieces for a showing at a little gallery in St. Louis. Stay away from that debris pile, okay?” he said as he prepared a bare stretch of ground for the fire.
“Why?”
“It’s got considerable pressure behind it. I’m worried about it collapsing more.”
“How can you tell?”
“By touching it.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Not if you stay away from it.”
She’d sat on the ground a few feet from where he arranged wood for a fire. He could feel her gaze on him, tickling the exposed skin at his neck. His hard-on lingered, but in a less raging form. It annoyed him that she could probably see the shape of it pressed against his jeans, but there was nothing he could do. The fire needed to be built beneath the hole above them for some ventilation, so he couldn’t escape the sunlight.
“I guess you aren’t going to light it until nightfall,” she said when he’d finished laying the wood and sat down several feet away from her.
“There’s no need to now. You’re warm enough, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Plenty.”
“It’ll get chilly down here after sunset. I’ll light the fire then.”
She didn’t speak, but he sensed the anxiety his words caused her. He inhaled slowly
. “I might as well tell you this now—I won’t be able to keep the fire going for very long. There’s a limited supply of flammable material down here. I’ll light a fire long enough for you to fall asleep tonight, but I’ll have to put it out soon after that.”
“It must be going on six o’clock,” she murmured after a tense silence.
“Yeah. We’ll have sunlight for another hour or so.” He paused, feeling the urge to say something else, but coming up short. Since when had he regressed to being an awkward teenager?
Since you got trapped in a hole with a fantasy come to life, he answered himself, amused.
“Does anyone ever come to your house?” she asked.
“Yeah, Sherona. But she only comes every Tuesday. She won’t know I’m missing for three days.”
He heard her hiss of disappointment. “Who’s Sherona?” she asked after a moment.
“Sherona Legion. She lives in town. Runs the Legion Diner. I pay her to bring supplies up the hill.”
“You must get lonely, staying up here in these woods all by yourself.”
“It’s nice to get away for a couple weeks. And I have Enzo.”
She laughed softly. His mouth twitched at the sound. “Enzo is a dog.”
“He’s better company than a lot of humans I know.”
“Really? I’m sorry.”
He clamped his mouth shut. She hadn’t sounded pitying when she’d said it, but to his own ears, he’d sounded pitiful.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“You’re full of questions, aren’t you,” he muttered.
“What else have we got to do but talk?”
Her question hung in the cool, dank air.
“I’m divorced. Two years ago this summer.”
“Kids?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The marriage only lasted three years.”
“Why so short?”
He opened his mouth to tell her to mind her own business, but paused. Something about the honest simplicity of her queries made it difficult to take true offense. “We probably shouldn’t have gone into business together.”
“Your ex-wife is a chiropractor too?”
“No. She’s an orthopedic surgeon. We owned a multidisciplinary orthopedic practice. Big mistake to go into business with your spouse. We spent too much time together. The mystery faded, I guess.”
“For you?”
“No,” he said tightly. “For her. She fell in love with one of her patients. He had a bum knee but a great set of eyes.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” she murmured after a pause.
He sighed heavily. He was surprised he’d said it. Adele had fallen in love with him when he was blind, but that didn’t mean she understood all that condition implied. Circumstances had taught Adele in the most graphic fashion that while her husband might function at the top of the scale for a man with a disability, when it came to being a true husband—when it came to keeping her safe—John was definitely handicapped. He usually didn’t allude to that bitter fact because it sounded like he was feeling sorry for himself. It was a simple truth, however, what he’d just blurted out to Jennifer.
Well, sometimes it was easier to admit the truth to strangers rather than to friends.
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“You mentioned this used to be your father’s property? He passed away?” she asked quietly after a moment.
“Yeah. About five years ago. Adele—that’s my ex-wife—was never too interested in coming here. It’s pretty rough country. Vulture’s Canyon is the nearest town, and it isn’t exactly a cultural mecca.”
“So you decided to indulge in an artistic, manly style retreat in the woods,” she murmured, her voice low and husky. His nerves stretched like yanked strings. He could hear her smile. He suddenly had a sharp urge to feel her lips beneath his fingertips. “There are some advantages to being divorced, I suppose,” she added.
“Yeah. There are,” he replied.
* * *
They talked for another hour. Jennifer grew increasingly thankful that she’d been trapped with a smart, adept man, yet at the same time she grew increasingly anxious as the cave became darker and darker as the sun set.
“Maybe I’d better check on my cell phone reception again,” she said.
“If you’d like.”
His neutral tone told her loud and clear he didn’t have much faith that she’d get a signal in this hellhole. She stood and withdrew her phone.
“By the way,” he called. “I’ve designated that dark corner over there the men’s room. That particular corner,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction, “is the ladies’ lounge.”
She chuckled. “At least I won’t have to worry about a long line.” She stared at her phone. “Nothing,” she murmured. “I suppose I should wander around again and see if I can pick up a signal anywhere else in the space.”
She inspected the pitch-black shadow at the periphery of the cave. It seemed alive somehow, encroaching on them steadily, a malignant force that could swallow them whole. She glanced back at John. He sat completely still on ground, his head tilted, his sightless gaze just to the left of her. It was as if he waited to see if she’d move.
She held her breath and plunged into the darkness. It even felt different. The black, dank air seemed to have weight that pressed on her skin and lungs. She hastily checked her phone. The light on the device seemed dimmer now than it had earlier. The darkness was growing stronger, absorbing the weak light. It penetrated to her lungs . . . clutched at them. She surged toward the light like a swimmer needing oxygen soars toward the surface of the water.
She gasped for air when she reached the dissipating, grayish-pink light of the setting sun. An uncomfortable pressure pressed down on her chest. She couldn’t draw breath.
Oh, God, don’t leave me here in the dark.
When had John stood? Why was he coming toward her with that strange, tense look on his face?
“It’s okay. Slow down. The dark is just like when you close your eyes. Go on. Close them. I’ve got you.”
A cold sweat had broken out on the surface of her skin. Her entire body shook in panic. By degrees, she became aware that she inhaled his clean, woodsy scent. Her cheek rested on a dense pectoral muscle. He held her shoulders. His smell and the solid sensation of his body anchored her frantic spirit. She turned her face into his shirt and sobbed. Tears skittered down her cheeks, escaping her tightly clamped eyelids.
A tiny convulsion seemed to go through him.
“Shhh, it’s going to be okay.” He touched her hair, his caress gentle and soothing for such a large man. Minutes passed too quickly as he held her and crooned words of comfort.
She breathed him in, letting his scent calm her. Slowly her heartbeat altered from a frantic skip to a steady, pounding throb. She went still as sensual awareness broke through her panic. The tone of their embrace had altered. She molded her body next to his and felt him go still. Triumph soared through her breast when she felt him harden next to her.
She lifted her face and went on her tiptoes. Perhaps it was madness, perhaps it was single-minded on her part, but she would have done anything to escape from this nightmare. John could offer her escape from her terror. She kept her eyes closed, like he’d directed, but she pictured his vivid blue eyes, his strong jaw, his firm mouth.
A shudder went through him when she kissed him. She sandwiched his lower lip between her own, nibbled at him, coaxed him, but much to her frustration, he didn’t immediately respond. He’d lowered his head to meet her caress, but beyond that, he seemed hesitant. Desperate, she ran the tip of her tongue between the seam of his lips, liking his taste . . . liking it very much. His cock leapt against her belly, but he also applied a slight pressure on her shoulders, pushing her away.
“No, Jennifer.”
“Yes,” she whispered, pressing closer and raining feverish kisses along his jaw.
“You’re afraid. You don’
t know what you’re doing.”
“I do know,” she said next to his neck. “Please don’t make me beg, John. It will help me. You can help me to get through this. Please.”
She kept her eyelids sealed, waiting on a cliff’s edge, sensing his arousal and doubt combined. He couldn’t comprehend her blind terror of the dark, and she was too overwhelmed to explain.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he said stiffly.
“You’re not. We’re two adults of consenting age. I find you very attractive. If you don’t feel the same way, then—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interrupted her sharply.
Her breath caught and held.
“You’re sure?” he asked after a pregnant pause.
“Very.”
“All right,” he said quietly, before he drew her up higher along his body and penetrated her mouth with his tongue. He was hot; his kiss was all consuming. She had a fleeting victorious thought that she knew precisely what she was doing, and then she was lost on a mounting wave of lust.
* * *
He had a very refined sense of smell and taste. He’d been known to turn down many women because he couldn’t abide their scent in his nose. Sighted men said something similar in regard to how a woman struck their eyes, but John was all about scent, taste and touch.
Jennifer tasted like clean water flavored with just a hint of something sweet, like raspberries. If her mouth was this good, her skin would be a delicious. Her pussy would be a decadent treat. He sought out more of her flavor, sweeping his tongue into that warm, wet cavern. His cock felt like a lead pipe in his jeans. She did something to him on the most basic level, and he liked it.
He ran his hands along her sides, detailing her shape more boldly than he had during her massage, tracing the swell from waist to hip to buttock. Women were a miracle to his shaping hands—the way they flowed, the way their flesh molded to his palm, how they sighed in response to his caresses. Jennifer was delicate and small, and he was big and robust, but it was as if she’d been tailor-made to fit his hands.
