“But, how—”
“I have the same skills as my grandmother. I knew this night would come. I didn’t know when as you did. She never gave me a date. But I recognized the time had come the moment I received the invitation.” Ellen bit her lower lip.
Rafe climbed onto the bed and moved to the center on his knees. When he reached her, he took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. The kiss started out gentle, soft. He just meant to taste her. Hell, he’d not been able to stop himself. He’d been dying to have her lips on his since she walked into the mansion.
As he claimed her mouth, Jamie crawled behind Ellen and stroked her shoulders. “So soft. Like porcelain.”
Rafe broke the kiss. He set his forehead on hers. “Where did you come from?”
He had the sensation she’d materialized from thin air.
“I live in an apartment on the east side of town. I work for a private investigator.” She shrugged. “It pays the bills.”
“You mean you find people? You … you use your … powers or whatever to find people.”
She nodded, that lower lip making its way back between her teeth. He wanted to bite that lip, and he would, as soon as he got this damn corset off her so he could see more of her.
Jamie must have had the same idea, because his head was bent behind her, messing with the ties. “How on earth did you get this thing on?” he asked.
Ellen giggled. “It wasn’t easy.” She wiggled under Jamie’s fingers, her breasts bouncing inside the front cups.
“This is so strange, but I feel I need you. I need to … claim you in some way. Jamie?” Rafe glanced at his partner.
“Absolutely, man. The sooner the better… There.” He pulled the last of the leather laces free of the holes and the red silk bodice fell away to reveal the most glorious tits Rafe had ever seen.
He cupped them in his hands. When he stroked his thumbs over the rosy nipples—just as he’d imagined them—they stiffened. Ellen moaned.
“Are you okay with this?” He paused, his thumbs still grazing her skin.
She let her head fall back against Jamie’s chest as his partner’s hands massaged their way around her shoulders. “I’ve waited my entire life for this night,” she murmured. “I’ve never been more ready for anything.”
Jamie kissed her temple. “Did your grandmother tell you specifically what we would do to you?” He lifted his gaze and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, hell no.” She giggled again. “She only got me in the door. The rest was up to me.”
Rafe had a thought. He swallowed. “But she knows. She knows even now what we’re doing to her granddaughter.” That didn’t set well with him.
“She might have, but we’ll never know. She died four years ago.” Ellen arched her chest toward Rafe and he squeezed her breasts with both hands before pinching her nipples between his fingers.
Thank God. No, he didn’t mean to thank God that her grandmother was dead. You doofus. Just that she wasn’t around to bear witness to her prediction.
“Pull her skirt off.” Jamie lifted her tiny frame, and Rafe swung her legs toward the front and tugged on the leather until it slipped free.
The scrap of red between her thighs was hardly enough material to be considered a thong. Thin silk strips hugged her shapely hips.
Her head fell back into Jamie’s lap as Rafe spread her legs and stroked her pussy through the edges of the thong.
Ellen moaned, the sweet sound music to his ears. He wanted to hear that sound every day and night for the rest of his life.
He glanced at Jamie who’d wrapped his palms around her luscious breasts and now flicked his fingers over her erect nipples. “How’d we get so lucky?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not about to question Fate.” Jamie grinned and then bent his head to take a nipple into his mouth.
Rafe squirmed out of his clothes, tossing them to the side. He’d gone commando tonight. Fate.
“I’m so hard, I’m gonna come just looking at you.” He stared at Ellen’s pussy and then yanked the thong from her body. It didn’t take much effort to break the delicate strip of silk. “I’ll buy you another.”
She groaned. When he looked at her face, he found her eyes half-lidded. Her cheeks were flushed a deep red to match the silk sheets, the bodice of her corset, and the thong. Red was the color of the evening.
Rafe held her gaze as he stroked a finger through her pussy. “So wet.” He reached inside her and drew out more of the moisture. “So fucking tight.”
She lifted her hips. “Stop teasing. I’ve been hot for you for hours.”
He chuckled. “Hang on. We’ll get there. No rush. We have our entire lives.” He grasped her thighs with both hands and spread her wider. Her pussy was swollen and pink. He longed to taste her.
“Yes. We do.” She stared at him, squirming against his hands, and then looked at Jamie. “All three of us. Why are you still dressed?” She glanced up and down his frame.
Jamie whipped his shirt over his head. “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned huge as he unzipped his jeans and let his cock pop out.
Rafe licked his lips. He loved that cock, had enjoyed loving it for eight years. And now he would share it with this sexy woman between them. “Come here, Jamie.”
Jamie crawled toward Rafe on his knees. When he stopped, Rafe released Ellen to wrap his palm around Jamie’s cock. With his other hand, he stroked through Ellen’s folds. Rafe glanced back and forth at both of them. They each held an expression of rapture under his touch, their eyes slits, their lips separated, their cheeks red.
“Stop teasing. I need you both.” Ellen bucked again, digging her heels into the mattress. She grabbed Jamie’s wrist with her tiny hand and tugged. She licked her lips as she pulled Jamie toward her. She turned her head to one side and licked the tip of Jamie’s cock.
It was the hottest thing Rafe had ever seen. Who knew he’d share Jamie with a woman in this lifetime?
“Please, Rafe, fuck me,” she begged just before she sucked his partner into her mouth.
Rafe grabbed a giant pillow and stuffed it under Ellen’s hips. He wanted her writhing beneath him before he took her. With one hand he held her open. With the other, he circled her clit until she arched upward. Holding his cock in his hand, he stroked the tip through her folds. She was ready. She opened her thighs wider and lifted her hips, silently begging him to enter her.
Shit. Protection. He grabbed his jeans and struggled with shaky hands to extract a condom from the pocket. The two pieces of the tarot card fell out. He smiled and left them lying next to him on the mattress.
Seconds later, he was sheathed and ready. He lowered his torso over her and pressed into her warmth.
God. Her tight, hot pussy clenched around his length. Her face looked so fucking sexy when he entered her, and her eyes widened as she moaned around Jamie’s cock.
Jamie groaned and held himself above her face with his hands braced on each side of her head. “I’m gonna come.”
“Go for it.” Rafe pulled out of her tightness and then eased back in. It felt too good. He didn’t want to rush it. His balls had drawn up tight against his body before he’d even entered. “I’m so fucking close.”
He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back the orgasm, but it was no use. He reached between their bodies and stroked Ellen’s clit. Her body stiffened, her mouth still sucking Jamie, and her hips arched off the bed as her pussy gripped his cock and pulsed around him.
Rafe hadn’t had a chance against that visual or the feel of her coming on his cock. He pushed himself into her to the hilt and let go, crashing over the edge until his vision blurred.
From the noises coming from Jamie, he knew his partner had also climaxed.
Breathing heavily, they all collapsed in a row on the bed. Rafe wrapped his leg over Ellen’s body on one side and Jamie did the same from the other.
When Jamie leaned over Ellen to take Rafe’s lips in a kiss, his eyes went huge. After a quick peck on Raf
e’s mouth, Jamie scrambled to grab his pants.
“What’s…” Ellen’s word hung in the air.
Rafe merely smiled.
From the pocket of his pants, Jamie pulled out his piece of the tarot card and set it on Ellen’s flat belly. Rafe grabbed the other two pieces from behind him and added them to Jamie’s.
“A perfect fit,” he declared. “Just like us.”
About the Author
Becca Jameson lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two kids. When she isn’t writing, she can be found reading, editing, scrapbooking, running, swimming, biking, or taxiing kids all over creation. She doesn’t sleep much … or sit down often … but she loves to be busy! Unlike many other authors, Becca had never written a single word until a few years ago. After enjoying several years on the editing side of the business, Becca decided to give writing a try. Now she can’t stop! And the voices in her head are clamoring to get out faster than she can get them onto “paper”! Still experimenting with both contemporary and paranormal genres, there is no telling what she may come up with next. To learn more about Becca Jameson, visit her blog at www.beccajameson.com, email her at [email protected], or tweet her @beccajameson.
Other Titles Available by Becca Jameson
Now Available:
Blind with Love
Deceptive Liaison
Out of the Smoke
Awakening Abduction
Three’s a Cruise
Wolf Trinity (coming Nov. 2013)
Wolf Masters
Kara’s Wolves
Lindsey’s Wolves
Jessica’s Wolves
Alyssa’s Wolves
Tessa’s Wolf (from Beneath a Spring Moon)
Durham Wolves
Rescue in the Smokies
Fire in the Smokies
Freedom in the Smokies (coming Dec. 2013)
Wolf Gatherings
Tarnished
Dominated (coming Oct. 2013)
Completed (coming Feb. 2014)
Coming Soon:
Emergence (coming 2014)
Bound to be Taken
Bound to be Taught
Bound to be Tamed
Two of Wands
Vanessa North
Dedication
To the ladies of Love, Lust, and Laptops. Your friendship means the world to me.
When I say my best friend Pierre is “not my type,” I don’t mean I’m not interested in completely hot, slightly-fem, Creole twinks with lips for days and the roundest perkiest little asses on the planet. ’Cause that’s kind of exactly my type.
When I say Pierre is “not my type,” I don’t mean I’m not interested in the kind of guys who bring you coffee just because and also sometimes fold your underwear because you left it in the dryer. ’Cause that’s kind of also my type.
When I say Pierre is “not my type,” it’s not because I don’t love it when he comes over a week before Halloween with a bag of feathers, a million yards of tulle, and a sewing machine, strips down to skivvies and says, “Cher, I need you.”
It’s one hundred percent self-preservation. Pierre is not my type.
So, since I’ve known him since grade school and we were the only two out queers at our high school and we roomed on the same hall at Tulane—and not because he’s my type—I let him set up his sewing machine on my kitchen table and I get him a cup of coffee, and bless my own rotten heart, I ask him what’s the matter.
Of course, now that he has room to sew without his roommates giving him a hard time, he hums along with the machine and smiles up at me, all blissed out. Apparently, his needs are met by a little bit of space and whatever he is doing with those feathers.
“I got you an invite to this Halloween party. There’s this whole Tarot theme going on, it’s going to be fabulous, and I need my best wingman.”
“You need the straight-looking jock BFF to make you look extra-precious by comparison to the resident bears?” Oh, hey, where did that bitterness come from? Maybe from last Halloween when he called me to pick him up at a leather club at three a.m.? Or the year before that when we went camping because he was so over masquerade parties, cher. There is nothing even remotely fun about camping in the bayou in October. It’s wet, and it’s—no, really it’s just wet—and fuck, it’s colder than you think it would be. Really, self-preservation dictates I don’t need to be Pierre’s best wingman ever, but most especially not on Halloween.
Of course, when he bats those pretty eyelashes at me and says, “Oh, cher…”
I’m so fucked. And I take the cheesy Tarot-card invite and I nod my head and I pull out my phone and start looking for a costume online.
“This better not be some hoodoo Halloween hookup party.” I grunt as I ponder whether I can recycle that pimp costume from the frat party senior year.
“Oh, no, Jakey. Would I drag you to some tawdry frat party in disguise?” He looks offended, but then giggles. “No, don’t answer that. It’s classy as fuck, I promise. So, do not even think of ordering a costume from one of those online party stores. I have enough feathers for both of us.”
Which is how I find myself standing on the sidewalk, wearing a glitter-covered mask and goddamned hand-stitched black wings, staring up at the house in front of us. Dacre House is a typical Garden District mansion done up like a haunted house, the kind of place that reeks of money. How the hell does Pierre score invites to parties like this? And how the hell am I supposed to make small talk with the type of people who come to these parties while my best friend—who is not my type—is on the prowl?
“I will blow you if you don’t make me do this,” I whisper to Pierre. I mean it as a joke, but the annoyed huff he makes tells me he doesn’t share my sense of humor.
His face is all hard in a way Pierre’s face is never hard with me, and it fucking hurts.
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
He shakes off the pissed-off expression, flutters his lashes at me, and smiles. “No, cher, it’s good to know my cock rates somewhere above social interaction in your list of likes and dislikes.”
Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? I’d ask him, but he’s already ten steps ahead of me, disappearing through the front door of the house. I bolt up the steps and follow him, showing my invitation to the dude at the door. The guy tries to tell me something, but I brush him off, not wanting to let Pierre get away before I can apologize.
I manage to catch up to Pierre in the foyer of the stunning house, grabbing his arm with one hand. “Pierre.”
“What?” He looks over his shoulder at me. I’m not sure what his costume is supposed to be exactly, but it involves black leather epaulettes and something about them makes him look dangerous.
“I’m sorry, it was a joke.”
“Whatever.” He brushes off my apology with a dramatic eye roll. “I’m here to have a good time. You can go sulk by the bar if you want, but I am not about to let your bad attitude ruin my night.”
My bad attitude? He’s the one pouting!
But before I can say it, he’s flounced away. Have you ever seen a grown man flounce? It’s sort of heart-wrenching, and now I’m all ashamed, again, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to chase after him to apologize twice in the same night.
Without Pierre in his avant-garde costume to capture my attention, I take in the scene. Bass thumps around me in a sensual beat, and the crowd of masked partygoers throbs with the music. A dancer in a cage catches my eye—he’s wearing next to nothing and his skin glistens with body paint and glitter. His movements walk the line between sensual and sexual. My cock chubs up a little in appreciation of the sight, but I really wish Pierre could see him. This dancer guy might be a pro, but Pierre moves like his spine is made of liquid. Where the dancer walks the line between sensual and sexual, Pierre dancing is pure sex. Pierre would take one look at the cage dancer, smile, and say “that ain’t nothin’, cher” and he’d proceed to put that professional dancer’s skills to shame.
Yeah.
Time to go sulk by the bar.
I don’t know when I started resenting my friendship with Pierre, and I don’t want to think about it.
A few people by the bar are sipping something orange and frothy. “What is that?” I ask one of the bartenders, gesturing at the concoction.
“Pumpkin martini.”
I can’t quite suppress a shudder, but the bartender laughs so I guess that’s okay.
“Let me guess, you’re more of a tequila guy?” He leans over the bar, a bit of flirtation in his eyes.
“Maybe. But it’s no fun doing shots alone.” I place my hand on the bar, close enough to his that he’ll move it if he wasn’t flirting.
“Hmmm. Got it.” His hand brushes over mine as he turns to fix a drink. Definite invitation there. He’s cute, with blue eyes and dark hair, a little cleft in his chin. I would normally be all over that.
But he’s not wearing leather epaulettes and feathers and he doesn’t have pouty, sultry lips or move as if his spine is made of liquid. He’s attractive and flirty, and that isn’t enough. So when he hands me a glass of bourbon, neat, and leans in to brush a kiss over my cheek, I pull back so he’s kissing air.
“Sorry,” I mutter, blushing.
“It’s okay. You’re not here to kiss the bartender I guess.” He winks, and I smile back.
“Guess not.” I pay him for the drink, and he smiles again. “So, which card have you got?”
“Card?” What’s he talking about?
“The invitation—the tarot card. Which card?”
Oh. I fish it out of my pocket. It’s half a card, actually. “Two of Wands. Why?”
He laughs. “Didn’t they tell you at the door? The other half of your card is with someone else in the house. It’s kind of a party game. Icebreaker. Go play.”
I shove the card back into my pocket. “Thanks.” I salute him with my glass and turn back to the throbbing music. Sure enough, people are talking and laughing over their half-cards, clearly getting into the game going on all around them.
A petite blonde bumps my arm. I look down and steady her with one hand. She smiles at me from behind a red mask.
“Thanks. I’m Ellen.” Ah. Ellen with a charming smile. There’s something hypnotic, almost fey about her smile. She’s looking at me as if she expects me to say something. When she holds out her hand for a handshake, I blush.
Love in the Cards Page 4
