BedroomEyes

by Desiree Holt

  God, fucking her had just been so sweet. More soul-shattering than anything he’d ever done with any other woman. Burying himself inside her was like coming home.

  Washing carefully, he paused when his fingers reached his cock and his balls. For an instant he recalled the feeling of Red’s soft fingers around his shaft, her hand cupping his balls. Her touch was so exquisite it made him hard just thinking about it.

  The images crowded his mind again and he stroked himself without even realizing he was doing it. He gripped himself with one hand, his other cupping his balls, as he remembered and stroked, pretending it was her hand on his cock. Breathing hard, he spread the drop of fluid that gathered at the slit over the engorged head then slid his fingers up and down, up and down, up and down.

  Before he realized it he was rhythmically squeezing his balls and his cock was about to burst. One last stroke and his semen spilled over his fingers, washed away by the beating spray of the shower.

  Spent, he struggled to catch his breath, but even after jacking himself off like a horny teenager all he could think about was Red.

  Where the hell had she come from? How and why had she chosen him for her night of seduction? Despite her audacity and brashness he had a deep-down feeling that she was playing a part. He just couldn’t see Red in that role on a regular basis. She seemed too…too… He searched for a word. Nice. Yeah, nice. Maybe.

  She’d certainly been a wild woman in bed. Uninhibited and imaginative and willing to not only follow his lead in anything but take it herself. She gave herself unselfishly, something he wasn’t used to lately with the women he took to bed. They either wanted their performance graded or they wanted it all for themselves. It was all about what he could do for them.

  Clay wondered if there was a way to find out who had purchased tickets to the masquerade ball and track her down that way. But in the next instant he realized how futile and foolish that would be. Oh, there’d be a record of all the names. Everyone received a charitable deduction receipt. But the list would be endless. Anyway, what could he say? I want to find a woman with whom I had a spectacular night of sex? And she didn’t give me her name?

  Yeah, right. Way to look like an idiot.

  He rinsed himself off thoroughly then turned off the shower and pulled a towel from the rack. Dry, he found a pair of sweats in his drawer that he put on and wandered into the kitchen for something to drink, something to quench his sudden raging thirst.

  He’d been ten kinds of pissed to wake up and find her gone, his woman in red. He’d meant what he said about wanting to see her again. Which was probably why she’d ducked out the way she did.

  What was her big secret, anyway? He’d believed her when she said she wasn’t married. And he was pretty sure she didn’t have some guy in her life. So what the fuck was the problem?

  He vaguely remembered her slipping from the bed but he wasn’t sure if it was a dream at the time and he’d been too spent and exhausted to force himself awake. But then he finally did wake and the bed was empty. He’d roared around the suite naked, calling her name. When he couldn’t find her he’d sat back down on the bed, dragging his fingers through his hair and over his unshaven face. And then on the floor, peeping out from the edge of the bed where they’d landed, he saw that wicked thong and matching bra.

  He didn’t even remember how long he’d sat on the bed, holding the fragile garments, inhaling her scent like some crazed addict. Reliving the night. Craving just one more touch of her soft skin, one more tight clasp of her hot, wet pussy. Until he’d finally dressed in his now rumpled pirate costume and tried to ignore the stares of people as he attempted to browbeat the desk clerk into giving him her information.

  No luck there. Or at the valet stand or with any of the cabbies.

  Finally, frustrated, he’d retrieved his car and driven home.

  Now he stood on his small back porch drinking orange juice straight from the carton and wondering if there was any way to find her at all. He couldn’t get her eyes out of his mind. Bedroom eyes. Seductive. Fiery with passion. If only he could have seen more than the vivid blue that the slits in the mask allowed. Every time he looked those eyes pulled him in.

  Swallowing the last gulp of juice he headed back inside and tossed the empty carton in the trash. He still had three weeks of leave left before his next mission. Somehow he’d find a way to learn who she was. Maybe his captain’s wife could help him.

  But first some much-needed sleep, or he wouldn’t be doing anything.

  Chapter Five

  Bridget opened one eye and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. One o’clock.

  Holy shit!

  She’d slept half the day away. But then she’d really needed it. She certainly hadn’t gotten much the night before. Her muscles protested when she stretched, another reminder of the previous night’s activities. But a pleasant reminder. Oh, yeah. Much more than pleasant.

  Closing her eyes she recalled the feel of Clay’s masculine hands on her body, his hot mouth coaxing responses from her body. His thick cock filling her and stretching her as he rode her to one explosive climax after another. One hand slipped beneath the waistband of the yoga pants she was still wearing and found her pussy already damp as memories blasted at her.

  Taking a deep breath she stroked herself slowly, pretending it was Clay’s hand in her pants. On her flesh. She slid her fingers along the inner lips the way he had, moving them up and down, capturing her clit between the knuckles.

  Oh, Clay!

  She stroked herself, slowly at first, then faster, rubbing her clit in a swift, circular motion. More, more, more. Her other hand moved under her t-shirt to find a nipple already hard and needy. As her hand moved more rapidly on her clit she pinched and squeezed her nipple. Her mind called up Clay’s face, not as it had been when it was mostly hidden by his pirate’s mask but as she remembered its familiar planes and angles from all the times she’d seen him.

  Her hand moved faster and then she was there. Right there! She jackknifed on the bed, shoving three fingers into her cunt and riding them as she pinched her nipple. Hard.

  She pulled her hand from her yoga pants, spent and trembling, and loosened her grip on her nipple. Panting, she lay in the afterglow, wishing with all her might that it had been Clay’s hands on her body. Clay bringing her to orgasm.

  But of course it wasn’t. He wasn’t about to be lying next to her again, any more than she was going to realize her dream of being a writer full-time and introducing herself in public. For some people dreams never got to be a reality.

  She dragged herself out of bed and grabbed her laptop from her desk. She picked up the newspaper on her way into the kitchen and scanned the headlines while she waited for her coffee to brew. Then she took everything to the small table in the breakfast nook.

  “Email first,” she mumbled, opening the computer and booting it up.

  Her family was scattered everywhere and email was the glue binding them together. Okay, first her brother stationed in Iraq. She emailed him every day, knowing whenever he could access email he hungered for the messages from his family. Then her sister, living in California with her husband, who managed actors and actresses. And did a damn good job of it, as far as she could tell.

  Next came the weekly newsletter from her mother, from Vermont where Bridget’s father was on the faculty of a small but exclusive liberal arts college. God, she missed them. All of them. Somehow when they’d all been together her problems weren’t quite so bad. Maybe it was just the fact that her family was so used to seeing her the way she was that no one commented.

  And when she had a bad day there was always someone to prop her up.

  But career choices had scattered them. She was happy for all of them but at times, like right now, she longed for the comfort of their presence. Especially for her sister Moira’s wisdom.

  She skipped through some inconsequential emails, finally opening one from her editor that only made her situation all the more intolerable
. Her publisher was hosting a first-time convention for its authors and readers, arranging opportunities to interact with all the readers who would be there and to be interviewed by industry publications. Her editor explained what a great opportunity it would be for her, especially with the big book fair on Sunday.

  The worst of the email was the information that this first one would be held in the city where Bridget lived. The publisher’s public relations people wanted to hype the “local woman makes good” angle with the media.

  Bridget thought she might throw up. No way could she go to something like this looking the way she did. Readers would wonder how anyone with her deformity could write such emotional books, think she was a fraud, and she’d lose her audience.

  Damn.

  She’d have to figure out an appropriate response, when her brain was functioning better. Meanwhile she fixed another cup of coffee, put her laptop aside and opened the newspaper, turning immediately to the lifestyle section. She always checked to see if any of her favorite authors were in town for a signing, living vicariously through their success. Instead what caught her eye was an article headlined Durban Trust Funds Another Success Story in Reconstructive Surgery.

  Bridget smoothed out the paper and sipped her coffee as she read the story of a philanthropic trust that helped people who needed plastic surgery. People with real problems and unrealized dreams.

  The Durban Trust, she read, was established by famed Hollywood star Evelyn Durban, who left funds in her will to continue the Trust. She fulfilled her dream of stardom by her own cosmetic surgeries and wanted to pass on the ability to realize their own dream to other people. Since her death the Trust is administered by her sister Georgina, a star of some magnitude in her own right. She is assisted by a team of lawyers and medical advisors. All the applicants are vetted by Georgina’s son as well as a psychologist before being recommended to local surgeons and psychological counselors.

  But there are certain conditions attached. The applicant must have a dream that he or she wants to fulfill, and must write to the Trust explaining why the surgery is important and what their dream is that is at the moment unattainable. Following the surgery the applicant is required to keep the Trust updated, finally recounting if their dream is realized.

  Bridget read on, studying the snippets of stories of people who had been helped through the Durban Trust, her pulse escalating just the tiniest bit as a kernel of hope took root deep inside her. Was it an accident of fate that she read this story today of all days?

  She scanned the article again. At the bottom were both the snail mail and email address of the Trust and a footnote stated that all letters be directed to Georgina Hawthorne.

  Bridget sipped at her now cooling coffee, her mind scattering in a million directions. Could she bare herself to strangers? Tell them about her anger and hurt and share her dreams with them? How long would the process take?

  She stared at the article for a long time, not actually seeing the print, running possibilities over and over in her mind. This would be a major step for her but maybe, just maybe, she could make that big change in her life that up until now had seemed so unattainable.

  Nibbling her lower lip, she pushed the newspaper aside, pulled her laptop over in front of her and opened up a new document.

  “Dear Miss Hawthorne,” she began.

  * * * * *

  Clay slept until well into the afternoon, took another shower and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. While he drank a cup of coffee he mulled over his predicament. If he was really serious about hunting down the mysterious Red—which he was—then he had to look at all of his options.

  He could go online, look up the Fiesta executive committee and find out who the overall chair of the masquerade ball was. He could scan all the committee names to see if by chance he recognized anyone. Or he could suck it up, call his captain and throw himself on the man’s mercy. That might be the most painful but was probably the most efficient.

  So at four o’clock that afternoon, freshly shaved, his t-shirt replaced by a button-down one and every bit of him spit polished, he rang the bell at Captain John McCord’s house, hoping he wasn’t about to make a total ass of himself.

  “Well, Clay! Hi!” Annie McCord grinned up at him and held the door wide for him to enter. “I told John the other day we don’t see nearly enough of you. Living in the same city we need to have you and the others around here over more often when you get a break in your missions.”

  “And I told her I get to see enough of your ugly faces as it is.” The man himself had come up to stand behind his wife, one hand on her waist, the other outstretched. “Glad you stopped by.”

  Annie closed the front door. “John, why don’t you guys go out on the patio? I’ll bring out a couple of beers.”

  McCord chuckled. “Got her trained right.”

  Annie swatted at him playfully. “Oh, you. You’ll be lucky if I don’t put hemlock in your drink.”

  But the affection between them was a living thing, so strong that Clay was struck with the sharp blade of envy. After all the playing around he’d done, all the reluctance to commit to anything permanent because of his career as a SEAL, he realized two things. He wanted what the McCords had and he wanted it with Red. A woman he’d only known for a few hours but who had imprinted herself on his soul.

  He followed the captain out through the kitchen to the patio, settled himself in one of the chairs at the umbrella table and thanked Annie for the cold beer she handed him. He took a swallow, trying to think just how to begin.

  “I’m glad to see you, Clay,” McCord said. “And Annie’s right. I need to make sure the team members in the area know that you’re all free to drop in any time we don’t have plans.” He studied Clay with slate-gray eyes. “But I have a distinct feeling that this isn’t just a social call.”

  Clay adjusted himself in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position and figuring out that in this case there really wasn’t one.

  “See, it’s like this,” he began. “I’m trying to find a woman.”

  McCord burst out laughing. “That’s probably the last thing I expected to hear from you. As I understand, your problem isn’t finding them. It’s beating them off.”

  Clay’s cheeks heated. “This is a little different.” He took another swallow of beer. “And I might need Annie’s help with it.”

  McCord’s eyes widened a fraction. “My wife? You must be in pretty damn bad shape if you need Annie to find a woman for you.”

  “Well it’s…uh…it’s a particular woman.”

  McCord watched him for a moment in silence. “Clay, in all the years I’ve known you there are plenty of times when you’ve been a man of few words but never one who’s at a loss for words. Maybe you’d better start at the beginning and tell me what the hell this is all about.”

  Clay chose his words carefully. “It’s about the ball last night,” he began. In stilted sentences, omitting most of the details, he explained about meeting Red, spending the night with her, never seeing her face or getting her name and now being desperate to find her.

  “Desperate?” McCord grinned.

  “I know, I know.” Clay raked his fingers through his hair. “Sounds stupid, right? To feel this way after less than twelve hours with someone?”

  “I’ve got two things to say to you. She must be one hell of a woman, and one hour after I met Annie I knew she was it for me. So what do you need from my wife?”

  “She was on the ticket committee. I’m hoping they keep some sort of master list of everyone who buys tickets.”

  “And you’ll…what? Contact every unattached woman on the list to see if she’s the mysterious Red?”

  Clay shrugged. “Sounds stupid, I know.”

  “I just don’t want to get a call that you’ve been arrested as a stalker.” He laughed again. “But let’s see what Annie has to say.”

  “We do keep a master list,” she told them when John pulled her outside and into their conversation.
“But I don’t think we can make that available for public use.”

  “Of course.” Clay fiddled with his bottle. “I should have been smart enough to figure that out.”

  “And we’ve got a lot of people selling tickets,” she went on. “This Red could have bought hers from anyone. Especially if it was one of the lowest price tickets. She wouldn’t have been given a reserved seat or been invited to the private cocktail party before the ball.”

  “So what you’re saying is there’s really no way to find out who she is.”

  “I’m not sure. Let me give it some thought. There’s an executive committee meeting on Monday and then the ticket committee Wednesday night. I can ask some questions. See if it rings a bell with anyone.”

  “I’d really appreciate it.” He stood up and held out his hand to McCord. “Thanks for letting me barge in like this. My apologies to you too, Mrs. McCord.”

  “Annie,” she reminded him. “I’m just hoping I can help you.” She grinned. “I must say it’s interesting to see the big player Clay Randall get his shorts in such a twist over a woman.”

  “You know what they say,” he groaned. “Payback is hell.”

  “We’ll do what we can to see if we can make that payback any easier,” McCord said. “Just so you don’t hold out any hope for miracles.”

  Clay had given up on miracles a long time ago. But on the way home it occurred to him he might pick the brain of his neighbor. He and Bridget Reilly had lived next door to each other for two years and really didn’t have more than a nodding relationship. But she seemed smart enough, even if she did wear those strange tinted glasses all the time. Maybe she could give him a woman’s point of view on this. Something that could point him in the right direction.

  * * * * *

  Bridget spent most of Saturday and Sunday pacing her small house and avoiding Joni’s telephone calls. She also made herself stay inside her house at all for fear she’d run into Clay. Her dreams every night had been filled with erotic images of him, memories of their night together. She needed to put a lot of space between them until she could get a good grip on her feelings and lock her heart away. Maybe if she had the surgery… The letter she’d written sat in her computer, ready to be emailed. All she needed was to hit the final keystrokes and she’d be good to go.