Delicious. Absolutely delicious.
Harper had dragged out the first floor-length mirror ever seen in this ranch house a few weeks ago in his truck, simply in order to do this.
Spread his thighs and watch himself, sitting on a tool stool, naked except for cowboy boots and gun belt, receive a blow job from Sinclair Nieman.
Wow. There were lots of mirrors positioned strategically in The Racquet Club’s rooms, but never had Harper witnessed a sight this incredibly steamy. Enhancing it to the apex was the addition of the sultry Violet. She stood at Harper’s side like a gun moll, one strap of her evening gown sliding off her shoulder, one bouncy tit bared almost to the nipple.
She approved. She rubbed her sequin-covered mound against Harper’s bare thigh, and her eyes gleamed. She probably knew she’d get fucked by Sinclair once Sin was done with his task. Tonight Sin was handcuffed, his hands subserviently lashed together at the back of his neck. He performed beautifully without the use of hands, suctioning Harper’s big penis down his throat.
Despite being weak with desire, Harper maintained his dominance by cradling Sinclair’s skull and spearing his cock into the mouth. “That’s it, partner. Suck that big dick into your mouth. You can take it. You want to be filled with cock, don’t you? You want to swallow my load—”
Oh. God. Harper exploded into his partner’s mouth sooner than he expected. Semen gushed up from his balls and burst into Sinclair’s hot mouth, and he gulped as if he savored it. His throat muscles massaged Harper’s cock, drawing out the orgasm, heightening the bliss. Good. So incredibly good.
Violet stroked Harper’s chest and talked dirty into his ear while he came. She was learning how to do this, with some interesting results. “That’s good, baby. You just drench Sinclair with your spunk. Just drown him in your semen. You know he loves eating it.”
Harper nearly laughed, but Sinclair was expertly milking the jism from his prick, and Harper was halfway out of his mind.
“I love you, Harper.”
What? Had he heard correctly? Or was his own brain drenched in spunk?
“What?” he gasped.
Violet repeated it. “I said I love you. I love you more than life itself, you big, strapping cowboy.” She fingered his Morgan tattoo affectionately. “I’ve dedicated my life to you. I want you to know that.”
Harper gasped and twitched and finally had to press against Sinclair’s forehead to detach him, he was so greedily sucking cock. He had to blink several times to erase the tiny bubbles from his sight, trying to read Violet’s face. Yes. She had said that. And yes, she meant it.
“Oh,” he said stupidly, taken by surprise. “I love you, too, Violet.”
She smiled. “Good. Let me go get you a whiskey.” She knew that he only drank after a scene. Drinking beforehand might lead to too many inhibitions being lost, never to be discovered again.
Harper watched her saunter from the living room. Her ass swayed seductively, as if she was aware of it, as she turned the corner of the door and was lost from sight. A new glow radiated inside of Harper. Maybe it was the glow of being loved.
Harper sighed with happiness. Sinclair had collapsed into a sit on the floor, his elbows sagging, a sure sign he needed the cuffs removed.
“I heard,” Sinclair said before Harper could say anything. He looked up into his lover’s eyes. “I think you should marry her, Harp. I really do. That way there won’t be any of this insecurity bullshit between us.”
Harper paused, the metal cuff dangling from his fingers. “Marry? Who said anything about marry?”
“I did. Take this other fucking one off, asshole. Listen, I’m serious. It makes sense. Don’t you want to marry her?”
“Of course I do. I just don’t think I’m ready to…to open up to that extent.” Actually, it had been terrifying Harper lately that he was ready to dive into that commitment pool. It still terrified him, but he thought he could do it. He was terrified that he might make a fatal mistake again. His moronic mistake had cost Morgan her life and he would never live that down. He had even sent Morgan to the drugstore that day to get medicine for his mother, then wasn’t able to pick her up. I was able to pick her up. I could have left Mom and gone down and picked her up. His mother just was acting as though she were dying. She finally did succumb, six months after Morgan was murdered.
Sinclair wasn’t having any sympathy. He rubbed his wrist. “You need to come to the party, Harp. I know what happened to you was horrible and not something anyone should ever go through. But Violet is the impatient sort, the type to move on. We want to keep her here in Last Chance, right?”
“Right,” Harper admitted cautiously.
“Who’s to prevent her from flying to the next archeological dig, the next caveman that gets discovered stuck in tar?”
“Dinosaur in tar,” Harper corrected. “She’d care more about the animals.”
“Whatever. My point is—”
Harper sat up straight. “What was that?” He thought he’d heard a muffled cry coming from the kitchen at the far end of the house. He leaped to his feet just as swiftly as he had when walloping Don Wexler, yelling, “Violet! What happened?” In an instant his hand was on the grip of his revolver as he made three or four long strides toward the kitchen. He’d heard the muffled wails again, and now shuffling footsteps against the wooden kitchen floorboards. He drew his revolver and aimed it just as two black silhouettes appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Don Wexler. And he had Violet.
He had gagged her with a kitchen towel—a weapon of convenience, Harper knew from his exhaustive study of the criminal mind. She clawed at the towel and Tex’s forearm that was wrapped around her torso, and of course he held her in front of him like a shield.
Of course Tex’s own gun was pointed at her head.
“What the fuck, Wexler?” Sinclair shouted, a safe yard behind Harper.
Harper saw red. Not only was he not going to allow this to happen again, he had absolutely no compunctions about shooting the greaseball right now. However, Wexler had the barrel of his own automatic pointed at Violet’s temple, and Wexler could probably shoot her before Harper could blow the side of his head off.
Wexler shouted, “I’m taking her, you fucking yokel cowboy, and there’s nothing you can do about it. She belongs to me!”
“Like hell!” yelled Sinclair. “Release her right now, you fucking oily pelican! You know we’re going to find you no matter where you go, so don’t even bother!”
Harper appreciated Sinclair’s attempts, but that wasn’t the way to deal with these whacked psychos. Harper had studied it enough. There had been so many months getting wasted in his apartment, and just guzzling glass after glass of tequila while paging down screen after screen of text about serial killers. This might be Wexler’s first attempt at a strange, twisted kidnapping, but Harper couldn’t treat him like a novice. He waved his pistol aside to indicate to Sinclair to back off, then pointed it back at Wexler’s head.
“Don. We know you think you’re helping Violet, but you’re really just scaring her. Why don’t you let her go?”
Don’s voice went a few octaves higher, but he didn’t remove the barrel from Violet’s head. “You’re damned right I’m helping her! Wouldn’t you guys prefer each other’s company, anyway? I had to listen to that degenerate crap when I was waiting in your kitchen. That’s not the sort of sound a man wants to hear when he’s waiting for a woman. I’m here to free her from your shackles and take her to the beach where she belongs!”
The beach? For some reason that resonated deep inside Harper, but he was too caught up in the present moment for it to register fully.
He tried to sound like a reasonable person. Hard to do when he was halfway out of his mind. “Listen, Don. Violet doesn’t want to go to the beach. Take her gag off and let her tell you herself. After all, if you trust her, you’d let her speak, right?”
Don looked confused for a second, but only reaffirmed his determination. Now he waved
his pistol at Harper. If only I could get him to point it somewhere else. “I’m not falling for that, you perverted cowboy! I’m taking Violet where she wants to go—with me! And don’t try anything, hear?”
Don started edging toward the front door with Violet as his shield. Harper lectured himself to think fast, think fast. He closed the space between himself and Violet in a few long strides, but Don never let the barrel stray from her temple. “She doesn’t want to go. Right, Violet? Do you want to go with Don Wexler? Shake your head if no, nod if yes.”
Of course she violently shook her head, but Don wasn’t buying it. He pointedly looked Harper up and down, his nostrils flaring with disgust. “You make me sick, all that sucking and fucking you do. What’re you pretending to be, John Wayne or some wholesome Village Person? They would be sickened by having to look at you. You’re a stain on the good name of cowboy boots!” And with his free hand, Don turned the door handle and dragged Violet outside.
Her eyes flashed as she begged Harper for assistance. He had never felt more impotent, more helpless. He had a perfectly good piece but he could do nothing with it. He was forced to follow onto the front porch and watch as Don dragged the woman he loved down the front steps. His stomach felt even sicker as Don yanked her over to Harper’s own truck. Don must’ve stolen the keys from where Harper had tossed the on the counter.
“What the fuck can we do?” Sinclair whispered. “You can’t shoot him.”
“No, I can’t,” Harper agreed. But he wanted to shoot someone. Without forethought, he bellowed, “Violet! I know you want to be with Don Wexler, but please hold me fondly in your heart!”
“What?” whispered Sinclair, confused.
It was enough to temporarily distract Wexler. He’d mostly succeeded in stuffing Violet into the passenger seat, but he wheeled around, and for a split second his barrel was pointed at the sky. Harper squeezed off a shot that made his ears ring. The report and the recoil of his own hand blinded him for another split second, but soon enough he realized he’d only grazed Wexler’s scalp, just enough to piss him off.
“God dammit!” shrieked Wexler. “Didn’t I fucking tell you to—never mind. You admit defeat, don’t you?”
Harper had temporarily lost the battle, he knew. He held his hands up in the surrender position. “I admit defeat, Don! She wants to be with you! Just please don’t harm her!”
“Hah!” chortled Wexler. “Why would I hurt the woman I love? Her fucktard husband sent me to kill her, but the joke’s on him, isn’t it? She fell in love with me, hah! Oh, boy, I can’t wait to see the look on that douchebag’s face when he realizes she’s still alive!” He stumbled around to the driver’s side, apparently giggling with the hilarity of his situation.
“Shoot him again,” hissed Sinclair.
But just as Sinclair uttered those words, Wexler came to his senses. He whipped open the driver’s door and pointed the gun again at Violet. “See you later, suckers!” he yelled, and started up the truck.
“Shoot the tires!” urged Sinclair, louder now.
But Harper returned the gun to its holster. He hadn’t had time to feel ridiculous, naked except for cowboy boots and belt, until now. “No. The bullet could ricochet off the ground or part of the truck and injure Violet.” That was one of the thousands of facts he’d read during those endless days and nights he’d sat in front of the computer, not eating, just drinking the nauseating tequila.
“Seriously? They do that on TV all the time.”
“It’s dangerous. Metal fragments flying everywhere. Don’t worry, Sin. I’ve got an idea about the beach.”
Chapter Fifteen
Don didn’t take the gag out of Violet’s mouth until they were securely inside the Shag Room with the door bolted.
She had vomited inside the towel way back when they were still in the kitchen. Don had come out of nowhere so fast and grabbed her by wrapping an arm around her, jamming a fist into her solar plexus. The combination of fear plus his sudden fist and she had lost it.
The nausea, fear, and adrenaline fueled the next hour of her life. When Harper had shouted that he knew she wanted to be with Don, she got the picture. She knew what Harper wanted her to do. Harper wanted her to play along with Don, to feed whatever twisted fantasy he was playing out.
It made sense. She had read enough chilling stories, whether from the newspaper or fiction, about women who were murdered in the heat of the moment because they struggled. Don had a gun on her. If it wasn’t in his hand with the barrel against her temple, the gun was between his legs. She had absolutely no experience with guns. If she lunged for it, she’d likely be the loser.
The whole drive to The Searchlight, Don kept saying odd things. His eyes had a strange gleam they’d never had before. All Violet could think was, They were right. Harper and Sinclair were right. Don is a sleazy rent-a-cop greaseball. Hired by Bryan to kill me. Should I be glad he repented and now has a different agenda?
Don ranted, “I knew you’d seen the error of your ways when you told that sick cowboy that I posed no threat to you. Of course I don’t, Violet. I just couldn’t think of any other way to get you safely out of that house, out of their clutches.”
Of course she couldn’t reply, being gagged. All she could do was nod with what she hoped was a look of sincerity in her eyes. And she did feel sincere. Sincerely terrified. She was surprised she hadn’t peed out of fright, like a puppy.
It must have been nearly one in the morning when Don walked her around the back of one Searchlight wing, the barrel now pressed between her shoulder blades. He hadn’t parked in the lot, but surely the breezeway security camera would catch him shoving a gagged woman toward the Shag Room’s door. Violet doubted that the manager, Carl Bogart, sat there glued to the boring security cameras all night, and even the security company, if they paid one, might overlook something at that late hour. She wouldn’t rely on that.
“Ah, here we are, my little lovely.” Don’s eyes shined with special importance after he’d locked the door. “My little beach bunny.” He practically rubbed his hands together with glee, and came forward to remove her gag. She stepped backward instinctively, cringing away from the creepy man, but leaped when she stepped into…Sand?
There was sand on the shag carpet! What looked like a whole kid’s sandbox worth of sand had been poured around the waterbed!
Not only that, but there was a beach umbrella opened and set on a stand in the corner of the room.
Beach bunny. He was trying to invite me to some beach party earlier, at the Kupka Desert House. Is this the beach party? Violet shuddered and again the smell of vomit assailed her nostrils. Is this supposed to be our…Sex on the Beach?
Don whipped the towel over her head and she wheezed with the fresh air that filled her lungs. She didn’t care if he still trained the gun on her—she staggered to the wet bar sink and splashed water over her face, washing it with her hands. “Don!” she gasped, panting as she gripped the edge of the sink. “You know you could have just asked me. You didn’t need to kidnap me at gunpoint!”
“But those men!” Don whined like a high school boyfriend, jerking the gun barrel toward the ground to show his dismay. “They were never going to let you go!”
Yeah, because they’re my lovers. They love me. Violet forced herself to hold her hands out to Don. “But Don. We’re here now. I see you’ve prepared the room wonderfully.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “Sex on the beach” because she dreaded Don actually wanting to act it out.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes, it’s absolutely wonderful! A beach scene for people who want to…” She trailed off, hoping Don would fill in for her.
She was in luck. “Who want to have sex on the beach!”
Doom flooded her stomach, and she had to sit on the edge of the waterbed, she was so weak. But the bobbing of the watery mattress made her even more nauseated. She knew she had to play along with Don’s game for as long as that gun remained within his reach. She was so
nauseated she felt drunk, although she hadn’t had a drink since an hour before they’d left the bowling alley gala. With that beautiful rug that Sinclair won for me…
Sinclair. Drunk. She stood and wove a rickety pattern to the wet bar. She prayed that the bottle Sinclair had stashed down there when they’d spent the night—yes. It was there on the bottom shelf behind the warm unopened tonic water. And it was a bottle of eighty proof whiskey.
“Here, Don!” she said as brightly as she could manage. “This will get us in the mood. Can I go down the hall and get us some ice?”
“I like it neat.” Don banged two glasses onto the bar with his left hand, grabbed the bottle from Violet, and poured. She noted the framed menu Don had stolen from Willow’s lobby was now on the bar leaning against the wall.
Great. Now I’m stuck getting drunk too. I can’t if I have any hope of getting out of here. “To us,” she volunteered, hefting the glass before taking a tiny sip.
She observed Don closely, and he gulped all two fingers of the drink before exhaling acridly. He banged the empty glass back down, and this time allowed Violet to do the pouring. She poured him three fingers. It occurred to her that booze might actually enhance his desire to perform Sex on the Beach. “You messed up the carpet, you naughty man.”
“Oh, the sand? Wasn’t that a stroke of genius? I’ll bet the Home Depot guy was wondering what I wanted it for.” Don put the pistol now on the low dresser while he took off his bloodied dress shirt. Violet hoped he didn’t recall how it had gotten bloody, but he seemed perfectly chipper and satisfied at the moment, carefully folding the bloody shred of fabric and placing it next to the gun. He had one of those V-neck white undershirts that feds on TV always wore. Now that Violet knew he’d been hired by her husband, she saw why Don had struck her as an undercover agent.
“Yes, the sand was sheer genius. How else can you have a beach without sand?” An idea was beginning to trickle past Violet’s wall of fear. The immediacy of being shot was slowly fading away. The more at ease Don became, the more Violet could relax. The more she relaxed, the more her brain worked.
The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 15
