Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
BLUE
I’m at the beach, but not a familiar one.
The sand beneath the blanket is as fine as any Gulf shoreline, but the grassy dunes rising around me are unfamiliar. The smell of the shore is different, too, a mixture of clean, cold saltwater and something lightly floral that reminds me of a luxury perfume.
It’s a fresh, sexy scent, but nothing compared to the smell of her.
The taste of her…
I hum my appreciation against her slick pussy, pretty sure there’s nothing better in life than this. Than my woman about to come on my mouth while the waves crash against the sand on this deserted shoreline. Than her fingers tangled in my hair, holding me close as she rocks against my mouth.
“Right there,” she says, sucking in a sharper breath as I needle my tongue up and under her clit. “Yes. God, yes.” She curls her fingers around the back of my neck, pinning me tighter between her legs. “Harder. And don’t you dare stop.”
I devote myself even more fully to my worship, assuring her with a low groan that I have no intentions of stopping, not until she’s screaming my name loud enough to startle the birds hunting crabs by the water.
“Blue, God, yes. Yes!” She reaches the peak as an especially large wave slams into the shore, sending reverberations through the tightly packed sand beneath the blanket.
I’m already feeling pretty fucking proud of myself when Bea cups my face in her hands, beaming down at me with bright eyes as she murmurs, “Good boy.”
The words go straight to my dick, making my hips jerk forward, seeking friction against the blanket and the cold sand beneath.
Thank God, the sand is cold, or I’d be coming in my pants right now.
That’s what she does to me when she talks like that, and she knows it, a point she proves by giggling as she watches me fight for control.
“Don’t,” I warn, coming onto my knees and reaching for the close of my pants. My pulse spikes at the sight of her spread out on the blanket—skirt hiked up, no panties, the top three buttons on her dress open, revealing one perfect, peach-tipped breast.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, even when she’s using her power over me for evil.
“Sorry.” She bites her bottom lip, but it does nothing to conceal the grin spreading across her face.
“You’re not sorry.” I shove my pants and boxers down far enough to free my suffering cock. “You like driving me crazy.”
“I like how much you like being good for me,” she corrects, gaze darkening as I lengthen myself on top of her.
Her arms loop around my neck, holding me close as she whispers against my lips, “And I love how hard you fuck me when you know you’re about to lose it.
So be my good boy, Blue, and fuck me hard. Please?”
The head of my cock is at her entrance, the slick heat of her kissing my fevered skin, promising something so much better than relief.
Promising the bliss of being so close to her, the only woman I ever—
Iwake with a start, flinching hard enough to send my sleep-limp arm knocking against the wall.
For a moment, I’m caught between worlds, between reality and the beach, where Dream Beatrice was teaching me new things about what my brain likes during sex.
Kind of like she did last night on the couch.
I’d never imagined being praised like that would be so hot, but fuck…
I am not a boy and not overly concerned with being good. I’m also a few years older than Bea, not to mention twice her size. She has to push on up on tiptoe to reach my chest. But that tiny woman is a powerhouse in the bedroom, and not the least bit shy about giving orders or praise.
And I like it.
I like it so much that I’m waking up hard from a “good boy” sex dream.
That’s new, and unexpected enough to get my morning off on a weird foot, even if someone wasn’t currently shouting in the other room.
That’s what must have woken me, I realize as the shouts start again.
It sounds like a man and a woman. Not necessarily angry, but frustrated and loud. So insanely loud. They’re going to wake the dead if they keep at it. Or, at the very least, Clover and Beatrice, who need their rest.
And why the hell do they sound like they’re in the apartment?
They must be brawling right outside the door.
I surge into a seated position, only to flop back against the mattress as it sags beneath me.
It’s lost at least half the air overnight, leaving me hovering just above the hardwood, cocooned in rubber and a twisted top sheet.
I brace my hands on either side of my hips and push, trying to get leverage, but that only makes the air still left inside balloon under my legs, making it even harder to get up.
As the shouts come again, I roll onto my stomach, cursing as my knees grind into the floor. It doesn’t feel good, not by a long shot, but at least I’m able to swing my feet over and scramble out of my sagging bed.
I grab my jeans from the chair, yank them on, and charge into the hall.
I head for the front door, anticipating an encounter with some cranky neighbors who don’t have the sense to take a fight behind closed doors, only to stop dead when I see Beatrice is already up.
And clearly in distress.
She’s perched in one of the taller chairs at the kitchen island in pajama pants and a black t-shirt that molds to her belly, the messy bun on her head flopping back and forth as she makes shooshing noises to the open laptop in front of her.
“Please, guys,” she says in a whisper-shout, clearly trying to get through to whoever’s on the screen. “You’re being so loud! Please, can you just—”
“I’m not raising my voice,” a very raised male voice insists.
“This is my normal, everyday voice. At least it is when I just found out my daughter was nearly killed from TikTok. I don’t even have TikTok.
I had to download an app and create an account to find out what Aunt Cindy was trying to show me about my own daughter. ”
Bea cringes lower in her chair. “Dad, please, I know you’re upset, but I was going to call you later today, I promise. You just—”
“You are being a little loud, dear,” a woman cuts in before Beatrice can finish. Her mother, I’m assuming. She’s also loud, but her tone is far less strained. “I think your hearing aids might need new batteries.”
I shift closer to the couch, just enough to bring the screen into focus.
Yep, these are definitely her parents. I recognize them from the photos stuck to the fridge from their last trip to Scotland.
Her silver-haired father, with his still relatively young-looking face and strong jaw, and her mother, a woman as tiny as Beatrice with intelligent brown eyes and salt and pepper hair she wears in a bob.
“This isn’t about my hearing aids,” her father booms, clearly not appreciating the change of subject.
But now that I can see his expression, it’s obvious he’s more scared than angry.
His face is lined with worry as he leans toward the computer, revealing snow-capped mountains outside the window behind him.
“This is about our daughter keeping things from her family. Things like a car accident and the fact that she’s pregnant with—”
Mr. Nix breaks off, his jaw going slack as he spots me lurking in the background.
Shit.
I should have slunk back to my room while I had the chance.
“Hello? Excuse me? Who are you?” he demands, stopping me before I can make a break for the hall. “Beatrice, who is that? That man without a shirt on in your house? Is that the father?”
“Oh, hi! Hello? Are you the father?” Bea’s mother wiggles her fingers my way with a friendly smile. “We’re Beatrice’s parents. I’m Kate, and this is Wes. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Mom, stop, please,” Beatrice hisses before turning to face me, her eyes wide in her pale face, silently pleading for help.
I know she doesn’t want the truth to come out this way.
Lucky for us both, I have experience charming the older generation. I might not have had parents guiding me as a kid, but I had plenty of training on how to solicit donations.
Before I became successful enough as a solo artist to sell albums without constantly touring, Daveed had our kid music group on the road for months at a time, singing for our supper at every festival and farmers’ market he could find.
The faster we convinced the nice grown-ups at those events to give us the money, the sooner we were allowed to go home and sleep in actual beds, not our “tour bus,” an ancient school bus with a makeshift bathroom in the back that refused to flush half the time.
I cross my arms and smile, letting the familiar mask slip into place.
“Good morning, sorry to barge into a private family conversation,” I say, with my best “just a friendly, non-threatening guy with nothing to hide” smile.
Not too big, not too small, bright eyes, not a hint of teeth.
“I heard shouting and wanted to make sure Bea and Clover were okay. I’m Archer, but my friends call me Blue.
” I wave a sheepish hand before crossing it over my chest again, concealing as much of my bare skin as possible.
“I’m a friend of Clover’s, here to help out until she’s able to get around on her own. ”
Bea’s shoulders relax, the tension draining from her spine as she mouths, “Thank you,” my way before turning back to the screen. “Clover’s leg and arm were both broken in the accident. She can’t even get in and out of bed by herself, and we weren’t sure I could lift her on my own.”
“Oh no, the poor thing. And no, of course you can’t, not in your condition,” Kate says, her hand flying to her cheek. “Oh, I feel terrible, honey. I was so relieved to hear that you were okay. I didn’t even think about who was driving. Is Clover going to be all right? Is there anything we can do?”
“She’s going to be fine,” Beatrice assures her. “She just needs time and—”