Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
confinement of the shower.
In and out—drawing back and pushing forward. He took her with a mindlessness
that bordered on insanity. She was an itch he had to scratch. His was a fire only she
could put out. His hips pummeled her hard until the first faint stirrings of release
clenched in their bellies and then his thrusts became a grinding, whiplash plunge.
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Star felt the tremors building within her as she rode his long, thick rod. She clung to
him as though he were her only anchor in life. He was pressed up inside her as far as
her sheath would allow. Fire was pooling in her womb and she felt heavy there. She
was but a moment’s thrust from what she knew would be one hell of an orgasm.
And when it came—for both of them in the exact same moment—he growled his
release—she trilled hers as muscles clenched, muscles vibrated and hot cum shot deep
within her aching chasm.
Breathing hard—lungs labored, hearts pounding—he sagged against her as he held
her pressed to the shower wall, pushed as far inside her as he could go. His legs were
trembling and she was shivering, but he could not seem to move. There was nothing in
the world save the two of them and nothing beyond the slick, water-dotted vinyl
curtain that kept that world at bay.
For the longest time they stood that way as the water surged over their straining
bodies. Dimply they heard a knocking at the door but they ignored it. If someone were
looking for them, they would have to wait. It wasn’t until the knock came at the
bathroom door that they broke apart, each of them shocked at being so rudely
interrupted.
“What the hell do you want?” Dáire shouted, his golden eyes hot as molten lava.
“Are you all right, sir?” someone asked.
“I’m taking a fucking shower!” Dáire yelled.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your wife insisted I see if you might be injured. You weren’t
answering the phone but I see you removed it from the plug,” the man said in an
accusing voice.
“Your wife?” Star whispered.
Dáire was furious, so enraged he could feel his headache returning with a savage
vengeance. He pulled his body from Star’s, flung the shower curtain aside and stepped
out of the shower, ignoring the water cascading onto the bathroom floor. Jerking the
door open, he advanced on the startled man who backed up hastily.
“I don’t have a fucking wife!” Dáire snarled. “If I did, it would be the woman who
was sharing the shower with me!”
The man glanced past Dáire’s naked shoulder and his face turned white. “I’m sorry,
sir, I—”
“That woman who called is insane,” Dáire continued as though the man hadn’t
spoken. “You get the hell out of here before I pound you into the carpet!”
Fleeing as quickly as he could, the man didn’t even bother to shut the outside door
behind him. His running footsteps could be heard pounding down the stairs.
“Get dressed, Star,” Dáire ordered.
She didn’t need to ask him why. She rinsed off what was left of the suds on her
body, turned off the shower and began to hastily dry herself off. From the corner of her
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eye, she watched Dáire dragging on his clothes, mindless of the moisture clinging to
him.
“How much money do you have?” he asked as he yanked his shirt on and began
buttoning it.
“A couple of hundred or so,” she said, coming into the bedroom. She unlatched her
overnighter and pulled out a long dress. “I’ve got a debit card, though.”
Fishing in the pocket of his black trousers, he took his cell phone out, pushed past
Star, opened the lid of the toilet and dropped the phone into the bowl.
Star pulled the dress over her head then found a clean pair of panties and stepped
into them. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t give a shit as long as it isn’t where she can trace us,” he snapped.
“Dáire, you have to have an ID when you check into a motel. Won’t she find us—?”
“Leave that to me,” he snapped.
In ten minutes, they were out the door—overnighters in hand—and getting into
Star’s BMW. Neither saw the gray sedan that pulled in behind them and kept back a
ways as they left the motel.
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Chapter Eight
Star looked around nervously as Dáire swiped the license plate off a parked car at
the mall. No one was watching that she could see but the hairs on the back of her neck
were standing up as she waited for a police car to pull up, lights flashing.
“Will you hurry?” she said, leaning out the window. The sun was almost down but
there was still enough light for someone to observe what he was doing.
Dáire had moved to the back of Star’s car and was replacing her plate with the
stolen one. He seemed to take forever before he opened the passenger door and got in.
“Go, babe!” he said.
Star pulled out of the mall parking lot. “Where are we heading?”
“Cantonment,” he answered. “I know a bed and breakfast there.”
She turned to look at him, raising a brow. “Oh yeah? And just how do you know
about this bed and breakfast?”
“I stayed there a few times before you and I became an item,” he answered.
“Really?” She cast him a sideways glance. “We’ve been an item for seven years,
Cronin.”
He shifted in his seat. “Stop grilling me, Starlight, and pull in your claws. I haven’t
willingly touched another woman in all that time.”
It was the “willingly” part that brought a frown to Star’s face but she let the matter
drop. She knew the kind of profession he had—if not the particulars. Those, she didn’t
want to know. She suspected seduction might play a part in what he did from time to
time, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t keep her awake at night or bring out the
green-eyed monster to prick her.
“How do you know the B&B is still there?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t.
“It’s there,” he replied.
They drove in silence, Star cutting through the Sunday traffic like a pro. She noticed
Dáire kept rubbing his right temple and suspected his headache was back. Mentally
cursing the woman who had caused all this trouble, she wondered if Dáire had ever
been intimate with her but dared not ask.
“Take a left on Tate Road,” he told her then directed her far out into the county to
an absolutely gorgeous old Antebellum-style plantation house that took her breath
away.
“My God, Cronin,” Star said in awe. The sweeping vista of the plantation’s lush
green front yard with its mass of azaleas bushes, stately magnolias, heavenly scented
wisterias and elegant Spanish moss-draped oaks was spectacular in the fading sunlight.
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In front of the mansion—and it could be nothing less than that—was a black stretch
limo. Several very expensive cars sat in the circular drive way and a bright red Ferrari
Testarossa perched at the side of the house. “Who owns this?”
“A little old lady from Pasadena, believe it or not,” he quipped. “That’s her ‘Rossa.”
Star pulled up alongside the limo and Dáire got out. He came around the car and
opened her door.
“Don’t you think you should check to see if they have a vacancy?” she asked as he
held out a hand to her.
“She will,” he said confidently, and helped her from the car. Shutting the door, he
walked her to the imposing front door and opened it, walking inside as though he
owned the place.
“Dáire!” Star gasped, amazed at his audacity.
“Well, well, well,” an amused voice said. “Look what the cat done drug in.”
Star swung her head toward the laughter that followed the statement and blinked
at the huge black woman who came toward them, her ample hips rolling from side to
side.
“How’re they hanging, Bossie?” Dáire asked, letting go of Star’s hand and meeting
the fat woman in the center of the vast foyer.
“Nearly down to my knees, you little brat,” the woman replied with a hundredwatt grin. She threw her massive arms around Dáire and hugged him. “Where you
been, boy?” she asked.
“Here, there,” he answered, and released her. He turned to Star and beckoned her
over. “Got someone I want you to meet.”
The immense black woman folded her arms over her more than abundant chest and
cocked her head to one side. “Who’s this?”
“Bossie May, this is my lady,” he said, drawing Star to his side.
Star held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
Bossie lifted her chin but ignored the white woman’s hand. “You have affection for
this poggleheaded boy, do you?”
Star’s face flamed as she lowered her hand. “A great deal, yes, ma’am,” she replied.
“Um-huh,” Bossie said, looking Star up and down. “Not much to you, now is
there?”
The blush deepened on Star’s cheeks. “I…I don’t understand.”
“This boy needs a woman who got some stamina,” Bossie decreed. “Don’t look like
you got much in the way of staying power to me.” She turned to look at Dáire. “Does
she?”
Dáire smiled. “She made my pecker so sore this afternoon I’m having trouble
walking.”
“Liar!” Star hissed.
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“Scrawny thing like her?” Bossie asked, her forehead crinkled.
“Dynamite comes in small packages, baby,” Dáire observed.
Bossy put out her hand and her ultra-white smile returned. “Sugar pudding, if you
can cripple a boy like him, you’re good to go in my book.”
The hand that enfolded Star’s was strong and firm, belying the flab of the massive
arms with their copious folds of flesh. Star felt as though she’d put her fingers in a bear
trap.
“You have a room for us?” Dáire asked.
“Always got a room for you, sugar,” Bossie replied. “Supper will be in about
twenty minutes.”
“You still cooking?” Dáire inquired.
“I’m still breathing, ain’t I?” Bossie countered. “Got baked country ham, black-eyed
peas, red potatoes, fried okrie, fried crookneck squash, mixed greens with fresh-made
pepper sauce, sliced tomatoes, cornbread and for dessert egg pie.” She beamed. “That
good enough for you?”
“Egg pie?” Star inquired.
“Bless your liver, sugar pudding!” Bossie said. “Ain’t you ever had no egg pie?”
Star shook her head. “I don’t think so. What’s in it?”
“A dozen eggs,” Bossie explained. “Vanilla, sugar, milk, nutmeg.” She patted Star’s
shoulder. “Baby, you’ll think you died and went to heaven eating my egg pie!”
Star could feel her arteries clogging just listening to the ingredients. “Sounds great,”
she said.
“And plenty of real tea to wash it all down with,” Bossie said. “None of that Yankee
shit they call ice tea. My tea’s so sweet you can stand a spoon up in it!”
“That’s the way I like it,” Star concurred.
“Go on up to the rose room, sugar. I’ll have Moss bring your bags in from that fancy
little silver car,” Bossie stated.
“I’m not here if anyone calls or comes looking,” Daire said.
“You’re a ghost, sugar,” Bossie said. “I’m looking straight through you and don’t
see no one there.” She winked at Star. “Don’t see you, neither, sugar pudding.”
“Thanks, Bossie,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her pudgy ebon cheek.
Climbing up the graceful winding staircase, Star felt like Scarlet O’Hara. She half
expected to see Rhett Butler lounging in the doorway.
“What do you think of Bossie?” Daire asked her. Her hand was clasped firmly in his
as they climbed.
“She’s quite a character. Is the owner as gregarious?”
“Miss Idelle?” he asked. “Well, you’ll have to meet her to believe her.”
“How did a woman from California end up in Cantonment, Florida?”
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“She married a Navy man stationed at Coronado,” he replied. “He was one of the
first Navy SEALS back in 1962. When he passed away in 1996, she came down here and
built the B&B on land that belonged to his family. His ashes are on the mantel in the
parlor.” He led her down a long, deeply carpeted hallway. “She has a fondest for
special-forces men.”
The room to which he led her was straight out of the Old South. With a huge
mahogany four-poster bed that required a step stool to climb atop, massive his and hers
armoires, a pristine lace-draped dressing table and satin-covered bench, a separate
sitting room with two overstuffed wingback chairs and plush settee placed in front of a
sumptuous marble fireplace, a bathing chamber off to one side with an oversized
clawfoot tub, two vanities, a corner shower and commode, the room was magnificent.
The walls were papered in a pale rose moiré fabric and the coverlet, pillow shams and
drapes were in a spectacular celadon green floral edged in rose brocade. Underfoot, a
stunning Aubusson carpet graced the floor like a field of flowers. The room smelled
of…
“Gardenias,” Star said on a long sigh. She looked at him. “Did you arrange this?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“You did,” she accused, and slid her arms around his waist. “Oh, Cronin, this is
amazing.”
“Only the best for the future Mrs. Cronin,” he said, and when she pulled back and
looked up at him, he smiled slowly. “That is, if she’ll have me.”
She could see the hunger in his eyes, but she could also see the pain he had been
trying valiantly to hide. She knew the telltale signs of a migraine and she knew Dáire