Soul Dreams (11 page)

She hadn’t objected to the blindfold. Would she change her mind once she got here? Would she insist on Grange being in the room with them? Would
he
? Would she be frightened of him? Intrigued?

God
!
What am I, sixteen
?

In an effort to still his racing imagination and quiet his nerves, he closed his eyes.

She was already so aroused the moment he touched her he knew she was ready for him. His tongue slid easily into her cunt’s hot, wet channel, her taste at once salty and sweet. She moaned beneath him and arched her hips, thrusting herself at him.

He held her in place, his thumbs pressing into her hipbones, his fingers into the rounded cheeks of her ass. He fluttered his tongue inside her, loving the tiny cries she made when he did. She was so damn responsive.

He slipped his hands around to the back of her thighs and pushed her legs back toward her breasts, opening her wide to him. He took a moment to admire the deep pink of her pussy, the rosy color of her clit, the slick wetness of her flesh. He wasn’t going to last much longer. He wanted to give her at least one orgasm before taking his own pleasure. But when her inner walls began to spasm, he couldn’t wait.

Making sure the condom he’d rolled on earlier was still tightly in place, he rose to his knees, stared with hunger at her cunt, so open and exposed to him, positioned the head of his cock at her opening, and thrust
—

“Blake? You okay in there?”

Grange’s voice and the knock on the door yanked him out of the dream. He blinked then realized he was damn glad he’d closed the door because there he sat in his boxers with his hand wrapped around his dick. Again. Holy fucking shit!

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m great. Getting ready to shower.”

“You need any help?”

Yeah, but not the kind you can give me
. “No.”

He still didn’t know why he’d done this, except maybe Thanksgiving—when his life had flipped upside down—was a time to move forward. Scared shitless didn’t begin to describe how he felt, but he didn’t plan to change his mind. In two years, only Nina Foster had been able to get him to look forward instead of backward.

“Holler if you need anything,” Grange told him. “And don’t be late.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he grumbled then realized Grange might be as nervous about tonight as he was.

Grange mumbled as he went back down the stairs, probably with good reason. Blake hadn’t had any social interaction with a woman in two years and still wasn’t sure if he should be doing this even now. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling he and Nina were somehow connected. That his dreams meant something. The Abenaki legend said the man and woman who met in their dreams were fated for each other. He didn’t usually believe in mystical stuff, but how else to explain his dreams about a woman he had yet to meet? His cock was certainly anxious to meet her in person. It was probably a good thing she wouldn’t be able to see him and his expected physical reaction to her.

Blake heaved himself out of the chair and stumbled into the bathroom, still holding his throbbing shaft. Once in the shower, he leaned back against the tile, closed his eyes to conjure up an image of Nina, and stroked himself to completion. He let the water sluice over him until he could compose himself. Maybe Nina wouldn’t see him tonight, but he needed to have his game face on in case.

Did he even remember how to talk to a woman, what to say? Maybe this whole idea was crazy. Maybe
he
was crazy.

By the time he finished his shower, he’d had another extended argument with himself, but he was determined to go through with what he’d planned for tonight.
Wanted
to do it. He dressed himself in a clean pair of jeans and a western shirt he hadn’t worn in a long time. He’d even trimmed his beard. Lastly, he stepped into his boots—getting them
on
wasn’t the problem—and splashed on a little of the sandalwood cologne he’d had sitting on his dresser for two years. He was lucky it hadn’t turned to vinegar.

He checked his watch one more time. Ten minutes until eight.

Okay, buddy. Now or never
.

He headed downstairs, more nervous than he’d been on his first date.

***

Nina stood on the front porch and took a moment to center herself and calm her racing pulse. The combination of nerves and anticipation had shot enough adrenaline through her system to keep her up for two weeks. She’d dressed with extra care, choosing a pumpkin colored turtleneck—for Thanksgiving—and chocolate brown slacks, with soft leather ankle boots. Gold hoops decorated her ears. She’d brushed her hair until it shone and left it loose around her shoulders so the gold highlights would show. In her hands, she clutched the bottle of wine with the ribbon attached. She’d half expected Grange to be waiting for her as he usually was, but not tonight. What did that mean?

Stop with the questions already
. She square her shoulders.
Okay. Here goes nothing
.

She reached out a finger and pushed the doorbell. Immediately after its harsh grating ring came the sound of boots on the hardwood floor.

The door opened, and Grange smiled at her. “Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Foster.”

She gave him a nervous grin in return. “It’s Nina, remember?”

“Of course. Nina. Come in.” He stepped back, and she walked into the hallway. Everything gleamed the way she remembered it. Even Grange, who apparently had polished his boots and ironed his shirt.

Wow
! Was she the first visitor they’d had?

She handed him the wine. “Some holiday cheer.”

“Blake mentioned you’d be bringing it. And it’s even chilled. I’ll pour some and bring in the glasses.”

He helped her out of her jacket, hanging it on an old-fashioned coat rack, and indicated a small table where she could leave her purse. The scents of cinnamon and pumpkin and melted chocolate overlaid with the aromatic scent of cedar tantalized her nose.

“You’ve been cooking again,” she guessed.

“You might say it’s my hobby.” He flashed a quick grin then lifted his hand, a dark navy silk scarf dangling from his fingers. His smile faded into a look of apology. “Sorry about this.”

“It’s okay. I’m not sure why it’s necessary, but I agreed so…no problem.”

He placed the smooth material across her eyes, and she shivered as she realized it felt exactly as it had in her dreams.

Grange tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “We’re walking into the living room,” he told her. “We’ll go slowly. All you have to do is pace yourself with me. There’s nothing in your way to trip you. Okay?”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

He guided her to the left and good as his word, he didn’t hurry her. The moment they entered the room, the scent of cedar filled the air, and she felt increased heat.

“There’s a fire in here, right? Is it the wood I smell?”

Grange stopped and removed her hand from his arm. Another rougher hand took hers and the gravelly voice of her dreams answered her.

“Yes. I thought you’d enjoy it. Grange said he helped you with yours the other day.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

“That’s very nice of you.” Lord, did she sound like a ninny or what?

Standing right next to him, she estimated his height at over six feet. The arm her fingers curled into and the side of his chest nudging against her were hard and muscular. Did he exercise?

“Come. Sit down with me over here. Trust me. I won’t let you stumble.”

He dropped her hand and slid one arm around her waist, guided her across the floor of the room. She wasn’t positive because they didn’t have too far to walk, but it seemed to her his steps were uneven. Was his leg the problem keeping him hidden away?

He nudged her in a new direction, and the back of her legs bumped what she thought might be the sofa. Guiding her with his touch, he eased her down onto the cushions. The upholstery was a buttery leather filled with thick padding. Nina sank into its comfort. Then the cushion next to her dipped as Blake sat beside her.

He reached for her hand again. “Is this okay? My holding your hand like this? I couldn’t wait to touch you.”

She was glad to hear the note of uncertainty in his voice. “Yes. Fine. I like it.”

He curled his fingers around hers, and again she felt the roughness so familiar from her dreams.

“Do you, um, do carpentry work?” she asked tentatively.

“No.” He sounded startled. “Why do you ask?”

“I was, um, curious. About your hands, I mean.”

“Sorry about that.” The warmth disappeared from his voice.

He released his hold on her at once. Crap. Now she’d done it.

“Please.” She reached out, searching for his hand, wanting to hold it again. “I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry if I offended you in some way.”

Lordy, lordy, lordy. Don’t let this be over before it starts
. She waited, every muscle in her body clenched until his big, warm hand closed over hers again. He stroked his thumb lightly over her knuckles, as if to reassure her. All it did, however, was raise the thermostat on her internal temperature. They were sitting so close on the sofa she could feel his body heat and catch the familiar scent of sandalwood from her dreams.

“You smell good,” she blurted out.

He stroked her wrist with his thumb. “Thank you.”

There was a touch of humor back in his voice, though. It astonished her to realize this was as difficult for him as it was for her. She’d grown so used to thinking of herself as socially inept except at work. But this man hadn’t even had that much contact for the past two years, so what kind of judge was he, anyway.

Stop second-guessing yourself
.

“Sorry about the blindfold.” He touched the fabric lightly. “I promise I mean you no harm.”

“It’s okay.” She smiled at him. “You asked if I liked fantasy, and being blindfolded is certainly a fantasy. But I don’t understand why it’s necessary.”

“Maybe I wanted you to get to know me first. Sometimes what the eye sees can be distracting. Or deceiving. This way you can give your imagination free rein.”

“But you know what I look like,” she protested.

“Yes. I do.” His voice was husky. “Very beautiful and very sexy.”

“You don’t need to flatter me. I know what I see when I face the mirror.”

She pulled her hand away, but he grabbed it again.

“Skittish, aren’t you? Why is that? Who in your life gave you that opinion of yourself? Give me his name, and I’ll punch his lights out.”

Nina laughed and actually relaxed again. “I’d pay money to see that, but no, it’s ancient history.”

“Not so ancient if the scars are still fresh.”

Just then, thankfully, the sound of boots on the floor signaled Grange approaching them.

“I have the wine,” he said for her benefit. “And we actually have the proper glasses to serve it, believe it or not.”

As the older man’s footsteps faded away, Blake released his hold on her and folded her fingers around the stem of a wine glass.

She gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve never done this blindfolded. I hope I don’t dump it all over myself. Or you.”

“No problem . We’ll share the drink.” His tone was gentle. “Here. Let me help you.”

He guided the glass she held until the rim touched her lips then tilted the goblet enough so she could sip.

“My turn.”

He took her glass from her, and she imagined him picking up his own.

“Really good wine.” He chuckled and some of her tension eased. “I know my tastes surprise you, but I’m really not an unrefined clod.”

“Oh! Please, you’ve got it all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that. I—”

His fingers touched her lips. “It’s okay. My feelings aren’t hurt.”

“I know so little about you.” she reminded him. “I mean, we’ve talk about movies and books and television. But I want to know about the real you. What’s inside you. What makes you happy. What makes you sad.”

“
You
make me happy,” he told her. “And let’s not talk about sad. Okay?”

“All right.”

He was silent for a while, feeding her sips of wine. She sat there, trying to figure out what he’d say next. At last the final drops of the liquid trickled into her mouth, and the glass clinked as he set it down. Was he through talking? Was the evening over already?

“Maybe the real me isn’t worth knowing” He paused, tension radiating from his body. “Maybe this is the best I am.”

“I don’t believe you.” She edged closer to him so their thighs were touching. The heat of his body burned through their clothing. “Can…can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you have a beard?”

His laugh was unexpected. “Why? Do you like them? Hate them?”

“No, I wanted to visualize some little piece of you.”

“Then, yes, I do. But it’s not scraggly.”

“I didn’t think it would be.” She hesitated. “Could I, um, ask you a big favor?”

Next to her his muscles tensed. “Will it get me in trouble?”

“I don’t think so. It’s nothing bad.” She wished she had more wine. For courage.

“Okay, then. What is it?”

“Can I….” She swallowed “Can I touch it, your beard? Please?”

“My beard?” His tone was puzzled. “Why?”

“I don’t…I mean…. You said you’d dreamed about me? I’ve dreamed about you, too,” she blurted out. “I couldn’t see you because, like tonight, I was blindfolded. But I felt your beard.”

Silence. Nina chewed on her bottom lip. It was so hard to sit in total darkness forced to trust her well being to this man. Then pieces of the dream spun through her brain, and the sense of familiarity overwhelmed her, allowing her to relax.

More silence. The swishing sound of liquid being poured let her know he was refilling her glass. He repeated the original process with the wine, carefully, making sure she drank slowly, enjoying the taste. They said little as they shared the glass. Another
clink
as he replaced it on the table.

“You’ve dreamed about me, too?” he asked at last.

She nodded, waiting, wondering what he’d say.

Then he took her hand and lifted it. A moment later, her fingers drifted over a beard as soft as the one in her dreams. He held her wrist as she stroked it, feeling the thickness of the short hair and guessing it was well trimmed. Again, as in her dreams. She wished she could see his face.