MORE THAN A HUNCH

  More Than A Hunch

  Kate Douglas

  MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-269-5

  Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-270-9

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), & HTML

  (c) Copyright Kate Douglas, 2002.

  All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave.

  Ellora's Cave, Inc. USA

  Ellora's Cave Ltd, UK

  This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author permission.

  Edited by Kari Berton

  Cover Art by Darrell King

  Warning:

  The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. MORE THAN A HUNCH has been rated Hard R-Borderline, erotic, by three individual reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this electronic file in a place where young readers not meant to view this ebook are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…

  MORE THAN A HUNCH

  I am alive to his familiar presence; it is powerful, sensual, compelling. He steps out of the shadows into an indistinct shimmer of light. I must look at him. Turning away is not an option. He exudes power—power laced with enough potent sensuality to bring a flush to my face and throat and a heavy ache to my loins.

  He is nude, clothed only in muscle and sinew, a thick mat of iron gray hair defines his chest, trails down his belly where it darkens and shades his groin. I am naked as well, my flesh tingling with expectation—knowledge—my breasts aching with the sense of what might be.

  His cock is a rampant beast. It exudes power and strength, but the length and breadth of his erection is not what compels me. Though I see it, acknowledge it, his eyes are what draw me.

  Dark, glinting in the pale light, reflecting shards of blue diamond; they're inhuman, compelling. Uneasy, afraid of their power, I study his face, the forceful line of his jaw, the commanding, arrogant tilt of his head. I should know him. Something about him tugs at my memories, begs me to recall—but the need to remember cannot compete. I am lost, floundering deep within his dark, hypnotic gaze.

  Suddenly, without sound or warning, the shadows burst into brilliant light, throwing his tall figure into stark relief. I cry out. He reaches for me, reaches out of the light and takes my hand. His touch is magic, elemental, as our fingers touch, brush lightly, grasp and hold.

  There is knowledge in his touch, a sensual knowing I have yearned for, prayed for. My breasts ache, my nipples tighten in heady expectation. Thick moisture dampens the sensitive folds between my legs.

  I want.

  I need.

  My fingers clasp his ever more tightly. He draws me closer, his mouth hovering barely the space of a breath from my waiting mouth. I lick my lips. I am aware of his dark gaze, his eyes following the damp sweep of my tongue.

  He reaches out, his fingers so close, almost touching the swell of my breast.

  Suddenly, we're wrenched apart.

  I stumble, reach for him again, but I'm falling, falling away from the light, away from the mystifying stranger, falling until the sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs grows louder in my ears, pounds faster, faster in cadence with my racing heart, my aching breasts, the soft clenching of the muscles between my thighs.

  * * * * *

  "Damned hot flash!" Fighting the remnants of terror, the frantic heat of sex unfulfilled, I groped for the lamp on the table next to the bed. Perspiration flowed in rivulets between my breasts and my hair clung to my neck and face.

  I grabbed my notebook, scribbling furiously to record the details of what I had begun to think of as my serial wet dream. My fingers trembled so violently, I dropped the pen. I clasped my hands tightly together and hunched my shoulders, weighed down by a sense of foreboding.

  Once again I tried to recall the man's face.

  Nothing. Damn! His face, the sensual line of his jaw, the lean, muscular chest—all of it was so clear in my dreams. Now, all I could see was that huge erection, his cock standing proud and dark amidst the thick mat of hair.

  Had to be the hormones.

  This time the dream had been different. We'd made contact, barely, but the shock of that brief touch still tingled through my fingertips, resided in my breasts, my aching cunt. It raced along my arm and settled deep in my gut.

  I felt a vague heaviness, a deep sensual longing not usually associated with my nightmares—or my dreams—at least until this most recent series had begun.

  I added a comment to that effect in my notes, not nearly as descriptive as it could have been, then placed the dog-eared tablet back on the table.

  The digital clock blinked 5:28. There wasn't much point in trying to sleep for the half hour left to me.

  The room seemed to sway, almost to pulsate in cadence with my thundering heart as I crawled from bed and toddled to the bathroom. I shouldn't have—I knew I must look like hell warmed over—but I stopped a minute to stare at my rumpled reflection in the mirror. My blond hair was matted and tangled, the shadows under my brown eyes looked like bruises.

  My lips were swollen, as if from hours of kissing.

  Yeah. Right. Dream on, sweetheart.

  Hot flashes, serial nightmares-slash-wet dreams and a sexy guy I could never completely remember. Double damn. I turned around and started the shower, thankful for the extra settings on the shower massage.

  This definitely had the makings of a really rotten day.

  * * * * *

  I adjusted my briefcase under my arm and bit my lips to keep from grinning. God, how I loved my work! No matter what my frame of mind, I couldn't help but pause every time I took that first of twenty-four marble steps up to the huge oak and brass front doors guarding the offices of San Francisco's premier newspaper, The Bay Reporter.

  I was born to write news, the kind of news that exposes lies and uncovers secrets. I grew up in a tiny apartment off Nineteenth Avenue in, what to me, was heaven on earth—close enough to the Pacific to glimpse the sun setting over the ocean, only two blocks from Golden Gate Park.

  I loved the city from the beginning, her cold, foggy summers and mild winters, the energy that's as much a part of her as the musical clang of cable car bells and her eclectic citizenry.

  I felt a synchronicity with San Francisco's pulsing life from the very first, an inner sense of truth, a knowing, that never failed me. That sense led me to take that first marble step at The Bay Reporter, to take that step, and the next, and never look back.

  I’ve covered the news beat for The Bay Reporter since my first break over twenty-five years ago, a riveting exposé on Elvis Presley’s criminal ties. It was the story that got me out of the society pages and into hard news where I belong.

  I love my work, the digging and interviewing, the bursts of intuition that often flower into facts, the hunches that pan out, even the rare ones that don't. The editor teases me about my nose for news, but I've sniffed my way into more stories than anyone else on staff.

  It's that knowing, that sense that something is not quite as it should be—a feeling about people or situations that brings me up short, makes me stop and ponder and often leads me to information and conclusions without basis.

  Then I'll dig deeper, follow leads that miraculously seem to come to me and eventually I find the proof that leads me right back to the conclusion I blithely assumed in the beginning. I don't understand it, but I'll take it.

  After awhile, though, it’s difficult to keep your perspective when your senses are constantly alive to every nuance, subtlety and trace of suspicion. Especially in a city where the rich and powerful exist in a rarefied atmosphere far above the law.

  Which is why I didn't doubt my sources on my firs
t big story one bit, or my instincts. There was something fishy about Elvis's death. It was too perfect, too apropos, almost as if it had been scripted for the six o'clock news.

  I know I'm a cynic...an optimistic cynic, but still a cynic.

  I was certain the King had faked his death, taken the money and run. It's just that I've never been able to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  Still, it was one hell of a story. Most important, it got me to the news desk.

  Elvis was still on my mind this particular day. It was either Elvis or obsessing over the erotic dream I'd had the night before. Elvis was a lot easier to deal with.

  Unfortunately, the dream wouldn't go away. Today it appeared to have followed me, lying await for me in my subconscious.

  It was late in the afternoon—I'd just plopped my butt down on the leather chair in front of my computer and was mulling over a feature story I'd been working on, my mind sort of wandering with ideas when the words on my computer screen suddenly appeared to sway and throb, almost as if the text within the monitor were alive.

  I stared, hypnotized by the ebb and flow of text as it rushed and tumbled and finally found its cadence in perfect timing with my heartbeat. My heart. Beat. Beat. In, out, in-out...in...out...

  Always in my dreams I've smelled the tang of saltwater, heard the rush of waves against the shore. Now there is silence, the deep, penetrating silence that comes with solid, sound-proofed walls and ceiling, silence further muted by heavy carpeting covering the floor.

  My senses kick into high and I cast about, better to perceive my surroundings.

  I must imagine the parameters of the room I am in. Darkness here is absolute. I see nothing. Hear nothing.

  The air is motionless, no breeze or breath touches my skin.

  My naked skin. I have come into this room as I entered the world, unadorned and naked. I touch my earlobe and realize the diamond stud is missing.

  Suddenly I sense another presence, his presence. I'm not surprised. Why else would I be here if not for him? I don't fear him, but there is a sense of fear entangled in his presence. I lower my hand, no longer concerned about the missing diamond.

  This time, there is no hesitation. Strong fingers grasp mine and the now-familiar shock of contact races up my arm as his hand pulls me closer. I cannot see him—the darkness is absolute.

  I can smell his body, a warm, masculine combination of healthy sweat and after shave. I lean against his chest and feel the crinkly mat of hair tickle my cheek. It's real—no fanciful illusion of my dreams. Almost whimpering with pleasure, I inhale, a deep, drugging breath filled with his scent.

  I can taste him. I run my tongue over his nipple and the lean muscles of his chest quiver beneath my hands. His soft groan invites me to taste more.

  The sound of his need banishes the sense of dread, of foreboding that has lingered abut us.

  I use my tongue to blaze a trail from his left nipple to his groin. I start with his heartbeat, licking, laving the flat nipple, the ridge of pectoral muscle. By the time I am on my knees, his hands are fisted in my hair, his taut thighs rigid beneath my stroking fingers.

  I caress his buttocks, pulling him close to my mouth. I don't need to see his rampant erection to recognize his cock. Big, thick, the head rounded like a succulent fruit ripe for the plucking.

  I wrap my lips around the end and use my tongue to find the sensitive ridges and contours. His hips jerk at my touch and I comply, opening my mouth as wide as I can, taking him as deep as possible.

  He slides easily into my mouth, filling but not gagging me as I'd expected. Instead, his lovely cock slips in and out, deeper with each thrust until I swallow him completely, without effort.

  My lips clamp tightly around the base of his penis. Impossibly, I have taken all of him. I continue to caress his buttocks, my fingers tightening around his muscular ass to hold him captive. His fingers clench my hair, practically ripping it from my scalp and he groans aloud. I answer him with my own moan. The sound vibrates through my mouth, against the length of him.

  There is power in me, the power of seductress, of wanton. I am an enchantress, a seeker of pleasure. This knowledge frees me, emboldens me. Slowly I withdraw my lips from his cock, licking and tasting his entire length.

  My fingers slide around his tense thighs and I cup his testicles in my hands. Nestled in a thick tangle of hair, they fill my palms, heavy, hot. Gently I caress them with my fingertips.

  I hear his breath catch in his throat.

  I am wet and pulsing. Needy. As my tongue lifts a tiny drop of fluid from the end of his penis, I feel its answering droplets flowing down my leg, preparing the way for him. I blow a draft of cool air against the silken head of his cock, then reach down and run a finger between my own legs. He grabs my hand. Pulling me to my feet, he wraps his lips around my fingers and suckles them.

  His tongue sweeps against my palm and my knees buckle.

  Suddenly, sound disturbs me, shatters the darkness lush with passion, shatters the dream.

  The phone rang again.

  I stared at it for a moment, trying to remember exactly what one does with a ringing phone.

  "Nita Franklin, news," I said. My voice was breathless, as if I'd just run up three flights of stairs. My brain felt divided. Half of it functioning as only half a brain would, the other half pleading to go back to the dream.

  The voice on the other end banished my strangely erotic fantasy. Smooth and fine, the cultured baritone sent chills up my arms and conjured sensual images of tuxedoes, bittersweet chocolate and fine brandy.

  My dream lover had never spoken. Not once. He would sound exactly like this man.

  A shiver raced along my arms.

  My well-clothed arms. I shook the remnants of the dream out of my mind. The sensual images scattered like so much chaff in the wind.

  "Ms. Franklin?"

  Just that, my last name. I caught myself licking my lips in anticipation. I could still taste the sweetly salty drop I'd licked from the end of that pulsing cock in my fantasy.

  Suddenly, my senses kicked into overdrive. They'd screamed at me this morning when I was caught in the stranglehold of my dreams, again, just moments before when I'd taken that throbbing, rock-solid piece of…

  Who was this man?

  "Yes?" I sat up straight. Get a grip, girl!

  "Martin Hawley, Hawley Enterprises." A pause, giving me time to be impressed. I was, but I wasn't about to let him know.

  "What can I do for you?" Sweet and to the point. He'd never know my nerves had flown into overdrive, not suspect I was already thinking of plenty of things he could do for me. Things he might have done if the damned phone hadn't interrupted my…no. I wasn't ready to go there. Not yet.

  My dreams were dreams. No more, no less than the frustrated fantasies of a sexually deprived, menopausal broad.

  "That series you wrote, the one on the import/export trade? I’m interested in one of the businessmen you interviewed."

  His subject matter banished the fantasy entirely. Businessmen, ha! Thugs, maybe. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Why? Hawley Enterprises was big, but local. They handled accounts and investments for firms around the Bay, as well as fundraising for the Metro Museum. I’d seen Hawley in public service commercials with his daughter.

  His tall, slim, outrageously gorgeous daughter.

  "What exactly do you want?" I asked "The articles are fairly self-explanatory, but..."

  "I need to reach Mr. Delgado, one of the gentlemen you interviewed."

  Gentleman? Who the hell did he think he was kidding? Delgado was a Grade A rat. Why would Hawley want to contact a crook like Delgado and why didn’t he just call the man’s office, the way I had?

  Which is exactly what I told Hawley. Along with the fact I never divulge source information, even if it’s just a number out of the phone book. That’s not my style.

  "Ms. Franklin, we need to talk." I sensed desperation in his voice, something I hadn’t noticed before. My
curiosity, along with that damned sixth sense, was screaming out loud, so I named a coffee shop across the street and down the block from my office. I told him I'd be there in fifteen minutes.

  I saved the story I was working on, a fluff piece on near death experiences. Before the screen went blank, I stared at the text a moment, daring it to go into its little ebb and flow routine. The words stayed put. The screen went dark. I headed to the restroom to wash the grime off my hands.

  It never ceases to amaze me how dirty I manage to get, working in a perfectly clean office behind a sterile looking computer. I guess I'm just rumpled by nature.

  I scrubbed my hands and suddenly realized I was combing my hair and putting on fresh lipstick. Definitely not my style.

  I've never been one of those women who wear make-up like armor, hiding behind the artifice for an extra burst of confidence. Of course, my mother is constantly reminding me that's probably why I'm still single at forty-eight—one more good reason not to visit dear old Mom all that often.

  I glanced over my shoulder before I shoved the lipstick back into my purse. I’d never hear the end of it if anyone on the staff saw me primping for a meeting with a guy like Hawley.

  Thank whatever gods protected me, no one had entered my office while I'd been in the throes of my serial wet dream. Shaking my head, I marveled at my own lack of control.

  Already I was breaking my rules about powerful, good-looking men, but that voice had gotten my attention. That, and the knowledge he was very much a part of the damned nightmares I'd been having.

  Of course, last night's hadn't exactly been a nightmare, at least not until my dream-self took a tumble off the cliff. No, just dredging up the image of that gorgeous body, those long, lean legs and the improbably long, thick cock between them, made me hot.

  I licked my lips, then realized that was exactly what I'd done in the dream last night. Licked my lips and wished I'd been licking him. Today, only minutes before, I'd gotten my wish.

  I opened my mouth wide and ran my finger along my lips, smearing my fresh lipstick. My jaws ached. My mouth felt as if it had been stretched just a bit too far.