“Not truth or dare!” I begged, not wanting to play the blindfolded kissing game that had brought Blake and me together.
“No, but it does require a blindfold. These fabulous scarves will be perfect!”
Two minutes later I, the birthday girl, had Chaz’s new plaid scarf wrapped around my eyes and my wrists bound behind my back with Jeffrey’s. I was standing up and couldn’t see or touch a thing. The game was called Sit ’n Snort, and it was simple. After being spun around a few times, I had to walk around the table and then sit on someone. Except before I started circling, my companions would exchange seats (or not) and place their chair cushions on their laps. It was my job to sit on one of their laps and when I did, they would snort, and I’d have to guess whose lap I was sitting on. Easy peasy, right? Wrong!
I was already feeling lightheaded from the champagne, and being the spaz I was, I almost tripped a few times. Moreover, everyone was already snorting like pigs, which made it hard not to laugh and tumble over. The sooner I sat on someone’s lap the better. After a few more awkward, blindfolded steps, I gingerly lowered myself onto a cushion, hoping I wouldn’t land on the floor on my butt.
A single snort. Hmm. Who could it be? I honestly couldn’t tell if it was one of the guys or Libby. Snort, snort again. Then, I felt a pair of strong knees bounce me.
Blake! I knew it and shouted out his name. On my next breath, the scarf around my eyes was swept off and before I could blink them open, a fierce passionate kiss smacked my lips. Oh, That Man!
Whoots from my friends filled my ears.
“Jenny-Poo! You won!” shouted Chaz. “Now, it’s Blake’s turn.”
To be honest, I’d had enough of this silly game—I’d gotten my “prize”—and was eager to get home to check on Scout. Fingers crossed he was okay.
Then suddenly without warning, a harmonic rendition of “Happy Birthday” played in my ears. Still sitting on Blake’s lap, I glimpsed a group of singing waiters coming our way with a lit up birthday cake. They set the cake down on the table in front of me.
“Close your eyes and make a wish, baby,” urged Blake.
His arms wrapped around my waist, I did as he asked and blew out all the candles in a single breath.
There was only one thing I could wish for.
A baby.
Chapter 11
Blake
Holding a giant shopping bag filled with my tiger’s presents—a new cocktail dress from Chaz, an elegant silver picture frame from Jeffrey that she planned to use for a Scout photo, and the board game Sexopoly, a gag gift from Libby,—I was about to unlock the door to our condo. Jen’s best presents were yet to come. First, my own version of Sexopoly. This greedy bastard was going to own every inch of her being. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every cell. Every bit of prime real estate. Her lips. Her tits. Her clit. Her pussy. I was going to fuck her into tomorrow. My cock flexed beneath my jeans as I inserted the key into the hole. I chuckled silently. A poetic metaphor.
“Blake, don’t you think it’s weird that Scout’s not barking or scratching at the door?” asked Jen as I fumbled with the double lock. The stupid lock had always been a pain in the ass, and being somewhat plastered didn’t help.
“Nah. He had a big day. I bet he’s outside on the terrace taking a snooze.”
“That’s not possible. I kept the sliding doors to the terrace locked. We need to dog-proof it before we can let him go outside by himself.”
For a second, the image of him leaping off the terrace like Krypto the Superdog flashed in my head. It instantly faded as the safety bolt unlocked. Cranking the handle, I kicked the door open with my foot and we stepped inside the condo. The shopping bag dropped to the floor as my eyes almost popped out of their sockets.
“Holy fucking shit!”
“Oh my God!” shrieked Jen.
We’d stepped into a full-on blizzard in our living room.
No, not snowflakes, but a flurry of snow-white feathers swirling in the air everywhere. Scout had destroyed every one of our down-filled pillows, the tattered remnants scattered on the floor. Including the one Jen had bought me in Scotland with the words: It ain’t easy being king.
Rage surged inside me. I was not going to let this dog royally screw with me. It was time to show him once and for all who was—make that is—king of this house. Who was the alpha. Swiping at the feathers, I scoured the room, looking for the bastard. Where the hell was he? Calling out his name several times, I looked left; I looked right. He was nowhere in sight. My hands clenched by my sides, I stormed out of the living room and marched toward our bedroom, my tiger trailing close behind me.
The bedroom was even a bigger disaster area than the living room. A total whiteout! All six pillows on our bed had been obliterated along with the goose down comforter. We were in a war zone!
“I’m going to teach that dog a lesson he’ll never forget!”
Jen reached for my elbow, holding me back.
“Blake, please. Don’t hurt him. He’s only a puppy!” A mixture of desperation and fear laced her voice. She knew my adrenaline rivaled my testosterone. I was on a mission and nothing—I repeat NOTHING—was going to stop me.
You can run, but you can’t hide, I gritted silently, clenching my teeth. Narrowing, my eyes circled the room as the endless feathers bombarded me. Almost blinding me. The beast was still nowhere in sight.
“I’ll check your office and the guest bathroom,” offered Jen, skirting off and leaving me alone.
I checked under the bed. Inside the walk-in closets. Behind the curtains. No Scout.
After checking our ensuite bathroom with no luck, I returned to the bedroom, surveying the mess. All my après dinner plans were in ruins. The king-size bed was no longer fit for a king, let alone a pauper. I’d conjured coming home to an epic session of making love with her new toy and then after a few orgasms, surprising her with the bauble I’d bought in Scotland. Before we went out, I’d hidden it under her stuffed white tiger. A gift to my wife on our first Christmas together, the plush animal was a permanent fixture on our bed. A symbol of our love. Surrounding it, every down-filled pillow was in shambles. The cases torn, the feathers leaking out. Limp as ragdoll sacks. But to my amazement, the tiger was intact, except for having fallen over. A sliver of relief sliced through my rage as I picked it up. The dainty little box was there, but not as I left it. The lid was off, pitted with teeth marks and missing the decorative stick-on bow. The velvet cushion inside the box was gone too, replaced by a bed of tiny feathers. Panicky, I picked up the ravaged box and shook it upside down, emptying the handful of feathers. Nothing was inside! I repeat: NOTHING. The bauble was gone! G-O-N-E. GONE!
My heart almost stopped, then it began to gallop. It had to be here! It had to! I flung all the deflated pillows along with the saggy comforter on the floor and searched the bed. Blindly feeling for a small metal object. Patting every inch of the mattress pad. Fuck. It wasn’t here. Hopping off the mattress, I dropped to my knees and frantically began to crawl on the floor. Looking under the bed, turning everything upside down, shaking out shoes, and digging through the blanket of feathers. Nothing. Fucking nada unless you counted a dead spider. In a nano second, my focus went from where was the dog to where was my bauble. My throat constricted, my chest clenched.