The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) Read Online Free PDF Page B

massage.” Holt wiped his hands on a paper towel, and then threw it into the waste paper basket. “We’ll be closing in five minutes. Go into the back and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be in to do the honors as soon as I lock up.”
    The lights in the storeroom were pleasantly dim, and as April positioned herself face down on the folding bed, she could hear the lonely wail of a foghorn from far out on the open sea.
    “Well I can’t give you much of a massage with your clothes on,” he complained good-naturedly. He jacked up the dial on the space heater, before helping April out of her blouse.
    Then he worked on her neck, shoulders, and upper back with fragrant oil. He kneaded well into the knotted muscles and briskly rubbed the skin surface until it was rosy.
    “Mmm…feels good…” April helped him tug off her skirt, stockings, slip, and panties.
    He started at her waist and worked his way down over her bottom and thighs to her calves and feet. When he slipped his oily fingers into the crack of her bum, she moaned her approval. The warmth from her skin and rectum spread tantalizingly to her cunt.
    Then he rolled her over and worked on her breasts and tummy, before beginning to tease her clit.
    “Oh yes…” she groaned ecstatically, as he inserted two fingers high up into her cunt while keeping his thumb positioned over her throbbing clit.
    “Boy did you ever need that,” he exclaimed, while the walls of her cunt convulsed around his vigorously fucking fingers, and she burst forth in a violent orgasm that was almost painful in its intensity.
    “Now it’s your turn Holt,” she whispered, after the strongest of the spasms had passed. She quickly stripped off his clothes, and reached for his pulsating cock. Then she formed a tight little cunt with her hands, moving them up and down rhythmically, until he too was transported to Shangri-La.
     
    * * * *
     
    Our exile continues in Toronto, where I take in sewing to eke out a meager existence. But oh how I long for the ocean breezes and moderate temperatures of the pacific coast.
    To make matters worse, the letters from Tom have stopped coming, and this fills me with angst and a great unhappiness of spirit.
    Has he fallen ill? Or, had an accident?
    Worry dogs my every waking minute and it’s hard sometimes not to snap at others in my present state.
    But then the stress of another week going by and still no word from him, begins to turn the concern to suspicion and then to anger.
    He has met someone else.
    The idea, which was already half-formed in the back of my mind now moves to the forefront, and torments me both night and day. If only I was nearer, so I could go round to his home and see for myself. But the two thousand miles of frozen wilderness stretching between us weighs as heavily on my spirits as the burden Atlas bore on his shoulders.
    In my misery, sometimes angry and at others tearful, I dispatch several emotional missives to him, demanding why he is ignoring me, but still he does not reply.
    And it is around this time that another incident occurred that was so troubling it banished all thoughts of Tom from my mind.
    “There’s a man watching the house, Madam.” Mattie announced excitedly, as she returned from posting a letter on a freezing evening in February. “I thought I saw him before, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.”
    “Shush,” I demand irritably, worried nearly witless that the “him” is none other than my brutal husband, Ned Beasley, whom I had long thought of as, the Beast.
    I stride to the window and pull back the draperies. And sure enough, there standing on the corner opposite, by the haberdashery store, is a tall figure clad in a long black cape, much out of style in today’s fashions.
    Well, at least it wasn’t the Beast himself, I consoled myself with some relief. Yet, whether or not it was an agent of his, I had no way of knowing.
    “Take him over a beaker of tea,” I instructed a less than willing Mattie. “Say that