Seducing Gracie Read online

  Seducing Gracie

  Cameo Brown

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2010 Cameo Brown

  ISBN: 978-1-60521-348-4

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  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1046

  Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Chrissie Henderson

  Cover Artist: Karen Fox

  Adult Sexual Content

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  Seducing Gracie

  Cameo Brown

  NYC detective Gracie Usher sets out to find a lost child and ends up in the arms of ademon whose bloodlust can only be satisfied by a sacrifice every five years or by awoman whose desire is as insatiable as his.

  When Detective Usher stumbles into Wayland, New York, looking for a prominentbusiness owner’s young daughter, she finds instead a horrible beast who wants notonly her blood, but her soul.

  Giving in to his desire would be much easier if she were a mere mortal, but Gracie’sa different kind of human. Logic is her best friend and leading with her head, not herheart, is what she does best, at least until she meets a demon who decides he won’tbe complete until he makes her his… for eternity.

  Chapter One

  “More!” Gracie commanded, gripping Kevin’s tight ass as he penetrated her again. Her lover obeyed, thrusting harder and deeper into her hot, wet pussy, his solid strokes tormenting her sensitive clit. He liked teasing her and making her crazy, and tonight he was in fine form.

  She moaned in frustration as the tension coiled lower, her slick lips accepting his welcome invasion over and over -- his bulbous cockhead spreading her open to allow his smooth shaft to fill her. She caught his rhythm, her hips grinding with his, until he drove into her one last time and cried out.

  Seconds later Gracie’s pussy spasmed and the coil shattered into a million pieces as her orgasm rippled through her body. Sweet oblivion descended, and for a moment, just a moment, her life made sense. Only Kevin’s crass praise brought her back from the brink of heavenly nothingness, from the place she longed to stay.

  “Goddamn, woman,” he gasped in her ear as he collapsed, his weight heavy upon her. “What a pussy. Holy shit. You’ve got to have the best cunt in America.

  Probably the world.”

  Gracie shoved him off her, laughing. He sprawled out on the bed and groaned like a cowboy who’d just ridden a bucking bronco. Kevin’s use of hyperbole just about made up for his knack for being the most uncouth twenty-something in New York.

  Oh, plenty of the young men matched him in his lack of vocabulary and IQ, but most of them tried to hide their sordid enthusiasm for the sex act behind the prettiest lines they could memorize from the Internet, along with a bunch of bullshit about working at Goldman Sachs and living in an upscale loft.

  Her lusty bed partner made no attempt at pretense. She’d miss that about him.

  She’d also miss his construction worker bod, his ever-present libido, and his tongue, which had worked its magic on various parts of her body numerous times.

  Gracie sighed and rolled onto her back, but Kevin stopped her. He propped himself up on his elbow and stared down at her. “Look, Gracie,” he started, his voice edged with emotion for the first time since they’d hooked up three months ago. Gracie put her finger to his lips. He kissed her fingertip.

  “Shhh. I’m glad you and Esther are back together, you know that,” she said, unsure of how much else to tell him. She’d made the mistake before of letting the men in her life know she only wanted them for sex, and to her surprise, her candor offended some of even the most practiced Lotharios. Use, but never be used. That was definitely a credo she understood.

  Gracie liked having Kevin as a fuckbuddy, and during their time together he’d improved considerably in how he used his God-given talents. She’d miss the sex and the time she’d invested in training him, which couldn’t be recouped. However, it was obvious to her he belonged with Esther, whether he realized it or not. She’d never stand in the way of their true -- whatever it was they shared.

  Any woman who’d put up with his sloppy technique for two years must love him desperately, and Kevin loved her in return. Gracie had known it from the moment they met at the bar and Kevin told her up front he was playing the field, trying to decide.

  She often wondered if he’d chosen her because she and Esther were human antonyms -- her long blonde hair and dark blue eyes a distinct contrast to Esther’s short curly do and brown ones. She wondered about everything, curiosity being her best friend for as long as she could remember. Kevin, to her knowledge, was only curious about one thing, and it didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

  “I know I told you we were on a break cuz I couldn’t figure out what I wanted, but lots of chicks would, you know, get mad I want to go back with my ex. Specially after all the fuckin’ we been doin’.” Kevin’s voice dropped an octave and his re-Cameo Brown

  energized cock poked her leg. “After the wedding on Saturday, we can’t be screwin’

  like monkeys no more. You wanna go another round, like a one-for-the-road type thing?”

  Gracie’s pussy twitched and her logic kicked in. How long before she might get laid again? It could be weeks or months. Better to do doubles even though second orgasms so soon after the first usually weren’t as intense? Or better to savor the afterglow of the first climax and take her chances on the horny male population in the great state of New York?

  She lay there, calculating, until Kevin wisely positioned himself on his back and his magnificent erection bounced into view. Oooh. Aaaah. She grasped its slickness and made her decision. After all, a cock in the hand is worth two waiting in a bar somewhere on 57th. Gracie straddled his hips and rubbed the tip of his cock against --Beep! Her cell’s generic ringtone pleaded for her attention. Gracie bit her lip, hovering above the most inviting, thick… Beep! Shit. It had to be Patrick, and, thus, the precinct. She straightened, preparing a dismount that would make Béla Károlyi proud.

  “Don’t answer it, Gracie.” Kevin grunted, grabbing her ass and lifting his hips until the tip of his engorged cock…

  Yeah, yeah, you got it, bebeee! Yeah, yeah, let’s let it happeeeen… Kevin’s ringtone blared from his jeans’ pocket, mixing with Gracie’s to create a cacophony of technogark frightening enough to scare the devil himself. Kevin’s expression changed from lustful to horrified in an instant. “Esther,” he mouthed, as if his fiancée might hear him all the way over in the Bronx. Frantic, he nearly k
nocked Gracie off the bed to get to the miniature radio station broadcasting from his pocket.

  “Don’t answer it, Gracie,” she mimicked in a falsetto voice, making a face as he flipped his cell open and gasped into the mic.

  “Hey, baby, I’m missin’ you so much. What’s up, honeypot?”

  Shaking her head, Gracie crawled across the bed toward the bedside table, ignoring Kevin’s hand signals to silence the annoying beeping beast more quickly.

  “That beep? What beep? I don’t hear no beep, baby. It’s probably your phone,”

  he lied, then held the phone away from his face and whispered furiously, “Don’t that thing go to goddamn voicemail?”

  “Never,” Gracie mouthed back, waving him off with her middle finger and pressing the call button on her phone with the other. He grabbed his jeans and T-shirt and headed to the bathroom. She glared after him. So much for one for the road.

  “What do you want?” Gracie snapped at the unlucky caller on the other end. It might be a long time until she got laid again, and if her needs weren’t met, her libido got in the way of her focusing on the job. Logic dictated she get enough sex or it could affect her job performance, and Gracie was all about logic. Except for now.

  Hearty laughter greeted her on the other end of the line and the insane urge to kick her partner’s ass fought with rational thought for control of her faculties. Rational thought won, as usual, but barely. “I interrupt an interlude, did I, Detective Usher?”

  Patrick’s cheerful voice only darkened her mood.

  “This better be good. He’s a construction worker, and I was just about to set his two-by-four into place, if you know what I mean.”

  “Were you going to clean his petcock, too?” Patrick baited. Gracie shook her head. After five years of being her partner, he still sucked at classifying her lovers.

  “That’s a plumber, idiot.”

  “Sorry. Get all those handymen mixed up,” he jibed. A loud bark exploded in the background and suddenly he went somber on her. “Look, Gracie, I think you need to get down here. Something big is happening. Don’t know what, but if Fields is here, then he doesn’t want you on whatever case it is. Which means it’s important.”

  Gracie winced. Shit. Commissioner Fields had hated her ever since she refused to fuck him in the den of a house owned by a government official who spent more money on floral arrangements than she made in a year -- and during a holiday party no less.

  He’d tried to get rid of her several times since, but her ability to solve cases over the years had impressed the right people.

  Her skill meant good PR for the department, and good PR outranked a philandering, drunken bastard police commissioner any day. Unfortunately, his low self-esteem allowed him to wrongly assume she slept with everyone else in the precinct, probably the city, and he chose to take her rebuke of him as if he were the only man in America she hadn’t taken a tumble with. Her insistence that she rejected most guys on the basis they were losers like him only pissed him off even more. Rats.

  “Thanks, Rick. Be there in twenty,” she said, already on her way to kick Kevin out of the shower. Or maybe not. Perhaps a quickie on the bathroom floor? Tempting, but her intuition told her she needed to get downtown as soon as humanly possible.

  Loud bickering filtered over the line and the strained edge in Rick’s voice confirmed her suspicions.

  “Better make it ten, Gracie. It doesn’t look good.”

  Chapter Two

  “We appeared tonight at first moonlight, Master.”

  Gaston’s ancient, raspy voice had a way of dampening Sam’s most ardent desire, which usually didn’t take much effort, and this twilight was no different. He glanced at the beauty writhing beneath him. She continued to moan even though he’d stilled above her and his cock, which had the audacity to not consult him first, decided to go flaccid.

  Gorgeous as a human, Quinna had become even more ravishing once he’d brought her into the demon way. With her red skin and thick black hair, her smoldering black eyes and incredible body, her willingness to do anything he demanded, she was the perfect demon concubine. Sort of.

  He’d feasted on her slick cunt earlier, then taken her from behind. Now she lay spread-eagled, with his cock planted inside her, begging him to come, to take his release, to use her for his pleasure. Darol himself, demon master of Wayland’s domain, couldn’t have fashioned a more ideal sex partner from brimstone, except for the unpleasant fact she never, ever climaxed.

  Women who traded their souls for eternal beauty sacrificed that little bit of femininity. As far as he knew, Quinna didn’t miss coming one bit -- not that he cared one way or the other -- but after a century of fucking frigid demon women and enduring the most poorly executed fake orgasms ever attempted, the strain had begun to wear on him. His temper, compounded by multiple frustrations and the new moon’s cursed influence, flared.

  “Get on with it, Gaston. I’m busy,” he growled, letting his eyes flash and swishing his tail, warning signs not to be taken lightly. Quinna thrashed uncontrollably, oblivious to anything but the accuracy of her own performance. Sam snorted in disgust.

  It wasn’t Oscar worthy.

  “Of course you are, Master,” his servant agreed, a hint of mischief in Gaston’s musty tone.

  Sam pondered ending Gaston’s existence with one quick swipe of his claws, as only he could, but the consequences for such an act against one of his own kind, even as distant on the family tree as Gaston was, were severe and unthinkable. Darol would invoke them without hesitation.

  Besides, his aide’s evil grin suggested this evening held promise. The Urge rolled over inside him and he swooned, the memory of his last feeding blossoming in his consciousness. The last five years of waiting suddenly seemed like the eternity he’d been damned to upon his creation.

  “Master,” Gaston continued, undaunted. “I bring news. Intriguing news.”

  The little ogre’s red eyes glittered in his black-skinned visage and his wings fluttered, giving him the appearance of a dancing shadow. Two of Hark’s heads perked up while the third remained asleep, and his tail thumped the earthen floor.

  Sam withdrew his cock, wiped his hand over it to clean it off, and smeared the remnants of his seed on Quinna’s stomach as she lay on the hot stone bench they’d occupied together only moments before. She humped the air and babbled about his sexy horns. Disgusted, he turned away, half hoping Hark might mistake her for a dead body. “Spit it out, Gaston. My patience grows thin and your time grows short,” he warned.

  Gaston danced a little jig, spread his great wings, and flew to his master’s side.

  “I’ve news from Sheriff Bilks that, on this night, the first night of the new moon cycle, we’ve captured not one, but two. Two sacrifices for you, my Master. I’m researching their sins now, but I’m sure they’re both suitable. So few humans balance their sins with noble deeds, as you know.” The little monster paused and cleared his throat. “I mean,

  one for you and one for the Urge,” he clarified as if Darol might hear. “And they’re both women.”

  The Urge tickled his insides, reminding him how much it preferred a woman’s blood to a man’s. Sam gritted his teeth and flexed his fists, his mind drifting away into a daydream filled with sweet blood and human flesh, tight pussies and groaning women.

  Real women who would come when his cock called.

  “Master,” Gaston whispered conspiratorially, the rocks in his gravelly voice colliding with an unholy glee. “Dinner awaits.”

  * * *

  Gracie surveyed the dank jail cell Sheriff Dumbfuck had tossed her into before he disappeared like an apparition into the dark hallway, and mouthed a silent, “Wow.”

  Gracie couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like it, a cross between some kind of movie set for a spaghetti Western and a dungeon in a horror novel. Lord, modern jails made this look like the stocks. And were those brown spots bloodstains? Shit.

  Aggravation added to her amazement to
make the surreal scenario all the worse.

  She’d come out this direction with Rick to follow up on a lead in the Ginny Gunther case, not get rounded up on some trumped-up trespassing charge.

  Rick had wandered off to take a quick piss after they’d turned onto a back road, and that’s when Homer and Jethro nabbed her, babbling about loitering and cuffing her on the spot after pulling her from the unmarked cruiser she and Rick had driven up here. What had Rick thought when he came back and found her gone? He’d call it in, certainly, but they couldn’t afford such a delay.

  The clock ticked for the little kidnap victim who’d been taken a couple of days before. Her parents’ failed attempt to deliver the ransom money without calling the police only compounded the danger. If Gracie didn’t find the heir to the gym magnate’s fortune before the next deadline -- tomorrow afternoon -- Gracie had a feeling Norman and Betty Gunther would lose more than the four million dollars ransom money.

  And if that happened, Gracie would lose her mind. She worked out at Gunther’s regularly and had just come from there. She’d be reminded every day of another child she’d let slip away. Letting Ginny down simply wasn’t an option. She’d already failed one child, and that was enough for a lifetime. A chill touched her skin, sending a shiver down her spine, and she shuddered.

  “Cold, honey?” Softly drawled words drifted through the heavy air, contrasting sharply with the harshness of the accommodations. Where the hell were they? This place was definitely not on any map she’d ever seen.

  Gracie focused on her cellmate, who Deputy Dipshit, as morose and backwoodsy as his boss, had brought in just after Gracie arrived. Until now, she’d ignored her in favor of investigating their holding cell.

  Auburn hair pulled back into a severe bun enhanced the length of the woman’s pretty oval face, and her pointed features, along with her tailored gray suit and kitty-cat glasses, gave the impression of a stern librarian or savvy businesswoman.

  She smiled at Gracie, like a shark before the kill, her mauve lips framing perfect teeth. Gracie’s intuition flashed red. “Never trust a man with bad teeth,” her momma had always said, “or a bimbo with a perfect smile.” While the bimbo part might have had more to do with her father running off with a stripper who blew every dentist this side of the Georgia line for a smile that rivaled Julia Roberts’, the adage had never guided her wrong. Something about Miss Polite Society just didn’t seem quite right.