Blindsight: Complete Series

WE REACHED THE TOP of the secluded villa’s grounds just as the burnt orange sun dipped below the tree line. Fiery hues lit up the rich green leaves and dappled the dust-trodden path that curved up to a small stone villa perched upon a hill.

Hunter pulled a key from his pocket and fiddled with the old lock before pushing us into the homey space. Floor-to-ceiling windows accented with earthy ceramic tile enhanced the nearly three hundred and sixty degree view of the surrounding canopy. I shook my head with a smile.

“It’s great, right?” Hunter turned to marvel with me.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” I dropped my bag and kicked off my dusty shoes, thankful for the relief that flooded the pads of my feet.

“A friend told me about it. I think it’s going to be perfect. Oh, I may have failed to mention one thing though.” He trailed off and turned, his jade eyes twinkling.

“What’s that?” I couldn’t imagine a single downside to this space.

“Sleeping arrangements are tight. I asked them to remove the bed in the master for the shoot tomorrow, so we’re left with one—”

“One bed?”

“No!” He ran a hand through his bristled hair in a move that had my heart fluttering. An impish grin curved his face as his eyes trailed down to the floor and landed at my feet. “Well, sorta.”

“Hunt—”

“But there’s a pullout couch. I’m good right here.” He turned to the living area and flopped on a modern white couch.

“Ugh.” His grunt was my first clue that the couch was less than comfortable. The second clue came with the string of curses that fell from his lips.

“Son of a bitch.” He leaned up and rubbed his shoulder. I laughed, finally releasing the anxiety I’d been hiding the last few days in preparation for this trip. A new job and hopping continents all in the same week took getting used to.

“Have fun on the couch!” I nudged the dusty boot hanging over the arm of the leather as I skirted down the hallway. I made the first left and immediately understood why Hunter had instructed the bed be removed for tomorrow. Through the center of the house grew a gnarled and knobbed tree, the bark worn smooth with age. A cathedral glass ceiling drove high into the canopy, and giant evergreen leaves shaded the room in filtered sunlight. “Wow,” I murmured as I ran my fingers along the tree.

“It’s three hundred years old.” He appeared at the doorway.

“Can you imagine sleeping here in the rain?” I looked up into the sparkling glass and inhaled, the spicy scent of woods invading my nostrils.

“A secluded locale and a little rain is all it takes to woo you?” He quipped before sauntering into the room. I laughed, loving the delicious twirl that unwound in my stomach when he teased me. “See these dips and hollows?” he continued, back to Hunter, the photographer. “It perfectly mimics the curve of a woman’s hips.” He rested a hand across my palms on the trunk, weaving his fingertips through my own so we fingered the worn wood together. “I brought leather straps that will contrast with the pale bark.” His hand fell away and he tapped the tree, as if checking the steadiness before stepping over to the large windows and crossing his arms.

Brightly illuminated in the soft light, he looked out over the treetops to a large expanse of nothingness. Somehow I’d found myself locked in the treetops with him, and while the world kept turning right outside our little villa doorstep, I watched him, while he watched it. He was the photographer after all, ever the keen observer, always on the hunt for his next captured moment in time.

WE SAT ON THE small balcony later that night sipping chilled white wine and soaking up the moonlight.

“So why did you say yes?” Hunter sat with his ankles propped on the iron railing of the balcony.

My eyebrows rose in surprise as I swirled the wine in my glass, the fruity aroma calming my nerves and lulling me into blissful relaxation. “Isn’t it a little late for twenty questions?” I tipped my head back and listened as the wind sang through the leaves of the trees.

“It’s the one thing I’ve been trying to figure out since you agreed.”

“Why didn’t you just ask then?” I turned and caught his eyes glistening back at me in the dark night.

“I like the mystery of you.” His head tilted and his mouth curled up in a devilish way before he tipped his wine glass to his lips and drank. His lips pursed and his throat contracted with each swallow as my clit buzzed and my nipples ached for the feel of his thumbs brushing across them.

“I think the more interesting question is why did you ask me?” I pivoted with a smug grin of my own.

His eyes lit up before he took the last long swallow of his wine. “Touché.” He smiled before rubbing at his bicep with a distant frown.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Old war wound.” He took a long drink of his wine.

“You were in the military?” I shifted closer.

“Army. A tour in Iraq and three in Afghanistan,” he said with characteristic brevity.

My eyes fell from the well-defined bicep beneath the fine jersey of his t-shirt back to his eyes. That explained how they had the haunted look of a man who’d seen too much. “You were wounded?” I finally asked.

“In more ways than I can count.” He took another swallow and then glanced back at me. “Shot in the arm…there are still some shards buried in there somewhere.” He continued to rub his bicep as he spoke. “Throbs like a bitch some nights, but small price to pay for getting out alive. I think the weather has something to do with it.” He glanced up at the dark sky, as if indicating the dry air of Lisbon was to blame this time.

“I’m sorry,” I said in earnest.

“It was better than what I came from.” He shrugged as if it flowed off him like water. My eyes darted up at his admission. “Well, early day tomorrow. Sleep well, Erin.” He stood and brushed the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip, and I shuddered in both pleasure and shock. The wind whipped my hair, swirling it around my shoulders and licking at his wrist. His eyes averted and his fingertips trailed through the soft ends of my hair. “If only,” he murmured softly before walking through the doors and away from my raging heart.

I could follow him in, offer him my bed, offer him my anything. But the professional career woman in me was desperate to be taken seriously and warned of all the dangers of sleeping with the boss. Only the wanton slut was desperate to feel his warm skin scraping against the sensitive nerves between my thighs, across my navel, along my nipples. Tonight, the career woman was going to win.

I slumped further in my chair, taking another long sip of wine.

Hunter Ellis may very well be the death of me.